A Cavalcade of Cakes

The woman on the right is on the verge of turning 36. That's the Colliseum behind her. The woman on the left will turn 62 on Friday. The years go by! Behind the woman on the left, the window of Montmartre restaurant on Capitol Hill.

Right around my birthday, I get in a mood for cake. It's odd on many levels, also makes sense - at least metaphorically.

I don't get along with cake. I'm very picky. Even when it's a great cake, I often have trouble digesting it. Bread, cake, cookies - I'm not allergic to the combination of wheat and leavening exactly, but it isn't good for me. Cake does not sit well with me.

Most of the year I don't even think about it, let alone decide to have a slice for desert in a restaurant. My many cake pans, for most of the year, collect dust at the back of a remote kitchen cabinet.

Come January, for reasons I can not explain, suddenly I find myself flipping through cookbooks, thinking about cake. And then it begins.

cav·al·cade

ˌkavəlˈkād/

noun

1. a formal procession of people walking, on horseback, or riding in vehicles.

   synonyms:

   procession, parade, motorcade, cortège "bystanders cheered as the cavalcade passed by"

I bake cakes, I buy cakes, I order cakes. And I eat cakes, never the whole thing, mind you. Even with the best cakes I will only eat a slice or two, because I know it won't make me feel good, and also because of my picky attitude; I get quickly bored by cake. I give most of my cakes away, to clients, neighbors and friends. The people who work in the dentist's office upstairs at some point asked me to stop bringing cake up there. They are all careful about what they eat. But most people are happy recipients, especially of home baked cake. It is rather special.

When the cake is really bad, I throw it out. I threw out a couple of cakes this time around, prompting a friend to call me the Cake Executioner. Oh man, I love that title.

Sour cream, pear, almond and cardamom coffee cake. Yum.

What is it about cake? It's kind of retro especially right now when gluten is seen as the devil incarnate. I like flying in the face of popular culture. I'm such a contrarian.

Cake is special, a luxurious confection. It's a celebration of richness, sweetness and texture, which is why it's traditional at birthdays, weddings, graduations, retirement parties and such. Every kind of cake goes with champagne.

Every kind of cake also goes well with tea and coffee, hence is an excellent breakfast. A celebration at breakfast. I like it.

This one was way too sweet. A gold cake with lemon buttercream.
I tossed this one in the trash without regret.

Grand Marnier chocolate chip buttermilk coffee cake. It was good.

A friend suggested that my annual affair with cake has something to do with yearning for the lushness of spring and summer during the gray, dreary, bitter dregs of winter. That's interesting.

It's also traditional to celebrate the Feast of Bridgid (Groundhog Day) by eating foods that include grains and eggs, i.e. cake! At this time of year in Northern Europe, the first sprouts of wheat appear, and the birds begin to build their nests. A wonderful idea, that I'm inadvertently celebrating the feast day of one of my very most dear goddesses, by eating cake in February. I am happy to oblige the goddess! Of course.

This was so good! Buttermilk layer cake, not too sweet. The filling was cream, whipped until stiff, with raspberries and whisper of cinnamon, a whisper of sugar. The ganache is bittersweet chocolate. For me this was the perfect metaphor cake as well as being the most delicious so far. The filling represents the promise of spring while the bittersweet topping represents the pall of the remaining weeks of winter. I'm proud of this one.

Friday is my birthday. I've ordered a cake for the day. Friends will stop by for a slice and a cup of coffee or tea during the afternoon. After that, I will put away the cake pans and recipes. After Friday, I will no longer be interested in cake. After my birthday I turn towards spring. Cake is my springboard into spring.

Let there be cake and then please, let spring begin to show itself. May it be so!

This is the triple chocolate cake that will arrive Thursday from Red Truck Bakery. 

Astrological Overhaul

At the Smithsonian Natural History museum, a very large model of the moon.

If you're not interested in astrology, this will be boring.

When astronomy and astrology split, both were the worse for it. I've tried to find a reference to the history of the split, but in my cursory google searches, have not found anything definitive.

Astronomers are utterly dismissive of astrology. Oh the outrage, oh the condemnation. If they try to describe or define astrology, it's clear in seconds they know nothing about it. It's below them to study it. It's a very intense reaction.

Astrologers aren't interested in thinking about the split, as far as I can tell - a sad thing. Though the field as a whole continues to integrate newly discovered objects and locations, there has been no comprehensive revision, in spite of how much new, sometimes startling, information we have now about the physical nature of our family of planets.

Though astrologers embraced the discovery of Pluto, a planet much needed, and many astrologers work with large asteroids and dwarf planets, the blueprint of the astrological solar system remains same: the sun, 8 planets, plus the moon and the earth. If astronomy and astrology were still happily married, things might shift.

