My new neighborhood... on a storm day... at dusk.

After living on the mountain for six years, it is taking some getting used to, living down here in civilization… in a housing tract… with street lights… and traffic noise… no absolute quiet or absolute darkness at night… no big owl hooting far off in the trees as I fall asleep.  I miss the drive down to work reviewing my day ahead, consulting my spirit guides.  I miss the longer drive home, listening to NPR, watching for golden eagles.

But there have been a few consolations….

Two years before I moved I found a set of wind chimes—big, serious wind chimes—at a curio shop far out in the desert while on my way to Randsburg.  I paid $60 for them—even though I knew I would not hang them until I left the mountain, as my lease with the Forest Service prohibited doing so.  Made by Grace Notes Chimes, Inc., they produce a gorgeous pentatonic scale when the wind wafts across them.  If you click here and then click on “Listen to the Chimes,” you can listen to them as you read the rest of this post.  A week after I moved in, I pulled them from the box where I’d kept them, waiting, and hung them on the back patio.  Their music has been the score for this period of transition.

On the same day I hung the chimes, I set up my composter, which sat empty far too long up on the mountain.  I realize this isn’t something most folks would get excited about.  But I love to play in the dirt.  And knowing that I am just weeks away from planting some fine elements of dinner (which have grown in soil nourished by my tea leaves and strawberry tops and banana peels) gives me a whole lot of goodness to look forward to.

And today I rode my bike to work for the second time this week.  The thirty-minute uphill ride in crisp morning air is just what the doctor ordered for my lungs.  And it’s all downhill on the way home.  Now, instead of filling up twice a week, I’m filling up once every two weeks.

Bestest of all, I can see my kids and grandkids more often.  A couple of weeks after I moved in, Ezra stopped by on his way home from work.  I made him dinner.  That went a long way to taking the sting out of moving away from my raccoons and bluejays.

And oh—my new home is very near the reservoir in Ontario.  A few mornings ago, as I walked outside to take the trash cans to the curb (another novelty, not having to pack out my own trash), I heard a Canada goose fly by overhead.  (You can see and hear one here; scroll down and click on "Sound," then scroll down again and click the first tab for "Honks... and Flight Calls.")  I haven’t heard one in the sky for over a decade.  I took that moment as a blessing, and later that afternoon as I was on my daily walk around the neighborhood and saw a goose floating languidly in the reservoir, I took that as a blessing as well.  A goose is a far cry from a golden eagle, perhaps.  But both are just as wild.

Lance, for once in your life....

      I would be remiss if I did not share a brief story here in the hours before Lance Armstrong's interview with Oprah Winfrey airs.

      Those who follow my blog (or my life) know that I have been a fan of cycling for more than three decades--OK, probably since I got that Stingray bike for Christmas in 1964.  I have followed Lance's career in amazement--pre-cancer, post-cancer and beyond--and I have defended him in the past.  When riders of integrity--George Hincapie, Levi Leipheimer, Frankie Andreu and others--came forward to finally tattle on him, I knew that the niggling thought in my sub-conscious--'But what if he really does dope?'--was in fact true.

      When my youngest son (not Ezra, for those of you who know him) was a boy, he was constantly in trouble--like most boys--for doing hare-brained, goofball things like ironing his clothes on the linoleum floor in the kitchen because he was too lazy to drag out the ironing board. When all evidence pointed in his direction, he would lie, loudly and repeatedly, no matter how long he was interrogated.  I could point to the evidence--in this case a burn mark in the flooring that exactly matched my steam iron--and remind him that only two of us lived in that house and that it wasn't something I had done, but he would adamantly deny any knowledge of the crime.  Why?  Because he is a man of stubborn pride.  He simply couldn't bring himself to confess that he had done something so stupid.  Sitting in a chair, looking me in the eye and telling me over and over he had no idea how it happened was easier for him than admitting he had made an enormous mistake.

