Me ‘n Bone

I called him a douchebag.  A brat.  A little snot.  He was the worst cat I ever adopted.  I read articles about male ginger tabbies and how horrid they were.

He would purr and then haul off and take flesh from my hand, my leg, my butt.  He would splay out in marmalade grandeur, his green eyes slanted and content, his body in a relaxed sleep.  Then he would awaken and attack Jenny Annie Dots for no reason, the mildest, kindest, most feminine Persian female I have ever owned.  And Jenny has little, useless teeth.  Her pathetic claws do no harm.  She has been the mother of 35 kittens. She is a beautiful, warm, door-stop.

I work at home. I have a separate office where I see my patients and clients.  So, someone is always here.  T Bone can climb up and hang on the door jam and regard the people, looking for his next victim.  Sometimes he purrs, sometimes he bites.  He will go for weeks curling up next to me as I sleep, then go for months hiding somewhere in the house, not to be found.

Last Sunday I was gone for 13 hours.  I went to a Seminar at LAX.  I returned home after being gone for over ½ a full day.

That night, as I went to sleep, T Bone was unusually obnoxious, meowing and jumping around.  Jenny was asleep, as usual, on her little bed, next to my pillow.  T Bone paced and howled and wouldn’t settle. So, I put him outside the bedroom at 11:00 p.m.

At 12:10 a.m., the sliding door between the living room and hallway began to shake and rattle.  It was T Bone’s paw.  But not only did T Bone knock on the door – relentlessly – he howled.  A jarring, pathetic wail.  This went on for over one hour.

So, I took the water bottle and prepared to chase him away.  T Bone hates water. He is terrified of water.  If he even sees the spray bottle, he runs.  When I put his flea medicine on his neck, about the size of a pencil eraser, he looks so wounded and upset I could have castrated him without anesthesia again and again.  He is terrified of water.

So…I opened the sliding door and showed him the water bottle.  He squinted his eyes and kept howling.  I squirted him.  He squinted and crouched down.  He started to walk toward the bedroom.  I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed.  I sprayed water.  On T Bone.  Wet, nasty, furious, T Bone was nearly crawling on his belly like a reptile as he slunk toward the bedroom.

I was incredulous.  How could it be that the now-drenched cat, his eyes ridiculously squinty, take the abuse like a soldier?

T Bone continued to march-slink toward the bedroom.

T Bone was now getting screamed at, drenched, and abused so horridly I ceased to care and threw the empty plastic bottle at him.  He ducked.  He literally ducked.

Then he jumped on the bed and settled in his spot.  He looked wretched.  He looked like he had been through a terrible storm.

T Bone slept through the night in the wet spot.  He was soaking wet, but quiet.

In the morning, T Bone would not move from his spot on the bed until he was sure I fully understood his resolve.  When he saw that I finally understood him, and I finally DID understand him, I sat down close to him and cried.  I told him that I got it, that I was sorry, and that I realized that his personality was his personality.  I had forgotten, for a brief while, that I was his mommy and he was my baby, and no matter what he did, I would always love him and would never, ever, shut him out again.  I told him that he seemed so independent I had forgot he needed me, that I would never forget again, and that I would never leave him for so long again.

T Bone got up, yawned, stretched, gave me a little nip on my hand, and went to his food.

T Bone continues to walk around and between my feet in the most irritating manner.  He howls and cries and bites and purrs and chases Jenny until I am beside myself with worry that he will kill her in a moment of biological forgetting.  He gets on my clients and patients and my heart is in my throat as I try not to think of liability insurance and lawsuits.

And me and the Bone?  Well, we are fine.  I won’t forget again, no matter how obnoxious I perceive my baby to be.  I won’t forget again, no matter how things seem.

I just won’t forget.  I won’t forget my Bone again.

