I told my friend Irene yesterday that ONE person can make a difference. I’m sidelined because of personal tragedy and illness, but I have observed her tirelessly, relentlessly and determinedly stand up, speak up, rally, and sacrifice her privacy and time to voice the concerns that affect our children, educational institutions, environmental crisis, and the corruption that colors every level of our government and the corporations that rule the land. I have stood with her and been spat at, cursed, and even pushed, for expressing a differing political view. But the past week requires that I stand up for those words “ONE person can make a difference”. I know ultimately that it is one times one times one that makes the difference. The power of ONE multiplied will determine the change the majority of Americans so desperately seek.

At 5:36 this morning I was wrenched out of my sleep sweating like a runaway slave. My idle pencil levitated towards me as I reached for it. This night I couldn’t escape the face of the people in the nightmare that scared me from beneath my 1000 thread count sheets. It was my face that had fear in every area of the American dream. It was my face on the bodies that were being bullied in school, brutalized by police, surcharged by banks, utilities, corporations, that was under-educated, with little or no health care, and paying more money for less groceries as my wages shrank. It was my face that had lost my home, my face substituting water for milk and praying my children wouldn’t notice there would be no cereal tomorrow. A nightmare with my face begging the government and media, purporting to represent me, to shut up and listen. My face and my ears burned as I tried to find a station, newspaper or any form of media that would report the facts. My face was wet from tears and sweat as I jerked upright from my bed. How much more of the endless drivel of talking heads and castrated news journalist’s view points do we have to suffer before we are heard?

At 5:36 this morning I thanked God my dream was a nightmare, but for more than the 10% unemployed, and millions more underemployed, it is reality. I no longer have the luxury of leaving Irene to stand alone waiting for me to get well. So after my rude awakening, I am compelled now to speak to any media source courageous enough to understand that shoving biased, self serving, shallow statistical information disguised as news threatens your cushy life too. Have we become so hardened that we have forgotten that we are our brother’s keeper, and what affects ONE of us affects the entire human race?  We are tied together more now than ever because of technology.

I am awake and I am ONE of millions that you had better start to pay attention to as I multiply. So I am standing with Irene and the ONES all over this country who are sick and tired of the daily, hateful, vile, rhetoric morphing as news, and congress looking out for their interests before all else.

I am the ONE awakened this morning, who has a storyline that you must run for the good of us all. Stop standing on the sidelines while the country is being ravaged by greedy corporations, and the President of our country is defiled verbally and treated with flagrant disrespect by nit wits who want to be politicians, glorified journalists, and radio shock jocks. Do you have a clue what we look like to the rest of the world that we tend to think of as “less than we”? Hush and listen and you might feel the shame I do for us all. No one person, even the president, can make the changes Americans hunger for – but if for one day we tried to meet in the middle, we would be shocked by the progress. Hell, the president is even making progress while fighting a congressional body voted in by the people to help him pull us out of a recession and free fall in all areas of American life. Why not report the many things he has accomplished? Why not give him kudos and report the good he has done for our broken country the past eighteen months? What would be the harm in lifting him up and the country with him? Have we become a country that hides behind the two Cs, Constitution and Christianity? Knowing how to say and spell the words gives no one the right to lie, steal and misrepresent the American people and use the flag as a punctuation point. ONE is weary of it all. While you study, research, debate, and filibuster, our earth is languishing under oil spills, our rain forests are disappearing, the arctic ice is melting, and the erosion of our infrastructure dismissed as trash. Jails are being constructed faster then schools to house bodies for profit so corporate interest can continue to swell their coffers.

Listen up! The enemy isn’t the immigrant, or people that don’t look or act like Americans. The enemy is a journalist community and an ineffective government at every level that is taking care of their business and special interests while cherry picking what people they will represent. ONE is made up of all the people. I have had enough. I watch horrified and petrified as my country spirals down into something that resembles a cocktail of Iran, North Korea, drug cartels and the Taliban. Strong words, huh? Well read, tune in, or watch any source of media and you will get my drift.

The land of the free and the home of the brave used to mean open hearts and open borders, fair play and opportunity. It used to be the joy of dreaming to BE better and DO better for myself and my neighbor.

Angry, greedy, selfish,confused, burned out, self-righteous, self-centered,hardened, and burdened is the crossroads Americans stand at. We have little time to chose what we will leave our grandchildren. Today is the day and now is the time to be better than a sound byte.

Let’s be ONE nation. I miss that America. Don’t you?

Captain Jumoke Hayward Horton

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;  A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose;  a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate;  a time of war, and a time of peace.”

