Considering "The Way"

The "way" of the movie title, with Martin Sheen, is the pilgrimage of Camino del Santiago between France and Spain, walked for at least a thousand years. But of course, that long road, about 800 kilometers, is a metaphor for our lives.

Thomas Avery, played by Sheen, is a successful optometrist, country club golfer, with one adult son from whom he is somewhat estranged. (played in snippets by the writer, director, producer, Emilio Estevez, one of Martin's several sons--he is not an only child. I found myself wondering if he wants to be).  His son has given up a doctoral program to see the world, not to choose a life, as one character says, but to live one.

His son, Daniel, dies in a a freak accident in a storm as he begins the pilgrimage, alone. Avery is no longer a particularly religious man, although the vestiges of his Catholicism (he crosses himself several times during the film) remain. Upon arrival in the town which begins the road of the Way, he identifies his son's body, and in a moment of true impulse, decides to complete what his son could not, with his boy's cremains in a plastic bag in a metal box. He leaves the ashes along the Way.

There is an underlying anger in this man, and he wishes to be alone in his grief. as he walks along. So much of it seems to be a solitary brooding. He is unable, however, to stay solo and he meets three people with whom, almost despite himself, he ultimately bonds. One is Jack, a garrulous Irishman, with writer's block, dissaffected from faith and Churches both, but figuring he might be able to break his block by writing about the pilgrims he meets along the path. Another is Yost, a sensitive Dutchman, who shares his pills (ambien) and hash with his fellow travellers. His reason for the extended and harsh walk is to "lose weight" he says, not entirely tongue in cheek.  Then there is Sarah, the seemingly hard Canadian who offers initially that her intent is to smoke to road's end and then give it up, although we learn that she aborted her child to avoid providing another victim for a husband's abuse. As all of us are, each of these souls are wounded particularly in relationship to themselves, and others, and although it is never acknowledged openly, to God Himself.  Although the Way has a faith based beginning, in the movie God is an undertone rather than a crux. But He can be seen, if one is looking for Him, even in this otherwise primarily humanistic film.

After releasing, in a drunken stupor, his rage at the world in the guise of his companions, a chastened Thomas begins to soften toward them, toward their shared pain, and suffering. He begins to leet them into his experience of loss.


When they finally arrive at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela and stand in the entrance, it is the man with the desire to lose weight who follows the tradition of approaching the statue of St. James (the theory is that St. James ended up here) on his knees, a form of penance, of which the entire Way is intended to be for the believer. Even Jack goes inside. All are awed by the massive censer that incenses and purifies the altar during the Mass which is only briefly glimpsed. From there, they go to the site where each person leaves a stone and a message or a prayer.
Jack intends to go a little farther, to the sea itself, where he has been advised by a gypsy the group encounters along the way (his son steals Jack's backpack and it is returned to him) to release the rest of the ashes. 


The broken Jack can now heal.


One reviewer noted that the movie is slow in parts, but he acknowledges, that this would be appropriate to a "walk. This a journey in every way. I liked it. I felt I was with them rather than just watching them.
I began to warm up to each of the characters just as Jack did. I began to see their pain and watch it get released, in small bits, as befits real life.


At some point in our lives, we are all faced more urgently with finding our true selves. Maybe that is why I liked this movie, because that urgency (I do not mean panic, but in the sense of turning point) has come for me in the five or so years, but particularly in this latter year of 2011. 


The way Jack has travelled through his fictional life changes with his pilgrimage. The way this Djinn has travelled thus far that seems to be changing too, but I have not yet had the epiphany the movie proposes for Jack. Maybe I need to travel the Camino del Santiago. I have a friend who long ago suggested we do it when we retired. It looks like both of us will have time now. 

The Voice Over Artist--Update

Where the dulcet tones go.

Those of you who read this blog know that in late July, shortly after the separation from my long time job, I began taking a class in voice acting. And, as I may or may not have written, it is a form of acting. In some ways I am beginning to think it is harder than being on stage or television, because EVERYTHING has to be done with the voice and intonation.

The place I chose to take the classes after getting the low down that this was a place that actually trained was Kalmenson and Kalmenson. The first level one, truly a foundations course, was six weeks. Last night, I completed the four week second level. I am now at the point where the next step is the course on HOW to do a decent demo to be sent out to find an agent and to do on line auditions. That won't be until January. In the meantime, I have joined a site, Voice123, and have been practicing as well as making a couple of auditions, which probably aren't being considered because I don't also have a generic demo.

