Lordy, have I been busy. I haven’t even signed on to my own blog for over a week and just now when I did I caught a glimpse of a word yoga-esque that causes me little heart to quiver…

Speaking of yoga, while in Chicago last week, I went to an early Sunday morning class led by Pere, a presence as evolved as any I have known. I was merely trying to unwind from lots of travel, a high powered and exhausting private tour at the zoo, construction woes (yes, we’re revisiting the hardwood floor issue of this time last year) and more importantly, friends with worries. Yet another dear young friend, the mother of my 18 month old surrogate granddaughter Alexis, has cancer. One of my closest Michigan friends has a wayward ticker, literally, so she is facing some tough decisions close on the heels of her husband’s death. My skin is like something out of a science fiction movie, behaving as an evil alien life force, so I’m trying to make decisions about the best place to have surgery and recover. (I’m felting a Phantom of the Opera mask for myself) So on and so forth. Really. Just moving forth.

But there I was at yoga class, looking for a bit of inner calm, when handsome Pere asks, “When you come to yoga class today, who suffers?” What??? Why this inane new-age query, right in the midst of my fuzzy peace of mind? He went on to quietly and simply elaborate. When you chose to do something, anything, who suffers? Defensively, I was thinking no one suffers if I come to yoga for a couple hours on Sunday morning. And then “Juanita!” popped into my mind. Juanita is my young friend having breasts removed. I thought, if I hadn’t been in Chicago taking care of that private tour and consulting floor installers and dermatologists, I could have been by Juanita’s side or playing with baby Alexis or giving a soothing pep talk to her husband, Chris. Pere went on to wonder aloud, “who benefits when you come?” Um, om, I guess that would be me. Perhaps a couple hundred strangers at the zoo had a beneficial moment. And then he talked a bit about gratitude and balance in the world as we find our way and make our choices. It was good.

I have had a similar discussion with daughter, Abby. The Snarl is getting ready to sit for the LSATs with an idea that she will go on, thousands of dollars in debt later, to become an environmental policy lawyer and maybe even a judge in that specialty area. I asked her if and where she saw a family in her future and she responded that she wasn’t sure she did. It was more of the “who suffers?” sort of thing, about the karma of the human footprint (Find that new series on National Geographic channel this week. Your jaw will drop.) I, of course, take the “who benefits?” side of that argument.

When it comes to bringing children into this world, while I relate absolutely to Abby’s thinking, I also feel the most amazing sense of delight and, yes, gratitude, when I see these women I know and love and respect presenting us with new life. It seems almost as if we are being gifted with beautiful little bundles of hope and positive energy and, maybe, salvation. I know for certain I would feel that way if the Snarl or Daniel ever have children. I feel that way about baby Alexis, as her mother struggles. About the numerous children of a certain yo-mama who are all out enriching and healing and growing our world.

And then there’s my good, sweet friend here in the neighborhood. (Thought I’d never get there, didn’t you Kimberly?). There’s delightful Raehan. Raehan is bulging (harsh but true, I’ve seen the belly) with her soon to arrive baby and I am gleeful at the prospect. She has written long enough and eloquently enough and in the most sweet ways (like the darkest, finest bittersweet chocolate sweet) about the slings and arrows of motherhood and family life she enjoys with her two already lovely lassies that I know this to be true: Raehan is precisely the sort who benefits us all when she has a baby. Thank you, Raehan! Thank you. Feel free to push.

You can help celebrate Raehan’s bloggy baby shower by stopping over at Petroville where a few of us are gathering today to wish Raehan the very best in these days and weeks- and lifetimes- to come. Or, you can go directly to Raehan’s place for a skin shot. She posts as regularly as I do, but we all still love her…

My week in Chicago, with the exception of that yoga class and one other five minute blip, was hustle, bustle, run, lift, sort, disseminate, and race about airports. The other five minute blip happened when I arrived at the zoo early, before the entire rest of Windyville out for the first warm Spring day, to greet another new arrival. Speaking of baby love, I give you this new Bolivian gray Titi monkey. He or she spends the entire day hitching a ride, because like the rest of us primates, Titis have low fat breast milk and the newborns are pretty much helpless. The cute factor helps mitigate the cling factor. Raehan, don’t you hope yours is this cute?

I’m at the airport, waiting for my plane to fly back to Chicago. I’ll be there for most of the next week. The primary reason I’m flying back is that I’m giving a private donor tour at the zoo on Saturday. Because Lincoln Park is the last free private zoo in the country, we are highly dependent on generous benefactors. On one end of the continuum these donors give enough to build entire pavillions, a state of the art primate habitat and research facility and on the other end, lots of our supporters have just a family membership. In both cases, these are the people who sustain us and our charges.