Grab something wet to drink and a few tissues if your heart rains down tears when you think about Jumoke Hayward Horton.  My sweet, sweet son Jumoke blessed unto me June 23^rd, 1974, was taken back unto the spirit from whence he came on November 18^th 2009. Bitter sweetness fills my every waking hour when I think of him – wrestling with my joy, happiness, grief, and relief knowing that my child is at peace.  But my knowing that my child is at peace does not mean I am at peace with his death. There is a daily unrelenting, gut wrenching, teeth gnashing pain starting at my toes and transcending and morphing into long, low screams or uncontrollable weeping. My husband and the dogs are starting to recognize the warning signs and they prepare to console me.  Usually it comes with the muffled crying from a bathroom or shower stall as the sadness and longing for Jumoke seeps under doors and from under blankets. Sometimes I think I have it all together thinking “he’s in God’s hands, he’s at peace, he’s closer to you now then he has ever been…”.  The truth is that those thoughts are head truth but not my heart truth.  I want Jumoke back. I want a do over to recognize all the signs I missed, to be able to say all of the things I didn’t, to make everything all right, and I want to know WHY? Why now? Why Jumoke? Why, why, why? Was he mentally ill, depressed, and pushed to the limit of all hope? No notes, speculation or opinions ring true. No rationale or justification explains why all the wonderful people, besides me, who loved and cherished him were not enough for him to stay. That really makes me sad. To think that he was alone or felt alone is something no mother wants for her children. His name, Jumoke, means “everyone loves the child”. How could he forget that?  Some days the sorrow threatens to swallow me whole. I crazily pray for God to give me relief and spirit shows up and comforts me.  The following scriptures; Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8, Psalms 23^rd, and Psalms 34:1-9 promise me that one day I will reconcile my pain and be at peace knowing that my Jumoke is at peace too.

When I shared about the estrangement of my son Jumoke and myself on my May 2009 blog, my prayer was that we would be reconciled. In fact I played the happy scene over and over in my mind many mornings as I sat quietly in meditation but vocal in my prayers that he come home.  It never crossed my mind on a conscious level that I would never hug him or hear his sweet voice again in this life. In fact, I was sure God would bring my prodigal son home to me.

Sometime between 3 and 4 a.m. November 18^th 2009 that prayer would be denied. The shrill ring of the phone yanked me out of sleep.  The first words I heard were,  “Oh Ms. Roberts, Oh, Ms. Roberts I am so sorry.” I heard Monica’s words muffled by her weeping, as I screamed to block her words. My body jerking up out of the bed shaking my head to clear my brain, jumping, running towards the wall in one move, screaming, yelling and wailing out as her words snatched the joy out of my heart.  “Ms. Roberts I’m so sorry Jumoke is DEAD!”   NO——–, NO, NO——Oh my God please NO! Not my baby, not my baby, not my baby. Oh please tell me it’s not true.  Tell me it’s not true. Please—-

But it was true.

It is true.

It is in this pain that I write words of love for my one and only child. Jumoke Hayward Horton.

SPRING

The spring of Jumoke’s life started the day he was born, June 23, 1974. His birth father was Bennie Horton. The dad that raised him is Angelo Allen.

While clearing Jumoke’s personal effects I came across this letter that Angelo had written him.  It is the perfect beginning to share the spring of Jumoke’s life.  Angelo is an incredible dad who eloquently expresses the arrival of Jumoke.

What Happened to Me on June 23, 1974

I was not present in the room when you were born.  Nor was I close by. I don’t know what time it was, or what I was doing at the precise moment you slipped into the world. I don’t know how many pounds you weighed, who the doctors were, or the tender words of love spoken by your mother at your emergence.  I didn’t have the honor of cutting your umbilical cord or giving you your first bath. At the time, I was 5000 miles away on the shores of a different ocean, completely unaware that this miraculous event was taking place. And yet today, I have absolutely no doubt that on some level that glorious day, I must have sensed an imperceptible shift in my life towards Infinite Goodness…

When I awoke that day, I’m sure I must have been at least vaguely aware of a general feeling of well being that I didn’t normally have.  Perhaps I was exiting one of those astonishingly beautiful dreams you can’t remember (but you know that something extraordinary happened in your sleep!) No doubt, some blissful all-knowing awareness was receding from my memory. But before the partition closed, I’m sure I heard the echoes of angels and ancestors celebrating the great gift being delivered to me half a world away in Alaska…

When I left the house that day, I’m sure it must have registered somewhere on the periphery of my soul how sweet and wonderful that summer morning was; how my every breath was a warm and soothing gift for which I was deeply thankful. On a level beyond the acuity of my senses, my heart must have noticed how the blooms on my father’s rose bushes glowed the most magnificent hues of red that day, and how every petal, every leaf, every thorn was absolutely perfect. Dappled drops of sunlight probably splashed delightfully on my head and shoulders as I walked under the sycamore and maple trees on Tyron Avenue. I’m sure that as I passed my neighbors, they seemed unusually good-looking and friendly that day…

Whatever my activities were that day: working, playing, walking the dog, hanging-out, getting laid, getting paid, or going broke, I probably had an inexplicable and unshakable feeling of absolute redemption! It undoubtedly felt like I was “on a roll”; that the celestial dice were coming up “sevens” no matter what I did, and a cosmic roulette wheel was stopping on my bet with every turn! Of course, back then, I probably chalked all the blessings that day up to “luck”- never dreaming that on a cellular level, in a Spiritual reality, my entire being was reverberating with profound joy due to the birth of a son that I didn’t know, to a mother who was still an absolute stranger to me, in a far-off land I had never once visited. Whoodathunkit?