What is known now is that the solar system contains 4 rocky planets, four gas giants, and two belts of objects: the asteroid belt and the Kuiper belt. Beyond that is the Oort cloud and beyond that, the magnetic field of Brother Sun goes on and on. The Solar System is huge! Astrology should reflect this, but it doesn't - yet.

If astronomy and astrology were still entwined, it would be clear we should re-assign planetary rulership. For instance, Venus is called "Earth's evil twin" by astronomers. It is sulfurous, boiling hot, stormy and toxic. It should rule Scorpio, not Taurus and Libra!

Here's how I would reorder the rulership of the planets, if it were up to me which it is decidedly not!

Mercury should continue to rule Gemini. The way it whips forwards and backwards (not really but from here its apparent motion is wacky) is as crazy as the ever shifting Gemini mind. Also that whole hot side/cold side is very Geminish.

Venus - Scorpio
Mars - This stable, rocky planet would be a perfect ruler for Capricorn.
Ceres, a dwarf planet in the asteroid belt, should rule Virgo. Duh. Of course!

Jupiter, often called a failed star by astronomers, is well suited to rule Leo. The sun is waning in August, and the luster of summer is fading. A failed star would be the perfect ruler of Leo.

Saturn - Its beauty and grace is extraordinary. Even the six sided polar storms are beautiful, harmonious. Saturn should rule Libra.

Uranus - What a crazy planet! Its rotation is sideways, it's electric blue. Of course it must rule Aquarius.

Neptune - Ah, the deep oceans of gas make this planet a great ruler for Cancer. The planet is blue and dreamy, blue like crabs at the bottom of the sea, blue like the ocean in mid-July. It's suited to ancient animals like crustaceans. I understand associating the moon with Cancer, too, but in my system, it doesn't quite square up. I will explain.

Pluto is part of the Kuiper belt. I think all the objects in the belt should rule Sagittarius. Sag is associated with travel to distant places of mind and body. The Kuiper belt is the last, most remote place in the solar system where there are objects. It is way out there! Even thinking about the Kuiper belt requires a long stretch of the imagination. It is so Sagittarian. It also seems right that the belt contains lots of objects. Sag is the sign of the philosopher, the contemplative. That kind of thinking requires the ability to hold many different ideas at once. The entire belt of objects is relevant, but there is the problem of how to chart it. We saw Pluto first and it seems to work well as the signifier of that far-away region. We should associate Pluto - as an ambassador from the distant darkness of the Kuiper belt - with Sagittarius. Pluto would not rule Sag, only be associated with it as an emissary from that far distant place.

I believe Brother Sun should rule Aries. At that time of year the light is strong and ascending quickly. Brother Sun is mighty in April. Aries is the first sign of the zodiac, the Sun is our father, brother, and the central member of the solar system. They go together.

The moon should rule Pisces. It is a wise and watery sign, also the last sign in the zodiac. It feels right to have the sun and moon rule the last and the first signs of the wheel, and for the moon to hold the akashic records of wisdom, rather than far-flung Neptune.

Mother Earth should rule Taurus. I don't know how to make a chart to reflect this. Oh the potent fecundity of earth - it is so Taurusian. Look at pictures of the other planets - they are either dreary rocks or gaseous orbs. None of them is fit to rule sensuous Taurus, but Mama Gaia is.

I've spent years thinking about this, while simultaneously learning more and more about our neighborhood and the family of Brother Sun. Alas, the astrological community is not jumping into the astronomical fray of new information except to add new bodies to the mix.

I'm not holding my breath waiting for astronomers to become intrigued with what the night sky means to us at a soul level. We've been watching the stars and planets for countless millennia. The patterns they make against the backdrop of stars, the waxing and waning of the moon and the solar cycles, are hard wired into us. Human beings find patterns wherever we look. We create meaningful stories from those patterns. We've been gleaning wisdom and self awareness from our stories about the planets and stars since forever.

Meaning gives us depth, makes us fully human. Meaning is what we seek in every one of the arts. Sadly, astronomers couldn't care less about that kind of meaning. Just the facts, ma'am.

In the Reyaverse, astrology and astronomy should involve hard science as well as the quest for meaning. They should get back together. Oh well. It's not up to me.

Ghost Story

My family is haunted by a dybbuk. It surely is. Once upon a time I called it the Mellicker Wraith. The acupuncturist called it a family Jinn. Whatever you call it, when it's hanging around, it does not bring out the best in us. My father was possessed, so was my aunt. From stories I heard from her, my grandfather had the same problem, and his father before him and on and on. Dybbuks figure heavily in Yiddish legend and lore. Mine is not the first family to be haunted in this way.

When the dybbuk is hanging around, we squabble. We argue, almost always about nothing important. The tone of the argument is hardly talmudic. We blame and belittle each other, humiliate, insult each other, sometimes face to face, sometimes behind each other's backs. Character assassination is the point. Sometimes after the haunting passes, we can't even remember what we were arguing about. Afterwards, we laugh about it, as if it's funny to be so cruel. It is such an evil dybbuk.