This private tour will be fun- it will get me back into the zoo at full speed after several months away. For a private tour I have to be on my toes with all of my animal facts straight. Tomorrow and Friday I’ll go over and see who has hatched, been born, moved to a new enclosure or arrived as a visitor from another zoo.

I didn’t bring my camera. I’m traveling light and besides, I’m cranky with it because it is again having focusing issues. It may be time to keep the lenses, which are fine, and switch out cameras. I’ve loved my Canon but over 20,000 photos later and lots of travel, well, perhaps it’s time to retire.

I’m thinking I’ll have quite a bit of time to get around and visit you, especially since Rich said that the cable was out, again, and I’m so done dealing with our provider I’ll probably just wait until we return for good in a month and switch.

I did want to share this little video clip about the zoo with you- it was shown on ABC Evening News the other day. I’ve mentioned here before that older zoos often have older populations and, as one of the oldest zoos in the nation, Lincoln Park has more than it’s fair share of geriatric residents. Sometimes the public sees one of our animals looking less active and agile and think it’s tied to care. In fact, just the opposite is true.

I also wanted to share this sweet picture of two of our Lowland Gorillas. I love this pair. I’ll be interested to see if they remember me.

Back in Ann Arbor I used to go to concerts at Hill Auditorium, a magnificent venue, aesthetically and acoustically. But the audience- yeesh! Talk about your blue-haired snoots. Great, high energy artists would come and the audience would sit there, rigid and self-conscious, murmuring, “yes, yes, that was quite exceptional…” I remember when I saw Bobby McFerrin and Yo-Yo Ma together and one remarkable piece after another, the restrained applause was stupefying. After these concerts the Ann Arbor News would give rave reviews- but seriously, you couldn’t tell by the reaction of audience.

Tonight I revisited the home of my Hollywood debut, Eckerd College, to see The Harlem Gospel Choir. They performed in the gymnasium of all places, to a packed house, of mostly old, mostly white people. Well, can you say amen, mama?! The choir was incredible and the crowd was an absolute hoot. The choir insisted that the audience get up! GET UP, I TELL YOU! Shout. I SAID SHOUT! DO YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN FLY?? I asked you now, DO YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN FLY? About the time the choir got through Ride On, King Jesus and into Oh, When the Saints every octogenarian in the place was dancing in the aisles. Old geezers in blue polyester golf pants were waving their arms back and forth to the rhythm of Jesus Can Work It Out and these creaky old gals were grinding away to Down By The Riverside. By the time the choir started singing “the Black national anthem” every square inch of floor space was jammin’ to Oh, Happy Day! The evening ended with the audience roaring, “A-AMEN! A-AMEN! AMEN, AMEN! It was practically a revival meeting. All I can say is amen to cultural diversity. Also, thank you Jesus, for concerts down here that only cost 10.00 as opposed to 120.00 at Lyric Opera in Chicago and thank you for starting them right after the Early Bird specials and ending them in time for me to be home in bed by nine.

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Last year and now this year, I start to miss springtime about now. What I really miss is springtime in Michigan, in Ann Arbor, where eight different mature flowering fruit trees in the half acre front yard would begin to get the vaguest tinges of various shades of pink. I miss living in a place where we would have ducks up from the Huron River and nesting birds gearing up for eggs and then hatch-lings. Chicago is okay; I mean, at least the season changes but it is so crowded, urban, hustle bustle that the main signs of spring are the melting of the blackened snow and the blooming of my dozen tulips Betsy gave me. (Next year, of course, I’ll have 1000 bulbs, thanks to Bud. Right after I jack hammer the courtyard and alley, bring in 800 yards of dirt and get those puppies planted…Betsy, I see daffodils in your future.)

Down here in Florida, it appears there are two seasons: warm pollen season and hot hurricane season. We’re at the tail end of the former. I’ve lived through the annoyance of falling leaves and the allergens of changing seasons but I could never, ever imagine that a tree (the Live Oak or Querus virginiana-querus, indeed) could drop leaves and seeds continuously for 3 months. Damn! Those pollen infested stringy seeds are piled up 2 feet deep around here. You can rake and sweep them up one day and the next day it’s raining down seeds all over again. This goes on for weeks. The leaves make good mulch but the seeds! And the little one inch strands break up into a million microscopic pieces when a 22# cat rolls around in them (ya, ya, he’s not losing any weight). McCloud comes in looking like a giant pile of compost and where he normally has spiffy white sox, these weeks they are bright yellow with pollen.

