I hope everyone watched the first episode of the new season of Call the Midwife last night. It was, of course, excellent. You have no idea what watching a dramatization of out of hospital midwifery life does for me. And all of us crazy women who do this work. Especially in the US where midwives are delivering a tiny fraction of US babies.

As soon as the episode was over, I ran off to a birth. Perfect.

I interviewed the inimitable Penny Simkin on Friday. Gawd, the woman is a wonderhouse. She's 75 and she said she'd have to go til she's 80 because what would she do without the incredible work she's been engaged in for 50 years. Forget retirement.

I did my second interview today, a doula this time. A youngster who recently worked in Africa. Transcription won't kill me this time because we didn't talk for 2 hours. An L & D nurse we delivered has agreed to give me an interview too. Penny told me it took 12 years to write her last book, lordy. I hope I don't take forever.

You DID buy this chair for me, right?

Felix and I went to Discovery park today and he ran and played in the Sound. Most glorious day. We could see Mt Baker and Rainier. And the Olympics and the Cascades. We are ringed with mountains. Rebecca, the magnolias are once again for you.

Deb said she can't sit on the couch, it's too soft and hurts her back so we went to the store where they had chairs and sofas and rockers and (yech) recliners and ottomans and she found a faux leather chair that supported her back and it's dark brown and the cat hairs won't stick to it but they might try to sharpen their claws on it and it's sitting in the living room right now. I'm trying to get used to it but it's so there or here and so dark and solid unlike the other furniture which is more floaty and has more space.

Besides that, the teeny dog across the street is 'barking' actually a kind of shrieking noise that Felix hates. He barks like a big dog. He is a big dog with big dog behavior.

I just threw a pillow on the new chair. I think I improved it.

Sometimes I have a hell of a time getting over myself.

Easter is right around the corner. I can tell because of the Cadbury eggs in the stores. Cadbury eggs are gross.

However, See's Easter egg is almost a pound of filling and chocolate. And 1200 calories. Lets hear it for tooth decay and type II diabetes! And Jesus rose from the dead. Awesome.

What do chocolate eggs and Jesus have in common? No idea.

Last night Felix wouldn't settle. He kept biting his tail, he couldn't sit down, he was panting. And I was ready for bed. I let him out. I followed him from room to room. Finally I woke Deb, called the emergency vet place and explained his behavior and off we all went. I had my pyjama tops on under my coat.

So we waited for an eternity for the nice young girl vet to come see Felix, who had by that time, calmed down considerably. The vet speculated that he had a spider bite on his tail and some benadryl would fix it. Of course, it was then after midnight and only 3 pharmacies were still open, all of them in East Jesus.  After paying the bill with a rubber check, we decided that he was fine and we needed to go to bed for a few hours before work today.

Lordy. Why do I think the animals in my care are going to die whenever they get squirrely? Lucy the chicken wouldn't come down off her perch one morning so I was sure she was a goner. That afternoon, she was fine, clucking around the coop and behaving like a normal chicken.

It's the first night of Passover. I haven't been to a seder in years. Someone needs to invite me. I can even sing the prayers. I'm a woman of many talents.

Sam and I drove to Bellingham this morning to dance. Once again, a sweet community of dancers who whoop and holler and spin and whirl in hippy pants and floaty skirts and wavy hair. It was a long drive but the mountains were shining in every direction and we had plenty of time to talk since we're just getting to know each other.

Sam and his husband. Beautiful Sam, with a broad smile and loose limbs for dancing wild and crazy. What a lovely man. Men are a minority of the 5 rhythms communities, I think because to be that open and wide takes some courage, especially if you're a guy. The ladies go out and do it, all expressive and sparkly. We don't care so much about being cool, or maybe we're not so locked down in the feeling department.

I can't think of a better way to worship on Sunday than to dance with wild abandon to Prince's "When Doves Cry'.

No, really.

Yesterday in the wee hours, I woke to the sound of gunfire rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat-tat and then a large BOOM. A block away, a SWAT team had shot a guy in a car, arrested another guy and a third guy got away, some ring of thieves they'd been tracking. They used a concussion bomb that blew out all the windows in the house. The guy they shot died in the hospital. I guess he pulled a gun.

Life in the hood.

The neighbors across the street were (duh) terrified, according to the news.

What do I think of all this? Well, they came in the middle of the night, the element of surprise, right? And not too many kids on their bikes at 5AM (Although one mother, upon hearing the gunfire, ran out of her house with her children and down the block). When I first moved into this hood 18 years ago, the FBI brought a battering ram to knock down the door of the house on the corner, looking apparently for a '10 Most Wanted' kind of person. But the neighbors were warned that time.

Guns and guns. They're no good. I asked my neighbor with three kids if he'd thought about buying a gun and he said he had but he'd have to keep it locked up and  by the time he got it unlocked and useful as a weapon,  his family would all be dead. He said he has a pellet gun and he could shoot that ('man, those pellets sting!') and then he'd just throw the gun at the intruder. We laughed but I know he's worried.

When I was a child, we had guns in the house. They were unloaded and locked up. I shot one once, a 4-10 rifle and it knocked me right on my ass when I pulled the trigger. My brothers all learned to shoot and hunt with my father. i  would go with my dad to the shooting range and watch him shoot skeet, shooting clay pigeons, round yellow clay discs thrown from a tower on the shooting range. I'd sit in the club house with the old guys who smoked cigars and fed me peanuts.

Semi-automatic rifles? My father had one gun with a scope for hunting deer and he thought it was cheating a bit. This from a man who once killed a deer with a bow and arrow. I think my father, NRA member that he was, would be amazed and disgusted with the state of weaponry today. In his world, you provided for your family with a gun. I never heard him say he would be able to protect us with his gun collection.

