Lithia

Lithia is one of the "power days" of the year. It is also known as the Summer Solstice or Midsummer's Night. The solstice occurred on Sunday, June 21 at 1:45 a.m., eastern daylight time (June 21, 05:45 UT*). Those of us in the Western Hemisphere, are celebrating the Summer Solstice while our friends living in the Eastern Hemisphere, are marking the Winter Solstice. Which ever cycle we are observing, it is always worth a look across the year to see where we are going and from where we've come. Until this point, the year has been waxing. We have reached a point of maximum light. From now on, the dark time of the year grows as we enter the waning cycle.

In the Eastern Hemisphere, the year is born anew, full of promise but needing care. In the west, the year has grown into a fully mature woman. Fulfillment is the focused power of this time. The Divine Mother is wielding her strength, sexuality and fertility with mighty strokes. The crops are planted, they are blooming or have bloomed, and the buds give way to ripening fruit. The promise of harvest sits in the balance at this midpoint of the growing season. The harvest, not yet taken, is dependent on the Divine Mother to provide the right amount of rain and ideal conditions so the plants can mature.

Passion. Passion is the hallmark of this time. The merging of all the right aspects will produce the highest yield. The Divine Mother and Mother Earth are most abundant right now. They are ready to give maximum payoffs fed by the highest life force. It is time to turn the wheel of the year, the wheel of life, again. During the rites, celebrants are keenly aware that this fullness comes at the expense of descent into the darkness of the year. A bittersweet duality.

Some say the time of power lasts for three days, some say four, others believe a week from the time the solstice occurred. Regardless, it is a time to dance with great exuberance and abandon, no holding back. This is not a quiet, introspective time. Drum, dance, chant, move with abandon and willingness. Wield the power of the days and of the Mother Divine with confidence. Be sure to ask for what you wish to bring into reality until the next time of power. Be thoughtful in what you ask for as Mother Earth is at her most giving. Be one with all levels of nature. Be joy. Be sunshine. Be laughter. But most of all, be your true self. To both of the Mothers and all the the Devas, nature spirits, who are acting together to bring all things in this season into form, I humbly give great, great gratitude. Namaste.

*Universal Time

Saturday Night Life (Theme Thursday...Roof)

What a beautiful Saturday, summer evening, I think as I walk out to the mailbox to get the post. Out of the brown, metal box, I retrieve a hand full of the usual bills, advertisements and magazines. Flipping through the pieces as I return to the house, the picture on the cover of the magazine stops me in my tracks. Literally. Staring back at me from the cover of The AARP Magazine is actor/director, Ron Howard. HOLY MOLEY! Little Opie, from The Andy Griffith Show, is old enough to be on the cover of a senior rag. We are the same age. Is it not bad enough that I face the monthly reality of my Methuselahism when this buggering magazine arrives? Apparently not! Now I have to acknowledge that I, and the Richie Cunningham of Happy Days that I grew up with, are models of senior citizenry--waiting for a Viagra moment.

When did this happen? How did this happen? Wasn't it only yesterday that I was looking forward to who was on the cover of Rolling Stone? I mean, brown sugar, is Mick Jagger next month's cover feature? And this isn't the only thing that's bothering me about this whole gig. There is something else zinging around in the back of my bio-computer's gray matter like a firefly that I can't quite catch. What is it? Continuing my walk to the house, wearing long ago memories as if they were yesterday's clothes, I wonder if my peppy, young person's, bouncy step has turned into the "little, ol' lady shuffle." Fearing so, I pick up my feet and clip along with a saucy sashay.

And then...that firefly of a thought? I slap it to the wall like a mosquito to an arm. The cover of The AARP Magazine reminds me of MAD magazine. These two men on the covers look so similar they could be twins. What is going on here?

Just for a moment, my world goes black and I hear only a high-pitched buzzing in my ears which turns into singing.

Don't worry 'cause I'm a comin'
I'm a soul man...

"John is that you?," I ask.

"That's right, kiddo it's John Belushi. Live from the Bardo state, It's Saturday Night!


What the freak?

Of all the beings in all the galaxies in all the universes that I could channel, I get John Belushi. He tells me to type the name belonging to the man featured on the cover of MAD into the search bar on the computer:

A-l-f-r-e-d--E.--N-e-u-m-a-n.

I read the search engine hits and learn that Alfred E. Neuman is MAD magazine's "What -- Me Worry?" kid. He's a young man with a thatched roof of red hair, large ears and a gap-toothed, goofy-grin.


