REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

Ray's OK, But Won't Like Apocalyptic Thinking

This is a banner that flew over the Jazz Museum in New Orleans French Quarter, next to Voodoo Authentica.

Ray Whiting at My Life is alive and fairly well--thank God. Yesterday I placed a photo of him in my post hoping he was OK. This morning I received an e-mail from Ray’s daughter Susan in Texas reporting that he is OK for now. He is on higher ground, but definitely has no way out and his family has no way in to get to him yet. As soon as they can get him, they will, but "it could take weeks" she said. Ye Gods! Then I received an e-mail from Darla, someone I don't know, but is on a listserv with Ray--and his phone was actually working and she spoke to him. I have not been able to get through to him.

I have tuned in to CNN a few times today, but the whole thing breaks my heart, so I’ve decided to do all my catch-up work today in prep for my return to work tomorrow. I am deeply heartened by all the truly heroic acts being continuously accomplished by rescue personnel--but also by regular old people who just care.

Ray has his issues with fundamentalist Christianity, which he often speaks of at My Life. Wait until he gets access to BeliefNet’s story today, “Did God Send the Hurricane? Ray, if you eventually read this, is your hair standing on end? It's a well balanced article, but parts of it simply leave me with my mouth hanging open. It would never have occurred to me in a hundred years to think that this is the apocalypse and we are being punished for evacuating the Jews from the Golan Heights, which is apparently one of the apocalyptic theories. This article gives one a lot of food for thought, though I must admit my heart is racing with anger right now.

The first two paragraphs of Deborah Caldwell’s “Did God Send the Hurricane?” follows:

What caused Hurricane Katrina to slam the U.S. Gulf Coast? Was it a typical late-summer tropical storm caused by wind, water, and heat? Mother Nature crying out on behalf of the earth’s pain? An angry God?

Depends whom you ask. All along the theological and political spectrum, Katrina has crystallized people’s fears into a now-familiar brew of apocalyptic theories similar to what we saw after September 11 and after the Asian tsunami several months ago.

So, anyone who reads this, did it ever enter your mind that natural disasters like the hurricane, tsunamis, earthquakes, for example, are punishments from God? I can't even believe I'm asking this question, though I try to remain open-minded when people think differently than I do.

Remembering New Orleans As It Was

Like Hollywood itself, which I wrote about yesterday, New Orleans is another magical, mystical place in the United States. At the bottom of this blog, in my photo albums, are shots from a trip I made there last year. It seems hard to believe that the city is now largely underwater.

This is the St. Louis Cathedral at the edge of Jackson Square Park, the oldest cathedral in the United States and near the banks of the Mississippi River and Riverwalk. How did it fare? Only time will tell.

And how is my friend Ray doing who was unable to leave the city, but wrote about the encroaching Katrina until very near the time it hit? Needless to say, his last entry was the night before the hurricane hit at his My Life Blog. And we all know that New Orleans is in extremely critical condition, but other smaller gulf towns have literally been flattened. Ray, I'm hugging you and Hazel, carrying you in my mind and prayers.

Just as I had to do after Sept. 11 and the tsunami last year, I have to ultimately limit my intake of news as I get more and more anxious and depressed as I watch. I tend not to dwell on the negative in my life, but I also know that sometimes the negative has to seep out to reach peace and balance. Here is an excerpt from my handwritten journal tonight:

