Signs, Signs, Everywhere there are Signs. New Snow Moon.

Signs.  Signs Everywhere are signs. Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?

Well, to be honest...No. No, I can't.  At least not shamanically.

Case in point, I drove to Rochester to see my daughter, shop, and visit. 
Oh, yes, AND to meet with a realtor about moving to the area.  As I drive, a gorgeous red tail hawk flies along side my car for about 300 feet.  It catches my attention and from that moment on the drive was full of hawk sightings. I have never seen a hawk along this 5 hour drive before and I've been making the drive (or passengering) for over twenty trips.  But this trip...HAWK. Hawk. HAWK. Hawk. haWk. HawK....hawk.

I get it I whisper to the universe, calling my husband to mention the sightings and as HAWK would have it, the Buddhist sees one fly by his car as he speaks with me.  Ah! Light bulb! A sign!!!  HAWK. HAWK. HAWK. But what does it mean?

The Buddhist digs in our books upon his return home and comes up with a meaning along these lines:
"Hawk energy means you should take notice to details and know when to be patient and when to act without reserve"

Hmmmm....be patient or act without reserve?  Well, isn't that just contradictory?  
This the main dilemma when working with animal totems and animal signs.  It is never as simple as seeing a bear and realizing that you need to sit at a particular drug store counter, be discovered and live happily ever after.  NOPE. nope. nope. Animal energies and totems are always about greater context and more importantly, your own intuition. Yeah, intuition. That gut feeling.  Your third eye.  The sixth chakra.  Ajna.

Because in the end, the animals aren't in control of our destiny.  Only we are.  
more on intuition as the moon waxes

I keep focusing on my left ear; Full Wolf Moon

I keep focusing on my left ear...  

This thought has been tumbling around in my skull like my husband's jeans in the dryer.  
Thump. Thump. Thump. 

The thought just keeps landing and spinning and landing and spinning and (yes, you guessed it) landing again.  
Thump. Thump. Thump.

It all began when I skimmed through Brandon Stanton's "Humans of New York Stories".  The work is a journal of sorts with photographs of humans and a quote of what they spoke to the author.  This particular quote accompanied a photo of a young girl.

    "For the longest time I was focused on being deaf in my left ear that I almost forgot my other ear was perfectly fine."

And that is what I've been doing too; focusing on what is not working for me instead of what is. Instead of taking stock of how everything is fine. Better than fine.  Perfectly fine.
Thump. Thump. Thump.  

I have been agitating against situations that are as foolish as don quixote fighting the windmill.  I have been wasting energy on why certain things just aren't coming together as expected.  I have been lamenting some health issues.  I have been wondering why I can't achieve what seems in reach. I have been focused on my left ear.

But not today- 
Today I remembered that my right ear is functioning perfectly fine.

Pungent Existence, AKA Life Stinks: the waning Blue Moon

The drums and bass of Umphrey's McGee vibrate melodically through my headphones, but it is no match for the buzz of the cicadas and bellowing of the bullfrogs. The day is warm, but not yet gawd awful New Jersey steamy as I power walk along the towpath.  I note that my fellow canal enthusiasts are friendly; waves and smiles abound on this beautiful morning. A breeze caresses my skin causing me to close my eyes momentarily in bliss.

Then it drifts towards me, a foul odor of unknown origin.  I furrow my brow, tighten my lips. Instinctively, my body defends itself from this pungent assault.  I search for the source as my mind deciphers the data from my nose. Fish. Decay. Mold. Algae. I note the millfoil gathered atop the water as my ears hone on a large bull frog.   The canal always goes green in the heat and I assume the musty smell is the canal itself or perhaps the Millstone River that runs to the right of me.  The odor passes (or I pass through it) and I am once again enjoying the walk.

Then it drifts, more fervent and I spy a dead mole.  Perhaps the accidental drop of a flying hawk, the mole looks lie its sleeping BUT it smells like what it is: DEAD.  Anubis nods. DEAD.

My thoughts drift to the evening before when the Game Warden, AKA the buddhist, AKA my spouse rushed to close our bedroom window because one of our more secretive domain residents, a skunk, had left us with tearing eyes and mouths tasting musk.

A thought enters my mind: Life truly does stink.

Not in the 'oh poor me, why can't I catch a break way'; but truly olfactory.  Many of our bodily functions are a bit rank to put it politely.  But it is life- doing what life does- which is to evolve and change.  None of us are flowers, but they say you should stop and smell the roses.  My advice is to stop and smell death.  An olfactory alarm that time is ticking.  

Do not a waste a single moment.

