Listening to Nina Simone, who was born Eunice Kathleen Waymon. The great civil rights advocate and musician inspires me. One of my clients looks like her. Hard to say whose history is harder. The woman I know remembers her father holding a gun to her mother’s head. She suffers from complex trauma, a syndrome unrecognized by the current Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. She trust no one, certainly not me.
Are you a woman? Do you love someone who is female? Do you believe you have or she has the right to her own body and mind? Do you like tacos or beer? If you answered yes to any of these questions, please support this campaign to give women more control over their own destinies: Taco or Beer Challenge. It’s a heck of a lot more fun that dumping ice on your head.
Last night I dreamed that a man I love deeply trafficked with powerful politicos who manipulated elections not to promote candidates whose views they shared, but because this was how the game was played and they played to win. My lone voice calling out for leaders who protected a woman’s right to control her own body went unheard. The politicos hushed me by assuring me they agreed with me, while women sat idly on the sidelines. So this morning I donated money to Trust Women Foundation through this campaign. Check out some videos of other like-minded here.
BTW, I don’t like all the F-bombs in the subsequent blurb, but the cause is good. Please check it out. Taco or Beer Challenge.
Or simply donate to this excellent cause: TRUST WOMEN.
As a Norwegian-American, I quite like Scandinavian trolls. Internet trolls are a completely different monster: a sociopathic hydra.
Originally posted on Feminist Philosophers:
From the CHE. Having myself filed a complaint, I can say it looks accurate. It is a long and exhausting process. If you are fortunate enough to settle, signing a non-disclosure agreement can seem worth it.
I’m writing this at the Houston ‘international’ airport. I hope to get back to this before the day ends.
Originally posted on Feminist Philosophers:
Dr. Kimberly Theidon, an anthropology professor, is suing Harvard University, alleging discrimination and retaliation after she spoke out on behalf of victims of sexual assault and criticized the university’s handling of their cases.
“I’m not going to be silent, I was not going to be a dutiful daughter so they denied me tenure and effectively fired me,” said Theidon.
Now she’s blowing the whistle on the university by filing a complaint with the Massachusetts Commission against Discrimination alleging she was discriminated and retaliated against for criticizing the university’s handling of sexual assault cases.
“This case is about the importance of women who are sexually assaulted on campus having someone to go to as the first responder who will not be afraid to help them,” said her attorney Elizabeth Rogers.
“We want Harvard to change their policies,” said attorney Phil Gordon.
A spokesman for the University declined Team 5 Investigates request…
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I just received the most predictable and hateful response to this blog.
Originally posted on The Left Hand of Feminism:
Though you have done nothing shameful, they will want you to be ashamed. They will want you to kneel and weep and say you should have been like them. And once you say you are ashamed, reading the page they hold out to you, then such light as you have made in your history will leave you. They will no longer need to pursue you. You will pursue them, begging forgiveness. They will not forgive you. There is no power against them. It is only candor that is aloof from them, only an inward clarity, unashamed, that they cannot reach. Be ready. When their light has picked you out and their questions are asked, say to them: "I am not ashamed." A sure horizon will come around you. The heron will begin his evening flight from the hilltop. From "Do Not Be Ashamed" by Wendell Barry
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It has been two weeks and I haven’t called and I don’t want to call but I really miss (the good parts about) him and therefore found myself googling “why you should not call your ex” and found my way to Roxane Robitaille‘s fabulous column. She’s a couple therapist and she is wise. I found the following very helpful.
Some years ago, I went through a difficult break-up. When my relationship came to an end, one of the most difficult things for me was deciding whether or not to call him back. I have to come clean and admit I did call him, many times (sigh). Unfortunately, these phone calls never went the way I wished they would go. Being a professional on-again off –again couple we went back and forth for months. I knew deep down that the relationship was making me miserable, yet I wanted to “fix” it, cause no one likes to feel miserable right? These phone calls sometimes lead to more sadness; they sometimes lead us to seeing each other again for a short while. As you read the following, ask yourself why you want to be in a relationship. Is it because you want to have children? Is it because you’re afraid of being alone? Well, think about this, the on-again off-again relationship is very likely to be nothing but a waste of your precious time, time you could be spending taking care of you and feeling ready to meet someone who sees just how fabulous you are. If you do want to have children, do you want to be with a partner like this one? A partner who left you for reasons you don’t really understand, a partner who makes you the future-mom-to-be feel less than amazing, a partner who doesn’t accept and love everything about you and wants you to change, a partner whom you want to change? If things do get patched up between the two of you, are you going to be sitting right back here in 6 months? In a year? Don’t call him babe.