Except once. My dad bought a farm even though we had a regular house in the city. It was 30 acres of scrub with an old farmhouse on it, pretty rundown. He's go out there and tool around, as a farm kid with no father, he'd bought a piece of his childhood, I guess. He's take us out there sometimes (Dad, there's nothing to do!) and we'd sleep in the lumpy beds in the cold musty rooms and he'd make us pancakes in the morning. One night he came to me with a luger in his hand, a handgun. He wanted to go down the road, probably to a bar and he was leaving me in charge. I was to use the gun on anyone who came by. As the oldest kid, I guess he thought I was the most responsible. Jesus, that gun was heavy. And cold. I can't imagine having to lift it with my skinny 10 year old arms. I never told my mother what he'd ask me to do. And, thank gawd, I didn't use it. I think I fell asleep.

I don't have a gun. But I bet I have neighbors within spitting distance who do. Doesn't make me feel safer.

May everyone everywhere be safe tonight.

Today, while driving home on Sand Point Way, a raccoon skedaddled across the four lane road successfully. And  a plump and a juicy critter she was. The wild is all around. Always.

Time for dancing. I found out I could WASH my cotton dance shoes. Imagine. They no longer smell like, well, like sweaty dance shoes.

I'll do a Dance of Spring. I've become a batty old woman who dances like a waving daffodil. Without embarrassment.

In Spanish, to be embarrassed (embarazada) means to be pregnant. I'm definitely not pregnant.

Nope

When there are nicely dressed people on your porch with briefcases, hide. The dog can go crazy barking. The Buddha statue by the door should be a clue but no. And when they leave a flier with the title, "One Man Died For All", be skeptical.

Especially if he looks like this:

I just don't think Jesus looked like Matthew McConaughey. With a beard and a blow dry.

I'm probably going straight to hell.

My friend called me today to tell me she's gone home from the hospital and she's on meds and all is well.

I walked thought Colman Park on my way home from the dog place. A forest in the city and a community garden and a HOUSE in the middle of it. I want to live there, in the middle of the park by the lake next to the community garden in the city. Like a secret with trees all around no people but a few joggers and cyclists.

I'd never leave the house. I'd grow into the floor and straight down into the ground. I'd spring out with branches and leaves. I'd make some fruit-maybe a cross between a mango and a passionfruit.

After hippie dance church this morning, one of my dance buddies was lying down in the hallway, being all unobtrusive and all. She asked if I knew a way to get her heart rate to slow down as she has atrial fibrillation and usually it goes away after a bit but not this time. All I know about are palpitations during pregnancy and a technique called valsalva which I had her try to no avail. She kept saying she would be alright and sure go ahead and have breakfast but I kept hanging around, being a bit worried. She stood up and got very dizzy. I clocked her pulse at 130 when she was sitting and around 200 and irregular after she stood up. Dizzy again, so back she went to lying down on the floor.

I had the brilliant idea to call the hospital to talk to a triage nurse who, after hearing her symptoms (whenever you say heart, they get all serious) told us to call an ambulance. So we did. The dance teacher was there too. The firefighter medics showed up with an EKG machine and IVs and drugs and a folding chair/stretcher that got her down the stairs and into the ambulance.

We followed behind and trailed her into the ER, where they hooked her up to many machines attached to computers (seen it in the labor and delivery floor) and her sister arrived and my friend was talking the whole time and of course, she's just starting a job and has major medical but nothing else and bla bla bla. The nurse was muttering about the high cost of health care, and don't get her started and I realized my friend was probably freaked that she was in the hospital and how much was it going to cost. What a time to be worrying about how you're gonna pay for the healthcare you're receiving. Christ.

So she's in the hospital now and I think they'll admit her so I'll call them tomorrow to see how she is. Lordy, I'm only a midwife and not a full service provider. At least I thought to call someone who would know what to do. I've had to call ambulances plenty of times in my midwifery life but I'm in control of the situation, or at least I know exactly what needs to happen. I can be awfully bossy so don't cross me.

it also made me think about how we can minimize symptoms when something is seriously wrong because we're too shy or embarrassed to ask for help.

Then there are my hypochondriac tendencies: I've got cancer, heart disease, pneumonia and intestinal parasites, to name  few things I have (or could have). And my veins have become more prominent in my legs-might be time for vein stripping, I was thinking this very morning.

That's all from here. Spring is getting real out there and I for one amy damn pleased.

Yesterday a juncture between wild and wilder. Down at Martha Washington park, me and the dog and the high whistle of an eagle. I scanned the tree tops, those birds like it high up and I couldn't find her. One cormorant in the gray water. Smaller birds, flickers and robins in the branches but no eagle. Was she on the beach? The dog ran back and forth. He needed coaxing to swim but he finally did.

The earth is opening and the plants are beginning again. The magnolias are cracking their buds, daffodils are beginning to bloom and the daphne, o the daphne. Their scent covers a city block. The vegetable starts are spindly things on the dining room table.

My sweet woods, Tiger Mountain with Felix. The older Asian man with his two fat dogs, a shar pei and a cocker spaniel. I've seen him several times. Sometimes he's doing trail maintenance with a folding saw and heavy gloves. I talked to him this time and his disclaimer about the dogs, "they belong to my son".  I told him I noticed his trail work and he said he'd been coming for 16 years. The State wanted him to sign a paper for his work but he's blind so he said no. I have this idea that he goes every day and his feet know the way so he doesn't need to see but o, the green of spring this beautiful earth.

Rebecca, these are for you

My sister sent my old copy of Wind in the Willows, illustrated by Arthur Rackham for my birthday. And Mrs Moon send a jar of pickled okra. I needed a bit of Lewis Carroll so here it is.

The Walrus and The Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872) The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

What I did today

Horrid and boring

I'm doing my effing taxes. Ug. I remember the days when my taxes required a single page, imagine. When you run a business, it becomes tragically complicated. My tax guy sends me a frightening large packet that I'm supposed to review and fill out. I usually do about half of it and then I give up. Then there is the towering pile of receipts and interest payments and bla bla bla.

My tax guy usually files an extension so the agony is prolonged.

In other news, I have the next four days off to dance. All day. With my friends. I can hope that I don't sprain anything important.

