Soul Train

Good Goddess! So many people are leaving the planet. I look around and see all these spirit souls rising, like wisps of mist on a pond. Their rain like scent spritzing the air as they pop out of our awareness to the Other Side. The exodus has been clipping right along since last summer when Michael Jackson swung the gates of Neverland wide open. I personally know many beings who've chosen to go just in the last two weeks. Then there were the hundreds of thousands who exited from Haiti. And recently, more left from Chile.


My spiritual teacher spoke of this last year. She said that everything is accelerating on Earth. This is the beginning of a Great Shift. New energies are being generated on this planet and in the universe. People who are frail, sensitive or compromised won't be strong enough to handle these changes. Some may simply choose not to go so fast.


Billions of us are currently living on the planet. Even though we've lost hundreds of thousands of beings, it is nearly impossible to see the hole left by their exit. I'm sure that if I went to Haiti, I would witness, firsthand, the space vacuumed of human existence. But from here, it almost seems unreal.


It makes me wonder why all these deaths are occurring. Random chance, as some suggest? A changing of the guard? Are those of us who remain really the lucky ones? Or is there something else going on that we don't know about? Like, a collosal party and we're the nerds who aren't cool enough to get an invite.


I see Michael wearing his gold lame military jacket, sweeping a stray, sticky Jheri curl off his forehead as he stands on the platform of the terminal. He waves passengers on board the train with his white, sequin gloved hand. His other hand holds his crotch while he shouts, "HEE HEE. All aboard the Soul Train, home of the swankest party in the Milky Way. Next stop Neverland. I told you my last tour would be a thriller."

Exit, Stage Left

SWISH. That's how I feel right now. Like a basketball shot clean through the center of the hoop. Its after-wind whistling through the net...rippling those nylon diamonds as it drops and rolls across the court to uncharted destinations.

Yikes! The saga of G.G. continues. In my last post, I wrote: G.G. left behind a husband who doesn't even know she's gone. Doesn't know his own name. Doesn't even remember that she existed. They told him she had passed. He doesn't know the difference between G.G.'s death and stuffed eggplant.

I was so wrong. Me. The one who's spent countless hours studying recollections people have of what transpired around them when they were unconscious, sedated or in Near Death Experience. I've read enough case studies from medical journals to know that there is a high incidence of recorded cases where people could quote, verbatim, what was said or done. Enough to know that, despite being in the last stages of Alzheimer's in a coma and on hospice, G.G.'s husband, T.G., could comprehend the that she was gone.

When my brother told T.G. that she had passed, he also told him that if she was the reason he was holding on to life, he could let go now. And after G.G.'s memorial service, he went back to tell T.G. that we had held a memorial for her and had honored his life at the same time. All of their mutual friends and family were there, as was his hospice worker, and it just seemed fitting. Less than 8 hours later, T.G. left his body.

Since he and G.G. met, he had always bobbed along behind in her determined wake. It was like she made one last grand exit, spun on her heels, and with a haughty SWISH of her cape, wrapped it around him and...ZOOM...they were gone. Both in less than a week. Leaving together in death as in life.

I'm the one left standing here with eggplant all over my face. Thanks, T.G., for the wake up call. Bon Voyage...but I have a feeling I'll hear from you again.

Trading Places

A random universe? I think not. Would a random universe send me to a baby shower and a funeral on the same day? Back to back?

LeeLee glitters and brightens all around her. Even if you don't see auras, you can see this...her golden glow. Folding her hands across her unborn babe, lying solid and low in her belly, an intimate smile, in Mona Lisa fashion, softens her face.

G.G.'s absence is marked by old photographs, the bookmarks of one's life. Her still body, dulled and grayed in death's pallor, has been high-fired into bone-chipped powder. No more smiles for G.G. Or frowns either.


One life arriving.

One life leaving.

One mirroring hope and happiness.

The other, loss and sadness.

Gifts and Games.

