Category: Relationships

Our Promise Cups

A bit of love remembered:

I finally retired in October 2014. Kristi had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate, neighborhood cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.

We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.

Kristi’s
Mine

Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.

I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.

I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.

When she was only 3 years old, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.

I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.

Adrian has Passed On

Adrian was an old friend. I knew him from high school. A Swedish boy with white blonde hair and, gleaming, even whiter teeth. When he smiled he lit up a room. He was more than handsome.

Adrian came from a large family. I believe there were 5 boys and one sister. Each of them with the same hair and teeth and confident and charismatic demeanor.

After high school I was searching for life’s meaning. Not finding what I was looking for in LSD and other psychedelics, one day Adrian knocked on our door.

His had been a similar path but according to him he had found “the way”. He had a Bible under his arm and was ready to show us “where the light was”. He was determined to drag us to church.

After a few determined visits, we acquiesced and followed him to Maranatha Church, where Reverend Wendall Wallace preached and held sway.

In red cords, a red and blue flowered shirt and barefoot, I sat in a pew near the back. Richard Probosco played the piano and the choir sang and rocked back and forth clapping in synchopated rhythm in their black robes.

Wallace was on fire as he preached to a congregation of black and white and the young and the old. The auditorium was packed.

I didn’t really hear his words but I was moved deep inside somewhere, without comprehension. This wasn’t the 1st time I was moved by music and rhythm and I had smoked some weed before leaving home, which increased the warmth and sensuality of the atmosphere.

I was moved but also apprehensive because I knew where this was going. I was in no way naive. And then it came: the invitation to come up front and give one’s life to Jesus. The music and the singing were pleading and Wallace’s voice was trying to draw us in. ” Is there anyone here”, he said, who will come down and give their life to Jesus? Jesus loves you”, he said again and again, with pregnant pauses, while he waited for responses.

A few people responded and began to walk down the aisle towards the altar. “Okay. Why not?”, I thought. “Let’s go.” I walked down the aisle and knelt at the altar and said, ” Jesus, if you are who you say you are then show it to me”.

At that moment I felt that I was flying through the air, through the clouds, at a high rate of speed. I don’t know what that was but it was very real. I stayed there kneeling for I don’t know how long but I eventually stood up and Wallace took my hand and lifted it in the air while he praised God and shouted Hallelujah.

Something really had changed. From that moment I started looking into The Bible like I had looked into Eastern religions previously. Adrian had located a huge house in northeast Portland that had stained glass and beveled glass windows that reflected rainbows on the floors and the walls. He convinced the church to support this house where “hippies” who were being converted to Christianity could live while they were in the process of changing their lives.

I lived there at the House of Rainbows for a time. Food was provided, the utilities and rent were paid and a ride to church was provided every Sunday and Wednesday nights.

Adrian, from that time onwards until his death was a street evangelist. He spent all of his time on the street bringing people out of drug addiction and alcoholism and violence to give their hearts to Jesus. But he not only preached the gospel but but he provided food and housing and clothing.

In spite of Adrian’s well meaning efforts towards me, I was always a skeptic and never a true believer in spite of my experience at the altar at Maranatha church. I tried for years but it just never rang true to me. I haven’t had anything to do with any church since the early 70’s. But I can’t deny the good that Adrian did for many, many people, perhaps hundreds of people.

I haven’t seen Adrian since around 1972-74, but he frequently comes to mind. Many were convinced that Adrian and I would hook up but we didn’t ever have that kind of relationship. The women at Maranatha made me a patchwork quilt of embroidered squares and one of the patches had a picture of Adrian and I as a married couple. In spite of the fact that Jack and I married, we had that quilt on our bed for many years until it was destroyed in a house fire.

Adrian was the witness who signed our marriage license and reverend Wendell Wallace married us out in the forest on a beautiful sunny August day.

Adrian and Wendall Wallace signing the certificate of marriage
Reverend Wendall Wallace. Blessings

I called Jack yesterday and told him that Adrian had passed on. He was only 74, our age, but apparently had been ill and died of an injury. We commiserated and were sad at his passing. Though we are not believers we are certainly appreciative of all the good that Adrian did in his life. Who can fault a man who has spent his life helping so many get off drugs and alcohol and has shown them a way to live that is not harmful to themselves or others.

Good bye, Adrian. You’ve had a good life. We loved you. Many have loved you.

You Know You Wish You Knew This Before.

Sometimes people walk away from love because it is so beautiful that it terrifies them.

Sometimes they leave because the connection shines a bright light on their dark places and they are not ready to work them through.