Insurance companies, pigeons and sink holes, oh my

Can I just say. Insurance companies are scum. I know this isn't news but for gawd's sake. They screw the patients and they make it effing hard for providers too. Nobody wins except their CEOs. I hate them. We have yet another company providing coverage for our low-income patients. Washington State pays for women who choose to deliver with midwives in birth centers and at home, imagine, but their applications are draconian and horrible. All in the name of public safety. Yeah, right. All in the name of their bottom line.

It makes me want to chew nails and spit them out again.

Today after hiking with the Felix, I was poking along Rainier South, a 4 lane, when I saw a pigeon wandering among the cars, which were moving. We stopped and waited while he/she made her way, obviously unable to fly with a droopy wing.

So I pulled over, grabbed a towel and went after her. She crossed the side road, went under a few cars, past the 7-11, into the bushes behind the store where there were a bunch of homeless guys with dogs and backpacks. One guy told me that was 'his' buddy, that pigeon, he has been taking care of her because she can't fly. I thanked him and went back to my car.

I'd already made a home for her, splinted her wing, kept her away from the katz and the dog and nursed her back to health. I think she's in good hands with the guys under the bush. So many lives we don't know about, men and birds.

Then there's the guy who got swallowed up by a sinkhole. In his bedroom. All his bedroom furniture went with him. Where the hell is he now? Geez, Florida. You have some interesting ways to take people into another dimension. Out here, we have earthquakes and a lot of rain. Damn, a sink hole. Wasn't on my radar. Ever.

It was a beautiful brilliant lovely sunny day with Mt Rainier shining like a star in heaven o my sweet mountain. The Natives called it Tahoma, which means white top. I like Tahoma better. It is sacred, a sacred place. I've hiked around most of it and hiked up it. Not climbed to the summit, no interest. But many many hikes, close encounters with critters, once a mountain goat and a gray mountain fox in the snow. And the snow and the rain. 1000 year old trees.

I would marry Tahoma like the girl who married the bear. Then I would never be cold and I'd reflect the sunrise and the sunset a big bowl of strawberry ice cream.

An early azalea is blooming. Spring o spring and sunlight. Sun makes everything better here in the gloomy northwest land.

I'm stalling. I've read my blog roll. I've deleted about eleventy hundred emails. I've made tea twice. 

I am transcribing an interview for my book and (sigh) I don't wanna.

But I've fed the animals, the chickens are put to bed, I swam today and went to the dentist, I've had dinner, I'm bone tired from the last birth but I've run out of excuses.

So I'll put on some Patti Smith (just saw her perform-ohohoh my lawd in heaven), plug in my earphones and type.

Then I'll be pulled into a sweet alternate world with my dear friend and fellow midwife Audrey. 

It's not all bad.

Happy Birthday to Me!

It's time for me to spruce up and head for clinic. Tomorrow is my birthday and I think I'll garden, take out the dead flowers and maybe plant a few new ones.

I'd like for a limo to come in the morning, drive me to a spa where I am scrubbed and moisturized and propped up on pillows, after which a few lovely mostly naked persons would bring me a bejeweled luncheon. I then would read all afternoon snacking on chocolate covered cranberries and sipping champagne.

The Oscars-piffle. Beasts of the Southern Wild was mentioned but not a prize? Amour was too foreign? Too much trouble to read subtitles?

I watched anyway. Charlize Theron and Halle Berry were effing gorgeous. I bet someone drives them to spas and cooks luncheons and doesn't allow them to eat chocolate covered cranberries. And they don't go to real work like most of us.  

The dog actually groaned because I'm sitting on the couch while the wind is trying to rip off the roof. He wants to go out and get muddy as hell and he doesn't care about wind and rain and cold.

Ok, off we go.

The tyranny of animals.

But as long as I get to come back and watch the last few remaining episodes of West Wing, which if you missed, is a damn fine series about politics.

It doesn't hurt that Jimmy Smit is running for president either. A latino president, yeah! I mean, why not?

I've been to two therapists this week and believe me, I'm all better now. Will I be in therapy forever? Can I stop at some point and be done, as good as it gets?

I plan to go dancing tonight, land of hippies and floaty dresses and music I didn't pick out. It's cheap entertainment and as long as I can stand up and wiggle my ass, I'm there. So join me, even if you're in your living room.

The dog is groaning again. I better go now.

We have found a new receptionist, hooray hoorah. I can go back to being anxious about other things. It's refreshing to have something actual to worry about. So now it's back to global warming and the polar bears (sob!), homeless dogs, homeless one-legged men at the Safeway (where is he lately?) and the demise of vinyl records, in any kind of order.

I pulled the rest of the carrots and beets that wintered over. The carrots are so sweet, round around themselves as they are. I have brussel sprouts out there too and I'm loathe to pull them. I do love sprouts with olive oil, garlic and coarse salt.

The dirt is rich and loamy. Black. The beets are long and pointy, shaped like carrots.

The hens gave us two eggs. I wonder when they molt?

Dab and I are going to our girl restaurant tonight. Owned by two women, partners. And the cook finally quit her day job. I'm so pleased for her. It was worrisome to see her slaving away on 5 hours of sleep. I guess the restaurant is doing well enough. We've been there a few times and waited for a table.

I saw sprigs of leaves today on my walk. There are bushes in the woods, don't know what they are, but they get green sprigs and then I know we've made it through another winter. Tulips are greening up and the stupid grape hyacinths, they are faithful even when I pull them out every year.

Sun. We have some today.

While I walked, I wondered if a meteor would splash down in Lake Washington. See, anxiety arrives and makes these visions.

My office just let me know a mom is pregnant again. She's lost all her babies to the system. She's not fit even though she tries. We'll shepherd her through this pregnancy and the adoption agency person will come and take the baby. I wish we had a place where she could live and parent her child with supervision so she could stop having pregnancy after pregnancy. Midwives witness so much.

Tonight me and Holly are going to a local gay bar (read-for guys) where once a month they host a dance called Hot Flash for the older ladies. It's supposed to be for older ladies anyway but I sure see mostly young things. You can tell it's for older ladies because it's from 6-10 PM. Afterwards we collapse and are in bed by 10:30, if we last that long.