The good news in the yard has been the Earth Boxes. I am so in love with my Earth Boxes. Remember when I started them mid-January?

And then, within a month they looked like this:

I have a plan to start an Earth Box franchise in Chicago. These will be a huge hit for all the city dwellers who want so much to be green. It’s not easy being green (tee-hee, I made myself laugh) when there are no yards or gardens but these would work really well in courtyards. I’m planning to take back several and start all over again with cool weather lettuce and peas and then tiny tomatoes. The amount of fruit, the constant moisture level, the lack of bugs, the short season high-intensity gardening works for me.

We’ve had a steady supply of beautiful greens and just this week I have more pea pods and tomatoes than I can eat.

I also have peppers: sweet bell, jalapenos, habaneros and datils. So far, only the jalapenos and habaneros are ripe enough to pick; the others are within a week or two.

It’s time to start sharing with the neighbors.

(My father used to always call me either kiddo or munchkin. Not sure why that thought floated through…)

They did another one of those segments on the high cost of having children on the news yesterday. Now it’s up to about a half million per child. That includes 18 years of housing, food (they eat 34,000. worth of food, for pete’s sake. And that’s if you don’t let them acquire a taste for sushi). 25,000. is the average cost of child care. I know I paid more than that. And then there’s scuba gear and skateboards and saxophone reeds and lacrosse sticks…If you earn more money, a kid costs you more of course, because then you can’t just toss them a bus pass; you have to get them a car (a used Suburu will do. Actually, neither Dan nor Abby have a car which is pretty much unheard of these days. They do a whole lot of biking.). A computer. And a phone. Well, you don’t actually have to give them a phone, but back in September of 2001 I got them phones and after that it was hard to say, “Okay. There are no weapons of mass destruction. Give the phones back.” Whatever.

The main problem with this segment was the small print, the cost of raising a child “for eighteen years.” Who, these days, is raising a child for eighteen years? Hah! Try thirty years. And that’s only as far as people my age have gotten. For all we know, you’re raising them until they’re subduing you in a nursing home.

Okay. I’m joking. Mostly. All our four children are hard at work trying to support themselves, with a fair amount of success. Still. Our children are seeing the effects of a changing economy. I was able to buy my first home in my mid-twenties and Rich had two children to feed by the time he was the kiddos ages. (I waited longer because I loved the sound of “elderly primip.” That’s what they wrote in my medical records when I showed up for prenatal care with Dan. Laugh. I don’t care.)

Speaking of Dan and issues financial, I suggested that he really should get good with Uncle Sam, especially with Bush’s Walmart Special this year. It’s aimed directly at impoverished musicians like Dan. Not really. It’s aimed at all the people who are being ripped off by sub-prime mortgage lenders and credit card companies; they’re supposed to go out and spend their 600. and stimulate the economy (probably on a flat screen that costs 800. but they can put the balance on the credit card, not to worry.) I did point out to Dan that if he just files he’ll get a check in the mail that is bigger than any other check he’s gotten. Plus, I have a hidden agenda: if he files he’ll have documentation that he’s living below the poverty level (while working endlessly and tirelessly) and he might qualify for his home county’s low-cost health care insurance. That would be good for him to have, given the heart defect and all. Sigh. Can we say, “ready for change”?

Taxes are, ah, taxing for kiddos with one giant right hemisphere and only a speck of left. Plus, it’s not as though he gets a W-2. He is paid twice a week or once every other month, after the record contract is signed or after the wedding reception, 50.00 or an eighth of the door take, dinner and two beers or nothing at all. To please me, he went off to our accountant to file his taxes. The only problem (s): He had no documentation. Not a single slip of paper. Nada. He didn’t know how much he earned. No guesstimate. Not a clue. Dan didn’t see the problem. He figured that he would multiply his rent by 12, add in some nominal amount for a weekly food budget, track down the receipts for instrument repairs and reeds and that was precisely, exactly the amount of money he earned last year. Apparently, in his own disarming way, he convinced the (entirely left brained) accountant because, together, they are concocting a financial history for him that can be submitted on a 1040 and get him that stimulus check.