1. You should feel desired and confident. I’m guessing that if you’re reading an article about why not to call your ex it’s not because you’re feeling like an energized, gorgeous, popular and desired person. You feel rejected and you want that feeling to go away. So you think about calling him back and smoothing things over. But calling him will inevitably make you feel worse.
2. You might make things worse. Are you feeling angry at him right now? Are you feeling vulnerable and lonely? You might blow up at him like a crazy-lady or you might end up crying and pleading on the phone for him to take you back. In either case, not a good situation (I am speaking from personal experience here, unfortunately). Do you really want to convince him to be with you? Argue him into taking you back? Plead yourself back into this relationship? Why should you convince anyone to be with you? You’re amazing!
3. What if he doesn’t answer? He has caller-ID doesn’t he? He’ll see that you’ve called. Are you going to call back in 5 minutes? In an hour? Tomorrow? Are you going to leave a message? What if he doesn’t call you back? You’ll be sitting there wondering why he’s not calling you back. And you’ll sit there, like I did, doubting yourself because you ex is not calling you back. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be frantically looking at your phone every 10 minutes to see whether you have any missed calls or missed messages. Here’s an idea: turn the phone off. You can do it. When you turn off your phone, you are taking back control and not letting yourself become obsessed with him his call. Free yourself from the phone and decide that for now you have better things to do than sit by the phone and wait for him to call you.
4. And if he answers? He might be busy and hang up in haste. Or he might not be so hot about hearing your voice on the line. But what if the convo goes well? Well honey, even if the conversation goes well, and he’s not likely to cry out: “oh baby, I’m so glad you called, I’m sorry I dumped you, let’s get back together!” And I’m sure anything less than that would be disappointing to you. Right? You’ll be hanging up sad, disappointed or angry.
5. You might end up in bed. If he does want to see you after he’s dumped you, and he’s happy to come over and hang out with you, he might want sex. That may feel nice for you as well, because let’s face it, our exes are our most intimate partners. It’s also the easiest person to sleep with after a breakup. You might feel connected for a short while, but honey this guy dumped you (cheated on you, didn’t want to get married to you, didn’t listen to you, didn’t spend enough time with you, didn’t make you feel like your best self, deceived you…) so why are you having sex with him? Although, you are a hot mamacita, your lover should see way more in you than your hot physical looks.
6. He’s not the one calling you. If your ex wanted to get you back and was madly in love with you, he would let you know. He would cross all bridges and climb all mountains to get to you. So let him call you and let him prove to you that he deserves to be with hotty such as yourself. Be strong. Don’t give-in. Think highly of yourself. Don’t sell yourself cheaply. And don’t call him back. Let him come back to you if that is what’s in the cards for you. Think that you are worthy of a man coming back to you with flowers and sweeping you off your feet.
7. Is he that great anyways? Even though he might have left you, and even though he may very well have been a super-stand-up guy, he wasn’t perfect either right? I mean, he dumped you, so there’s obviously is something wrong with him! He couldn’t appreciate what a prize you truly are.
