Category: Opinion

What Does It Mean To Have The RIGHT To Vote?

To have a right to something is a loaded term. What is a right?  

Legally considered a privilege, it is a power given by constitution, statute, regulation, or a judiciary precedent. A right to vote is not a command, rather it is a gift of free speech: a golden opportunity. No one is forced to vote, but we are entitled to the act of sharing our individual voices. As a people, we have fought long and hard to gain this ‘right’ for all of us, no matter the gender, the sexuality, the color of skin, the ethnicity, or the religious or political belief, or the absence thereof. At a certain age, ALL Americans have the right to vote.

Why do so many of us let go of that right? 

I don’t know the answer to this. I don’t believe it is laziness, because Americans are not lazy people. We tend to be fighters, fighting for what we believe to be the correct course of action. So why do we sit out elections? California, as well as some other states, have made it ridiculously easy to vote. You can make your choice in the privacy of your own home sitting in your favorite chair. You can seal an envelope and either mail it in, or deliver it by hand. There are allowances to have help doing this. In California, you can track the receiving of your vote and the counting of your vote: (California BallotTrax <updates@caballottrax.com> ) all while sitting in the privacy of your home. 

I hear some folks say, my voice doesn’t matter anyway, why vote? 

Who said that to you? Your voice counts. Your voice adds strength to others’ voices. It doesn’t matter if you are left or right, blue or red, democrat or republican, or independent, or other. Your single voice adds to the strength of others’ voices in our quest to have a good life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, however you see that.

I write today to ask all of you to take back your power. Vote in this upcoming special election. What do you feel is the correct course of action? Do we agree with this temporary mandate or do we not? The more of us that use the privilege (right) to vote, the more authentic our vote will reflect the opinions of those living in California. Your voice will add strength to others that hold your viewpoint, even if you don’t win. Democracy is not a matter of winning, it is a matter of speaking out. It is a matter of communicating with others. It is a matter of using the privileges our fore-parents fought so hard to give us, so that we would be a freer people than they were. 

Take back your power. Vote.

A yes vote on Proposition 50 means the State of California will temporarily redistrict in an attempt to create a more even and fair playing field for the nation.

A no vote means you think the State of California is okay as it is.

It’s as basic as that. 

What is my personal thought? Well, that’s the other beauty of this system as it stands now. Each and every one of us is entitled…that’s right, ENTITLED, to our personal viewpoint and we don’t need to explain ourselves to anyone else. It’s a private vote. So, open up that envelope, read the contents. If you don’t understand the contents, ask someone for help, meet up with like-minded friends and discuss it, or read on as I explain what I found important about this ballot request.

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Proposition 50

For me, the most important wording in this proposition appears on page 18 of our Statewide Special Election Official Voter Guide Information, under Text of Proposed Law. Look at the second column, Sec. 4. (a)

It is the policy of the State of California to support the use of fair, independent, and nonpartisan redistricting commissions nationwide. The people of the State of California call on the Congress of the United States to pass federal legislation and propose an amendment of the United States Constitution to require the use of fair, independent, and nonpartisan redistricting commissions….(author use of bold letters) 

A yes vote says, I want every state to have fair, independent, and nonpartisan redistricting commissions. A no vote says everything is fine the way it is. For me, the idea of calling on the Congress of the United States to create a fair system for everyone was more important than choosing temporary districts so I am glad I read the entire booklet otherwise I may not have known this was included within this vote. 

That said, this is how I see the temporary maps at least for my voting area:

We have 58 counties in California. Those counties are grouped and split in an attempt to create equal voting blocs. This has nothing to do with Republican/Democratic/Independent or Other voices. It has to do with the number of actual registered voters in each of the districts despite their political affiliations. Usually this is done every ten years after a national census. 

Where I live, in Northern California, our current maps have 19 of these 52 voices. It often seems in this state that urban areas have more voice than the rural areas, simply because of the numbers of people being represented. We still have 19 out of 52 voices with this temporary redistricting; however, it seems the most extremely rural areas have been given more representation than they had before with this temporary effort. It will be interesting to see if this pans out in the 2030 Census: more people in the extreme rural areas, hence a bigger voice, but independent commissions may not see it that way. I hope voters in extreme rural areas take advantage of this redistricting effort. I know I am taking the time today for my very rural voice to be heard. 

And like I said before, all you have to do is vote in your home and get your ballot to the local post office. You don’t even have to add postage.

Keep your power. Take the time to make your voice heard. That is what democracy is about. 

Works Cited:

Home
https://www.law.cornell.edu/wex/right

Statewide Special Election Official Voter Information Guide

Plea to Voters of California

Proposition 50 has been presented as an act of leveling the playing field so that we can preserve our right to choose how voters are represented.

My writing does not usually seem political, but I do write to fight for my principles. I feel that voting is more than a right; it is a citizen’s responsibility to let their voice be heard. 

Like Governor Newsom, I know that sometimes to fight fire, one has to use fire. 

It’s a common practice here in California. We stop the spread of wildfires with controlled burned defense lines. Ranchers in the northern counties will back-burn safety belts around valuable grazing land. Fighting fire with fire is a proven safety practice.