What have I discovered? Well, these foundation courses in part help you define your "signature". You don't necessarily have only one. I certainly don't. Last night, the instructor, the marvelous Samantha Robson (my previous instructor was the equally marvelous Kathy Grable) and there was a guest instructor Melique Berger, with whom I felt a particular click probably because she was raised in New York and had that New York thing going. Which brings us back to me and at least part of my signature, which is bold, energetic, kind of Laine Kazan, ish. Some people are saying "hey, of course" that's how she always is. But I also have a good voice of the confidante, the teacher, the psychologist, cosmetic (like those kind of ads), quirky, comedic, intellectual, fun. So much depends on the copy and the image of "Who am I talking to", which is part of the method. Yes, here I am Djinn from the Bronx, talking about an acting method. I am as it were "finding my truth". The idea is never to fake it, but to use tools to bring up something real in doing the copy. I love dialogue and there are a couple of the training pieces I did (which I get to keep on a jump drive) with one or two of my colleague students (some of whom are already in the business and were refreshing) were amazing! Last night, I was the bored woman trying to hire a burrito as a teacher. It was fund and me, and Robert (Schiede, he has a website) clicked. But Robert clicked with others as well, including one that he and the other student were doing these Schwartenegger type accents that were gut funny. 

What else? I have discovered I am good. But that is probably not going to be enough. The others are very good and the voice over circuit is filled with terrific talents. But I am going forward. You know why? I just like it. I like the people I am meeting. I like the work I am learning.

What else? I have remembered how freeing being creative is. I was going to say "for me", but I am guessing that others experience the same thing when they have the opportunity to explore the creative side. I suppose being a lawyer has its creative side. In fact, I know that it does. But my experience so far is that was always SO serious and the outcomes that were possible were so serious as well. And the unhappiness around me was so intense. With this added endeavor, I can almost physically let out a breath, the one I have been holding for years.  I have to be professional to be sure, and I am learning the parameters, but I can also be myself and use what I AM to make the necessary connection..

One thing I have come to, at least for now, is the confirmation that I found the perfect place for me to be in the law, in the Ethics world.  I had seen a lot of ugliness that is the reality of the business and I knew that sleeping at night was more important to me than making a lot of money. The Bar was the providential match for this young lawyer, who morphed into an upper middle age lawyer while moving up in the ranks. There  could I try to fulfill a mission to keep the profession as it was meant to be, but what I saw it was not. Removed from that part of the field that fit my conscience, and my sensibilities, I'm not sure what "Djinn, Esq." will look like. I think ultimately it will be good, notwithstanding the unsettling way in which I was launched.  And voice over background can only be an asset.

And finally, there is a freedom in having nothing to prove anymore except to myself. I been there, trying to prove my worth to  the world and to various individuals within it, and it wasn't all that it was cracked up to be anyway.  It did not even matter if I did prove myself.  I should have known that.  Life is a series of  hard lessons that knock sense and humility into us and hopefully make us better people besides.  That better person is a hard nut to crack. I have a feeling I will be doing that right up to the last breath..

So, now, on hiatus from the voice over classes, I need to practice, figure out the needs of marketing, and networking. I am not good at those last two. I always feel a little ashamed like I don't belong where I am, but I see now, also that it is the only way to get ahead in this (or any) chosen profession.

So, time to get on Audacity and lay down a practice track and transfer it to a jump drive, several times. Cool. I feel 20 again. I wish I looked it. Tempus fugit, right?

Fall, and Winter in Los Angeles. . . Really

When I first moved to Los Angeles, lo, more years ago than I'd like to admit, it was five years before I bought a coat. I remember an early experience of the Christmas season here, when it was 80 degrees as I drove along the Wilshire Corridor. And it seemed to me then, that the weather in tinsel town was without seasons, always sunny. The title of that song, "It Never Rains in Southern California" seemed entirely true.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-pyC7WnvLT4

I guffawed at those native born folk who wore parkas in January or February and complained about the "cold". Cold? I had been thinking about moving to California for about four or five years before I actually did it. The last straw for me was walking between my law school's building on campus located I understood to be on the highest point of Queens, New York to have lunch in the college cafeteria one winter's day. It was not a long way. I had on a hat and a scarf and a coat and my nose felt like it would fall off. I have vivid memory of saying to myself, when I graduate and get licensed in New York, I am leaving town for the temperate climes of Los Angeles. I did not say it exactly like that, naturally, between shivers and verbal emphasis of complaint.  And so I did.


