Thinking About Ritchey

“There is but one solution to the intricate riddle of life; to improve ourselves, and contribute to the happiness of others.”

~Mary Shelly

 

Buddhism speaks of the impermanence that is human existence. 

We are born and we die. 

Nobody gets out alive.

However, what exists for each of us between these 

two states is of our own making.

For the last year I have been obsessing about death. 

Like talk to my therapist every two weeks about death obsessing. 

Like not appreciating where I am and what I have due to this obsessing. 

 

On Saturday I read that an old friend had died. 

It was sudden, unexpected, and I am overwhelmed with sadness. 

Sadness for her light that no longer shines. 

Sadness for her family and friends who are hurting.

The outpouring of love and admiration online has given me pause. 

Can I be more like Ritchey?

She was kind. 

She radiated joy. 

Ritchey contributed to the happiness of others.

 

I am hoping that, with Ritchey as an inspiration, I can shake off this melancholy and start contributing to my world’s happiness. 

 

To quote one of Ritchey’s students 

“Can we just spread love and make sure to 

let our people know we love them?”

I’m gonna try and as I do, I’m gonna keep Ritchey

 front and center in my mind as I spread this love.

 

Rest in peace my friend. 

Today I Choose to Focus on How I Feel

The scale is hidden, but I can still sense that the weight 

has not melted away as I expected. 

Damn expectations get me every time.  

After a lifetime of studying the dharma you would think I would know better than to let expectations kick me in the gut, 

but here I stand, arms wrapped around my belly. 

Raging against the lack of progress that I was expecting to see. 

 

Yet, if I just shift my focus a little to the left, 

I see a strong, healthy woman.

 No longer a number on the scale.

 

Ten weeks ago I made some changes to my lifestyle. 

I am (mostly) not drinking my beloved wine during the weeknights. 

I got a little out of control with the wine during the

whole covid/work stress thing.

 I have faithfully been taking all the supplements 

recommended by my doctor, a very expensive, 

very experienced female hormone specialist. 

My diet is mostly healthy.

My meditation practice is strong.

I have been wearing my Fitbit religiously.  

Not to brag, but I just earned my London Underground Badge. 

That’s when you reach 250 miles. 

I did it in 9 weeks with an average of 275 minutes in the “zone”...Fitbit uses “zone” minutes to measure how many minutes you 

spend a week helping your heart stay healthy. 

Recommended for my age is 150 minutes. 

Let’s just say I’ve been a little strutty walking around the house 

on Saturday when I see my weekly numbers. 

Since the driving factor was weight loss, 

I’m struggling with disappointment. 

But why? I feel strong and healthy.

I am working on focusing on how I feel, not how much I weigh. 

This has been a lifelong struggle for me, and I’m guessing 

for some of you out there as well. 

Here’s to reminding us to focus on our health and not the scale.

 I figured since I needed this reminder today, 

maybe somebody out there did too.

 

 

The Downside of Being Involved With a Preening Peacock

The year is 1851. A young woman lifts her cumbersome skirt and its various paraphernalia and steps off the train. She searches for a face she has only seen once in a grainy photograph. Once spotted, she visibly deflates. The paunchy, preening peacock is loudly talking to a group of men who are less than interested in what he has to say by the looks on their faces. The woman steps aside and observes this interaction between her soon-to-be husband and the group he is speaking to. 

 

I keep thinking about this time in history which, for many women, was a time of little choice as to what they would like to do with their life or who they would like to spend it with. I find myself in an untenable situation where a paunchy, preening peacock is in charge of a financial situation that I am attached to. I have no say, I am expected to smile and nod my head, all the while knowing that we are losing money due to this man’s incompetence. My mind is keenly focused on all those intelligent women who found themselves attached to a preening peacock...at least I know my arrangement will end soon. 

 

 

Self Awareness is a Bitch

 “Patterns driven by old hurt don’t go away easily. Building self-awareness is half the battle...you have to chip away at them with your intention so you can let the new you take the lead.”

~Yung Pueblo

 

I have figured out that one of my biggest triggers is not being seen. We all have these leftover childhood wounds that trigger us and, to live a more peaceful existence, we must figure them out. Without an understanding of why you are feeling what you’re feeling it (whatever “it” is for you),will continue to arise and drive your response...I know this from personal experience. 