Controlled fire is good for the land and has been practiced in California for centuries. Some of the cover-crop foliage plants of pastureland need fire to burst seed shells. Grasses need some of the more invasive and noxious plants eradicated to make room for roots that capture the supply of scant rain. Fire has its purpose.

So now I find myself offering information about Prop.50 and the upcoming special election scheduled for November 4, 2025. 

First, a small back-story.

Gerrymandering is like a noxious weed that popped into the political pasturelands of this country in the early 1800’s. It was designed to redistrict voter populations to favor one side or the other, thereby allowing politicians to choose their voters, rather than the voters choosing their politicians. That is the very reason the practice was planted:  Politicians Get to Choose Voters instead of Voters Choosing Politicians.

In 2010, Californians added an independent commission to enact redistricting according to current census population data. This is the best way to make sure elections are fair. However, very few states have independent commissions building districts according to the census data. Texas is one of the many that doesn’t. Without restrictions in place, like the ones California created in 2010, politicians can easily grab elections to meet their own desires and manipulate district maps for their own power. 

Unfortunately, a decision made by a Texan governor to honor a federal executive’s request has changed maps at a time when maps aren’t changed for any reason other than to support politicians’ interests.

This year the executive branch of our federal government asked the governor of the State of Texas to gerry-rig their representational districts so that five more representatives could support and favor the decisions made by the present executive branch of the federal government of the United States of America. These decisions are being made without checks and balances as constitutionally ratified by our Founding Fathers. The Texan executive branch made the changes as requested without consulting the will of the people of Texas. This tipped the scale to favor politician decisions rather than decisions of the people, nationwide. 

Governor Newsom has called upon California to rebalance this decision by creating a special election whereby the people of our state decide whether or not to stand with him as he tries to fight fire with fire. 

In my opinion–we are a United States, a united people, not the minions of the federal executives nor the minions of the Texan executive branch. I am terrified of the authoritarian firestorm that is quickly raging across the United States.

I grew up believing the PEOPLE of this country choose their representatives to protect THEIR interests, not the executive branch’s interests. While it is true this government is a republic and not a democracy, we still hold democratic ideals expressed through those representatives. Representation is the will of the people. That means our will, our needs, our wants and wishes. US. The United States electorate. 

Is the will of the people being honored by current requests of our federal executives, or are we being plagued by a wildfire of gerrymandering? And will fighting fire with fire create a defense line?

In California, the will of the people will be heard when we choose whether or not to fight fire with fire on November 4, 2025. Is California’s 2010 enactment of an independent commission for redistricting going to be in the best interests of the people at this time, or can we look away temporarily to back-burn a defense line? Which is the best course of action?

Here is the flame thrower that a yes vote will give us, word for word. (I have taken the liberty to highlight in bold–key words.) 

Proposition 50 August 27, 2025

ACA8 AUTHORIZES TEMPORARY CHANGES TO CONGRESSIONAL DISTRICT MAPS IN RESPONSE TO TEXAS’ PARTISAN REDISTRICTING. LEGISLATIVE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT. 

• In response to Texas’ mid-decade partisan congressional redistricting, this measure temporarily requires new congressional district maps, as passed by the Legislature in August 2025, to be used in California’s congressional elections through 2030. 

 • Retains California’s independent Citizens Redistricting Commission and directs the Commission to resume enacting congressional district maps in 2031 after the 2030 census and every ten years thereafter. 

• Establishes state policy supporting use of fair, independent, and nonpartisan redistricting commissions nationwide. 

Summary of Legislative Analyst’s Estimate of Net State and Local Government Fiscal Impact: One-time costs to counties of up to a few million dollars statewide. County costs would be to update election materials to reflect new congressional district maps. 

A few million dollars seems like a lot to each of us as single individuals or even for a single county, but there are 58 counties in the state of California, and California is the 4th biggest economy in the world. Our legislators would not have agreed to this if we couldn’t afford it. The important issue is that we get to see the maps before we vote, and then we get to vote for or against it, unlike Texans who didn’t have that choice. Their legislative and executive branches made their choice for them.  

This is a pivotal moment: My opinion about this is–Please Vote. If this country becomes authoritarian, we will not get that chance again, and I have seen this president say, “Don’t worry. When you elect me, you will never have to go to the trouble of voting again.”

Let that sink in. 

As a voter, election outcomes don’t always match our wishes, but at least right now, for this special election, we still have the right to express our desires. We have that choice. We declare our own needs and wishes, and in doing so create our own destiny. What do you want?

A no vote says you want our independent redistricting to stay as it is.

A yes vote lights a torch to back-burn defense lines for an authoritarian fire that seems to be headed our way. 

It is up to us, each of us, to declare our choice by voting in the November 4, 2025 special election. (@1000 wds) 

Everyday Things

The prompt for May 6th of this year was based on a reading from a book titled The Beauty of Everyday Things by Soetsu Yanagi. In it he discusses mingei, literally a word that means crafts of the masses. He talks about how art, a visual appreciation driven by aristocratic tastes, opposes everyday use, but he asks the question, why? Why should everyday use be merely functional and not also beautiful? 