The oyster shells will cut your feet to ribbons they told us

               Daddy cut watermelon on the back porch

    And Mama got Shine to sell her the sivvy beans

      And we were so in love with them

     our hearts split in two like the luscious melons

    and the labs – Pandemonium and Mary – slept logy and fat in the 

                   shade of the live oak 


All summer our girlhood became as tender as the plough mud

             with the richness of new things growing

                     In the mushy warmth


And we became creatures called woman before cognition

                registered in our young minds


Bone gangly hilarious skin screaming with confusion

                 and longing for Punky and Stevie to notice

         and Punky’s head smelled so good I reeled

               When I went to pick up the peanut meant for the RC Cola

dropped intentionally by Punky

                         and I caught a good whiff

                    Punky’s hair smelled to me like what I knew but had forgot                               in the other worlds

                            sunshine, sweat, salt, some nastiness….


Mama used to kiss our boo-boos and admonish a trembling lip with that look of hers




          sifting through with smell, snorting and snuffling, like a pig with truffles, pulling up the memories

            like poems in the wind 

the earth a poem of its own 

the plough mud my menstrual blood all the boys and men I held in my     arms those nights of confusion and longing

          the terrible deaths I died over and over and the babies and the blood

                 the secret becomings and the crucifixions

and the babies and the blood 

             seeing Mama finally wither at the feet of patriarchal demagoguery

and it ended there and then for all of us didn’t it? 

Her heart once so filled with love and devotion now so angry and

                 spiteful brittle mean dry and spitting at the end

That meanness – it can happen to all of us at the end


The heart is a muscle too

            It must be exercised    all those chambers and hidey-holes it contains!

  All those uncountable places we thought

                                                No! No!  I can’t go there! Not there!

But we sniffed this one out – this memory – that memory – that unbearable one – this unbearable one –

               we sniffed and sniffed and sniffed


until we were nothing but light all the memories bending and fitting into light

            nothing but light


              and the light became another’s poem

                                     another’s word

                                     another’s wind

                                     another’s dream


and the oyster shells cut our feet to ribbons

                and we dangled shreds of flesh

                      like gems into the precious past





Who hasn’t suffered?  Who hasn’t felt pain?

What if we understood our experiences – our woundings, so to speak – in a larger context?

In my own life, where I have known cruel abandonment, loss of friendship, loss of family, job, status, finances, even my place in the world – I have been led to reflect on the meaning this kind of suffering could have and to extrapolate out to the greater picture, to decontextualize things within a life we all share.

In times of existential annihilation, when the pain has become too much to bear, I have been flipped into an understanding of the potentiality of evolvement.  Not just to see crisis as opportunity, or to merely accept my suffering, but to understand it as a dying of an archaic self into a new version of a new self; to be re-birthed as something formerly unknown but willing to experience this apparent phenomena.

What is the knocking?

What is the knocking in the door of the night?

It is someone who wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.

Admit them.  Admit them.

D.H.Lawrence  “Song of a Man Who Has Come Through”

Often primal, painful experiences cause us to stop, shift our perspective, and face what shadows had formerly been hidden.

It may be true, and in my case, is true, that we are never completely healed from our woundings.  I still suffer from the devaluation I experienced at the hands of my ex-husband, who kept his bad parts in abeyance, until he had me a hostage; shriveling my self-worth so completely I was scarcely recognizable to myself.  The strong, capable self I had built was all but gone, yet because of this, I have been able to help others go through the crushing ego blows of this kind of diminishment.

When we are wounded, the body goes into electrical shock.  Most of us want to find therapies to discharge the shock.  But what if we found ways to use the shock instead of getting rid of it?  Too many of us recoil from pain because we are terrified of it.  Then the charge debilitates us, and we organize around safer and less intense lives, foreclosing on possibility.  But we can reactivate the memory of failure or of loss and then take that charge and select an entirely different set of variables – say a movement toward creativity and compassion rather than toward collapse or safety.  “Dear God, please allow me the grace of release rather than the old way of choosing safety. Let me be born again.  Amen.”

