While in high school, I found as many jobs as I could handle. Before school, during school, after school. Babysitting, cleaning people's houses, cleaning people's yards, finding lost calves (ranch work), typing homework for classmates (sometimes I think I was doing their homework), picking apples, mucking out barns, and part-timing in a pawn shop. All good jobs, some paid better than others. Didn't matter what the work as long as I could add to my adventure money.
     I saved enough to travel the world  (twice as a young teenager).  Met one of the most fascinating, and certainly best looking, of all my boyfriends, during one of these adventures. We occupied our time, awaiting plane schedules, in Heathrow. He sat across a crowded room, smiling when I glanced his way. Finally, the older fellow he traveled with, said something to him, got up, and walked over to my table. He introduced himself, his accent heavy Scottish. He said his friend wanted to buy me a drink. I told him I was seventeen, not a drinking age. He asked if I'd like to join them. I gathered up my packages and he helped me carry them. The other fellow stood and pulled a chair out for me.
     "Name's Dale," he smiled.
     "Joan," I said.
     "Ah, you are like sunshine," he said. We both sat, and he seemed suddenly like a schoolboy.
     "My friends call me Joanie," I added.
     "I will always call you Sunshine," he said.
     We talked, we laughed, we gradually became friends during the several hours of that first visit. Surprisingly, we waited for the same plane. Departing London, en route to Atlanta, Georgia, delayed  due to fog.
      Dale asked for my contact information, which I gave him. He said he traveled with his job, and didn't have a steady address. Later, aboard our flight, I thought I would not see him again. He and his friend were seated at the back of the plane, and I sat toward the front. When we reached cruise altitude, Dale appeared in the aisle. He asked the woman seated next to me if she'd mind trading seats. She glanced at me. For lack of what to say, I told her he was my boyfriend. She picked up her stuff and disappeared down the aisle.
     "You are my Sunshine," he sang the tune. Charming, kind, witty, and very handsome. I was smitten.
     Dale and I became fast friends during the long flight to Atlanta. We shared a lot of stories about our lives. During the following couple of years, we wrote hundreds of letters. He called me from ships in the North Sea. A few times he called from helicopters. He sent beautiful things for my birthdays and Christmases. Years after we lost touch, I told a good friend about him. She worked at a foreign embassy. She listened with interest, and concluded he most likely worked in the spy trade.
     I often wonder what became of him. I realize I never knew him, and I never knew his real name. I gave all the expensive gifts he sent to my younger sister. I kept most of the photographs he sent. I doubt he kept the photographs I sent to him.
     For a few years my nickname was Sunshine. I was close friends with a mystery. I don't have much to fill in that mystery, except I know we were drawn to each other. Attraction across a crowded room at an airport in London. Attraction was stronger than the mystery, and friendship bounded and bonded the unlikeliest pair of friends who never became lovers.

Treasures come in all shapes and sizes. The most fascinating treasures are those with little to no monetary value. In 1942, my dad was twelve and my uncle was fourteen. They hopped a south bound freight train near their home in Mississippi. They waited for weeks for that specific train, the one they knew would take them to Florida. Summer ended and the season for picking oranges arrived. A lot of men from my dad's hometown crowded into trucks and headed south during those years. Money was tight to nonexistent, and the citrus orchards always promised good dollars in exchange for hard work. Dad and Uncle were children, but no one could work as hard as the two of them. In previous years, they'd hitched rides to Memphis, clipping lawns by hand for people who lived in large rambling mansions near the river. Dad said if they were lucky, the homeowners paid out what they'd promised. Sometimes, they clipped grass until their hands bled, and finished the day with a quarter.

This year would be different because they would work alongside the men, earning equal pay for their labor. And, they would reach the orchards first because trains moved faster than trucks.

Dad said work in the citrus orchards was beyond difficult, it was grueling. They used ladders to reach the oranges, and with each clearing of branches, they had to climb down and move the ladders. They dropped the oranges into sacks which hung across their shoulders. Because it was time consuming to go up and down the ladders, they picked until each bag was full, before hauling them to the ground. They were only paid for completely filled bags, and no one helped them haul the sacks weighted down with oranges. At the end of each day, their clothes were badly torn and their flesh was red from scratches and cuts. They didn't tire. They worked alongside the men from their hometown until all the oranges were harvested, and all had been paid. Dad said it was the best money they'd ever earned, and they traveled by train back to Florida a couple more autumns, working in those citrus orchards.

The first time I heard this story was a few weeks before my father died. Cancer was taking him, and he and my mother had either sold, given away or walked away from most of their life possessions. Dad kept several small boxes on a shelf beside his chair. I had never asked about their contents. One winter morning six years ago, Dad's hospice nurse met with him for several hours. After she left, Dad took a long walk around town. That afternoon, I stopped by to visit with him, and he took one of the boxes off the shelf and opened it. Inside was a pair of small scissor type shears. I'd never seen a tool like this, and asked him what they were used for, which is when he told me about hopping freight trains to Florida, and enduring the backbreaking work in orange orchards. The tool was his orange stem clipper. He'd used it to clip the stems from thousands of oranges, liberating the oranges from the tree. He asked me if I'd like to keep it for him. I realized this small tool was one of the few treasures my father had saved and kept with him all his life. I also realized, he wanted me to continue taking care of this important treasure from his own childhood.

My father passed away a few weeks after that day. I will always treasure the orange stem clippers. It was profound and sad to hear how desperately poor my father was as a child, so poor that he and my uncle sneaked aboard freight trains and rode them to orchards in Florida, where they worked until their skin was almost shredded. Yet, to him, it was good work, and the little clippers were his most valued treasure from his own childhood. Now, they are one of my most valued treasures, too.