Sometimes they run away because they are not developmentally prepared to merge with another- they have more individuation work to do first.

Sometimes they take off because love is not a priority in their lives- they have another path and purpose to walk first.

Sometimes they end it because they prefer a relationship that is more practical than conscious, one that does not threaten the ways that they organize reality. Because so many of us carry shame, we have a tendency to personalize love’s leavings, triggered by the rejection and feelings of abandonment. But this is not always true. Sometimes it has nothing to do with us.

Sometimes the one who leaves is just not ready to hold it safe.

Sometimes they know something we don’t- they know their limits at that moment in time.

Real love is no easy path- readiness is everything.

May we grieve loss without personalizing it.

May we learn to love ourselves in the absence of the lover.

(~an excerpt from ‘An Uncommon Bond’, available at any bookstore through Ingram Distribution, and on Amazon (Kindle, Paperback, audio) at https://www.amazon.com/Uncommon-Bond-Jeff-Brown/dp/0980885957/)

Stay Away from Married Men: Why I don’t sleep anymore.

  • Sleepless

My dearest,

I lay awake and my mind dwells on the unfathomable words you have spoken on my unfulfilled desire to give you my heart and my life. More than anything I want to give you my time. I am lonely. I hear words that I don’t understand and I spin them around in my mind. I try to hear your voice. I try to remember how you said them and what they might have meant.

I lay awake and suffer because of my own decision to stay. I could leave. I don’t have to be here but you are so beautiful to me. Your skin, the color of your hair, your lips and more than that your eyes. But I don’t understand you. The trouble is that I know the truth. I am alone. You’re not. You want me to make that easy for you.

I lay awake with unshed tears and trembling body. I haven’t seen you… it’s only been two days and I miss your touch. I want you to want to me like I want you but I can’t say for sure that you do… I can’t say that you don’t.

I am like so many women who want more than they can have. Am I unrealistic? Should I be satisfied? Don’t I remember the last time you were here and the words you spoke? But they don’t sustain me.

I lay awake because I cannot tell you what I am feeling. What does “I love you” mean? Don’t those words leave so much unspoken? I want to tell you that I want you in my world. I want to be with you every day. I am alone. I eat alone. I walk alone. I travel alone. I shop alone. I sleep alone. I look at the stars alone. I experience the moon and Mars alone. I only have the hour that you give me at random times on random days as I am getting less time with you. I do remember Friday and Saturday last week but what about this week?

I lay awake and breathe. I feel my body. My hand feels the soft skin of my belly, the muscles under the skin of my thighs, my bones that surround my heart and my lungs. It all feel so precious to me. It is the treasure that I give you every time we lie down together. I look at the dark ceiling and picture your face above me. There are things that I don’t understand. Your kisses are so real, at times they hurt. I am left with bruised lips. Your hands are so soft and sometimes so hard when they delve into my soft places. So quickly you roll off and push my arms and legs away from you as you lie spent next to me, too hot to breathe. I want you to hold me as you swiftly pull on your pants and pull your shirt over your head. My body pleads for you to hold me but you have to run. So few are the times that I have been able to curl up in the crook of your arm. I can count them on one hand.

“I want to go home”. I know what you mean. You have to go home. You have given me an hour by your watch, which you keep glancing at. No, I don’t forget last weekend when you crept away in the early morning hours just before she arrived home. It was sweet sleeping with you.

I lay awake. It’s 3:00 in the morning and I shed tears that you don’t want to see. “Look at your eyes”, you say. “Your face is different”. My tears are my blood that I cannot give you… they are the beat of my heart as I hold it in my hand and ask you to take all of it. My tears are my hopes and my dreams and thankfulness. They are my tide that has come to shore and overflowed my banks. You have rejected them and I cannot stop them. I cannot stem them anymore. I cry because I want to give myself to you… because I want you in my world… because I don’t want to wonder anymore… because I have only hurt once before and I am scared… because you are so different from me and I don’t understand you… because I don’t know the future.

I lay awake because you say that you love me and I am not sure what you mean. I asked you one time, “what about me?” You quickly said, looking into my eyes, “When she leaves, my children are coming and I will buy a house and then marriage”. But you leave and I don’t know what you have said. Have you said that you want to marry me? You wear a wedding ring. Some days you don’t… most days you don’t. What do the days mean when you do? Questions. I have questions and no answers. When will she go? Will she really go? When your children come will you still want me? Can I meet your children? Can I meet your family? Can I meet your friends? Could I be more lonely than I am without you?

