a poem for you: Now I become myself.

Now I become myself.  It's taken

Time, many years and places;

I have been dissolved and shaken,

Worn other people's faces,

Run madly, as if Time were there.

Now I stand still, to be here,

Feel my own weight and density...

My work, my love, my time, my face

Gathered into one intense

Gesture.

So all the poem is, can give,

Grows in me to become the song,

Made so and rooted by love,

Now there is time and Time is young.

O, in this single hour I live

All of myself and do not move.

I , the pursued, who madly ran,

Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

-by Mary Sarton

Jack Wiler Discusses Monster Rats

Another friend on You Tube--Jack alerted us on his blog that he was interviewed for a show on the History Channel on Monster Rats in his capacity as a NY Exterminator. Check it out if you aren't the squeamish type. To hear some of these guys talk, you could feed a family on one of these critters.....

http://youtube.com/watch?v=lksnp81UHU

Barak visits Ami's School

lorenzo has a full-ride scholarship to the college of his choice this fall....against some pretty significant odds.
Barak listened to individual reports by students and gave them feedback.
Barak with students at Mapleton School

Ami meets Barak Obama
Barak hanging out with students

Denver Venture School: http://www.denverventureschool.org/

The first time I saw Ami, she was sitting quietly (one might say, contemplatively, now that I know her better!) in the teacher's lounge at Lakeshore Elementary School.  She was a student teacher then, and during our first conversation I learned that she was already choosing among several job offers. That is the way it has been for Ami ever since; you see, she is a powerful combination of ambitious career woman, social activist and Buddha Mama (with a little Mary Poppins thrown in, Indian style). Ami taught at Lakeshore for a couple of years and then moved to Denver, sensing the need for a more diverse, urban community. She continued teaching the elementary level, then became a teacher coach, and then an assistant principal. She told me a story about a terrible day when she found herself in the middle of a huge gang fight, with police cars and ambulances and injured kids. Ami had never seen a fight before, and it must have been terrible for her, but it also, like everything in life, brought her farther along, and made her stronger. Ami has mentored students who no one thought would amount to anything, and they are amounting to a great deal with her support and love.  This is why I know that her new high school in Denver is going to be a great success. I got to visit her school, freshly painted by 60 volunteers one weekend, while in Denver. We were with our friend Russ, who teaches in a very tony district in Connecticutt, and he was struck by the humble circumstances from which her new school is being born. This is a free charter school and the focus is on entrepreneurship.  I encourage you to check out the Denver Venture School link (I put it on the subject line of this post)  and see for yourself. The video, in which students are interviewed, is inspiring. Best wishes to my Ami as she begins this new chapter. I am betting on this school being amazing with her at the helm.

Oh, I must tell you, too, that Barak Obama visited her old school in June, and she was able to meet him and watch him in action with students. He spent the entire day there, folks. She said of him: "he is the real deal." 

With people like Ami and Barak out there, I know we can do anything.

trains, planes, and automobiles (oh, and shuttles, footpaths and a little levitating)

Hello, All,

As I write this, Bella is trying to convince me to play with her by waving her toy Skunkie in my face. This toy was a gift from her Aunt Barb, who spoiled her way past imagining when I was gone, right down to getting her icecream from Capt Sundae's on her last night at the Malis's.  Bella no doubt experienced a level of nurturing, care and joy equal to mine on our vacations. Thanks, Barb and Joe and Ollie and Leo, for taking my little knucklehead into your home and hearts and treating her like one of your own. When I die, I want to come back as one of Barb's pets.

Shambhala didn't disappoint. It was as challenging an endeavor as I have ever taken on-physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually--came out of it feeling stronger, lifted up, I hope a little wiser. I met some incredible women, like Tory, a free-lance correspondent who has traveled a great deal, and continued this habit at Shambhala by walking the perimeter's 6 mile path before any of us got to the breakfast tent one morning. Full of humor, heart and wisdom, her stories of her adventures kept us captivated.

Also Joan, a woman who took me for a walk one morning when my tears were blinding me and showed me a broken tree that had such life and new growth that it inspired her each time she looked at it. This tree, she said, was a metaphor for her life. Joan's smile was serene and radiant and I knew she meant it when she said her life is beautiful now.