My great grandfather died when I was eight years old. Needless to say, I don't remember very much about him, except that he believed we (his great grandchildren) needed to learn and maintain a vocabulary of at least 200 Native words (from his tribal ancestry). His father (my great-great-grandfather) had a very unusual and hard to pronounce name, but no one ever explained why it was so unusual. It wasn't until a few years ago that my aunt revealed his name meant "brown horse." That aunt, a favorite person in my family, died this past January. She was the last of our elders, the final page of our oral history; and, I am afraid we all waited too late to learn what she could have told us. I did learn a vocabulary of about 250 Native words when I was young. These were a mixture of my mother's and my father's Native ancestries (which were different tribes). I did not maintain (use and recall) that vocabulary, and today could not do more than name a few animals, two types of birds, and some common greetings. I failed. I've lost those important links to my true ancestry on this continent. I did not listen to my great grandfather. I did not seek long conversations of oral history from my aunt. What did I think? I don't know. I am afraid I did not think about the importance of my own history very much. I took what I knew for granted. I must have believed it would always be available. My mother was the last elder in her family, and she passed away five years ago today, taking with her our maternal branch of history. My aunt's passing cleared the way for our personal historical ignorance.

Why do we take such things for granted? Why is it so easy to believe some aspects of who we are and where we come from are always going to be accessible? The other two branches of my ancestry are known to me. A great-great-great-great grandfather immigrated from Weimar, Germany with two of his brothers. Family records showed he was a physician. A great grandmother's people immigrated from Siberia, Russia. My grandfather said they were laborers in the oil fields. So long ago. Long before my birth. Long before my parents' births. The Siberian link is interesting because I have found people with great grandmother's last name in Siberia. As for the German link, I found there were too many changes in the spelling of that ancestor's last name to know for sure who, in Weimar, would be related today. I have no Russian words in my vocabulary. I have very few German words in my vocabulary. It appears I have become the ignorant island my great grandfather wanted his great grandchildren to avoid.

Youth has advantages; but, wisdom and clarity of what will later be important are not highlights in most of our lives when we are young. That type of wisdom is earned with age. Unfortunately, by the time we are wise, too many things are lost.

Laundry lists. I've got them. You've got them. Who doesn't keep them? When it comes to laundry lists, you won't find one with your name on it in my area. I don't keep them on other people. I keep them on myself, which makes it easy for me when others drag the ones they keep on me out and start reading off the list. I can say, "Get in line." No one will ever be as critical and judgmental of me as I am. I am a pro at knowing what is wrong with me. I know my flaws. I don't even try to hide them. I live with flaws. Internal flaws. External flaws. Factual flaws. Fictitious flaws. Acknowledged flaws. Ignored flaws. I don't perceive people who keep laundry lists on me as keepers. Mostly, I don't enjoy that. It's my philosophy that if you want to hang around with me, you get the whole package. You won't get one version today, and another version tomorrow. I cannot imagine why anyone would create social, personal and private personas. The energy it would take to do that would put me into a grumpy mood. I can honestly say, most of the close friends I've had in my life are still close friends. My best friend from childhood is still my best friend. When I get back in touch with friends I've lost contact with for many years, we fall right in step with where we left off last time we had a conversation. That type of friendship goes the distance because they know you, they don't struggle figuring out versions. Life is tough. I've discovered, after half a century, it never gets easy. That's probably the best argument for allowing your flaws to be transparent. If you aren't dragging around half a dozen personas, imagine how much lighter your load to simply be yourself. You are probably better at doing that than anyone else.

Something about crackers. I’ve known about crackers for a very long time. When I was a toddler, the food I saw most often was crackers. Later, in elementary school, the cafeteria put little piles of crackers on our trays. I usually stuffed mine in my pockets to enjoy later. There was something about having them in my pocket. You can never be hungry if you’ve got crackers. In the event the school b

When my parents worked in Arizona, they lived on a street where everyone knew their neighbors. Dad especially enjoyed the humorous side of any situation, and presidential elections were not excluded. One such time, Dad got up early, made a big pan of his famous buttermilk biscuits, dug out Mom's 20 cup holiday urn, and brewed it full of fresh coffee. He then left to cast his vote. A short while later he returned and loaded a cart with the fresh baked biscuits, the coffee urn, a stack of picnic cups, a bowl of sugar, and a pint of cream. Mom, my ex and I were curious, but we didn't ask what he was up to. Later that day several of the neighbors stopped by and we found out. Dad visited each neighbor and shared his special breakfast treats. Afterwards, with a serious face, he told them they did not need to vote, because he'd already voted and he did not want anyone else's vote to cancel his out. Some of the neighbors thought he was serious. Most of them knew Dad well enough to know he was laughing himself silly all the way home. Thinking about that today, I cannot help but have a good chuckle. Dad was an original.

MIND GAMES - Joan Leslie Woodruff : AuthorHouse

You cannot know what it is like to sit beside a river if you never sat beside a river. My words today have nothing to do with sitting beside a river, yet, you might enjoy imagery around the symbolism. 


Have you ever sat with a dying person in a hospice, whereby the person knows, almost to the day, when they will take their last breath? I have done this. There is no education as to why life is good, life is precious, life is magic, better than the education you get right down to your very soul from the dying person. I've spent weeks, hours, days, moments with loved ones who were ready for their final curtain call. They talk about their childhood. They recall their youth. They reminisce over all their back-in-the-day days. They examine missed opportunities. They ruminate conflicts and struggles. They think about people who baffled them. They laugh often, lost in joyous moments long passed. Their eyes cloud when memories push forward their many losses. Especially, they treasure those who loved them. 


