My happy place

I have this special friend. His name is Zachary. He is four years old. I massaged his Mom during her whole pregnancy, he missed his due date, my birthday, by 5 days. He didn't really talk until he was 3 but only because his genetics are wired in a way that allows him to over think the very syllables of a word (and probably the mathematics of it in chaos theory) not due to any lack of smarts. His Grandfather is a famous surgeon but he cant work a VCR to save his life. Without words, just those big brown orbs to rely on for communication; we have a lifelong bond. The first time he twirled my hair up in his fingers while laying on my lap and said "I love you Saneffany" out of the blue, was the day I labeled it "my happy place". That's where this brain goes when I'm sad and need solace.

I stopped going over to Zachary's house about 9 months ago. His Dad was behaving poorly and my psychic self knew it. It made it strained to be in the house. I couldn't connect with his Mom at all because she was trying to survive her own intuition. I was trying to build a life here in LA and it continues to take so much work, on all levels. Zachary got set aside in a way I never intended. That boy and I, that's love capital L. I talked to him on the phone today because his uncle is getting married and I will be there this weekend for the reception in Napa. He said "Auntie Stef, it's been a rully long time". I said, "I know and I am sorry, we will have so much fun together this weekend and I love you". " I love you too".

Oh my. How do people have kids and still remain solid mass? I swear I would break into a million atoms if I loved anyone more.

Are you my mother?

Here is a recent excerpt from my Moms blog that proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am her daughter. "Where are you from?" is the most difficult question for me to answer to date.
Mom:
That question has become as difficult for me as "Where are you from?" What does that mean? Where was I born? Where have I spent most of my life? What place do I most identify with? Where did I live most recently, before this place where we've just met? I don't know. How do other people answer this question?So...where do I live? I live wherever my little trailer happens to be, which, as you know, is currently on a beach in Mexico. How long will I be here? I don't know. Where will I go next? I don't know. Should I stay here until my savings is gone or go back to the US of A before then and look for a job, do the responsible thing? I don't know."I don't know" has become my mantra. I think that's okay but I really don't know. Would it be better if I were clear about what I want, my intentions, my desires? Maybe, but so far not knowing has worked out pretty darn good. For instance, I ended up here on a whim, "here" being this trailer park on the Sea of Cortes:
Me:
Is it where you were born but never really lived( though your whole family does), where you lived the longest in one place, or accumulative time spent in one place over time, or where I moved here from? I get it Mom.
Here is my answer when there is time. I was born in St.Louis but was raised in Berkeley until I was 7. We then moved to the mountains and coast of Oregon. I went to high school in Portland and then after graduation I immediately moved to Santa Barbara, then to SF. I moved to Hawaii for my the better part of my twenties and then back to SF,Oakland, Berkeley.. I most recently moved to Santa Monica but first started out here in West Hollywood.
Please God, WHERE AM I FROM??

Just

What is it about the word “just” that adds an emphasis of sincerity that it seems to not deserve? Just is a word that nearly denounces, as if it happened already, yet when my Grandma says, “ I just love you so much”. It melts me.
The nurses at the ICU refer to Maggie as “Miracle Maggie”.
She is living with her boyfriend and goes to physical therapy two times a week. I JUST can’t believe life. Two weeks ago we were given two likely worst-case scenarios. An amazing gift she has given me, she doesn’t even know it yet.

I have humbly taken up oil pastel drawing. I bought the poster boards for the purpose of doing a “vision” board collage and was suddenly inspired to draw as my dear friend Pete played acoustic guitar for me in my sunny backyard. We lived together in SF 17 years ago. Here is an excerpt of my writing about that time…

“I was living in San Francisco with ten long haired, heavy metal, east coast intellectuals, hoping to make it big, guys in a two story Victorian across the street from the projects. We all have at least one “shot at” story. We were having the time of our lives though. Most of us only now know that though. Yeah, being broke sucked and we were all desperately confused about our place and meaning but it was fun. Has anything changed? Now we are just confused alone, not as a group. Height Street in the early nineties was something to behold. It had all the elements that make up a nineties version of a sixties phenomenon. People were still entertaining to look at and everything had an edge. Now it just looks like good shopping and no one I know now can really afford to live there. I had nicer flats then and that was 17 years ago.”