Having become inured to this temperate climate, I began to realize that those who said California had no seasons were wrong. I bought a coat. To be sure the shift is more subtle, except when we have the weeks of torrential rains as we did in 1983 that nearly took away the Santa Monica pier. Palm trees stay green all year long and only some people have annuals growing and shedding  and being reborn on their lawns to cue the changes. But these last two days remind me that there is a certain change. Spring is usually just cooler than summer and spring and summer are mostly all day to day sun. But around now, something new is added. Not a cold, but a chill, and an overcast that is mighty different from the June gloom. And because most buildings here aren't as insulated as in the east, any chill makes a space colder than the temperature might intimate. There'll be if not full on rain, more drizzle. If the sun comes out it is late in the afternoon and after an hour or two, the marine layer is coming in, thicker than at other times of the year.  All spring and summer to now, my windows have stayed open well into the night; but now about six or so, it is a little cool without a sweater and I'll shut them, before the now earlier dark is upon me.  Where I have made time to sit outside for at least a bit to watch the sun go down and the birds twitter wildly before settling down for the night, the idea is not as attractive now.


I have been cleaning out the cat hair in the old wall heater and located the space heater. Forty eight degrees here feels cold, where for an East Coast dweller, we look like wimps. It never fails that someone who moved here years ago loses the stalwart resistance to anything under 60 degrees.  If I were a bear, I would hibernate from now till spring. I do not like the short days. I feel very much like Persephone kidnapped to Hades. But IF I have to do winter, this is the best place to do it. There will be some sudden heat waves, even in the winter, like that Christmas of 80s back in the 80s.


Actually, the weather person has said that we are looking at an increase in temperature and a return of the sun for the weekend.  My beach chair is still in my car, just in case.

The Peculiar Case of the Halloween Obsession

I understand the origins of that end of October event that is Halloween. As a Catholic, on the last day of October, we celebrate "All Soul's Day". It is the day on which we pray for the dead, whom we consider part of the universal Church.  The next day, November 1, is "All Saint's Day". The tradition of the "Day of the Dead" is well known, and related, also, to this remembrance of the dead and a celebration of the lives who touched us.

Maybe it has happened in other parts of the country, but in Los Angeles in any case, it seems that the secular version of this "Holy Day", the holiday (the secular derivation of the religious word) has become a peculiar obsession. I say, maybe it has happened in other parts of the country, because at least when I was a kid, Halloween was strictly for the kids, and it was less about the scary stuff (although obviously the scary stuff was a thread) than about going from door to door (with your parents and to people you knew) and getting candy. In my day, princess costumes were particularly favored by children, the days of Cinderella being very prominent. Oh, yes, there were ghosts, and we all had seen Frankenstein (the original Boris Karloff one and the knock offs by people like Abbott and Costello), but everyone kind of knew this was play for anyone under age 10.
In my neighborhood, which is a mix of adults and religious Jewish families, I have never seen kids go from door to door for the candy. What I have noticed are the lawns of adult inhabitants filled up to the brim with every horrible dead formerly human thing. Vampires, and ghouls amid pounds of fake webs. Arms strewn about. Hands coming out of the ground. In one neighborhood, there were blowup ghouls riding on motorcycles.

I am not sure what this current fascination with the dead and the undead is, but it seems way out of proportion to being a grown-up. I know. My opinion. Just because you have never been keen to dress up as Dracula. . . .Well, yep, that's what I am expressing. An opinion.
Do we not see enough death that we need to enshrine it on our lawns in ghastly displays? Or is it a way of warding off the evil eye? If I indulge in all of this, do I somehow get to spare myself from becoming one of the dead?  In case someone thinks that, no, you don't.

I heard that this week-end, the latest of the Paranormal Activity movies outgrossed the opening for any horror film ever. It was like THE movie to go see. I don't know about you, but even with my belief in the ultimate Grace of Heaven, the idea of dying, well more, the how of the dying than the dying itself, is scary enough. When I was a kid, I still remember rising above my principles and dabbling with my friends with a ouija board. Gotta tell you, that was the first, and last time. I could feel the evil. And I wanted far away from it. And I did experience, in a friend's home, what I will believe to my own last breath, was a malevolent spirit. Why then do so many want to dress up as the dead, or sit in front of a screen watching parts of bodies being torn off. Don't we get enough of that in real life, like, for example, Libya in recent days?

