Memorialize Peace

In a patriotic display, I dressed for work in a vest of red, white and blue, with an American flag placard across the chest. Then I thought that on the day we memorialize our war dead, I would wear a t-shirt emblazoned with a gigantic peace symbol. Worn not in disrespect, for I too am a vet, but as a statement for peace, for a time when ‘war dead’ is an archaic phrase relegated to history. A t-shirt that screams for peace. On this Memorial Day I stand for peace. Peace at home and abroad. May we have peace in our homes, in our countries, in our world, in our lives in our lifetime. Peaceful people: may we know them, may we be them, may we raise them. Pax.

On Stewardship – a myopic view.

“If you ask God for healing,” my Aunt said, eyes aflame with conviction, “He will do it. He will give you a new kidney, grow you a new one, right next to your old one.” A magic bean, like Jack and the Beanstalk, and just that simple. I was tempted to Google medical miracles and divine donations. Steeped in science, I believe organ donations arrive on ice in coolers, with tissue classifications of cadaveric, bovine, porcine, or live human, not immaculate implantation by divine intervention. Call me skeptical. I have sometimes felt my God lowly and insufficient because my tongue is not Tongues, my Jesus of colors and his ‘Father’ androgynous, because my faith flows in Technicolor, unconstrained by traditional lines of black and white pressed on fragile pages between covers by St. James, because I am unwilling to condemn gays or Buddhists, because… “Because my faith is much broader than that,” I defended. “Jesus was very inclusive; religion tends to be very exclusive. And I’m so tired of: we’re going to heaven and you’re not.” I felt my God would be unwelcome in church. Though quite frankly, if I met Her on the street, I might not be welcoming either. But lowly and insufficient was anything but, during this conversation for miraculous healing. I felt Aunt Millie’s genuine love and unflappable belief that God would deliver a kidney for supplication like a can of beans tendered at the grocer. And… I am far too cynical to ask for a new bean grown right next to the old one. “If you really believe and ask for a miracle,” the elders said, “You’ll be healed.” We were high school seniors when leukemia was spotted like a vulture circling carrion. We loved Jesus with the untainted zeal of youth. Even then, I thought it too great a burden to heap on her diminutive and diminishing frame. For life to pivot on her faith or lack there of, that she alone was responsible and thereby… destined to become her own executioner. Wendy died before graduation. I never bargained with God again. Life is, after all, a terminal disease. Why bargain? “I wonder how both my kidneys quit at the same time?” Mom asked. “They didn’t, you’ve been killing them for a decade.” I was frustrated and angry. “Well, I have to die from something, it may as well be from renal failure,” she said, so nonchalant. “Besides, I don’t want to eat like you; your diet is boring!” The medical community considers a hemodialysis patient within the nuclear family, medically significant family history. A prognosticator of sorts. I bargained, as if coercing and cajoling her to mindful, conscious eating would camouflage the trail of genetic breadcrumbs and prevent The Fates from connecting the dots, the indisputable carbon polymer linking me to she. So lucky to live in this body, I thought, to really live in this body, to feel its call and live responsively and responsibly. I began eating a ‘boring’ renal diet and avoiding nephrotoxins decades before medical science affixed its diagnosis and prognosis to me and my medical record. My diet is perfect, including everything I desire, excluded nothing I can’t live without. My body is perfect, or as perfect as I can coerce and cajole it to be. I am stable, healthy and planning to summit the highest mountain in the lower-48 in two months. That’s healthy and fit… and not without stuff to manage. “Guess I won’t make it to ninety,” Mom said, “I’ll be the first.” Blessed with good health and longevity, death was always relegated to the far distant future. “It’s unlikely unless you change something. I can coach you on this diet,” I offered. “I don’t want to.” She doesn’t want to, I emailed my sister. I felt sorry for the burden of care Gina would bear, dialysis appointments, doctor visits, and watching Mom’s life-force siphoned away, filtered from her blood in just a few years. “How will you get to dialysis?” I changed tack. “I’ll catch the bus,” her tone sharpened with annoyance. “Mom, you have no idea how bad people feel on dialysis. You won’t like life on dialysis and you sure as hell won’t feel good enough to get on a bus before or after your appointment. They are the walking dead,” I said, refusing to join their ranks, “The listless, the lifeless. I’m a No.” It was several days and conversations to sort myself from my anger and resentment. It’s all about me, my fears, my greatest fear, and my difficulty with the abuse and disregard for one’s body. “There is much automaticity to life,” Bert’s deep, Nordic baritone boomed from the stage. I attended a three-hour workshop entitled, All the World’s a Stage. The discourse concerned roles, our roles in life. “Catch,” he snatched at the air to his left with both hands. “Carry,” he rotated center, holding his imaginary catch chest-high. “Release,” he rotated right, opening