I believe, in that space before we die, our lived life overwhelms us, and finally we understand what is magic about that we took for granted. We often hear about living in the moment, appreciating each new day, being grateful for those we love, for those who love us. We don't know how to live in the moment, we forget to appreciate each new day, we are seldom grateful for those we love, and sadly, we frequently dismiss the idea that we are loved.


Life is our illusive secret. We spend too much of it oblivious to what it's all about, until we are at Death's door and our last breath is near. I hope you find a river and sit beside it. I hope you know what it feels like to do that. I hope you have time to be with your loved ones before they leave you forever. I hope the wisdom they try to teach you during those last weeks, hours, days settles in your heart and mind and reveals answers to the illusive secret of life.

Was driving down the county road toward highway this morning, when I saw smoke. It rapidly became apparent it wasn't that far away. Flames and thick plumes were visibly consuming more of our Manzano forests. During the past few years we've watched much of our mountain burn; mostly, these fires have been caused by people. Don't know if you've ever driven through the devastated lands left behind after a forest burns, but if you have, you can't get the images out of your mind. I recall the forests that fell to a massive fire stretching across a mountain in Southern California (range above Banning) many years ago. I was in college. Several of my classmates wanted to tour the site, so we piled into my car. We were quickly educated as to how fires could entirely alter the geography and climate of an area, not to mention the distribution and type of wildlife. It was not good. Some years later, my ex-husband and I drove through the Cleveland forest, also in Southern California (near coast), after it burned. I can still see the hills once covered in forest made barren as desert. Sadly, we saw numerous domestic animals, a few with burn injuries, running alongside the roadway, confused, newly homeless: goats, pigs, calves, dogs, horses. Certainly a nightmare for them, without food sources, water sources, or even first aide, they seemed to know their desperate state.


During the past decade, I've had the unhappy opportunity to witness unimaginable devastation to our forests in Arizona and New Mexico. True, some of these fires are Nature's way of cleaning them up; yet, the worst of them are man-made. Millions and millions of acres, hundreds and hundreds of miles. Our famous southwestern forest land is disappearing. If you understand the time it takes to reforest a mountain, you understand what I mean. People born today won't see forests in these burn scar sites until they have children, and perhaps until they have grandchildren, and, it is possible, many of the forests will not return. Geography is altered when so much green forest disappears. Wildlife distribution alters, dwindles, and often disappears. I am into the second half century of my life. I have no idea what this once densely forested Western and Southwestern country will look like in ten years. I do know the green forests are receding, and the arid deserts are growing. Without forests, much of what we depend on as humans will be gone.


Back at the ranch: Today we have more than 80 sets of brave boots on the ground fighting this new blaze in our Manzanos, so close to Mountainair. Let's hope they prevail. We can't afford to lose any more trees, and our wildlife can't survive without the forest.

While growing up, my mother often told me I was very quick into happiness, but equally quick into gloominess. She saw it as a problem. I never did. I knew what she meant, but I was not worried, nor affected, by her thinking around the topic. On a few occasions my dad confided he was pretty much the same way: quick to be happy; quick to be sad. As a therapist, I could get into the brain science of what that all means. I won't. I could get into the behavioral science of what it means. I won't. My father endured a great deal of suffering because of this "affliction" (as my mother termed it). Still, I recall how fast Dad always was to see the jolly humor side of any situation, and to fully enjoy the brightly illuminated side of life. Don't know if this makes sense to others. Will offer some examples. Once, while my family and some family friends, were en route to our favorite camp site, we drove upon a horrible scene. A livestock hauler was in an accident, and a horse was badly injured, both its back legs with compound fractures. The man who owned the mare begged for anyone who'd stopped to help assist him in "putting the horse down." Dad didn't enjoy the job, but he used his hand pistol, and one quick shot, and the horse was set free from her suffering. That entire weekend, Dad sat quietly beside the fire in the campsite. Everyone tried to engage him in walks, or hikes, or fishing from the stream. Dad was lost in sadness. Years later, Dad talked about that moment. He said the horse seemed not to understand what had happened, and that he could feel the horse's spirit tagging along, thinking my dad would show her (the horse) what to do. Dad said eventually he believed she (the horse) crossed over, and until that moment, he was simply deeply sad. I've had hundreds of moments similar to that in my life. Not similar to the horse's sad fate, but similar in reaction. It works both directions, and luckily, the joyful stuff always outlasts the sorrow-sad stuff. For instance, I well remember many years ago when I was spending time in Istanbul. I'd ridden busses, taken the wrong train, and endured taxis, all during a miserable rainy day, to reach a well known landmark. Upon finally arriving, I was almost too distressed to care. Emerging from the taxi, the rain suddenly ceased, the sun pushed clouds aside, and there were people sitting under little umbrellas playing backgammon. The peaceful beauty of everything overwhelmed my senses, and the smile that overtook my face lasted for days. I always saw this quickness to happy, and this quickness to gloom, as more a blessing than an affliction. What I feel, I truly, truly feel. A lot. I don't have emotions that are middle of the road. I have BIG emotions. I don't do mediocre.

I was forty years old when I divorced my ex. Old enough to behave. When it came to our friends and family, I lost all signs of maturity and began something I knew better than doing. My mother intervened in the early stages, before my plan ever got under way, with a lecture I will never forget, and will always and forever live by. She called my behavior a tactic of enlistment. She pointed out what I was doing was horrible. I was appealing to my family and to my friends (most of who had also been friends with my ex) to enlist in my army. The purpose of my army was to destroy him. Like chalk on the blackboard, I wanted this “army” to help me erase him from my life and their life by ignoring him, excluding him, berating him, finding endless fault with him. Why? None of these people were married to him. Not one of them had a bad history with him. Not one had reason to dislike him, much less, destroy him.