And when I went to bed on that warm and perfect summer night, I’m sure the sky was strewn with interwoven flocks of stars and luminescent fireflies gently pulsed over the silhouetted landscape of my father’s yard.  The moon slowly steered its course overhead while love-struck crickets chirped songs of eternal peace in the Uni-versal orchestra. No doubt, I drifted off into the deepest and most peaceful sleep I have ever known that night.  And once asleep, I am certain the partition opened again, and I was welcomed back among the angels and ancestors to receive wisdom that I wouldn’t understand or appreciate for decades.  I have no doubt that on that very night, June 23, 1974; Absolute Spirit spoke to my soul in the timeless realm of God’s perfect garden. And It said:

“Congratulations! Jumoke is born! In two short years, you and he will finally meet.  And from that point forward, your heart will be blessed beyond your wildest imaginings – simply by knowing him – and he will be the son you will eternally adore…”

How right Spirit was! How perfectly correct!

Thank you so much, Jumoke, for choosing to be born.  Thank you for bestowing upon me the honor and privilege of being your dad.  Thank you for being the gracious healing presence that you are in my life.

I love you dearly,

Dad

SUMMER

The summer of Jumoke’s life was the goose’s golden egg in my life. I watched him grow from an independent young boy to a smart, funny, successful man. The summer of Jumoke’s life was the autumn of my own. It never occurred to me that I might reach the winter of my life before Jumoke. The following excerpts from his Eulogy will give you a glimpse of the accomplished, wonderful man he was.

“Early in his development, Jumoke exhibited a good mind for scholastics as well as a solid talent in sports. His interest in sports began with his participation on a peewee ice hockey team in Anchorage Alaska. Although he towered over the other six year olds, Jumoke was reluctant to use his size to intimidate the other players. From the very beginning, Jumoke seemed to be very aware of his exceptional size and strength, and he was always gentle, loving and patient with other children. These qualities formed the basic makeup of Jumoke’s character and he retained them for the remainder of his life.

With the encouragement of the adults in his life, Jumoke began to excel in basketball at East Anchorage High School. While there, he was named the Gatorade Player of the Year during 1991 – 1992 season. His exceptional talent soon gained the attention of college scouts and Jumoke found himself the recipient of several basketball scholarships offers, including a four-year athletic scholarship at St. Mary’s College in Moraga, California. During his tenure at St. Mary’s from 1992 to 1996, Jumoke set a school record for highest career field goal percentage (61.6%). Before the end of his athletic career, Jumoke was invited to play at an international tournament in Beijing China. Naturally, his team won the tournament.

It was at college during the summers that Jumoke began working as a deck hand for the Blue and Gold Fleet ferry service. He soon discovered he had a real love of the sea. Working his way up from the bottom, Jumoke quickly advanced to the rank of Captain (one of the very few African-American ferry captains in the United States) and thereafter earned his living driving 100-ton ferry vessels all over the San Francisco Bay.  His dad Angelo would later remark, “The greatest thrill and proudest moment I ever had in my life was sitting in the wheelhouse with my son while he piloted one of those big vessels”…

What the eulogy doesn’t tell you is also during the summer of Jumoke’s life; he called me 3-4 times a week just to say, “I love you mom”, he sent loving, unexpected gifts out of the clear blue since he didn’t believe in, or celebrate, designated holidays. He taught me that any day is a good day to celebrate.  I had major surgeries on several occasions.  Jumoke insisted on coming home to care for me even though his stepfather Morris is a pretty good nurse.  While coming out of a pain med induced sleep due to my knee replacement surgery, I vaguely overheard Jumoke turning down an offer to play Pro-International Basketball. He told the guy that he had something more important to do. I couldn’t wait for him to finish his call to ask why he would turn down such an opportunity? He told me “Mom you are the most important thing right now. Nothing comes before you. “  That was my Jumoke. Can you feel him?

WINTER

I didn’t realize that Jumoke would skip autumn and go right into the winter of his life. I was totally unprepared even though I had been receiving signs during the last couple years of his life. My May 2009 Blog posting is an insight into my last days with my son:

A Mother By Any Other Name Is Love

“The greatest misfortune of my life has come!” These words were written by a monk after the death of his mother, and reflect exactly how I felt when I lost my mother on March 28^th 1992.  The following poem echoes that loss;

“That year, although I was still very young

My mother left me.

And I realized

That I was an orphan.

Everyone around me was crying.

I suffered in silence…

Allowing the tears to flow,

I felt my pain soften.

Evening enveloped Mother’s tomb,

The pagoda bell rang sweetly.

I realized that to lose your mother

Is to lose the whole universe.”

The poem is part of a Buddhism tradition outlined in the Rose Ceremony in the Plum Village Chanting Book. The entire reading evokes sweet memories of my mother. Her sweet, tender commitment to loving me from the inside out taught me to love myself.  The fragrance of her love fills my soul with joy. She influenced my life in meaningful ways that included her wisdom, knowledge, strength, patience, love, generosity and kindness. Without my mother I could have never known how to love. It’s because of her love for me that I learned to love all living beings. Compassion, understanding and forgiveness – all practiced by my mother and passed to me.

Mother, Mere, Maji, Urdu, Madre, Makuahine, Nanay, Anya, Ibu, and Matka.  No matter what language, whoever has a mother has the most beautiful gift life has to offer.