  I am really not throwing stones. I just don't get it. It seems that we are no longer able to differentiate the fictional deaths from the non-fictional versions. And people don't believe someone died, like Mr. Ghadafi, even though his beating, dragging and execution (deserved or otherwise) by his former people was all over any form of broadcast source.

I don't know, there is something chilling to me, and not in the intended sense, about the obsession of Halloween other than the "trick or treat" variety of five year olds. Do we really think we can safely play with the "other side". I guess if you don't believe in the "other side" and I mean all the good and the bad of it, like if you don't believe in demons, you figure, hey what's the harm? But what if there are forces that can harm us and our little forays are a path to our literal and figurative soul destruction? Well, there are so many contingencies. If you don't believe in a soul, there is no harm. Of course, lately, it has been repeating in my brain that our belief is not the arbiter of reality. I know, there are those who dispute that. Dispute away. Time or eternity will tell as to the existence of objecctive and greater forces than ourselves. Me, that's my trend.

When you go out and buy that bloody plastic scar for your face for your zombie costume, consider what a real body looks like after it has been dispatched and torn. The thing we do for fun mimics something pretty horrible. Then why do we?

Just something to ponder. We have a longer time to ponder it now, as the Halloween costumes and goodies are advertised and sold months in advance of the actual day. 

For my part, I cannot wait till this holiday is over. But I certainly wish the best to  those of you who are celebrating it in its gloriously gooey gore . Well, I still like the candy, I have to admit.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

The Los Angeles Bureau of Sanitation Revenue Raising Folly

I won't call it a scam, because somewhere in 2008 or so, they announced that they would be doing it. Doing what? Well, a fee for picking up our refuse. Not a fee for the landlord of a building. Not a tax, per se, but a fee for each apartment unit (tenants) for the picking up of our garbage weekly. The announcement probably was contained somewhere in a bill. I am not sure which bill, because the assessment of the fee is in our power bill, the LADWP (Department of Water and Power) here in Los Angeles. It started out lower than it is now. Now, for my little unit, my one bedroom, it is 47 dollars plus a month. There are four units in my building, so it is just under 200 for our building.  I am assuming, perhaps wrongly, perhaps correctly, that what I am charged is what my neighbors are being charged. I don't know how many buildings exactly there are in my block, and some are bigger in units (up to about 8), but let's just say, 10 on my side of the street and 10 on the other, so like 20. For this little block then in LA, the total fee for collection of our garbage is approximately 2400. Let's be generous, lets say it is less, 2000 dollars. How many blocks are there in Los Angeles where the LA Bureau of Sanitation is collecting? Wow, that's quite a revenue raise for them! 

http://www.lacitysan.org/solid_resources/refuse/services/equipment_charge.htm

What brings today's diatribe on? Two things, I guess.  The first is that as a relatively recent draftee into pension living, my monthly income will drop. I am not complaining as I will be doing mighty fine compared to others in similar forced retirement, but it did cause me to do something heretofore I did not, that is, look at my bills. When I looked at what used to be a fairly low electrical bill (I grew up with the use of low wattage and I am giving to amber lighting), I noted that the total bill was well over 100.00 for a two month period.. And there it was this fee, that added almost double what I would be paying, not directly to the Bureau of Sanitation, but indirectly through my electric bill. WHAT?   The second thing? I am morphing slowly into a gadfly. I am tired of being told that things make sense which do not, and whether my views are accepted or not, I am going to speak out.  To me, this is ANOTHER example of the cliche from the fairy tale, "The Emperor Has No Clothes"


I was a little ashamed to find out that we had been charged this fee since 2008, as I said, but clearly it has gone up a minimum of 10 dollars in that time, because my research indicates that the early maximum was 36 dollars.  When I called the Bureau of Sanitation, they were amused by my late in coming outrage as they clearly had been collecting from me and my neighborhood confreres for some time. The answer to my distress was simply, "Well, you have been paying it".  Oh, ok, since I have been then it must be good. But I do not recall being given a CHOICE! My neighbor told me that he had looked into our getting a private collector, like the one in West Hollywood, but for a variety of reasons that was not possible.  I haven't asked my landlord if being the owner of the building incurs an extra cost for them, or are we bearing entirely the cost as tenants?


I sent an e mail querie to the Bureau of Sanitation like two months ago asking for a more specific explanation and justification.. They obviously feel no need to respond as I am conscripted to payment whether I like it or not. For the record: I don't like it. I think it is open to incredible question from someone who has the resources to investigate. And, if possible, I'd like to see where this "fee" is going. This in particular, because I haven't noticed a concomitant improvement in service.