Then he makes the argument that beauty is not just visual, beauty is also defined by function. 

Everyday Things – AV Singer 5/6/2024

I wonder if concepts of beauty are universal or if economic status plays a central role in how relationships with everyday things develop. Yes, I have fine china, gorgeous crystal, beautiful linens, but I don’t use them much. I use the hand-me-downs: family objects that have endured time, that are easy to store, easy to wash. I hunt thrift shops for balanced, well-crafted beauty. If a spoon is balanced and well-bowled, I am inclined to use it everyday with appreciation though it is mass-produced from simple stainless steel. I prefer stainless steel to silver. Stainless does not contribute an extra taste to the food the way sterling does and it’s easier to clean, and easier to store. Although I have both, I use the mundane everytime, but I chose it with the eye of someone who appreciates beauty.

I have nice mugs, but the ones I use everyday are green-stamp cups from the 1950’s: one green, one white molded translucent glass. The heft is comfortable even when filled with liquid. The handle is balanced perfectly on the vessel, and because it’s mass produced, both are exactly alike except for color. They are easily cleaned. My finger joints don’t hurt after nursing a cup of coffee.

Utility.

They are like friends. The favorite spoon, the favorite mugs, ones I have lost in the past – mourned like family members. I hunt for new pieces to fill the empty space. I learn to love another chosen piece, cherishing time spent together. This is beauty to me. The fine china, the crystal, and the silver sit in my cupboard, occasionally used for special occasions. I no longer have the linen, which was so hard to care for. 

I reach for my shimmering, translucent cup of coffee, take a sip, appreciate the warmth and the comfort of a treasured object. I wonder if my grandmother felt the same about it when she used it. What does that say about me?

My writing sisters understood his words with their own experiences. For the first time I was asked, “Will you share this on your blog?” lI felt so honored.

Betsy Rich Gilon – Clay Bowl

I have a bowl, a simple bowl

Its clay body textured

With undulations of the fingers

That caressed bowl into life.

I hold a bowl between my hands

Bowl beckons for me to touch

As it pleases my heart, bowl lies cupped.

I have a bowl, a simple bowl

Beauty awakens

Shari Anderson – Appreciating Beauty

Appreciating the beauty of everyday things requires time. It requires allowing a spacious

moment in which to notice the weight of a cup in your hand, its shape and texture.

Time – to feel the heat radiating from the luscious Chai within, the steam caressing your chin

and cheek. Time – to smell the cloves, the cinnamon, and sigh with pleasure.

True enjoyment is just that, bringing joy to the moment. With attention, involvement, and

gratitude, our physical, emotional and ethereal senses take in what each moment offers us.

We then experience the blessing.

Dianne Chapman McCleery – The throw away society that we live in.

When did possessions take the place of safety and security? You can buy t-shirts at big box stores for $2.95. How long do they last? Not long, I imagine. I’ve never been a fan of the latest fashions. If I buy something, and it takes on the value of “I really like this” after I wear it several times, I wear it until it falls apart.

A problem would often pop up when I would buy new clothes from stores. After washing, often their shape would change (or mine would). When my kids were little and money was tight, I discovered resale stores. Shirts for $2, pants for $3. And they were already washed and often worn into comfortableness. The major downside was that oh-so-comfortable pair of jeans would wear out sooner than a new pair would, but that was the price I was willing to pay. After all, there were always more at the resale shop.

Lynnea Paxton-Honn – Seeing (experiencing) beauty is not the same as being attached to that which is being seen as beautiful.

I have built my nest slowly through the years, learning what gives me comfort, what fulfills my idea of beauty. In the process of my nest building I have found beauty in the creating. Seeing the beauty in work that others perform with materials: smelting, molding, painting, weaving, the growing of the basics from which the materials are birthed. Scores of farmers, harvesters and craftspeople go into the creating of my home. Because of thrift stores and yard sales I can gather a quality that gives aesthetic comfort. I have my mother’s silverware. It is not super high-end but sweet and special. My house is old, well used, just the right size and shape.

“Just the right size and shape.” We end with Lynnea’s words about aesthetic comfort. Those items we use everyday mean something to us, and therein lies the reason to find those things to use everyday that give us not only pleasure when we use them, but also a sense of beauty, a sense that using them makes our lives richer.

Tick-tick-tick

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock ticks with relentless accuracy while I wait for a shiver of connection. In the trunk of this tree of self, I realize it’s on me now. I am my own advisor. If I were to actually act in that capacity, what would I tell myself? “RIght now there is nothing.

“Nothing about which to worry, nothing about which to rejoice, no aches, nor pains, no elation, nor disheartening ennui.”

There is only a moment of quiet – the tick, tick, tick of a clock, counting the seconds of this empty moment of peace.

I wonder if this is the normal truth of most lives, or am I alone here? Is this why we are driven toward busy-ness? Would life seem to last forever if this moment lasted the length of it? 

Tick, tick, tick.