John says, "Give me 10 little, chocolate donuts and an eight ball of cocaine, and I'll tell you the secret connection between Opie and Alfred E."



Well, I don't have an eight ball, but I really want that secret, so I tell John that unlike him, I like being in my body and swore off all that stuff years ago. He starts fussin' with me, tellin' me I'm not gonna get that secret if I don't share the blow. I stand my ground. I'm not punting my karmic orbit for some ol' 12-Step dropout. Finally, he sees it my way and we start to parlay. I raise the 10 chocolate donuts to 20 and add a cheeseburger with a Coke. He tells me Pepsi--no Coke, and we have a deal.


"First off, Ron Howard and Alfred are the same age, 55. Do you think it's a coincidence?," John asks.


Thinking for a minute, I consider how much they look alike, I sez,"You mean..."


"Yeah," says Belushi."In the most magnificent Face/Off in history, Alfred E. rose off the illustrated page like the pointer on a Ouija Board and took on the physical appearance of Ron Howard."


"But why?," I ask.


"Well, he's a tricky one and is hard to read. But he detests being a one dimensional, paper boy and he plans to take over the world." says John.


I have to agree. Who's going to believe you're going to become the world sovereign when you're considered a carefree, idiotic paper doll--a pawn of "The Man." Before he leaves, Belushi makes the bargain good by giving me this extra special bonus secret.


"There are two other casualties of Neuman's deviltry that I will share with you. The next time you have an opportunity to see Charles, Prince of Wales and ABC newsman Ted Koppel, look closely. All is not as it seems."

I have to say, this explains a lot to me.

Toga flapping in the wind, John begins spinning his teleport cells faster and faster as he readies to head back to Ether World. I, being the generous sort, toss him a thank you pack of Little Debbie cookies as he departs. I guess he turned out to be a pretty good channel after all and I marvel at how I get by with a little help from my friends.

Thunder Dog, Ho!

Maaco the Thunder Dog

Thunder storms. All week long, wet and wild, they unfurled across the states. They are wrecking havoc in our dog's life. They are wrecking havoc in our life. You see, we have a dog that is scared by thunder and lightning. TERRIFIED is a better word. After hours of storms each day, he is living on the edge, just one loud slam of a car door or backfire away from a trip to Crazy Town. And guess what? He's taking us with him. He spends most of the end of the day with ears pricked, edgy and on guard, for any sound of thunder or sight of a shank of light. He hasn't had a carefree, uninterrupted snooze in days.


We have three dogs--a white one, a black one, and a black and white one. It is interesting how they each react to the ripping, sizzling storms. B.B., the white one, could care less about all the booming and percussion. Yin, the black and white dog, gets clingy, needy and anxiously paces. Then there's Maaco. He's always in a class by himself. A Shar-Pei and Lab cross breed, he has anxiety issues in general and separation anxiety in specific. When the thunder and lightning start throwing tantrums, he begins panting and trembling. His eyes get large, round and glassy. He drools uncontrollably and the corners of his mouth pull back with stress. He won't eat. He can't eat. Which says a lot because this dog lives for food. He turns into a black, fuzzy mass of quivering jello.

On Friday night, the storm, directly over our house, streams fire bolts down from the heavens. Thunder cracks our world. Maaco heads for cover, running under the computer desk for safety. With legs and paws entangled in cords and wires, he continues his headlong assault into the deepest angle of the corner. Pushing to go beyond the wall. Scratching to go through the floor. With a huge show of strength, we drag him, clawing, out from under the desk barely keeping the computer tower and connections intact. Once we had him out, we leashed him and kept him close. If he were outside, he would rip boards off the fence, run blindly for miles, and we might see him in a couple of days, if ever. It has happened before.

He's still frantic. We take him to his safe place in our bedroom, a small space between the wall and the bed. The thunder fires off a barrage of detonations. Panicked, he tries to burrow under a night stand that is only two inches off the ground. Knocking the nightstand over, he breaks the lamp and pulls the phone down on to the floor. It is not a fun night. None of us get much sleep until the storm abates early in the morning. If we had known the storm was going to be this bad, we would have given him tranquilizers. My sympathetic vet has deemed him fit for his own prescription. And, although I don't like the idea of drugging two-leggeds or four-leggeds, there is a time and place for everything. I wonder, what is the DSM code, from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, for Crazy Freakin' Dog?