Around here, Rich got a bonus at work. This is a new concept for us. I was always self-employed and Rich had his own business. Now he’s working in the corporate world and this bonus check showed up. (Personally, I think bonus checks should just “show up” for teachers and social workers.) It was sort of like winning a drawing or door prize- something that always happens to other people. We had a lengthy discussion about how to spend the bonus. Point in fact, there was enough to set aside some in savings for property taxes and rowhouse roof repairs, a little slush fund, a small check for each child and then we divided up the rest so we would each have our own money. Rich doesn’t care about having his own money but while I fully endorse the concept of “our money” (hence, “our bonus”, right?) there’s a little part of me that is like Pearl in that YouTube video with Will Ferrell and the landlord. She’s this little toddler screaming, “I WANT MY MONEY!” This is a new psychological problem that has developed since I stopped earning a living. I suppose we could have pooled our funds and bought one of those flat screens but so far we’ve gotten along fine with our 19 inch big butt TV. Besides, “I WANT MY MONEY!”

Anyway, we were like kids in a candy store for a couple days. Rich immediately went out, that night, and bought himself a weight bench and an electric drill. I bought myself an iRobot Roomba. How comical are we??

The Roomba is the most wonderful invention known to womankind. I’ve named her Cinderella or Cindy, for short. Cindy wanders around, relatively quietly, sucking up all the sand and cat hair and wool felting dust that seems to accumulate rapidly down in this Florida house with all the wood floors. She has some kind of sensors that map out the dimensions of a room and then she goes back and forth in a pattern of sorts. She rumbles along all the edges with little revolving brushes and works her way under the lowest furniture. She gets herself on and off rugs and doesn’t get tangled in fringe or cords. Just when you’re certain that she’s overlooked a dust bunny she spins around and whips over to snap it up. When she’s all done, she sends herself back to the docking station for recharging. She’s worth every single penny of my 250.00 bonus.

Rich has pointed out that Cindy is not really a time saver because I spend all the time she’s working watching her. It’s riveting stuff. She’s like a useful pet I don’t have to feed. I do need to empty the litter. I haven’t pointed out yet that Rich hasn’t drilled anything around the house in all the time I’ve know him ( although he can, because he built a house full of closets in one day for Habitat).

Well, that’s all of our personal business I’m going to share for now.

These little duckling kiddos were raised by Abby a few years ago when we lived in Ann Arbor. They cost about 24.00 in duckling chow to raise to age 3 months and then we tipped them into the Huron River and off they went. But then they came back the next Spring, with girlfriends and boyfriends and hung around the feeder. What can you do?

I just want to go on record as saying I knew Top Chef was filmed at the Lincoln Park Zoo the day they did it way last fall and I managed to keep it a secret from ALL OF YOU. You know that fancy cocktail party at beautiful Cafe Brauer? Well, who do you think they had get dressed up for that little affair? That’s right. (Buffalo tartare? No, thanks.) And if you happened to watch (or do watch) the Zoo episode, that lion is my personal friend, Adelor, and you have seen very nice pictures of him here, right?

Rich is away for work and last night I was sitting peacefully in the sunroom, knitting quietly while the cats gave themselves an evening lick-up. When the explosion came we all three shot straight up into the air and the cats simply vaporized while I ran for the front door. I opened it, looked out and saw nothing and decided that the 100 year old oak must have fallen on the back side of the house. I raced to the back of the house and up the stairs to Rich’s office above the garage where I could get a better look at the roof. Nothing. I was stunned by the sheer house shaking volume of the noise and while I tried hard to organize my thoughts I decided to run back into the house and lock all the doors. This is an indication of how much the noise startled me: I rarely lock the doors and I have no idea what good I thought that would do anyway. Then I snatched up the phone to call my neighbors to see what they might know. At this point less than two minutes had elapsed. As I dialed their number I glanced at the television that I’d left on and I saw- live coverage of the space shuttle landing over at Kennedy Space Center 130 miles away.

My neighbor was laughing at me even as I sputtered into the phone, “what was that? was that…? REALLY???” This confirms my status as a snowbird and a Florida newbie.

I tried to read a bit about the shuttle’s landing. At this NASA site you can find out enough to fly your own space shuttle from start to finish; I didn’t understand any of it. This Google Answers link was a bit more user friendly and it’s really pretty interesting. At a little over a hundred miles away from the space center, we aren’t able to see the shuttle’s trail because it is so fragmented but we get the full effect of the sonic boom. Apparently, when the shuttle passed over us it was moving at a speed of about 1800 mph and it was still at an altitude of 90,000 feet. This is snail’s pace compared to the 17,000 mph it flies to break out of the earth’s orbit. And, I think if I understood this correctly, we heard the sound about 60 seconds after it happened, which helps explain how it was busy landing a minute, give or take, after I heard that incredible explosion. What? Now I’m confused again (still). Anyway, as far as Sophie and McCloud were concerned, 90,000 feet was entirely too close: they didn’t creep cautiously out of the closet for almost an hour.

