Autumn in Southern California

Oh yes – it’s October in Southern California. Yesterday I was laid up with the flu. Since my electronic weather station is visible from my bed, I watched it as the outdoor temperature gradually crept up to 91 degrees, the humidity dropped to 14% and the Santa Ana winds blew the smell of smoke in through my windows. My dry skin cracked and itched. And then I got an email from my sister containing this picture she took from her house:

As a child, I was no stranger to brush fires. In fact, they were my biggest fear. I remember my father driving me up the hill to watch fires burning nearby. When we came home, he calmly hosed down the roof (most of the roofs in the neighborhood were made of wood shingles in those days) while I nervously packed my emergency evacuation bag. Of course at that age, most of the contents of the emergency bag were stuffed animals and Garfield comic books. The worst part was in the days following the fire, when my dad took me for a drive around the burned areas. I never even noticed if there were burnt out shells if homes, because I was too distraught by the deer and rabbits who had lost their lives in the firestorm. To all you parents out there - don't take your children on fire damage tours!

Our neighborhood always fared fine in the fires, which seemed to recur every few years. Friends who lived in even more fire-prone neighborhoods regularly showed up with their horses and dogs, seeking safe shelter while telling hair-raising stories of flames in their backyard.

But lately it seems that every year is a major fire year. In 2003, the 100,000+ acre Simi fire burned to about 4 miles from my house. I thought that after that, there couldn’t possibly be enough brush left over to burn for many years. But each year, there is another one fire close enough that the plumes of smoke drift over my home, turning the sun’s rays an eerie orange color. Here is a photo I took from my house a few years ago:

One year, a fire burned to within 15 feet of an apartment I used to live in. You can see in the photo below the charred hillside right alongside the apartment building. Another year, my parents brought juice to the exhausted firefighters sleeping on cots at the end of their street.

A couple of days ago, my mother and I headed to a Dodger game leaving my father to decide if he was going to obey an evacuation order by bringing his horses to the stables at a local community college. This is not the first time that we have gone to Dodger Stadium leaving my Dad facing a decision like this. I am starting to associate the Dodgers playing in the playoffs with brush fires! We felt vaguely guilty, as if we were kids playing hooky from school, until we rationalized that we would just be in my Dad’s way if we stayed behind. And there is no shame in having some fun!

As we drove home from the game after dark, we once again could see bright red flames moving down distant hillsides. It is an awe inspiring and terrifying sight, especially because I am always aware that the flames are moving towards the house of a friend or family member. Is it insensitive that I should care more when my friends are in harm’s way than when strangers are?

The only bright spot in all of this worry is that I get an opportunity to see heroes in action. There is a big park around the corner from my house. It is used as firefighting headquarters for just about every major fire within 40 miles. It is awe inspiring to watch the fire trucks pull in from all over the state from Humboldt County to San Diego to aid in the group efforts. The level of efficient organization is obvious even from the road. Volunteers man tables providing hot meals to the famished firefighters. Portable toilets line up at the edge of the field. Tents and RVs serve as command centers. Passing motorists honk and wave thank yous to the hard working young men and women risking their lives to save our homes. So I would like to dedicate this blog entry to all the brave fire fighters working in dangerous conditions this week.

The Little Rose Bush that Could

I have lived in my house for almost six years now. Since it is a townhouse, I am technically not in charge of the plants outside my home. They are in the "common area" and therefore the responsibility of the homeowners association, who has hired a series of gardening companies to do the task.

Just outside my front door are two rather anemic plants. One is a gardenia and the other a rose bush. They planted a bit too close to the house, so the angle of the sun rarely gets past the eaves of the roof to reach the plants. It usually takes them all summer just to produce a bloom or two, at which point the gardeners inevitably whack off all the flowers as part of their periodic "pruning."

Not being very knowledgeable about gardening, and definitely wanting to avoid run-ins with the HOA, I have watched helplessly as these plants, especially the rose bush, remained tiny and flowerless year after year.