Here is how I see the service provided.  Someone, often one of the tenants or the landlord, has to bring out the containers for the Bureau of Sanitation to pick up. My uncle used to get a little stipend to do it weekly, but he has been ill, so right now, my aunt or I does it.  The lovely large trucks come down our streets, ever so slowly and with the authority of their size, blocking any traffic down that particular street. Multiply that one truck going down my block with those other trucks going down other blocks on collection day. As they TRUCK picks up the containers (there is a driver and a guy who kind of lines the cans up before the truck picks up), the containers are dropped wily nilly, often blocking the driveways. A tenant will often have to exit his or her car on the way out to move the can that was so neatly dropped in the driveway in order to escape it. At the end of the work by our Bureau of Sanitation, the street is littered with black and blue plastic bins.  The Bureau's work is done.
Did you know, bet you didn't, that there is a LAW, a LAW for goshsakes! that requires that the cans be back in the yards by a certain time, the next day? Does the Bureau do this?  It does not. The landlord or tenant must now return the bins that THEY took to the curbs and return them to their weekly homes.


Now, if someone will tell me what it is I am getting for my 47 dollars, our building's nearly 200 dollars, our block's 2000 dollars multiplied by all the payments being made by all the blocks in the Los Angeles area, I might reconsider my feeling of being, well, let's just say, taken advantage of by the city government. Bur for now, I am thinking that money is being taken from me, from us, in a most foul determined folly.


Perhaps someone from the DWP and/or Bureau of Sanitation that felt no obligation to answer my e mail querie, knows one of my FACEBOOK friends, and can post an recitation of all the good we are receiving from this charge that I'll bet most people don't even realize they are being assessed, even the ones that are pensioners.  Now if an audit demontrates the good use of this fee, I shall happily continue to pay it. But if, as I suspect is true from the history of government, it is another one of those, we don't know where the money is going things, I shall be more annoyed, as if that were possible.


Now, don't get me started on parking tickets, toll tickets and late in the month moving violation tickets!

Ides of March

As I was looking for a picture to append to this entry, I ran across several reviews. One was particularly smug in its attack on George Clooney, star and director and producer and the utter simplicity of his presentation about political reality. The writer averred that while it had some insights, it really wasn't anything that could not be ascertained from regular media watching.

That may be, but the simplicity of a narrative of political intrigue, political murder and literal murder as in the case of Julius Caesar whose assassination invented the phrase "Ides of March" given that he was killed on that day in March (the 15th) apparently does not in any way diminish the truth of the evil of the human heart. Woe to the idealist who steps into that quaqmire!

I have seen  and experienced a tiny tiny bit of the reality of politics in my equally tiny life.  For my money, Mr. Clooney is spot on in demonstrating that idealists better find something else to do if they want to save their souls, unless if they should hold firmly to their values, they are willling martyrs, in every meaning of that term, career, reputation, life and limb, each and all potentially.

What I liked especially from Mr. Clooney, who is as much a diehard Democrat as I am a now die hard Republican is that the movie's context was the battle between two democrats in the Ohio primary, but transcended party to the larger reality of men and women, of ANY party, who begin to think they are bigger than their party's values, whatever they may be. These characters cast themselves in the roles of greater and lesser demi-gods, riding roughshod over people's very existences. In this world, also, loyalty, otherwise a lovely thing, means acceding to whatever dirty thing is necessary to achieve a goal.  Mr. Clooney's values are Democrat. Mine are Republican. Alas, however, the people we look to to promote our values often do not share them, in favor of getting and keeping that seat, damn it all. /Our politicians used to be better at selling us all the platitudes. Now they are laughable, whatever party member is speaking them. (For me, a Republican, last night's debate is an example of trivial form ignoring substance. And this seems to be a party neutral problem.)

Ryan Gosling is a 30 year old campaign guy working for another more powerful campaign guy (Seymour Phillip Hoffman) who is the manager of Mr. Clooney's campaign. He is tough. He is by no means pure as the driven snow, already understanding that you put negative stuff out there whether true or not, you are able to distract the poor sod  opponent who now has to deal with the press to put out the fire of the lie, and you slide on into political base. But, basically, Goslikng's character believes in his guy, and is willing to do what it takes to get him elected. The troubles begin for our young anti-hero when the campaign manager of the other campaign (played by the always believeable in the guise of the devil role, Paul Giamatti), calls the young idealist to get him to work for HIS guy's campaign. I won't spoil it, but after that, pretty much everybody and his brother and sister and daughter gets thrown under the bus. It never was about the values.  No surprise, of course, but wow, the resonant chills down my spine, at least, meant that this movie was effective to this viewer.


