Miracle Near East Street

The newspaper rustled from behind us.  The Record Searchlight newspaper in hand, Bill read the article outloud.  "Six City of Redding police officers who shot, close range, at a troubled young man, missing him 66 times. A 67th bullet grazed the man's upper arm. He was taken to the hospital, treated and released!"

BabaMara and Sinthya floated in the pool; I sat at the edge, feet immersed in the cool water, sipping a glass of chilled Riesling.  Carly-Anne she sat on the diving board sketching the crew. She wore an x-large, wet Seahawks t-shirt and bikini bottoms. (Someone remind me to ask her where she got her hands on Seattle-wear!).

It is 111 degrees today, yet Mrs. Richardson is wearing a navy blue suit with ivory blouse, reading  Edward Brown's The Time Management Solution. Her legs are crossed and one foot is wagging back and forth a mile a minute...and we didn't even have any coffee today.

Beatrice and Ms. Machado are sitting at the picnic table, under the umbrella. Ms. Machado is flipping through our Etymology Dictionary; Beatrice is intently listening to Bill read the article.

"Those cops shot up the doors, windows, siding of the building and nearby cars! Only one bullet
barely nicked him!"  Bill editorializes as he reads...always!  He continues reading, "the officers involved have all been placed on administrative leave pending further investigation!"

Bill throws his head back and laughs from the belly! I have to admit, his laugh is incredibly contagious. "Administrative Leave, hell, they've probably been condemned to permanent assignment to the nearest shooting range until further notice!"

Barely moving as she floats in the pool, BabaMara's soft but distinctive voice is for the benefit of all so us though she directs it to Bill. "My dear boy, could it be possible that you believe that six trained police officers, firing their semi-automatic guns at a stationary man with a shotgun and missing 66, almost 67 times was due to their lack of talent?"

"Well....yeah! I mean, how could you miss? We can stand on the upper deck at the ranch and hit the water's edge on the spillway dead on, every time, and the spillway is 300 yards from us!'

"Yes, we can! But remember, we are also leaning on the railing, using a rifle and firing at an unarmed water line!"

"BabaMara, those cops shot up everything but the guy and he had a shotgun pointed at them."

At this point in the conversation, Mrs. Richardson slams her book shut and retreats into the house; Ms. Machado quickly flips through the pages of the etymology dictionary, towards the end of the book. (my intuition says she was looking up the roots of  the word "weaponry"...though I'm of the belief that BabaMara would have her looking up "miracle")

"That is exactly what I am talking about, Bill.  The young man, standing on his porch, brandishing a shotgun; correction; unloaded shotgun; was a very decent, gentle, loving man. He had just lost his job and his girlfriend.  His mother came to visit and she was, as Beatrice would describe her, "a real-piece-of-work! His plan was suicide-by-cop. Do you not see that there was some divine intervention during that shoot-out?"

Carly straightens so quickly pencils roll off the diving board, into the pool. "Do you mean it was a miracle, BabaMara?"

Sinthya, who was in the middle of a turn as she swam laps, dove down to retrieve the pencils.

Carly's eyes seem to be popping out of her head as she chews on a pencil in her hand. My head nods up and down. Bill and Beatrice shake their heads back and forth.

"Old Woman,"  (Careful, Beatrice, don't tread on BabMara.)  "Are you telling us that God reached down and blocked those bullets, "faster than a speeding bullet," like Superman?"

Sinthya rises from the depths of the pool, hands Carly the two dripping pencils and finishes the turn to continue her laps. "No, not Dios! He sent Santo Miguel to, to, how do you say desvio? Yes, to detour the balas, uh, bullets! El Arcangel Miguel is our protector and he is also the patron of the policia!"

And with that, BabaMara closed her eyes to float, Sinthya continued her laps, Carly looked up at the sky. Bill and Beatrice moved close together to read another page of the paper and I made the sign of the cross. Thank you, Santo Miguel, for your intervention.

Michael by Wen-M

Enigma #785

Photo Courtesy of www.redcanyonart.com

Sat in the yard this morning, reading. The book is talking to my spirit and soul. To understand the message, the book needs to be closed occasionally to think about the ideas introduced in her words.

My hands are not often idle. When not holding the book, they immediately start pushing back the cuticles of my finger nails...a very old habit started when I was 14 or 15 years old.

I looked down as my right thumb pushed at the nail bed of the pinky finger on my left hand. The bright sun was laser-bright on my left hand.

There, plain-as-day, half an inch from the last knuckle of the pinky; 1/8 " long, 1/16" wide, my very first "age spot"! My mouth flew open in surprise, pride, dismay; the whole gamut of emotions.


For as long as I can remember, people have told me that I have "pretty hands". When I was young, people always commented on the length of my fingers or the strength of my hands. I had a more than impressive reach on the piano keys. A man I dated told me I had fingers that "go from here to there!"

The strength in my fingers is impressive. When I massage someone's back or hands or feet, I  often catch them with eyes rolled back and just a bit of drool in the corner of their mouth.

Great-grandma's hands were powerful yet unquestionably tiny. She was 4'11" but a personality that was veritably giant. Her tiny hands mirrored knarled roots of an old pinion pine tree, announcing to the world, "I have lived life to the fullest!" I loved her hands and dreamed of possessing such hands when I was in my 80's and 90's.

What does this tiny brown spot mean to me?