He truly believes he is in mortal danger. That death is imminent. I can't tell him he is wrong as I know, for a fact, that lighting can and will kill. I have read it and seen it. But how do dogs know this? Why are some dogs terrified and others unaffected? Are the dogs that have intense fear descendants of a lineage that existed in a region where thunder and lighting occurred regularly? Were so many of their far removed, ancient, Wolverine ancestors killed that their DNA was coded with this knowledge? Does the sound of thunder and flash of light signal their primitive, limbic brain to send the message of flight for life? Do the unaffected canines come from regions without such danger? Or is just a personality disorder? I guess it could be, but the fear seems so deeply ingrained that maybe there is a real and practical purpose for its existence.

Thor, God of Thunder

Photo: Marvel Comics

I don't have any answers. All I know is that I am hoping that Thor, God of Thunder, has tired of riding the heavens in his chariot and smashing the heads of giants with his mighty, lighting producing hammer, Mjollnir. In the words of Jack Nicholson in As Good as It Gets, "Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here."

Swinging on a Star (Theme Thursday...Swing)

The rectangular sign squeaks its heavy metal song. Keeping time to the sway of its eyelet hangers, swinging, it points the way to Middle Earth. The Ceylon green, leaved skirts of the trees ruffle and ripple in hushed tones, undulating to invisible currents. In the street, discarded napkins and newspapers spiral in a vortex...an ephemeral do-si-do. Honeysuckle and sandalwood, fragrant scents, lingering and peppered with bits of dust, drift along. The sacred geometry in the Mercaba, once depositing its four feminine, luminous passengers on the checked and flaking boardwalk, spins itself into gossamer "no-thing-ness." The divine feminine lovelies, Barbara, Sally, Francis, and Louisa, poised with the tentativeness of yearling fawns, peer through the quickly bruising night. In ancient tongues, their names mean: Stranger, Princess, Free, and Fights with Honor. In their world, you are named by the Gods.

The sign, barely visible in the spreading darkness, informs them that they have arrived at the right location, Mt. Shasta. One of the seven spiritual mountains of the world, she draws beings from everywhere. Magnetic. Powerful. Mysterious. Linking arm-in-arm, the ladies float down the street to find their uncles, Mike and Tony. Their father sent them here. He wanted them to learn of their lineage. He said the meeting place would be clearly designated. He was right.

Slipping inside, the young ladies, greeted by their uncles, sat for an evening's meal of bread, cheese, wine, and tales of long ago. There are legends here. Legends of Lemurians, an antediluvian race of people, related to the fleeing descendants of Atlantis. They are rumored to live deep below the mountain. For years, the locals have seen strange lights at night, encountered other-worldly mystics, and witnessed disappearing groups of people--right before their eyes--on that mountain. It is widely believed that the lenticular, lens-shaped clouds that often cling to the top of the mount, conceal flying saucers staffed with green and gray extra-terrestrials. It is here that St. Germain, an ascended master, brought forth the teachings of the Violet Consuming Flame of Transmutation.

Strange folk abound...psychics, healers, shamans, gurus, channelers and mystics. There are shops with teachers and tools for penetrating the void, that place where there is nothing but yet nothing is ever missing. One can find oils, vibrational essences, drums, rattles, stones, crystals, singing bowls, ceremonial sage and prayer flags. The I Am Presence is here, as strong as The Force. The waters, absolutely pure, are blessed and taken for cleansing and purification. All this and more, the young women learn.

With dinner and stories over for the night, the uncles lead their nieces to the balcony on the top, west side of the house. It is a full moon tonight. They enjoy bathing in her cold, beautiful, white but lonely glow as they wait for their ride home. In the distance, they see the fire. The comet, tail blazing like the fiery, blue-white spray of a welder's arc, sweeps toward the balcony. Reaching out their long, pale, graceful arms, the beauties swing up and on to the spritzing tail. Instantly, they vanish. Mike and Tony, with sweet, sad smiles upon their faces, wave goodbye. Minutes later, four sparking, baby diamond stars are Bedazzled upon the Milky Way's simple black dress. All sparkles, shimmers and excited chatter, they tell of their evening's experience of spirit being in a physical body. They tell their father about their night of swinging on the playground of planet Earth.

My Favorite Corner

Hi. My name is Ronda. I must confess, I am not much of a meme player. An Internet meme, pronounced meem, is an idea or a concept that passes from one person to another, like a story, list, or concept, via the Internet. I have all kinds of excuses, but probably the reason that comes closest to being truth is that I am always really busy, personally and professionally. Time seems to get away from me and, for the most part, by the time I get around to completing them, they are no longer relevant. I end up dispatching them to the cyberspace graveyard.