 

I ran errands last week; one was to our local meat market. I took my number when I entered the store and waited at the counter for my turn. There were two people working behind the counter; one was on the phone, and one was taking the most tedious order I have ever seen from a very elderly woman. The woman hung up the phone and immediately started talking to another customer who had walked up after me. She then started waiting on this woman. I was so hurt that I had been overlooked that my lower lip started to quiver. Immediately I knew that the severity of my emotions did not match the situation. Read that again: The severity of the emotion does not match the situation. That’s always a sure sign a button is being pushed. I walked closer to the woman behind the counter and asked if they were using the number system today. Startled, she said I am so sorry, yes, we are, and began to move to help me instead of the woman who had entered after me. To my surprise I said, “No worries. Go ahead and finish with her.” That, my friends, is a win for psychotherapy! When I was younger my response would have been a hot (probably nasty) mess. 

 

What are your triggers? Your buttons? Are you aware of them? I have too much time on my hands and would love to hear what you’re working on. 

Cousins

 

My family lost the last of these bright, hopeful faces yesterday.  

Each of their lives snuffed out much earlier 

than necessary due to drugs. 

Notice they are all boys. 

I have not lost a female relative 

to drugs yet. 

I can’t stop thinking why? 

Why the men succumb to life’s pressures and the women persevere?

 

Is it that our parents’ parented the boys differently?

Is it toxic masculinity? 

Is it despair that comes with growing up in our

little Midwest town? 

A town which I still inexplicably love.

Yet, for the underprivileged, it is a town that feels

like a deep pit of hopelessness. 

Anxiety and despair await around each corner. 

It’s good to be in the middle class in our little town. 

Even better to be in the ruling class, but that’s not my people.

Yet, the women grow up in this same town with these 

same socioeconomic factors at play...

and here the women stand weeping yet another loss.

 

 I got reacquainted with my 

cousin Ace when my dad was in the hospital. 

After my dad’s death Ace stood by my sister and I as we 

battled my dad’s widow and her watchdog. 

“You ok babe?” 

“You need anything cuz?”

“Need me to go with you?”

 

To our children I say, “break this cycle.” 

Teach your boys to talk about their feelings. 

Teach them to ask for help. 

And above all love them the same way you love your girls.

 

I don’t have any answers, but maybe this is a place to start. 

 

Another Year of Reflecting on Mother's Day

                    This year I am teary as usual about Mother’s Day, but it’s different now.

I am focused not on the pain inflicted by my mother, but on the gift of healing

that was given to me through raising and loving another human being.

I remember vividly having a migraine when Jayne was around nine months old. 

She was colicky and wouldn’t stop crying, there was no comfort to be found that day.

 

I was losing it. 

 

I felt such rage at the pain the loud noise emanating from my child was causing my head.

I felt frustrated at not being able to make it stop. I wanted to lash out at my nine-month-old; 

my instinct was to shake her in anger. 

 

Instead, I placed her, screaming, tears flowing down her chubby cheeks, into her crib and walked away. I locked myself in the bathroom. I sat on our tiny bathroom floor and screamed into a towel, I gasped to catch my breath, I cried uncontrollably, 

I was horrified at the violent instincts I felt that day.

 

I loved my baby, what the fuck was wrong with me?

 

Years later my therapist (I’ve had three invaluable therapists over the years)

tells me that there was nothing “wrong” with me.

 I was parenting as I had been parented. 

When I went into the bathroom that day,

 I began to break the cycle of abuse. 

 

The gratitude I feel to Jayne for coming into my life and, unwittingly, helping

me to break this cycle, to heal my own inner child, is boundless.

Raising Jayne has helped to heal my mother wounds. 

Now that Jayne is an adult, I have learned to accept her for who she is, 

not who I expect/want her to be.

 

If you had a mother that was more fit for wire monkeys than 

human babies, know that you are not alone. 

Send that momma love for the hard situation she was put in,

 because I know now my momma did the best she could. 

I’m just glad I figured out how to do better. 

“People fear what they don’t understand…”~Andrew Smith

 

I knew very few people of color growing up in Missouri. The University of Missouri has an extensive census archive which says that in the 1970’s my county was 97 percent white. 

97 percent white…let that sink in.  

 

My little hometown on the Big Muddy was steeped in racism.

 

 To this day you can find Confederate flags flying high around Missouri. 

I wonder if these people wish the Civil War had gone the other way 

(40% of Missouri fought for the Confederacy). 

 If not, do these people think about the symbol that this flag represents…slavery. 

