Bonnie And Clydes

On Friday morning, March 15th around 9:15 a.m. thieves broke into the downstairs study of Debra Jarvis and her husband. They pried open a window with a hatchet taken from their toolshed. The buggers didn't even bring their own tools. Only two things were taken: both of Debra's laptop computers. It is thought that the shrieking burglar alarm drove them off.

On Sunday, March 17th at 4:44 p.m. her MacBookAir sent her a message about it's location. (Her MacBookPro which was also stolen, did not have this feature in it.)

She immediately called and emailed the officer associated with her case. The officer never returned her messages. On Monday she even made an in-person visit to the North Precinct during which she was reminded about "limited time and resources." Tired of the lack of response from the Seattle Police Dept. Debra decided to take matters into her own hands.

On the afternoon of Tuesday, March 19th she went with Dave Morris and Kris Meyer to south Seattle or maybe DesMoines--though signs also said "Welcome To Burien."

 Debra, driving the get-away car, pulled up the street while Kris and David went to the house pretending to be interested in buying a BMW they saw on Craig's List. They were looking for a white w/black convertible top BMW which is actually the description of the get-away car involved in this theft. Oddly, the people in this house actually were selling a red BMW that was parked in the driveway. Considering it has flat tires and had been there since the last Google satellite photo, it was no surprise to hear that they were selling it for parts. Also odd that the brother of the person answering the door drove a silver BMW. That's a lot of BMWs.

 So they chatted a bit while Debra waited in the car. It seemed that the uncle who lives across the street had some information so Kris and Dave went over there. They came back to the car and reported that the uncle was "very big."

 They determined that they had better make A Plan. Since the computer was now locked, it was impossible to tell for sure if it was still at this address. The tracking device only works when someone is on the Internet. Locked computer=no internet access. She locked it because she wanted to save her files. But it is possible her files are gone anyway since someone changed the user name. The user name is now "TMoney" which Debra finds so infuriating she could spit nails.

 Debra wanted to go to the door by herself since the person who answered the door was a 20-something white male. Her reasoning was that she looked pretty harmless, although she was wearing Spy Clothes: jeans, running shoes, black sweater which wouldn't show blood stains--hers or anybody else's.

 But she ended up calling the North Precinct and talking to Det. Stephens. She explained to him that she was sitting outside the suspect's house--well, not exactly outside, but up the street. He told her to call 911 and tell them her plan and they would send a police officer out to stand by her.

 She did so and a dispatcher said she would send someone out from the King County Sheriff's Dept. The three waited in the car--for a long time. During this time Debra kept having hot flashes, so she kept the car key turned to "accessory" so that Kris and Dave could roll down their windows since it was getting pretty steamy in there.

 Nowhere in the car instruction manual does it mention that this kind of hot flash survival strategy will run down your battery. It really should. So when Dave suggested turning the car around so that we could see the police coming, she found she was unable to start said car.

More and more this was looking like a bad Caper Comedy. Kris suggested just letting the car sit and perhaps it would miraculously heal itself since it is after all a Subaru which we think means, "Bright Shining Divine Four-Wheel Chariot Star" in Japanese.

Debra, who has a real spiritual/religious bent, prayed mightily. In Japanese. Fifteen minutes later said car started.

 While they were waiting, the "very big" uncle went to the house, opened the garage door and did something in the garage. The tracking device showed that the computer was in the corner of the garage. The three were very antsy for the cop to arrive.

The officer finally arrived and after many phone calls to Det. Stevens and a discussion of search warrants, etc. Officer Maran said Seattle PD would not issue a warrant. He decided he would just go to the door and say, "A stolen computer has been tracked to this house."

 He did this and the aforementioned 20-something disavowed any knowledge of this. The uncle across the street who is not only "very big," but also "very bearded," came to see what was going on.

 Officer Maran said he'd call Debra if there was a break in the case, but it pretty much looked like she was screwed.

The white BMW with the black top was pulled over yesterday with four black men it. The police could not seem to find this car in their system as it turned up as "sold" on Thursday, March 14th, the day before the crime.

Debra is disappointed but at least she knows she did everything she could. She is also a little bit in denial and expects a tidal wave of chocolate will be going through her when she starts grieving all she has lost. And yes, she will make friends with iCloud.