his hands to free his prey. “Catch, carry, release,” he repeated the rotation, “Catch, carry, release. We are caught by a role, as if by the throat. We carry and use it for a time, until we stop and are released. Some roles, we never release. You think you are trapped and used by your roles. Consider that you use roles and believe you are victim to them.” Often my life is lived in reaction to fear and threat and I believe I am used by it. Catch. Were I not fearful of hemodialysis, I’d conjure a new demon. Were I not worried for one friend, I’d find another to fret for. Any demon, any fret will do as I carry my role, unwilling to release until a suitable substitute is located. How would life look without victimization to my roles? How would life feel for Mom and I, if I let her live without constant comment and red ink edits? “The thing that makes me so sad,” I confessed the following week, “Is that you still have so much life-force. Dialysis will remove that even as it removes the toxins from your blood. I expressed my sadness and fear as anger. I’m sorry.” “Well… I won’t need dialysis,” she said, “I have faith. God will heal me.” Catch, as if by the throat. I can, with amazing speed, ease and righteousness, point an accusatory finger at the faithful with tarnished relationships and gluttonous flesh. Carry. “If you have faith that God will heal you, you must also recognize that God has given you tools,” I seethed. “God gave you a medical plan, and a pharmacy plan, and a nutrition class, and a kidney class, and you haven’t used the tools that God gave you nor have you honored your body.” I was reminded of a joke circulating the internet in the wake of hurricane Katrina. A man sat on his roof to escape floodwaters. A rescuer came by on horseback and the man refused saying, “I have faith God will save me.” Later rescuers approached by boat and the man turned them away saying, “I have faith God will save me.” Finally, a helicopter hovered and he shunned it shouting, “I have faith God will save me.” Upon arrival at the pearly gates and entrance into Heaven, he asked, “Why didn’t you save me Lord?” And the Lord God said, “I sent a horse, a boat and a helicopter. What were you waiting for?” Does God knock? Are we listening? Do we hear? And if so, do we open the door? In the broad-brush application of stewardship against the grain of life, what is its color and boundary? In recent years, I noticed my friends were all very fit. I have come to know that I have little tolerance for otherwise. Using fitness as the sieve, as inclusionary criteria is a narrow therapeutic window for life with L.B., a very skinny gate to squeeze into my circle of friends. Caught, as if by the throat, in my very own version of us and them, I am no less exclusionary than the religions at which I point. Catch, carry, release. “Maybe I’ll go take that diet class again,” Mom said. “I’ll help you if you want.” Catch. It’s tricky business, asking favors of God. Did not the predeceased beseech and bargain for more? And to what avail? Death is always our next place and may well be our next best place. Carry. I appreciate and desire a peculiar level of impeccability in nearly every aspect life. That broad brush includes both physical and spiritual realms with a degree of congruency between them. Through that lens, I see it is not mine to cajole or coerce. Release. It is mine to sort myself out and return to love, and sort myself out and return to love, and sort myself out and return… always to return. That being said, my garage and many facets of my life are in disarray. Perhaps God-speak can appear quite ordinary, like a medical plan and renal dietician. Largely due to the parable, I often think of stewardship in reference to talents. Stewardship may paint the breadth of extremities, well beyond talents (ancient money) and talents (aptitude and skills), to the stuff and stuffing of life methinks. Stewardship may include honoring one’s body as the temple, not in narcissistic adoration but in gratitude for the gift it is. Stewardship may include tithing to that which brings centered, peaceful and loving coexistence with others. In practical application, this may be as simple as completing home repairs to create workability and thereby peace. Spiritual and relational home repairs bring another level of peace, a rare and recognizable exemplar of faith. Stewardship may include those intangibles like the listening of oneself and others with generosity and grace. Stewardship may include listening for the call of the Eternal in the ordinary. Does God knock? Are we listening? Do we hear? And if so, do we open the door? Perhaps asking for a new kidney is as simple as asking. Catch. I don’t ask because I am fearful of any and all possible answers. Carry. I am leery of all disruptions to my equilibrium and status quo, suspicious of any disturbance to living in the familiar and known. The degree to which I love impeccability reflects my efforts to control the uncertainty of life. Release. Stewardship asks that I honor that within me and be not used by it to separate and segregate. What does any of this have to do with asking for a new bean as my Aunt suggested? Catch. Does stewardship demand that I ask? Carry. Harrumph! Recognizing that my definition of stewardship is yet again another sieve… ah-haaa. Release! Note: before you flood me with notes of concern, re-read the paragraph that begins: So lucky to live in this body… All is well and I am well. And Mom? Well… she is as well as she is, isn’t she? xoxoxo! #