“If you were six years old I might be understanding,” my mother said. “You are forty; and, you are a therapist. If you don’t have the maturity to understand what you are engaging in is wrong, then your education and professional skills should be flashing red lights in your path. Stop it. Stop it right now.”

I was embarrassed and humiliated by my mother’s harsh words. I was also grateful that she loved me, and she loved my ex, enough to step into the line of fire and put a stop to my efforts. I was dressed in full armor, sword in hand, and had already begun efforts to fill my army with everyone I could enlist, expecting them to fight my battle, expecting them to understand. Trouble is, they didn’t want to take sides. They did not want to go to battle. They did not understand. They certainly did not want to be ammunition from my war chest, and they did not want to find themselves in a fight that had nothing to do with them.

Thank all the Great Spirits for mothers who have the sense of right and wrong, fairness and futility, and seem to see our future before we live it.

As a result of my mother’s intervention, I never went to battle with my ex. We simply divorced and put our feet on paths leading us in opposite directions. He is a good man. He is a kind person. My mother never stopped loving him, because he was part of her family. She mentioned him a few days before she died. She said she wished he’d come to visit her. I assured her that he would if he could.

I’ve been expected, by some, to allow myself to be enlisted in their army. I fall back on my mother’s words, and I tell them, “Your battles are not mine, and your enemy isn’t my enemy.” I won’t be enlisted in those wars.

Standing in line at Walmart. The woman in front of me had to be, or was at some time, employed as a packer of things. The items in her cart were so tightly compressed, not a bit of air remained betwixt and between. While she unpacked, stacking things one by one on the counter, her child sidled in front of my cart, and moved slowly toward the candy display. He was within inches of apprehending a Butterfinger when she barked, without missing a beat unloading her items onto the conveyor counter, “Don’t touch that candy! Step back! Put your hands in your pockets and leave them there!”
By now this kid is fixated on the Butterfinger, but he does slide his hands into his back pockets. I noted that, and imagined his mother trained him that way. Back pockets are further from candy displays.
I switched my attention to the check out progress, noticing the cashier required another shopping cart. All those squeeze-tight compressed items expanded after the bagging process, and there’s no way all that stuff would fit into one basket.
“I’m six,” the kid announced, holding up four fingers. He was staring at me.
“He’s five,” his mother barked, without glancing my way.
“Well,” I said to him, “five is pretty old. What do you do for a living?”
He flashed me a look of surprise. “I don’t do anything,” he said.
“Really,” I said.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I write about little children like you,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why not?” I replied.
His hands had slipped free of the back pockets, and one was about to grasp the Butterfinger.
“Pocket those fingers, Buster, if you wanna keep them!” his mother said a bit sternly.
I was impressed she could see him, through the shopping cart. Maybe she couldn’t actually see him, but her radar was fine-tuned.
The kid re-pocketed his hands. Kind of like invisible handcuffs, I thought. Back pockets. Very effective.
“Why would you get fired for having too many cows at the dairy?” he asked me.
Wow, a little munchkin who speaks in riddles. “You got me swinging,” I said. “Do you know why?”
He shook his head.
Darn, I was thinking. I’d be trying to figure that out for the rest of the day. Why would anyone get fired for having too many cows at the dairy?
The cashier announced the total. The tight-packing mother-who-would-be-obeyed stepped toward the candy display and added two Butterfingers to her order. After she paid, I watched mother and child, pushing two carts filled with bagged items, heading for the exit doors.
I unloaded my few items onto the conveyor counter, then asked the cashier, “Do you know why anyone would get fired for having too many cows at the dairy?”
The cashier seemed stunned and a bit upset. I could tell, she was going to spend the rest of her day doing what I was going to be doing: Trying to figure out a confounded munchkin riddle.

Rumors. People start them for endless reasons. People who spread rumors aren’t fact checkers, nor fact conscious. I live on a small ranch near a very small town. A few months ago my dentist told me our mutual friend, Gary Fey, had died. My dentist is a reliable source who does not stray from facts; and I am a fact checker. I did not know any of Gary’s family, but I do know how to research death records in the state of New Mexico. Sure enough, my good friend died. He was young, only 55. He was an artist of enormous talent. He was funny, cheerful and a true visionary. I waited for what seemed a respectful time, then posted my sadness about his loss on my Facebook profile wall. A couple of people sent me emails, asking if I was sure he had died. I would not have said so if I hadn’t had facts, but I advised these people to do what I did: check recent death records in the state.

More recently, I have been in touch with a friend who used to live in this town. She is at the beginning of a journey through cancer. I consider my role, as friend, is to be supportive. I visited one of the town’s stores in search of a cheerful “get well” greeting card. It was my only purchase, and the cashier picked it up and inquired who it was for. I told her, and asked her if she remembered my friend, who used to live here. She said she remembered her well, and she then asked what was wrong with her. I replied my friend was having a cancer procedure. My father died from cancer. I’ve lost many friends to cancer. I don’t make small talk about cancer. It can be fatal, I know that first hand.

I thought no more about that transaction, and would have completely forgotten about it, except that a rumor sprang into motion that my friend had died, and as the rumor went, I was the one credited with having said she’d died. This is one of those incidents where you truly cannot get there from here. Why would I purchase a “get well” card for a person who is already deceased? The notion contains no logic, and is also an element of that transaction which was left out by whoever started this rumor.

