This recent trip overseas, I decided to guinea-pig myself in an experiment. Always seeking remedies to reduce the dreaded Jet Lag, I’d read about how face masks – the kind that filter germs – can actually shorten your ‘lag time’. Something about breathing moist air, reducing overall dehydration caused by flying, which apparently contributes to feeling so rotten. So, on the roughly 13 hour flight over, I wore the mask pretty much the whole time. Whether it was the excitement of landing in a new country, or the mask actually working, I perked-up  after only a day and a half of feeling rough. The second half of the experiment:  I didn’t wear the mask at all on the flight home. What a difference. Four full days of a spacey head and not wanting to do much beyond sleep. I’ll definitely be packing a mask from now on.

Back home, while I was still feeling like a zombie, I decided to go to my local grocery store for a pick me up ‘shot’ of immune booster. (What I eventually settled-on was an eye-watering, nose-running, cough-spluttering combo of really hot fresh ginger, turmeric, black pepper and some exotic berries I’d never heard of.) While I was trying to read the teeny tiny print on itty bitty Alice in Wonderland bottles, all in psychedelic colors (is that part of their appeal, I wonder), I felt a person behind me. As I scooted out of the way, the woman began talking to me.

I’ve never heard a person talk so fast. Of course, she didn’t know my brain was ‘toast’ from flying. I smiled, and nodded, and she talked. And talked. Some of what the woman said filtered through my mental fog – she seemed to know a lot about those little super-shots and had tried most of them. Helpful. But then the topic meandered a little…to her battle with all kinds of Life stressors and her body’s ‘breakdown’ as she put it.

This happens to me a lot. I’m in a store. Any store. Someone wants to know, “Does this melon smell ripe to you?” “Does this dress look good on me?” “Do you know anything about the benefits of celery juice?” This last question came from the woman in the store yesterday. Far from being annoyed, or anxious to be on my way, I was transfixed by her story:  it just kept rolling out as I continued to read labels, hoping that one in particular would whisper, Choose me!

In a span of the past five years, said the woman, she’d endured the following:  flying 2,000 miles to support a niece through rehab; caring for her mother-in-law until her death from breast cancer; taking-in her brother and his wife when he lost his job; losing another brother to alcoholism; and coping with the death of a dear aunt who meant more to her (she said) than her own mother. After sharing an impressive (and scary, to me) list of meds she’d been prescribed by various doctors (“I had a full-on breakdown and was hospitalized”), the woman told me she was intent on getting well naturally. Clean foods. Juicing. Ah – that explained her super-shot knowledge.

It was time for me to try to edge – gently and tactfully – away from this encounter. I wished the woman luck – she seemed better for having talked non-stop for a bit — and almost immediately flashed-back to when I was a care provider for my own father. How it wore me down. How my love and care for him caused me to almost get into a similar state of total physical, mental, emotional and spiritual collapse. I can’t imagine a succession of caregiving demands. Love is strong. Love is the greatest power on earth;  but we are fragile systems, often unaware and unable to realize when our breaking point is near. Love allows us to endure unimaginable hardship without a thought for our own welfare; love blinds us to any and all things that are not a part of our impulse to care, to sacrifice, to find strength when strength is gone.

I was glad, suddenly, that I was there yesterday in that store isle. The woman who unburdened herself to me didn’t know I had a minimally-functioning brain. It didn’t matter. She talked. I listened. We both connected, intimate strangers. I walked away marveling at her strength, and at the amazing things we do for Love.

gettyimages.co.uk

More than a few people who study the subconscious mind have concluded that our dreams represent either fears or desires. Lately, my own dreams have felt like the massive, corner-to-corner ‘housecleaning’ I always say I’m going to do twice a year. My subconscious has returned to The Past. Specifically, how I used to feel, think and act ‘in love’, before I actually knew who I was. Why am I now dreaming about how I used to behave in relationship? I suppose, as I think about adventures that lie ahead of me, I fear  that I’ll forget crucial lessons I’ve learned over the years, and am therefore doomed to make the same mistakes.

gettyimages.co.uk

How hard is it – when we want and need Love in our lives – when we’d so much rather be part of a couple than alone – to not “settle” for less than we deserve? We hear and read that word (settle) a lot; we know what it means. It’s never a good ‘look’, from others’ perspectives. When it comes to romance and Love, we’d rather gossip (I’ve seen and heard this, even at weddings) about the person who’s “definitely settling!” than think we could ever ‘betray’ our own hearts.