8. There’s someone better for you out there. You know this is true (I hope). Right now it just feels like you might be alone forever. You might get caught up in the false beliefs that all good guys are taken and that it’s hard to meet someone. Those kinds of thoughts only make you feel more desperate and make you think you’d better hang on to this one. Well, no. I’m not having it. There are plenty of really good guys (good looking ones too!) out there who would feel happy to call you every day and spend time building a relationship with you. Imagine what your perfect relationship would feel like. Now multiply that by 10 and that’s what’s out there waiting for you right now. So turn off the phone, get out there in the world and open yourself up the possibilities that are all around you. Try to going out anywhere, to the supermarket, to a coffee shop, to the pet-store, anywhere, and smile at people. Just smile. Smile at men, smile at women, smile at kids, smile at the elderly. People will smile back at you. Now how good does that feel? There are plenty of people out there you can easily engage with just by smiling. Get out of your sweat-pants and go out and smile at people. Start to feel it IS true: there is someone better for you out there.
9. You’re not taking advantage of your time alone. When relationships end, we are left with a whole lot of extra free time. Time that used to be spend on doing fun activities together, time shared having meals and interesting conversations together. But wait! You are still a fun-loving, interesting person! Take advantage of this time to get to know yourself, to heal your vulnerable heart, and to love yourself. Do some of the things you like, surround yourself with people who care about you, call a friend. Take out your agenda and try to schedule fun things for yourself for the night, for the weekend etc. If you know in advance how you are going to fill your time, you’re not going to feel so obsessed with calling him because you’re going to be busy (and happy hopefully!). I know this is going to sound unoriginal, but look at the breakup as a time to re-evaluate your life. Take it as an experience in personal growth. There is nothing more attractive than a woman who is confident and happy with herself!
10. You are meant to have and enjoy a wonderful life. All aspects of your life are meant to lift you up and make you feel good about yourself. You don’t need to wait around for another person to give you what you need. How can you make yourself feel more wanted and secure? As a friend once told me, bees are naturally attracted to a piece of sugar. Sugar doesn’t have to do anything except being its sweet self, and all the bees want to be around it. So go ahead honey, make yourself feel well, beautiful and happy, that’s really all you have to do to attract to you the perfect partner, and a wonderful happy life.
I love the purple hats!
Originally posted on Feminist Philosophers:
Yesterday, women marched accross Turkey to mark International Women’s day, brandishing banners, and saucepans (not as a sign of their womanhood, but because it was one the instruments or protest last summer – Turks were banging saucepans on their balconies throughout the protests). Here is a slideshow of the marches.
In Istanbul, women demonstrated in Taksim, close to Gezi park, the heart of last year’s protests. The riot police blocked their entry into the park.
Women in Taksim, chanting “Run away, Tayyip! The women are coming to get you”. (Images taken from The New Young Turks‘ facebook page.)
My parents had a really happy marriage. They met and fell in love in a Seventh-Day Adventist (SDA) high school in Los Angeles. Basically good and good-looking, outdoorsy, kids, they rebelled against their church’s strict rules against drinking, smoking, and pre-marital sex. Before they got hitched, at the frighteningly young ages of 21 and 22, they shared sleeping bags while camping out before the Rose Bowl Parade. The early years of their marriage were hard. My father was in medical school and worked 24 hours at a time in the hospital before going on to his part-time jobs at a gas station and a mortuary. He didn’t have time to think, let alone feel. My mother, though, grew lonely and depressed at her secretarial position and afterwards, trying to attend to four year-old me and my much cuter and quieter two year-old brother. Just because we had been running around all day at our grandmother’s house playing with our uncles and cousins didn’t mean we were tired, or that dinner and the dirty house would take care of themselves.
The U.S. Army drafted my father right out of medical school and my parents opted to spend three years in Germany in lieu of two years in Texas. Although it was difficult at first, especially since my father had to train for six months away from the family, the easier work schedule and social life that they found on the base gave my parents the opportunity to turn towards one another again. Both of them enjoyed skiing and traveling and socializing with people from different cultures, ethnic groups, and religions. They explored Europe together, usually with my brother and me, but also alone or with friends.
I remember them laughing, but cannot think of a single time I saw them yelling or arguing at one another. Disagreements usually had to do with money—my father thought my mother spent too much on clothing for herself and the kids, while my mother complained that he spent too much on his sailboats. He generally deferred to her in actually enjoyed spending money on her, because she was beautiful and elegant and looked great in diamonds. She appreciated how hard he worked to pay for luxuries and went along with his enthusiasms, such as sailing, even though she never got as excited about it as he did.