My nature is to be logical. I always look for what is rational in a confusion. Rumors are neither logical, nor do they contain any rational elements. The first point at which a rumor falls apart is at the very beginning of the gossip chain. When person A tells person B, “Blah blah blah.” Person B can check the facts. How? Easy. Who did person A credit for saying or doing what? Person B is obligated, by logic and reason (and good manners), to contact that third person and check the facts. The rumor never gets started, if what you are really looking for is facts.

My mother used to call people who spread rumors “tongue waggers.” That type of behavior has no productive value, and can ruin reputations, damage relations, hurt people’s feelings, and generally wreak destructive havoc on communities.

Nose to nose, baby cat, baby deer, communicating in some secret language. One jumps, the other jumps. Baby deer wags his short stubby tail and returns to the edge of yard where kitten is now hiding beneath a clump of tree limbs. Kitten runs out and touches the deer’s face with a tiny paw. The deer nuzzles the kitten. Such different children in Nature’s plan, but children nonetheless, ready to play with whoever shows up. When the kitten stretches out on the ground, the deer drops to his knees. Perhaps to be closer in size, perhaps to listen more carefully, perhaps just to be polite. Suddenly, the kitten springs up and races to and fro, and the young deer joins in this game of chase. The baby cat is so very small and fragile, and the baby deer is a bit clumsy, but they manage nearly thirty minutes of safe playtime without injuries. No fear, no worry. Just babies having fun. Eventually the young deer raises his head and stands his big ears to alert. He hears his mother calling. Before bounding off, he gives a happy kiss, one last touch of his nose to kitten’s nose, and he is gone. Will they meet again? Will they remember each other when they’ve grown into adulthood? Will they survive the dangers that surround them? To all these questions, I hope so. I truly deeply hope so.

Am a big believer in finding your purpose. If you don’t know what your purpose is, you have no guide through your days, and you are ignorant regarding your own meaning. I’m not talking religion. I’m talking innate spiritual depth. You need never enter a church in your life; yet, you can have depths in your spiritual self that would impress anyones definition of God. Your purpose provides meaning. Your meaning grows out of your intrinsic, intuitive spiritual self. You are aware of these parts of yourself, and how they coexist, because you have the capacity to be introspective.

Sometimes we have the misfortune of meeting people along our journey through life who simply do not possess any of the above. Today I expose a person who has a soul that lacks spirit, and a life that has zero introspection.

Several years ago a stranger became interested in my life. She imagined all that I have to be all that she wanted. She fabricated most of what she thought I possess. She set her games in motion. Most criminals are not evil. Often, evil people are not criminals. She is indeed evil. She does not have much of a criminal record (she defrauded a bank) although her life history is spread heavy with criminal activity focused on manipulation of others to gain power and control. She has defrauded a handful of people I know. According to her family members, she has stolen identities so that she can open various accounts with their credit to benefit herself. Although she does not keep work, when she found work in the past, she positioned herself to have access to the personal information which accompanies credit cards, checks and store accounts, and she filed fraudulent unemployment papers with the State multiple times. She has also positioned herself in “charity” work as long as her position handled the money. She is without conscience. A conversation with her quickly exemplifies, she is without depth.

Learned a lot about this woman in conversations with her relatives, primarily that she exhibits an adaption of behavior common to serial criminals, which leads me to believe she has either committed, or been accessory to, violent crimes against a person or persons during her lifetime. According to some who have known her, she claims to have been a witness to a murder which remains a cold case crime in this state. If she hasn't been polygraphed on that, I am surprised. I have thoroughly dissected her nature, and I will continue to make certain her goals meet with scrutiny wherever she turns, until she can only turn in the space where she stands. Want to know who she is? Ask the New Mexico Attorney General's Office. They know who she is.

This creature was not on my radar. I'd never met her. Had no idea who she was. She invaded my life and that was a bad idea. I had one thing to say to her when I learned of her existence and her efforts to cause harm to my life: “You do not want to pick a battle with me.”

Traveled in peace
down that one-way street.
Your life such a mess
I could never think straight.

Canceled my lease
on your sour coated sweet.
Vamoosed in a hurry I do confess
I’d have left sooner but the train was late.

Ever notice how unfair you are? You should occasionally pay attention. We are all judgmental creatures, too, although most of the people I've had that conversation with protest much too loudly that they are not judgmental. You are. I am, too. Our brains work that way. You can accurately say, we have judgmental brains. So, how about fairness? We are also very unfair. This morning one of my cats ran past my office door with a mouse clutched tight in his mouth. I could have felt bad for the mouse, but I did not. Mice wrecked my tractor. They chewed up all the ignition wire. Mice have wrecked the wires in some of my vehicles. Mice are not on my list of creatures I worry about. Deer are different. I love deer. Have lots of them around my ranch. Often share my yard with at least one or two in the early mornings. This afternoon, while driving into town to pick up my mail, I saw a large fawn dead alongside the highway. It had been hit by a vehicle. I hope it died quickly, because it hurts me to believe it suffered. Too often when vehicles collide with deer, the deer suffer horribly before they eventually die. I felt my heart swell with sadness until my whole self was full of pain and sorrow. It affected me deeply, and I will feel worse if I keep thinking about that young deer. Why do I make such a judgment? That the deer's life is more precious than the mouse? I don't know. I could say because I enjoy the deer, and I do not enjoy the mouse. Truthfully? It's because I am unfair. If I were fair, I would suffer equally for the dying mouse, and the dead deer. Am sure I would be a better person if I cared equally for both; but I would also be a person who enjoyed the sneaky little critter who wrecks all the wires in my vehicles. Perhaps one day I will grow in my heart and mind enough to suffer for all things. Until then, I am a judgmental creature who is not fair.

