Tag: avsinger

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) 

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?

Fig Leaf

My neighbor worried that my fig tree was giving up. There were several reasons: I cut her back so she doesn’t have to work so hard while Californians ration water.  She lost the shade to which she was accustomed when the large companion tree that sheltered her was trimmed. As a reluctant gardener, my plants fend for themselves. I am not heartless, instead I am desperate to help conserve our water supply, so I wait and watch wondering what grows here naturally, and hoping some of it will be good to eat.  

Who will survive the new, harsher conditions? 

My Black Mission fig leafed earliest. The first inflorescences began to bud late this Spring. 

What makes her so successful? 

Figs have fed hominids and others throughout history. Uniquely adapted for harsh conditions, it grows where other plants fail. Technically, that which we call a fruit is actually an enclosed collection of flowers. Stem growth forms a bulb within which this cluster of flowers develops. Each blossom is destined to become a single, tiny drupelet. Encased within a protective womb, they do not need to fight heat or dry conditions. Some species, forming both male and female flowers, do not need assisted pollination. Others invite a miniscule female wasp into their chambers to spread pollen while she lays her eggs. These flowers then grow into a cluster of drupes, all encased within their pristine environment. (No worries, the babies escape before we eat the figs.)    

This year, a few flowers ripened early, oh so sweet. I await the others. My fig  thrives in this hot, dry climate and can live a century. Planted during my lifetime, she will be my companion as long as I am here. 

On Monday July 17th, Shari, one of the members of the writing group to which I belong, threw us this prompt: fig leaf.  A short ten minutes later, we had the following offerings. I am thrilled to present my writing sisters and their responses to her prompt.

Fig Leaf – Shari Anderson 

When I was a young child, my father planted a grapevine and a fig tree in our backyard. It was

biblical 

“Every man under his vine and his fig tree” 

inspired. 

I don’t remember the grapes –

maybe they never fruited, but the figs were juicy and delicious. The leaves of that tree were 

wonderful, 

unusually shaped with lots of rounded edges, sensual, with female curves.

Why a man, under his fig tree? Why not a woman? Why not just the fig tree itself, shapely,

verdant, simply divine?!

But, my favorite backyard plant was a wild cherry bush, which we used as a hideout, gorging ourselves with fruit while fighting off attacking pirates.

Fig Leaf – Dianne McCleery 

The other day, I had to duck under fig leaves to reach Valarie’s front door. And I loved it. I love the hugeness of fig leaves. I love their shape. And, of course, I love to eat figs, especially since they are really flowers, not fruit. I’ve always appreciated adding pansies or nasturtiums to salads, but their tastes are “eh,” not like the deep deliciousness of figs. Yes, I am a fan.

Fig Leaf – Joyce Campbell 

The fig leaf reminds me of an outstretched hand

Welcoming and offering a space to land.

Winged beings pause there, some large and some small,

And those with vibrations I can’t see at all.

Hidden below in the cool of the shade

Sprout tiny green nuggets, a prize for their fame.

Soon to be wrinkled and golden with age,

Dried to perfection a treat with no shame.

Fig Leaf – Anne Jeffries

As far as I’m concerned,

Eve’s “transgression” freed humanity 

From an unconscious tunnel of an existence.

Imagine Utopia:

Yours different than mine, I suppose

But however that flowered garden is laid out before you

Without the snake

Slithering it’s SINewy offerings

There is no Will

No humanness at all:

Our choices and failings, our triumphs and joys, our sufferings and lessons.

Eve took us, perhaps out of our pure animal nature.

She gave way for the fig leaf of shame

To eventually free us from innocence

Fig Leaf – Amel Tafsout

Covered with a gentle morning frost.

Stretching your fingers to many directions

The lines of your open palm

Go back to the beginning of creation.

Your soft green color soothes the sight

Attached to the blessed tree.

You share shade generously.

You hold your sweet biblical fruit with care.

Then leave with the wind.

Blowing to a new world

Moving with lightness

Dancing your way freely

Ending on Adam’s private part

Covering up Humankind

Living in the complexity of reality.

Afternoon Delight – Barbara S Thompson

Do you remember the scene from

A Woman In Love

When the meal slowly unfolds 

at the garden table

like luscious lovemaking?

As guests

caress and stroke

kiss and swallow plump red grapes,

black olives and

cheeses, soft and hard.

In slow, sultry nibbles.  

Alan Bates leans back in his chair

with heavy lidded eyes

 preparing to explain 

the proper way to eat a fig,

It is an English garden after all.

When Eleanor Bron selects a smallish fig

piercing it’s base with one long, elegant finger

splitting it open to reveal the pale purple fruit within

Heavy with seed and fragrance

Slowly she opens her mouth 

biting into the flesh 

her soft moan echoing around the table.