Mother’s Day dates back to the ancient Greeks, who held festivals to honor mother of the Gods, Rhea.  Early Christians celebrated mother’s festival on the fourth Sunday of Lent to honor Mary, the mother of Christ.  That date evolved into Mothering Sunday. The colonist whom settled in American discontinued Mothering Sunday because of the lack of time. But a smart and probably tired woman by the name of Julia Ward Howe organized a day for mothers devoted to peace. In 1907 Anna M. Jarvis a Philadelphia teacher initiated a movement to set up a national Mother’s Day in honor of her mother. Ms. Jarvis’ tireless commitment to establish Mother’s Day was realized in 1914 when President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed the Second Sunday in May as a national holiday in honor of mothers.

The increasing practice of gift giving and commercialization of Mother’s Day was not Ms. Jarvis intention but nonetheless has become an integral part of Mother’s Day. The ritual of buying instead of showing love cheats mothers who need or desire nothing more than the acknowledgement that she is appreciated. In the Plum Village Chanting Book it is written eloquently, “If you love your mother, you don’t have to do anything. You love her; that is enough.”

This Mothers Day I suffer great pain.  My one and only child, my son, has not spoken to me since September 2007. He called me on a Sunday afternoon and told me succinctly, clearly, and unemotionally that he no longer wanted me in his life. I was as shocked, hurt, and saddened then as I am now writing this.  How could my only child that I love so intensely not want me in his life? His rationale and explanation were muddled and so unlike the loving boy-child I had loved all of his life and all of mine.  I knew as he spoke there was no room for discussion – he had only called to inform me of his decision to cut me out of his life.  What could I have done to hurt him so? What could I have done for him to sever me from his life? I don’t know but I do know I would have, if I could have, changed his heart.  I would have fought harder to keep him on the phone.  I would have crawled across the miles to get near him and to hold him close to remind him how our hearts beat as one from the day I laid eyes on him. I would have moved heaven and earth and made a deal with God and become a mother stalker if I had known that Sunday afternoon the loss I feel now.  My mother told me that children should not die before their parents, and now I know what she meant. The black hole in my heart is bottomless as I mourn the physical loss of my son.  I remind myself that this challenge will make me stronger that it serves some higher purpose and has nothing to do with me.  My son has separated from me but he cannot stop me from loving him. My love reaches across the miles and hugs him close every moment of everyday. I pray that he is happy and excelling in life.  My mother’s love was unconditional for me and so is my love for my son, though I miss him terribly.

I am ending this posting with an excerpt from Plum Village Chanting Book, “Tonight, when you return from school or work, or the next time you visit your mother, go to her room calmly, silently, with a smile, and sit down beside her.  Without saying anything, make her stop working, and look at her for a long time.  Look at her well, in order to see her well, in order to realize she is there, alive, sitting beside you.  Then take her hand and ask her this short question, “Mother, do you know something?” She will be a little surprised, and will ask you, smiling, “What, dear?” Continuing to look into her eyes with a serene smile, tell her, “Do you know that I love you?” Ask her this question without waiting for an answer. Even if you are thirty, forty years old, or older, ask her simply, because you are the child of your mother. Your mother and you will both be happy, conscious of living in eternal love. And tomorrow when she leaves you, you will not have any regrets.”

This Mother’s Day wherever you may be, may you be loved.

From my heart to yours, Happy Mother’s Day.

_____________________________________________________

“A diverse man of many talents, Jumoke enjoyed martial arts, yoga, Vietnamese food, and window shopping to name a few. He was, and remains in many ways, larger than life:  Tremendous stature. Tremendous heart. Tremendous compassion. Tremendous courage. When it was time for Jumoke to depart his life on November 18, 2009 he gracefully bade his friends and family farewell and stepped into eternal life.”

God graced my life with the greatest gift – Jumoke.  Jumoke was a Mariner, a lover of the sea. His wreath was set to sea and his ashes scattered at the  latitude and longitude, 37.49.2313”N / 12230.4876’ W.

There is also Captain Jumoke Hayward Horton Memorial Page on Facebook .  Thank you for sharing this journey of grief and joy with me.

“Yet it was good of you to share in my troubles.”  Philippians 4:14

___________________________________________

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;’

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar.

Alfred Tennnyson

What is terrorism and who are the people referred to as terrorists that commit these heinous crimes?  I found the following definition at WiseTo.com. “Terrorism is premeditated, politically motivated violence-or the threat of violence-carried out against noncombatant targets. It differs from war, which is a military action formally undertaken by a government. Terrorism may be the work of individuals or groups that operate by stealth rather than by open assault. But governments also practice terrorism, sponsoring attacks against foreign states or individuals who are seen as enemies.”

It is clear terrorists and terrorist extremists are not representative of one nation or one people.  It is misleading and a disservice to assume they come from there. The mainstream media of America, especially since 9/11, has propagated the idea that a stranger from a strange land is usually a terrorist – especially if they are brown, a male of Middle Eastern descent, practices Islam, or is a Muslim.  They are pigeonholed, labeled, targeted, and dangled like a carrot in front of every Americans television screen and radio to evoke terror. They are described as less than human, people without a cause except for hurting and harming Americans.  It is time to stop absorbing the hate-filled rhetoric of television and radio jocks that cause harm of a different kind,  fear.