(Home, safe and sound, last night.)

Well, Peep Saturday has been sort of a bust. Did you know that peeps don’t hold up well in pouring rain? Huh. Who would have thought. The other reason I wasn’t able to really put myself into peep art, heart and soul, was that I had a higher calling today.

You know how I’ve mentioned that this is a lovely historic neighborhood here, The Old Northeast area of St. Petersburg? We have a strong neighborhood association that insures architectural integrity and promotes all variety of fun and good works. A lot of energy goes into things like the Christmas candlelight tour and the garden stroll and then funds raised from those events are donated to causes like Family Village and Tampa Bay Watch. Recently we also used some of the proceeds from the Candlelight Tour to put up attractive “acorn” street lights that are in keeping with the age of the neighborhood. Today was the annual Easter Egg Hunt at Coffee Pot Bayou Park, sponsored by one of the local real estate companies and organized and run by the same group of women (this event in particular is the inspiration of Cynthia, one of the first women to befriend me a few years ago) who go to yoga together, garden together and help keep the neighborhood association on track. Back in Ann Arbor we had a neighborhood association that made me crazy with their constant busy body-ness and mountain out of molehill type behavior. This group here is a fun-loving lot who epitomize the very best attributes of volunteerism.

About a week ago some of us met to stuff well over a thousand eggs with goodies. This morning early, before the rain set in for the day, we met at the park and hid all those eggs plus as many other little treats and treasures around the park. About ten minutes before 10 am, families began to arrive and sat along the seawall until the children were given the signal to go. The signal was the arrival of the Easter Bunny himself and with that they were off and running. An effort of countless hours was done and over in less than ten minutes but I have to say, it was worth every second. Most of the children were dressed up in their Easter best and so many of them were little tots- it was just great.

The rain held off until just after the egg hunt and it’s been gray and steady rain ever since. It’s made for a relatively quiet afternoon and tomorrow we’ll have just a couple friends and Abby and Misha for Easter dinner. We ordered our ham from Honey Bear back in Chicago and they shipped it down in a cold pack for us. This is not the same as Honey Baked ham; that pales in comparison to this fine ham from a small specialty store near the old meat packing district. The rest of the meal will be Pommes Anna, spinach pie, golden pennies (do you have those sliced baby carrots for Easter?) and a baby lettuce salad from the earth boxes out back. Pineapple upside down cake for dessert.

Hopefully, the weather will be clear enough for us to walk down to the sunrise service at the bay early in the morning. I hope you have a wonderful day, sans rain or snow and with your loved ones. Happy Easter.

Good. Let’s talk religion. The thing is, since Chopped Liver* stopped posting, some of us have lost our moral compass. Take Miz S for example…No,no, just kidding, Mary. Bonnie watches over us, posting comments in verse that leave us feeling loved, slightly embarrassed and chastised- and laughing. To wit:

Your adorable manatee
Surely struggles with vanity.
But, why the profanity?!
Practice yoga for sanity!
Shouldn’t posts pre-Maundy
Mention Christianity?

or, one my all-time favorites:

Yoga love is in the air.
Of course, I favor “derriere.”

Alas, in weather hot or frigian,
Rich’s tastes run callipygian.

Vicki leads a charmed life, we know;
Praise God from Whom all blessings flow!

The thing that was always so wonderful about opening Bonnie’s page was that you came away not only feeling uplifted but better educated and dazzled by her images from art. A rabid Wolverine hater, loyal forever to that cow college in East Lansing, her loving heart is not adverse to taking on Big Dave or Hoss- or little ol’ me- when it comes to sports. A first rate yogini she admonishes us all (sometimes ad nauseam) that yoga (along with faith, art, music, the Spartans and many children) make for the perfect life, here on earth. Plus, we’ll all be happy and relaxed. Her politics are peculiar: yes, she voted for the possibility of the first black president. Alan Keyes. Sigh.

Bonnie no longer updates. Who knows? Maybe true self-actualization comes and one stops posting altogether. Soon after she quit, her first blog was consumed by a porn site. Am I the only one who thought it was not only ironic but hysterically funny that the prim author of Les Petits Bonheurs walked out the door only to find that sex fiends instantly moved in? Served her right for some of the spicy tidbits she leaves hither and yon, usually under a pen name. She revived her site briefly and renamed it Babette’s Feast and you can still stop by there for archives of eye candy, great links, musical insights and, as always, strenuous yoga positions. With videos.