I could go on and on--there were 15 of us all together, and as always happens in these kinds of situations, my ignorance and fear at the beginning told me how different (unique?) I was, and five days later, we were all the same, all the same. 

on the road to shambhala

I think that song was by 3 dog night....and speaking of golden oldies, my beloved classmates, the Gateway Gators, are having their 38th class reunion tomorrow. I will be raising a glass with them in spirit (nonalcoholic, of course) and wishing I could be there. I send my best to all of you. My friend Jack is writing about that place and that time on his blog and his funny and sweet reminisces are such a joy. there were lots of interesting people in the class of '70, that's for sure.

Anyway, I really am on the road tomorrow, back to Shambhala Mountain Center, 600 acres north of Ft Collins, CO, a Buddhist retreat I first visited last November. The interesting building in the picture is the Stupa, which contains an 18 foot high golden Buddha which is a sight to see.  This time, it is for a women's yoga retreat, and I will have the great joy of twisting myself into hideous contortions and meditating with a roomful like-minded females.  I will also be able to spend some decent time with my friend Ami Desai, with whom I will be making a road trip to Taos and hanging out with at her place in Denver. She's the one with the beautiful teahouse in her back yard (see pics of said yard and Amos engrossed in a book)  and Buddhas everywhere. I have known Amy for fifteen years and I treasure our friendship. So, the estrogen and patchouli oil will be flowing and I have packed not only my incense and peppermints, but some Aleve, too, because I just saw the daily schedule and it's Hippie Girl bootcamp for me!

Wishing you all a beautiful Independence Day and hoping that you are in the ranks of the free.

love,

Claudia

lives not ordinary

I have always been drawn to eccentric and interesting people. When I was a child, there were many of them who came into our lives and we were encouraged to seek out and value these encounters. One of my favorites was Billy McWayne.  Billy was a heroin addict who met my dad in the emergency room one night. He was a handsome, soft-spoken Southern  man in his thirties with impeccable manners, articulate and polite. He stayed with us for awhile, to the consternation of community members who knew his history and doubted my parents' judgement in allowing a dope fiend around their children.  He certainly was about the farthest thing from a fiend that I ever had met, and we were sad when he left.  Billy never did stay clean and wound up on a chain gang somewhere, but for awhile, he was part of my life, and my world got bigger as a result of knowing him. Another favorite was Jimmy Daggitt. He also had a rich dad and a substance abuse problem-his was booze. He had a cute little house by the beach that was loaded with antiques, including a cool old ladderback chair which he fitted over his toilet, hinging the seat. The towel bar was a huge old sword in a sheath. There was baby grand and I swear it was painted gold. He had a jeep, and he always kept Koolaid in the fridge for us kids. He had wavy hair and a big nose and I thought he was so handsome. Jimmy eventually went to law school and practiced in DC, where he overdosed on some combination of drugs and alcohol and was found, legs twisted under him, unconcious several days later; it is a miracle that he survived. He suffered physical and cognitive damage and walked with a cane and an even more eccentric point of view from then on. Very gay and sort of Truman Capotesque, he has faded from my life, but I did get to see him at my brother's wedding, where we shared memories and his stash of Xanax. 

I am blessed with some pretty colorful friends now, people who have never shied away from putting themselves out there, stepping into life with both feet and making some noise. I am learning every day from them to have the courage to be who I really am.  One of them seems to be running at a higher voltage than usual, leading her loved ones to wonder if a little lithium might be in order. Being less than practical and very artistic, she takes risks, makes dramatic moves, lives outside the box and walks on edges that would make many of us a little woozy.   And my response, to my dismay, is only too often one of thinly veiled disapproval and an urge to "help" and advise. As if. 

It is a spiritual axiom that those things that hook and irritate us about others are the very things that we reject in ourselves.  Maybe this is why cultivating compassion and understanding in relationships is so hard; we have to do it for ourselves first, and that critical voice that lives in our heads gets loudest when directed inward.

So, a poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay for my impractical, dramatic, beautiful, wild friends (I include myself among them):

My candle burns at both ends

it will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends,

It gives a lovely light.

If you are reading this, dahling, you know who you are. 

sleep well, if sleeping is on the agenda tonight.