Dave and Kris were brave and resourceful--especially during the hot flash storm.

Under penalty of perjury under the laws of the State of Washington, I certify that the foregoing is true and correct to the best of my knowledge and belief.

--Debra Jarvis

Jesus Goes To Yoga Class

 

The new guy next to me seems nice.

Warm, friendly—not creepy.

Wears a T-shirt and ordinary running shorts,

not the baggy ones that look like culottes,

not the tight black kind which say, “Notice my ass.”

No. There is something real regular about him.

He has no trouble with any pose:

Eagle, Plow, Boat, Fish.

Smiles in Child’s pose.

Spends extra time in Prayer Pose.

Wrinkles his nose in Warrior I and Warrior II

but does it perfectly: strong and balanced.

He holds Plank pose as long as the teacher,

the rest of us going down like dying daffodils.

I think, “Dude, this is not a competition!”

But he stays strong, no effort.

He sits Full Lotus during meditation.

Breathing Hum/Sa without moving.

Breathing Light/Love without strain.

Breathing You/Me/We without contradiction.

He fails at one pose only: Corpse.

He keeps getting up.

After class we bring our hands to our hearts,

bow to one another and say,

“Namaste.”

The Divine in me salutes the Divine in you.

He really means it.

Liar, Liar, Bike Shorts on Fire

It may seem that everyone has already had their say about Lance Armstrong. But I haven't and since the title of my book is a permutation of the title of his best selling book I feel a connection with Lance.

Years ago when people were going after him for doping, I was saying, "No, no, people are jealous of his success and want to bring him down! He works like a dog and that's why he wins."

I supported him even when he--well, his assistant--turned down my request to write a foreword to my book saying, "Mr. Armstrong regrets he cannot lend energy to your project at this time and wishes you the best of luck." 

I understood. He was busy training--and fending off jealous critics!

Sigh.

I watched the Oprah interview. His eyes looked dead to me--even when he was getting emotional about his kids. I'm glad he's in therapy but you know what? That dude needs spiritual counseling. Seriously.

I want to ask, "Lance, what gives your life meaning? Where do you find joy? What are your spiritual beliefs? How do you nurture your spiritual life? What does it mean to love? What do you think happens when you die? Do you believe in a higher power--other than yourself?"

And I don't mean that last question to sound snarky. I don't care if he's aetheist, agnostic, sudoku or acrostic. I'm sincerely wondering what/who is going to get him through those times when he awakens in the middle of the night, turns over on his left side, turns over on his right, can't go back to sleep. Stuck with his thoughts--if only, if only, if only .  .  .

The dark night of the soul.

Mr. Armstrong, I sincerely wish I could help you at this time. Best of luck. If there is anything I can do, let me know.

I've been cooking since Monday and having a blast! But one thing is on my mind that I would like to share before The Big Day (Thanksgiving). The one thing is that "mastectomy" does NOT rhyme with "vasectomy." It is not "masectomy." See the difference? ma-STEK versus ma-SEK.

This drives me crazy and on this eve before the day we give thanks I say, "Yay, my maSTEComy was seven years ago."

No, this is not some insightful spiritual post but just something that I've been meaning to say. Words make a difference.

Thank you.

And I mean that.

Jesus Goes To Yoga Class

Yes, fans, it's Q & A time again. This time I'm answering a bunch of huge, existential questions and if I really had all the answers I could start my own church or perhaps people would start thinking I'm the Messiah. Which I'm not.

How can spirituality impact healing and recovery? Are there any studies about this?

            First let’s define spirituality. In my book it’s a felt connection to something Beyond, to something Higher that transcends our individual little selves. I think it also means how we view life, where we find meaning, what we believe about pain in life, what we believe happens when we die. These are spiritual questions and different religions have different answers.

            Our answers to these spiritual questions greatly impact our healing and recovery. If we believe that life should be daily candy and unicorns then we’re going to be pretty pissed when we get a flat tire—or a cancer diagnosis.

            But if we believe that everyone gets some sewage thrown their way and that it’s up to each of us to find meaning in it then we’re going to have an entirely different life experience.