She enjoyed just being in his company, she said, even if he seemed to be ignoring her behind his computer monitor. Both came from musical families that valued classical music. My mother also liked popular songs but deferred to my father’s more intellectual interests in jazz and opera when they sat together in the evenings. My father admired my mother’s taste in decorating, so if he decided what they did together, then my mother determined how the boat or the home they did it in would look and feel. My father liked to jokes and my mother liked to laugh. She laughed at everyone’s jokes.
One of the most important lessons I learned from my mother is that one’s husband should be interesting. “Your father never bores me,” she said. He loved the way she rubbed his neck on long family car journeys. While my mother probably dedicated more cognitive room to my father than he did to her, and was generally less able to discuss his feelings, she was emotionally intelligent enough not to read any irritation or frustration he expressed as an attack on her person.
My father’s temperament was basically sweet, and both of my parents had strong, emotionally involved mothers, so it was easy for him to accept her dominance in the household. She respected his dominance in the business and financial spheres. He wasn’t too keen on her wish for another child in her late thirties, but he went along with it because he loved her. He also accepted very little responsibility for the nurturing of my sister. “Joan, your child is crying,” I can remember him saying.
They accepted stereotypical gendered roles without buying into a philosophy of male dominance. My father had some old-fashioned attitudes, but he respected intelligence and ability in women. Both of them were strongly pro-choice. They pursued different hobbies but generally practiced them together (Mom needle pointed or read while Dad puttered on the boat). Mom never did master the black runs and usually got cold long before Dad, but she was a good sport and headed out with him every day.
Because my father’s job was so demanding, they had to learn how to entertain themselves separately, but they shared the same Southern Californian, SDA roots as well as the same dream of a healthy, happy, family in which parents and children spent a lot of time together outside having fun. They planned a rich, relaxing, athletic retirement together, but that dream never came true. My mother died of colon cancer after a short illness in 1990. She was 54. Dad remarried another woman from the same high school, but she was an altogether different sort of person and did not bring my father much joy. Truly happy marriages are rare and precious.
My parents taught me a great deal about what a good relationship looks like. Partners do well when they admire each other’s interests and respect their different strengths. I also think a man who bores a woman will soon lose her, no matter what else may offer, and that mutual admiration and toleration for one another is vital for long-term happiness. My parents’ good marriage will always inform my interpretations of other relationships. It will also help me, a committed feminist and apprentice psychotherapist, to see that even couples who adopt relatively rigid gender roles can share power equally and effectively.
Gamble everything for love,
if you’re a true human being.
If not, leave
Half-heartedness doesn’t reach
into majesty. You set out
to find God, but then you keep
stopping for long periods
at mean-spirited roadhouses.
My amazing cat, Peer Gynt, died last week. I called him my boyfriend because he was the first being who came here and stayed, and only after much upset and dissatisfaction on both sides. He was big and orange and stripy, like a mini-tiger, and fat, and lazy, and lazier and fatter every year. He complained loudly when he wanted attention, or when breakfast wasn’t served promptly enough. Sometimes he even pawed at my bedroom door. He convinced people in the neighborhood that he needed food with his piteous meowing. They call me up and say, “I found your cat. He seems really hungry…” even though he was a bruiser and had plenty to eat at home and, to boot, wore a tag that said “In-outdoor cat. Do not feed.”
He was an alley cat, the mayor of the neighborhood, everybody’s cat, really. My neighbor, Lisa, called him “Pussy L’Orange” and loved him, I thought, much better than I did. She let him sit on her lap and get his cat hair all over her clothing. My dear friend Tim, who lives down the alley, held Peer for hours and hours a day, letting him sleep on his chest. He was a protector, a guardian, a friend. I called him the sleep guru because it he lulled everyone he curled up against into dreamland. And now he is sleeping in my back yard. He was not afraid of dogs. When we brought a 5 month-old Siberian Husky, a reputed cat-killer, into his home, he calmly stared her down and made it clear that he was in charge. He held his ground when we brought in another, goofy, Husky Puppy, who grew to be 70 pounds. Peer kept them both in line. Some people called him a dog-cat, or cat-dog, because he often behaved more like a dog than a cat.
