Dead Souls in Chatsworth, California

Today is the day after the train collision just around the bend on a single track in Chatsworth, California. Desi and Lucy Arnez lived there with their children. John Wayne made movies out there at the Paramount ranch. I think it was him. Five decades years ago it was a place to get away from the city. It has long since become a suburb.

Now it is a place of sadness, anguish, and 18 dead souls and counting. 

Today, my friend from Northridge, next door to Chatsworth is coming over to pick up a coffee table that she loaned to my daughter. Tomorrow, the coffee table is going to Sacramento with my friend's daughter who is about 10 minutes pregnant, suffering morning sickness and exhaustion and excitement all at the same time. Her daughter and my daughter were married about two weeks apart last summer. All so carefully planned. 

Not so for the people in those train cars. The freight car probably had a couple people in it. Those happy-sad, mad-glad, short-fat, tall-thin, old-young people going home on the metrolink, tired from a day's work, excited or disappointed from a day at school where they had accomplished something worthwhile--or not--and those who just happened to be on that train going in the direction of Moorpark because it was their day for one of life's rite-of-passage, they all had souls.

Hopefully, they all had families. Families who will grieve for them, or with them, and what happened to them. For those, even that one single person, who did not have anyone, I grieve. It doesn't matter whether they are at the big banquet at the right hand of God, or their soul has been set free, or they are simply gone from this earth. 

Celebrating a life well-lived is a way to let go, float them away on a pyre, sprinkle them on a hillside, or bury them in a casket. But loss is real. A home sits empty, a chair unused, a bed half empty, an apple uneaten. That is real and someone must attend to it.

I shall mourn for the life lost in the shuffle. I shall pray for all the rest, that they may rest in peace or someone's loving care. This is pain and hurt and loss. It best not be buried beneath anger.

May no one use these dead souls as property in the name of a self-righteous get rich scheme.

Yoga: 9 - 10:30 AM on Thurday

COMPLACENCY.  I've worn it like a mink coat on a summer day for awhile now, feeling smug that I had this great coat but complaining how it was miserable. The word's been around since the mid 17th century, so it would seem a lot of people have been stuck in the complacency rut. 

The word itself came to me in yoga class after a conversation about using a mental eraser in order to start over. Yes, my mind was wondering, but that's what complacency will do. There was so much mental goo to erase. Where to start?  

Meantime, I was flowing through sun salutations, I especially like upward facing dog. It takes strength, a flexible back, and an open heart which means the shoulders should move easily onto the back. Thing is, from here the body flows into downward facing dog. That means the toes, see them in the picture, the nails clicking on the mat--ruins a pedicure--must roll over backwards.

         

I rolled one foot's worth of toes over, then the other, Gosh darn, I was good at this. Done it hundreds of times. I'm just going with the flow. The instructor plopped down on the bamboo floor in front of my plush mat and rolled all ten toes over at the same time.

Okay, I'll give that a try. Whoa. Lost my flow when I gave it a go. There was no extra foot to take the weight of my body. The discomfort, okay it was pain, gave me the mental jolt that I'd been looking for. When I went for the second dual rollover, it was necessary to go back to the one foot, other foot method.

Mental eraser at work. I was on a new journey. Where would it take me?

This isn't me in the picture, below, but it could be.  Looks like me from a distance. For the first time, I balanced myself on my arms and shoulders. I didn't get up so high. I like to think my butt is smaller. Maybe it isn't. I know it isn't a flattering posture. But, hey, you try it.

It's called Crane Pose. It's vital to breath while perched in this position. Thought I'd share just in case you're in a rut. Complacency. Since the 17th century.

Olympic Commentary: Pixels and Belly Butt-ons

It was Carol Ann's surprise birthday party on Saturday. Her birthday had been the day before and when no one called her, she thought she'd been  forgotten. She arrived a whole hour late because her husband couldn't get her out of the house, but we still did the "happy birthday" jumping at her from around a corner thing, and she jumped back  in surprise. Then everyone went out to the patio to eat bbq'd ribs and stuff. It was all decorated and a nice breeze had come up, so people including Carol Ann, were happy to hang around out there.

Susy and I were watching the Olympics in the living room, ensconsed on Becky's beige leather sectional sofa. Feet up on the coffee table, taking it easy.  I don't eat red meat, bbq'd or otherwise, and Susy is a very competitive person, so, we glued our eyes to the 52" plasma screen on the wall. 

The women's marathon was on. Did you watch it? Their belly's were not only flat to the point that ribs stuck out, but the skin was as smooth as a baby's butt.

I kept thinking something was wrong with the picture. It was a group of women in bikinis running in sync, grabbing water bottles, tossing them aside, never missing a step, everything the same. 

"They look really weird," I said, finally. 

"They-don't-have-any-belly-buttons," Susy said.

"Oh my gosh," I gushed. "You're right. Yuk. What happened to them?"

"Has to be the pixels," Susy said. "It has to be. Since the screen is so big, the pixels must be larger than their belly buttons."