I dance by myself unless my honey shows up. I dance with Holly. The music last time was terrible, really terrible. I'm hoping for better music. Some old music like Michael Jackson and The Pointer Sisters and Tina Turner. How about the Stones? Who can go wrong with real singers, not the super electronicized bumble-mouthed people today? I can't even tell if they are singing. Producers do weird things to the voices so I guess if you have a hot body and you're pretty, you can be a star. Aretha had pipes. That woman could sing, o lawd she could. Who cared what she looked like.

And I must speak about the pole dancers who show up eventually. These are young ladies who aren't wearing much and they gyrate on raised platforms with their belly buttons showing. They have nice belly buttons and rounded asses. And they're 23 or something. I guess I'm not hip. But I'm way older than they are.

So I'll wear a loose shirt and some shoes that will let me slide around on the floor. Before it gets crowded, I'll be able to do my best interpretive dances to hopefully decent music. My 5 Rhythms practice has spoiled me. As Clark calls it, hippie dance church.

Worship of youth. Phooey. As long as I can stand up and wiggle my butt, I plan to dance. Among the young who are filled with longing and dissatisfaction. There will be a few other gray heads out there.

This is where Felix and I were yesterday.

Happy Valentine's all my dears.

Bu-bye

I used to live in the Northeast, where the blizzard is, with sub zero degree temps and let me tell you, a bit o' rain out here in Seattle is bearable. Bearable.

The roses are blooming in my yard, the yellow ones.

Felix is a mess but we're gonna fix that on Monday. He'll come back all shiny and white from the groomers and look great for about 24  hours. Then he'll be back to his dirty curly self. Such is the way with poodles. The ones you see with their poufy hair, they don't get out much. They don't play with Miles the labradoodle all day doing their bitey-bitey game and wrassling around so when Felix gets home he falls asleep sitting up.

Blizzards are good for a few things. Building fires in the living room. Hot chocolate. Skiing in the streets. Baking. Making snow tunnels. Reminding us that we're not in charge. Of much of anything.  Getting to births back there is a challenge. I once went to a birth and afterwards the snow was up to my car windows. I skied home. I once did a birth in Seattle and it snowed during the delivery. The parents nick-named their baby girl 'Snowy'. She had a proper Vietnamese name too. They also told me the midwife was responsible for the baby's personality. Dang, I sure hope that's not true.

Taking Felix to the dog park where he can swim. Ad add another layer of grime to himself.

As for me, I got a haircut and I currently look like Penelope Cruz. With glasses.

Another fine boy in the world, this one with black hair like his papa. First-time momma who had a lickety-split labor and a relatively quick pushing phase. Fine, fine, you say. Great except for the big swooping heart rate decelerations while she was pushing. Just on the edge of calling for an ambulance about a half dozen times. When I'd had enough, the heart rate would go into the normal range. I finally asked my assistant to go get a midwife in the clinic (we were in the birth center) and blessedly, one of them was free. She came down, sat on the bed with the heart rate monitor and listened while the momma pushed. With another few pushes, the babe was born. Screaming. With a big ole loop of cord by his head, which was probably causing all the excitement. What a relief to have a sister midwife by my side. Gawd.

Running all that adrenaline sure kicked my butt. I staggered home, went for a walk in my birth clothes and ate a bowl of yogurt. After I closed the chickens in for the night, I took a heavenly bath and went to bed. Now I'm awake at midnight, hungry and tired but awake. Clinic all day tomorrow.

I taped an interview I did with a friend who is a midwife about an hour south of here. I began transcribing it (we talked forever) and such a rush of love for her as I listened to her voice. Surely the work we do is somehow angelic. We agreed that every baby whose birth we have attended is a special baby to us but especially the ones we've resuscitated. There is a strong cord running between us when a baby has had to be encouraged to take a breath, when there's been some drama. As Audrey said, 'years later, listening to them playing the violin!'

Fragile and tough. I'll tell you. A 6 pound babe yelling his head off while held in his mother's arms is the sweetest thing in the world. I'll never tire of it. What a privilege. What a responsibility. Joy.

We put out the word that we are looking for a new receptionist and lo! a deluge of emails, resumes and cover letters. Men! Software engineers! Grandmothers! Uh, we're looking for a friendly, competent gal who likes to hold babies and is a wizard of organization.

When you stay up all night at a birth and then sleep fitfully on the couch for a few hours, you enter a weird dream state where the people are all real, even the ones that can fly. A confectionery house with glittering pink trim, like the witch house in Hansel and Gretel. Lots of people who all feel familiar, milling around, some with wings. Vague sense of menace.

I woke up confused and thought I was there not here. When I realized I was still wearing my birth clothes and that I had to go back to the clinic in an hour, the candy house faded. I could no longer fly (too bad!)

The women are all fine and so are the babies.

And I can stay in bed all day if I want.

There are (is?) going to be eight more episodes of Call The Midwife. Be there or be square.

The real life of a midwife is not glamorous, no matter what you think. Unless you think losing sleep, whole days of sleep, wearing bodily fluids in your hair, on your watchband, on your arms (which you notice in line at the bank) and of course, all over your clothes while driving home after a 34 hour birth trying not to crash into oncoming traffic is FUN, then glamour it is.

I'm basically done with cold drippy gray etc, especially after the sunny warm California experience which only makes my current reality more painful. Yes, rain is good for plants. Got it. And moss. And trees.

Maybe I'll go down the street and get a pedicure. Having my legs rubbed while reading trashy movie star mags is a small indulgence. I'm sure it heals the limbic system.

We switched the office with the bedroom today and I'm beat. We took a huge bookcase and put it downstairs in the 'new' office but first I emptied it out, mostly on my bedroom floor. Even though I've been up and down the stairs with armloads of books all day, there are still a massive amount, artfully arranged in my room. I look like a hoarder. And I recycled. I am giving books away, even though I love them. Many books. Because I won't read them again.

And then there are the books I must have. The shelves of poetry, of course. The outdoor books, trails and skiing and hiking. Ramdom beautiful fiction and nonfiction. Books I need. To reread. To reference.  