Well, this summer, the rose bush has suddenly sprouted. Amazingly, this bush put out a branch much thicker and stronger than the rest. The branch grew straight upward, quickly surpassing the other branches, which hover around 2 feet tall. And then it just kept growing, and growing and growing and growing....

Eventually the branch hit the eaves of the roof, and still kept going, curving over slightly so it could grow along the roof line. And then the fateful day that I had been dreading came pruning day. The current gardening company is not quite as opposed to greenery as the others we have had in the last few years. Nevertheless, the branch did get a trim, bringing it back down to about 4 feet high.

At that point, I thought it was over. An unlikely spurt nipped in the bud. But the plant had other plans. About an inch below the spot where it had been trimmed, a side branch began sprouting. Withing days, the side branch turned upward and just continued on the path straight towards the roof that it was on before pruning day. And now, it has reached the eaves yet again, and is bending and snaking around, still growing several inches a day.

I must admit that I am fascinated with this rose bush! It is almost as if it has just decided, "I am tired of being stunted by lack of sunlight, overzealous gardeners, and every other factor beyond my control. I am just going to find a way to thrive on my own, and nothing will stop me." What an inspiration for me, and anyone else who ever felt that they were living below their potential. We can just follow the rose bush's example and find a way to thrive no matter what!

Above is a photo of my cat,
Bugsy, staring amazed
at the rose bush.

Olympics Mania

Guess what I am doing right now (other than writing this entry). I am watching the Olympics, of course! I turned down several invitations this weekend. Going to a dance, the bead show, a free concert in the park...nothing could tempt me away from the couch. Even a new episode of Monk, my favorite TV show, was recorded to watch later - after the Olympics.

So, why do I go so crazy for the Olympics? I mean, I am not a huge sports fan. I love the Dodgers. I get really excited about NCAA basketball, especially my Georgetown Hoyas. I watch the Super Bowl. But I don't really watch track meets, volleyball games or diving championships regularly. I roll my eyes when I visit my parents' house and find them glued to the Tour de France or Wimbledon on TV.

I did, however, spend much of my time during my formative years at swim meets. No, not competing, or watching either. I was just being an annoying toddler, distracting my mother while she tried to cheer on my sister Heidi, who was a truly exceptional swimmer.

But I think the addiction really started in 1984 - when the Olympics came to Los Angeles. The only event that I actually attended was dressage (for all of you non-equestrian types, that means horse dancing), since that is my father's passion. But my mother made sure that my sister Karen and I had a real Olympic experience. We visited the Olympic villages at UCLA and USC and saw the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum (which also hosted the 1932 Olympics). We saw the torch relay. We traded Olympic pins, and bought silly sunglasses shaped like the Olympic rings. And most importantly, we watched the televised gymnastics competitions.

With all of the American gymnastic success in 1984, it was quite an exciting time for an impressionable 10-year-old. I am sureI was already taller than Mary Lou Retton, the gold medal winning U.S. star. But I was entranced. I couldn't decide who I had a bigger crush on - Peter Vidmar or Bart Conner, both of whom won individual gold's in addition to the men's team gold. I was fascinated with the names of the Russian and Romanian athletes - especiall Ecaterina Szabo.

After the Olympics were over, my best friend, Shani, and I watched all of the made-for-television movies about Nadia Comenici, and I blushed when Shani told me I looked like Nadia's teammate, Teodora, when I wore my long, straight hair in a ponytail. We came up with our own competitions, which mostly consisted of doing somersaults on our beds, or flips onto rafts in the swimming pools in our backyards. We invented exotic names for ourselves and countries to compete for and gave each other scores. It is a minor miracle that we didn't seriously injure ourselves doing the "balance beam" on the tile separator between the hot tub and pool at Shani's house. Looking back now, I wonder where our parents were, and if the overly supervised, video game watching kids of today get the chance be as creative and free as we were during the long, hot San Fernando Valley summers.