      All that is to say, I understand why, up until this time, Lance has denied using performance enhancing drugs.  He is a man of stubborn pride.  He wanted so badly to win and win again and not be called a cheater.  And once he had won a Tour de France by doping, he knew he could never attempt to win without it, because by then everyone in the cycling world--including the sweetest, most moral of men--had stepped over the line.  Which is what I suspect we will hear in today's interview.  I would love to hear Lance--for his own sake--simply say, 'You know what?  I screwed up.  I cheated.  It's no one's fault but my own.  I've let a lot of people down, and I'm deeply sorry.'  But I doubt we will hear that.  We will hear excuses and blame, see shrugs and those hard-as-steel eyes, the windows to Lance's soul shuttered against the light of Truth.

      Many times in my son's life--months or years after doing some knucklehead stunt, then denying it repeatedly--he would tell me, in a moment of sober clarity and confession, the truth.  'Yeah, Mom, I don't know why I lied.  I did that.  What an idiot.'  And we would laugh together.  He always knew--I pray he always knew--that I had forgiven him long ago.

      And I forgive Lance.  But I hope and pray that no governing athletic body ever allows him to compete anywhere ever again.  Because if you can't--eventually--tell the truth, you simply can't be trusted.

BOLO--Be On the Look-Out: Gold Chevy Suburban Lic #6CPK813

Sometimes, up here in our quiet little neighborhood near Snowcrest Inn, we are unaware of the chaos going on just a quarter of a mile away.  Such was the case on New Year’s Day.  We’d had enough snow to make it possible for plastic sleds to slide out of control down a few slopes behind the campground, so the highway just below our private road was jammed with vehicles, some parked helter skelter and some rolling slowly forward as distracted drivers searched for a place to squeeze in.

Excited to attend my daughter’s poetry reading that evening, I hadn’t even considered what I might encounter as I tried to leave the mountain… until I white-knuckled it down our ice-slick road to find two SUV’s blocking the entrance to the main highway.  Both drivers ignored me when I tapped on the horn several times.  They also ignored me when I laid on the horn in frustration.  They did not ignore me when I got out and informed them impatiently that they were about to be ticketed by the ranger if he happened along.

Back in the truck, I tried to regain my usually calm demeanor as I watched the two drivers finally move off.  Taking deep breaths, I pulled onto the highway… and found myself in a long line of traffic rolling along at 10mph.  I had plenty of time, having left early, so I settled in for the drive… behind a gold Chevy Suburban, license plate #6CPK813.

As I watched, a child’s arm emerged from a side window on the passenger side.  Clutched in the small hand was a plastic bag.  Around one switchback, then another, I followed the Suburban, watching the bag hang precariously from the kid’s hand.  Then, as we navigated the final hairpin, right next to a turnout that leads to a beautiful, verdant section of the stream, the tiny hand opened wide… and the bag was ditched by the side of the road.

I hit my brakes as safely as I could with a line of cars on my back bumper, thinking the Suburban would brake, pull over, go back for the child’s treasure.  But no.  Of course not.  The drop was intentional.  Like so many people who come to visit, this family mistakenly believed that, like their local movie theater, after the pretty show some young people would come through with a trash can and brooms and clean the place up.

I have to wonder at the conversation in the car.  Was little Johnny reluctant when Mom or Dad or both told him to drop the trash out the window?  Did anyone in the car protest?  The bag had hung there out the window for at least a half mile.  Did Johnny have to be talked into committing this sin against the scenery?  I can only hope.

I followed the car all the way down the mountain and into Upland, but lost track of it when several cars pulled in between us at an intersection.  I wanted to catch them.  I wanted to pull up alongside, smile disarmingly, motion for them to roll down the window, then ask if our mountain looked like a giant trash can to them or who they thought would come along behind them to clean up their mess?

And, because I just can’t help myself, I looked for the bag on my way home (in the dark) and again the next morning on the way down the mountain.  It was gone, probably snatched up by a coyote, bits of the family’s trash no doubt chewed and strewed all along the stream.  Sigh.  I have committed their license number to memory.  I hope you will, too.  I just want to ask them the question… maybe look into little Johnny’s eyes.

Sleep in heavenly peace....

      Can it be that I have not posted here since the end of October?  So much has happened since then….  And I have been responding to all of it… on auto-pilot, to some degree.

      My close friends know that I do not do well in large crowds.  People… scare me.  So when I feel the press of humanity, I tend to retreat, shut down, introvert.  The same is true when a plethora of woes fall upon me; the creative aspect of my nature flees to the subconscious level, happily writing novels in there somewhere, while my conscious self deals with putting out fires.