And it made me resent anew all the political intrigue I have witnessed or believe I have been the victim of in my getting fairly long life.  It has also made me grateful for the nearly completely (you can never avoid it entirely) apolitical life I have begun to lead and shall seek to lead henceforth.
If Mr. Gosling's character was trending toward hard when the movie began, he is an iceberg when the movie ends. A true tragedy. And while the humanity continues to grasp at being God which began with Adam and Eve, such tragedies will continue until the end of time.


Those little sisters I mentioned in my last entry?  The Sister Servants of Mary? Those are the kind of folks with whom my loyalty will be placed, those who want nothing mroe than the good of another, rather than their own self-aggrandizement.  I would beg God to let me learn from them.  You see, any politician who goes into that swarmy world and actually presses his or her true values will be turned or will be out. The banner of today's political world?  "Idealists need not apply". 


Remember Jimmy Stewart in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington"? Capra got it right, except the last part where Jimmy's character triumphs. That simply does not happen.

Love Made Visible

About ten or more years ago, a friend and fellow parishioner at my Church made me aware of a tiny (compared to other charities) group of nuns whose charism, besides prayer, was to take care of the sick and dying in their homes, without receiving any payment from the patient or family. The work is done for anyone, regardless of religious affliliation.




I became a member of the Sister Servants of Mary Guild maybe five or six years ago.  One of the sisters, Pilar, was there for me when my dad was hospitalized and died.  She visited him, although he was not conscious to see. She called me literally at the moment of his passing, offering me her solace and God's mercy.

One of their sixconvents in the United States (they were founded by a Spanish nun, St. Maria Soledad Torres Acosta and have seven locations/addresses in Mexico) is in the Bronx. You see, says Djinn FROM THE BRONX, there truly are no accidents with God!

What triggers the praise of this group for which I have an abiding affection, just now? Yesterday, the officers of the Guild (I have far to go to be among that terrific group) held the annual luncheon to raise funds for the Sisters at the Wilshire Country Club so that they can continue to do their work for those in need for free. It was a joy to see an infusion of new members, and some who were a bit younger and potentially more energetic than the still extant founding members who must soon pass the torch.

There were even some men present at the luncheon tables, a plus for an organization that has been sustained primarily by women since circa 1960. (The Guild, not the Sister Servants themselves). After the cocktail hour on the patio of the club looking out over the golf course on a breezy but sunny Saturday, not only was there good food and a silent auction, and a raffle, but there were the truly angelic voices of the young choir of Christ the King School. For me there was something wistfully incongruent hearing the children sing mostly from the Sound of Music, at the age I very nearly was when I saw the original movie in 1965.

The front row had the youngest, boys and girls, one smiling, another watching the room, another so serious and standing with the insides of his sneakers wedged against each other as he sang. They seemed surprised by the joy and approval their music wrought. Their innocence somehow emphasized the goodness of the nuns for whom the benefit was being held, one at each of 18 tables with the diners.  And noting the variations of age in that room, from those little ones to people like me at upper middle age and many at the sunset of their lives, emphasized how quickly the fresh and the young become those who need the services of gentle and compassionate nursing nuns who ask for nothing but the next task.

We had one of several of the Sr. Maria's in the room at our table. She had just returned to the convent in Los Angeles after years away, a young, poised woman, who spoke not only of her prayers, but of her all night vigils and caring at some home where someone sick needed her. The thing about these sisters, one and all I have met, is their palpable happiness. They are around the sick, the dying, and the pain of families who lose their loved ones, and yet, their giving is complete and not only without complaint, but with a simple fervor that is mesmerizing. It is transfiguring, the revelation of someting so spiritually beautiful as to seem almost impossible on this earth. We Catholics, we Christians all, talk the talk about sharing in Christ's sufferings, but when suffering is near to us, or we are suffering ourselves, we often default to a "Why me?" or "I can't handle it".  When we cry, '"Father, let this cup pass" us by, we do not readily follow, with the words, "Not my Will, but Thine be done:". But these women, they are not afraid, truly understanding that suffering is not only inevitable, but a joining to One whom they love. And thus do they make His love visible to those for whom they care and an example to those of us who would help them serve others.