This was the kind of thing running through my mind while waiting for the voice of inspiration during the ten minutes of writing time on August 8, 2022 after the opening meditation. For that ten minutes, the voice of inspiration never came. I had no words to address the meditative prompt, no words to tell a story. Just emptiness…so, that’s what I wrote about. I kept this, because even when the muse is absent, one can still write something. For me, these moments occur. 

All. 

The. 

Time.

Later that night, for our last prompt, the muse brought me an acrostic. The prompt was Beyond the Beyond: 

Beautiful dreamers create
Everything they see.
Your life is
One like this
Never empty, always budding
Day after Day.

This is
How we
Endure.

Beginning with one thought
Each trmbling into the next
Yearning for substance
Otherworld to ours.
Now is the time.
Dream.

Backed-up Stories

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote in his book, Interbeing: Fourteen Guidelines for Engaged Buddhism, “in this piece of paper is a cloud.” Inspired by his words, Anne B. Jeffries gave the women in my writing group this prompt on August 28th: In this tear is everything.

Lynnea Honn wrote:

Foretelling

Foreshadowing of

winter shadow stretches out

and yawns Preparing

Shari Anderson wrote:

Cascading 

         Sounds, tones,   

Ideas, words

                           Water-falling

          Pummeling

                     Cleansing

                            Rubbing

      Wearing away

                                            His-story

                 Revealing Myself

     Wholly New

I wrote:

In this tear is everything – every story ever told, from the inception of our Earth until this very moment, and this one, and this one, and this one…and…this…one.

Writer’s block is not a myth. It exists. Most writers experience it. What is it? In my opinion, writer’s block is a symptom of all our tears – the backed up stories carried inside – stories one does not want to face.

You know what I mean. We all tell ourselves stories to get through life. When we tell them long enough, they seemingly become truth. I bet writers have more than their share because they tend to narrate moment by moment.

As a writer, I dumped bits and pieces of my story onto my characters and into their plots. I’m beginning to wonder, can I continue to pass off my life to imaginary others or should I own up to my stories and claim them? By claiming them, might they become part of your story as well, just as yours would become part of mine?

Stuck in a Box

From a very young age, we look at the reflection of ourselves in others’ eyes. If someone takes the time to see who we really are, we know ourselves. We learn to trust and love our core being. Instead, I fear, most of us see how others measure us against cultural standards, especially women in my generation, the first generation to deal with contrived image saturation in visual media. 

Recently, I went with friends and family to see Barbie, a movie about a doll designed to perfectly depict a contrived image of beauty that saturates television, magazines, book covers, and advertisements. We all expected fantasy, a perfect woman in a perfect world gone awry. What I didn’t expect was a profound statement about the way each of us as women see ourselves. We need to sit up and take a look at this.

As the movie progressed, Weird Barbie was introduced. Just the mention of her made me sit up. When I saw her I thought, “My God. This is the first time I have seen myself depicted in the media.” I can’t say it’s the equivalent of the reaction that women or men of color have, but it certainly was a reaction that I couldn’t ignore. 

I saw myself. 

Weird Barbie. 

Huh. 

This set off a chain reaction. I started to remember and notice things I never had before.

As a young prepubescent woman, I didn’t hear sex ed in school, nor did I hear it from my mother. She never spoke of such things. I believe my father worried about me because my self-esteem was poor. He taught me how to be a woman with his Playboy magazines as examples. 

He loved me, but that was not the right approach for a little tomboy that developed quickly into a BIG girl at age ten.  

To say I wasn’t ready is a gross understatement. I loved climbing trees, riding horses, playing imaginary games of hunt, shoot, and capture, playing the saxophone in marching band, swimming, tennis, jumping (I loved to jump off roofs and balconies). You name it, my blossoming got in the way of all I loved to do. Big breasts were the bane of my existence.

Later, when I was old enough to have crushes, I learned from magazines that men liked big-bosomed women. 

Why didn’t they like mine?

What turned them off? My legs? My teeth? My hair? My eyes, hands, feet, intellect (I was a smart girl.) Was it because I didn’t do girly things? I didn’t play with dolls or other girly toys. I felt uncomfortable in dresses.I found lizards and brought them home. I had a pet crawdad. Once, I had a pet fly. I continued to ride horses, to play tennis, to swim with a team, and chuck hay bales out of a barn. I talked to frogs.

I was weird. 

I wanted to fit in. I wanted to be the stereotypical girl that boys sought. I had breasts, dammit. 

As a teenager I felt comforted by The Velveteen Rabbit. It wasn’t  because I loved soft, worn things. Rather, it was because I felt pitted against my culture’s vision of ‘ideal woman’ and didn’t believe I fit it. I thought if I could allow myself to be loved, to get shabby with attending to others’ needs, it would prove I was worthy. 

It turns out, life doesn’t work that way. 

I practiced yoga to keep perfect proportions. As I aged, I found it was more meditative for me. Recently, I learned a new way for me to practice meditation. I found it in a book called, belonging here: A Guide for the Spiritually Sensitive Person, by Dr. Judith Blackstone. In it, she teaches a technique to fully inhabit one’s body. During it, one focuses breath in the feet. I couldn’t do it. 