Native American ancestry has provided me privilege and empowerment, in the eyes of those who know me, to behave in ways many would never give themselves permission to behave. It is my absolute belief they are missing out on much by not turning loose of their inhibitions and simply being who they feel like being when they most need to be that person. Death and loss are perhaps two of those times. When a loved one dies, our brain wants to shut down. We feel the intensity. It is deeper than one can imagine. On a biological level, our vagus nerve short circuits. We experience sensations we really don’t want to have, like not being part of our body, or suddenly becoming disconnected from our environment, from other people, from ourselves. Our actual brain chemistry seems to turn on us and we begin to feel detached from reality. Social mores jump in and people offer all kinds of ridiculous nonsense. Ridiculous because when you are in the throes of grief after someone very significant to you has died, you cannot hear words. What you hear is their needing you to hurry up and act like your old self again because your grief and your emotions make them uncomfortable. Forget it! Don’t hurry up and act like anything except how you feel. Experience your true feelings. Touch your pain and suffering. Sit with it. Walk with it. Talk to it. It’s the only way you can get through it and can grow from having felt its intensity. There is no stronger grief.

Many years ago I was in the middle of a college class when a person from the administrative offices called me into the hall and told me a family emergency required I go home immediately. I knew, I sensed, those sensations of impending doom. When I heard my brother had died, I could not move from the spot where I was standing. Literally, I could not move. Like a person frozen in time where there is no ability to step forward, no possibility of going backward, nothing above, nothing below, only static, I remained there, suspended without time or space. For several months I would suddenly leave whatever class I was in to go outside and walk. The teachers and my classmates allowed me quiet time. My journey through grief, toward healing, could only be traveled by me. In later years I continued to experience new travels down that path when elder family members passed away, or when friends died. With each journey, I became a bit more prepared for what to expect, but the suffering is always brand new.

The loss of pets is no exception. People can be unbelievably stupid about not understanding how devastating it is for some of us when a beloved dog or cat or horse passes away. Loss is loss, and our brains don’t know the difference. Our brain doesn’t have a compartment for loss of a person, and another compartment for loss of a pet. I will say this again, because many need to hear this: Loss is loss. Our brains don’t know the difference!

A few years ago I lost one of my best friends. She was a rottweiler who grew up in my home. When she was a four week old puppy, I made a little papoose type of bag, and I carried her on my back throughout the day while I worked on the ranch, or around my house. She grew to become an enormously powerful creature who had the timidity of a small child, the loyalty of a knight, and a heart as big as the universe. When I walked the ranch, she was beside me, her nuzzle often reaching out to touch my hand, let me know she was a fierce protector. When I rode my four wheeler around the ranch, she sat on the extra seat and dug her big feet into the cushion so she wouldn’t fall when we sped around trees. Often when I had company, she’d sit between them and me, and emit a low growl when they leaned, in her opinion, too much into our space. Because of her breed, she had inherited weaknesses, and half way through her eleventh year of life, her heart began to fail. I watched her health deteriorate like water down a slide. My own heart seemed to beat with hers. She could hardly walk, and had begun to refuse most of her food. Then, o

Native American ancestry has provided me privilege and empowerment, in the eyes of those who know me, to behave in ways they would never give themselves permission to behave. It is my absolute belief they are missing out on much by not turning loose of their inhibitions and simply being who they feel like being when they most need to be that person. Death and loss are perhaps two of those times. When a loved one dies, our brain wants to shut down. We feel the intensity. It is deeper than one can imagine. On a biological level, our vagus nerve short circuits. We experience sensations we really don’t want to have, like not being part of our body, or suddenly becoming disconnected from our environment, from other people, from ourselves. Our actual brain chemistry seems to turn on us and we begin to feel detached from reality. Social mores jump in and people offer all kinds of ridiculous nonsense. Ridiculous because when you are in the throes of grief after someone very significant to you has died, you cannot hear words. What you hear is their needing you to hurry up and act like your old self again because your grief and your emotions make them uncomfortable. Forget it! Don’t hurry up and act like anything except how you feel. Experience your true feelings. Touch your pain and suffering. Sit with it. Walk with it. Talk to it. It’s the only way you can get through it and can grow from having felt its intensity. Their is no stronger grief.

Many years ago I was in the middle of a college class when a person from the administrative offices called me into the hall and told me a family emergency required I go home immediately. I knew, I sensed, those sensations of impending doom. When I heard my brother had died, I could not move from the spot where I was standing. Literally, I could not move. Like a person frozen in time where there is no ability to step forward, no possibility of going backward, nothing above, nothing below, only static, I remained there, suspended without time or space. For several months I would suddenly leave whatever class I was in to go outside and walk. The teachers and my classmates allowed me quiet time. My journey through grief, toward healing, could only be traveled by me. In later years I continued to experience new travels down that path when elder family members passed away, or when friends died. With each journey, I became a bit more prepared for what to expect, but the suffering is always brand new.