I drew a cartoon of the haunting years ago. I've searched and searched, can not locate it. I would love to see it again. Two of we Mellickers are chatting away happily. A cloud passes in front of the Sun and then we start arguing. It's the dybbuk argument, meant to be wounding - like a snake bite - not informative or enlightening as some arguments can be. In the cartoon one of us begins to flog the other one with a big whip, while shouting insults and humiliations. Then the cloud moves on, the sun comes out, and suddenly the conversation returns to normal. I wish I could find that cartoon! Oh well.

First there was the dybbuk, and then came the Holocaust. That is just the kind of energy these beings love. I believe it came in closer after the Holocaust. If it's possible for ghosts to be haunted by dybbuks, I believe my Holocaust ancestors are perpetually haunted by this spirit. It keeps them in a loop in which they remain wounded, unable to heal and move on. They're stuck in a loop of agonizing about portion sizes in restaurants. They seem unable to escape the suffering and loss of the Holocaust. It seems they have no sense of their lives before the war, nor can they acknowledge that it ended. They are tortured souls, these hungry ghosts. By the way I'm not the first person to come across hungry ghosts. The link is to the Wiki entry on hungry ghosts. Really interesting.

For the last few years, I've been haunted by the hungry Holocaust ancestors. The dybbuk is never far from that crowd, hence I've been haunted by it, too.

It happens. This link is to an article about how memories are passed down through DNA. I believe it. I believe I've been haunted. Creepy!!

Hungry ghosts can not be satisfied, especially by the likes of me - or - anyone I've ever known. I can not heal them, I can not heal the wounding of the Holocaust. And yet I've been drawn in, as if by tractor beam, to that dark storm of unfathomable wounding, over and over again. I started using Yiddish and Hebrew terms, even though I know neither language. All of a sudden, I stopped eating pork or shellfish (though I love both!)

I wanted desperately to go to Poland even though the experience would be horrible for me. I walked through the Holocaust Museum - twice. I got a tattoo, and most recently found myself in a swirl of mystical experience and energy during the High Holy Days. I've believed, for years, that I was paying tribute to the hungry ghosts with all the reading, thinking, travel and research I've undertaken. I see now it was more than that. It was a possession, a haunting. My aim was true, but I got pulled under. I was haunted by a very wounded aspect of my ancestry. Omg.

A few weeks ago my acupuncturist released my seven dragons, or so the treatment is named. After the treatment he said I was "in the grip" of a family Jinn. Then he shrugged his shoulders, said, "But it's gone now."

I think it has vamoosed! I feel very different since that treatment. I'm suddenly uninterested in the Holocaust or WWII. I honor my ancestors but have completely lost my enthusiasm for getting the Yizkor book translated. Maybe I'll get back to it - it doesn't hold center stage anymore. The spell has been broken; I'm free to move in other directions now. It sounds dramatic, I know. It is dramatic!

I've been looking at my tattoo as if I just woke up from a dream. I look at it and I wonder, why did I do that? I feel unconnected to it for the first time. I don't regret getting it, but it seems so odd. Shalom? I don't know Hebrew - what was going on? You see why I think I was in some way possessed? I got a tattoo! That is completely uncharacteristic.

It seems like another lifetime since my Seven Dragons were released. I used to want to tell the story of my tattoo to one and all, the heart wrenching story of the people in Visgordek, how they were killed. It's a good story but I'm no longer swimming in it. I'm not drowning in it. Not everyone on earth needs to know their story! I feel free.

In fact when the guy behind the fish counter at Eastern Market asked me if my tattoo was Klingon, I thought about it for a second, then said yes. Why not? It's not powerful to me anymore, it's historical. I wonder if that makes any sense?

Now the fish guy thinks I'm really cool. It is hilarious, the old lady with the Klingon tattoo. Yeah, that's me.

All hail the seven dragons! I too am released. It's a clean slate ahead. I am smiling.

2015: People need people

The holidays are over! I'm doing my little dance of happiness as usual. Though I've learned how how to enjoy the holiday season in the last few years, it's still a weird time for me. When it's over, I feel so relieved!

I was not wistful to say goodbye to any part of 2014. I fell ill right after the first, with what I believe was H1N1. I touched the grave in that illness, oh my. It was scary. A lot of acupuncture, an aromatic tea with cinnamon and cardamom and about a hundred Cary Grant movies finally returned me to health. I was sick for weeks. God.

After that, 2014 became my year of unrequited ambitions such as my fizzled attempts to get new glasses, buy the perfect birthday cake, join a spiritual community. 2014 was a year to back slowly away from major projects. As long as I didn't try to accomplish anything, I was fine. I had a nice summer of mundane activity during which I didn't try anything unusual. Ah but the human spirit longs for accomplishment. If I don't have a project in mind, I can spiral down.