I didn’t acknowledge my feet. 

I really only noticed them when they hurt. 

As I moved my breath into my ankles, it was easier to focus, though I worried I didn’t have the delicate ankles I was supposed to have.

Then I moved breath into my legs. 

With devastating clarity, I realized I saw my legs as objects – not part of self – objects! 

Did I classify other parts of self as objects? My hair? My hands, my eyes, my breasts, hips, belly? OMG! My neck, my chin, my nose? Is there anything about my person that wasn’t an object to be presented and judged as worthy, or in my case, not?

Then it occurred to me. If I have this problem, do other women my age suffer this way? How about men? Do men suffer this way? 

I suddenly resented Mattel for not giving us Weird Barbie before this, because now I am old and can never become stereotypical again. 

My daughter asks, “Why would you want to be?” 

That’s an excellent question. I can only answer that I have spent a lifetime worrying about it. Am I good enough? Am I thin enough? Am I desirable? Are my breasts big enough? Are they too big?(Yes, dammit.) Do I meet the code that others impose upon me?

Why, indeed, should I worry about this?

I fear I am not the only one with such self-conscious judgment. What can be done?

For me, seeing Weird Barbie has been a god-send. 

While I resent Mattel for not presenting her earlier, I am also grateful she has finally made her appearance. After meeting her, I am beginning to see my own body as the finely tuned instrument it is. Without it, I could not produce the tone I have when I sing. Without it, I could not have birthed my babies. Without it, I could not have fed them for as long as they needed. Without it, I could not have jumped off roofs, or out of trees and felt that exquisite moment of flight. Without it I wouldn’t feel the pain of a stubbed toe, or the caress of ocean waves. Without it, the cool evening breezes wouldn’t thrill me as they have. Without it, I wouldn’t remember what it is like to touch another human, or pet my favorite cat, or feel the earth beneath my bare feet. Without it, I couldn’t smell the deliciousness of Spring or see the vibrating color of a bright orange rose.

When I asked my daughter if she remembered her Barbies, she said, “No. I didn’t have Barbies.”

Trust me. She did. I know. I spent hours making clothing for them. 

As we talked more, she did mention she had dolls that rode her Breyer horses. I looked it up. The Barbies in her day had knees that bent. 

She had Barbies. How Barbie looked did not define my daughter’s self-image. If anything about Barbie defined something for my daughter it was what she did. 

Barbie rode her horses. Nothing more. 

Nothing less.

Looking back, I don’t think boys turned away from me. I am fairly certain I turned away from them because I didn’t believe I was stereotypical enough. Physically, I may have been, (I have breasts, dammit) but, psychologically, I am Weird Barbie. I don’t claim that proudly, I just am. I always have been. The image I see in a mirror does not define me. 

The Barbie movie says it best. If you get a chance, watch it. I’d be interested to hear about any awakening you might have had after the experience. Now, wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone were to design an Old Weird Barbie with saggy bits? And a Ken to adore her?

Big Heart

In June of 2020 I ‘graduated’ from teaching. Teaching requires mindfulness and extreme focus, a one-hundred percent investment of love during time spent one-on-one with a child or with a group in the classroom. It requires setting aside self to see and hear others instead.

One of my sister writers, author of “Cross Roads,” Anne B. Jeffries, agreed to post on my blog this week. She had just finished a full day of commitment at school but she came to write with us.  She is adept at pouring Heart. When she attends our Wise Women Writing group, she feeds our souls. In a mere ten minutes, she addresses each prompt with profound honesty. Her act is an inspiration for the rest of us. She demands authenticity for herself, while maintaining curiosity, joy, love, and compassion for the rest of us.

Dear Readers, I don’t know what some of you do, but I do know that if you are reading my blog you have a sincere desire to connect with heart. Anne’s heart makes a big connection.

Anne, thank you. I feel honored that you have  given me your words to give to my readers. Fellow teacher, fighter for children, fighter for people, Anne, I love your heart. You pour out all it carries every day and I know your students feel your intent. Your writing takes away my breath and reminds me that teaching is something I still love to do. 

Memories Sleeping

It’s not just my memories sleeping,

It’s all of it.

A honey drip slowness.

I can catch up tomorrow.

Just want to sink down in sleep.

Rest.

Like a frenetic fall.

What is the charge?

Is it my nervous system that signals the experience to fizzle,

Lose its edges?

Then, sink away in categories and compartments,

With no present security access?

Where is my agency?

Who is filing these memories and who granted permission for this protocol?

Or, maybe, it’s all chaos and no “thing” has access.

My consciousness just sifts above it all like a metal detector pulling up old coins.

What about the pieces made of wood and plastic?

What loosens those?

Eternal Minutes

He said it’s like wearing a lie on his face.

I feel that way all the time.

In class- with him- with them.

Like I’m a puppet driven by a motor I did not program, or know how to run.

Today, 

For hours,

I peered out from below the lip where I stuffed myself down into a pouring cup,

Until all the drops of the eternal minutes,

Ran out against the automaticity

Of that forced time.

Family Dynamics

There is something about the inability to walk away.