I lay awake and wonder. I only have this. Am I being fair? Do you give me as much of you as you have left over? Left over. Am I the splinter that never ceases to molest you? Or am I only the sure thing, a diversion? That is why I lay awake. Why can’t you call? Too many questions.

My tears will come now though you reject them and tell me that you only want us to be happy. I will cry when we are together and it may be the reason that you do not come to see me. I want to release you. I need to release you and be with you either because I choose to or leave you because I need to release myself.

I have always said, “Leave when you have to. Stay as long as you can.”

Not always the best advice.

A Story of Possession

I stood trembling in front of the double doors in the living room, shaking not from cold but for reasons I could not understand.

I was dripping with water that had been generously sweetened with honey and had been poured over my head. I really did not want to hear anything more but I knew that I had to keep my ears and eyes open even though right then, I had them firmly shut.

Oshun was standing on the other side of the room and I knew she was not through with with me yet. At any rate, I was assuming it was she.

The singing continued and so did the beat of the drums. The room was dark except for the evening light that shone through the trees and in through the open doors. The light of the candles added little to dispel the dimness.

Ramiro was speaking but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His head fell back as he laughed and when he opened his eyes to look at me it was as though I had never seen him before.

He stood up from where he had been sitting, petitioning the deities, barefoot and shirtless in a pair of khaki shorts. He stood very close to me as he pulled his pants up high around his waist, lifted his head and looked down his nose at me.

“Do you know who I am?” He appeared very feminine as he began to move around the room, sashaying and swaying his hips sensuously and moving his shoulders very coquettishly. He held his head high, pushing his chest out, then he asked again, “Do you know who I am? I said yes, thinking I was standing in the presence of Oshun.

“Who told you to light candles to Chango? I did not tell you to. He does not like putas and you are very puta. I am his and he is mine.” He collapsed on the floor with his legs wide apart and demanded loudly “Please, bring me water and honey.”

I brought him water in a glass and the plastic bear containing honey that I used for tea. He dismissed them with disgust, waving his arms arrogantly and laughed loudly saying, “No, I want water, water, lots of water…

Make it sweet and set it here in front of me.” At this I found the biggest container I could find and filled it to the brim, emptying all of the honey into the water.

As I set it on the floor, he first bathed himself starting with his head, splashing it on his body and taking large mouthfuls of it and spraying it into the four corners of the house and then out both of the doors.

Then finally, he came over to me and washed me roughly with the sweet water from head to foot, splashing it all over. He sprayed it from his mouth in my face and all over my body, washing my arms and my breasts and stomach. He turned me around as he washed my buttocks and my legs and feet. “I will cleanse you”, she said. “You have not been living clean. You say that you love your man, but you are very puta. Why? answer me”, she demanded.

I began to cry and said, “Only to take away my loneliness.” With his hands on his hips, he sashayed over to the farthest corner of the room.

As he walked, his movements, though feminine were somewhat stiff. He lurched, nearly knocking over the table and lamp. As I reached out to grab the table he whirled around and snapped, magically as though he had eyes in the back of his head, “Do not touch me. You are an angel but you are dark. I can hardly see you. Stand over there.”

I moved to the farthest corner, next to the double doors. “You need to buy new clothes. Do not wear black anymore. Come here.” I walked over to him and he clamped his hand over my ears, pounding them with his open palms. She said, “I’m going to cleanse you.”

As he spoke words that I couldn’t understand, he rubbed my body, my arms, my legs in forceful downwards movements. He then told me to sit on the floor.

“There’s a woman that you hate. Yes? No? She has the man that you love. So you know who I am? Yes or no? Papijim, he is mine. I have taken him from you. You do not have what he needs. He does not want to dance with you. I have taken him from you. He does not want sex with you, papijim. I have what he needs”, she says, pulling his pants up and he begins to sway his hips sensually. He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes and turned his head from side to side mockingly. “You have committed many errors and now, papijim, he is mine. You do not know how to live. You do not know how to enjoy life.”

He was snorting and scoffing. She was so sure of herself as she so cruelly mocked me. She laughed out loud and I knew she was right. I was alone. I was broken. Chastised.

Several minutes later, another orisha arrived. He looked as though he saw another person in the room. He dropped his pants and grabbed his genitals. “You have preferred this. You must change.

“Buy girasoles (sunflowers). Buy white flowers that have no pink or yellow. Put the petals in a bucket of clear water. Wash your hands and arms in the water as you crush the petals in your fingers. When you are done, throw the water out the door of your house.” He left me reeling.

Before he left, he sprayed rum into the four corners of the house and around the doors to keep evil away. He moved my image of Eleggua to face the front door to guard against whatever might wish to pass to do me harm.