I want to discuss domestic terrorism. It is not new to our country.  In 1920 the financial district of New York was bombed and killed thirty people. The case was never solved. One of the most memorable cases of domestic terrorism was the 1963 bombing of the 16^th Baptist church in Birmingham, Alabama, which killed four black girls. A former Ku Klux Klan member was the terrorist and eventually convicted May 22, 2002.  The Weather Underground carried out at least twenty-five bombings across this country in the sixties and seventies. It is clear that terrorism is not just them. If we don’t stop finger pointing and taking our anger and righteous indignation out on them, we will miss the terrorist who lives next door.

Consider the murders of fellow Americans the past six weeks. Dr. George Tiller, an abortion provider murdered at his church, in front of members of his congregation.  William Andrew Long, a 23-year-old army private was shot and killed outside a recruiting office, and on June 10^th 2009 Stephen Johns, a security guard at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum was shot dead by a man he thought he was helping.  All these men were American citizens murdered by fellow citizens also known as domestic terrorist. Think about that let it sink in because if we don’t recalibrate our countries notion of who to be afraid of, many more innocent citizens will die. The media, individually and collectively, have villainously portrayed terrorists as them.  Many, too numerous to list, have mislead and fanned the flames of hatred towards them to boost ratings and use their platform to spout their own hateful beliefs, opinions and biased rhetoric.

The deaths of Dr. Tiller, William Long and Stephen Johns should be remembered not only as tragic unnecessary murders, but also as an opportunity to re-access how dangerous it is to label terrorist as them. Hatred and the decision to harm innocent people comes from every nation.

Today as you reflect on the escalating terrorism across this country, determine what YOU can do to help stop it. I have the following suggestions; stop entertaining yourself by listening to or watching hateful and bigoted media persons. Be aware of the people you surround yourself with and be willing to walk away if they practice and preach bigotry or hatred. Finally hold our government accountable for the prosecution, conviction and imprisonment of all terrorists, not just them. Empower yourself with the knowledge that changing the terror we witness can be and must be stopped.  It starts with every individual saying “enough”, then backing it up by standing together against evil – wherever it might live.

I was gut-kicked in the heart May 26^th at 2:21 p.m., slapped up side my spirit, and my eyes exploded with tears as the voice on the other end of the telephone line said, “Barbara has died.” In that moment the clocks stopped and all of the mirrors went black to mark her flight from the planet. At  2:21p.m. May 26^th the axis of the world tilted and I held on tightly so I wouldn’t be lost in a vast and dark sadness.

I was busy getting ready to go to my Jazzercise class. The phone rang and I grabbed it as I continued to pull on my socks.  I didn’t recognize the voice that said  “may I speak to Patricia?’ I replied that I was her and he continued “this is Shaun and my brother Eric asked that I call and tell you that our mother, Barbara, died”. Rarely am I at a loss for words, speechless and stunned simultaneously. But I was, and still am, as I write this impromptu posting.  I stammered   “what happened?” He responded “we don’t know… it was a heart attack or stroke”. Tears welled up in my eyes and poured into my heart.  I repeated again “what happened?”  as though I hadn’t heard him the first time, followed by when is the funeral, where will it be, how is Eric? “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, and he is okay” was his calm and dispassionate reply.  I could hear, sense and feel his uneasiness as I fought to gain my composure. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Shaun since his father Gary’s funeral six or seven years ago.   I remember telling him  know how much I loved his mother and how much she meant to me, I had just talked to her she was so happy. I stopped myself to catch my breath and to pat my emotions in place. There was silence on the other end of the line. He said,” I think she is going to be cremated and Grandmother might have a memorial or something.” It wasn’t what he said that saddened me, but how he said it that clued me that our call was done.  I mumbled please call me and let me know as soon as you find out if and when there will be a service. He said he would and I thanked him, and before I could say anything else, the phone went dead. The only link I had to what would happen to one of my dearest and oldest friends was gone.  I immediately called the number back but only a recorded message greeted me. The finality of the call symbolized for me in that moment that Barbara was gone.  It seemed like for such a wonderful woman there should have been more fanfare, more weeping more, more, more. Barbara or Barbarella as I called her had left the planet.

Barbara and I met as young women/girls and mothers in Anchorage Alaska in 1978. We were kindred spirits shopping, partying and experimenting and experiencing all the dos and don’ts of life. There was nothing we wouldn’t try and rarely did we try to talk one another out of our colored shenanigans.  Throughout the years we grew up separated by various moves across the country. We reconnected thirteen years ago when I moved to Texas. The heartfelt love we shared that eluded time deepened even though we were totally different people on diverse paths. The wonderful thing about friendship I learned from Barbara is that judgment is only a word and it never interfered with our love for one another.  I accepted her and treasured who she was in my life. She made it better and she gave me the opportunity to practice unconditional love. Over the years, especially after her husband Gary’s death from brain cancer, Barbarella’s life spiraled into depression and a grief that never lifted.  During those years my home became her sanctuary. Ever major holiday she would show up at my door laden with gifts, delicious food, movies, flowers and anything else she could afford to bring and share. Her joy was giving to me and my joy was her generosity that taught me how to give more in my own life. In her brokenness she helped me to be whole. I suppose that is why I am so saddened by her death. Not that she is gone in the physical body, but that I could never reach that part of her soul that was so wounded that she didn’t treat herself as well as she did me.