If we are courageous enough to choose this metaphorical re-birth – and it takes courage to plumb the depths of one’s heart and mind – we can experience an in-pouring of light or grace so sublime we are left breathless with understanding that we are living in a benevolent universe.  We are given the grace of understanding that we are loved and forgiven no matter what we have done or have not done.  We open to a reality that is pure beingness –  the grand frequency that contains all other dimensions and realities – a primary order of pure potentiality.  This is where we find, as St. Francis so eloquently said, That Which is Looking is That Which is Being Seen.

Getting past the small story to the larger Weltenschaaung, trusting that our lives mean something, then letting go into the Mind that is Minding, takes courage and discipline.  It takes a devotion to trusting that our suffering is authentic.  And ultimately, it takes brave understanding to allow ourselves the realization that we are not the Doer but the Done, not the Thinker but the Thought.

And as soon as we think we have found meaning in any of it, it is gone….  And we begin questioning all of it…and it is gone…






Homer Hanuman Ram Dog:  June 9, 2003 – June 21, 2017

Homer taught me everything I know about God, as did his predecessor, a Golden Retriever called Shiva.  From them I learned how to be a disciple; and from them I learned how to be a master.  I learned how to wait for instruction from God, twisting in pain if I went against what I knew – the will of God revealed to me if I waited.

Homer Hanuman Ram Dog used to corral the children if they got too rowdy in the pool.  He gave slurp-baths to Odysseus and Boots, our two cats, who welcomed his sloppy drool as they preened themselves by the fire. He helped me through the bad times when the family blew apart and my health faltered and the marriage ended.  He was there.  Always there.  Allowing me to bury my head in his neck and cry.  When he slept his fur smelled like popcorn and his feet smelled like Fritos.

Because of his compromised health and his crippled legs and spine, Homer tried and tried to join groups in the dog park.  No pack would have him.  He would run up to a few dogs to try and play, but they usually attacked him, leaving him dirty and sometimes with a bloody lip.  What did he do? He ran to another pack to be accepted.  Eventually Homer would be accepted by the chihuahua’s.  And the memory I have of those dog park trips (not only having to learn the most difficult parenting skills of not interfering when the other dogs took him down) are of Homer, an 80 pound yellow lab, playing with 2 or 3 little dogs, running after them, letting them climb all over his belly and nip at his face, enjoying life like I have never seen a dog enjoy life, giving these chihuahua’s something to brag about when they got home – perfectly content to be mocked by the other grownups and chastised for being in the small dog park; being barked at by the larger dogs and by other, non-compromised Labradors.  What lessons we learned in humility!  What lessons my Homer taught me in patience and acceptance!

And I?  I will never forget the look from Homer’s long face when we became lovers, so long ago.  I will never forget that Homer, even in his later years and with his crippled condition that made him fall all the time, never walked through a door before me.  He waited, allowing the woman he loved and served to go before him.  He never once, not once, rushed the door.  He waited, collapsing on his rotten back legs, his hips a phenomenon of the past, his gratitude nonetheless apparent for yet another day with the One He Loved and Who Loved Him back. He waited, he watched, he served, he loved.  And he could no longer walk.  He hopped.  Homer hopped for the last two years of his life, and when he couldn’t hop, he used his front legs to drag himself. He was just so very happy to be Homer Hanuman Ram Dog.  Nothing else.  Just my good, good Homer. Just Homer, the dog.

Homer taught me how to love.  He taught me how to be of service.  He taught me everything about being a disciple.

I hope you are hopping in heaven, Homer, playing with the chihuahua’s. I think I can hear you there right now….

June 22, 2017


For Byron Katie

I hurt him for the first time today.   In all his noble life, Homer Hanuman Ram dog had never whined or whimpered, at least to my knowledge, and this made it all- the- more unbearable, when his legs got stuck in the seat tracks of the backseat of my Volvo.  I was trying to get him out of the car and he got stuck.  His nearly 14 year-old arthritic hips and legs got stuck, and he cried out.

I sprang to action and hurled myself over the back of the convertible, wrenching my back and pulling a muscle in my groin, trying to free him as he lay there.  When we were both finally free, sweat pouring down my face, Homer hobbled out to the green grass of the front yard and lay down, as I lay on the floor of the garage and assessed my injuries.  As I did so, I felt Homer come to me and lick my face, licking away my tears of frustration and pain.