Duck Soup Island Style

“Are you two dum-dum-dah-dah?” Ron asked to the tune of Here Comes the Bride. Ron & Pat stood before us, having spied us across the restaurant as they entered. My eyes flew wide in alarm, appalled at his audacity and hubris. “No,” I said with finality that should have ended his questioning. “Well, are you dating?” he grinned devilishly. “No,” I answered with an edge he should have heard. “Oh honey, don’t embarrass them,” Pat piped in. “Why aren’t you dating?” he persisted, “He’s a great guy!” “Got it. Thank you.” I did little to hide my growing irritation and swatted him like a pesky gnat. “You two would be great together,” he continued. “I’ve known him for years.” Tom and I reconnected in the Kaiser Roseville parking structure, ending a yearlong hiatus. Our food, newly delivered, steamed from the tabletop. “You two should date,” Ron waggled a finger with a parting shot, even as the hostess summoned. Why does this conversation make me see red? What has me hunker-down, defend, protect and want to kill? The dating conversation puts me on edge; is an edge. In this conversation, I am an unwillingly participant. I’ve attempted to establish a boundary and train others to avoid the topic that always delivers a shock to my collar. Obviously with little success. Duck Soup is a colloquialism of dubious origins, dating back to a 1902 cartoon. It conjures a popular island image of ducks floating in a large, soup-filled rice bowl, chopsticks laid across the lip. More akin to a sharp chopstick in the eye, the dating conversation is anything but duck soup. “Anyone catch your eye?” Jared asked as we looked out over the ballroom, into a sea of faces. “No.” “There are a hundred and twenty people in this room,” he squared up and faced off, “At least one-third of them men. And you mean to tell me not ONE MAN caught your eye?” My male friends often seemed frustrated, even angry at my disinterest in dating. “What about Chance?” Not a chance. I raised a brow and shot him a sidelong sneer. Monkey’s lip twitched, baring an incisor. I took a deep breath to calm us both. “Oh,” Jared bore a look of consternation, shaking his head, “He’s probably too pretty for you.” “I’m old enough to be his mother!” “How ‘bout him?” He pointed at a tall, thin man with a ponytail reaching mid-back. How ‘bout you let me do the choosing? I rolled my eyes. At least he chose a model featuring a long-and-lean chassis. “What about James?” “James?” I scowled, “Who’s James?” “Frank.” So much for long-and-lean. “Does he look like he owns a pair of used running shoes and a bicycle?” My words dripped with sarcasm. “You're so superficial,” Jared admonished before giving it a rest. Perhaps. But long-and-lean can point to something, something in which I have great interest: a commitment to fitness and an active lifestyle. I answered my cell-phone to a familiar voice. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m standing in the Apple Store; my Mac died.” “Can they fix it?” “Dunno yet. I’m waiting for my genius to perform the miracle of resurrection.” “Good Lord!” “Exactly.” “Okay, hope it works. So, how many people are there?” “Um…” I looked about, scanning Apple’s milling shoppers. “Lots, the place is packed.” Like mealy worms milling and drilling an apple. “About forty.” “How many guys?” Here we go. “Um… at least twenty-five.” “Anyone catch your eye?” Jared was nothing if not persistent. “No.” I responded easily without another look. Any long-and-lean man would have pinged my sonar upon entering. “You’re telling me there’s not ONE MAN in that store that interests you?” It was more accusation than question. I am so tired of defending this. What had I learned in Wisdom about bringing play to areas of life that are difficult? Suddenly the game appeared out of thin air, like 3-D, holographic chess. “Here’ the deal sweetie…” my words oozed, dipped in honey, sweetness, and irrefutable love, “They’re not you.” Check. “A-u-w,” he melted into a puddle. Checkmate! I knew he would never insist that an unknown, unseen man in the Apple Store was better than he. I win! People have no idea, would be surprised to learn, the frequency with which I am pushed into the conversation for dating… and why I’m not. The question: Are you dating yet? occurs with quotidian regularity. “Because laced within that question is the implication that I want to date, or need to date, that I am not whole and complete without a man… and I resent it!” I stood at the front of the room, venting my frustration at the Wisdom City Team. “I’m not the one saying I want to date. Y’all act like I live in an ivory tower, lamenting my lonely life, awaiting my white knight on his mighty steed. I’m not! I am fully engaged. I meet more men and have more men than I can manage and they are lovely, but how it occurs for me is: I’m not interested. I’m not a No-never; I’m a No-not-now. I know myself to be reliable to create another long-term relationship and partnership, but not now.” “Got it,” Joan leaned to one elbow and blinked slowly. “You know, there is a cultural conversation that if you are not in-relationship, there’s something wrong with you.” The City Team giggled. “No really,” she addressed them in earnest. “And we can hardly tolerate someone who’s not; like they need fixing or something. And we ask about dating to deal with our own discomfort because we don’t have any capacity to be uncomfortable. Is there