How that feels to their black friends. 

Do they have any black friends?

 

Being able to put yourself in another person’s shoes and then to think about how your actions and beliefs affect that person has always resonated with me. 

How would I feel if I were a black person in our white-centric world?

 

My hometown had Aunt Jemimah syrup. 

My hometown had black lawn jockeys. 

 I remember seeing a kid who wore a 

hobo costume for Halloween one year with blackface. 

No one thought the costume was wrong, except for maybe the 

3% of blacks not enjoying being compared to a hobo.  

Was this meant to imply blacks were homeless? Jobless? 

 

Inexplicably I still love my hometown and I hope that the #BLM movement might instill 

a deeper consideration around race for those who are racist and not aware of it. 

 

Being open to seeing, and addressing, our own ugliness is the only way to make a change. 

For those of you who will actually consider what I wrote without dismissing

me since “you’re sure you’re not racist” check out 

So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Olua. 

 

If we get real with ourselves we all have a prejudice to something and

 when we know better, we can do better. 

 

Day 25

This is an unprecedented time for the world. 

Over ten thousand dead in our country 

alone in just weeks. 

For twenty-five days Pete and I have (mostly) been at home. 

We walk, grocery shop (as little as possible), and wait. 

Yet, I’m grateful to have a partner that I enjoy spending time with. 

Our walking miles have now topped 55. 

We live near a trail system that connects to a wilderness area, 

so there are a lot of miles to cover. 

However, the trail traffic has increased tenfold since this crisis began 

so we are mostly walking on our neighborhood streets to keep our distance. 

There is plenty of room in our neighborhood.

 Big houses with big yards and wide empty streets.

This is not the case for everyone. 

Cities teaming with people.

Narrow, crowded streets.

This is a dark and scary time, yet this will pass. 

Everything does.

I’m on an emotional rollercoaster. 

Sometimes I’m despondent thinking of all the inequalities in the world.

I lay sleepless thinking of the “essential” workers. 

The hospital workers. The grocery workers. The migrant farm workers.  

Those in India lacking the very soap and water needed to wash their hands.

The single adult struggling with no job and depression…alone. 

Then I remind myself to pray. 

To see the good that I have in my life. 

To see the good that still exist in the world. 

This is a dark and scary time, yet this will pass.

Everything does. 

A Calm Mind is a Creative Mind

On Wednesday something special happened in my class.

 It was a small, sweet moment that I want to share.

Just after lunch we meditate each day. 

This routine was set up at the beginning of the year. 

Students have the choice to either: 

follow their breath, count silently to themselves, or to pray. 

After meditation is DEAR time (Drop Everything And Read).

Older students will sometimes come in to read with the younger kids at this time. 

When kids who have not been in my class come in at DEAR time they sit at the 

kidney table by the door and watch our meditation. 

On Wednesday four of my students from last year came in to read with us. 

One is a Buddhist.

One is a Muslim.

One is the son of a Baptist Minister.

One is not religious.

My former students came in and, without a word from me, 

scattered themselves on the floor amongst my current students. 

One sat next to me ready to assist me. 

I set the timer and the gong sounded to start our three minutes of meditation. 

After three minutes another gong sounded to indicate our time was up. 

The whole room was silent after the second gong. 

A big intake of breath and a sigh out. 

Then, in unison, our mantra:

May I be happy

May I be safe

May I be loved

Often teaching first grade is a bit chaotic and moments such as these slip past me. 

I’m glad I recognized this one. 

A Story for my Fellow Teachers

On Thursday night we stopped at our local liquor store for a bottle of wine. 

It’s kind of a dive, but Pete loves the guys working there. 

As I waited in the car a beat-up Chevy pulls in next to me. 

The car turns off and I can hear the couple in the front seat arguing. 

I glance over and make eye contact with a girl of around 10 in the back seat.

 She’s rocking a baby seat that is in the middle and there’s 

another kid on the other side of the baby. 

The guy gets out of the car. Baggy khaki pants, work boots, and a black hoodie that he pulls up over his shaved head. 

When Pete gets back in the car he says there was a guy ranting about Hamburger Helper… saying to the clerk, “she can’t even make fucking Hamburger Helper right.”

Now I know what the fight was about. 

As I back out I smile at the girl in the backseat still rocking the baby. 

I want to remember this girl each morning when I greet my children.

 I want all my teacher friends to remember this girl as they greet their children each morning.