I still love watching gymnastics, but now I am fascinated with another aspect of the Olympics. I am tirelessly curious about the random faces in the crowd. This year it first struck me during the spectacular opening ceremonies. Reportedly, there were over 15,000 Chinese performers. At one point, after a technically amazing demonstration, the performers took boxes off of themselves to reveal that it was humans putting on the show, not machines. In the sea of performers, who were apparently chosen for their identical appearances, there was one man who caught my eye. He was grinning in delight.

I can't help but wonder about this man. What is his life like? How did he get this job? What job will he go back to after all of the Olympic excitement is over? Does his life in China have anything in common with mine? One of my friends was a performer in the opening ceremonies of the 1984 Olympics. She was a child actress who could be seen in TV commercials. Of 1.3 billion Chinese people, how many dare to dream of such a life?

Other faces in the crowd intrigue me just as much. Today, while watching the women's marathon, I noticed an Algerian athlete. Unlike the others in their skin-tight spandex hardly covering more than my bikini does, she wore a normal length pair of shorts and a t-shirt thatt covered her whole stomach. As a woman from a Muslim country, how is she treated back home? Is she seen as heroic or scandalous? What about the Kenyan runners? Do they come from a remote village like the ones I see in National Georgraphic magazine or a big city with cars and cell phones and video games? What is it like for them to travel the world and compete?

My heart soars for the Jamaican track star who shattered the world record to become the fastest man in the world. I am inspired by Dara Torres (she went to my high school!) who, at age 41, doesn't allow a that to determine her ability level, beating swimmers who weren't even born yet the first time she competed in the Olympics. My heart bleeds for the injured athletes who were laid up on their first steps and may never realize their Olympic dreams.

I love my country and am proud of all the U.S. Olympic accomplishments. But there is something about the Olympics that reminds me that we are more connected by our humanity than we are separated by our nationalities.

And the best part - there is still another week to go. If you were thinking about inviting me to do anything between now and August 24th, consider yourself warned!

Diane Patton, a shining star...

What can I say about Diane? She is a shining star. Giant smile, infectious laugh. All about fun and all about love. Unconventional and non-judgmental. Everyone who came into contact with her is her friend. I never once heard anything negative come out of her mouth or a single criticism of another person. I am so lucky that I met Diane. That is her wearing red, standing next to me in the picture below from last New Year's Eve.

On June 25^th, Diane left this world. She had breast cancer the entire four years I knew her. Most people she knew casually never would have guessed. Diane believed that the best way to counteract the cancer was not through radiation or drugs. She believed in living and eating healthily. She believed in the power of natural healing. She drank wheat grass juice and practiced Reiki. She danced and laughed and spent time with the people she loved. I was so sure that it would work. I can’t quite wrap my mind around the fact that someone who was so vividly alive is no longer living.

Today we celebrated her life. So many people – family, neighbors, parents of children she taught, fellow Reiki practitioner, swing dancers – she touched all of our lives. What a treat to hear her sisters and brothers tell stories about Diane from their childhood years. How special to finally meet the grown sons she was so proud of. How amazing to sit on the pier and watch the seagulls fly over, see a lone fisherman in a canoe, feel the ocean breeze and hear the children playing in the waves. Reminders that life is all around us.

This truly was a celebration – everyone wearing bright colors. We told funny stories about Diane. We danced and laughed and smiled and loved each other. I learned so much from Diane about appreciating things, enjoying what is going on right now, loving unconditionally. Diane, you modeled every wonderful quality that I aspire to have. I promise you that every day I will appreciate something about my life. And I will see something wonderful in everyone I meet.

This lovely poem was handed out to us at the celebration today:

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

Manzanar

It has been over two weeks since I visited Manzanar, but the experience is still very much with me. If you don’t know what Manzanar is, I can give you a brief history. It is one of ten internment camps where over 110,000 Japanese Americans from the West Coast of the United States were sent to live during World War II. Although I am not of Japanese ancestry, the whole time I was visiting there, I felt a vivid sensation of being connected to this part of history.

Manzanar is in the Owens Valley, a sparsely populated high desert area that we drive through when traveling to Mammoth Lakes or Reno from Southern California. The scenery is spectacular with the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range (capped by 14,505 foot Mt. Whitney) to the West and the White Mountains to the East. The weather is hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but windy year-round.