            And yes, there are many studies out there and all you have to do is Google “spirituality and healing” and then settle in with enough food and water for a year because that’s how long it will take you to read through them all. Studies are criticized because the bottom line for many science peeps is that human consciousness is derived from the brain, and that its effects are confined to the brain and body of an individual. So forget about prayer because anything you do can’t affect me. But studies show prayer makes a difference. 

            They are basically saying, “It’s not possible so why study it?” A little close-minded, don’t you think?

I don’t practice any organized religion right now, but I’m feeling the need for a spiritual element in my life. How do I go about finding out what is right for me? There are so many practices out there, I’m not sure where to start.

            A good place to start is looking at the spiritual beliefs with which you were raised and asking yourself where are you with those beliefs now. You may be surprised to find that your beliefs have changed or even more surprised to find that they are the same. If you haven’t been raised with any beliefs, then what resonates with you?  Ask yourself the aforementioned questions:

            How do I view life? What do I think about pain and difficulty in life? What do I think happens when I die? Where do I find meaning in my life? What do I need to nurture my spiritual life? A supportive community? Spiritual direction? Solitude?

            Don’t under estimate the value of a supportive community—a church, a sangha, a temple community. We love to think that organized religion is a bunch of mindless drones who all believe the same thing. Ha! Wouldn’t that be so much easier? In fact, my experience is that it is a group of people who are actively exploring their spiritual beliefs and seeking to live them out with support from one another. And it’s not that organized.

More questions next time!

Whiner-in-Residence

Sunday I was recognized as University Congregational Church's first writer-in-residence. I stood up in front, they said nice things, bopped me on the head with water and there I was.

One of the first things I want to do is start a writing group for returning women veterans. My original idea was to have it be for all vets, but a vet said to me, "One in four women have been sexually harassed and I'll tell you right now they won't open up in front of men." So I changed my idea.

I'm planning on having a twice monthly group that meets for a couple hours in the evening. My original idea was to have a Saturday eight-hour writing retreat like Maxine Hong Kingston does but I realized that will mean a lot of single moms won't be able to come. So I changed my idea.

You can see by now that my original ideas have all changed--for the better--but I felt a little down about this because it seemed so straightforward in the beginning.

Then a very wise friend said, "You have to decide exactly what your role is and what your goal is. And you need to educate yourself about the military and all the issues around it."

She gave me a list of books to read which are all terrific and I love to read and learn new things and try new things but during an exhausted moment the other night I thought, "Why didn't I just offer a writing group for people with cancer? I know about that. I'm expert at that! I wouldn't have to do all this work. Why returning vets?"

And on and on, wah-wah-wah when suddenly, clear as a bell I heard a voice in my head say, "Because that is where the need is."

Sure enough there are enough cancer writing groups to start a small city. But writing groups for women veterans? Not so much.

Why returning vets? Because that is where the need is. 

So I'll get on with the planning and arranging and educating myself and connecting with people. Most people are very supportive except for a few people who walk around wringing their hands and muttering, "What about the liability?"  They are afraid a vet will go crazy and sue the church.

When you get right down to it, anybody could go crazy and sue the church. And on the above mentioned Night of Self Pity I asked myself, "Well, Holy s**t, did Jesus have to put up with this kind of crap?"

Once again, clear as a bell, a voice in my head said, "Not unless you count scourging, flogging and crucifixion. And that crown of thorns was no picnic."

When I hear words in my head like that, I pretty much know that's Jesus talking as my experience of Him is that He can be a super wise-ass.

So I thought, well, if Jesus could start a major world religion with no internet, surely I can start a veteran's writing group. Perhaps you are thinking, "Who are you to compare yourself to Jesus?"

Well, if you call yourself a Christian you'd better be comparing yourself to Jesus all the time, Buster! Although I think it's perfectly fine to occasionally compare yourself to other religious figures as well.

I've compared myself to Ghandi and concluded that I'm fat although I did make my own clergy robe and Ghandi made his own--garment thing. So we have that in common. I'm hyperactive compared to the Buddha. And not enough of a visionary compare to Mohammed.

But I'm happy to say that both Jesus and I are right up there on the wise-ass scale.

Ask Me . . . Anything

I've decided to open this blog up to questions since I receive a lot of questions from readers of It's Not About the Hair. They are excellent questions, so why not share them? And why not share the answers?