Another way to think about 2014: it was humbling. The pinnacle (or abyss?) of that theme came during my week in Paris. Oh man, that week in the rain in that city, I was humbled! Ha ha! Funny to think of it now. Paradoxically, though, I received a soul retrieval at the Eiffel Tower, a chapter in my saga I will never forget. Likewise, I spent time with good friends while there. I even met a friend. The experience was enriching beyond my dreams. I guess I did accomplish something in Paris in spite of the humbling.

My point being: 2014 is over now. Yay. Onwards to 2015.

One of my mantras for the new year is "People need people." I hear it from the Voice in the Shower every day. There is nothing wrong with that mantra. Right?

Happy new year. Welcome, 2015.

Convo

The picture is a mashup my sister put together, of a photo we took at a gathering a few months before my sister Karen died, and a few weeks ago in Oregon. She was interested in recreating a few photos from the 1980s gathering. I think this one is by far the most compelling.

The fact that we are facing each other is powerful. My brother asked, "If you could say something to your younger self, what would it be?" When I thought about it, I decided that the younger me was not able yet to listen, to take in advice. I was still finding my way into myself, or you could say it this way: at that age I was still needing to bang my head against the wall - repeatedly. The only thing I could imagine saying was Good Luck.

But if the younger me wanted to ask for specific advice, well my goodness she would get an earful.

Just for fun, I decided to ask for her advice. What do I need? How am I doing, from your perspective? I've been letting my imagination run with it. It has been kind of a hoot. The younger me is very impressed with my hair at this age, and approves of the glasses. Of course she is thrilled that I still wear lipstick all the time.

Of course.

It's fun to imagine seeing myself as an old lady. I think the younger me would be surprised and kind of impressed.

As I gaze at my young self, what I feel mostly is protective. I wish I could wave a wand to make all the anger and sadness vanish, to clear some of the confusion, pour a little self-worth into that lovely young woman. Of course that is never possible. Healing, even spontaneous healing, is hard work. When I look at the face of my younger self, I'm in awe of how much healing work I've done over the decades since then. My goodness. This young woman in the picture isn't even Reya yet. I was Rebecca at that time, I believe, or maybe people still called me Ruby. I think I was involved in psychotherapy, and also was seeing the great osteopath/homeopath, but had not yet begun to study witchcraft. I was decades away from becoming a healer of any stripe. I look so raw, ill prepared.

Maybe the right advice would be: You're Going to Make It.

The younger me and the current day me are having many conversations about what it means to be a healer, what it takes to become a healer. This meditation is yielding a lot of interesting ideas. I should write about them on the other blog, probably.

One thing the younger me believes strongly is that I need a boyfriend. I've explained that I don't care about that anymore - it's liberating. She says no, it's not about that. She says, you need someone to talk to every day, to share your life with. It's time. 

Interesting to think about!

Our jolly company.

Round peg, square hole

I don't want to be a grinch, I really don't but I kind of am. Maybe not even kind of.

I don't like Christmas carols, only because I've heard them all too many times. They're pretty songs. I guess. I have never seen The Nutcracker, yet I'm tired of that music, too. I never get a tree and own not even one Christmas ornament. There are no boxes of tangled Christmas tree lights in my closet.

See what I mean?

Hanukkah is not inspiring, either. It celebrates a military victory and is not a major Jewish holiday. It was placed on steroids to compete with Christmas. Not really my kind of holiday.

I honor the solstice, though usually alone. Even when I was part of the Reclaiming community, I dreaded winter solstice when we were expected to stay up all night. I'm a diurnal creature who prefers to be tucked in bed especially on the longest night.

I believe I've made my point. This year I decided to save all the Christmas cards and the few little gifts I will receive until Christmas morning. I will open these things with my morning coffee. Maybe that will get me into the spirit, ya think?

Maybe. We shall see.

I'm not in a bad mood and I don't hate Christmas and I don't resent anyone who wishes to celebrate any ritual of the returning light. That I can't find a way to appreciate the holiday is yet another example of what an odd duck I am.

Hey. Rather than a grinch, maybe I could think of myself as an odd duck. It's not as self blaming. I kind of like it.

Quack!

Tribal Summit

My sister Deborah above me, brother Josh next to her. Hannah is at the bottom right. Michelle is holding the center.

I used to hide from Thanksgiving. For years after I stopped working at Whole Foods, I hid in my room on T-day, cooked rice and veggies and watched Hugh Grant movies. It was true then and still true that the traditional feast is repugnant to me. I can't digest any of those foods. Also I saw so many dead, raw turkeys at Whole Foods, the idea of facing a cooked one was unbearable. I was a Thanksgiving grinch.