A fabric woven together?

Fabric doesn’t work

because it’s made of thread that can be woven into something else.

My sentiment is too deep to separate out –

Like color in the sky?

Nope

Color is only light.

What holds us together?

Is it, in fact,

A choice?

Check it out

If you would like to read more of Anne’s work, check it out here:

Anne B. Jeffries, Author

May 16, 2022

Photograph by DenisDoukhan

(Author’s Note: “Ghrian” means sun. “Ghealach” means moon. “Ghealach lan” means full moon. “Seanmhair” means Grandmother. I tried to find written phonetic pronunciations for you, but did not. Here is a site you can go to if you are interested in hearing the words pronounced correctly: https://www.howtopronounce.com/scottish-gaelic or here: https://learngaelic.scot/sounds/.)

When I woke in the morning, I could feel it. A miracle was coming. My heart wanted me to see the full eclipse of the super moon in Scorpio. I looked out my window. Overcast. I would see it only if the clouds in the sky moved on. I wished with all my will for a strong breeze to push them along.

 As the day slipped by, my anticipation grew. Something would change tonight. I felt sure of it. Whether I witnessed it or not would be another story, but if I couldn’t see it with my own eyes, I could still sit under the canopy of the sky and feel it…maybe.

Ghrian set late. His orange arms wrapped the sky for one last hug as he slipped beyond the Pacific horizon.

Ghealach lan was exasperatingly slow to rise. I did not know the exact location she would appear, and I didn’t want to miss anything so I did not wait on my property for a chance to see her through the branches that umbrella my yard. Instead, I walked up and down the hill trying to glimpse her from a view that was not obstructed by tall trees.

My cats wondered what I was up to and sat on the front stairs watching me crest the rise, disappear, and then reappear.

My neighbors must have wondered, “What’s up with her,” because ordinarily I keep to myself. This moon was drawing me out, asking me to venture forth, to witness…something. I had to go.

I made several trips waiting…waiting…waiting. Would she rise above the Sierra Nevada in time for me to see this event?

Finally, the imperative to walk away from my property to a place up the street paid off. Ghealach lan rose slowly, peering through the trees which sat on a higher point of the hill to the southeast.

It took forever to show her entire face. I sat and prepared to wait. People were out. I could hear their voices, but no one came down the road upon which I sat. The sky was clear. I was a grateful witness.

My faithful black cat, venturing out of his territory to check on me, wondered what I was doing sitting in the road. I pulled him into my lap and said, “I am safe. I can’t go home. I have to be here.”

Time stopped as Ghealach lan floated higher against the black sky. Purpose obscured her light. She looked like a dull, orange marble floating in a black sea. I felt her stealth, a wolf taking her place as guardian of the pack. Her energy increased, though her light did not. She prepared for something….

Slowly, she inched toward the zenith until she settled within the ‘v’ between two trees.  

As I gazed, my heart reached toward her. Blood stilled in my veins. I held my breath. Even the twinkling stars fell quiet.

Shadows trembled around me, rising one by one.

“Come,” said Ghealach lan. “Your time here is done.”

Releasing their hold on Earth, shadows slowly rose at her bidding. They swirled through the air, catching zephyrs as they followed an inescapable impulse to join her.

My bones loosened. I felt my energy sink into the Earth. Shadows long wrapped around me let loose.

“Come,” said Ghealach.

My shadows drifted toward the heavy darkness that swirled toward the moon. She gathered them one by one, accepting each as a long lost child. When she grew heavy with their darkness, she silently slipped away, leaving the sky and my heart to grieve her disappearance.

Intellectually, I know what happened in that brief instance, but I prefer the magic. I could no longer see her or feel the comfort of knowing she was there, hovering watchfully above us. In my heart, I saw her release each shadow to the Universe, Itself a willing swallower of sorrows. As the shadows slipped from Ghealach’s grasp, her face, a mere promise of orange against the matted sky, became visible to a sharp eye watching for her.

I breathed a prayer, “Thank you, Seanmhair.”

She had willingly taken my shadows from me.

They had answered her command.

I heard her say, “From this moment, your life is forever changed.”

I folded my hands against my heart and took a deep breath. Then I bowed as I felt the gravity of that.

Slowly, her dull orange face glowed brighter.

I slipped back whence I came, to the shelter of my trees and my home.

Bad Boy Bugs?

Ant Herders WIth Their Herd
Healthy Plants

I don’t believe in lawns. I don’t like wasting water. I certainly don’t like mowing a swath of grass that has no purpose except to use water to stay green. I do appreciate a plant that resembles a lawn in the springtime: three-cornered leeks (Allium triquetrum), commonly known as Snowbells.

They are not natives to California. Settlers brought these Mediterranean beauties with them when they settled here during the Gold Rush. Considered an invasive plant, and by some folks, noxious weeds, I love them. As a reluctant gardener, I am always happy when plants, especially edible plants, invite themselves into my yard. I especially love the plants that grow prolifically because they crowd out any Bermuda Grass, which I consider a noxious weed. My entire yard supports them.