Every once in a while, I attempt a meme just for practice. This one was created by the lovely Leah, author of the introspective The Weather in the Streets blog . It is called "A Favorite Corner in Your House." This meme is one I can do, although, I do confess that, since she posted the meme on May 20, 2009, she probably has forgotten all about it by now. While, to me, it is a current event. That's how "on it" I am. Well, best get to crack-a-lackin.'

My husband and I bought our house two months before we got married in 1976. Since then, we have been on an endless round of remodels and renovations. Our house is probably on its fourth incarnation. It was originally built in the downtown area of Redding as a residential structure. When I worked in dialysis, I learned that my clinic administrator had spent many years in this house. Her best friend lived in it and they would often play together. Years later, it was used as a bank. And, in fact, my husband was one of their first 100 members. To this day, we retain a charter account with free checking. After the bank generated enough profit, our house was removed so a traditional, commercial bank building could be built.

Thank goodness they chose to move the house rather than have it demolished. It was moved approximately six miles from its original location into a quiet neighborhood. It appears to have been built in the early 1900's but when we purchased it, it had been renovated in the 1940's Mission style.

I have many favorite corners in my house. But today, I am going to focus on my ceilings. When I get tired of looking at all of the things we NEED to do and redo, I kick back, look up and get lost in the interesting and intricate, old style, high ceilings my husband crafted. They are one off creations treated with a variety of colors, textures, shapes and mediums.

The stained glass pictures are of our downstairs bathroom ceiling. The panes of glass were cut and leaded by my mother, Barbara. Originally, she made them to adorn our 70's style water bed headboard. Remember those? The large pane of glass was in the center where, usually, a mirror was inserted. The two outer panes were mounted in the side doors. When we finally decided to retire the chunky, dark, rustic, wood headboard, I told my husband that I wanted to save the stained glass panels. Maybe we could use them somewhere else in the house as a reminder of my mother. As she had Alzheimer's, I knew she would never do that kind of work again. A few years ago, for our anniversary, he surprised me. He had taken the panels to a glass artist, had them expanded, then he mounted them as a ceiling light cover in our bathroom.

Below is a photograph of our living and dining room ceiling. It has the styling of embossed, tin ceiling tiles and a light fixture enhanced with an art deco style medallion.

The photo below is of our bedroom ceiling. My husband is an upholsterer. We use the materials and skills that we have at hand whenever possible. Because, mainly, we have more skill and creativity than $$. He used thin, wood veneer door skins, padded with layers of foam cut into designs and relief patterns, and then covered them with fabric. He made numerous panels, butted them end-to-end, to cover the expanse of ceiling.

I just love my ceilings, light fixtures, and husband. Although, he was testing me tonight. He had an EBay project that he couldn't kill and didn't get off the computer until after 11:00. Usually, I can count on him to go to bed by no later than 10:00. So, as I got a late start tonight, I will have an even later finish. Someday I will show you my padded rooms. Yes, I have padded rooms. REALLY! Okay, cut the wisecracks...sheesh.

For Whom the Clock Tocks (Theme Thursday...Clock)

Photo: arvbhat Photobucket.com

At 12:30 p.m., Central Standard Time, CST, a car turned slowly into the plaza. A woman turned to face the man sitting behind her in the rear seat of the car. His face, lit with brightness, shone as he acknowledged her comment. Two men, the one in the back seat and one who sat next to the woman who spoke, abruptly turned their heads looking to the left and then to the right. The sound of a firecracker or backfire of a car's exhaust caught their attention. The man in the front seat, pleading disbelief, turned to look back at the other gentleman.

As the man in the rear seat raised his right arm to wave, a shot entered his back, pierced his neck and fled his throat. With hands clenched tightly, he raised them to his neck and tilted forward as another woman, who was sitting next to him, wrapped arms of concern around him. The man in the front seat yelled out that they were all going to be killed as the same bullet opened holes in his back, chest, right wrist and left thigh. The woman next to him pushed his gaping chest wound against her lap...saving his life. A third shot repeated. A fist-size hole erupted from the right side of the head of the male in the back seat. Blood and brain tissue splattered the interior of the car like molten lava spewing from a volcano.