The loss of pets is no exception. People can be unbelievably stupid about not understanding how devastating it is for some of us when a beloved dog or cat or horse passes away. Loss is loss, and our brains don’t know the difference. Our brain doesn’t have a compartment for loss of a person, and another compartment for loss of a pet. I will say this again, because many need to hear this: Loss is loss. Our brains don’t know the difference!
A few years ago I lost one of my best friends. She was a rottweiler who grew up in my home. When she was a four week old puppy, I made a little papoose type of bag, and I carried her on my back throughout the day while I worked on the ranch, or around my house. She grew to become an enormously powerful creature who had the timidity of a small child, the loyalty of a knight, and a heart as big as the universe. When I walked the ranch, she was beside me, her nuzzle often reaching out to touch my hand, let me know she was a fierce protector. When I rode my four wheeler around the ranch, she sat on the extra seat and dug her big feet into the cushion so she wouldn’t fall when we sped around trees. Often when I had company, she’d sit between them and me, and emit a low growl when they leaned, in her opinion, too much into our space. Because of her breed, she had inherited weaknesses, and half way through her eleventh year of life, her heart began to fail. I watched her health deteriorate like water down a slide. My own heart seemed to beat with hers. She could hardly walk, and had begun to refuse most of her food. Then, on a Sa

I tend toward avoiding discussions of politics or religion because I am not well versed in either. I do vote, and I frequently wish I could vote often in the same election; but that's just me. I am highly spiritual; but have never followed any specific line of religious thinking. When I was a very young child, my grandfather told me "Pray to Whoever is listening." That kind of thinking always worked for me. A group of friends once got together and put me on the board of directors of one of the larger Native American centers in California. I never did figure out what I was supposed to do. I did help with all the holiday newsletters, and worked tirelessly at the center (when I could get away from my clinic), and I always worked at the powwows. Didn't educate me as to my job description, yet no one seemed to notice, and I was happily ensconced in the process. I grew up very near a Seventh Day Adventist Academy, in Corrales, New Mexico. My parents knew many of the people there. My brother's second wife was a student at the Academy. And some of my closest friends lived at the Academy. My connections there probably helped me into one of the best medical and health profession universities in the country (Loma Linda University). I was also accepted at Brigham Young University. Brigham Young is Mormon. I don't know anything about Mormons except that my ex-husband married one. Could not specifically say why two such prominent religious universities accepted a religion-ignorant kid into their schools. I was happy to have two to pick from, and did select Loma Linda, probably because I preferred the idea of California over Utah. I've always had friends who were highly devoted to their religions: Catholic, Seventh Day Adventist, Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, Nazarene, Muslim, Baptist, Jehovah's Witness, and so on. I've been to all kinds of churches, mosques, synagogues. And I still could not argue any points about any of them. Am deeply spiritual, and don't believe you could find any gaps there. So what does all this have to do with anything? Truth is, I do know a lot about a few subjects. You could say, my mind is a well kept secret. But you'd never know this by waiting for me to join in a discussion about politics or religion. I will listen. I might even nod my head a few times, and appear to understand your points. But if you have quizzes afterwards, I'll be the one who left early.

If you are like me, you have days when you shine, and you have days when you are pathetic. We all want to put our shine days on parade. We want to pin on those badges of honor, courage, valor; we want to display our blue ribbons, or our superman/superwoman capes. We want others to see us in the best spotlight. On those days we'd like to forget the other side of our coin. I think we should be as proud of our pathetic days as we are of our shine days, because it is during those times when we truly, really, genuinely learn what it is that counts. Think about it, on your shine days you are spiffed up like a show horse with mane and tail brushed into perfection, saddle and tack top of the line, and all your miscellaneous regalia is in its best order. Flip that same coin. Pathetic days, you resemble something the garbage truck wouldn't want. Your mood is sour, your disposition is best left in the lost-not-found, and your personal estimation of your value and worth make a nickel look like Fort Knox.

After all, artists create their most brilliant work during their pathetic phases. I believe we need to celebrate our pathetic self.

Competition.
Competitiveness.
Not me. I’m not competitive and don’t have the competitiveness gene.

I first found out about my lack of interest in competition when I was in the fifth grade. I was tall, thin and could run like a deer. Our school coach figured this out watching me run circles around everyone when we played kickball, or baseball, or one of the other school sports that kids play. The coach divided us all up into groups to run against other groups. Before we were placed in groups, he clocked each of us on sprints, and he used a stop watch to monitor our time from get-ready-go to finish. He told me I was the fastest kid in school, which meant I could run faster than about four hundred kids. I thought it would be interesting to tell my family during dinner, but beyond that, I didn’t really think it was important. When our groups began racing other groups, the coach made the mistake of pairing me with my best friends. I wasn’t going to run out ahead of them, and I slowed enough we could all keep pace and finish together. The coach was furious. He made us run again. I did the same thing. He pulled me aside and asked what the heck I was doing. I told him. He then said, “You don’t have a competitive spirit.” I always remember that, because I didn’t want to be in competition with anyone, especially my friends.

I’ve carried this lack of a competitive gene around through my life, and have often been amused at how many people I’ve met who immediately launch into a “run for the roses” (metaphorically) about anything. Some people are so competitive, they will race through a grocery store to see who they can get ahead of at the check-out. My ex-husband was especially competitive. We had a monopoly game, which he bought, and which he brought out one night when we had some friends over for dinner. The four of us were having a good game, and the winning seemed to have more to do with the dice than anything else. I won. My ex was mad at me, and refused to play monopoly with me, ever again. It was just a game. Who won or lost did not matter to me. The simple joy and spirit of playing the game is what I enjoyed.

While a teenager, I was in a horrific accident, and all my days of running as fast as a deer ended. I spent a year reeducating myself in the art and skill of simply walking. Too many fractures, too many to ever heal properly. I miss running, but not because I could outrun everyone. I miss running because I loved to feel myself moving that fast through space. Before the accident, I was the best basketball player in my high school, according to my coach, Patricia Denton. I’d lacked the competitive edge, and the coach was always upset with me. I didn't particularly care for the game, and was glad for an excuse to never play basketball again, never be put into a position of having to be competitive.

Throughout my life I’ve done many things. A few things I do very, very well. Not because I set myself up in competition with anyone else, but because those things I really enjoy I tend to do very well. Am always sure there will be some who can do anything I do better. I don’t worry about it, and am happy for others who can do better than me.