I loved your assortment of weapons last night:)

survivors

Friday night was the Relay for Life event at the WOHS track. Cancer survivors were invited to walk a lap together, wearing our colorful teeshirts inscribed witht he words, "Remember", "Celebrate", and "Fight Back" on the front, and "SURVIVOR" on the back.  My friend Kathy and I found the sign-up tent and I got my shirt, then looked around and took in the scene- a sea of shirts like mine, survivors everywhere: a toddler, an elderly man in a wheel chair, a beautiful woman with just the tiniest bit of hair..

Many of you know that my dad is a retired Oncologist as well as a cancer survivor himself, and he came to my heart as I walked with Kathy. I worked for him over summer college breaks and got to witness him with patients. One woman I remember had breast cancer-she looked like someone's second grade teacher. A year later she came back on crutches-it had gone to her hips, and she had consulted a faith healer before finally returning for more radiation. Who could blame the woman for wanting to avoid that. Many other stories live in my mind from the dinner table, my father telling us about these people. Memoirs around the house, gifts from grateful patients. My dad's weary eyes as he told the stories.

I talked to him on Father's Day. I told him  that I wondered if I deserved to walk that lap with the likes of Emma, my friend Barb's mother in law, who endured chemo and surgery three years ago when diagnosed with breast cancer.  The neat and tidy ennucleation of one eye seems to pale in comparison.  I don't know that i "fought" cancer. I basically had it removed.  

My dad called cancer " a perverse lottery".  You just get it, and it doesn't really give a damn who you are.  

Our West Ottawa team, headed up by the amazing teacher, musician and dad, Jeff Gaul, raised over 14K. Maybe this is how I fight back-by following his example, doing something good that allows me to forget about my damned self for a little while.

Thanks to all who do that each day so that I can walk with Emma and enjoy another sunset.

Benny and the Tiger Game

My ex Mark has an eight year old named Benny. When he was born,on the day after Annie's high school graduation, the kids and I were still reeling from the divorce and splitting up of the old family, and the thought of this new life somehow fitting in to our old ones was a hard one, to say the least. Jon and Annie would now have a half-brother, and who the hell knew what he would be to me? I could see what a child of Mark's with no Claudia involved might look like, maybe, but really, who would this little person be?

Mark introduced me to Benny when he was a baby, and he as an angelic little creature.  Over the years, I have gotten to know him better.  After my surgery, Benny and Mark came over, and he brought me a book about the Detroit Tigers, inscribed carefully in beautiful first grade printing: : "Dear Mrs. Art, I know you like the Tigers, so I got this book for you. Love, Benny." We decided then and there that we would go to a Tigers game this summer, and we did just that yesterday, on Father's Day, 3 days after Benny turned 8. 

He was in full Tiger regalia, sporting a cool two-toned Tiger hat and a Pudge Rodriguez jersey. He kept saying, "I can't believe I am in Detroit!" When you are eight, Detroit is still a cool place, and seeing it through his eyes, I had to agree. An old church became a castle through Benny's eyes, and Ford Field looked a whole lot bigger. And then, of course, there it was-Comerica Park, with huge lions poised for attack and a giant screen proclaiming, "HOme of the Tigers! " Enough to make anyone's heart pick up a little, I think.

Even the rain delay was fun.  We ate, we cheered, we watched some great baseball (back-to-back homers by Guillen and Thames! The Dodgers' rally in the ninth!) and drove home playing the alphabet game and a few that Benny made up as well. I looked over at Mark, navigating through the crowds, and remembered so many car trips with the kids in the back, playing those same games and enjoying a beautiful day. We held hands for awhile, and it felt just fine.

Be Still

from Thomas Merton:

Be still

Listen to the stones of the wall

Be silent, they try

To speak your

Name

Listen

To the living walls.

Who are you?

Who

Are you?

These iris and many more belong to my neighbor on Lakeshore Drive. They are a highlight of my walks with Bella. I have three blooming myself, along with my lilac bush, which is groaning under the weight of all the blossoms. They are the color of pale lavender silk.

Suddenly the air is friendly and caressing, the daylight seems to last forever and the color is everywhere. In Michigan, spring is a miracle!