Of Human Bondage- W. Somerset Maugham
The Red Pony-Steinbeck
The Bluest Eye-Toni Morrison
Black Tickets-Jayne Phillips
Art Objects-Jeanette Winterson
Cloister Walk-Kathleen Norris
Stones From the River-Olga Hegi
All of Arundhati Roy
Presumed Innocent-Scott Turow
Wind in the Willows-Kenneth Grahame
All of Raymond Chandler

There is a lot more. This is what I can see from my bed.

I have wealth. In books I have tremendous wealth. Right now my bed floats on a sea of books.

I have recovered the will to live. I worked yesterday and today. I even took a walk today. With the dog.

Our beloved Brenda, office manager, gave her notice yesterday. Crap. I have a lead on someone who sounds great but sheesh, we have to continue to roll with changes. The only constant.

I am eating rutabaga and tuna for dinner. Not together. With an apple/blueberry crunch leftover. I don't care what you think.

I suppose you all watched West Wing when it came out and I am woefully behind the times making my way through the gazillionty episodes of terrific writing and great acting. And it's politics. A liberal president and his staff. Stockard Channing is the First Lady and her mouth bothers me. Please tell me she hasn't had 'work' done. Besides her chestnutty colored hair which, I'm pretty sure, ain't her real hair anymore. My hair is sparkly gray and I think it's beautiful. Like Joan Baez:

Or Emmylou Harris.

I actually look like Penelope Cruz with glasses.

Tomorrow I'm going to have an ultrasound on my gallbladder. Fun, you're thinking. My doc waxed rhapsodic about the gallbladder laparoscopic procedure. Gave me chills but not the good kind. I've had pain all my life. Whenever stress strikes and my eating is irregular, I'm bound to suffer. I've even limped into the ER holding my middle and I'm spotted as a 'gallbladder'. I've read about the symptoms. I've been as good as I can be so I avoid attacks. Doesn't matter. And I'm over it. Really. I've taken to hoarding vicodan so in a crisis, I can get through the night. Damn, it would be swell not to be a slave to this pain anymore. By the way, old outdated vicodan is still good. Anything with tylenol in it is no good out of date. But don't throw it down the toilet. Pharmacies have places where you can bring your retired meds so they don't end up in salmon or the food chain.

I fear I will never be well again. Governor Cuomo of New York has declared a state of emergency because so many people are sick with the flu.

I have an impressive hacking cough and now (fortunately) codeine cough syrup. I begged off clinic today and gave my call away, at  least until Wednesday night. It would be unwise for me to attend a birth right now.

I have been sick for about a month, with a reprieve to go celebrate Maya's birthday with her.

I'm done with being sick.

Really.

Sometimes, being sick is an opportunity to get caught up on my reading, divest myself of any responsibility, have hot brandy with lemon and watch crap TV.

Now I'm just bored.

When I got home from Esalen, I opened a card from a friend who I've known for 30+ years. We tried to be girlfriends a few times but it didn't work. Then her marriage fell apart and she sought me out for comfort, which I was glad to give. We saw each other a bit, hung out, went to dinner, that sort of thing. This was about five years ago. She's busy, I'm a midwife, schedules are hard.

I saw her less and less. I tried to schedule dinners that I'd have to cancel. So she just decided to unilaterally 'release me' as a friend because I'm not the kind of person she wants as a friend.

Wow. That's all I can say. As someone who was thrown out of her family at a tender age, I don't get that. I haven't changed. I haven't become an ax murderer or a Republican. I can go for months without talking to people I dearly love. I don't put them out of my heart because they don't fulfill my concept of what a friend is. Or meet all my expectations.

I'm far from perfect. I can be mean and cold and distant. And I can be generous and kind. No reason to kick me off the friend list.

I have just had my nightly cough syrup. It's delicious. I wonder if I will be visited by any more rock stars. Or Johnny Depp.

Yesterday Deb went to the pharmacy and got me some codeine cough syrup. And I conked out. And dreamed that the Rolling Stones were standing in my living room waiting for their rooms. My staff and I were running around making beds.

They were young and beautiful.

I saw them when I was fifteen and from that day forward, I was no longer a Beatles fan. I was a Stones fan. Mick Jagger singing 'I'm a king bee, buzzing around your hive...' and swinging his jacket around-I fell into a swoon.

Because my phone no longer works properly, I have to brave the A T & T store for one that does. Shite. I guess phones don't like raw egg. I'm a greasy, sick mess so I'm gonna put on a big hat and scarf, all my warm clothes and stuff myself with cough drops. The codeine has to wait until I'm home and not driving.

Foggy and cold out there. I'm not at Esalen anymore, thats for sure.

The picture is the natural hot springs bath house. Nakedness everywhere.

My dears, (written on 1/16)

I came to Esalen with a cold, one I brought from Seattle. I bravely followed the retreat schedule, meditating in the morning and evening, eating greens picked the same day, soaking in the hot springs.

My cold turned to bronchitis with fevers that ran up and down the fever scale. I was burning up, then freezing, then lying in a pool of sweat. During the fever night, I went through my familiar catastrophies: I have AIDS, I have cancer, I have AIDS and cancer and pneumonia. I wanted to wake my roommate to take me to an ER but and ER is far on winding roads that, as you might recall, fall into the ocean. And my roommate is sick too although she's not dying. I could go next door and get Kelly or Terry, plead with them. Perhaps I should just wait til morning when they find my cold dead body, eyelids not quite closed. I lived to morning and my roommate drove me to the nearest clinic where a nice nurse-practitioner listened to my lungs and gave me antibiotics and sinus stuff and cough syrup.

I still sound like a TB ward but I feel better.

Then there's Esalen. The monarchs have arrived and they're swooping everywhere. 'Their' tree is close by, where hundreds of them have gathered.

At dawn, from the hot pools, I saw dolphins in pairs having breakfast among the kelp. And sea otters. And a lone whale came in close to breech. A necklace of pelicans flew along the cliffs in formation. Just now a young woman from the retreat brought me homemade tea with comfrey, limes and ginger.