anything else you want to say about this Lorin?” I wanted to scream, Get off my back! to drive the point home. “No, I think that’s it,” I said, returning to my seat. The City Team, all 80 of them, took to merciless pestering in their commitment to expand my capacity for discomfort. Damn them! Collin had expressed a similar sentiment. “Based on results,” I said over dinner, “I am reliable to create another long-term relationship; you are not.” “Maybe I don’t want one,” he wore a strained, pained look. “Maybe I’m not committed to relationships. Any relationship!” “Maybe you’re not,” I agreed, “It’s a good thing to know about yourself. If it’s true… quit dragging women through relationships with you.” “People approach me all the time and say, ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’” Collin’s voice rose. “And I often think, what makes you think I want to meet anyone?” “Maybe that’s not a lack of commitment to relationship, maybe it’s a barrier to relationship, that’s in your blind spot, that you can’t see. There is an exercise coming your way called Limits to Participation – pay attention.” “I will,” he said with a genuine smile. Is my limit to participation secondary to a barrier residing in my blind spot? Like a growing cancer in my cranium, undetected until it’s inoperable? Until I’ve spent a lifetime alone? I am often unavailable and inaccessible on many, many fronts. “It comes up,” Pua said, “Because it’s a mismatch. It’s not consistent with what you’re committed to.” “I am not going to date someone just to make y’all happy!” I was exasperated and defensive. “I just haven’t met anyone I’m interested in, who is interested back. I don’t think I need to defend that. Listen, the bed’s not even cool before some find another partner. Like they’ve barely had time to launder the sheets. Nothing wrong with that?” And really, there is nothing wrong with that. We are social beings, pack animals with behaviors across a continuum. The behaviors in question represent opposing tails of the bell curve. “I have a cadre of men who cast a very long shadow,” I continued. “I see them regularly. They love me, support me, guide me, console me, help me, and want the world for me. With them I feel loved, wanted, desired, beautiful, all that. I don’t have to date to fill that hole and… none of them is my lover. Can I be content with the way things are? I can!” There is no paucity of people pointing to my foibles. “Why are you attracted to unavailable men?” I dunno, my Daddy complex? My Dad, a long and lean drink of water, is as unavailable as the dance is familiar. I didn’t know how to undo that. I could meet a wide variety of men in all shapes: check, sizes: check, and colors: check. I could have close relationships with non-athletic men: check. I could spend time with men of different educational backgrounds: check, and socio-economic levels: check. I could foster friendships with men outside my standard lanes of traffic: check. I could ask men out: check. I could accept dates: check. I could date men to whom I am not attracted: er… that seems like a pointless and futile exercise. “Why is this okay with you?” Wendell pressed, “Like, this is okay for right now.” “No, it’s not this is okay for right now, this IS right now,” I defended. “Right now is all there is and my life looks like this right now. It doesn’t quite match my picture… and there is nothing wrong, nothing broken, nothing lacking, no unmet expectations.” "But don't you missed being kissed and hugged and cuddled?" he asked. "We won't even talk about sex." "Of course." “But then you’re not even engaged.” As if the frenetic search for a mate is all there is. Certainly not a bad game but not the only game. “I don’t know how you can say that,” my heart zoomed, sending a flutter into my right carotid. “I am on the phone or attending a function up to five nights a week. That’s a lot of engagement. But I’m not on eHarmony or Match.com if that’s what you mean. I have no lack of men nor do I have trouble meeting them.” “But you’re not even interested,” he changed tack. Interest is an entirely different matter. “I was interested in Collin.” Wendell hated hearing about Collin. I was guilty of brandishing Collin like a proof-of-purchase that now and again, and contrary to urban legend, my sonar did indeed – ping. “Get over Collin already,” he scolded, “He’s unavailable in more ways than you can imagine.” Tall, dark, handsome, lean, aloof and unavailable. Purrfect! “I am over Collin; I was never stuck on Collin. But Collin got me out of the gate, for which I thanked him. Here’s what Collin proved: if I’m interested, I’ll saddle up. But for the most part… I ain’t interested. Is that the product of a barrier? I don’t know. But y’all act like I’m sitting in the duck blind and need help choosing my prey and pulling the trigger.” Duck soup: shooting ducks in a pond is duck soup. “What few seem to understand is: IT AIN’T DUCK SEASON!” That’s it; isn’t it? The what-is-so of it: it ain’t duck season. Shooting ducks in a target rich environment is an expedient starting point for making duck soup. Funny... no moah duck soup on da menu. (Said in my very best Charlie Chan.) Ah-so, no wondah no likey duck. Not everyone pulls a permit when hunting season opens. That the barren bed draws for another like a vortex may imply a universal law, to which I am at odds. Funny that common denotes normalcy, as if there is such a thing. Society presses and pressures with constant