My friend Tim helped me lower him into the grave, wrapped in a lovely old cotton blanket my parents brought back from Wyoming. It seemed fitting, as Peer was a Western Cat, a fighter, a lover.
The funeral was lovely. Some of the kids from the neighborhood, who knew and loved him, came over. Each of us said what we loved about him and then cast a flower into his grave. Then I read from Christopher Smart‘s Jubilate Agno, which one of the kids actually knew about. Smart wrote what must be the greatest poem on a cat while confined for lunacy in Bedlam Asylum between 1759 and 1763.
1 For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
2 For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
19 For having consider’d God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
20 For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
21 For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
22 For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
23 For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.
24 For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.
25 For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
26 For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
27 For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
I loved my cat, Peer Gynt.
I send him to his grave with lines from Ibsen. This is the lullaby that Solveig, who has loved him forever, sings to him at the end of the play:
Sleep thou, dearest boy of mine!
I will cradle thee, I will watch thee —
The boy has been sitting on his mother’s lap.
They two have been playing all the life-day long.
The boy has been resting at his mother’s breast
all the life-day long. God’s blessing on my joy!
The boy has been lying close in to my heart
all the life-day long. He is weary now.
Sleep thou, dearest boy of mine!
I will cradle thee, I will watch thee.
When I was six or seven, my parents went on vacation and left my brother and me with the German ironing lady and her husband, neither of whom spoke English. We lived in Augsburg then, on an army base, and employed a local woman to wash, fold, and iron our clothes. She also served as a babysitter from time to time.
The ironing lady and her husband were elderly and unaccustomed to rambunctious children. They lived in a small apartment stuffed with large, dark, polished wooden furniture. One day I was sitting at the dining table with the ironing lady’s husband, who was writing something with a fountain pen. I am not sure how it happened, but my brother was probably napping and I had decided to be both very quiet and very alert. I became utterly absorbed in the experience of listening to the sound of the pen scratching on the parchment, gazing at the old man’s mild face, and sensing my slight weight on the chair in the atmosphere of that cozy, small space. I tasted the flavor of the air, smelled the ink and the old man and the wood and the carpet, and felt a thrilling, exquisite pleasure of curiosity about everything that I was sensing from moment to moment, second to second.
I did not want it ever to end, and sat utterly still, rapt in what I knew to be both profound and ordinary. It was the first time in my life that I realized that simply sitting and paying attention could be enjoyable. It was so easy to be patient, so wonderful and beautiful to experience watching and listening. I felt as though there was a powerful, fragile tension between myself and the old man, and that my very stillness and quietness was part of his writing and thinking and breathing there, across the table from me, the table that I could barely see over, as though in that room at that moment a fantastic energy sprang alive and palpable and real and exciting.
This was a moment of what is called Abhyasa, in the Sütras of Pantanjali. Abhyasa might be described as a measured, calm, yet determined intention to pay attention to what is, as opposed to a wild, rushing and blasting and pushing energy, or the reckless passion with which, for example, a warrior flies into battle, or an athlete dedicates all her energy and power to winning a match or scaling a steep hill. Abhyasa is experience without reaction, awareness without judgment, perception without response.
As I sat with the old man writing, I was stirred, but not stirred into any response other than observing his movements as something to observe. I liked the activity of observation, and became, later, attached to the pleasure I remembered having during this moment. This attachment, of course, became a source of suffering because it was something that I could not will into being, and had to wait for.
Many people experience pain at this intersection, where the flexible lumbar vertebrae curves up and back, and the inflexible, fused sacral vertebrae curve down and forward. When this structure becomes overstressed, the disc between the vertebrae gets compressed, or squished, and bulges out, putting pressure on the sciatic nerve and causing pain. When severely stressed, the disc herniates, or protrudes outside of the spine. Fortunately, my disc has not yet degenerated to that point. Nevertheless, my disc had degenerated enough to make it hard for me to bend forward, to walk, and to stand.