So ask away and I'll do my best to give you my honest answer or at least my honest thoughts on your question. I can't pretend to have ALL the answers. Maybe just a few.

Whew. The above paragraph generated a major hot flash. Must mean I'm on to something!

Award/Reward

I've been at the American Academy of Hospice and Palliative Medicine conference this week. I watched several people with decades of experience in medicine receive well-deserved awards.

Many of us will never work in the same job for forty years, so we will never get a "lifetime achievement" or "career" award. (Mothers should definitely be getting awards if they've managed to raise children to become kind and compassionate adults.)

But here's the thing: even if you stay in the same field for forty years, you have to find reward in your work every day or the big award at the end is empty.

I'm so happy to find the rewards in my work. As I watched person after person walk off the stage with a big glass award I wondered, "What do you do with all those things?"

That's just one more reminder of why the daily reward is better: you don't have to dust it.

The Answer

I'm disappointed. Severely disappointed that nobody got the answer to this question: What is wrong with this picture?

I am standing next to a Tse tse fly trap. I am wearing a shirt that has in it the exact colors of a the trap.

Therefore: I am basically begging Tse tse flies to bite me.

And they did.

A River Nile-ist

I am standing on the banks of the Nile River in Uganda and there are SO many things wrong in this picture. What do you think they are?

"It's the clown-like red sunglasses!"

"It's the bad choice of hairstyle which makes your ears look like a baby elephant!"

"It's the mix of prints with your two shirts!"

"Are you not wearing mosquito repellent?"

Is it one of the above answers or something else?

What is the WORST thing in this photo?

I will leave this post up for a week and the first person to provide the correct answer will win a copy of my book. A signed copy. Which I will send to you.

And no talking.

Bald Barbie

I'm the glad the clamor for the Bald Barbie has died down. Last month people were petitioning Mattel to make a bald Barbie doll so that kids on chemo or who had alopecia could have a doll they could relate. I'm not even going to go into all that because at the time I couldn't stop thinking about an experience I had in October at the Uganda Cancer Institute in Kampala interviewing kids with cancer and their parents.

Her belly was swollen and hard and you would swear she was nine months pregnant—except that she was three years old and sitting on her father’s lap. Veroneeka had a Wilms’ tumor the size of a football.

Veroneeka’s father explained to me that he sold his whole crop just to get to Kampala. He was thin as a bamboo pole. He handed me the prescription for Veroneeka’s chemo. It was a long list. I recognized a chemo that I myself had had: Cytoxan. I didn’t envy her.

It turns out I didn’t need to envy her because her father couldn’t afford it. The Ugandan Cancer Institute, as often happens was out of medicines. If that’s the case, then they write you a prescription for chemo and then you go to the pharmacy to buy it. The pharmacy might not have it. If they do, you return to the hospital and they give it to you there.

Chemo in Uganda is a bargain: six-hundred bucks cures most kids with lymphoma. I interviewed parent after parent and the story was the same: they spent everything to get diagnosed and get to Kampala. So there was no money left for chemo.

I wanted to reach into my pocket and say, “Here. Six-hundred bucks. Take it.” But I didn’t have six hundred dollars in my pocket.

What I did have was a backpack full of food bars and little stuffed animals. So when the interview was over, I gave Veroneeka a stuffed dog with ridiculously enormous eyes. She simply sat there silently turning it over and over.

Then I asked her father, “Well, if you have no money, what do you eat?”

He answered, “When Veroneeka does not finish her meal, I eat what she has left.”

I stood up and reached into my pack. “Please take these.” I stuffed food bars into every pocket of his worn shirt. And when he stood up to leave I gave him some more which he put in the pockets of his pants.

He took Veroneeka’s hand and I watched her waddle away. Six hundred dollars to cure her. I considered the cost of my equipment.

My video camera would cure two children. My microphone or twelve pairs of my headphones: one child. I’ve been doing these calculations since I got back. So when I read about the push for the bald Barbie, I did the math in my head: at twenty bucks a pop, thirty Barbie dolls would buy chemo for one child.

And like Veroneeka, I simply sat there silently turning it over and over.

Fear of Recurrence

Happy New Year!