Post script:

This is just a small example of what I witnessed while I lived with the Cubans. I learned so much about the way they think and about the way they view sickness and ways that they heal. Because they were refugees and lived in a city where items that they needed to perform certain rituals were not readily available, I saw a great deal of adaptation, accommodation and ingenuity. This lack did not affect how they lived any more than the slaves were disabled because they arrived in the new world without the necessary paraphernalia to carry on.

I will not go into descriptions of the orishas (gods), in this instance, Oshun and Chango, or what this experience was all about. I will let it stand but I will tell you more as these stories emerge on this blog.

I lived with Ramiro, a santero (priest in Santeria), for three years and was immersed in his religion. Later, I studied Cuban folklore and spirituality with other priests in both Santeria and Palo and at UCLA.

This story took place when we were no longer together but still very close.

This is one story of many that I will share with you.

I Am Here but Peripheral

I Am Here but Peripheral

I have no importance here. I try to talk to everyone. But no one talks to me. When I join in conversation, I feel their disdain. I have nothing authoritative to say because I am not an expert on anything, they say. Look it up, they say, with a slight sneer contorting their lips.

When I explain that my education and experience and research gives my opinion authority, I am scoffed at.

When I talk I am ignored or am made to feel foolish or am misinterpreted

I sometimes feel loved but that changes moment by moment. I reach out to embrace. I have been told not to embrace. I embrace too much. No one reaches out to embrace me.

No one consults me and if I offer the wrong advice, words chastise me.

No one tells me where they are going nor if they are going.

I don’t feel welcome at the table.

I ask all the wrong questions. Words and looks say I sound stupid. I have been told that my questions are stupid.

Sometimes none of this is true. Sometimes I want to run away.

I am not needed. I am peripheral.

A Cup for Promises.

A bit of love remembered:

I finally retired in October 2014. My sister, Kristi, had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.

Kristi’s
Mine

We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.

Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.

I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.

I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.

When she was only 3 years old, and I was only 5, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.

I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.

Chapter 1: The Adventures of Baby Fox

Once upon a time, a tiny baby fox was born into the big world of a forested wilderness. Only a few days after she was born, she found herself so very alone. She knew not where her mother and father had gone. She was not yet old enough to find her own food nor did she know where to sleep or even how to find her lost family.

It was getting dark and she was very, very hungry and very, very cold because the snow had not yet melted on this side of the mountain. She did not know, though it was August, that the snow never did melt here in the deep shadows of the trees and the crevices of the great mountain. She did not know either that new snow would soon be on its way.

At first, she laid down to cry, and cry she did until she was so tired that she almost fell asleep, exhausted. But she was so little that even if her mommy was around, she would not have heard her. Her mommy by this time had gone very far away but the baby fox could not have known this.

When the baby fox stopped crying she became quite still. She began to listen to the sounds all around her. She could hear the babbling stream, the wind in the tops of the trees and many more sounds that both scared and intrigued her. Just beyond a fallen log and a tangle of branches and piles of leaves, in a not too distant tumble of rocks, she heard some soft mewling sounds that she thought was familiar.  Maybe it was her mommy and daddy.

But, by nature, she was a cautious little fox, so she crept slowly over the log and sniffed the air and perked up her ears, the hair on her back stood on end and her tail stood out from her in a rigid line. But she was so cold and hungry and so alone that she moved closer not knowing the dangers in the forest. She did not know that she could easily become someone’s dinner. She moved as silently as she could from behind a giant tree, listening to the soft noises and feeling, even from her hiding place, some warmth. She could not resist her curious nature or how hungry and cold she was. She also could not know that she might not survive the cold night.

When she was close enough to see the other creatures, she didn’t know that they did not look like her. She didn’t even know what she looked like. Her mommy was gone before she could even see very well. She had just opened her eyes. But she did remember how her mommy felt so warm and how she smelled so sweet. These creatures smelled different but she could only think of how cold and lonely and hungry she was.

When the little family of four kits and a momma saw her, so tiny as she was, they let her climb among them, even letting her wiggle in beside the other babies, who were not much bigger than her. They shared their food of mice and voles as the daylight faded. Soon the baby fox was sound asleep, warm with a full belly, snuggled down in the cave of rocks lined with dead leaves and the soft sounds of the family sleeping.

The baby fox grew there and played there for some weeks. But soon, she was old enough to leave the safe haven of the den. The other babies had grown much bigger than her and she could no longer fight them for the food that their momma brought them. And besides, the momma was leaving them alone for longer and longer times.