Tissues and tears.


I can only imagine the Big Gal Upstairs coordinating these events:

Little soul...you go on into the body of Baby Isabelle. Old soul...you come on out of that used up, tumor ridden body and rest for a spell. Put your feet up, or what used to be your feet, while we talk about how you'll next come back to work on your karma.

Cosmic orchestration is intense. Wedding Planners and Air Traffic Controllers have it easy in comparison.


Everyone is happy to welcome the new baby...a new life...a blank slate open for great accomplishments and outcomes.

G.G.? Well, sad to say she made a lot of people miserable during her long life. I know it's not right to speak ill of the dead but, she didn't treat people well, especially family. It is what it is. She was who she was. To say it was not so would be lying. Which is worse?

She was Le Grand Bitch. Oh, not my words but those of her children and close family members who were with her through her last sucked breath. I know what they were talking about though. I witnessed G.G.'s reign of terror on many occasions. But even so, there were tears shed at her passing and the transition was hard. A memorial, that she didn't want, was held, anyway, with meat, cheese and veggie trays and salads and carrot cake.

There were a few people she'd made happy during her reign. I overheard them telling the family so. The family, gracious to the last, nodded, comforted and thanked them for their stories and memories.


G.G. left behind a husband who doesn't even know she's gone. Doesn't know his own name. Doesn't even remember that she existed. They told him she had passed. He doesn't know the difference between G.G.'s death and stuffed eggplant.

Still, the day a person takes their first breath and begins pumping blood is marked, as is their last. Two souls trading places in a universe less random than we think.

Would you care for some potato salad or a piece of carrot cake while you make the switch? Not going to be food like this, for either of you, for a long time.

By the Garden Gate

By the Garden Gate by Preston "Bud" Morris
Ronda and Mark

Reya, from After the Gold Puppy, was on a walk down Nostalgia Avenue a week or so ago. She invited us to post old photos of our own journey down that street. The blast of emotion that hit me upon opening the first of my many, many boxes of photos (no, they are not organized as I would like) smacked my gluteus maximus down hard into the seat of The Way Back Machine. It spun me into the past like a Whirling Dervish. For the next few posts I'll display photos and memories of my origins.

My father was a photographer. Out of the earliest files in my brain, flew images of him and his camera. Inseparable. The cameras changed over the years but he always seemed to stay the same. Calm. Quiet. Tall. Dark. Creative. Strong. Consistent. Reliable. A teacher. Yep, great qualities for a dad. Any dad. My dad.

In addition to his private photography business, he worked as a photo finisher in the days before 1-hour photo kiosks and digital photography. Sometimes he would take my brother and I to work with him. We always were excited and thought he was giving us a special day. But, in retrospect, my mom probably had to do something and he got stuck with us. Early in the morning, we would go to the retail store where he worked and pick up bags of film people had dropped off. Then we went around to other businesses around town that had film drop-offs. He always took us inside with him and proudly introduced us as he picked up unprocessed film and deposited the previous days finished photos.

With a box full of canvas, zippered bags and us in tow, he would take us to a little hamburger stand for lunch. Then we headed several miles out of town to the lab where he would develop all of those pictures. As we watched, he would open those zippered bags, dump out the little, metal, cylindrical tins with rubber caps holding spools of film. Into the dark room, with its special light that wouldn't ruin the film, we would go. He would open the tins, look at the negatives that looked like they were from a Reverse Bizarro World where light is dark and dark is light, and begin his magic alchemy.

I don't really remember what he did with the negatives, but some how he embedded the images from the negative film onto paper. Then with his magic trays of clear potion, he moved the pieces of paper from tray to tray with tongs. In the last tray, the paper started changing from plain white to, at first, faint, ghostly underwater images to, at last, exact replicas of living people and solid matter. Taking the photos out of the solution, he hung them by clips, on a long wire stretched across the room, to dry. The chemical smell of photo developer still makes me happy and is forever linked with my father.