One year my housemate invited his extended Puerto Rican family for Thanksgiving dinner at the house on Tennessee Avenue. Well, that event was a game changer. It was so much fun. There was turkey, also a gigantic ham, rice and beans, and a lot of booze. A lot. I had no idea what was being said, since I do not speak Spanish. But I could feel the energy of blissful celebration. Those Puerto Ricans know how to blow off energy. They know how to party. Yeah.

It was an epiphany. All of a sudden I realized I could actually enjoy Thanksgiving. It was a healing experience. I've enjoyed the holiday ever since, for the last two years in the Cascades of Oregon, at a cabin on Crescent Lake. Last year it was my sister Hannah's family including her daughter, husband and grandkids, minus her son, wife and grandkids. And the dogs, of course.

This year the ante was upped. My sisters and brother flew in from hither and yon to join our jolly company. It had been years since all of us converged in one room. We are a Jewish family, hence we are much like the Puerto Ricans, everyone talking at once, lots of laughter, hooting, and such.

In fact the way it turned out should have been a perfect storm: eight adults, two children and three dogs, stuck for three days indoors in a space that comfortably accommodates six. We had planned to get out for walks, but the weather insisted we stay in. An icy rain fell almost non-stop during our time on the mountain. You can not argue with the weather.

I was rattled. There were so many conversations ongoing at any one time, plus the TV, games with sound effects on devices, dogs barking and maybe someone playing the guitar. All at once.

All at once.

My life is pretty quiet. I do speak to people, of course, though usually it's one at a time. When I work, no one talks. Spoken language is very difficult for me in the best of circumstances. Oh I was rattled. In spite of that, I managed to behave decently except when I broke down a couple of times and started lecturing. Fortunately I caught myself fairly quickly.

There were moments of similarly ungraceful behavior from others in the group, but mostly we were all on our best behavior, determined to relax and enjoy ourselves. The ancestors kept their distance except on the last night when everyone had gone home except me. My sister, brother-in-law and I watched Annie Hall. I felt, afterwards, this was our nod to those responsible for placing my siblings and I in the same family. That movie is so good. If you haven't seen it in awhile, I recommend it. So many iconic scenes in that film. Fabulous.

It snowed the last night we were at the cabin. It was gorgeous.

OK then. I have learned to enjoy Thanksgiving even in circumstances that are very difficult for me. It was wonderful to see my siblings, all of whom I love, and fantastic to spend time with Hannah's branch of the family.

... and ...

It is so good to be home! I even smiled at the Pentagon from the plane as we made our final approach. The big lunk. Awww. DC is home. There is no place like it.

I don't like traveling but it is good for me. It's very good to connect with my family. It's great to be home, it was great to be there. Onwards to solstice.

Cheers!

A blurry picture of my niece Emily and her husband Brayce. Magnificent humans!

Feasting, toasting, brawling, boasting

Today is my last free day before Tuesday when I'll put myself through the humiliation of airport security, get on a big plane, then a small plane, and at last find myself standing on the Oregon landscape, greeting my siblings - all of them this year! - their spouses, my niece, nephew-in-law, and their two kids, plus the three dogs, of course. My sister has rented a "party van" so we'll only have to take two vehicles up the mountain to the cabin where we celebrated Thanksgiving last year.

We have two cabins this year, within walking distance of each other. This should help everything since as I remember from the last time we all gathered, my family generates a lot of collective energy. Sometimes there is hilarity, sometimes head bashing, sometimes both at the same time. It will be nice to have a way to escape the intensity, if needed.

The last time I saw all my siblings was at my nephew's wedding. It was a really fun weekend seven years ago. Last night I was thinking this is our first gathering as old people. Last time we were definitely middle aged.

Time whips by so fast. Nothing illustrates it as clearly as gathering with people you've known all your life. Just like everyone who has ever lived, I don't feel as old as I am. I like the way I look these days better than I ever have even though I am quite a ways past juicy, slender or pretty. I feel like at last I look like myself. I definitely look like a woman in early old age, a baby crone. So do my sisters. They look great, but you can definitely see the passage of time in their faces, too.

Life is short, yes it is. This is the prevailing thought form as I gather my wits prior to this journey.

Ah the holidays! I'm proud, also relieved, that I've learned how to actually celebrate them, rather than hiding in my room all resentful and bitter like I used to. For heaven's sake.

I greatly look forward to seeing my family, and to the beautiful air, the gorgeous views and the stars up on the mountain.

Feasting, toasting, brawling, boasting - this is what happens when my family gathers. The holiday season is here. Bring it on!

The trees at Crescent Lake, Oregon, taken last year. We'll be in the same place this year. I can smell the air already.

Late Fall early Winter Mashup

Not again in this flesh will I see the old trees stand here as they did, weighty creatures made of light, delight of their making straight in them and well, whatever blight our blindness was or made, however thought or act might fail.

The burden of absence grows, and I pay daily the grief I owe to love for women and men, days and trees I will not know again. Pray for the world’s light thus borne away. Pray for the little songs that wake and move.