Competitiveness is in our genes. I truly believe that.

(On an aside here, the competitive gene has nothing to do with the fight-or-flight response. People have made that mistake, and been the worse for the wear for doing so. Fight-or-flight is a brain chemistry reaction. A person who is calm and peaceful can also be your worst opponent if you pick a fight with them.)

I hope if you have the competitive gene that you do not expect your family, your friends, and especially your children, to share it. Everyone is not in competition. Some of us just like to keep pace. Perhaps that’s what we are. We are the pacers, and perhaps we are even the peacekeepers. Unless you pick a fight with us. And then we are the warriors.

, last added: 4/18/2011

"Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness" and you know where you've heard that before. President's Day, a good day to spotlight depression. I'm going to post something about depression every day for a few days. Today's post will surprise many, but chronic depression takes its toll on your brain in a very bad way.
When depression lingers for months into years, the resulting effect is that our brain cells are damaged. Chronic depression can damage your brain.

If I were your therapist, the first thing I'd put on your schedule would be an eight week MBSR (mindfulness based stress reduction) workshop. These are available at most medical university hospitals, and hospitals that are affiliated with medical universities. They often have sliding scale fees for people with low income. The MBSR at UNMH (University of New Mexico Hospital) has been known to entirely wave that fee. Hope you will check into this.

You can learn, understand, and begin using the MBSR tools with Jon Kabat Zinn's cds for beginners. It is available from most larger online bookstores, such as amazon.

If you, or someone you know, is experiencing excess or prolonged sadness, take this assessment. The site will score it immediately after you complete it. Your scores are confidential. What do your scores mean? If you score between 10 and 15, you are mildly depressed. If you score between 16 and 25, you are moderately depressed. A score above 25 is significant, and you should see your doctor ASAP.
http://counsellingresource.com/quizzes/cesd/index.html

It's a fact, over time, depression takes its toll on your brain cells. I have found an online program which will help you assess how you are doing cognitively. This game was created by two very reputable universities. Also, it is FREE. Go to the website, create a free account, and you will be able to see how well your brain is working. This is NOT an IQ test. This is a cognitive training program, and I encourage you to set up your free account, which lasts for five days (after five days, there are some free exercises you can continue to work on). What will you learn? You are going to see a profile of your performance in areas such as memory, flexibility, speed, attention, problem solving. When you are depressed, your skill level in all these areas drops. The good news is, YOU can pick hobbies or tasks that will help you exercise these skill areas, and you can restore (and even improve) your cognitive abilities: http://www.lumosity.com/

It is my opinion, if you have the right tools, you can develop skills to walk yourself out of mild or moderate depression without medication. Your commitment must be to do the hard work; and doing it is the primary factor. Here is another effective tool for use in recovering from depression: http://www.createwritenow.com/journaling-for-health/

I am an occupational therapist, a counselor, and a much published author of both fiction and nonfiction. I believe in writing, and I believe in the benefit of proper journaling. One more website that I highly recommend follows. You can learn the lasting benefits of journaling by finding specific journal exercises, and I prefer those you can learn from Dr. James Pennebaker: http//www.utexas.edu/features/2005/writing/

What you don't know about Valentine's Day can cause you harm your whole life. This may not apply to you, or any experience in your life, but it applies to many. Throughout my elementary school years (first through sixth grade), my mother was our school nurse (one day a week). She was the first to recognize something unhealthy about Valentine's Day, and she alerted all the teachers. Am proud to say, my mother changed the way Valentine's Day was handled in Corrales Elementary, at least during the years she worked as the school nurse. Valentine's Day was a big event. University of New Mexico usually provided us with a spectacular play, which we watched from our cafeteria/gymnasium. You can imagine, the entire day was festive and fun, for most. I knew everyone, and always received more than my share of valentines. Some kids didn't receive more than two or three. I still recall the second grade, when our valentine box was opened by our teacher, Mrs. Baca, and she called us up to accept our cards. There were 22 in my second grade class. I received 24 cards. I had two boyfriends, Brian and Eric, who both sent me two valentines. Most of the other kids received at least 22 cards. My friend, Megan, also received 24. I don't remember who sent her the extra, but am sure they were also from boyfriends. Highlighted that day were Lynn and Ted's humiliation. Lynn received four cards. Ted received two cards. The process of the teacher calling our names, and our parading back and forth to the valentine box, created a spectacle of who got the most cards, and who was almost forgotten. Compassion and concern for others is not big on a second grader's mind, but I still remember being sad for Lynn and Ted. During recess prior to our heading off to watch our UNM theatrical event, I stopped by my mother's office. Mom knew all the children in the school. She provided their immunizations. She cured them of head lice. She checked them for diabetes, or fever, or any of a multitude of childhood ailments. She knew Lynn and Ted, and she knew their health issues prevented them from being popular because they seldom played on the playground. She also knew that to receive so few cards in front of all their classmates, who received many cards, was not only humiliating (even for a second grader), but that it was harmful to a child's self esteem. She told me to take my cards and share them with Lynn and Ted. I hurried off and did just that, and my mother scheduled a meeting with all the teachers. Every Valentine's Day thereafter, every child was to give every other child in their class a card. And the teachers were to make sure this happened. Sometimes the smallest events, such as a classroom celebration of a joyful holiday like Valentine's Day, can become a hurt inside a child that always remains a tender place in their heart many, many years later. Teachers need to understand how easily it is to foster a good healthy atmosphere for their pupils, and they should recognize when any normal school event creates a potential for harming the self esteem of any child.