Watch one news station after another and the devastation is much worse than originally thought. Hurricane Katrina is probably the worst natural disaster in U.S. recent history. Each scene, each report, is more dire than the one before. Looting on Canal Street, water pumping stations inoperable, people trapped in and on top of houses and buildings, food and water running out--and no way to simply get out. People camp on the high ground of the Interstate to escape the fetid water. Very hot and humid--I can hardly imagine because it was hot and humid in the spring when I visited and it's probably at least 20 degrees hotter now. There but for the grace of God go any of us--though that is ridiculous within itself--as though God could have prevented this and chose not to. Now here comes the spectre of a grim theological ramble--NOT! So, no matter how affluent and well connected people are, they are simply reduced to survival in spite of their status in situations like this. I close my eyes and grotesque animated art of Dante's Inferno, complete with sound, bounce against my mind. I'm so aware that my reaction is a form of projection--over which I do have control. This I do know. We humans fight for control--using our money, possessions, and people for safety buffers. But, in an instant, we can be reduced to hunger, thirst, being homeless, carless, electronicless. All we have left in circumstances like this is the knowledge that countless people are working tirelessly "out there" to save us. I think of Jesus on the cross--My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? And yet, the prayers of all of us around the world unify us in a way that we wouldn't have otherwise. These kinds of disasters are mysteries and I've never been fond of that genre.

This is the mighty white marble statue of Old Man River on Riverwalk, next to the Mississippi in New Orleans. Somehow or other I use him as an image of power and strength. He will do his part to bring comfort to the people.

This banner hangs in the French Quarter. Everyone attempting to survive needs their own grace note right now--and so do we because we feel so helpless.

The Mystique of Hollywood

For those of us who grew up in Los Angeles "in the good old days," Hollywood Blvd. and Hollywood itself are synonymous with adolescence--because it was a different kind of place back then. This Soul Collage card is in the Committee suit and I call it Adolesence. When you create a card you are instructed to use the following phrase: I am the one--to bring the card's deeper meaning up from the collective unconscious.

I am the one who "cruised Hollywood Boulevard" with my girlfriends instead of our hometown main street on many Saturday nights. I am the one who often saw movie stars walking on the sidewalks just like they were like the rest of us. I am the one whose girlfriend's boyfriend Jack actually owned this classic 1953 Corvette. I am the one who would wait outside the Hollywood boarding houses where upcoming starlets lived and was thrilled to see Kim Novak met by her date one time. I am the one who thought nothing of making friends with other kids cruising Hollywood Boulevard, getting in each other's cars, and going to parties in Beverly Hills and Brentwood. I am the one who got Natalie Wood's, Tab Hunter and John Derek's autographs. I am the one, with my girlfriends, who were forever hunting for the cast of Rebel Without a Cause who were rumored to be at certain parties; we never found them. I am the one who finally had a date for a movie at the Pantages with a young engineer I worked with at Lockheed--and I tripped and tumbled on the red carpeted stairway coming down from the balcony where we were seeing Simple Persuasion. I am the one who sat with a date in the old smoky Jazz City Club with a phony ID listening to Chetty Baker play My Funny Valentine. I am the one who went to dance to the big bands at the old Palladium. I am the one who got all dolled and made up to go see Grace Kelly in High Society at Grauman's Chinese Theater trying to see if what a few boys had said--that I looked like Grace Kelly. I am the one who liked to put her handprints over Marilyn Monroe's handprints at Grauman's. I am the one who once splurged with her girlfriends to dine at the old Musso and Frank Grill and faking that we knew how to use the utensils properly. (We were simple girls raised in the small towns of Sunland and Tujunga by working class parents.) But mostly we would drive back to Glendale, the home of Bob's Big Boy Drive-In after cruising Hollywood and exchange notes with everyone we knew there.

These memories are simply the tip of the iceberg. The town was shabby, but it wasn't seedy and filled with prostitutes and addicts in the 1950s--mostly teenagers, tourists and locals in those days prior to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. If you are an old Hollywood aficiando, a really interesting and fun site is Haunted Hollywood.

Nature Enjoys Perpetual Youth

This photo of the back garden at Krotona School of Theosophy in Ojai, CA matched my mood while scanning an old copy of Reflections at Walden by Henry David Thoreau today.

Nature...is ever in her spring, where the moss-grown and decaying trees are not old, but seem to enjoy a perpetual youth; and blissful, inoocent Nature, like a serene infant, is too happy to make a noise, except by a few tinkling, lisping bids and trickling rills. -- Henry David Thoreu

My Get Up and Go Got Up and Went

• Quaint Sayings
  My mom had lots of little sayings when I was growing up--and the "My get up and go got up and went" was one of them. I pass on these little sayings to my grandkids--or use words that they find helplessly old-fashioned and say, "Huh?" I call a dresser a bureau; that cracks them up. "A what?" Recently I said a person "looked like a pig in a poke." "A what?" Then there's my "God 'willin and the creek don't rise." Can you tell I was born into a midwestern family?