Kindness everywhere.

Ok, there was a naked diggeridoo concert at the baths last night. California ridiculous, I haven't lost all my marbles or sense of the absurd.

My dears, (written on 1/11)

I am in paradise. No. Real paradise. Mt Rainier has a lodge and a destination called Paradise. And it is beautiful, a snowy jagged place.

This current paradise is called Esalen. It's in Big Sur, California, on the edge of the ocean. Perched on the edge above cliffs and rocky coastline. The hot springs are in the cliffs and the bath house is marvelous. At night, I lie in a hot bath and have the starry heavens for entertainment. There are many pools to choose from; hot, very hot, warm, cold plunge. Heated floors in the shower room. The shower room has sliding doors so if you want an ocean view, you can open a door.

The meditation hall is tucked into a cleft beside a roaring creek. The hall is round with elevated benches and recessed lighting. I go there in the morning before breakfast.

There are vast gardens that supply the kitchen. I walk through one of the gardens to meals. And the meals are ridiculous with choices. Bounty and more bounty. Just now I came through the lodge and some of the kitchen staff are gambling with chips and Bob Marley in the background.

Over all, the sound of the ocean as she comes and goes.

I am trying to figure out how to stay here and let my brain turn to mush. It would.

Would that be so wrong?

I'm sitting in the San Jose airport listening to Mozart's piano concerto #23 in A and I might bust out crying. Or else I'll lift off on angelic wings.

My ears almost exploded during the landing because I'm still so congested. And I left my belt after effing security so my pants will probably fall down all week.

I'm heading to Esalen. After being sick all week, I'm well enough even if my pants fall down around my ankles. I have a plan. I brought all my bandanas for nose blowing. I'll tie them together and make a pirate-y belt. Johnny Depp would approve.

So dear ones. I'll be out of range of computer and phone for a week. I'll be on the edge of the BIG ocean off Highway One. One slightly ominous email from Esalen...uh, there are delays driving to Big Sur because a parts of Highway One fell into the ocean. That's really what the email said. "...fell into the ocean".

Shite.

I brought three books. Jeanette Winterson's The World and Other Places, Bury Your Dead by Louise Penny (very Quebecois) and Going on Being by Mark Epstein. I figure I'd hit several tones, snooty murder, high-faloutin lesbian writing and a bit of Buddism/psychotherapy. And all my music. It's a miracle of technology that all the music I own is with me.

No, I didn't bring any poetry. I stand in front of my poetry section and I realize I'd have to fill a suitcase with books. Who is your favorite poet? What a stupid question.

I did my first interview for my book. Yikes. I recorded it. Now I have to transcribe it.

This morning, I though I might die but tonight I might make it. This morning I woke with a croak for a voice and a terrifying cough. After making my way through two boxes of tissue and taking several horrid tasting concoctions like 'lung health' and 'immune defense', I now know I'm not yet ready for the grim reaper.

And Maya and I are obsessively listening to The Book of Mormon and texting each other small quotes. Here is a favorite song:

Very disappointed. I have a wicked cold AGAIN. WTF? Coughing and sneezing and snotting. The dog steals my used kleenex and shreds it in the hall.

Absolutely pathetic. I was well for what, two weeks? My immune system is shot. And Im supposed to leave again for California on Friday.

Hurry up and get better.

Sheesh.

I have the tiniest wee-ist scratchy throat but I can 't get sick again, I can't. I have things to do. Work to work. Play to play. Poems to write. Etc. Maybe it's because I didn't sleep last night.

I bought this beautiful black coat at the thrift store I could wear to California. Northern Cal can get quite cold. Today, I went to see the chickens and let them out because I left the house at dark thirty and  they'd been 'cooped up' all day (hahahahahahahahaha) One egg which I put in my pocket on top of my phone.

Yes, duh, the egg broke all over my phone (still works, thank gawd) and leaked out of the pocket and into the lining. What a dope.

I've done this very thing before in my other coat. A washable coat, not a black wool coat that will now smell like terrible eggs and be all weird at the site of the mishap.

No more eggs in pockets, ok?

 I went out dancing and a got drunk, accidentally. Just two Rob Roys and the bartender didn't know what they were. Ha! My lips are numb.

I danced to terrible 80s music. With a bunch of lesbians. Sometimes I have to find my tribe and dance with them. Although one drink would have been sufficient.

Now I'm in my jammies watching a Danish murder detective series. In Danish. With subtitles. How drunk am I, you ask. It all seems like an existential inquiry into the meaning of the brevity of life and the distance between painful birth and painful death. With subtitles. And stabbing. And big sharp knives. And the Beastie Boys.

Friday and the rain softened up the ground. Broke the ice on the chicken water. Anxiety is at bay right now, who knows when it will resurface.

Anxiety. My old friend. Makes me feel insane and crawly. My head explodes.

Most of the time I pretend I'm not anxious. Then all the closet doors fall off and the monsters escape.

PS. Yes, that's my beautiful Maya.

I was here today. It was the most glorious and beautiful ski. Besides, we ate hot blackberry pie from the Copper Creek Cafe on the way back. The BEST way to begin a new year.

Happy New Year, dearies. Holly and I are going to Paradise on Mt Rainier tomorrow to ski. The snow might be crap, I don't care. It's the most beautiful place to ski; jagged range of mountains and Rainier's peak. The lodge is buried in snow all winter. They erect a quonset structure to get to the bathrooms.

The last time I went there I saw a Cascade fox running through the snow near the parking lot. It was a moment of disbelief.

Mt Rainier is my spiritual home. And I'm going there tomorrow. Eden gave me a flask for Christmas. Maybe I'll put some Oban in it. Scotch is my drug of choice.

Dina explains it all

Hello dear ones. Back from the beautiful city by the Bay. Maya and I tore it up. We went to The Book of Mormon at the Curran Theatre on Geary, a small old gorgeous venue. As we were in the balcony, we had an excellent view of the ceiling, a spectacular carved roseate wonder you only see in old places anymore. The women's rooms had one toilet (ha!). I guess in the olden days, ladies didn't ever pee.