The synchronicity of this discovery just days after Photoshopping pictures of my mom and dad is incredible. As I tweaked contrast and light levels in a five generations photo, I caught myself staring at my mother's hands. Her skin is ivory, soft, blemish free, almost transparent. Her nails are perfect ovals, all exactly the same shape and length. The blue contrast of the her veins, so very apparent.  Mom is truly the Scarlett O'Hara of the west; the sun was her enemy!  Her face, hands and, especially, decolletage were sacred space, to be protected at all times! Gloves and wide brimmed hat were mandatory when working in the yard, garden and even the beach.

I didn't inherit that tendency. Shea butter, baby oil or nothing! I lifted my face to the sun and sang, "make me brown!"  All those beautiful tans, swimming in the surf, the lakes and the pool without a care about SPF-anything!

The enigma is, I really don't know how I feel about this change in my hand. The fingers are still long, my grip is still strong but something is different.  Has the skin on the back of my hand betrayed me? Is this the beginning of the end? There is one little bit of my mind called Ego, that is screaming, "Call a dermatologist! Get this burned off!"

But, even as I type this, my eyes wander down to that little spot. Surprisingly, I think I love it!

Do you remember being 12 or 13? One day, out of the blue, menarche bursts out of nowhere. That tiny bit of blood is a banner that silently announces, WELCOME; YOUR WORLD HAS JUST CHANGED! ! You had just crossed the threshold from child to woman.

I am standing at another threshold.

It is right here; I can feel it. This freckle-that's-not-a-freckle is my ticket to the new kingdom.  I believe I am going to embrace the next phase of my life. Act III is here.  This wee bit of brown spot is inspiring me to immerse myself (and the crew) in life, in awareness, in full consciousness.

Most honorable Hecate, here I am! Ready, Willing and Able!

The Freedom To Speak Your Mind

A short 4 years ago, my friend commented about my birthday. Actually, it was my next birthday she was talking about.

"Just think! You are going to be 60 next year!"

Bam! Talk about slamming into a brick wall! Me? Sixty? Never! How could it be?

I loved turning 40. The 40's were incredibly freeing in so many ways.

Fifties came and I celebrated the whole decade! After all, as Oprah says, "50 is the new 40!"

It honestly never occurred to me that 60 came after the 50's.  Couldn't I just be Fifty-ten,  then 50-11? You have to admit,  50-12 has a certain ring to it!

The last six months of my 59th year made me feel like I was on combat mission, belly on the ground, soldier crawling towards enemy lines. Pausing to dig a fox hole now and then, trying to stop time, but that big 60 kept pulling me.

What an incredible waste of 6 months! Sixties are better than the 40's and the 50's (except for the knee pain which was probably caused by creeping around on my elbows and belly for half a year).

There are so many glorious benefits to being 60-ish.

My favorite benefit of all is the freedom to speak my mind!  Not that I make comments like, "That is the most ignorant thing I've ever heard!" or "You're a special kind of stupid, aren't you?"

I do have filters, but having retired, I don't have to agree with an abusive boss! I don't have to write letters and memos that make her look kind or thoughtful. I don't have to agree with everyone sitting around the table at dinner. My heart isn't crushed if someone walks away from me when I've spoken my truth.

The next favorite benefit is that I can make a stand! If I stand alone, that's okay because I am standing up for what I believe. I can live in my own integrity!

Another favorite perk is rising out of bed at 4 a.m. to read or write or simply sip a cup of green tea and ginger.  The stripping out of my clothes and jumping back into bed around 9 or 10. Other mornings I head to the shower, brush my teeth and get out my softest, most comfy pajamas and spend the day in them.  If someone knocks at the door, I greet them completely guilt free. No shame! They can judge me all they want. I know that deep down in their souls, they wish they were in their jammies, too!

Let's see!  (tapping my make-up free chin while in deep contemplation) There are so many special boons, it is hard to choose the next favorites.

There is the make-up thing. I can get around with absolutely no make-up, if I choose. There is a natural aliveness about aging skin, the lines around the eyes that shout, "I have laughed and I have lived!"   Without foundation one can see the scar on my left temple from the spoon that stuck in my head when my brother shot sweet peas at me when we were kids. (I can write really long, run-on sentences like the previous one and people just accept it " 'cuz, bless her heart, she's old!")  Without makup I can't disguise the bump in my not-so-perfect nose. I am really proud of it; reminds me of playing street football with the boys (I was always first picked for teams. Yes, I was that good!)

Benefit Boon Blessing of being in my sixties; I can have sex as much as I want without the fear of pregnancy! (Beat that all you 30-somethings in your 5 inch spiked heels!) I can have sex where ever I want because if caught I can blame it on dementia!

Let's not forget clothing!  In your 60's you can wear whatever you want! I can wear white to weddings because I are not going to upstage the bride. I can wear skirts to work in the garden and jeans to church. I can dress to the nines to go to the drive-thru at In and Out! I can sport torn jeans and my Doobie Brothers sweatshirt to Outback.

Being in your sixties and a little bit silly appeals to all your nieces and nephews. Your nieces think you're cute and your nephews will refill your gin and tonic without any prompts!  They put extra green olives and gin in them too!

If the sixties are this good, what secrets and whimsical treats must the 70's be hiding? Seven more years and I get to unwrap that package. I won't be holding my breath though, because there are so many delicious discoveries about being in my sixties still to be made.