comment that relegates deviancy uncommon by virtue that it goes to ground, underground. Neither is better, only different points on the spectrum, once again. The noise of others, like a concerto in my head plays second fiddle to the rhythm of my heart. I am not moving to the duck waddle, the hunter’s dance, the fertility dance, the mattress mambo, or the moon dance. I move to the I-like-my-life-just-the-way-it-is-and-just-the-way-it-isn’t dance. No fixing, no defending. I sway to the tune of: blossom where you’re planted. There is a chord of deep contentment in that melody. Ha’ina ‘ia mai, ana ka puana la. My life, my song, my hula. I understand that my hula may be an acquired taste and not for general consumption. There are many, many halaus in which to dance. This is my halau: kick off your slippahs, take up your ti leaves, move da hips, bend da knees, tell da story in your hands… and dance with me. Happy Mother’s Day! Mahalo to my Mother, for birthing me, for raising me, for teaching me the love of books and quiet time, for instilling respect of my heritage and my elders, for allowing this tomboy to trade crinolines for footballs, for music and horseback riding lessons, for my 1st Kamaka ukulele and my love of family, for standing in women's rights long before the vogue, and for dancing a distinctive and synchronous hula. Fearless and progressive, Mom provided forward-flow to my life. Mahalo and Aloha Mom. Me puuwai na oe.

Swedish in Seattle

I spent half the morning wandering through secured doors, convoluted chutes and circular corridors, attempting to get the lay of the land. My compass star? The Starbucks in the main lobby, around which Swedish Hospital – Cherry Hill revolved. I stopped for a cup of yogurt and stepped into the walled garden bordering the cafeteria. Three weeping cherries stooped, skeletal and barren, awaiting the strong-arm of summer to pry its way between cement towers and force the spring that seemingly bathed Seattle, to their minuscule plot. Weeping cherry trees, Swedish – Cherry Hill... I get it. I was in Swedish for four full days, training nurses. I turned to miniature weeping Japanese maples, heads bowed and branches gracefully bent as if in prayer. Their new leaves like gnarled fists uncurling, released by winter’s grip. Squatting to read a small bronze plaque set between them, I was caught unawares: Sisters of Providence. Sisters of Providence? I had worked at the Sisters of Providence hospital in Anchorage – a full lifetime ago. “Was this hospital a Sisters of Providence Hospital?” I inquired. “Yes. Swedish bought it a few years back and has eradicated nearly every sign of the Sisters.” I mentioned Providence over dinner to a chorus of similar sentiment. I was saddened that new owners would obliterate versus honor the fruits of their labor and the Sister’s memory. Eradicate may not have been the intention, though clearly it was the impression of the community. On the hill chosen by Sisters long ago, I paused at a sixth floor window, taking in bruised skies and a sleeping city’s shadowy skyscrapers poking through a nocturnal blanket of fog. Why can’t I find Mt. Rainier? Perched over the city, Rainier is only visible, weather permitting. And like most populations that dwell in the shadow of a great mountain, word rippled through its denizens when the weather broke, the clouds parted and the mountain in all its glory, stood its ground. Get thee to a nunnery. There are many reasons to join a convent. A want and call to serve God is but one. A family’s hedge on life eternal and one less mouth to feed is another. It was the proper place of repose for the deeply contrite and indubitably pregnant. And until modern times, the cloister was the sole source for women’s education. Circumstance surrounding induction into the Order of the Sisters of Providence takes nothing from their contribution. A band of women in the yet untamed lands of the Pacific Northwest built a home to house and nurse the sick to health. And in the absence of health, offered prayer, comfort and care until death. I walked more erect; my gait gained bounce for the ground was suddenly familiar. I'd found my bearings in friendly territory, this was Providence. “Have you ever had a catheter that you could get medications into,” I pointed, gesturing forward, leading them through my seven-minute talk, “But couldn’t get blood out?” The small group of nurses nodded silently. Nurses are eager and apt students; teaching nurses, people who care and care to make a difference, is as easy as it is pleasurable. “That’s a problem. You should never have a catheter into which you can infuse but can’t get a blood return. We call that a partial occlusion, most likely caused by clot, and we want you to treat that sooner than later.” “Are you Swedish?” someone blurted. Do I look Swedish? Monkey volleyed sarcastically, fully expecting an answer though thankfully, he was unheard. I smiled a knowing smile. “We at Kaiser are very incestuous,” I have said more often than not. “We l-o-v-e being trained by one of our own.” A familiar family crest begets kinship and a willing attitude. “No,” I answered, “I am here with a team of people visiting from California, to train in all three of your hospitals.” I boarded my plane after days of traipsing down their halls, never once having glimpsed the mountain. Airborne, Mt. Rainer rose to meet my climbing jet. She gathered herself from the lowlands like a woman gathers full skirts and