We can’t know what goes on at their homes each night.

We may be a light in the dark for them. 

The Light Always Follows the Darkness

Swathes of darkness are mostly the extent of my childhood memories.

A birthday cake here, a somersault there, not much more. 

Since my father’s death my dreams are bringing twisted,

dark pictures that I’m trying to assimilate. 

These thoughts, once hidden, now freely fall into my conscious like 

rocks precariously perched on a cliff side pummeled 

and set free by a sudden downpour. 

They fall heavy with pain filling my body, 

threatening my very existence.

Yet, I will do this. 

My life has been preparation for the unearthing of this dark monster. 

And when I have exposed the entirety of the monster 

to the light it’s power will wilt. 

No longer holding sway over me. 

My focus is on the future and the positive that I believe will 

come from the work I am doing right now…and always I try to find gratitude for all of the beauty and love I have been shown in this life. 

The Light will Shine Again

My entire life there’s been something dark shimmering 

just outside of my periphery. 

This darkness has colored everything that I’ve ever done, but I didn’t know it.

For weeks now I’ve been having ugly, twisted dreams 

of things I didn’t understand. 

In our last phone call before my brother’s death he alluded to this darkness.

His remark has haunted me, pulling at the edges of my memory.  

He remembered, I didn’t. 

He’s dead, I’m not. 

I’m alive. 

These days I find myself trying to tease out which emotions are mine and which emotions belong to the darkness.

I’m no longer willing to carry those things placed upon me when I was a child.  

I’m working with a therapist. 

I’m setting boundaries. 

I’m taking the space I need to heal what was done to me...and it’s hard.

I’m sending love and light to those of you tonight dealing with your own demons. 

It’s part of the human experience.

 It will pass.

 The light will shine again. 

I promise. 

What's Your Poison?

It’s early, and Pikes Market is just starting to awaken. 

We sit, hands wrapped around coffee mugs, six mini-donuts on a plate between us.

 I’m tired. 

Staring at the donuts I notice

 maple

 is 

dripping

 down

 the

 side

 of the donut closest to me. 

The smell of frying dough fills the corridor we are sitting in. I succumb to the pull of 

the smell and I pick up one of the doughy rings. 

I raise it to my mouth, my teeth sinking through frosting and cakey goodness.

We have two hours to kill before meeting friends from Albuquerque for lunch. 

They are vacationing in the city, and we will be heading to Mount Rainier for the week. 

As we finish our coffee I begin to feel a restlessness. 

This feeling isn’t new. Each time we travel I feel an overwhelming, 

uncomfortable, yet unstoppable,

drive to experience all there is to experience in this new place.

As we put our dirty dishes in a dish bin I notice the corridor has filled with people. 

Locals and tourist mingle, exotic spices mixing with the smell of fresh fish, all watching the fishmongers as they put on a show with huge salmon, crabs, tuna. 

We wind our way through the claustrophobic crowd finally breaking out onto the street…

 relief as the sunlight brushes against my skin.

We leisurely walk toward the designated meeting place, 

stopping at various store fronts along the way. 

It’s early, and some stores are still closed, perhaps awaiting a more civil time to open.

Pete’s enlivened by the Pacific Northwest and he’s uncharacteristically talkative as we walk.

We maneuver the uneven bricks under our feet, Pete talking, 

me scanning my new surroundings.

I notice a man sitting in a recessed doorway. 

Beautiful creamy coffee colored skin. Haunting pale gray eyes. Matted, dirty hair. 

Leaning against the door, one knee bent, foot standing on the cobblestone sidewalk. 

He’s wearing a dirty white tee shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and inexplicably new tennies. 

I stop; he doesn’t look up. Intent on pushing the needle into his right forearm. 

I watch as he injects the soothing poison. 

I wonder what pain has been inflicted on this beautiful man to cause him to do such 

an intimate thing in front of strangers? 

For a moment my heart breaks for this soul…hurting, like so many of us, from the pain inflicted by those who were charged with caring for us. 

I Have a Soft Spot for Strays

Ten years ago I moved an interesting woman in with our family. I’ll call her K. 

I’m very attracted to crazy energy; my theory is that these people

 vibrate at the same frequency as my mom and it’s somehow comforting to me.  

It was supposed to be a pit-stop while she waited for an apartment 

to become available, two weeks tops. 

Two weeks dragged on and soon we reached five weeks with K. 