I visited with a friend on the way back from spring skiing at Mammoth Lakes. There is not much left at the site, which was mostly disassembled after the war. But in 2004, the National Park Service opened a visitor center in one of the few remaining buildings. On the beautiful, temperate sunny late-April day we visited, at first it was difficult to switch gears from doing sporting activities in the outdoors to going into a dark visitor center.

When I started reading the displays and histories presented in the visitor center, my first reaction was, “This is so depressing. Get me out of here!” I felt almost nauseous imaging what it must have been like. Law abiding, hard-working families were given two-week’s notice before incarceration. Many abandoned jobs, homes and pets, which weren’t allowed into the interment camps. They could only bring what they could carry with them. Many were forced to live in horse stalls at the Santa Anita racetrack before the interment camps were ready for them. Once at Manzanar, all residents had to share barracks with other families and feel the wind and dirt coming in through the inadequate wall. For most, their careers and homes and all else that they had worked for were not waiting for them after they were finally allowed to live in freedom on the West Coast years later, and they had to start over. Many chose to relocate to Wisconsin and other Eastern states where they knew nobody, just to regain their freedom.

I am puzzled by the decision to place Japanese Americans into these camps, while we fought overseas to free people from concentration camps. German-Americans and Italian-Americans were not sent to camps, although we were also at war with Germany and Italy. Many government officials, including J. Edgar Hoover, who headed the FBI at the time, saw no reason to question the loyalty of Japanese Americans, yet still this ill conceived plan was approved by the president. Perhaps it was because the German and Italian Americans can’t readily be distinguished visually from other Americans of European descent, while the Japanese looked different. I guess looking for a rational explanation to irrational racism is futile.

But the closer I looked at the lives of the Manzanar residents, the more inspired I became but the small stories of individual lives. A local woman became a schoolteacher at Manzanar and brought her own daughter to school there just so she could help out people who she believed were being unjustly persecuted. Young internees formed swing bands and baton twirling classes so they could express themselves as other teenagers do. Craftspeople turned fruit crates into beautiful furniture for their barracks homes. Those raised with a love of nature built stunning Japanese gardens to provide them with a beautiful place they could rest and transcend their current experience. Instead of complaining, most residents did whatever they could to turn the camp into a community. What an inspiring message to focus on those things that are within our power to change, that have the power to bring us happiness and peace.

My initial reaction of, “Why should I spend the day in a depressing place and focus on things that depress me?” completely turned around. I walked away feeling that I could not have spent my day in a more spiritual place. I felt connected with all human beings regardless of what side of the war we fought on, what religion we follow, and what our outer appearance looks like. Although I have always believed in due process and freedom, I know that this experience reminded me in a very tangible way of how important it is that we vigilantly stand up for the rights of each citizen of the world.

At the Manzanar graveyard, brightly colored origami cranes left behind by visitors who came to the annual Manzanar pilgrimage the previous day, were scattered by the wind onto the desolate desert sand. A lizard climbed onto the stones marking the gravesite of a stray dog adopted by Manzanar residents. While staring at the concrete remains of a fountain that used to flow in a long-abandoned Japanese garden, I could suddenly see adults sitting in the shade of the cottonwood trees above. I could hear the laughter of children playing with their batons. I could feel the energy of all who lived in this now-barren place – happy and sad, accepting and angry, young and old, strong and frail – and was at one with all of it.

J.B. Fletcher Fan Club

I like television. I really enjoy it and I am glad that I have the opportunity to watch it. That is not an easy thing for me to say to the world. I hear so many people with the “Turn off the TV, turn on life” message. It is not that I disagree with their message. I check in all the time to make sure I am not allowing a TV show to keep me from living my life how I want to. I read books and the newspaper. I go swing dancing a couple nights a week. I get together with friends. I spend time exercising and enjoying nature. I think critically about what I am watching so that I don’t allow the popular media to control my ideas. So, I am not going to turn off my favorite TV shows just to please someone else.