The woman next to him wailed that she held his brain in her hand and climbed onto the back of the car. Later, she had no recollection of doing so, she just remembered reaching for something. A piece of the skull perhaps? Another man walking near the car, pushed her back into her seat and jumped in as the car speed toward the hospital. The staff at the trauma room proclaimed the condition of the man in the rear seat "moribund," meaning he had no chance for survival. The man's personal physician was called and he determined that the head wound was the cause of death. At 1:00 p.m., CST, after all heart activity ceased and last rites were given by a priest, the doctor signed the death certificate.

Photo: DRobberdeau Photobucket.com

The day was Friday, November 22, 1963 in Dallas, Texas. The thirty fifth president of the United States, John F. Kennedy, was mortally wounded while riding with his wife, Jacqueline, in a Presidential motorcade. She had been seated next to him in the back seat of the limousine. The couple in the front seat were Texas Governor John Connally and his wife. The last words President Kennedy heard from the rear seat of his limousine spoken by Nellie Connally, the First Lady of Texas, lit and brightened his face. She said, "Mr. President, you can't say that Dallas doesn't love you."

Photo: flatratelegalservices Photobucket.com

His life clock began ticking at 3:00 p.m. on May 29, 1917. It ceased when the last of three fired bullets stopped his pulse at 12:30 p.m. on that November day. Each one of us is a human clock with an unknown number of hours and unexpired, roll-over minutes enclosed in our case. We are geared to run to the end of our time. If you had a choice, would you choose to know when your clock will tick its last tock?

Cougar, the Other "C" Word!

Photo: danger515 Photobucket. com

The word Cougar has been splashed around the media lately. A cougar is an older women who dates a younger man. While older men are lauded and revered--mainly by other men--for dating younger partners, females are often subjected to ridicule for the same. The word cougar invokes the image of a predatory female stalking its prey. Conversely, men, often called silver foxes, are portrayed as wise and handsome rather than cold and predatory. Cougar has a cacophonous, harsh sound to it just like the other word for a strong female that starts with a "C" and rhymes with bunt. This other "C" word has been unacceptable in public speech since the 1500's.

Photo: callinradio Photobucket.com

I am not, nor have ever been, a Cougar but I did drive one for a long time. I loved her. She was very sleek and fast. When I slammed her accelerator to the floor, her four-barrel carburetor would give quick response. When she kicked in, yeah, that cat would run. She ate pavement and spat it out for miles behind her. She was worth every penny I paid over the years for speeding tickets. Miss Cougar always commanded respect, even from the ticket writing officers. They would walk around her admiring her long, low, lean lines, pin stripes, glossy black tires and sequential tail lights. They already new how fast she ran, they'd given her chase for miles. They would tell me of the best girls they had left at home--their Mustang's, Camaro's, and Chevy's. And when I asked them if they drove them fast, they would shake their head no, but a knowing twinkle would spark in their eyes. Yeah, she got respect...like a good Cougar should.


But alas, in a speed-lust frenzy, I decided to sell her for a newer, faster model. I had my eye on a Mitsubishi 3000 GT Twin Turbo VR4. Miss Cougar's rear end had a tendency to chatter and break loose a bit when taking corners at over 90 MPH. The 3000 would just lay down, hug the road tighter, beg for more and I would give it to her. So we looked for a new home for the cat. A young man in his mid-20's fell in love with her. He said he would take care of her. He said he would respect her. He said he would give her a good home. We wanted to believe him.


A few months ago, when my husband came home from work, he was very sad. He told me that while he had been out at the wrecking yard that morning, he had run into an old friend. Worriedly, I asked him what was wrong. He said he'd seen a horrible sight. As he walked to the back of the yard, he passed a twisted, crumpled mass of metal. He thought, what a waste, nothing salvageable in that heaping knot. Then he saw it. A of flash of paint...her paint. Miss Cougar, hardly recognizable and broken beyond repair, had not even one part left worthy of harvest and transplant. She'd rolled to the end of the road, worth nothing but the flat rate paid for scrap iron. We spoke of how we should never have let her go. We lit a candle.


I do not like this word Cougar as a term for females. It is used derogatorily and does not infer respect. From this moment on, I will use the word swan to denote a woman in such a relationship. In my opinion, any woman who undertakes the precarious nature of such a relationship, walks in grace. But this is a cautionary tale. A warning to the swans I so admire. Be careful in your involvement with these young men. They are full of promises, hopes and dreams, and high-energy. But in their passion and over eagerness, they can, all too easily, loose control of a fast, high revving, hot engine. Take heed that your front end doesn't end up mangled and your rear end wrapped around a telephone pole. Take a lesson from Miss Cougar.

Photo: mikeja.com Photobucket.com