Fig Tales – Betsy Rich Gilon

Ancient one, your leaves flutter,

The desert wind  murmurs,

Camels leave footprints.

Would I have felt

The stories you tell,

Had I bitten into your flesh

Fig Leaf – Symbol of Shame? – AV Singer

Protection from sun

Invitation to hunt

hidden treasures,

Oh, fig leaf,

Why you?

           ∞

Fingers of mercy

on palm so large, 

how long

must you

hide me?

           ∞

Figs ripen

hidden behind

green curtain.

Why is this 

forbidden?

Please connect in the comments, or by clicking on the Like button. For more information about figs, follow these sources:

Sources:

https://journals.ashs.org/hortsci/view/journals/hortsci/42/5/article-p1083.xml

https://www.thespruceeats.com/history-of-figs-1807598

Caretaker

Caring For Others – May 31, 2021 Women Writers of the Well

The week prior to May 31st was rough for most of us in the writers group. I was in the middle of a course called Healing the Mother Wound, an exploration of shadows held within me, some created by myself, some by my own mother in our dance together, some passed down to the two of us from the women who came before us. I was in a fragile spot. A tiny shimmer of compassion for all involved slowly blossomed and I wanted to care for it.

Another woman had an awakening encounter with a homeless man, and realized her first reaction was fear, fear of him simply because he was a man and then because he lived wild, and looked it. It was the learned behavior of a woman growing up in the United States of America, most probably the reaction of any woman meeting a man in an unpredictable situation anywhere in the world. In the end, this one experience was positive, opening a door for both of them, but it left her in a fragile space wondering how, as women, we had come to fear men so.

A third woman in our group was caring for a devastatingly ill family member. She was inexorably disappearing as the ‘caretaker’ role took over. Alone with the task and afraid of losing herself, she was extremely fragile. Because many of us in the group have grappled with the same situation, her story, along with the meditative prompt, sent us over an emotional edge, which became public to each other when we read our pieces aloud.

This was mine:

“As a woman, caring for others is easier than caring for self. Caring for self requires looking too closely at who we are, what we are, how we define ourselves. Healing ancestral mother wounds has opened my eyes to how much my personal definition has been shaped by patriarchal conditioning handed down, not by the men in our lives, but the women.”

While reading, I looked up at the screen. Heads were nodding, eyes filled with tears. I thought, Oh dear, how will I read the rest of this to them?

I took a breath, and continued, “All of us define our worth according to how we care for others, whether on the job, in the home or within our communities. We ignore Self because we are valued only as Helper. We keep the machinery of life running.

“As I breathe in, I realize how much I don’t know about the “who” of me. I know what I am, I know what I do, I know about the people I tend. As I breathe out, do I freely let go, giving to others, or is there a part that I zealously hold onto, knowing there is not enough, not enough – not enough. Who am I? How do I define myself? What information could I give so that you could decide whether or not we would trust each other? If I don’t have full Self on board, I don’t have full Self to give and right now, in today’s world, it is paramount we offer full Self.”

Some of the comments to this piece were:

We are sic not whole if not perfect.

You can murder a woman without taking her life.

We are always whole, but it’s hard to see it if we tired, distracted, or sick.

How do we fill empty moments, spaces of silence?

How do we choose to fill them? Who are we in those empty moments not spent tending others? Recently, my Guides advised me to sit at the base of one of my trees to ground myself. It was less a suggestion and more an imperative. I was to sit and let the tree do the work. This is not easy for me, to sit and let others do…even trees. The Guides advised me that if I wanted to continue journaling, I should do it grounded at the base of a tree. After these past three weeks of doing so, I finally started asking, Who am I? – not my placement in the world as daughter, wife, mother, ex-wife, teacher, retiree – not that which I do to fill the empty moments and spaces of silence: writer, artist, singer, gardener, housekeeper, reader, student, dreamer, (well, maybe dreamer).

Who.

Am.

I?

What snippet of information could I come up with to give you a hint of who I am? What bits do you need to decide whether or not we will enjoy each other’s company, work well as a team, or just simply “be” together. What do you need to know to decide a friend stands before you?

Who am I?

I calculate risks before I take them,

Then jump in with my whole, tenacious heart.

Extreme imagination

Informs me of past, present, and future

I dream in color

A seamless wave

Of knowledge.

I see the path before me

Before I take a single step.

I fly on wings of music.

Therefore, sound distracts me because

Music is EVERYWHERE.

Profound quiet

Creates a space to regroup

But then,

I want to fly again,

Let the beats of a song

Erase my stasis.

I am an empath.

Your pain,

Your joy,

Your fear, your sorrow

I feel it; I feel you.