Those five weeks were filled with all kinds of interesting moments.

Salmon was frequently left out. Our dogs quite appreciated

 the pungent aroma wafting through the house; 

it was reminiscent of the docks at San Pedro. 

K had decided a device that she called “a molecular disrupter” would help with her 

physical ailments. It was a small, square, electronic box with a knob on the top that 

was attached to a needle that you could turn up or down. 

In order to use “the molecular disrupter” one needed to wrap foil on their feet, or 

sometimes the foil was wrapped around the crown of the head.

 I never quite figured out what the different placement of the foil was all about. 

K had many routines. One of these routines was to brush her body when she woke in 

the morning and before she went to bed at night. 

One morning she swept off a ‘spot’ while brushing her skin. 

She was convinced this ‘spot’ was a tick. 

In a panic, K insisted I rush her to the entomology department at

UC-Riverside to have the offending ‘spot’ identified. 

I’m not even kidding here…it was a bread crumb.  

K felt our family life was so “Leave it to Beaver-ish” that she entered our name

-unbeknownst to us-

for the Trading Spaces reality tv show. 

We didn’t make the cut. 

Pete and Jayne eventually gave me an ultimatum, “Either she goes or we go.” 

I think they meant it. 

I pushed as aggressively as I could for her to find a place…and she did.

When moving day came I was surprised to see her lying on our sofa 

when I came downstairs in the morning.

 Something felt wrong.

If I were a dog (I spend a lot of time with dogs) the hair on the back of 

my neck would have stood on end. 

These were her words:  “I’m afraid I’ve gone blind. I can’t see.”

I sat. 

I thought.

 I didn't speak for a long while. 

Then, as though the Buddha came to intervene, I found the words. 

I drove K to her new place. 

The next day her eyesight miraculously returned. 

She came to retrieve her 1998 Volvo that was sitting in our driveway.

For years the oil stain that was left behind on the driveway was a reminder of 

how patient my family is with me and my idiosyncrasies. 

They love me through every adventure that I drag them through…

that’s the only birthday gift I need! 

The Cowboy

I was told it was going to reach the nineties yesterday by Ruth in the office and there’s no air conditioning here in Chimayo; global warming will be changing the air conditioning situation here soon I suspect. 

The door to the balcony is open to allow the cool mountain air to circulate. 

I drank sangria with abandon this holiday weekend, my head is a little fuzzy and I think I should go and take an ibuprofen. No clock, no electronics of any kind in this throw-back New Mexico B & B, so I’m not sure what time it is. It’s dark and it has the feel of early A.M.  

I press myself up and walk around the huge, old bed; the pine floor squeaks with each step I take.  Cringing, I hope not to wake Pete. As I make my way to the bathroom a sliver of moonlight is thrown across the floor at my feet. I grope around in the medicine bag hoping to find what I’m looking for without turning on a light. Finding the meds I quickly swallow two and head back to bed. In the distance I hear howling, it starts with one animal and then he is joined by several more. I think at first that its coyotes and I smile, but soon I recognize the barking is actually my domesticated friend the dog. I crawl back in bed and the barking goes on…maddeningly, all night. The hooting and howling stops as the first rays of daylight burst from behind the mountain and I drift back to sleep.  

I wake (maybe) an hour later to the sound of a cowboy singing, literally a guy in a cowboy hat is playing guitar outside in the courtyard. I roll over and ask Pete to check his watch; its 7:15. My head is throbbing and I lay still. The “Johnny Cash” wannabe had played all the previous night, he was well received by the other eight guests, mostly grey haired and pretentious. After each set they would applaud and he would drop a little anecdotal fact about himself, “yes, yes I have been playing a while, I started when I was six years old, and (haha) I’m nowhere near that anymore.” Then he would begin to smoothly croon his next tune “ice cream on my lips, chocolate, vanilla…” and this went on for the next couple of hours.  

My head has moved to a low thrum and I roll over and snuggle into Pete’s chest. As I listen I begin to snicker. Pete pulls back and looks down at me. What a quintessential New Mexico experience. What are the odds that we would be in this moment having this experience with these complete strangers? 

Always looking for the good moments in each day is something I strive to do, kind of like an art form I want to perfect, in any case it was a quirky moment that I appreciated. I must go now and change the bedsheets in the extra bedroom as I await the arrival of an artist that we met at the B & B who will be staying the night with us before she catches her plane back to Texas in the morning, but that is a whole other story.