My devoted Homer later gnawed gratefully on a marrow bone on the living room rug. This seemed to spur the two cats, T Bone and Jenny, into frenzied action.  Back and forth they zoomed,  knocking over pictures and vases, thundering around the room as I sat on the couch, attempting to read.  The craziness culminated in the two felines hissing and spitting on the back of a wing chair, turning it over, causing them to scatter, hissing and screaming loudly.  Homer continued with his bone; I with my book.

A bit later I looked up from my book, noticing things had become ominously quiet.  I looked for the three animals, finding them in the tiniest room in the house:  my office.  The sight burst my heart open with love and gratitude.  Jenny, all six pounds of her (soaking wet), was sprawled out on my leather chair, sound asleep.  T Bone, a somewhat feral tabby and a 13- pound monster, was sound asleep on a small stool, his paws outstretched toward Jenny.  And Homer?  He was sound asleep, his back pressed against the couch, the couch where 15-20 patients talked to me weekly.  This couch is where Homer worked.  He assisted me with these people, and had done so for the last 14 years.

Sunlight streamed in the window and hit all three animals at the same time, and my heart began to hurt in my chest as it swelled with love.  How could these three animals touch me like this?  How could they represent love so completely that I longed for nothing else when I looked at them?  How did I know God through these furry beings and have no doubt in Her existence when I looked at them?  Why did I break down with joy and compassion when one of them yawned?  What was this thing that caused me to cease my barbaric yawp from time to time when I touched my sweet, sweet babies?

I crept softly over to the couch, and sat down.  In that moment, I remembered the time I had been shown the secret of the Universe thirty years before, lying on this very couch.  It was another time, in another city, on another coast, and the couch was covered in a different fabric.  Tears filled my eyes as I remembered the time. I had awakened from a deep slumber to behold the most beautiful sight I had truly ever beheld:  the sight of my infant daughter’s face as she napped in her swing next to me as I napped on the couch.

Chrissy’s face was arranged in a smile that almost caused me to stop breathing – it was the smile that created the Universe.  It was the smile of one’s Original Face.  Somehow, I was given a glimpse of this before the weight of thought and what we call reality consumed me again.  Her smile covered her entire face, and a gurgling sound came from somewhere deep within this smile, as her chuckle and grin doubled back upon itself and I saw the Truth of All Things, morphed and imprinted on what I called my daughter, but what God called His Beloved.  I could see into eternity, and I will never forget what I saw.

Sometimes we are given this gift, as I was given it again today in looking at Homer, T Bone and Jenny. I was given the promise of the absolute nature of God, the extension of pure kindness and devotion.  Perhaps we get these glimpses to help us remember along the way to keep on keeping on.  To remind us that there is no problem.  No problem, ever.  To help us remember Who We Are and Why We Are Here.

When the love becomes too much to bear, Homer licks our face or T Bone knocks over a vase.  These stories are given us so that we do not implode or explode or burn too quickly.  Love is a fire, and we want to consume this fire with reverence and awareness.

Love is meant to break our hearts.  Love is meant to split us in two again and again.

Let love break your heart again and again.  Let love break you in two….



 I remember the Blue Room as if it were the guest room in my home today although I have not been back to Rockland for fifty years.

The Blue Room lay opposite Mama and Daddy’s room, facing the waterway. These two rooms were the brightest of the five bedrooms, and I remember the lace curtains fluttering at the two large windows facing the water.

I do not remember if this room had side windows, but surely it did, as each room in the Plantation house had enormous proportions. What I do remember were the twin mahogany beds with the blue bedspreads, and Homie-Homie’s Chippendale chest on the wall opposite the windows, overlooking everything in its hulking magnificence.