What does “settling” mean? Not too long ago a friend told me he was getting (re) married. I surprised myself, still optimistic and romantic, after all these years: “You’re in love – how wonderful!” Not, as it turns out. He was feeling his age, tired of living alone, wanting a companion in his big house, and – of course – hoping for “regular sex”. As it turned out, his fiancé was in the same ‘boat’. So they married. And are already struggling to adapt to one another’s personalities.

I totally understand why people enter into and stay in relationships (even complicating things further, with marriage). Whether it’s romantic love, erotic love, platonic love, companion love, or any other variation of Love. I don’t judge them. But the dream I had last night (yes, back to the whole point of this Post) showed me that my own heart demands something more. In the dream (totally reflecting real life, some years back), I was in a Love Relationship; sort of a long-distance thing. We’d been together for some five years and I was wearing a beautiful diamond engagement ring, but in my heart I knew that I would never marry this man.

In last night’s dream, we stood holding each other in a loving embrace. He was whispering sweet words and talking about the future. I was ‘in my head’, not feeling it at all. (There had been, over the trips and visits to one another’s cities, strong indications of his substance abuse and mental health issues, and many deep dive conversations.) His words were all about our ‘road ahead’. I kept quiet, a total coward, not wanting to leave his arms just yet.

The thing about dreams:  I always seem to wake up from this ‘movie’ in my head when it’s either just getting really good, or, when my heart tells my subconscious, “That’s enough of that!” Last night I woke up before I had to say anything negative to my lover. The dream was a total flashback, a psychic “do-over” scenario with a question waiting at the end for me, when I woke up:  “Here’s this guy, so perfect for you in so many ways; except for the substance abuse and really concerning mental health issues. Are you going to “settle” when your heart is screaming ‘Run for the door!?’ ”

In Love, how do we know, for certain and for sure, what our non-negotiables and deal-breakers are? How can we be sure that we know, understand and accept what we’re ‘in for’ in a committed relationship, and not feel like we’re making excuses for not receiving what we really want and need? Rhetorical question, right? Because we  know that each one of us asking these questions has to look deeply into our own hearts, eyes wide open, stripping away any romantic fantasy or feelings of desperation before the decision’s made. Real Happiness and joyfulness  is always a better option than bargaining-away our deepest needs and even values. Whatever that ‘Happiness’ means…it’s worth holding on to, waking or dreaming.

pri.org

My friend Josh and I were recently comparing notes on e-trading. Day-trading, to be specific. Josh spends most of his free time doing it: up an hour or two before the market opens, studying and investing. I’ve done a little of it, and have been successful on a small scale. But I’ve noticed that e-trading messes with my peace of mind. It makes me even more nervous than I already am. I told Josh that I’d swapped out morning e-trading for morning Blogging. No adrenaline rush; no financial ‘score’, but quiet, meditative mornings and no losses.

Josh had questions, so we talked a little more about Blogging. How many Posts had I written (since I began on April 27, 2019)? How many Views was I getting? Hearing my answer to question one, Josh asked, “Where the —- do you get your ideas ?!” Eyebrows raised. My response was frustratingly (for him) simple, I think:  Just by Living Life and being observant: of my own feelings, and the feelings and experiences of those around me.

pri.org

It’s true. Most of the time I write because I’m listening to, thinking about, or feeling something that needs exploring. As I get into the topic (I never know whether or not I’ll Publish until I finish), I have to feel like I’m learning something new about myself, and about Living Bravely, as I put it on my Main Page. I have to feel like what I’ve learned might be of some value to other people.

Every once in a while, however, a topic comes into my mind and heart that feels extremely personal. I write to soothe and release something that’s causing me pain; like finally digging out a thorn, gifted by the rose bush I pruned a week ago; deeply stuck and aching.

warrenphotographic.co.uk

I’ve always loved animals – especially cats and dogs. (As a kid I also had birds, rabbits, snakes, fish, lizards and wild creatures rescued and nursed back to health.)  When we moved into the house where I currently live, the large yard seemed perfect for pets: two puppies from the animal shelter; two weeks-old kittens rescued from a parking lot and a soccer field. As time goes by, of course, these spunky little creatures, full of life, mature and grow old. It’s never easy to hear, when a pet you’ve had for well over a decade tells you “it’s time to go”.

Having faced this reality with one of my cats on Wednesday of this week ( a lot of tears and a lot of tissues; a very compassionate veterinarian), I hadn’t even recovered emotionally when one of my dogs collapsed two days later. She’d been severely arthritic and now couldn’t move, whimpering in pain. Bless You, Dr. Mobile Vet: the super nice guy came that very morning.