Speaking of my favorite TV shows, I love the crime solving shows. Not the ones that show suspenseful murder scenes or dramatic car chases. I like the ones that focus on untangling the clues (often called “forensics” on TV these days) to figure out how the crime was committed and who did it. I guess it is in line with my other puzzle solving passions (like jigsaw puzzles, sudoku puzzles, crossword puzzles, and my new favorite: kakuro puzzles).

I am thrilled that “Murder, She Wrote” reruns are being shown every night on Hallmark Channel. Believe it or not, this is my favorite thing to watch while I am unwinding to go to bed. Forget David Letterman of Jay Leno. I spend my late nights with Jessica Fletcher. I will never forget talking to a college friend of mine way back when “Murder, She Wrote” was still in production. He said, “That would be a great show if it weren’t for the old lady.”

Well, respectfully, I disagree. As much as we have been conditioned to expect that crime solvers are supposed to be gruff, cynical middle-aged men, I think Jessica Fletcher is a perfect role-model. I sure wouldn’t’ want to be friends with her, since everywhere she goes, a murder happens. But here are her qualities that I think are worth emulating:

1) She is creative. I mean, the woman writes books! Fictional murder mysteries require a lot of creativity.

2) She is friendly. She has friends all over the world that she visits all the time. And she treats them with great respect and great care. She never manipulates them or passes judgment on their homes, clothes or choices of spouses.

3) She is focused. She does not allow anything (especially police officers who think she is a nuisance) from pursuing the truth when she wants to find it. And it is the truth she is seeking, not a convenient or obvious solution.

4) She is adventurous. She travels all over the place – by herself much of the time. She lives alone in a big house, and when something breaks or when she needs to learn about a new technology (like computers to replace her typewriter) she asks other people to teach her what she needs to know to do it herself.

5) She has no regrets. She is a widow who loved her husband, but does not allow memories of what her life used to be like during her happy marriage to prevent her from living fully in the present.

6) She is not concerned with playing a defined role in life. She continually defies expectations. Nobody expects a widowed 60-year-old former school teacher of her generation to become a best-selling author or to solve crimes all over the world. But she really doesn’t care what the societal expectations of an “old lady” are. She just does what she is good at and loves to do.

7) She is not egotistical. She doesn’t spend time defending herself, making sure she gets credit for her deductive ability or bragging to others. Her interest is in getting to the truth, not proving that she is right.

8) She notices everything! She is so aware that she notices discrepancies in what people say and the arrangement of physical objects. This is the key to solving all those crimes, of course. But think of all the other benefits of that kind of presence. She understands her friends’ values better. She can make better decisions for her own protection. It is amazing.

9) She says, “No,” and means it. Sometimes it is to having dinner with her friend, Seth when she wants to work on her book. Sometimes it is to a flirtatious man. In any case, she is very aware of what she is willing to do and not willing to do, and states it clearly and politely. That way, she doesn’t play the martyr doing things she doesn’t want to do, and she doesn’t take responsibility for other peoples’ desires and expectations.

10) She doesn’t mind that some of her interests don’t seem to go together. For example, she likes cooking and solving murders. She is not concerned that our society has an idea that a crime solver is interested in macho things. She is not playing a role, she is a cook and a crime solver, so what does she care about what others think.

So, I have decided that my friend is entirely wrong about “Murder, She Wrote” being a great crime solving show, in spite of the main character. I think it is a great show because of the integrity and unexpectedness of this fascinating mature woman. How inspiring to all of the people out there who don’t quite fit the stereotypical profiles of their professional. All of the little boys who dream of being ballet dancers, mid-career moms who dream of becoming firefighters, and senior citizens who want to build houses for the homeless… follow Jessica’s lead.

By the way, it seems that Angela Lansbury, the actress who plays Jessica Fletcher, shares many of her character’s fine qualities. I read a few days ago that she is currently serving as the spokesperson for the ALS Association. At age 82, she explains why she has not been appearing in many roles lately. “The parts that I'm offered are often old, decrepit women, and I refuse to play those roles! There are actors who will, and do it very, very well. I could do it rather well too. But I'm not going to. I want women my age to be represented the way they are, which is vital, productive members of society." Way to go Angela!