• Watching Katrina
  Well, my get up and go did get up and went--due partially to the fact that the heat has finally reached even the beach cities. For the first time this summer, I used the bedroom ceiling fan all night. I just watched the news, and Katrina is heading for New Orleans. My friend Ray in N'awlins writes of the dynamics of waiting it out. His parish isn't evacuating, but I remember seeing those contraflow lanes when I visited there last year. No one can come in--all lanes going out. Heat isn't so bad, but it is deenergizing.

• Pilgrimage, Macs and PCS
  Made a "pilgrimage" to the westside of L.A. this morning to pick up an Apple discontinued Airport card for my Mac G4 Quicksilver at MacSolutions. This computer will go to my grandson when my new top-of-the-line Mac Mini arrives on Monday. We are going wireless! I use both PCs and Macs, but I vastly prefer Mac. I was shocked when one of our new techs at school told me yesterday that the only people who use Macs anymore are people in education. No way, Jose! Friendships have been lost over PC and Mac aficianados dissing each other. It was a pilgrimage because I worked in downtown Santa Monica for a time and commuted from the South Bay--and one of my son's had an office in Santa Monica more than 10 years. Every part of this city--like every city, I suppose--has its distinct characteristics.

• Back To Work Anxiety
  I am having "returning to work" anxiety. I have so loved my first year of phased retirement, but I learned something very important this glorious summer. I could easily not work psychologically; I was afraid I'd go down the drain without structured time. I didn't, but I am at odds somewhat this weekend for some strange reason.

• Dependency on Appliances
  I didn't realize how much I depended on my gas dryer until the gas line split this week and it had to be shut off. I bought all the replacement lines, etc. as directed by The Gas Co., but had to wait until my son-in-law could install it today. Can't get an official safety check for almost two weeks. They came out fast when the gas was leaking, however. Glass half full! We turned on the dryer gas and all seems well for several loads.

• A Passle of Dreams
  Passle is one of those words my grandkids laugh at. The past weeks have been a hotbed of dream activity and now I can look at them gathered and see their patterns. This week, seeing the dreams lumped together, shows me collectively that I seem to dream problems (some potentially disastrous) I have to figure out how to get around or fix. There are always many people in my dreams--some causing the problems, but most of them seem to be people I'm traveling with, working with, etc. My co-dependency -- trying to control situations -- has been prevalent. And there has been a lot of fear, loss, abandonment--but a prevalent "I'll get to the bottom of this" attitude. One of the sheer joys this morning was the appearance of three of our former Outdoor Education instructors who were giving me advice and bolstering my morale. One of them was killed in 1997 in a tragic avalanche accident and in the dream, Max is there.

• Writing Raw Code Means I'm Bored
  When I start looking up and writing code, I know I'm bored. Back to the ever-so-cool patio and my book and journal. Saturday nights sure aren't like they were when I was 17.
  

Why Babies Are Here

This morning's paper announces that Jerry Seinfeld and his wife Jessica welcomed their third child. The 51-year-old comedian has in the past worked babies into his standup routine: "Make no mistake about why these babies are here--they are here to replace us." This guy is my grandchild #3, Henry, 2 years and 4 months, who was clowning around with his grandma on Monday. Maybe he'll replace Jerry? I haven't shown photos of my grandkids lately and it is the right of every grandparent to show pride every now and then.

And this is grandchild #4, 11-month-old Fritz with his sweet smile. He lights up like a candle around people. I am so fortunate to live nearby because I get to play with Henry and Fritz every week.

And here are #s 1 and 2 grandchildren, Whitney and Anthony at Christmas last year. She is a freshman away at college now and 17-year-old Anthony, who lives with me, is a junior and enduring hell week for varsity football at his high school.