For comfort as these lights depart, recall again the angels of the thicket, columbine aerial in the whelming tangle, song drifting down, light rain, day returning in song, the lordly Art piecing out its humble way.

Though blindness may yet detonate in light, ruining all, after all the years, great right subsumed finally in paltry wrong, what do we know? Still the Presence that we come into with song is here, shaping the seasons of His wild will. 

~~Wendell Berry 

The end of the haunting.

I heard live music last night - bluegrass. Fun.

Yesterday at last I broke free of the haunting.

Oh yeah. I've been haunted by my ancestors, especially in the last few weeks. I knew it on some level, that I - and even my friends - were channeling something not quite right. And there were the mystical experiences. I kind of got it, but still, until I put away the ancestral pictures yesterday, I didn't have the right words to describe what I've been doing. After I cleaned up the ancestor altar and put the pictures in a drawer, the mist cleared. I've been haunted. Good lord.

It isn't the first time I've been haunted. During my years with the Civil War soldiers, I was haunted then, too. Oh my. With the dead soldiers, as with the dead ancestors, I wished desperately to send healing back to them. I wanted to help, but what happened was I got sucked into the energy, not intentionally, even with the Civil War guys. I was pretty ambitious back then. Also much more grandiose than I am now. Let's see - the Holocaust vs. Reya - who will prevail? The Civil War vs. Reya?  It was like Bambi Meets Godzilla. I had to try, but for heaven's sake. I got in over my head.




Well, I'm not the first, nor will I be the last person to experience a haunting. I believe on some level, the people who are passionately devoted to battle reenactments are haunted by the same ghosts I kept company with during the early 2000s. Same goes for Hasidic communities; I mean, they're haunted by the Holocaust dead. Some are more intensely haunted than others of course. The books of remembrance about old shtetl culture mention hauntings all the time.

I always tell students that it's not healthy to hang out too much with the Dead. A little convo here and there is great for us, inspiring and a little scary, an awakening to the preciousness of life - or it can be - but, too much time spent with the Dead is draining. Look at anyone who hangs out with the Dead all the time, including funeral people of course, but also those who work in morgues, cemeteries, forensic doctors, that sort of thing. They may be the nicest people you ever met, lively, too, but there is a gray gloom around all of them. There is.

Of course it is the destiny of some people to care for the Dead. Somebody has to do it. I'm grateful, though I sometimes feel sad when I notice the impact of over exposure.

In fact for the last few weeks I've had that gray gloom all around me. I noticed I haven't been taking many selfies. I look off in these pictures, not quite myself. Well. I have not been. I haven't felt well, it's no wonder I haven't looked so good.

It's over now, though. As soon as I put the ancestral photos away (with love and respect) - that was yesterday - I felt better, more energetic, cheerful, curious and not so damn worried. What a relief! Whew.

Farewell, fine gazing globe.

It's cold in DC today, very windy. In fact the wind blew hard enough to knock my green gazing globe off its stand. It shattered into a million pieces, a great lesson in impermanence. It wasn't cheap and you would think I would be mad or sad that it broke, but I felt not a second of sadness. I've had one foot in the next world for a few weeks. I've been halfway through the looking glass. The gazing globe falling and breaking is, to me, a signal that I'm back on the right side of the mirror. The portal to the wormhole of history is closed.

L'chaim, y'all. Carpe diem. Be here now. Shalom.

The Origami Lifestyle

Life doesn't feel like a path or a road to me, well or not so well traveled. That image does not ring true in the Reyaverse. This existence seems nonlinear except in the realm of time. The shape and idea of walking labyrinths comes closer to describing what I've experienced in my 61 years as a part of the biosphere of the earth.

I just read an inspiring article about tidying as a dialogue with oneself. Here's a link to the article. Marie Condo is a superstar decluttering specialist in Japan. I love the way she thinks! Well worth a read.

One thing they mentioned in the article is the importance of folding in Japanese culture. It made me think about how, at least in the Reyaverse, life is an unfolding, refolding, and unfolding again. Sometimes the unfoldings lead to a dead end. At that point, we fold and fold some more. When we unfold again we're likely to find something completely different.

I'm reading an amazing book, They Called Me Mayer July, written by a man who grew up in a Polish shtletl, but moved to Canada in 1935. When he was 70, his daughters encouraged him to write about life in the shtetl. He taught himself to paint. His paintings are incredible. And the stories are fabulous. They remind me of the Yizkor memory book stories, gossipy and quirky. There is no sadness in the Mayer July stories, unlike the Yizkor books. He got out before the firestorm. He lived a completely different life than the people who stayed in Poland. It's a joyful book. Healing. I love it! I've also been listening to a lot of Chopin. It's a Polish theme unfolding at the chateau these days.