Someone recently asked me if I had ever considered being a nun. Truth is, I wouldn't have the guts these women have. At least, though, I can tell those of you who read this blog about them. I am pretty sure I mentioned them before in these pages, although certainly not recently.

They are a bit under the radar, in part, because they have to be.  They need donations to keep doing the work for free for families, but there simply are not enough of them to go around;  a lot of people get sick but even with donations they cannot be everywhere. What they need is an infusion of vocations, to nursing and the religious life. Well, for now, the donations that they get will have to be a start. 

I want you to know about them.  Their convent in Los Angeles is 2131 West 27th Street, Los Angeles, Califronia  90018.

Become a member of the Guild.  And pray for them. Pray for vocations.

In our small ways, we can be part of making love visible.

The Danger of Overdoing Being Free and then Not-Being Free

I know. There is no such thing as absolute freedom. I know it, but someone tell some of our political movers and shakers, where absolute freedom is for them, alone and not for anyone they disagree with. No, no. Djin. Stop it! No commentary. This is an apolitical piece in a political world.


You remember the entry about "If I Didn't Have to Work I'd. . .." ?  I have a refinement of the challenge I am facing. I can do whatever I WANT. But then I try to do TOO much and get all bolyxed up. Did I spell that right? Probably not. Spell check, please!


The other day I decided to look into an old age nursing home that I thought might be nice if I live long enough and I am not just carted out of here.  It's an old one, up in the hills, run by the Carmelites. So, here was my thinking, although I was grateful that the operations lady kept pointing out that it really WAS too early for me to be shown around, wh ich she did anyway. She kept saying that I should know that if I had Alzheimers, this would not be the place for me. No kidding. It is up in a mountain and there are no gates. I wouldn't consider it, but then if I have Alzheimer's I won't know what's what, anyway.  My thinking, yes. Let me tell you.  I started out life on the campus of a Catholic girls school; I might as well end it on the campus of a Catholic home for the elderly. There seems to be a symmetry and if I do successfully enhance my spiritual life between now and the time I need care, how perfect to be surrounded by the contemplation of the Carmelites for whom I have a particular affection.


The place is lovely. Only 57 beds, and it did not have that smell of impending death although heaven knows the residents were aged parent types. In one room a nun read to a circle of ladies. One was asleep in her wheel chair. That is likely what I will be doing if I live that long.


I was directed to another place I had heard of for independent living, which might be my first stop, again, if I make it that far, let's see, what ten or fifteen years? In the meantime, I asked if hillly nursing home used volunteers. I have been concerned that I am not DOING enough with my free time, which I fear being too free of minutes, and hours. They did and off I went with my application, requiring a TB test and three references. I filled it out. I put it in an envelope. I put on the envelope a stamp. Someplace between putting the envelope in my car and now, I noticed that I felt a bit anxious that I was, in fact, putting too much back on my plate.


The trigger was my second level voice over class, Tuesday nights. This one is as much about the artistry as it is about the business. The question/mantra for the four weeks is"How Badly Do You Want It?" In fact, we had an assignment to write our goals and tasks daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, five years, ten years. Me? I wrote this rambly piece akin to how I feel--not sure.  Do I or do I not want to commit to the work of this creative endeavor, including the business part, the getting in front of someone to do the artistry? 


I think so. So today, I began. And it took time. And it will continue to take time.

The free time can be daunting.

But this is not all I wish to do or be. I wish to do charity work, like volunteering at that old age home. I am at an age where I am seriously considering the shuffling off of the mortal coil and my immortal soul. However, I already had or have two on going projects, one related to raising money for bringing clean water to East Africa through Catholic Relief Services under the aegis of a parish umbrella called "Our Lady of the Well of Nazareth" and helping to raise money for a smaller group of amazing nursing nuns called the Sister Servants of Mary and maybe to do some less grand tasks for them as needed. Both of these charitable works were part of my week. One involved at least four to five or more hours of my time. The other will involve a nearly full day. I haven't done that much with either, and if I am going to give full attention to these three things, the voice work, for an added "living" if it goes well, and the two charities, I cannot simply be trying to fill my calendar to avoid any down time in which my anxiety about doing something "meaningful" with the rest of my life when I have that quiet time. I haven't even mentioned the writing and the painting that I have been slipping in eratically.

Part of it is learning how better to structure my day since as I have already noted, the imposed structure is not presently extant. Part of it is accepting that I may just sit outside for an hour or two watching the birds and breathing deep the Los Angeles air, or saying the rosary or reading the Magnifcat, or even some lighter stuff.