Hanna Montessori is Gone But We Haven't Forgotten

Almost two years ago, January 19, 2004, the body of a 15-year-old girl was dumped on a Santa Ana Street and the Los Angeles papers ran photos of her as a Jane Doe. I first wrote about it here on March 8, 2004 because I simply couldn't get her out of my mind. The post was titled Santa Ana Unsolved Teenage Murder Haunts Me. I never expected to be so personally touched by a child I didn't even know and her family, but the power of the Internet to weave a sacred web slowly became apparent.

On March 21 the Los Angeles papers reported that the murdered child's family was found; she was Hanna Denise Montessori, age 15, from Georgia and Maine. I wrote again here on April 21, 2004 in a post I called Murdered Child's Family Found. At that point I began to hear via comments and e-mail from Hanna's family members and friends about why there had been such a delay. The Georgia system of social service, DFACS, had totally screwed up.

On what would have been Hanna's 16th birthday, I heard from Hanna's cousin reporting the case still wasn't solved. I also exchanged e-mails with Hanna's stepmother in Maine. I wrote about it here on March 16, 2005 in a post called It's Hanna Montessori's Birthday and Her Murder Remains Unsolved.

At one point this past year I heard via e-mail that a suspect had been identified but hadn't been charged. Then Hanna's cousin Robin commented here this past week that an extremely thorough feature on Hanna's story was running in a two-part series in Atlanta's newspaper Creative Loafing written by Mara Shaloup. It is a very fine example of investigative reporting that will ultimately help this case to reach resolution. I don't like reading lengthy articles on the screen, but I was compelled to do so because Hanna and her family have become in a small way part of my life. This could be my child, or my grandchild; I want to make sure in my own little way that this kind of screw-up in the bureaucracy doesn't happen again. I keep thinking how the media is blamed for following stories on prominent Caucasian girl's murders and everyone else is simply forgotten. Though Caucasian, Hanna's story has all but fallen through the cracks except for this brave little paper in Atlanta.

Part I of Hanna's story written by can be read at Losing Hanna Part I.

Losing Hanna Part II can be read here.

Why do I continue to write about this girl? I just want to make sure Hanna's story doesn't fade away as a cold case. I can only hope these quotes from Shaloup's story are true:

Earlier this year, more than a year after Hanna was killed, Santa Ana police arrested a suspect in her murder. But in March, the district attorney in Orange County decided there wasn't enough evidence to indict the man, whose name is being withheld while police try to contact additional witnesses.

"Are we trying to bring the case back with more evidence?" Santa Ana Police Sgt. Lorenzo Carillo said in March. "Yes, absolutely."

Schmaltzy But Sweet

The following is a little schmaltzy, a forward from a loving relative. But for some reason, it caught my attention and perhaps it will catch yours, too. It reminds me of the '70s and going to the oh-so-new home masses and a priest who loved the book "The Last Flower." So click here and just sit back and enjoy: Four Candles.

Joan Chittister's Illuminated Life

Last week, one of the books I enjoyed reading was Sr. Joan Chittister's "The Illuminated Life: Monastic Wisdom for Seekers." Sr. Joan is a Benedictine nun and though considered outspoken and liberal in Catholic circles, if there were more Sr. Joans and fewer authoritarian males spouting doctrine and dogma in Catholicism, I would probably still be officially within the structure. I love the Mass and many, many things about Catholicism, but it's those doggoned dogmatic males that raise my hackles. Using the wisdom from early Christianity's Desert Fathers, Sr. Joan's book follows food for thought alphabetically--A (Abandonment) through Z (Zeal) to help experience peace and love in the midst of life's pressures and problems.

This passage struck me, though almost everything she wrote really struck home.

Souls die from lack of reflection. Responsibilities dog us and tell us were too involved with the "real" world to be concerned about the spiritual questions. But it is always spiritual questions that make the difference in the way we go about our public responsibilities. Marriage, business, children, professions have all been defined in ways that keep contemplation, but no one needs contemplation more than the harried mother, the irritable father, the ambitious executive, the striving professional, the poor woman, the sick man. Then, in those situations, we need reflection, understanding, meaning, peace of soul more than ever.