Sometimes I cannot tell

The difference between us.

Oh yeah.

You wear that separate meat suit.

Intuition guides me

To recognize and honor authenticity

But, I have no time for masks

Or deceit.

Once I see your true self

Shining from your eyes

I will love and honor you

And steadfastly

Hold space for you.

I soften with sensuality

Drawn by sound, texture,

Color, smell and taste.

I lose myself

With a single touch.

In the trappings of sensation

I have to work to stay present.

Therefore,

I am grateful for trees.

 …so very grateful for trees. I am learning a lot from them. I plan to make sitting under trees a regular part of my meditation practice. For the first time, I am beginning to feel as if I belong, as if I am a part of Earth, as if I am an amazing contribution to all there is. I am re-establishing who I am.

Who are you?

I would love to know you. Are you a risk taker? Are you someone who will reach out, leave a comment? Have I given you enough information to make such a decision?

Thank you, Dear Reader, for waiting these last three weeks for another post. I appreciate your interest and the time you are willing to spend with me. May you find Peace and a sense of Self as you go about your days.

AV

E is for Egregious…

“…shocking, appalling, terrible, shameful; a glaring unpardonable error. I made an egregious error of judgment, okay? What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?” Jon backed up two steps when his stepfather’s face turned hard and angry.

Phillip said, “That’s enough, young man. Get to your room. Your mother will bring you dinner later. And forget about escaping out the window. It’s been screwed shut.”

“You can’t do that,” said Jon. “It’s a fire hazard. I demand egress from my room!”

“Jon, just go to your room,” said his mom.

Jon glared at his stepfather one more time before stomping to his room. He slammed the door.

Phillip said, “I’m torn between taking the door off the hinges, or getting one of those compressors that makes it impossible to slam it.”

Meghan shivered.

“Hey, hey,” said Phillip. His voice warmed as he soothed her. “He’s safe.” He rubbed circles across her shoulders. Phillip was her rock.

“I can’t imagine what gets into his head to run off like that. Sacramento, Phil. He went all the way to Sacramento this time. He lived with a homeless man, on the streets. What are we going to do? What if the police hadn’t picked him up?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Have you called Jack? He deserves to know his son ran away again.”

“Oh my. I forgot.”

“Here.” He took the wooden spoon from her hand. “I’ll stir the sauce. You call the ex.”

Meghan dialed her ex-husband’s number. He worked for Detroit PD, Inspector class, a continent away from Stockton, California. She prayed Jon wasn’t like his dad, mentally tormented with OCD or some other illness. She prayed he was just a boy with wanderlust, like Jack’s father, Hank, had said.

Her eldest, Rick, never did anything like this and he was Jack’s blood too, so…, “Hello?”

“Jackson Tyler.”

“Yes, Jack, it’s me, Meghan.”

“Did you find him?”

“How – how did you know?”

“Hank told me. I can catch a flight this evening.”

“No, no need. We found him. He was rounded up with the rest of the homeless people in Oak Park.”

“Oak Park? Sacramento? Oh, god. Is he all right?”

“He’s angry, Jack. I don’t know what to do with him. This is the second time he’s run away.”

“The second time? Why didn’t I hear about the first time?”

“We knew he was in town, suspected he was at a friend’s house. He was. Sometimes kids do this. I didn’t think much about the first time, but he scared me this time Jack.”

Jack didn’t answer right away.

He was estranged from both of his sons, but especially Jon, who didn’t understand why he left when they divorced. Jon was only three and a half when she’d kicked Jack out of their lives. She hooked up with Phil soon after. Truth be told, Phil was there waiting for her, otherwise she would not have had the courage to ask Jack to leave. Nobody else but the two of them need know that. It certainly didn’t factor in her youngest son’s recent behavior.

“Do you think it would do any good if I talked to him,” said Jack.

“No. He doesn’t really know you anymore.” She knew that had to hurt, but it was true.

“Still,” he said.

“No, Jack. Leave him be. I’ll ask if he wants to call you, but I know he won’t. I just wanted to keep you informed.”

She heard him sigh.

“Jack?”

“Yeah, okay, Meghan. Thank you for calling.” He hung up.

Was Jon’s poor judgment a delayed emotional response to his father’s absence? She didn’t think so. Phil was a lovely man, and a good father.

“Hon?” said Phil. “This sauce is done. Do we let Jon eat alone, or do we invite him to the table?”

She gazed at him. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t want him to have another reason to leave.”

“That’s the answer. Jon,” she said.

“But, I sent him to his room, told him you’d bring him dinner, later.”

“Then, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Gather up the plates and utensils. Let’s join our errant son for a picnic on his rug. I’m sure he has a story to tell.”

(Author’s Note: This is a backstory for one of my working titles, Broken.)