This is the room where everyone who stayed here, saw her. Our guests would come down in the morning and report the same dream, or ask us if a housekeeper, a “pretty woman, in a floral dress,” had come into the room during the night.  Every single guest!  It got silly and somewhat ridiculous, so we either stopped having guests or Mama put them in the back guest room, which had, in an unbelievable and odd – and only Southern feat of agility and weird taste – four double beds next to one another for the house party my sister and I had only once – yet the beds remained.  This room shared a huge bathroom with my brother.  The bathroom boasted a large and comfortable deep tub, a tub I liked to escape into when no one was looking.

But the Blue Room ghost? How could everyone see her?  Who was she?

Rockland Plantation had been built as a summer plantation for a wealthy landowner in Charleston in the early 1800’s. This landowner and his family liked, as did most Charlestonians, to escape to the low country islands during the most oppressive heat of the humid summers.

Wadmalaw Island is beautiful. It is simply unspoiled, and the old homes remain, their stories and spirits still whispering their secrets…but what was ours?  Were we ever to know?

Old legend had it that the owner of the Plantation had been cremated in the large fireplace in the Grand Room. So my sister and I avoided that room like the plague, except when we threw up down the chimney into that very fireplace after drinking beer and eating coconut cake with Vinnie and Gayle.  Somebody had to clean it up, and since I was usually the responsible one, I cleaned up the puke, putting myself into some sort of trance, not only to avoid the horror of the ghost which might pop out at me, but because I was, and remain, phobic about vomit.

I liked to imagine that the blue woman in the floral dress (did I mention she had a blue-ish tinge, people said?) was the lover or mistress of the Master of the Plantation, and she visited him at night, singing spirituals and watching him as he slept.  I liked to imagine she adored him, watching him, suffering the heartbreak of unrequited love, still wondering where he was, coming again and again each night when a body or bodies inhabited the bedroom where the Master and his wife surely slept. Except my young, poetic story did not fit the image, as this woman was not unhappy or longing; she seemed happy, people said, and she did not fill anyone with sadness or fear.

How I wish I had the courage to sleep in that room when I was a young girl! How I wish I could have seen this woman myself, spoken to her, contextualized her in my mind instead of my imagination.  How I wish I could have spoken myself to the guests we had who reported the same thing, again and again.  The smile on Mama’s face when our guests came to the kitchen for coffee, knowing what they would say.  But this was a time when “children were seen and not heard” and it would have been not only discouraged but possibly punished had I spoken up to houseguests.

How many nights I would write my poems to that blue woman, sure I had her sequestered in the corner of my mind where sadness and longing lived, a Maud Gonne to her William Butler Years, perhaps even an Heloise to her Abelard.

How many nights my heart hammered in terror as sounds came up the stairs as my sister slept softly in the bed next to mine, sure that the Master had come back to life, coming up the stairs to reclaim what was surely his, whatever it was, and there would be some grand coupling in the Blue Room, to which I was not privy, but could only imagine and hear? The Spanish moss outside the windows would appear as ghosts in the moonlight, and try as I might, eyes scrunched tight, my mind would conjure the image of coupling and ecstasy in the Blue Room; my ears would hear what no one else in the house would apparently hear, the sounds of the reunion of Master and Mistress.

Coming to breakfast in the morning, stopping first to greet the Labrador Retrievers in the front hall, my mother would ask me why I looked so tired. How could my family not know what I knew?  How did they not have access to this world of spirit that lived beneath the surface when the veils separated at Rockland Plantation?

I was glad we moved from Rockland when I was 16. I was happy to move to a home which had been built in the last fifty years, rather than the former two hundred years.  I was happy to move to a home which carried nothing more than a few stories of the past – nothing that could not be seen with the eyes opened or closed.  A home which had no colors. A home with rooms which required little psychic effort: beige rooms., brown rooms, pale rooms. When I walk into a home with no spirits, I breathe a sigh of relief.  No work to do.

But the Blue Room at Rockland still apparently lives on. How do I know?  My sister went to visit the current owners several years ago.  When they took her upstairs and into the front room, what we called the Blue Room, they spoke of the “ghost in the room, a woman in a floral dress…”


From the Rockland Series


For Blakely 12/21/2015 

She must have come from some sort of wolf family. I remember saying that to someone as I endured yet another tantrum from my 2-year old daughter.