Religion is about rituals and morals and systems, all of them good but all of them incomplete. Spirituality is about coming to consciousness of the sacred in the secular. It is in that consciousness that perspective comes, that peace comes. It is in that consciousness that a person comes to wholeness.

Joan Chittister is a member of the Benedictine Sisters of Erie, PA, and founder and executive director of Benetvision, a resource and research center for contemporary spirituality. I was told that the former Pope asked for her order to silence her, but her superior refused to do so. Sr. Joan is a best-selling author and well-known international lecturer on topics of justice, peace, human rights, women's issues, and contemporary spirituality in the Church and in society. She presently serves as the co-chair of the Global Peace Initiative of Women, a partner organization of the United Nations, facilitating a worldwide network of women peace builders, especially in the Middle East.

One of Those Spontaneous, Near Perfect Days

Yeah, I know--I still have the glow of a 10 day retreat of sorts where few of the problems back home reached my cell phone--except a dozen regarding a botched printing job for my private client, the St. Thomas More Law Society of Los Angeles. It was resolved thanks to a lot of help from the marketing director at Morris, Polich & Purdy. Thanks, Susie.

But, I have only two weeks left before I go back to work and I thought I'd do a vacation catch-up today--laundry, phone calls, e-mails, grocery shop, etc. Instead, my daughter came by, who I don't see very often, and she had taken a day off work. I hadn't seen my granddaughter's dorm room at her local college yet, so we called her and she had cut her finger badly last night requiring multiple stitches and had a down day without soccer practice. She was so glad to see us! The college she is attending, Cal State Dominguez Hills, is where I received my bachelor's and master's degrees--and I had worked there four years early in my career. The dorms were being built when I worked there--and she was living in one now with three other girls. Amazing! We went out for a really big breakfast and then began a shopping tour to get the linens and accessories for her room. Around 3 p.m. we came home we came home from our intergenerational bonding of "the girls." My daughter and granddaughter curled up in a little ball together and fell asleep on the futon. I had watched the PBS series of Dr. Christiane Northrup's "Mother Daughter Wisdom" while on vacation, and I kept flashing back to healing what she calls "the legacy." It was simply a precious set of hours spent together.

At 4 p.m. I was due at my little grandson's home for my Monday hours of "play time" with Grandma, and little Henry and Fritz were in absolutely rare form. I'll post photos another day. I'm what would be called a zany grandma, I guess, so though I sometimes have a hard time getting up from the floor, I love to get right down there with them. I had so damned much fun playing trains, trucks--and trying out Henry's new "car wash" for his dozens of vehicles.

I came home just in time to have the journal group at my home I have one night a month--and it was such a doggoned down-to-earth evening with some very deep sharing going on--and Cookie chewing a pig hoof nearby. All of us, in spite of some serious problems (one woman's 15-year partner had died on Saturday night) ultimately ended up writing about our points of gratefulness.

These were the last sentences in my journal final entry tonight: "After 10 days of retreat, though I did go to concerts, hiking, shopping, dined with old and new friends, had long evenings of philosophical discussion, the week was essentially about "me." I was in my own well--I hadn't attempted to trespass into anyone else's well, or contaminate it with my control issues. Today, so unexpectedly, it was all about family but enterwined with a grateful "me" who was kind of blown away by the simplicity and closeness -- and lots of laughing -- that we did. And now we journalers met--all of us with our stories--so very, very aware of all of our sacred stories."

The tag line on my e-mail says, "Sanctuary Center: A Place to Tell Our Sacred Stories." Though I had meant always to have a spiritual bed and breakfast here in my later years, sanctuary is a lot more these many long months for family and very close friends. My dreams have materialized for this place I called home, just not in the form I had originally anticipated. Prayers are like that, aren't they? God answers yes, no--or how about looking at things a new way?