I use them in place of onions and garlic. The entire plant is edible with a very mild taste. They grow in the spring and die in the summer. When they die off in the summer, they form mats on the ground, which rake up easily, but also provide a perfect mulch for holding moisture in the soil. I’ve always been impressed by how the stems and leaves line up directionally, like hair that has been combed down the sides of my yard spaces. I never questioned why.

This is my year for noticing things. It’s the first year since retirement that I have spent anytime practicing the art of Being instead constantly staying busy. There is good reason to be a reluctant gardener, to sit, observe, and learn how the environment is adapting to the changing global climate patterns. It became really clear during the quarantine that Earth recovers quickly when mankind is not out and about. It also has become clear that to continue growing as we have is not sustainable.

In my mind, I think we need to work with the change and with Earth if we want to continue to feed ourselves in agrarian societies. So, I sit and watch. My yard is not the same yard it was when I first acquired this property. The angle of the sun is different, tree cover is different, temperatures are different. Plants do not respond the way they used to. So how does it work? That’s what I hope to find out.

Along with reassurance that I still had massive amounts of three-cornered leeks, I also discovered another form of life that I had not observed before retirement. The first time I noticed it, I thought my plants were growing moldy. I wondered how to treat them for mold. Then I noticed the mold writhe across the blades and stems. OMG! I looked more closely. Black aphids. I had never heard of black aphids. (Hey! The juice from these plants is supposed to be a fabulous insecticide. Pssht. Not for these tiny creepers!)

280 million years ago aphids sucked plants dry. Since then, over 5,000 variations of this amazing insect have developed special appetites for the plants of the world, especially in temperate zones. The trouble with this appetite is that they are sipping sucrose, which they cannot digest. Why do they do it? It seems that sap is the ultimate addiction.

Their inability to process this food source makes them tasty for predators such as ladybugs, hover fly larvae, sparrows and the American goldfinch. Crab spiders are quite fond of them. Ants, acting very co-dependent to this addiction, go to great lengths to herd, protect, and propagate the little beasties because they cannot get enough of the sucrose secreted from their bodies in the form of droplets of waste, called honeydew. Ants eagerly milk this nectar from the aphids’ miniscule bodies. Even bees claim herds of aphids as their own to delight in this particular habit.

To get around this inability to digest their main food source they have developed interesting tricks and relationships. Aphids harbor bacterial endosymbionts who recycle glutamate, the metabolic waste produced while aphids try to digest plant sap. The bacterial endosymbionts turn the waste into essential amino acids. Some aphids synthesize red carotenoids using horizontal gene transfers. The way I understand this is they use the genetic material from plants, add the coding to their own, which then enables them to absorb sunlight as a food source. I guess if you have been around since the Early Permian Period, you acquire these talents.

Aphids are bad boys. Or are they?

My yard is a refuge of divine feminine it seems, for the aphid army you see on your plants is entirely female. (see: Reluctant Gardener post 2 for more information about female armies: https://avsingerauthor.com/2022/01/19/post-2-reluctant-gardener/ ) As the weather cools in autumn, males with wings and winged females mate. The males die off, their job done. Winged females lay the eggs. The eggs overwinter and hatch the first generation of a parthenogenetic army. The babies are born pregnant, and soon birth live and pregnant female offspring, who in turn birth live, pregnant offspring and so it goes. There can be as many as forty-one generations a season for each female who births another clutch of live, pregnant females every few days. These females are of course voracious in an attempt to create this army. My three-cornered leeks didn’t have a chance.

If you rid your garden of their food sources, some females grow wings and produce a generation of males in preparation to migrate. They fly as high as 600 meters to catch winds that can carry them where they need to go.

So for you, my dear friends, I have left swatches of aphids to their task. I’m not worried. My leeks appear to go through this process every year. I just haven’t been quiet or observant enough to see this before. They will be back next year for me to happily eat and share them with anyone who asks for them.

And so will the bad girls of this neighborhood.

Works Cited

https://animaldiversity.org

https://wwm.edu>field-station>aphid
https://wwm.edu>field-station>aphid
Three-Cornered Leek
3 Cornered Leek (Wild Onion Lily)

The Undoing

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

The Undoing

By the Women Writers of the Well

For those of you who follow this blog you know that, once a week, I meet with a group of writers who meditate together. We write from our hearts, and then tackle weekly prompts. We share what we write each taking their turn in our circle of love. Each of us has come to this group for our own purpose, but I speak for the group when I say, if you are a writer, the best thing you can do for your craft and for your soul is to meet with other writers, to write and share your words. 

You know I am all ‘about the magic.’ 

Something magical happens when we are together.

After meditation or with particular prompts the group responds as if it is one organism with multiple viewpoints. Those are my favorite meetings. The “connection” is strong and we write with one heart. 

This was one of those times.

Marilyn Crnich Nutter

Undoing, undone – downfall or disentangle? In free-fall, it’s hard to know where one is headed. Crashing towards oblivion? I like to think of it as an unraveling—like a knitted work that doesn’t take shape or form and needs to come apart so it can be made whole again, or splintered porcelain pieces which we can’t use but can artfully piece together in new form that will please the eye and fill the heart. It’s part of life’s pattern of being, our longing for wholeness and beauty, making sense of our broken and fragile world.