      Fire #1:  Turns out the medical issue I was having was not an illness of the heart, but of the lungs.  Finally, in November, I was diagnosed with (no doubt congenital) bronchiectasis.  For most or all of my life, I have not had healthy lungs.  Several factors in August caused them to go into overdrive trying to get enough oxygen, which made my heart pound.  The symptoms, for the most part, are alleviated now, though the issue with my lungs is “permanent and irreversible,” as my pulmonary doctor so tersely described for me.  In that moment, his diagnosis seemed like a death sentence.  Now, a month down the road, it is something I can live with… because, well, I’ve been living with it all my life.  I just didn’t know.

      Fire #2:  Exactly 24 hours after my diagnosis, I made an offer on a new home.  This was made possible because

      Fire #3:  a very interesting (ß-------polite way of describing rude, selfish, boor) and affluent man made an offer on my cabin.

      So basically since mid-November I have been (1) following doctor’s orders by walking the loop every day—rain, shine, snow, wind, darkness (at times)—and using medication; (2) filling out escrow papers; (3) FAXing escrow papers, loan documents, copies of any and all things to do with my income; (4) reading daily emails from my real estate agent about new demands from my buyer and about how no one else in this process seems to be as efficient or timely in their manner of completing tasks.  ARRRRGGGGHHHH!  Oh, and (5) singing.  When I get really stressed, I sing, mostly as a means of calming myself, but also as an outlet… because if I didn’t sing, I would just sit down and cry out of frustration.  We’ve been trying to explain to my buyer for six weeks that we must get escrow closed before winter because winter means snow and snow on the road means no moving trucks….

      Forecast for today and Thursday?  More snow.

      But enough about me.  It’s Christmas Eve!!!

      May all the joy of the season surround you!  (Can you hear me?  I’m singing “Silent Night.”)

"Turn on... your heart light...."

On Friday I did my second treadmill test, this time after being injected with a radioactive isotope.  Once the tech put me in the machine that would take the pictures of my heart (after I walked uphill for ten minutes on the treadmill), he adjusted a monitor over my head so that I could see a scan of my body.  The image was an amazing, shadowy form made up of bright dots… which made me feel as if my body were a constellation of stars.  “We are stardust, we are golden….”

I went back this morning to be injected again for more pictures of my heart, this time without the treadmill part. I had to lie as still as possible for 17 minutes, but the tech put on some Norah Jones, so all I had to do was relax and enjoy the music.  Afterward I was congratulated for doing a “good job” of not moving and told the results of the test would be ready in “three to five days.”  Sigh.  The results are there, ready to be interpreted by a cardiologist, but that’s why I have to wait—until some doctor has the time to pick up the chart of a stranger and come to a conclusion about her health based on some pretty pictures.

For all of my adult life, I have been fascinated by medical technology; I can only appreciate it all the more now that it’s being applied to me.  At every doctor’s appointment I’ve had in the past two months, I’ve been complimented on my great blood pressure.  I will say again—Is anyone listening?—that I have not felt stressed through all of this.  I know that eventually the docs will find the problem and fix it.  If this were happening to one of my kids, that would be stressful.  But as it is, my biggest challenge currently is this prolonged inactivity.  I long to walk out the door and up to the waterfall, but caution dictates that I wait until some answers emerge from the test results.

So here I am, filling my time with a lot of reading, very little writing and watching far too much television (which for me generally means the news, although I did catch Pride and Prejudice last night on one of the chick channels, watching it for the tenth time or so).  For those of you who have been sending prayers/energy/good thoughts: Thank you.  I can feel it.  Please don’t stop.  I’m convinced that’s why I’ve been able to be so calm through all of this; I definitely know that I’m loved.

Frontal lobe as treasure chest

At the end of the day, the ER doc told me, “You do not look like a sick person.”  And if I had a dollar for every person who has told me either “It’s probably nothing serious” or “It’s probably just stress,” I’d be able to pay myself back for all the co-pays I’ve incurred in recent weeks.

The truth is, there’s something wrong with my heart.  I tried to tell one of the techs who was administering yet another diagnostic test (on the kind of machine seen in episodes of House) that my heart was broken long ago and never quite got itself fixed correctly, but he just looked at me with a patronizing smile and patted the table in a slide-on-over manner.