Unbeknownst to us, he, apparently, had been submitting pictures to different contests and magazines over the years. While he was alive, the only affirmation of his work came from his family and local clients. He died in 1977 of a massive coronary. About 20 plus years after his death, my mother received a royalty check from the American Greeting Card Company for $125 for the top photo. It is called By the Garden Gate and is of me and my brother, Mark, at my Aunt Dot's house in Stockton, California.

We tried to find out what they were going to use his picture for, but never received a reply to our query. But, within a year after the check was received, all those mugs, cards and items featuring a little girl and a little boy, dressed in cute clothes, started appearing for sale. We'll never know for sure but, we think it was dad's photograph they used for their promotion.

I got a visit from dad on All Hallows. It was a very soft and gentle meeting. He just sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me for a while. Then he held out his hand and my mother joined him. They haven't been together for over 30 years. No words were spoken but, I could feel their love, strong and truer than ever. Just because people are gone doesn't mean they're not with us. Immortality is often far different than we think.

Preston "Bud" Morris, high school graduation picture, age 18

In the Moment

Our family will soon arrive from Minnesota. It has been nine years since my husband's older brother visited the left coast. Oh, we've been back to see them a number of times. We went to graduations. Attended the three weddings of my nieces. Celebrated the subsequent births of four nieces and nephews. All wonderful, happy events.

What caused my brother-in-law's lapse in return trips? I think it was the death of his mother. He hasn't been here since her funeral in the spring of 2000. It is easier to deny endings when you are not present.

What pushed the button for return to the homeland after 10 years? Perhaps the need to face the reality of death, the demise of the physical body. An older brother diagnosed and, successfully, treated for prostate cancer. A younger brother struck with a heart attack at 57. Both illnesses occurring within a couple of months of each other. A time for healing family scars.

I often admire animals. They have a brain. We have minds. There is a difference. We know what it means to our mortality when we are told that we have a fatal disease. All they know is the smell of a scent on the wind. Water to drink. Food to eat. They are in the moment with total unconcern for what is coming, good or bad. All in all, not such a bad existence, I think.

I'm looking forward to being in the moment with my family.

The Dog and the Robins

Miss B. B. La La


This is our B. B. girl. The B. B. stands for Butter Butt. We named her this because when she was a pup, she was the same color as butter and sugar when you cream them together. She is one of the sweetest dogs on this planet. The woman who pawned this fluffy snowball of a home-needing pup on us nine years ago, told us she thought she would be sweet because her mother was sweet. She also told us that the cream colored pup was a Chow-Australian Shepherd crossbreed. At least, she said, she knew for sure her mom was a Chow.

As B. B. grew, we didn't see either breed in her. Finally, we asked the pup's donor if she had a photo of the B. B.'s mama. Well, upon inspection of the photograph, the mother looked like she probably was part Chow. She certainly was furry enough. But Australian Shepard? Not a chance.
A few months earlier, the last of our other dogs, Jennifer, an actual Australian Shepherd, had crossed the Rainbow Bridge leading to dogie heaven. My husband's mother was in the hospital, very ill and not expected to live. We were sitting the bedside vigil, taking care of her affairs, and hosting visiting relatives. The last thing we needed to take on was a puppy. But who ever said that death leads one along the rational path.

Now, I hadn't told my husband I was bringing a puppy home because I didn't know that I was. The pup's donor just appeared at the doctor's office where I worked one Friday. She was a patient and knew we had just lost a dog. She walked up to me with this white puff of a pup and, despite my protestations, put her in my arms. That was that. I was taking the pup home with me.

I had to give a massage and had no choice but to take her in session with me. I set her on the floor. She cried non-stop. God Bless my dog loving patient who eventually, probably wanting peace and quiet, asked to hold the little whiner while I finished her massage. Within minutes, they were both asleep.