I suspect it is only through divine intervention that one can produce nearly a dozen beautiful, productive, smart, funny and responsible children and still have time to teach yoga and music and art and then find moments to fly through the neighborhood calling out, “Parsvakonasana!” So, with a nod to one of the truly good mothers in this blogging neighborhood I offer you a dose of religious education. It’s good for you. Plus, if we take care of Maundy Thursday and then go silent on Good Friday, it leads us right up to….drum roll, please!…PEEP SATURDAY! That’s right. As soon as I finish this brief lesson in religion 101, I’m back to hardening off my peeps (a crucial step if you plan to expose them to the great outdoors OR eat them. They need a crust.)
(*What am I, chopped liver?! À demain! xoxo)

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Maundy Thursday

Some of the world’s great religions, including Christianity, have a way of sneaking in the really HIGH holy days without many of us noticing. Such is Maundy Thursday. Yes, there’s Good Friday and yes, there’s Easter Sunday but realistically, Maundy Thursday was the end of the work week for Jesus. The last day he punched the clock, so to speak. On this particular Thursday (or whatever day of the week it was around 30 AD) four very important things happened while Jesus was still alive and well in his earthly form- the one that would have been, eventually, susceptible to basal cell depending on his skin type, which is another discussion altogether.

The main event of that Thursday was the last supper. It was at this last supper (no capital letters yet, because only in retrospect, did this all become important. The way you sometimes get insights to your parents strange behavior after they’re dead and it’s too late? Like that, except in this case, there’s the miracle of it never being too late)… anyway, at this supper Jesus instituted the mystery of the Holy Eucharist, that great and magical symbolism whereby passover wafers become the body of Christ and the wine becomes the blood. The thing I appreciate most about this event is this: EVERYBODY was at the table. Everything you know about all those so human, so weak, so doubting disciples? Doubting Thomas, the tax collector, a revolutionary, the mother of all turncoats? Right. They were all at the table, all taking part, all welcomed by Jesus himself. I don’t know if any of them were divorced or gay- probably, because they were a very scruffy lot- but no one was standing there saying, “okay, one for you, none for you…”

(this post will either get bonnie back to blogging or drive her from the hood altogether. I’m not as eloquent or smart about this stuff, by a fraction, as she is.)

So, communion was one thing. Another was Jesus’ agony in the garden of Gethsemane. There he is, all the way down the path, knowing what’s coming because he gets the news straight from The Source and you would think that after all this time of being Jesus he would be, like, “Bring It!” But no, he’s sweating blood. I love the idea that he is so much one of us that he is all afraid and trembling and full of sorrow. Religious scholars have gone around and around on this one, arguing about what, exactly, had Him so upset. They’ve hashed it over, not unlike Chris Matthews and Keith Olbermann. I, personally, in all humbleness, think it isn’t that complicated. And it’s not all that audacious to say, “hey! put yourself in his sandals! Leaving his friends, the betrayal, ay! the upcoming Crucifixion…” because that’s the whole point: he was here, as we are.

Then there’s the betrayal. Poor Judas Iscariot. What a regular screw-up he turned out to be. Kind of like your home town high school jerk who can’t get out from under all those bummer influences and grow-up. Or like a politician who sells out. Anyway, now his name is synonymous with traitor and that’s kind of a bad rap, because somebody had to be the bad guy in all of this. That was a foregone conclusion.

Wrapping up our Maundy Thursday lesson, not in the style of Bonnie, I’ll tell you about the 4th very important thing that makes this a most holy of all holy days. This was the day that Christ washed his disciples feet.

Starting with Simon Peter, they all protest that Jesus should not be stooping to washing their very desert-dirty feet. But (here it is) Jesus says:

“Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord; and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. (John 13:1-15).

The word Maundy is derived through Middle English and French mandé, from the Latin mandatum, the first word of the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos” :“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you”

So, there it is folks. The significance of Maundy Thursday. Love One Another. Once again I have reduced centuries of religious history and thought to the Reader’s Digest-like version, according to me. Some of us practice our faith in churches with so many rules and shoulds and shouldn’ts that we don’t need to internalize what it all means. The external scaffolding is so sturdy and seemingly permanent that we don’t really need to construct the foundation within. That works until the day, whoops, when the scaffolding isn’t there. Some of us, when it comes to faith, ultimately sift out the bits and pieces that work for us. Sometimes, we’re sifting for a rationale or an excuse. Sometimes we’re sifting for understanding and comfort. I like to think that one of the best things about faith, having faith, is that I can search around and find the parts that not only give me what I need for my spiritual nourishment but also, I find the parts that help raise me up a little higher or, in this case, a little lower. A little bit closer to where I ought to be. Love One Another.