At this point, no one seems to be clear on what’s wrong with my heart (apart from the accumulated pain of every loss in my life, starting with my dad in 1963).  However, I did receive some welcome validation on Friday; the treadmill test I took a week before had “a positive result.”  Which means now I get to take another one—this time with radiation.  Um… yay.

A few people have said, “This must be so stressful” (and oh, by the way, I also have a buyer for my cabin and I need to pack up and be off the mountain in 30 days and oh, yeah, that includes finding another place to live), but it really isn’t.  That my little, problematic body is undergoing another breakdown of some kind doesn’t really worry me; we’ll figure it out and fix it.  I’m going with the ER doc’s evaluation.

But it has preoccupied my mind lately.  (‘Could it be this? What about that? Will I need surgery? How will I manage that?’)  Then my dear friend Ginger (who is my favorite medium; yes, she communicates with dead people) reminded me that I am “surrounded by some powerful forces,” and that it’s okay to let them take the reins for a while.  Thinking about this on the drive down to work one morning, I let go of all the what-ifs, took some deep breaths, and focused on the moment, the beauty of the morning, the fresh air of the mountain, and all the good stuff in my life.  And in the next moment, a song stepped out from the recesses of my brain, one I hadn’t thought of in many years.  I started to sing it… and found that I remembered every word of it.

Our memories are stored in our frontal lobe, scientists tell us, along with abilities in speech and language.  When we become… preoccupied… with other things—worry, anxiety, sadness—our brains switch over to fight or flight preparation and our frontal lobe hangs out a “Closed due to family emergency” sign.  But we can switch things around, if we so choose, opting for calm and serenity in the face of adversity.  And when we do, our senses are heightened, our memories return.  And singing, I will always advocate, heals a thousand wounds.  I’m not saying it’s going to heal my heart.  But the melodies of life will definitely keep me grounded as I stroll through this little valley. 

Why this author is giving away free books

The first time I noticed an author doing a "giveaway" on Goodreads, I have to confess, I was kind of resentful.  As it turned out, I had just finished reading that same novel--a book I'd spent a few dollars of my exiguous fortune on--and now here was the author just giving it away for free.  "Hey, I'm a teacher living on a single, limited income that keeps shrinking!  Give me that book!" is what I thought at the time.  But then... I looked into what the giveaways are all about, and I finally understood.  For Indie and DIY authors, offering a book or two for free in a giveaway provides an opportunity to let a whole lot more folks know about the book.

In my case, with The Dogs Who Saved Me, I was reluctant to do a giveaway, because 100% of the profits from this book are being donated to animal rescue groups, and I didn't want to take one penny away from that.  However... after a conversation with Indie marketing guru Martin Lastrapes (who just happens to be my favorite Indie author), I realized that by offering a couple of copies of Dogs for free, I could generate more interest in the book, which would generate more revenue for a local rescue group (HOPE rescue in Upland, CA), so I jumped on board.

I am pleased to say that there are currently 500+ readers who have entered the giveaway.  Even more exciting is the fact that 72 readers on Goodreads have added the book to their "to read" lists, and several have sent me messages to say that if they don't 'win' the book, they will buy it right away as they find the premise intriguing.  Yes!  Success!  And think about it--if those 72 readers like the book and recommend it to friends, the snowball will continue to grow (hopefully), garnering new readers and more support for the rescue groups that do so much by sheer power of animal love and enthusiasm.  Bless them!

So--if you haven't yet read The Dogs Who Saved Me and would like to enter the giveaway, there's still time!!  (At this writing, 6 hours and 30 minutes--so get on it!)  Click on the link below and enter.  There are no strings attached!!  You will not be asked to write a review or give a speech or compose a lively verse about the book, nor will I or the great folks at Goodreads save your info and try to strongarm you into buying books... or ocean view property in Missouri....  If you don't have a Goodreads account, consider establishing one, as there are many, many good books available through the giveaways for free, plus great conversations taking place all the time with intelligent readers.

Okay, I'm done yakking.  Here's the link:
Goodreads giveaway of The Dogs Who Saved Me