DOMAIN: the late Full Strawberry Moon or perhaps the early New Buck Moon

The pool water is rippling wrong; I notice as I glance out the window amid removing clothes from the dryer.  I've seen this before and it doesn't bode well for some small critter.  Usually a mouse, occasionally a frog or rabbit, the poor animal cannot find a way out of the prison that is our in-ground pool.  I venture out bravely hoping that whatever is in the water will be alive and not a RAT.  Please, oh please.  Let it not be a RAT.

The water ripples have stopped and to my surprise what is before me is a baby groundhog. He is tired, resting his head above the water on the pool steps.  I make some size and weight calculations and realize that I cannot get him out alone without the risk of hurting him or him hurting me.  I dial the Buddhist- my phone reads "ICE" as I dial, my label for his number- "In Case of Emergency".

He answers and I ask how soon he can be home.  My voice gives away my urgency and he asks why and I answer "because there is a live groundhog in the pool."

I suppose that is not something I have ever uttered before and as such, my spouse alters course and arrives home in minutes.  He looks, surmises, leaves, and then returns with a shovel. A second later the very wet and tired little critter is out.  But something is not right as the critter just lays there splayed out all wrong. It's breathing but just looking at us.  Some motherly part of me is touched and I want to swaddle the little fella, rock him gently to groundhog sweet dreams of clover and flowers, Maybe even sing a little groundhog lullaby...but then I notice my Black-eye Susans have been mowed down and I am sure the culprit is our little almost-drowned pal.  

I SIGH.  Because Black-eye Susans (rudbeckia hirta for you Latin lovers) are my favorite flower. The flowers want to live.  Yet, this little animal wants to live.  AND they both want to live HERE. 

AND so do I.  Yet, I did not ask the inhabitants of the acre I "own" if I could move in 16 years ago,   I simply moved in to the empty nest (house) and took over domain.  Ooops! pardon me kind readers while I correct what is the very essence of a lie.  I took over "domain"! hehehe! As if!!  As if I could control the birds, the bees, the rabbits, the mice, the spiders, the bats, the weeds, the flowers and this poor little fella who slipped into the wrong kind of water hole.

It is all in conflict.  Me. Groundhog. Flowers. Birds, Frogs, Bunnies, Fox. Yet, it is as it should be. Compassion is present and my "ICE", my spouse, shifts seamlessly into a game warden and fetches fresh garden lettuce and a space heater (YES- a space heater) to dry and warm up our little critter. And I look on in awe as the Buddhist really is an ICE.  

An hour later, the groundhog has fled back to his home...the same home as mine and I acknowledge that I am going to need to learn how to share because this isn't a yard, it is nature preserve . 

Hylia versicolor

Twilight is fading and the birds are settling down.  The Buddhist and I are sitting on the patio, enjoying libations when we hear a sound.  We both stop speaking, hold our breath and the silence is pierced again. A shrill sort of vibrato...first to the left of us and an answer call to the right of us.

The Buddhist and I instantly exchange glances.  His lips are tight, almost in a smile, but more like a smirk. I know what he is thinking but my facial expressions do not reflect his thoughts.

I feel my eyes bulging open and my lips are in more of an "oh" shape as if I am thinking "Oh shit"... which in fact I am...
because they are back after a two year absence...
the unwelcome, hot tub loving, stick to my sliding door, FREAK me OUT creature of my nightmares...
the dreaded Hylia versicolor.

AKA Gray Tree Frog.
AKA Bren's hot tub pals
AKA reason Bren nearly drowns in two feet of water in her hot tub

The Buddhist is trying hard to not show it, but I know he is finding this amusing.  He says what we are both thinking "That was a Tree Frog, wasn't it?"  I nod but the answer is really that it was TWO Tree Frogs. As in plural. More than one. A tribe of sorts. An INVASION.

And they are corralling us, cutting off escape, ready to HOP on me, and destroy any semblance of my ego as I scream "get it off me! get it off me!" at the top of my lungs while I spin around furiously until I finally trip over a chair leg and fall.

My hubby is smiling outwardly now, as if he just read my mind.  He knows me too well after so many years. He can be so annoying.

"Maybe this year, the Tree Frogs won't like the hot tub." he voices with a banter that we both immediately identify as wishful thinking.

"Maybe." I add, willing it to be so, "Maybe."


If you have an interest in what the call of the bedeviling Gray Tree Frog sounds like, give this a click:
Freakish Tree Frog Call

Hopscotch; a new year under the waning Wolf Moon

By all appearances, I am a productive adult.  But I've got a secret.  An old secret. 