The musical was terrific. Imagine: young Mormons on their 'mission' in Uganda, complete with much profanity and the unique Mormon story. Singing and dancing. I was most enlightened. Joseph Smith and Brigham Young and the golden tablets. Mormons get to live on their own planets after they die, if they were good, that is. And no one has ever SEEN the golden tablets but God says so. So Mormons believe in golden tablets. O, and Jews brought Jesus to the New World. Really. We bought the CD and listened to it for the rest of my trip.

Then we ate sushi with her dad and told her the story of her birth, again. Steve didn't have the details down but I did, you bet I did. Women never forget their births. Maya thanked me for being so supportive when she was in labor. I don't think I've ever gotten a better compliment.

THEN. We went dancing until 11, hippie dance church. For three hours. In a huge room with loud trance-y music.

It was hard to return to Kansas. Back to work and laundry and rainy cold.

I return to Esalen in two weeks. Big Sur. Woo boy howdy. For a training/dance. Hot tubs. Organic gardens. The Pacific.

Yep, this is where I'll be. 

I just semi-watched the Seahawks (go Seahawks!) cream the San Francisco Wolverines (or Broncs or Spatulas). I made that all up. I have no idea what San Francisco's mascot is and frankly, I don't care. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Those boys all have mommas who watch their sons get thrashed; knees, shoulders, concussions, etc, etc. for a lotta money. And they're wrecked at the end of the day. A stupid game. Sorry if I've offended any football fans. I'd rather watch soccer or basketball or almost anything else. Well, not boxing. Ug, what is the deal with boxing? Hit hard enough to knock someone unconscious?

I'd rather be hiking or swimming. Or reading the NYT. I haven't read the front page yet. I'm saving it. They are a bit stuffy so maybe there won't be any mention of the end of the world. Which didn't happen. That's the trouble with predictions. They don't come true.

There is always a guy near the beginning of the gay pride march with a giant sign, painted flames on the bottom that reminds us that we're all gonna fry in hell because Jesus loves us or some random logic.  I bet he's wrong. I do think he's misguided. He also has a bullhorn so he can yell stuff. The drag queens in their gowns and heels and impossible makeup are having way more fun than he it.

But it's baby Jesus time in Christendom. I've always wanted to use that word. I only have a few things to say. As a midwife, the baby Jesus was conceived when sperm invaded the zona pellucida and tada! cell division which eventually produced a new human. And that probably meant hanky-panky. AI wasn't around yet. Likewise, to be fair. The baby Buddha did not, I repeat, did not come forth from his mother's armpit (ouch) while she was leaning on a tree. (PS, she died two days later, wouldn't you?). He walked immediately and wherever his feet touched the earth, a lotus flower appeared.

As humans, wer love to make shit up. We love stories. We do. And when a remarkable person comes along, Nelson Mandela for example, we want to think that we're not like him, we couldn't do what he did,  befriend his jailers but. He is an ordinary person. We can do what he did. We can be Jesus or Buddha or Dorothy Day. We can. We can forgive the unforgivable. We can endure great suffering without taking everyone around us down too. Therefore. I bow to the musicians and writers and artists who turn dross into beauty. Vincent Van Gogh, Beethoven, Chopin, Audrey Lorde, Allen Ginsberg, Louis Malle, Brian Eno, Picasso, everyone has their lists. Not saints, humans like us.

Onwards, into the year of the snake, my dears.

Because the world didn't end, we can have this beauty.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/22/top-transgender-moments-stories-2012_n_2347346.html?ref=topbar#slide=1804940

There are several grammatical errors in my last post and I don't care. I'm not even going to fix them.

The world didn't end, for cripes sake

Felix got a haircut today and he looks WHITE and poodle-y with a round soft fluffy head and ears.  I got my eyebrows dyed and 'shaped'. We both look like we're ready to party and mess up our looks.

I've made my way through a Danish series called 'Why They Kill' or something. I bet the translation sucks. Once again, I dare not turn away because my Danish isn't perfect. In fact, I know one word-tak-which means thanks. Now I'm working through Unit 1, another Danish series with a lady commissioner and a weird crew that do illegal wiretaps and beat up the suspects. O, and the Danes have a lot of nudity in their series, even penises.

I figured out why I love detective series so much. They are called out in the middle of the night, their hours are awful and nobody gets what they do. Pretty much like midwives. Of course, we hang out with babies and mommas and they go look at DBs (dead bodies).

I baked pears with a bit of pear juice and maple syrup. I stuck a few cloves into the pears. They were divine. The only problem were the stems which smoldered and smoked and set off the smoke detector which makes the dawg howl.

Angels we have heard on high-the only approved rendition

I stole this from Marylinn Kelly's blog:

A Brief for the Defense

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only 
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront 
is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

from Refusing Heaven by Jack Gilbert 

I learned today that a young gay friend killed himself a few weeks ago. Tolerance is not what I'm talking about. Acceptance isn't either. Eyes wide open. We're here for a brief time. We're all different. Queer is a spectrum. It's not a choice. It's how we're built.

Dear sweet Kyle. Beautiful boy. I'm so fucking sorry.

The baby Jesus without enough clothes on (again). Maybe that's why Santa is praying.

I'm in bed with a cold, there's a rat in the downstairs bathroom and Deb's gone to get me some brandy and lemonade. Oh, and a rat trap.

Lola is keeping watch over the rat situation. She's outside the door, waiting expectantly. I think she thinks we'll open the door so she and the rat can run around the house. Squeak! Squeak!

I tried, in vain, to capture the rat. I failed.

I think we should have more animals. Some ponies maybe or a few iguanas. And a tortoise. At least they're not easy to misplace. A big one can't go under the bathtub.

I'm not sure what the humane act is in Ratland. My exterminator Johan said, 'No rat dies a good death.' A live trap and then what? Escort the rat to the park? Feed him/her to the neighborhood python? Put him in a cage and raise him to giant rat size?

I'm feverish and snotty. At least I have a new bathrobe. The old green one was perfectly awful, only in the way a bathrobe can be. My new bathrobe has satin ribbons on it.