The day B. B. came to our house to live, I remember my visiting brother-in-law walking in the front door of our house. Upon seeing her, he asked what she was doing here. I told him that she would be living with us. He gave me the evil eye. Opposite of my brother-in-law, who questioned the canine's presence with raised brows, my husband said, oh, look! There's a puppy! He bent over, scooped her small body up and wrapped his great big arms around her. B. B. was accepted then and there. Immediately.

Did I mention how much I love my husband? He accepts every homeless critter I bring home with no more than a roll of his eyes. He rolls with me as well as on me. What more can you ask of a man. Out of all that sadness and sorrow of life's passing, we found new life. New hope. We found a bouncing, peeing, pooping reminder that life goes on.

She soon grew out of her gangly puppy stage to fluid dogdom. Now, B. B.'s sweetness is in direct proportion to her dimness. B. B. is not particularly gifted with intelligence quotient, IQ. We didn't realize it at first, but as we acquired other dogs forming our new pack, it became exceedingly clear. Don't get me wrong, I am not disparaging her lack of neurosynaptic activity. In fact, it is a trait for which we have come to have an affinity. A simple-minded dog is an easy dog to handle.

Nothing pointed that out more than when we got the black dog, Maaco the Crazed, pictured in the above header photo. That dog is SMART. Too flippin' smart. We have to have triple latched gates because he learned how to open one latch and then a second. So, up went number three. He figured out how to open doors with regular knobs by using his mouth. He slides the latch on his crate with his tongue and then flips it up. The list goes on, and on, and on, and on. In our book:

Dumb dogs = Easy.
Smart dogs = Pain in the Arse.

Miss B.B. La La is EASY. She also exudes as much fur as she does sweetness. A lot! At this time of year, with the seasons changing, spring is causing hair to abandon her body...in handfuls. She is fully blowing her coat. Wispy handfuls on the floor that move everywhere with movements and vernal breezes. We vacuum every day because of Miss La La.

Every year it is the same thing. Her free falling fur is so soft and abundant that I always thought it a shame there is nothing to use it for. A friend of mine, who has lots of different kinds of animals, learned how to spin and was actually spinning her animals hair into yarn for fabric weaving. We aren't that industrious. We just suck it up with the vacuum. Often.

A few years ago, we started noticing that, during April and May, the Robins would build nests under my next door neighbor's patio cover. They would leave Marvin's yard and fly over to our yard to collect bits of dried grass and mud. They would fly back across the fence with their treasures. One morning while looking out our kitchen window, we noticed a mama Robin swoop down and, with excited quickness, pick up something special in her beak. On the flight back to Marvin's, she stopped to rest atop the fence and proudly displayed her find. It was a nice, creamy, soft tuft of B.B. fur. During these months, the Robins collect her hair to soften the twigs of their babies nest. It has become an annual spring play to which we look forward to seeing.



Photo: froggirl030 Photobucket.com

If you ever had a chance to just sit and rub one of B. B.'s ears between your fingers, you'd know how softly the little nestlings will be swaddled in her fur. The sensation is calming...soothing...protecting. It is comforting to know that Mother Earth's Recycling Center never wastes one of her creations, no matter how insignificant it seems to us.

She completely utilizes every thing she makes down to the most minute detail. Her leaves that drop to the ground from the trees in the fall of the year, break down and become fertilizer for the soil. Her dinosaurs, buried en masse eons ago, become oil oozing tar pits of future petrol. Monogamous crows take the scavenged carcasses of carrion, hydrate them with water and return them to their nesting females for sustenance, water, and perpetuation of their species. I can not think of one thing the Mother creates for which she doesn't have some future purpose.

While Randy and I view all of B. B.'s discharged and fallen hair with dismay and janitorial resignation, the Mother sees the tufts as royal cocoons for the fledgling Robin babes. Sweet Life. Sweet Love. The sweet, absolute divine architecture of the Mother reigns supreme. All Hail the Mother, we have so much to learn.