“All Creatures Great and Small” telegraph.co.uk

But I wasn’t ready for the reality- check he gave me. The vet watched me with my dog, trying to help her stand — her hind legs kept buckling — so he could examine her. With a kind, and sorrowful face he looked down at us and said, “This is Assisted Living. This isn’t the way you, or your dog, want to live. Am I right?” His words outed me. I’d become a Care Provider to my animals – first my cat, then my dog – not even noticing that no one was happy or thriving. Enormous energy expended, in just trying to keep them alive and comfortable. This very experienced, wise and compassionate man (Patrick) then gave me a gentle lecture about what I needed, versus what the cat and the dog needed. I know it sounds simple, but, whether you’re providing care for a loved one or a beloved pet, perspective gets skewed and boundaries get blurred; it’s partly why care providers – especially those who’re caring for family members – become crazed with emotional and physical exhaustion.

When we deeply love a person or pet whose Race is Run and it’s time to stop, the Heart is seldom clear about the exact right time to say ‘goodbye’. This week I had to accept that my own reluctance to ‘let go’ was far less important than honoring Life and its natural cycle. Even as they left my Life, my animals were gracious in their last lessons about Love.

thedailymash.co.uk

In 2017, when the city managers of Paris – the official “City of Love” —  went on a rampage against the 45 tons of Love Locks fastened to its historical Pont Des Arts, they were forced to do so. The sheer weight of the million-plus locks had finally caused a section of the bridge to collapse. Such was the mythic power, on a global scale, of this famous bridge:  Love, fulfilled; Love, unrequited; Love, lost; Love, yearned for. Desires and promises captured for eternity in the hearts of padlocks whose keys were then tossed into the river Seine.  

courtesy of michellegable.com

In 2019, popular travel sites now offer suggestions for the most romantic locations (lakes, rivers, oceans – with the necessary bridges, fencing or gates or…) for the Love Lock-obsessed. As annoying and as silly as these notions might seem, they represent a very human desire to believe in wishes.  It’s more than wishing, really; the belief is in the power of unseen forces that feel magical, and that fulfill our need for a deeper, more ancient-feeling connection with those forces.

courtesy, wicca-life.com

Recent studies (one was published in early 2019, in the New York Times) show an uptick in public interest worldwide, in spiritual avenues that the majority of people probably wouldn’t refer to as ‘mainstream’. Wicca membership has increased, as have visits to astrology websites, and the use of psychics. Books and magazine articles that focus on Wellness topics have steadily grown in popularity since the 1990’s. Yoga, in all its forms, has experienced a surge in popularity. But Wellness is not the quite the same as believing in the power of spirit animals and planetary influences. Its not the same as believing in the power of a Love Lock, with the lovers’ initials etched into it, to be able to capture love forever. To slip into this realm means letting go of our need for reasons and rationales. It means re-connecting with our sense of Wonder.

A sense of Wonder is most often attributed to children, as in, To perceive something with child-like wonder. But what is that, exactly? We have memory of what it feels like, from childhood. We’re envious of those that still have it; we know that Life and living tend to extinguish it. But we also know that a sense of Wonder is real;  and, it’s one of the few things in our lives that feels authentic and un-fakeable (I think I just coined a new word, here – apologies, if necessary). I’ll define Wonder – here and now, anyway — as an acceptance of, and appreciation for what can’t be fully known or experienced with the mind. Wonder is felt. Wonder takes what we think we know can, or cannot be, and turns it on its head by presenting us with something awe-some.We don’t doubt it; we don’t need to prove it or convince anyone else that our sense of  Wonder’s valid.

This morning when I walked out my front door I checked, as I always do, the level of nectar in the hummingbird feeder to the left of the door. Surprised and delighted, I was in perfect time to catch a tiny, jet-black hummer sipping from the feeder. As if that wasn’t enough of a treat, the little thing then zoomed directly in front of my face at eye level, about 18 inches from my nose, and hovered there looking directly at me for a few seconds. Funny that I was just longing for something Wonder-ful, when it greeted me by almost touching my face.

Unlike the individual who interpreted the study (I mention above) as a sign that we’re all going completely Off The Rails  with our crystals and faeries, psychic readings and personalized Birth Charts, I think it’s completely ‘ok ‘to seek Wonder wherever we think we might find it. In the eyes of our faithful hound or mystical cat; in a flower; in the tarot cards; in a circle of wiccans giving thanks to the Great Forest and its sprites; in the power of a Love Lock to bind us forever.  Who cares? We embrace our Wonder wherever we find it and rejoice in not having to ask Why or How.