As I look back over the past three months my intuition alerted me that something was wrong.  We had planned to share Valentine and Easter together as usual. She didn’t show up and her phone was disconnected again.  I wrote her a letter and a week later she called me from a phone booth and told me things were getting better and she would see me on her birthday.  As May 9^th grew closer I hadn’t heard from her and still had no way to contact her.  I decided to sent her birthday box filled with wonderful, delicious multiple goodies. I knew she would be surprised but I wanted her to know how very much she meant to me. I can still hear her voice as she giggled into the phone and thanked me over and over for thinking of her and for being her one and only friend. Her joy was my joy and I was so grateful I hadn’t forgotten her birthday.  She shared that her life was changing.  She sounded better then she had since her rock Gary had died those many years before. We gossiped and laughed about a new (younger)  guy she had met, her 26 pound weight loss, and how much better she was beginning to feel. I hadn’t heard such joy from her in many years.  We ended by repeating how much we loved one another and that we would see each other soon. When I hung up I shared with my husband how happy she sounded and how happy I was for her. All of the years of misery, self recriminations and abuse she had heaped on herself during the years after Gary’s death seemed to have finally been let go. I thought about her all that day and smiled that she had finally seemed to take her life back.

I still don’t know how my friend died and maybe I never will. I have to remind myself that it’s not important. What is important is that she lived.  Her spirit of generosity and unconditional love for me will forever be part of who I am.  Her goodness and light live in me. That is the blessing I can wrap around myself when I think of her. Today, though, I am going back to my bed and I am going to lay down with my grief, but not before I say to you, nothing or no one is forever.  Whoever you love, and wherever they are, take a moment and tell them how much you love them. It could be the last time.

Two Poems for Barbara:

Finally

by Margaret Shepard

When I finally hang these clothes of flesh to dry

When my tracks have faded in the sand

When my clear voice becomes a whisper then silent

When my warm touch has grown cold as ice

When the rhythm of my heart become a tireless echo

When my name has meant all that my heart has contained

And my laughter and tears blend into one as a hearty memory

You won’t cry

You will only weep tears of joy

You will only weep at a life full of loving, laughter, fear, work and joy

You won’t cry!!

Poem by Mary Frye

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 glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

“The greatest misfortune of my life has come!” These words were written by a monk after the death of his mother, and reflect exactly how I felt when I lost my mother on March 28^th 1992.  The following poem echoes that loss;

“That year, although I was still very young

My mother left me.

And I realized

That I was an orphan.

Everyone around me was crying.

I suffered in silence…

Allowing the tears to flow,

I felt my pain soften.

Evening enveloped Mother’s tomb,

The pagoda bell rang sweetly.

I realized that to lose your mother

Is to lose the whole universe.”

The poem is part of a Buddhism tradition outlined in the Rose Ceremony in the Plum Village Chanting Book. The entire reading evokes sweet memories of my mother. Her sweet, tender commitment to loving me from the inside out taught me to love myself.  The fragrance of her love fills my soul with joy. She influenced my life in meaningful ways that included her wisdom, knowledge, strength, patience, love, generosity and kindness. Without my mother I could have never known how to love. It’s because of her love for me that I learned to love all living beings. Compassion, understanding and forgiveness – all practiced by my mother and passed to me.

Mother, Mere, Maji, Urdu, Madre, Makuahine, Nanay, Anya, Ibu, and Matka.  No matter what language, whoever has a mother has the most beautiful gift life has to offer.

Mother’s Day dates back to the ancient Greeks, who held festivals to honor mother of the Gods, Rhea.  Early Christians celebrated mother’s festival on the fourth Sunday of Lent to honor Mary, the mother of Christ.  That date evolved into Mothering Sunday. The colonist whom settled in American discontinued Mothering Sunday because of the lack of time. But a smart and probably tired woman by the name of Julia Ward Howe organized a day for mothers devoted to peace. In 1907 Anna M. Jarvis a Philadelphia teacher initiated a movement to set up a national Mother’s Day in honor of her mother. Ms. Jarvis’ tireless commitment to establish Mother’s Day was realized in 1914 when President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed the Second Sunday in May as a national holiday in honor of mothers.

The increasing practice of gift giving and commercialization of Mother’s Day was not Ms. Jarvis intention but nonetheless has become an integral part of Mother’s Day. The ritual of buying instead of showing love cheats mothers who need or desire nothing more than the acknowledgement that she is appreciated. In the Plum Village Chanting Book it is written eloquently, “If you love your mother, you don’t have to do anything. You love her; that is enough.”