Because she was a smart little fox, she learned to hunt and forage for food by watching her adopted brothers and sisters as they ran after their momma. She was also leaving the den, tumbling up and down the hills and running to the stream to hunt for fish and other small animals and had even slept under the stars for one night. She had learned to watch the skies for owls and hawks and to watch the trees and ground for other animals who were hunting for food. She sensed that she would serve well for breakfast, lunch, dinner or a snack for the many creatures of the forest. She even had been warned to stay away from the two-legged animals that wandered among them smelling of bitter iron and steel. She had seen many small animals stuck in horrible jaws where they writhed and cried until they slowly died in agony.

But she was as clever as any fox could be and her strongest desire was to find others who looked and smelled like her. She knew that without her adopted family, she would not have survived but she sensed that it was time to leave. She loved her foundling family but was found lately following the tracks of others with a scent like her own.

Chapter 2 coming soon…

Death and Strange Elixers at the Altabier.

I went for drinks with friends last night at the Altabier Restaurant and Bar. I like going there, alot. I can ask for a pizza that suits my strange tastes.

First, I had a drink called the Cloven Hoof. I should have known better but it started out with a lovely smooth scotch and some other tantalizing ingredients. I tried sipping it but it lured me into slamming it. Down the hatch!

My second drink was an Old Fashioned. Four Roses bourbon, smooth and golden and heavy, laced with just enough ice in a crystal glass. It sparkled like a deep amber elixir with the Mosca cherry hiding half way down. Though I wanted to dive for the cherry, I sipped and chatted about death with my friends. The sky went black and the lights of the city came on and the voices in the bar grew louder, candles were glowing and flickering and time slipped by.

Todd talked candidly about his wife dying just a month or so ago. Noelle, remembering how her husband and she were driving cross country to move to Portland with their two cats, got in a terrible accident that killed her husband and the male kitty, while she and the female kitty survived, was drinking a strange concoction called, “Making Brandy Great Again”.

When I met Noelle, 15 years ago, the scar that slashed across her forehead and between her eyes was red and angry, still. Her scar now, is still clearly visible but “no longer angry nor red”, I commented. She’s tiny and her face is beautiful in the soft candlelight. For her second drink, she ordered the “Santa Muerte”. As we do, she slid the glass across the table for me to try. I immediately tasted the essence of a very old, Victorian house filled with stuffed antique furniture and gilded picture frames and China vases holding wilted roses. Todd took a sip and agreed that it aroused a sense of old stuffed chairs and sofas. Noelle called for a Manhattan, as she said, “I’m passing this on” and slid the drink back over to me.

There I was with my Old Fashioned to my right and my Santa Muerte to my left. By this time I was slowly sipping, enjoying both drinks and the company, immensely. I loved the mysterious Santa Muerte and the ever familiar Old Fashioned. They seemed to fit perfectly together. I was interjecting, into the conversation, stories of the soft passing of Mom and the violent parting of Kristi and Dad. Death hung in the air, as did the joy of sharing holiday gifts and spirits together.

Dolores dropped me off at my door and I drank a glass of bicarbonate of soda and fell into bed after tearing my clothes off. It was a fantastic night.

The Scarf

Kristi gave me this scarf for my birthday on September 13, 2014. It was a warm evening and we were sitting in the glow of the candles on my front porch with Steve and Dee and Dhillon. We were sipping on gin and tonics and laughing about everything. Kristi knew that I loved handmade things, so she had this made for me. I hugged her and kissed her and cried. Her birthday was coming up in five days and I hadn’t planned anything for her yet, but we were planning a trip to the beach and I would get her something then. Something that she would choose.

How lucky we were. She was retired and my retirement had started just two weeks before. We had plans galore and she didn’t know it but I was hoping that one day we would be two old women sharing a house together.

That night we didn’t know that we had only the next 30 days with her. She was suddenly swept out of our lives, forever. You can only imagine what this scarf means to me.

This morning as I bundled up to take Yum Yum out for a walk, my scarf was not on the shelf with my hats and gloves, so I grabbed one of Hannah’s, figuring that I had worn mine upstairs where I might have left it.

Yum Yum and I had traveled about nine blocks, and there was my scarf, lying in the grass, strewn with twigs and leaves. “What?? That’s my scarf.” I quickly picked it up, expecting it to be wet and dirty and at least smelling like a dog or two had left their territorial mark on it. But no, it smells sweet like a cold and fresh autumnal morning.

Ancel said there was a force field protecting it. Yum and I never walk the same way twice but this morning, we passed where my scarf lay waiting for me.