Bonnie always had fine art to go along with her inspirational posts. The masterpiece of choice here would be, of course, DaVinci’s Last Supper, either pre- or post restoration. Because I am spending this Easter in St. Petersburg, home of the Dali Museum (although this masterwork is in the National Gallery) and part of life is finding beauty in new places, I give you this: The Sacrament of the Last Supper painted by Dali in 1955. He might have been whacky but he was very devout and it’s been wonderful to be able to see some of his finest religious works housed here on a regular basis. About this painting Dali said “this was an arithmetic and philosophical cosmogony based on the paranoiac sublimity of the number twelve…the pentagon contains microcosmic man: Christ” See? I told you he was whacked. The painting has twelve pentagons and the twelve disciples. (do not make me come back here and find those pentagons for you.) For me, the beauty of this painting is in the light and in the transparency of Jesus- he’s already making his move- and the depiction of the ascension in the background. (you can click on the thumbnail and get the whole painting.)

Have a blessed Maundy Thursday and, if I don’t see you, Good Friday. I will definitely be here for Peep Saturday. Do you remember my previous masterpiece- “Godzilla with Peeps and daffodils”? Well, I’m working on the Florida version…

(Hi Betsy! I’ll call you tomorrow…)

Okay, so it took the worst film ever to pull me out of my writer’s block.

The sublime was this speech- many words describe it but I found it liberating. I left home at sixteen and worked full-time taking electrocardiograms on burn patients while attending college full-time. By the time I was ready for graduate school I was burned out on that, no pun intended. I applied for PhD programs in clinical psychology (so did 50% of the over-achievers in America in 1972; the rest applied in anthropology) and while I was accepted at some of the best, none gave me a full free ride. So I fell back to the best social work program in the country and went for a master’s degree and a career. The September that I started at U of M’s School of Social Work, I was informed by the financial aid administrator that there was no financial aid for me. Every single bit of it was designated for affirmative action. Now, my mother had reared me in a totally prejudice-free environment and I did not grow up hearing racial anger or innuendos. Unlike many mothers, she believed in and practiced equal rights and differences and respect. And there I was, 21 years of age and totally enraged at Black Americans. By then I had already witnessed the Detroit riots, I had marched with BAM for welfare mother’s rights (black fathers were still incognito in welfare families at that time) and I cheered on the rise of the Black Panthers on campus.

But at this fork in the road I seethed and churned internally as I continued to work nights at the hospital while attending my first year of graduate school. The second year I received a bit of merit-based aid but by then I was in a permanent state of pissed. I was watching some of my fellow students cruise through with tuition and money for books and rent and even food and tutors because they were black- and I couldn’t get out from under a hundred hour week that included classes, internship and a fulltime night job that ended at midnight. Before I ever cracked a book. All these years I’ve carried this resentment, unable to shake the feeling that I got screwed because of affirmative action. Through my time as a social worker, a clinician, a champion of the underdog, a volunteer educating inner-city children- I’ve still been pissed that I had to struggle so damn hard because of affirmative action. But I never talked about it. Today, I feel as though this speech helped set me free. At last. (Thank you.)

Right after the speech I had a doctor’s appointment. I would not have gone if Rich hadn’t taken me, held my hand, cheered me on, comforted me. It’s that Mo-Fo basal cell carcinoma. Pardon my language, but dammit, I HATE this cursed stuff. (And now that someone has put that liberating racial card on the table, I’ll go ahead and say Mo-Fo) I live in stark terror that it will show up on my face. I’ve gotten used to the slice and dice on other body parts but last week, fuck! (You haven’t seen that word here for over three years but I just don’t have any other): there was a spot, granted microscopic, but still a spot, on the side of my nose. You have to understand that I am so hyper-alert to this stuff that all it takes is four cells out of place and I’m twitching frantically. So I did my research and called the best of the best Mohs surgeons in this part of Florida, he had a cancellation and off we went.