Deep down, I am just a wounded child looking for a friend to play hopscotch with.  

I bite my lip and watch from the sidelines as children who don't look much different from me but somehow are "different" play and laugh together.  I want to join them but my inner child is so very cautious, so very careful to not show any emotion that I have constructed a calculated facade.  I'm both protected and trapped by my clever ruse to fool people into thinking I'm indifferent.  From pain felt ages ago, I developed a dispassionate mask.  

Yet, look behind the curtain, and there is a small girl, a very passionate and creative girl, trying hard not to cry because she can't figure out why she is not the right kind of girl. She's not the girl that gets included. She's not the girl who gets invited to parties. She's not the girl who gets to play hopscotch.  And even if she was invited to, she might defer because no one has taught her how. Another chance to get laughed at. Another opportunity for others to see how she is not the right kind of "different".

But you feel it too, right?  This isn't simply the story of my childhood.  It is the story of all of us. We are adults hiding our wounded inner children.  The wounds come in many sizes and colors.
Not smart enough.  
Not pretty enough. 
Not thin enough. 
Not athletic enough. 
Not strong enough.  
Not bold enough.  
Not good enough.  Yes, so very very not good enough...

But we are good enough.  Each of us is unique and capable of great things, beautiful things- but it takes dropping the mask, showing our inner need to connect, laugh and play. It requires giving the inner child a hug and telling her/him  that TODAY is different. TODAY we can play hopscotch. TODAY we are good enough. All we need to do is smile and politely join in.  

Imagine a world where everyone is included. Imagine a world where everyone believes in their talents. Imagine a world where we don't spend the lion share of our energy hiding and shielding. How stunningly brilliant would that be??

I've found a good sized stone and you've got some chalk...
Will you play hopscotch with me?

Eyebrows; End of the Harvest Moon...

I look at my reflection.  All I see are eyebrows. Not the birthmark that normally consumes my gaze, or the chicken pock scar near my mouth, or the sledding scar poorly stitched along my jaw. No. Just eyebrows. 

There! See them? Dark slants of hair arching from the bridge of my nose. They are so OBVIOUS.

I sigh and examine them closer.  Just a slightly different color and the white ones that were giving away my true age are gone.  Dyed.  Brown.  Not the brown my eyebrows had been, but some hairdresser shade of brown to match my hairdresser shade of brown hair. 

Brown but not my brown.  I blink and stare some more.  They are painfully obvious.  

The Buddhist arrives home and I wait for him to comment on my abhorrent eyebrows.  

"I like your hair", he says matter of fact, as he dives into the fridge looking for food.  

"But don't you notice anything else?" I ask.  He blinks.  He looks.  He blinks some more. He knows he supposed to notice something but he can't find any difference but my hair cut. He stares some more wondering what will happen if he never sees it, when I cut him off from further blinking.
"My eyebrows!!" I exclaim, frustrated that he cannot see how weirdly OBVIOUS they are.

"Oh yeah. They look good too." he adds.  

I shake my head in disbelief.  "No. They are weird. Like really big or out of proportion or something..."  I stare at my reflection.  EYEBROWS stare back.

He laughs "No. They look the same.  Your hair is darker though."  

I look at the reflection and notice how much darker my hair is.  Whoa.  It's almost black in some of the low lights.  Huh.  I stare some more.  The eyebrows recede and BLACK taunts me.  I stare more, losing all my features to black strands of hair.  BLACK.  Wow.  That black is really OBVIOUS.

Then a thought hits me.  What good is having vision if it is so willing to be persuaded by our insecurities?  Can any of us look in the mirror and see our true reflection?  Or is it always the assemblage of our various beliefs about ourselves?  AND where else is our vision skewed by our predispositions?  Are we capable of objective vision at all??

I look in the mirror and for a second see all the light and goodness that I embody. I smile, but in a flash, it is gone, replaced by a middle aged woman with oddly dark hair and brown eyebrows.  
But at least she is smiling...

The Blackness; the waning Harvest Moon

"That is not part of me" I say to the young warrior who is holding a lump of black rot in his hands.  He pushes the lump at me.
"No" I repeat. "That is not part of me."

I am knee deep in a lake, surrounded by warriors who are gathering pieces of me adrift in the water.  In a rather dramatic shamanic dismemberment, I have been shattered by a waterfall drop and these young divers are bringing back the parts of me that have drifted away so long ago.  

Yet, this rotted lump of black must clearly be a mistake.  THAT is not a part of me.