The first time I went to Italy I was just a young girl. I was still in what some writers call the “colt” (filly, I guess) stage:  all long arms and legs, awkwardly trying to coordinate them into graceful movement, with utter self-consciousness. But not really caring how I looked, when it came right down to it. So I was beyond surprised when a group of Italian boys came in pursuit. My parents and I were in Venice, in search of the famous Bridge of Sighs (my father’s map-reading leading us deep into shaded, narrow streets, nowhere near the canal). Their calls to me were in Italian, of course, but the lilt of their voices communicated their approval of my appearance, and then some. The pack of four or five young men followed directly behind us, chattering loudly. One of them suddenly dashed forward, even though I was walking between both of my parents, and pinched me.  He let out a loud “Whoop!!” and sprinted away like a cricket, as my startled parents watched. The young men all then went off in another direction, laughing and talking. I was delighted. For days.

One of the things I enjoy and appreciate – as a single woman traveling abroad – is the way that men generally allow their appreciation of the female form to be completely obvious. A woman can be walking with another man and still get an admiring (if not burning with desire) look. It’s usually playful, not a ‘stalker’ type of attention. But it’s the openness, the frankness of the look that I admire. “Yes. I am looking at you because I want to, and I want you to know this, because you are looking so good.” (I’ve actually had French men say variations of this line to me; I express gratitude, and life goes on.) It’s all part of a more enlightened, in my opinion, view of sexuality that literally puts ‘sex’ into just about everything. Normale.

In California, it’s a different story. Perhaps it’s mostly in our bigger cities here, but I’ve felt it in smaller ones also. In general, there’s a practiced indifference that both men and women struggle to perfect, no matter how attracted they might be to someone. Now, I’m not talking about the bar-scene; or places where people go to hook-up. And I can only speak as a straight female, in my experience with straight men. But it’s really pretty funny (and ironic) how much effort goes into the precisely-measured response; the studied nonchalance; as though looking too hard or too long might give away Important Personal Secrets and compromise any relationship from the get-go. I’ve seen both men and women do this. I’ve learned how to do it. It’s part of a universal language, here in the Golden State. Usually, it’s pure fun. Sometimes it’s kind of pitiful.

Summertime temperatures being what they are, today I decided to make a dash to my neighborhood grocery store for some melon. As I moved through the produce section (totally jammed with people, typical for a weekend), I was aware of a very tall person moving toward me, though my eyes were scanning the fruit for freshness. Call it my long-standing situational awareness: I’m not expecting anyone to hit on me – I just don’t want to be hit or run over with a cart (as a woman did to the heel of one of my better pair of flats, recently). I looked up as the man approached me, met his eyes, and caught his as they looked down at the fourth finger on my left hand, which was bare. I felt him circle around behind me. ‘Whatever’, was my first thought, and kept going in my fruit prowl.

A very few minutes later I happened to look up once more (I can usually feel ‘eyes’ on me – again, self-protection instincts). The same man was standing about three feet away, next to a pyramid of peaches. As I looked up, his eyes searched mine. He didn’t smile, he just looked, and kept looking at me. A handsome face. A sad face. Light olive skin and very brown eyes. A little gray in his hair. But in a split- second I realized that the very imposing woman directly in front of my cart was apparently The Wife. Ah. So… were his eyes saying, “Help Me” ?

She was casual chic, all in black; a tasteful summer cashmere something-or-other around her back and shoulders. Her hair was thick, glossy and also black, pulled into a stylish pony. I could only see the side of her face: a large silver hoop, a strong jawline and a jet brow. As my eyes left her ensemble, the woman’s voice, directed at the man who’d been staring at me (did she notice, I don’t think so), cracked like a very loud whip. “Not those!” (his hand was suspended over a bag of cherries at that moment). “I told you I didn’t want those!” Oh my, I thought. Scolded loudly, in a crowded produce isle, for choosing Bing over Ranier.  Hell – I felt cowed. I edged away to avoid hearing any more. As I turned back briefly, the woman’s face was in a deep scowl. In fairness, maybe the husband’s a total jerk and he deserved this treatment. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt bleak. His look wasn’t just Help Me; it was, I Can’t Seem to Help Myself.

Sometimes when I’m feeling a little wistful about my solitude  ( In-Between-Men,  as they say), I’m also quick to send my Gratitude to the Universe that I don’t have to eye-ball silent signals of Please: Just Smile at Me, in the grocery store. I’m thankful that I’ve gained the wisdom that would never allow me to stay in a relationship without passion, honor and respect. I’m also grateful that I have the understanding, if not the total ability (yet), to be candid in my appreciation of a potential love interest. Today, I’ve decided:  Be it among the cherries, or somewhere else, I’m going to let my eyes linger when they feel like it. I am not going to pretend indifference, but fully take-in an interesting-looking (hopefully single) man. If he clocks me doing this, so much the better. I think I might even give him a little “Whoop!!” See what happens.