And now for the mail (edited for length):

Your book was recommended to me by a nurse since I had Stage 2b breast cancer. She thought your book might help me feel a little better and that it might help me deal with some issues I had. She was right and I enjoyed it very much. I will be reaching my 1 year diagnosis date on Feb. 23. I'm told the type I had could return at any time because it was in my lymph nodes plus it was an ugly aggressive cancer. Even though I am a Christian and must believe God can heal and is in control, it is hard to ignore the previous statement from the Dr. What are your thoughts to help me with this issue?

Two of my favorite words in the English language: both/and. You can both believe your doctor and believe God can heal. For one thing, your doctor said your cancer could return at any time and that could be 2050. That's the definition of "any time," although we like to think it means "in the next few months."

If you find you are living in a way that is mindful, generous, forgiving, compassionate and playful, because you think cancer could return any second--then carry on.

But if you find that thinking this way has made you fearful, contracted, irritable, impatient and close-minded, then STOP THINKING THIS WAY.

Seriously. I've seen it go either way. Fear of recurrence can liberate you and/or cripple you.

The thought of recurrence crosses my mind a couple times a day and when it does it's like a wake-up call.

Hello? Don't waste a moment.

That doesn't mean I'm crazy busy, it means I'm conscious, aware, curious and grateful for whatever I'm engaged in at the moment: making coffee, turning over in bed, scratching the dog, taking out the garbage, having a bowel movement.

Both/And. It can both drive you crazy and set you free.

And don't worry about choosing between God and your doctor. You know what they say about doctors: they all think they're God anyway.

I'm so glad you liked my book and thanks for taking the time to write.

The Gift for the Giver

Here's what I have learned about gift giving: your pleasure must be in finding and giving the gift because if you're counting on the recipient's response then the gift is really about you and not them.

Here's how I learned this--again. Last June my "faux son" graduated from college. My husband and I consider him and his sister our "faux children." We've known them since they were infants, but more important, we've traveled to exotic locations with them and their parents and endured jellyfish stings, mosquito bites, sprained ankles, food poisoning, heat exhaustion, lacerations and serious fevers. This creates bonds that shopping at Toy 'R Us simply can't provide.

In 2000 we went to Greece and rented what our British neighbor called a "vulgar" pink house on the island of Corfu. We loved it. Our faux son was eleven. While playing on the beach I found this rock. It looked like an eye! We called it "The Eye Rock" and considered it magical and mystical.

I kept this rock until 2011 at which time I thought, "I know just what I'm going to give Faux Son for graduation--the Eye Rock!"

I found a suitably big ring box and lined it with velvet under which I put some quilt stuffing and made a perfect little indentation in which the Eye Rock nestled. But I wasn't done.

I now had to write a blessing from the Eye Rock. I thought about this young man and how smart and kind and sensitive and funny he is. I thought about his hopes and dreams for the future. Overcome with love and affection for him I wept as I wrote:

May the Eye Rock give you Vision to see beyond boundaries and obstacles and see all sides.

May the Eye Rock give you Focus when you need it most.

May the Eye Rock give you Hindsight to learn from your mistakes.

May the Eye Rock give you Foresight to prevent mistakes.

May the Eye Rock enable you to look deeply within yourself.

May the Eye Rock give you Clarity to see what is best for you and those around you.

May the Eye Rock help you see the Divine in every person you meet.

I read this over and over and cried each time. I envisioned him holding the Eye Rock and reading the blessing whenever he was troubled--a bad romance, a work problem, a health issue.

I folded the blessing accordion-style so that it fit into the box. I attached a red silk ribbon onto the parchment so that if you gave it a gentle tug, it would majestically unfold in all its wisdom.

His graduation dinner was at a fancy restaurant and his family and friends were all there. I couldn't stand waiting. I handed him the box and said, "Congratulations, sweetie. Please open it."

I held my breath. He opened it. "Oh, the eye rock," he said. "I remember this."

"Pull on the ribbon."

He pulled on the ribbon and the blessing unfolded. He took a few moments and read it. "Cool! Thanks, Auntie." Then he gave me a hug and got another glass of wine.

So you may be asking yourself, "What did you want?"

I wanted him to choke back tears, hold his hand over his heart and say, "Oh, Auntie, this is best present anyone has ever given me! I'll always think of you whenever I look at it. I'll treasure it forever."