Fall is gorgeous in DC always, including this year. We've had great, perfect, Colorado weather. The leaves are slowly turning. Fall in DC is luxurious. I've been, you know, walking around, taking pictures, meeting friends for dinner, also working quite a bit, a great thing.

All of it is great. I was such a cynic when I was younger. These days I wake up grateful every day. Life is a precious unfolding and refolding. L'chaim!

Extreme 2014

Towards the end of the blood moon.

I remember on New Year's Day, wishing for a gentle year. That's all I wanted. Was it so much to ask?

2014 is not over yet, of course. Maybe the last quarter of the year will be gentle. May it be so? (she asked meekly)

I'm not complaining. 2014 has been a spectacular year in many ways. I went to Paris! I had a soul retrieval at the Eiffel Tower! I've had Mystical Experiences, Epiphanies, Revelations and Insights. And also I've made for myself a lot of seriously mundane space during which nothing that happened deserves to be capitalized.

So far, this has been a year of extremes. I like to delve deep into meaning, I like to spend time in contemplation. During years like 2014, there isn't time for all that before the next Big Thing occurs. The year has been like an intensive, an immersion course.

This year I've addressed a number of very deep, very old wounds. I didn't set out to do so, believe me! At age 61 my strategy is to let sleeping dogs lie as far as deep personal healing is concerned. I worked at it for decades before I realized I will never be able to address every one of my quirks, neuroses and wounds. For heaven's sake. I did what I could, which I believe is enough. Ten years on the couch, three decades of holistic healing ... I think I've fulfilled my lifetime quota of personal healing, don't you? I am content to leave well enough alone for the duration.

Ya know?

But the healing has come to me. Paris was one of the most healing experiences of my life. It was so uncomfortable! Likewise the High Holy Days just past. My goodness.

What happened the other day is that midday I suddenly had to lie down on the couch. I felt slightly dizzy - very unusual for me. In a slight doze, I sensed the spirit of my father apologizing to me. I accepted. It was deeply moving. Then suddenly I was wide awake, getting ready for clients. Whatever it was that happened, that I translated as the spirit of my father apologizing, was deeply healing. It went to the core of one big, ugly old scar.

After this Amazing Experience, I returned immediately to the completely mundane. Made an apple pie - really good - did all the laundry, paid a bill, put money in the bank. I'm working hard from now through the weekend, always a great thing. I love my work for so many reasons.

The teeter-totter of 2014 requires the extremes of mystical and mundane. All my years of practice are coming in handy this year. I am grateful.

Shalom.

The Golden Years

In almost every way, I love being in my sixties. There's something wrong with every stage of life, but there are also unique gifts that accompany every personal era. The particulars change over the course of a human life, but it's always complicated, it surely is. I feel lucky that I've survived long enough to know this. It truly is a gift.

Of course, being in my sixties is daunting, as it is for everyone. Instead of planning ahead to the next big life project, it's time to begin winding things down. I'm not the first, nor will I be the last, struggling to figure out how to hold that truth comfortably. It's alarming.

That truth, though, helps me remember how precious life is. The Buddhists are 100% right on about that. People say let go, enjoy life, don't sweat the small stuff, etc. But to someone in their 30s, life IS the small stuff. Younger people should bump heads and strive and push hard and try to find their own private holy grail. In youth, one must sweat the small stuff. It builds character and is what forges the myths that accompany every life. It's so unfair to admonish the young about it. How can they hold the big picture? They're so busy with work and children and projects and adventures. For heaven's sake.

However, at sixty, we really can begin to let go. We no longer have to sweat the small stuff. At sixty, it's all about the big picture, it's only about the big picture. It is such a relief!

I've been thinking about the adage that says, at the end of life, people wish they had said YES more often than NO. I wish I'd said yes to many more possibilities, such as living in Paris for awhile during the 1970s, for instance. But there were plenty of fateful intersections where I said YES, when I wish I had said NO. I wish I had said no to my ex husband's proposal of marriage. My sister knew the correct response. She told me straight out not to marry him. But did I listen? Of course not! It's all water under the bridge now.

Still interesting to think about.

It's a beautiful fall day in Washington DC. I have the day off work and I am fully back to what passes for normal for me. I'm going to get out there. L'chaim, y'all.

See the moon?

My Day of Atonement

It's an interesting paradox, being a mystic in Washington DC in the 21st century. Mysticism like mine is common throughout history, but in general we Washingtonians wish to address the world in more concrete terms. I'm a bit of a freak here. If I lived in Boulder or Savannah or Taos or any number of other places, my shamanic shenanigans would be seen as perfectly normal. I could go off the deep end as I did in San Francisco, another place where there's a niche for mystics.

But I'm here, which is a good thing. I really don't want to go off the deep end. I want to function in my culture. I like what my sister says about her own formidable mysticism. She wants it to be interesting, but not too interesting. I love that!