As luck would have it, this condition flared up during the year in which I trained to become a yoga teacher. At first I could not figure out why I could not relax comfortably in Shavasana or move into and out of Virabhadrasana without extreme pain. After ten years of pushing myself in yoga practice, I had to pull way back and accept the limitations of my body. I consulted a physiatrist, who sent me to a very good physical therapist, and took a break from all forward bending for two months.
All the forward bends that I thought were so good for my spine were actually worsening my condition, because the movement encouraged the disc between L5 and S1 to bulge out further. In addition, other muscles in my core began tighten up as they overcompensated for the weakness at the base of my spine. My psoas muscles, which runs from the middle point of the spine over in front of the sacrum and down to the femurs, the large thigh bone, were overly consctricted and working like a tight rubber band that bent me forward at the base of my spine. Furthermore, deep in my back musculature, the quadratus lumborum that run from the top of the lumbar spine down to the sacrum, were also overly tight. In consultation with my physical therapist, I developed a yoga sequence to release these muscles, strengthen my abdominals, and regain some of the flexibility I had lost.
For the first two weeks I did nothing more than simple press-ups, a variation on Bhujangasana, or cobra, in which you press your arms into the mat until they are straight, raising the chest and hips but leaving the legs on the mat while releasing all muscles in the buttocks. I still begin every session with ten repetitions of this simple back-opener.
For weeks three and four I tightened my abdominal muscles with uddiyana and mula bhanda locks as often as possible–especially when moving from a seated to a standing position, or while seated and standing. Basically: all the time.
Here is the sequence I started with. It helps me a lot. A word of caution: if you have severe back pain due to sciatia, a herniated or degenerated disc, please do not practice these exercises without consulting your physician or physical therapist.
Also, as always in yoga, let pain be your guide. If you begin to feel an intense, burning or cutting pain, immediately cease what you are doing. Seek sthira and sukkha, discipline and sweetness, a balance between exertion and ease, in every asana.
Bhujangasana variation. 10x. Lying face down on floor, bring your hands along the body just beneath your shoulders. Press your palms against the mat to lift your chest and hips up, keeping your buttock muscles loose.
Benefits of bhujangasana: strengthens and stretches the spine, opens chest and shoulders, relieves pain from sciatica and herniated discs.
Shalabasana (Locust) 4x Lying face down on the mat with arms along the body. Strongly pulling your shoulder blades together, lift your chest and thighs off the mat, lengthening the crown of the head away from the feet and the feet away from the body. Hold here for three breaths.
Benefits of Shalabasana: Strenthens the lumbar spine; helps the psoas muscle to release, posterior hip and thigh muscles, opens the shoulders and chest.
Benefits of Dhanurasana: stretches the psoas, flexes the lumbar quadratus, strengthens the spine, opens shoulders, chest and throat.
In between each pose, Rest in a passive neck stretch–bringing your head all the way to the floor, turned, alternately to the left and right, for three full breaths.
Setu Bandhasana (Bridge)3x From a supine position on your back, bend your knees and bring your heels towards your hips, keeping the feet hip-width apart. Lift your hips by pressing your upper back against the floor and lengthening the stomach and spine. Tuck your shoulders underneath your back and grasp your fingers together. Release your buttocks muscles and hold yourself here by pushing your feet against the floor. Hold for 3 or 4 breaths. Exit by unclasping the fingers and slowly lowering the spine to the floor, one vertebrae at a time.
Benefits of Setu Bandhasana: strengthens middle and upper spine, stretches psoas; relieves low back tightness. It also may alleviate symptoms of depression by increasing circulation to the thyroid gland.
All experience is preceded by mind,
Led by mind,
Made by mind.
Speak or act with a corrupted mind,
And suffering follows
As the wagon wheel follows the hoof of the ox.
All experience is preceded by mind,
Led my mind,
Made by mind
Speak or act with a peaceful mind,
And happiness follows
Like a never-departing shadow.