This Mothers Day I suffer great pain.  My one and only child, my son, has not spoken to me since September 2007. He called me on a Sunday afternoon and told me succinctly, clearly, and unemotionally that he no longer wanted me in his life. I was as shocked, hurt, and saddened then as I am now writing this.  How could my only child that I love so intensely not want me in his life? His rationale and explanation were muddled and so unlike the loving boy-child I had loved all of his life and all of mine.  I knew as he spoke there was no room for discussion – he had only called to inform me of his decision to cut me out of his life.  What could I have done to hurt him so? What could I have done for him to sever me from his life? I don’t know but I do know I would have, if I could have, changed his heart.  I would have fought harder to keep him on the phone.  I would have crawled across the miles to get near him and to hold him close to remind him how our hearts beat as one from the day I laid eyes on him. I would have moved heaven and earth and made a deal with God and become a mother stalker if I had known that Sunday afternoon the loss I feel now.  My mother told me that children should not die before their parents, and now I know what she meant. The black hole in my heart is bottomless as I mourn the physical loss of my son.  I remind myself that this challenge will make me stronger that it serves some higher purpose and has nothing to do with me.  My son has separated from me but he cannot stop me from loving him. My love reaches across the miles and hugs him close every moment of everyday. I pray that he is happy and excelling in life.  My mother’s love was unconditional for me and so is my love for my son, though I miss him terribly.

I am ending this posting with an excerpt from Plum Village Chanting Book, “Tonight, when you return from school or work, or the next time you visit your mother, go to her room calmly, silently, with a smile, and sit down beside her.  Without saying anything, make her stop working, and look at her for a long time.  Look at her well, in order to see her well, in order to realize she is there, alive, sitting beside you.  Then take her hand and ask her this short question, “Mother, do you know something?” She will be a little surprised, and will ask you, smiling, “What, dear?” Continuing to look into her eyes with a serene smile, tell her, “Do you know that I love you?” Ask her this question without waiting for an answer. Even if you are thirty, forty years old, or older, ask her simply, because you are the child of your mother. Your mother and you will both be happy, conscious of living in eternal love. And tomorrow when she leaves you, you will not have any regrets.”

This Mother’s Day wherever you may be, may you be loved.

From my heart to yours, Happy Mother’s Day.

Forty-five years ago Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream. He foretold that there would be a time when men would be judged by the content of their character and not by the color of their skin. He had a dream that evoked a belief in our hearts and minds that equality in these United States was possible. His dream became our prayer.

Four years ago Barrack Obama was introduced to the world on the stage of the 2004 Democratic Convention. His words were electrifying. I was filled with hope and optimism.  I sensed that the world would see him again but I never could have imagined that this extraordinary man would become the 44^th president of these United States.

Two years ago I screamed for my husband as though the house was on fire as I watched Barack Obama announce his intentions to run for president of the United States of America.  My husband sat down beside me as we listened to Obama’s every word. After his pronouncement we agreed that he would be our next president.  I was committed to do all I could to insure that he would not only be the democratic nominee but elected as president.  Martin’s world rang in my ears as I watched Obama willing to be the mantle of change that inspired over fifty two percent of voters in this country to elect him the 44^th president of this country.

He never would have made it if the pundits and critics were to be believed.  He believed long before most of us that it was our moment – it was our time. He never would have made it if not for the millions of small donations backed by the fervor, commitment and tenacious work of the volunteers that also believed it was time.  He made it because we stood with him and took it one step further as we voted for him. He made it because the content of the man shone brightly through the color of his skin.

November 4^th, 2008 the culmination of over 20 months of vigorous, unrelenting campaigning ended with a resounding YES!  Yes we can be the beacon of light that still shines brightly throughout the world.  Yes we can and yes we did.  November 4^th the majority of voters collectively elected Barrack Obama 44^th president of our country. The next four years promise to be all we imagine them to be.  Jobs, health care, help for our ailing planet and veterans are only the beginning. Barack can’t do it alone. The real work begins now.  The change we seek is not the man we elected, but the change is within ourselves.  So catch your breath and let us help Barack Obama keep his campaign promises as we take back our country. The best is yet to come.

I thought the column was ready until the wise woman that assists me with getting my words to this blog asked me a question. Her question changed what I was going to present this week, but most importantly, her question changed me. The question was in reference to the current conflict between Georgia and Russia that now includes Poland and the United States. She asked me if I knew all of the facts and had I researched sources outside of what we were being told by the mainstream media in this country? Chagrined, and with egg on my face, I reluctantly sought out other sources. Pissed would be the strongest word I can use on this blog, but that is exactly what I was. I was disappointed that I had (again) let my good sense be deceived by the propaganda channeled into my living room. We, as patriotic and decent citizens, are looking through a prism of lies and distortions from networks that don’t give a darn about the truth – or us.

There was a time when I was growing up that the news was respected and trusted. It was not uncommon in the community I grew up in for most of the families to sit down together after dinner and watch the evening news. It was the prerequisite to our evening television viewing. I remember looking forward to it because it was a another time that the entire family was together on a daily basis.  The news was serious business and the anchors reflected that.  When did the news become nothing more then fodder for fools?