Sometimes the mystical experiences are few and far between, sometimes they come one after another. Like anything else, mysticism has a rhythm. It must be clear to anyone who has been visiting this page, this season has been a whopper for me.

Unlike the days of old, when my tendency was to tilt head first into the mystic, right now what I want more than anything is to lean away from all that. It's awesome and interesting, also a little scary, and too mysticism can quickly become a pathology as it has for many mystics throughout history. You have to walk the line.

I'm hoping that what happened to me Saturday and Sunday is the final episode in the High Holy Day experiences, the coup de grace. Maybe it be so!

I was sick Saturday morning, all of a sudden, out of the nowhere, really sick. I had multiple symptoms that would not be that interesting to mention. It was like a body-wide attack of everything. Meanwhile outside it was not only grey and rainy, but dark. The overcast was thick and pervasive. I spent 24 hours doing nothing but sleeping, drinking water and taking herbs, and - should admit - suffering.

There are so many ways I could look at this episode. The surface layer has to do most likely with a virus or bacterium, or in Chinese medicine, a pretty massive imbalance. OK. But there was more to it than that. Please don't ask me to explain how I know that.

Saturday into Sunday was my Day of Atonement. I did everything Jews are supposed to do on Yom Kippur: I prayed, shivered, felt awe and fear. I even fasted! That is so crazy, even I am amazed, and it happened to me.

Another story that could be told about what happened is that I took a journey to the underworld and battled a demon. My symptoms and especially the way most of them have, at this point, cleared up without medical intervention, describes a classic shamanic experience. Of course I don't want to be the kind of shaman who goes to the underworld and fights demons - who would want that, I mean really? Most of the time I am a diplomat shaman who acts as intermediary between the seen and unseen. I don't take it on, I try instead to open channels of connection to bring healing and wholeness.

This morning I was thinking about the lives of the saints - many of them developed horrible illnesses and suffered terribly, but then they died. I have prevailed, hence I am not saint material.

I knew that already!

I hope this most recent experience is the final chapter in this series of experiences. I have much to integrate. I'm weak from it all. Because I'm superstitious, I believe things happen in threes. I had the visitation from my father, the experience at the Holocaust Museum, and now this.

Hear ye, hear ye, oh great mysterious ones: I need time to recuperate and integrate. No more mystical experiences for awhile, ok? Please? I am flesh and blood and I wish to be sane. Thank you. Shalom.

I'm back

A big ole mystical experience such as I had last Thursday is somewhat like any other bender. It's an overload of something blissful and inspiring, something that humans only need a drop of from day to day. Rumi was correct: the life of the spirit is like wine. A glass of wine is great, but a whole bottle? Well. It happens sometimes, but takes awhile to get over.

Friday I worked all day, hence felt steady, but there was no doubt that the experience at the Holocaust Museum had impact. Everything seemed a little surreal all day. Saturday was the real Yom Kippur. I had the day off work and planned to attend services at the Hill Havurah. I know and adore many in that community, as well as Laurie, the community leader. When Saturday morning came around, though, my body would not take me to the services. It was very clear and as I always say, the body never lies. OK then. I took a nice walk, gazed at late season roses in the Botanic Garden. I also ran into some of my nearests and dearests at Eastern Market. We sat down and had good, lengthy visits, it wasn't just hello and goodbye. Fabulous.

OK then - not with the community I expected, but with community none-the-less. It was a day of extra divine light but not in the form I would have thought. So what else is new? I am a devout misfit, I surely am.

When I woke up Sunday I felt Perfectly Normal. It was a great feeling, something I hadn't tasted since before my father's visitation. The High Holy Days packed a wallop, I tell you. The feeling of mundane reality is always reassuring, especially to the animal of me. I was grateful, did good work on clients.

Monday was the numinous experience hangover. I've had worse energy hangovers but it wasn't pleasant. I had a slight headache centered around my third eye, felt queasy, and oy was I cranky! Just like a liquor hangover, the spiritual hangover surely is.

My energy has returned to normal. I am so relieved. Even the full moon, total eclipse, grand trine in fire situation overhead is not rocking my boat. I'm thinking today that all the practice I've had lately embracing the mundane has helped me form a more stable foundation. It's with happiness that I return to my pattern of walking, taking pictures, cooking, cleaning, seeing clients, listening to music, doing laundry and such.

Autumn is here and I am happy. Shalom.



DRINKING ALONE WITH THE MOON
by Li Po

From a pot of wine among the flowers
I drank alone. There was no one with me --
Till, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon
To bring me my shadow and make us three.
Alas, the moon was unable to drink
And my shadow tagged me vacantly.
But still, for awhile, I had these friends
To cheer me through the end of spring.
I sang. The moon encouraged me.
I danced. My shadow tumbled after.
As long as I knew, we were born companions.
And then I was drunk, and we lost one another.
...Shall good will ever be secure?
I watch the long road of the river of stars.