Lyla Fain

you’re overreacting

but this is how I feel

you’re being too sensitive

I feel insulted

they say, sorry you feel that way

I say, stop using language as a weapon

Anne B. Jeffries

I’m the Un-Doer right now

As I glance up,

And take in the tops of your heads

All bent in your own space

In your own minds,

I think,

Maybe I’ll just watch this unfold.

Be the Un-Doing,

Not the Doing.

But I cannot remove the Un-Doing

As I analyze the Doers.

That’s just it, 

Isn’t it?

It is only in the Un-Doing

Where the true action takes place.

No subject.

No object.

Lynnea Paxton-Honn

Isn’t that what we are doing now? Undoing? I love the concept, the practice, the awareness of Undoing. It is the purpose of our Elder-years. To Undo until we greet The Wonder of Who We Are. The Undoing—so dramatic in the essence of itself. The Undoing sets us free–Undoing the scaffolding about our egoic constructions.

There is no Undoing to be done in Presence with a capital P, in Stillness with a capital S, in the essence of Soul Self with a capital SS. 

 It is the Great Undoing, the Great Awakening, the Portal to Who We Really Are. (or The Truth of our Being.)

Laurayne Mae

There is birth, the entry. Then decades of doing that follows. Should we grow into emotional maturity we acquire wisdom. Wisdom is the antidote of doing. Wisdom is our conscious undoing. 

Joyce Ann Campbell 

Too much of humanity’s progress has left a trail of destruction across land and sea, below and above, within and without.

The undoing of so-called development will not be a simple task.

But undoing is one of Nature’s talents. Wearing down mountains just takes awhile and building them up can be a blast.

Amel

The sound of undoing takes me to the dance of life

A waltz where a 1,2,3 syllabus is moving

In the rhythm of a simple word

A lonely movement of myself

Doing, redoing, undoing of my heartbeat

Undoing the leaves of a tree 

that shows itself with its beautiful lacey shape

I  undo in facing the shadows

That haunt my dreams

In moving images of an unknown story

With its hurting steps 

after the dance of my own truth

Shari

Undoing is much more difficult than the doing that is being undone.

Especially, if that original thought or action has become habitual. 

It’s like trying to untie a knot in a necklace.  Everything is entangled in

such an intricate way, that even finding a start seems impossible.

But— maybe the beginning of ”The Great Undoing” of our fearful manifestation, is just to start laughing.  That laugh sparks another laugh, which sparks another, which quickly becomes viral.

A viral belly laugh to shake away the doing.

DC Little :A sneak peek from Mercy Rising: The Deliverance

The undoing of Mercy came on a day that had begun warm and bright, full of promise. They sat on stumps or rocks in small pods throughout the camp, discussing how well yesterday’s battle had gone.

Mercy stood up, feeling hope rise with her, as she bade her exit from the group. The need to feel the sun on her skin and bask in some time alone grew, besides if she stayed amongst the others too much longer, her head might bloat to an uncomfortable size.

The need to stay humble thrummed within her, and where else then spending time with the Creator to help her remember that?

She glided through the camp, smiling at those who said hello, but she kept her intention focused, finally coming to the newly planted garden. Small green shoots had burst through the tilled earth overnight, uncurling to receive their first touch of the sun.

A deep satisfaction filled her, her purpose realized, her calling answered. She allowed the sensation to infiltrate her, shedding tight throngs of fear and burying the worthlessness that had plagued her.

Just when she began to believe everything was falling into place, she picked up on a frantic heartbeat, racing too fast, tight with fear, dripping in horror.

Mercy jumped up, instantly alert, hand drawing her bow without thought and scanning the area the emotion embarked from, searching for any slight movement or sound….

AV Singer: Connection

Time is not linear.

We like to think it is because logical progression is easier for our emotional systems to handle, but this has been an undoing.

Most of us operate on three cylinders of a twelve-cylinder engine, never questioning our inability to ‘get up to speed.’ We mosey along, secure in our own shells like snails seeing only our own paths. We do not understand that thought can transmit simultaneously with the thinking of it.

And thinking is slow. Emotion is faster, the difference between 10 and 102.

The world is Turmoil right now. It seems criminal to add to the angst. Imagine how quickly an emotional actuality of serenity can travel. Imagine transmission of trust, or a whole-hearted knowledge of what peace feels like. (When I was younger, I imagined the absolute silence of falling snow blanketing the Earth to get in touch with peace. That imagined event helped me get in touch with how quiet the Earth can be: how peace feels, like a quiet in-breath, an in-between place – profound rest.)

Those of us not fighting for our lives owe to those of us fighting, a door that opens upon that space of Peace, where Trust reigns, and Serenity holds us in comfort. It takes as much energy to “feel” despair as it does to hold that door open.

I implore you, if you are not fighting, join us. Recharge your batteries with intentional filling of your cups every day. Keep up your strength. Hold open doors. Connect.

We would love to hear from you. Leave a message in the comment box. 

Thank you.

AnaValarie