crinolines to rise. My eyes were drawn to the fall of her shoulders, her curves, her flanks and the aura of ice crystals that sparkled with magic and mystery. A domed cloud cupped her crown and reached with creeping tendrils to shoulders and breasts covered by a perpetual shawl of snow and ice. Substantial hips and flanks wore an apron of white that would soon give way to summer’s lush and fecund lands, the fertile valleys that skirted her feet. The breeze that whistled through concrete seracs perched on Cherry Hill carried the frigid fragrance of Madam Rainier. Mesmerized by the mountain, I stared unblinking as my mind wandered, hopscotching over previous days. United beneath one flag, Swedish-First Hill and Swedish-Cherry Hill are twin sons of different mothers. I suddenly understood her question, Are you Swedish? as a variant of: friend or foe. I had wrongly assumed Swedish, friend. Beneath blonde Swedish skin, behind shiny, new letters emblazoned at the circular entrance, beat the pulse of Providence. They did not eradicate the garden nor the telltale, small bronze plaque. On Cherry Hill, they had yet to still the heartbeat, vanquish the loyalty or banish the passionate champions for the mission of the Sisters of Providence.

Christmas/NY/Birthday/Easter Muze

Hauoli Makahiki Hou, Gung Hee Fat Choy, Happy Birthday & Easter. In what has become my own holiday tradition, here is my annual letter. I hope its arrival finds you healthy, happy and living a life you love. If not? We should talk. This from my journal: Christmas was. I worked at Mercy General on Christmas and the following day. The hospital is a nice place to be on Christmas and working was far easier than trying to figure out what to do with myself. I don't have many holiday traditions here in California. My holiday traditions are alive and well in Honolulu. If I have one Californian tradition, it is to work on Christmas. Some people imbibe for anesthesia, analgesia and amnesia to the hole in their soul on Christmas. I work. At the very least, I contribute to those in need; it reliably fills my hole and tosses me theirs. I did go to John's home for Christmas dinner and I'm glad I did. John and Evan are friends of many years. They blended their families, adding sundry & stray friends for a spectacular party. They could easily become part of my Christmas tradition. Next year I'll take my gifts, to open them there. ‘Tis a bitter pill to open gifts alone. No charge, no fun, empty... not meaningless and only coz I say so. Lest you think I regret the choices that have me solo... fear not, for I bring you good tidings of great joy. I am hardly alone and regret not. But this year, I ached with each air mile between me and mine. All the best to thee and thine. The beckoning of and my longing for the islands grew through the Advent. I approached the Holidays with an unexpected sense of dread and complete disregard. In concession to the season, I hung Christmas hand towels in the guest bath and kitchen. I, known for listening to Christmas carols in the heat of August, refused – as if my reticence would halt the march of days and Christmas would wait for my mood to swing in its favor. I watched my friends gather their families with jealous yearning, scanned my 2009 calendar for an opportunity to fly west into the easterly Pineapple Express, and electronically increased the coffers of Hawaiian Air. So once again, I begin writing from on-high, 29-stories on-high, with a waking city at my newly manicured toes. I write from the bustling edge of Chinatown, sandwiched between Honolulu harbor with Aloha Tower, the river with its temples, and the freeway that holds the mountains from spilling to the sea. Honolulu, a modern mecca of glass and girders punctuated by ‘Iolani Palace, Kawaiaha’o Church and other spare vestiges of an indigenous people. Honolulu, I am home. Here’s the update: In 2006, I took The Wisdom Unlimited Course, a course designed to distinguish/develop adult as a possibility versus adult by default. It identifies where we stopped growing and began living - not into a world filled with possibility - but into a world of expectations and inherited ways of being. It is a course that, to a man, is insidiously and contextually life altering. In April of 2008, I accepted the position of Registration Team Leader for the 2009 Wisdom Unlimited Course in San Francisco. That entails managing a 25-ish person team of volunteers committed to filling the 2009 Wisdom Course. My team is awesome, makes me look good and managing volunteers… is a little like herding cats. I am learning to plant myself in my commitments and have empowering conversations when I don’t wanna, I don’t care and I don’t feel like it. Managing myself IS the challenge - like playing chicken with a cobra. In June, I began the Partnership Exploration Course – a 10-month course held in LA. Partnership examines the ‘types of conversations’ in which I engage. Are they inherited conversations like the scarcity conversation inherited from a world in which, until recent times, there was never enough? Are they generational conversations like: women are chattel and naught but for their husbands, therefore, it’s all about finding a husband. Are they genetic conversations like: Can you be a woman fulfilled when you fail to bear children? Are there conversations that I won’t/can’t/shouldn’t have? Where are my edges? Am I willing to have meaningful conversations about abortion, relationships in the