Her tantrums – usually initiated by my saying “no” to something – were more like fits:  frothy spittle coming from her mouth, a low and pervasive growl mingled with outright howling and screaming, on and on and on.  I knew they were age appropriate, and I knew they had a beginning and an end.  But I swear to God, they seemed like she was purging some sort of demon that lived in the bowels of her soul, and it was difficult to endure these fits, and more difficult, I would imagine, to witness.

I was meditating then. Every day for many hours.  We lived, for the most part, with our spiritual teacher in her Ashram in upstate New York.  So, when her tantrums happened in public in other places, like on the streets of New York City, I was able to hold space for her with great equanimity.  I was able even to endure the well-intentioned people who tried to intervene and “help” – usually people who were scared and trying to take care of their feelings of impotence and helplessness rather than truly being of any use; so I could simply be quiet and spacious, as my daughter raged on and on and on.  I could even detach from the harsh admonitions of the more vicious women who would say things like: “Well, if she were my daughter…”  I would usually begin a Tonglen practice at that point, knowing full well these were shamed based women, projecting their self-hatred, and I could usually muster a kindred compassion and kindness for their shock and anger and feelings of impotence at watching us both experience these fits of toxicity.

These tantrums happened in airports. They happened on the streets of New York City.  They happened at home.  Once, when my daughter had a tantrum in a woman’s bathroom in an airport, I confined her behind a stall door as she frothed and screamed and growled and actually gnashed at the door with her teeth to try and escape.  One woman actually said she was going to call the police, and that is when I gave her a slightly withering stare and said:  “Please do.  I could use a break.”

I was getting tired by the second year of this mayhem. We were living in upstate New York that summer, between my daughter’s second and third year of life.  We had a room in an old hotel secured by the Ashram where devotees lived and performed their sadhana.  It was a gorgeous existence, and very difficult for those of us with the seva of child-rearing.  But my teacher said we always came with what we most needed to do and learn, and although I yearned for a more public and/or interesting seva (than taking care of an oppositional and difficult child), I was performing my work diligently each day:  yoga, chanting, seva, meditation, and a very austere life of study and prayer.


It was after lunch one day that one of my daughter’s tantrums began. And it was a doozy.  She was full tilt boogy into blood curdling screams and growls, which actually concerned me since the dharma of the Ashram was one of strict silence, when a resounding knock came at our door and a harsh woman’s voice called out “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THAT CHILD?”

For the first time I collapsed a bit. I opened the door, and said:  “She is purifying herself.  Mind your own business.”  And I closed my door, and wearily sat on the end of the bed, looking at the top of the bed, where my daughter looked uncannily like Linda Blair , frothing, screaming, growling, winding up to attack me, scratch me, bite me.

For some reason, my eyes fell on a book by my teacher’s teacher, Baba Muktananda, which lay on the bed. It was open to a page where my eyes immediately sought a sentence as if it glared neon at me.  The simple sentence said: “Hear God in the tantrum of a child.”

My breath caught for a brief moment in my throat. At the same moment I looked at my daughter.  All sound had stopped.  She had thrown back her head and her mouth was wide open.   Blue pearls were cascading from her silent mouth toward the ceiling.

The Shaivite scriptures tell us that all of creation is contained in the Blue Pearl, and that God appears to us as a Blue Pearl, a dot in our consciousness. When I had first awakened to God some years before, it was these blue dots which shimmered in my vision everywhere; with my eyes opened or closed, my vision was swirling masses of small blue vortices of consciousness.  Now they were tumbling, falling, yet somehow also rising out of my daughter’s mouth.

Suddenly my daughter fell back on the bed into a deep slumber.

I was to join her moments later, enfolding her sweet body into my arms, and the two of us slept deeply, awakening several hours later.

When we awakened, the world was completely new, fresh and fragrant, and completely different than what had existed only hours before.

My daughter never had a tantrum again.