In the 1976 film NETWORK, Peter Finch, a has-been anchor with poor ratings was called the “mad prophet of the airwaves.” Well move over Peter.  I am a madwoman blogging.  Peter Finch’s role immortalized the line, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.” It has become one of my daily refrains. The time has come for all of us to seek and demand the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Thirty years ago the idea of white men ranting on air was unimaginable.  Imagine no more since it is now a reality. All major network and cable news channels (other than alternatives such as Democracy Now, Link T.V., Public Television and NPR) are nothing more than talk shows.  The news leeched into our homes is empty of any information that would enable you to think for yourself. In fact, you are repeatedly told, with underlying bylines, what to think.  Friday’s news is recycled all weekend in case you missed your dose of trivial, trashy talk.  The number of commercials during broadcast news is a clear indicator of how much real and truthful information you will receive.  Do you actually believe that money grabbing advertisers, families and corporations that own the news networks and print want you to know the truth?  How appetizing would it be if you understood what was actually in the food you eat, if you knew how it was grown? How many gadgets would you purchase if you knew how many women and children are receiving slave wages or none at all? What congressman or presidential candidate would you support if you knew their true characters before, instead of after, elections? I surmise things would be a lot different if we knew the truth and if the news reported the truth. Misleading news and news spun out of control is showing up in our homes – that is if you still have one during this massive housing crisis. Self-serving, avaricious, venal, and mercenary corporations, companies, and a government working against instead of for us, are destroying this country. Beware and take notice that they are using the broadcast news and print media to do it.  It’s time to wake up and pay attention.  Day after day programs gorged with violence, prejudice and propaganda are shoved down our collective throats and up to our jellified brains. It has changed us. Cop shows, court shows, humiliating and dehumanizing jail shows, and reality shows have rendered us dispassionate, dumb, and dazed.

The caliber and the tenure of mainstream news and media in this country is broken. No number of women in stilettos, or people of color that speak correctly will cover the fact that they are lying.  Consciously, purposefully, intentionally or unintentionally, doesn’t really matter when the perspective of the new is representative of the people who own our news and media. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore”…So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window, open it, and stick your head out and yell, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” When you are done with that, the next time you tune in to your favorite news station or read your newspaper of choice and you suspect you are being bamboozled, hoodwinked, or lied to, let them know. Write, call, e-mail then turn them off or unsubscribe. Whatever you do, make them accountable. We are the people, and it is we the people that insure that change will occur. Remember that one person can make a difference.  Let that difference begin with you.

Gas is expensive, and all indications are that this is just beginning. Anger, fear and frustration mount as citizens wonder how gas prices got so high.  Depending who you listen to, global demand and our escalating consumption of the black gold are to blame.  If you believe that then you probably believe the oil companies are not making a profit. We currently have a presidential candidate, governors and legislators taunting the solution to initiate off shore drilling, and while we are at it, let’s go back to Alaska and spill some more oil there. The glaring realization that oil companies are making obscene profits is dismissed and downplayed by the media and congress that purports to inform and represent us.

It is time we, meaning you and I, get off of our collective asses and say “enough”! It is time we put our money where our mouth is and say NO to the oil companies.  Alternate means of energy must be considered and implemented NOW.  NO, NO and NO.  NO to more ill gained profits added to over the $600,000,000,000 oil companies have pocketed in the past eight years.  NO to any more off shore drilling or exploration. NO because I can report to you what I have witnessed when we say yes to the interest of the oil companies and their constituents. I am a witness to what happens when citizens believe that big money interest care anything about the effects that their money making ventures leave in their wake. I am a witness to the Exxon Valdez Prince William Sound oil spill in Alaska. I am a witness to the purposeful, perpetual unwillingness of Exxon to compensate, repair and make whole the people of Alaska affected by their tanker.
It has been over twenty years and the massive amount of money spent to avoid payment of their nasty spill lingers in one court or another.

I am a witness to the ashes and remains of once prosperous fishing villages and thriving communities that are now silent, dead, gone. I am a witness to the broken lives that had livelihoods to support them and their families with no place to start again and no money to start again.

I am a witness to the millions of dollars spent in Alaska on mock juries to determine if the oil companies would win the lawsuits against them. I was on one of the mock juries.  I was paid $100.00, as were many Alaskans, to tell the oil companies what they already knew – clean up your oily mess and compensate the people whose lives are forever altered by the spill. Big oil didn’t listen and it is crystal clear they never had any intention of cleaning up Alaskan shores or compensating its residents. I witnessed an impotent legislature and compromised court system that allowed EXXON to leave Alaska spoiled but continue to make money from its residents.

I am a witness. I am asking you to stand up and be a witness too.  Witnessing is a participatory action. It requires action by talking, walking, listening and standing. You talk to others and tell them to say no to exploration and windfall profit taxes given to oil companies. You walk to the store or wherever you can instead of drive. You listen to what your government is really saying by looking at what they are actually doing. The two variables should match. Finally you stand with the millions of other citizens of this country who are calling for gas boycotts. You boycott by writing, calling, e-mailing your legislators that drilling is unacceptable, oil companies must be taxed accordingly and criminal charges must be brought against speculators and any guilty party that is involved in higher energy cost.   Witnessing is not easy but it is necessary. But if we don’t, will California, New Jersey, Texas and any other shore that might have oil be the next Alaska pillage that I witnessed?

I welcome any comments, solutions and ideas that can help us be better witness. The time is now! Will you be a witness?