Pete now lives 10 blocks from me in Santa Monica. We just look at each other and know. We know about pain and disappointment but we mostly know about the importance of love and how loving ones self can guide us more softly through the paths of aging. Art and song, the love of friends, truly nothing else matters. My dear friend Mike and the singer/guitar player/ creator of the band just finished the 6Th CD in the studio while simultaneously completing his thesis and thus getting his masters in philosophy. He only operates at this level. Idle time does not suit Mike.
So, now I have colored my way through this Memorial Day weekend. I’m reflecting upon last year. Titled “best summer ever”. Braden was my gift from Stinson heaven and then came Hawaii and all the closure and pleasure that trip brought to me. I met Dr. B and he re-ignited my desire to write poetry. He wrote the nicest words about me in a poem I have ever read. Our time was short as friends and I’m not sure why except that some stories are short and they still sell pleasure. Pete is a novel; Braden is a work in progress. He is hand written.
I met Toad at the end of that summer. That story is written in the ether's. Reporters from other dimensions are constantly collecting our information. We meet in the zero point. Where all that is, is. Here in this one I walk forward and away. He runs. I can’t stop him from ahead. It just doesn’t work that way. So I draw my amateur ways and bless his talents.

Pictures of Tuson, so bittersweet...

These pix are so Maggie can see all the
people who love her and were there for her.


Lynns art studio Lynns kitchen at 5:30 AM



Xavier Mission where we lit candles for Maggie. So unbelievably beautiful.

Grandma Sue, Uncle Jerry, and me.

Biggie after eating too many stolen cholate chip cookies. O'mally ate more than him I think.

Club ICU

I kept thinking about the last lines of the movie " American Beauty" in the ICU over the last 4 days. I just can't believe how good and kind most people really are. The waiting room at UMA hospital never had less than 15 people at any given moment. Usually about 25 though. People stopped working.People worked and then rushed to the hospital and stayed until midnight. People brought a buffet of food everyday. (Believe me it shows too. Not a whole lot to do but wait and talk and EAT.We were laughing that Maggie is going to wake up 30 pounds thinner and we will all be 30 pounds more.) Really though, I am profoundly effected by the kindness in most humans. I am really proud to come from the people I come from too. We are nice. We are nice thoughtful people that put others first.
And we are strong.
For any moment I have ever felt single and alone in the world... I take it all back. I am not alone at all.

(American Beauty, Kevin Spacey voice over)

I had always heard your entire life
flashes in front of your eyes the second
before you die.
(Or someone you love almost does..)

First of all, that one second isn't a
second at all, it stretches on forever,
like an ocean of time.

For me, it was lying on my back at Boy
Scout camp, watching falling stars...
(Or building elaborate caterpillar hotels in the woods in Oregon)

And yellow leaves, from the maple trees,
that lined my street...
(Fresh cut grass after a mid-western thunderstorm at Dad’s house)

Or my grandmother's hands, and the way
her skin seemed like paper...
(And her sheets smelled better than anyone else’s ever could)

And the first time I saw my cousin Tony's
brand new Firebird...
(The first time I swam in warm ocean water)

And Janie...
(And Sean)

And Janie...
(And Johnny)

(And Tony, Alan, Jasper and Greg...ha ha.)

I guess I could be pretty pissed off
about what happened to me... but it's
hard to stay mad, when there's so much
beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel
like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's
too much, my heart fills up like a
balloon that's about to burst..
and then I remember to relax, and stop
trying to hold on to it, and then it
flows through me like rain and I can't
feel anything but gratitude for every
single moment of my stupid little life...

My beautiful cousin

I had a whole lot to say but now nothing really matters but this...

You better get better Maggie.

I love you.