I’m not vain so it’s not about appearances exactly. It’s about having chunks cut out of my face. My face. It’s the notion that this type of cancer has the nerve to set down so many deep roots before it ever shows itself. And the pain and the itch and looking in the mirror and the itch and the ooze and the stitches and the scabbing and the itch and the scars. I don’t sun-bathe and I slather 50 SPF all over myself before I brush my teeth and I wear my Tilley hat consistently. This stuff is not my fault. It’s because I have white skin that doesn’t tan, green eyes and parents who baked their red-headed toddler to a crisp every Sunday afternoon at Detroit Metropolitan Beach through the 1950s. And a basal cell cancer gene. Mo-Fo basal cell.

So off we went and I had the spot on my nose scrutinized and another one on my forehead and one on my toe (my toe, for Pete’s sake!) burned away (this is a form of torture in foreign prisons, burning holes in people) and I go back in 2 weeks for the nose. I’m flying back to Chicago to give a private tour to a high end donor the first of April and I’m not getting whacked up prior to that, but right after…the last thing I did before coming down here for the winter was go to the dermatologist and now this. Darn. (I have the swearing out of my system now.)

Anyway, we got home and I was whining about the burn on my toe so Rich suggested a movie. This was the ridiculous thing. The only movie showing at the time ended up being, I kid you not, the rock bottom worst film I have ever seen. We went to see Jumper. It’s some nonsense about a kid who teletransports himself all over the place while being chased by the bad guys as portrayed by Samuel L. Jackson. And he doesn’t do it well. Every time he “jumps”, even after he has perfected where and with whom and doing it with cars, even then he crashes. He doesn’t jump into a room with dignity; he crashes in and furniture breaks, dishes fly, glass shatters. That was the first clue that this film was aimed at 9 year old boys who will love it because there is no sex, no violence, just crashing into home furnishings. But before we figured out how really bad the film was, we figured out this: a lot of it was filmed in Ann Arbor. In the opening sequence there was a high school and I thought, wow, that looks just like…”Hey! It’s Huron High! It’s the Huron River!” So Rich and I were all excited about that until it turned out to be the worst film ever. It’s really really bad. But we sat through it because we kept wanting to see more scenes of Ann Arbor. And then it ended (badly) and we were getting up when I glanced at the credits and saw that a bit part (really bit) was played by Tom Hulce. Who? Tom Hulce. Tom Hulce went to school in Ann Arbor years ago and was nominated for an Academy Award for his role as Mozart in Amadeus. What???? Who knew you could fall so far?

Now I don’t feel so badly about being a former top-notch clinician who has retired to a life of zoo tours, has divots all over the place and posts so intermittently.

Bud. I need to tell you about Bud. Who we’re trying to get hooked up on the world wide web in a corner of the woods where wi-fi that moves at the speed of paste (64 k costs more than 50.00 per month.). Bud, who had such a good time here in Florida that he bought me approximately 1000 tulip bulbs by mail order. Yes, people. Think about where I live and then think about that. I see a new donor garden in the zoo’s future. Bud, who loves the manatee so much that I made this to send up in a little Easter basket. Speaking of Easter, have you started hardening off your Peeps yet? It’s time, you know…

Just checking in to say hello. The past month has been such an emotional roller coaster that I’ve been rendered relatively speechless when it comes to blogging. Trying to capture the sheer level of activity and relationship intensity and shape it into some sort of readable post just hasn’t made sense. Lots and lots of news and I’m thinking that the challenge for me is to find a way to write with a little more day-to-day balance. You have to admit, it’s pretty much all or nothing around here.

One problem is that I would really like to write more about my family: Rich, the children, Bud, my sisters and brother. There’s some great material there but they’re all so darn sensitive. Take my sister, Betsy for example. I could tell you some great stories about her vile cat, Cujo, but then she’d stop speaking to me. (testing. testing.)

Did I mention that this date marks the end of three years of blogging? My first stab at it was on March 11, 2005 so, if I’m here tomorrow, it will be the beginning of my fourth year here. Coincidentally, tomorrow is also the second anniversary of the day my mother died. Just typing that dries up any more words for today. This morning, I did revisit the words I wrote on March 11, 2006 and that’s what reminded me that I write well when I write about the people I know and love. I also took comfort anew from all the kind, loving and supportive comments left at that time.

I’m here and it’s pretty wonderful that most all of you, who read and write, have been around for most of that time. Thank you, both for reading and writing your wonderful journals. Robin Andrea, I know where your heart turns about this time in March. Gene, I got your e-mail. And I’ve been by your place. And it’s already been six months, so it’s probably like the thing about sick kids. Make an appointment with the pediatrician and they miraculously get better.

Talk soon. Be well.