Springtime in Southern California

Aah – springtime in Southern California. It is so unbelievably beautiful here this month. A “perfect storm” of winter rains and mild March temperatures have turned the hills of Los Angeles and Ventura Counties into a bloom-fest. Much to my delight (and the bane of allergy sufferers) all of the trees, wildflowers and grasses came back to life at exactly the same time this year.

With a more flexible schedule this year, I have had much more opportunity to spend time in the great outdoors. I even have a bit of a farmers tan already. I can walk right out my door and get to the park behind the library with the duck pond in just ten-minutes. I enjoy feeding the ducks and watching people play with their kids on the playground. On the way home, I walk through a bigger park – one that has a big open field, horse corrals, a community garden, and a dog park. What a taste of rural living in a suburban world!

My favorite though, is hiking through the hills. I seem to get some of my best ideas while walking in nature. With the early onset of daylight savings time this year, one of my friends has invited me to take a weekly hike with her after work on Tuesdays. Both of us are shutterbugs, so we get more picture taking done than walking sometimes!

NATIVE VS. NON-NATIVE PLANTS

In the midst of the temporarily green grasses, giant sycamores lining creek beds, and majestic oaks dotting the hills, I notice the wildflowers. I am especially excited by the subtle purple of the lupine and the glowing orange of the California golden poppies. I used to get excited also about the swaths of mustard flowers that turn the hills from green to yellow late in the wildflower season.

I now know that the mustard is not a native plant, but an import that came to California along with the European settlers. Like palm and eucalyptus trees and the manicured lawns and maple trees that adorn front yards all over the region, the mustard caught on big and thrived here. I don’t know why people feel compelled to come to a beautiful new place, and rather than appreciate the native landscape and rhythm of the seasons, they feel compelled to try to turn it into the place they came from.

Mustard and other non-native grasses are thriving here to the point of choking out the native grasses beyond the point of no return. The non-native grasses are not adapted by evolution to the unique summer dry season in California, and may a major cause of the more frequent wildfires we have been experiencing in the last decade or so. Ironically, firefighters spray the hillsides of recently burned areas with a seed mixture to encourage quick growth to avoid deadly landslides during the rainy winter months. But this practice is furthering the growth of non-native grasses and likely contributing to the next round of wildfires.

Now that I know more about the mustard flowers and their role in our landscape here, suddenly they are not as beautiful to me. Likewise, knowing how palms and eucalyptus help spread fires, and how the water-intensive lawns and ornamental trees contribute to the water shortages plaguing the American West, has diminished their beauty in my eyes.

I guess it is kind of like another phenomenon that I experience. I have noticed that I think all of my friends are very good looking. People who have been mean to me are ugly. My perception of people’s appearance is affected by my perception of their personality. Now that I put it in writing, it seems kind of silly, but understandable.

GRATITUDE

So to take my mind off of non-native vegetation and wildfires, I have been focusing on gratitude. It started when my friend first invited me on the Tuesday evening hikes, and then an outing to the Descanso Gardens and Griffith Observatory. I found myself gushing, “This was so fun – exactly what I needed. Thank you for inviting me!” What I noticed was that I felt great when I was feeling gratitude.

I have other moments of joy during which I feel gratitude – especially when my cat curls up to cuddle with me, and then my kitten sits on my shoulder and purrs. I could burst from feeling so lucky to have these sweet, loving creatures in my life. So now, in addition to the spontaneous moments of gratitude, I have been deliberately practicing gratitude.

When I am hiking, I remind myself how grateful I am to live so close to all these great hiking trails through beautiful hills – plus having such great weather that I can basically enjoy them year-round. When I get an email from a friend, I think, “I am so grateful that this person is my friend.” When I curl up in bed at night, I think, “I am so grateful to have such a comfortable bed and soft sheets.”

The more I practice gratitude, the easy it gets. Plus, I focus more on the things I am grateful for, giving less room for unpleasant thoughts.