Ugly Christmas sweaters are hip, apparently. Wear yours with pride.

Why?

In these dark days, I only have two questions.

1. Why, when the weather is bad, do drivers take more chances? Two drivers sped out in front of me. When I beeped my horn, one woman held her hands out of the window in a praying attitude. Huh? It's better than the finger gesture, I guess. Is she praying for me? Or the gods of weather? Or random bad driving?

2. Why do home owners paint their large rocks in their yard white? Or aqua? This is, I think, one of the great mysteries.

Tonight, while driving home, I stopped rather suddenly for three mallards who were crossing the road. They seemed unconcerned. Maybe they're like careless drivers, tempting fate.

Ravi Shankar died recently. His daughter will carry on.

My dog became a damn mud puddle today at the park so I washed him and now he looks like this:

You know I'm lying. That's way too much work and silly besides. Felix is no longer dirt colored and that's the best we're gonna get. Besides, he hates getting a bath. He'll jump in the freezing cold lake, he'll hike happily in the rain for hours but a bath! Warm water! Soap! The evil dryer that sounds like ten thousand tornadoes! He stands in the tub quivering. On the list of dog torture is the bath.

Then there is the hair brush. Poodle hair is very curly. I'm sure Felix would be delighted to get completely gross; matted, stinky and unrecognizable as a show dog. Not that he's a show dog. His parents are show dogs. And If you've ever seen Best in Show, it's not far off the mark, as owners/breeders go. Breeders are different, if you know what I mean. Look at that haircut above. Who would do that to a dog? That haircut takes hours.

Tonight my neighbors and I will watch Dexter. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I won't encourage you. Unless you're fond of serial killers with a 'conscience' or code of ethics (only kill the bad guys). And Deb, the sister, has a terrific potty mouth.



See what I mean?

Yeah we all shine on, like the moon, and the stars, and the sun. 
John Lennon 



I dedicate my hike today to you, dear man.

Thrown back into work after my wee hiatus in California where I lay about, eating bonbons in my fluffy mules.

The grand finale this week was a birth I attended with my practice partner that ended in a hospital transfer. All is well but, holy mother of the baby Jesus, what an exciting and hair-raising birth. I tell you. Birth is not for the squeamish. Or faint of heart. I finished Call The Midwife this morning after sleeping for 14 hours and it does me good, o yes it does, to read a book about real midwives going about their crazy-ass lives just as we do 60 years later. I can't give you details, dear blogsters, but we witnessed a complication that rarely happens.

Sheesh. I think the birth guardians are making sure I see EVERYTHING before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Tonight Deb and I traveled down to Renton, the equivalent of crossing the border into Canada. We heard about a veg restaurant called Blossom where the head chef is a Buddhist nun so what the hell. Vietnamese food, mostly average except for a 'pumpkin soup' that was divine. Chunks of sweet winter squash, lotus seeds and tofu. When was the last time you ate lotus seeds?

The best parts were the giant Quan Yin statues; one by the door and one that looked over our table. She held a willow branch, said to bestow healing and a vase containing the waters of compassion.

In Renton.

The chickens are so filthy. They run about in the rain and mud. They do not care about personal hygiene apparently. And they have (or their coop has) attracted rats. Ug. Very healthy and plump rats. Deb bought a trap that supposedly zaps them. We'll see. Between the apples, the grapes and now chicken feed, we have a veritable paradise of rat heaven-ness. Great. O, and dog shit. They love dog shit too.

Rats are gross.  Johan, the rat man, got rid of the resident rats that were living in my bouse when I bought it. I may have to invite him back. And I quote, 'No rat dies a good death.'

My glasses are now fixed. They were under warranty, who knew, so they were fixed for free. Plus, she made new lenses for the antique round silver frames I bought at Goodwill. Ha! so now I have two new pairs of glasses. I did, um, fall down while in California and really busted my all purpose heavily scratched standby glasses so I feel abundant in eyewear at the moment. This is, I'm sure, a fleeting experience. If I could not wear glasses anymore, I'd be so pleased. That development has yet to happen.

Tomorrow I plan to be indolent. Or else I'll take the pup to the mountains where we will hike in massive amounts of mud and rain and the wet December forest. Glory.

The most best wonderful news, besides Rebecca being nominated for a Pushcart-Call the Midwife is a book, a re-issue from England.

And Chummy is there and Jenny and the crazy, Keats-spouting nun who talks in riddles about planetary influences.

I read half of it on the plane and apparently there is a second book too.

As good as the Sunday times.

Sunday morning in San Rafael. We're eating gluten free popovers with jam. And we're drinking tea, of course. I woke to find Milo watching Sherlock with Benedict Cumberbach. Ah, a child after my own heart. My mother never made popovers but she did make Yorkshire pudding with steak and kidney pie.

The sun has appeared here, albeit briefly. We went to the movies last night and to a restaurant named Fish, a sustainably sourced restaurant in Sausalito. California is insufferably groovy. Of course, I enjoy the heck out of it while I'm here.

Maya and I attended the hippy dance church again yesterday morning. We danced for two hours. It was lovely and sweaty. Ah (yes, that's his name) was there, this time in lavender yoga pants and no shirt. There was a younger hippy guy, also with no shirt. Transport me back to the imaginary days of my youth. As a youth, I didn't get to go to hippy dance church or anything else because I was a mom by the time I was 22. I did the bread making, vegetable growing, vegetarian hippy thing.

Now I watch my daughter with her son. He was doing homework and now they're cleaning the house. Vacuuming and laundry and shaking out rugs. Getting ready for the coming week. I'll be on my way this afternoon but back for Maya's birthday on Christmas. It's odd to pop in and out of their lives. I saw my parents rarely after I moved away. Perhaps being disowned has something to do with it. We never talked about 'the incident' after I was let back in, two years later. We never talked about anything, actually. Not anything important. From the time I was eighteen, we were estranged. Even when I was sitting across from them in their living room.

I swore I'd never throw out a child of mine. What kind of mother does that?