Okay, writing that just now, I'm actually laughing aloud. But this is the High Drama that ego just loves! It took me a while to remember the tears of pure joy and love I shed while thinking of him and putting his gift together.

I realize now that I was also crying because I wished someone had written this for me when I graduated college. I was sure I would have avoided all kinds of problems if only I had had an Eye Rock. Or someone who could have given me one.

My greatest satisfaction was in the making and the giving of his gift. So in this Season of Giving and Great Expectations please find joy in the journey because the response at arrival is uncertain.

May the Eye Rock help you to always see Light in the midst of the Darkness.

The Miracle Continues

Max has reached Red Alert and is running in circles scream-barking. I fling doggy treats in his direction hoping he will shut up. My ears bleeding I stagger to the door and see my friendly UPS man has left a box on my porch.

I carry in the box and Max sensing Something of Interest immediately quiets down. He prances ahead of me into the kitchen. This is the doggy equivalent of the person who says, "Oh, can I help you with that?  Here--right this way. Yes, let me help you," and then does nothing to help.

Holy Hot Dogs! An enormous box of COOKIES from Arran-Paterson the Scottish Cookie Company! Max must have known it was treats from his homeland! I scream-bark and run in circles around the kitchen; do a couple donkey kicks off the counter and dig into the box.

This is a dream come true.

Over cake, over ice cream, over pie, over custard, over hill, over dale, I would take a cookie any day.

I find a hand-written note:
Dear Debra, 
Please enjoy!
From all at Patersons

Oh, my God! WHAT shall I get my new Scottish friends for Christmas?

To refresh your memory: this is the company to whom I sent a complaint message. See post "It's All About the Chocolate" dated, November 2nd, 2011

Here is what they sent (All spelling is just like it is on the package and by "biscuits" they mean "cookies."):

Giant Cookies: Custard Cream; Triple Choc; Bourbon Cream; Fruity Oat. Biscuits: Apple and Cinnamon; Milk Chocolate and Orange; Chocolate Chip and Stem Ginger.  Dunking Bars: Fruit Shrewsbury, Double Choc Chip, Oat and Raisin, Choc Chip and Orange, All Butter. Then there are Orang-U-Tangys, Clotted Cream Shortbread Fingers, and Cheese and Mild Chilli Oat Bites.

As noted in my November 2nd post, many of the packages boast, "No pork, alcohol or palm oil." This conjured up an image of a pig slathered with palm oil, sunning on a beach and drinking a Mai-Tai. Well, there's none of that in these products!

I'm sure Kosher Jews appreciate no pork. No alcohol suits many people. No palm oil?

Well, it turns out that by not using palm oil, they are saving the orangutangs. Vast areas of rainforests in South East Asia are being destroyed to make way for palm oil plantations and it's threatening their survival.

So I guess the more Orang-U-Tangys I eat, the better for the rainforest! And the orangutangs! Not so much for my thighs.

Wow. I can't get over a big company responding to a consumer--a foreign consumer--this way. A pre-Christmas miracle.

I'll think about sharing .  .  .

Leave On Your Inner Light

Old protective husk

encounters perfect conflict,

reveals inner light.

Lunaria. My friend Annie and I see these plants on our morning walk. The first time I spotted one I said, "Money plant! This is how you make money!" and then I showed her how to rub the dried pods so that the husk comes off to reveal these opalescent leaves. 

She turned 50 last week so for her birthday I wrote the above haiku and gave her a framed photo I took of a money plant--except that now I like to think of it as the "Inner Light" plant. 

Sometimes it takes just the perfect amount of conflict, tension or friction for us to lose our old skins, our old way of being. We all shy away from this. "I don't like conflict!" And yet when we meet it and allow it to show us a new way, our inner light is revealed. 

Most of us are conflict averse but how can there be any life without conflict? What happens when the shovel hits the soil? That's conflict! Without that conflict the soil will remain hard, unforgiving and nothing in it will grow. Except maybe weeds.

The next time Truth sticks in my throat because I'm too afraid of conflict to say it, I hope I remember the Lunaria. If all I get is a headache maybe the conflict will help reveal the other person's inner light!