Buddha, Dhamapada 1:1-2
The first verses of the Dhammapada remind us to guide our thinking, because our thoughts inform our experience. Everything that we go through, every event, we interpret with our minds. But experience also has a way of shaping the way we interpret our experiences. The families into which we were born, the people and cultures that shaped us, inform our minds, the ways we see the world. So, for example, a child who is mistreated from the moment she is born,who is told that she is worthless and stupid and incompetent, nothing more than a thing to be used by others, is likely to grow up with a false understanding of herself. She will not know her true nature as a being of light and beauty, deserving of all love. She will have a corrupted mind, and suffering will follow her.
The wonderful knowledge that the Buddha offers to us here is this: no matter what has happened to us, no matter how corrupted our ways of understanding the world have been, each one of us has the freedom and the power to learn, through practice, to step aside, as it were, from the false, corrupt thoughts that have been imbued in us, and to have a “peaceful mind.” This is the only path to lasting happiness.
I was at a picnic, and all my neighbors and friends and family were there, even my son’s father. The weather was so lovely and we were all having such a lovely time, that it saddened me to know that I my son was at home, probably sitting in the dark, feeling lonely and miserable. So I left the happy scene and headed for the house, just a few blocks away.
Suddenly I was driving our old 1967 white Mercedes, and people started massing into the streets. I slammed on the brakes, barely missing an old man. Up ahead I saw tiny grey clouds wafting up from the ground all around us. A policeman stopped me at an intersection, and, crouching down, shouted for everyone to take cover. I didn’t feel very frightened as I hunched behind the steering wheel.
The ground shook violently in a thundering explosion. Something had blasted part of the road away. The policeman stood up and ordered everyone to stay away from the punctures in the asphalt, but I had already started to drive ahead, through the tunnel where I thought I saw enough good road to get me home, to Brendan, to see if he was all right. No policeman would separate me from my child.
But my car wheels grazed one of the steaming potholes and the whole surface gave way, pulling my car down with it! I scrambled out the window up onto the side of the sinking car, and, using my mountain-climbing skills (which I seem to need in many of my dreams lately), I pulled myself up the enormous, concrete wall and up onto a ledge. Unfortunately, the earthquake had pushed the road far, far beneath me, probably ten stories down. Trapped!
The policeman was rescuing a man stranded int about 5 stories down with a cherry picker. He was directly below me. “Help! Help! Help!” I shouted at him. He seemed to ignore me but soon came zooming up to bring me down.
I got into a bus with a number of other women and men, each of them as dazed as I was. We talked about our symptoms: racing hearts, shaking hands, difficulty moving, hazy, slow thinking. “We’ve been traumatized. This is normal,” I said. Brendan’s father was on the bus, too. I threw my arms around him and cried, “I am so grateful that you are here. We must always stay together.” We would look for Brendan together.
They took us to a police station where officious men and women made us take a test. Each person had to do a different thing. To me, they said, “look into this light and speak as fast as you can.” They didn’t tell me what they wanted me to say, but indicated that my fate depended on my words. I burbled out my accomplishments, my virtues, my job experiences, my talents, anything I could think of. Someone else had to type as quickly as she could on an old-fashioned keyboard that was difficult to operate. Some people were not allowed to take the test. I could not see where Brendan’s father had gone to.
I must not have done well because they sent me to a labor camp processing radioactive pigs, where workers typically lasted for no longer than 5 years. “It’s better than dying now, isn’t it?,” one of the officious people asked me, not expecting an answer. Less than a minute after I arrived, I stumbled into one of the boiling vats on the assembly line and began coughing up blood. A man with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes in a strangely puffy, yellow face, held me as I retched.
I learned that the earthquake had jolted me far forward in time, and that the entire planet had fallen under the control of giant casinos. All other businesses had failed, and now the gaming industry ran all public and private institutions. Even though I had a Ph.D. and many years of teaching experience, I had not attended a casino-run university, and, therefore, my qualifications had no value.
Somehow I got home to the house, after all, years later, and found Brendan. “You are safe! You stayed here!” I cried out joyfully. “No,” he replied. “I left. And I traveled for years and learned many things.