This is an unfamiliar me on unfamiliar turf. It'll take some getting used to. I don't have to fill every minute.

Lightning Under the Big Dipper and Other Observations of a Nearly White Knuckle Flyer

I returned, last night, from a brief sojourn in the Ozark Mountains.

Do not laugh (if you are). It is quite a lovely place, as it turns out. I have found, actually, that many places between New York and Los Angeles, are lovely. A little too quiet for me, perhaps, in the long term, but lovely.

I was visiting a friend who some decade ago moved to Jefferson City, Missouri. It had been some time since I travelled there, probably 7 to 8 years. She suggested that we have a long girls' weekend at the Sky Ridge Retreat near Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Arkansas! you say? I had no image of that place, except that it was a Southern State during the late Civil War. And truly mid-west at tthat. Cowboy type midwest even perhaps more than California in some ways. The main point was seeing my friend, so where we caught up was not of great concern to me, and, I figured, any place I haven't been is an adventure to be savored. So off I went.

It takes a lot for me to travel. In part, I think I inherited the family gene that makes leaving the confines of the five miles surrounding my apartment a not to be readily engaged in task. As much as I might like to "see the world" more than I have, I prefer the frame of my space. I do not say this with any kind of pride. It is a fact. Add to this that the experience of travel is more of a hassle than ever it was, and it was before. I know, some of you LOVE airports, LOVE the packing, the going, the process. I just don't. I have tried to convince myself that I do, but I don't. But I suppose if it were not for the fact that I HATE to fly, these inconveniences would be tolerable. Alas, I have never liked to fly, although I have done a fair amount of it. "What are you afraid of?" people ask. Safer than a car. You can die even on the ground. Yep. Yep. I know. It's true. But when I am on the way up and up there, the thoughts that run through my head for pretty much the entire trip (the longest I have taken was 10 hours to Italy) are Freddy Krueger-esque. It isn't the dying that scares me. It is the nose downward, 30 seconds to crash and burn, what will my last thoughts and words be part. And while I may have little control over things when I am "on the ground", I have even less in a tin can squished next to a business man with no space for me to adequately panic.

I like my friend a lot. So there I was on the 3 and a half hour flight to St. Louis. And that flight was smooth as glass. I even got pictures along the way. I nearly convinced myself that yes, I can do this more.

Part of coming  back was the same. And then. . ..

At about 7 or 8 p.m. LA time, a storm was approaching the city. Fortunately, I did not know about it before I got on my plane in sunny St. Louis. I might have re-considered the trip, or asked for a hitch on Air Force One (the best of the best), which happened to be in town (and delayed our flight slightly). So, it was just like clockwork. Nice take off, clear skies, watching the sun go down ahead of us, over and over as we moved West in the evening.  Even with Attila the Flight Attendant frowning at us and rather ungraciously asking if we wanted anything to drink (she was a large, severe woman with glasses and a bun; I told the young Egyptian businessman next to me that she was my first school marm attendant), it was going pleasantly enough.
About forty minutes or more outside of LA, as I was looking out the window marvelling at the Big Dipper,

I noticed the gathered clouds below

which were so many that even in the dark they were visible. Oh, and then there was the lightening off to the right and pretty close by my reckoning. But we passed the lightening by without incident and without the flashing of the seat belt light. So, there could be a pause in my fearful ruminations. And then. . . .

The plane began to dip up and down, just a tad. And then it shook, just a tad.  And the seat belt sign was on. And then the Captain in his best soothing voice said that he had asked the Flight Attendants to take their seats "for their safety".  Ooopsie Daisy! The fearful ruminations begin! There was no second round of the unwieldy cart going down the aisle. I would have welcomed my school marm attendant. No. It was just too bumpy. I had images of Pope John Paul II kissing the ground as I hoped I would, if only those lights in the distance were Los Angeles. Worried that my last words would be "Oh, shit!", as I am told is a frequent final address to the world, I decided to pray the "Hail Mary" over and over, in between "Oh, man" and "Oh boys" as the plane bumped. This is not a good time to look at the wing, but of course I do and it looks like a bird actually flapping.
 And yet, the man behind me was snoring. I wished I had several valiums. No more trips for me if I live! 

Clearly, my friends, I made it to write again. I refrained from kissing the ground, although the urge was enormous.

Never have I been so happy to be in the bosom of my rooms. Will I venture forth again? Probably. But I will have to rev up the strength for a while.

The storm I went through last night, arrived this morning and has been with us all day. I like it better from this perspective.