We continued to watch. Other party folk wandered in. One or the other of us pointed out the belly button omission. Pretty soon we were all huddled around the sofa, entranced.

"Oh look," someone shouted. "When there is a close-up you can see them. You can see their belly buttons. They do have belly buttons. It is the pixels."

Others agreed. We all laughed. Then we laughed some more. This was without alcohol, mind you. I don't know why it was without alcohol. It just was. 

The birthday girl was loving it. Her husband was loving it that she was happy once again. After the day he'd been through when she thought no one remembered, well, this was a real belly laugh.

"I tell my students," one of the guests who is a pre-school teacher said, "not to pick at their belly button because it holds the butt in place." 

I swear, in the most matter-of-fact tone, Susy replied. "I guess that's why they call it a belly butt-on."  

Now everybody lost it, hooting with laughter, like we were on our umpteenth martini. I couldn't stop laughing. The more I laughed, the more my husband laughed and so on and so on. The birthday party was capped off, not with a champagne birthday toast or a night cap, not a single drink. 

Just a lot of laughter about missing belly buttons.

How totally unsophisticated. Does this mean we are getting old? Or, are we just a goofy bunch? Whatever, we did have a really great time. My husband and I got home so late that my dog left a surprise on the hallway rug. 

We were at a wedding shower...

...in Los Angeles having a great time when one of the six bridesmaid's announced her big day would be 8/8/08. 

"I love the idea of 8-8-8," she bubbled and cooed, reaching her long arms around me and bumping my forehead like we were making a toast. "I wasn't sure about this until today, and now it is just so clear to me," she added in that whirlwind way that spirals upward in its own vacuum and tunnel.

Her mother quietly beamed at her, then at me. The paucity of words made her glow that much more meaningful. This woman had lost her husband of nearly 3 decades only a year earlier following a protracted illness. She, herself, was ill although no one spoke about it. 

"I'm really happy, I think," the mother said after awhile. "I love where we live now. The sky is full of stars after dark, there are distinct seasons, it's really beautiful." She paused. Her breath so soft that nothing moved.  "It's good to start over, I've changed my name." 

A group hug and round of picture-taking shifted the mood back to party mode. The room rocked, more like bounced, with girlish giggling, oohs and aahs, and a familial competitive spirit as one game followed the other, winners announced and applauded, followed by short silly speeches. More giggling.

Strapless afternoon dresses swirled and long straight hair hung thick and groomed over straight bare shoulder, while these friends tried to remember what had been so important way back when they were in high school, even in grade school.

"The pomegranate tree, the pomegranate tree," someone shouted. 

"Do you remember the pomegranate tree in the school yard?" asked my dearest young friend who had just announced her wedding day. 

I shook my head. I really didn't.

"I do," her mother said. 

And that, I thought to myself, is what today is all about. 

"I do." 

Sometimes it is all about how we SEE things

My husband can be so annoying. He has these all-knowing illusions.   

For instance, tonight my son called asking how to get mold off of his linen pants. He'd stuffed gym clothes in the hamper (where they should go as opposed to on the floor) and forgotten about them for a few days. One entire pant leg had grown mold. 

My husband overhears our conversation, and intervenes with well-intentioned information about lemon juice and salt and putting the pants in the sun to dry. Instead of shutting up at that point, he makes a comment alluding to how careless and irresponsible our son is. He points out that car keys have been misplaced, a cell phone crushed, and now linen pants damaged. 

 My husband then hangs up the phone, with no illusion whatsoever as to his hurtfulness. I hit redial, and calmly remind my son that his father might be allusive since this is his assessment, and perhaps there is something more going on that we need to discuss and correct.

His girlfriend has been giving him a hard time for forgetting things. He gave her a birthday card (not a gift) two weeks late. FYI: Alluding to a poor memory eludes the fact that she will have no illusions about you.

He added that she has been "picking on him" this weekend. My son continued to elude his forgetfulness claiming a hundred good reasons. 

I decide to ask him directly why he is being so elusive suggesting  that this is actually about his illusiveness. 

Sometimes, things slip his mind, he says, like the gym clothes and giving her a gift, not to mention the card. He doesn't understand why his dad and girlfriend are upset with him. He just wants to clean up the linen pant, and get along with them both. He's one sad fellow.

So, it falls to me, the mother to point out to him that he is under the illusion that there are no consequences for actions. You put sweaty gym clothes on linen pants in a closed place, and mold will grow. You fail to give your girlfriend a gift, or at the very least a card, for her birthday, and she will be unhappy with you. Your dad isn't going to be sympathetic, he's going to point out the obvious, matter-of-fact.

It is illusory of him to pretend otherwise. That illusiveness could well be what is eluding him from properly caring for the sweaty gm clothes and the girlfriend. It even might be why he lost his car keys. It is time, I alluded to him gently, to be open to meeting new girls.

And, I added, keep in mind that your father only alludes to being right all the time because he has illusions about himself which trip him up on a regular basis as he eludes the obvious, which is that I am the one who is usually right.