context of leaving people with the experience of being loved, lifestyle as it relates to health, and racism – particularly as it relates to an African American President and the seemingly racist views of some family and friends? Am I willing to have conversations that affect those I love, like my reluctance to say “I love you”? If I am naught but my out-loud conversations, if my world is a word-match - what am I saying? Every eight-weeks I flew to LA for a Partnership Course weekend where I dined with my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e niece, Lael. (Lael often reminds me that she is my only niece, to which I always reply, “That’s beside the point.”) I also spent time with life-long friends Dorene & Steve, who have been pivotal, fellow voyagers since my sixteenth year. As we age and confront health challenges, it is wonderful to commune and acknowledge the contribution we have been, and continue to be, for one another. During a 10-month period, both courses had me attending 11 weekends, either in LA or SF. I’ve had team calls on Monday, Wednesday and every other Thursday night, a coursework party on Wednesday, and lastly, a seminar on Thursday. I have described the year as ‘awful’ but that is inaccurate. It was a year that stretched me beyond my comfort zone. I learned that I am quite a solitary fellow, a content cave woman, primarily inaccessible and unavailable. The extent to which my commitments demanded exiting my cave was uncomfortable, challenging and stressful. I learned a lot, my capacities increased exponentially… and it was hard. I am learning patience and generosity for myself and others. For relief, I focused on that which sustains me: my work, writing, exercise, key relationships, and sought ways to insert them into my frenetic schedule. During the warmer months, I commuted to work via bicycle and train and pedaled the 20-miles home once or twice a week. That worked well until the autumnal fall-back of time. So I began running through lunch, three days/week. That has been a Godsend, helping me manage with a bit more calm. Writing has been more problematic. I am consequently covetous and protective of mornings off, when I am inaccessible and unavailable to the world. I left hospital nursing in January 2008 for one of Kaiser’s clinics. I am currently micro-managing diabetes patients for a pod of eleven doctors in adult medicine. The work is interesting and I have spent nearly the entire year learning to manage my patient load. I initially approached the job with “Yes!” as my context. “Yes! My job is to say yes.” Then I was completely overwhelmed with patient volume and the many spontaneous requests to see and outreach patients. I’ve given many of my patient’s nicknames and our telephone conversations are fun. Within Kaiser, patients can email their healthcare providers. One of my funnier patients is ‘the Rockstar’, a 50-something year-old man who lost one leg to diabetes. He emailed recently with a question to which I responded, addressed to ‘the Rockstar.’ I paused, knowing the message would become part of his permanent medical record… and sent it anyway. I may have to rethink this strategy of patient care but my patients love it, my docs love the service I provide and I’m having fun. Those who really know me, know that ‘play’ IS the primary imperative. I continue to work 2-3 days/month for the open-heart team at Mercy General. That is a job I LOVE. It engages all of me, requires all of me and it’s hard. I love the critical nature of my patients. I love the fine balancing act and narrow therapeutic window of their care. I love matching wits with and occasionally outsmarting nature. I love keeping pace with the cardiologists and sometimes getting all their work done before they round, leaving them with little to do. “Bits, (Bacon-bits) you’ve done all my work!” they say. I win! I love that at the end of the day, I’ve made a meaningful difference in the quality of a life. That I love the nature of the work is apparent to all, it rubs off - to the benefit of everyone. I tell my friend Dr. Arthur (whom I call Father Christmas) that coming to work is like Christmas. “I come to Mercy and feel love and cared for.” People are always so happy to see me and I am hugged and tended even as I am there to attend to others. Passionate play… A Zen poet said, “A person who is a master in the art of living makes little distinction between their work and play, their labor and leisure, their mind and body, their education and recreation, their love and religion. They hardly know which is which and simply pursue their vision of excellence and grace whatever they do, leaving others to decide whether they are working or playing. To them they are always doing both.” Passionate play at its very best. Such is my intention for myself. Speaking of play, last summer two buddies and I trekked the final 40-miles for MY completion of the entire 220-mile John Muir Trail (JMT). I’ve hiked that trail to its completion in 40-50 mile sections. Buddy Bill is missing the southern-most 40-miles, so this summer I return again to Mt. Whitney, for Bill to touch its top, for his completion of the JMT, and most assuredly, for the celebratory filet mignon at The Seasons. One week in the high Sierra? Sounds like heaven, my annual sojourn to touch the face of God. I have always required some form of sanctuary within my home, some place to withdraw and ‘return to quiet.’ Now, my home IS that. Feeling quite isolated in my office, I cut a 6-foot doorway through the wall between my office and living room, connecting the entire house. My living room was quite small, the doorway enlarged it and… I love it. This year I plan to install a see-through fireplace between the living room and master bedroom in preparation for knocking out the back wall and turning it to glass. A conservation area replete with pond, stream and resident coyote, presses to my back fence. Glass would allow that in and me out. I am more out than in, it is congruent (a word-world match) that my home allow the outdoors in. I have recently set-up a blog site. THIS represents a crack in my shell, a chink in my armor, a willingness for others to know me. How so, you ask? Through prose, I am more forthcoming and revealing. When I share my musings, I share myself. I have come slowly... reluctantly to this but I am here now... and I shall test my willingness to be vulnerable, forthright and contributory. The blog is two-fold. It is my coming out, my willingness to share the inner workings of my secret life AND as opposed to dumping a small novel into you email’s inbox, if desired, you will be touched w/a link: http://www.lorinzmuze.blogspot.com/ My family in Honolulu grows quite old. My Uncle Bill is 94, sharp, witty, reads the stock page and still races pigeons. My mother walks slower, my father has lost his appetite. It is interesting to observe the conversations we are willing to have and my capacity to be with the conversations at hand… or not. Though we have been long-lived, as I bid each a fond aloha, I do wonder if and when we shall meet again. Joi gin, the Cantonese say, ‘Again see.’ Can I set aside my resistance and attachments to leave them feeling loved, acknowledged, honored, cherished, heard and known? Wasn’t that the game I declared for 2008? This from my letter of January 2008: What I am committed to in 2008, is gracefully taking on life with grace and graciousness, of creating community with my eye on inclusiveness, and leaving those I touch feeling loved, acknowledged, respected and honored. Cherished and adored is icing on the cake. What I won’t do for cherished and adored. Hell, I’ll even throw some icing atchya too! (Obviously, still LOTS of work to do.) Thank you for your loving contribution to my life in 2008. It is rich and rewarding... you made it so. I love that you love me, thank you for doing so. Thank you for letting me love you, I intend to perfect that. Promise. Hauoli Makahiki Hou & Gung Hee Fat Choy = Happy New Year. Happy Birthday and Happy Easter. With Love and Aloha, Lorin aka Lori, Lor, lb, Monkey Gurl, Wiz Monkey, Bits, L & # Ps – find me on facebook: Lorin Bacon. I will be migrating to a new email address once again: lorinz.muze@gmail.com. My yahoo account will remain active for many, many months.

A Surprising End

A Violinist in the Metro--- Wash, DC A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule. A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping, continued to walk. A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen but then looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work. The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried, but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the while. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on. In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, and no one noticed. No one applauded nor was there any recognition. No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars. Two days before he played in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston. The seats averaged $100. This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post, as part of an social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context? One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written; how many other things are we missing?

lbz commentary: oooooooooooooh! goodun! This is indeed a Wisdom Unlimited Course Weekend-5 conversation... my access to the Eternal and the Eternal's access to me. Does the Eternal knock... do I hear... and if so, do I open the door? A veeery worthy and worthwhile conversation!

4.5.09 Palm Sundayz Muze

I rolled to my side, to peer at the arms of my oak reaching into a predawn sky. Not a breath of wind stirred its leaves. It’s Palm Sunday. I remembered the tale of Jesus riding into the city, fanned with palm fronds. Hosanna! Palm fronds to shade him from the desert sun? Palm fronds fanned as a hedge against scorching heat? Assuming world climates have not drastically changed in the last two millennia, the weather was neither blistering nor inclement on that early spring day. For as I write, Jerusalem is a cool 67 degrees with a light west-north-westerly breeze. Had he any idea, as he received their accolades, of the torture and mutilation awaiting? Have we learned anything since that fateful day? Our weapons are cleaner, our killing more sterile and… as a species our interest in power, control, domination, war and murder continues. What did I give up for Lent? I gave up ice cream – though it was by default. Unconscious and hardly painful, I don’t think it counts. Beer, wine, and dancing drop into the same unconscious/painless slot. Running – ouch! I did give up running for Lent though it was forced by illness – I would never willingly give up running – not for no one! I have nothing at stake for Lent… seemingly little at stake for Easter… and the game is yet at hand. Looking… You?