I resist again and in a flash, the goddess Kali has called the whole thing off. She is part mother, nurturing but critical; part warrior, irritated and aggressive.  Right now, warrior Kali is exasperated and she asks pointedly "Are you only made up of sugar and spice and everything nice?"

Her appearance is frightening yet so very familiar to me by now.  Her lips are red and glossy; not with lipstick, but blood.  Her own personal struggle with bloodlust is the very reason she resounds with me.  

"No, I'm not just nice. You and I both know that, but that black oozy stuff must be a mistake."  I try to think to my sins; clearly, none of them are THAT bad.  

As if she hears my thoughts, she says "You don't know how your actions ripple.  A small unkind word here. A bit I anger there.  Loss of patience.  And the worst crime is your indifference..."

The words settle over me and I cannot argue.  I know I'm a practiced veteran of indifference. I'm the three monkeys who avoid evil by covering their eyes, ears and mouth...except I forget to cover my mouth...

World events overwhelm me with their horrors so I choose not to acknowledge them.  Hunger everywhere except in my kitchen.  Do not see it.  Do not hear it. Innocent by ignorance, right?

The blackness floats toward me.

Kodachrome, the waning Harvest Moon

Fifty digital photos and I am still looking for the perfect capture of sea and tide.  The Buddhist is perched above me on this coastal rock, his face buried in a book.  He looks up at me and smiles, unaware of my inner frustration.

The waves form a pattern and I wait for the moment to hit that little round button on my new ever so clever phone. 
There!  Click. Fifty one.
Now. Click. Fifty two.  
Hmmm.  Timings off...
OK.  NOW. Click. Fifty three...

All at once, I am transported back to a trip to Maine with my family in the mid 1970s.  I am thirteen and have my Kodac 126 camera dangling from my wrist, an up grade from my old Brownie camera (which I would kill to own now).  Babysitting money and allowance have combined to grant me two cartridges of film- a whopping forty eight photos for a one week trip.  I am fully aware that more babysitting and allowance will be necessary upon my return to extract the images from the cartridges. 

Forty eight photos?  How did I ever decide what was worthy of setting my eye to the view finder and pressing down the button.  That "Kodak Moment" sign was yet to be in vogue, so I had to rely on my instincts.  Not too many photos the first few days.  Make it last! Make it last!  Followed by too many photos of something stupid on the last day...

Yet, the beauty of this primitive photographic system was that I was present every second of my trip.  I experienced the rocks and the tide through my eyes, not a camera's lens.  

AND I had to wait a week after vacation to see the results of my photo prowess.  No do overs. No obsession.  I wasn't musing over memories while still making them. 

I laugh, turn my phone off and wave to my spouse.

Moonrise Kingdom; the Full Harvest Moon

I shift in my seat, bored, as I wait for the show to start.  We had arrived early to claim a good seat, and time was moving painfully slow.  I glance to my right at my spouse and smile as I realize my pet name for him, The Buddhist, is spot on.  He sits calmly with his eyes open and his shoulders erect. By comparison, I fidget, shift, slouch and sigh.

A couple near us is making quiet conversation about someone named Sheila.  It creates a kind of white noise to the otherwise silent space.  More people arrive, find seats, and finally the house lights dim, if ever so eloquently so.

We are on a cliff, one hundred feet above the ocean, facing East in Acadia National Park.  The Buddhist and I are on camp chairs, but most others have stadium seats or blankets.  We all seem to be perched here for the same show: the Full Harvest Moon Rise, yet that can't be confirmed as there were no tickets, no posted show times.

Obscured from view by the cliff, the last of the sunset fades into the west giving the sky and sea a serene sepia tinge.  I grow expectant as I have never seen a Moonrise. In my usual haunts,the Moon must top trees or mountains for me to see it.  I wonder how it will begin and think to ask those around us if anyone has seen this before.  But the couple has stopped talking and the quiet is enveloping.  

The foretold time of the moon rise is at hand and both my partner and I scan the horizon for signs. Will it be a glow?  Or just a big shiny quarter rising from the sea?

Minutes pass, then tens of minutes, then a half hour.  Did the all knowing internet give us false information?  Are we missing some subtle shift to indicate that the Moon was on its way?  I gaze sharper, aware that no one else is moving or shifting.  I see a star, then several, as peace sweeps over me.  I note my stillness.  The impatience is gone.

As the sky blackens around us, a chill sets into my bones. I see a pocket of sky clear and there, briefly, is the Trickster Moon, already risen and going about its trajectory. The sky closes like a curtain.  The show was over before it had begun.

"There" I say, pointing.  The Buddhist nods, having seen it too.  Low clouds on the horizon, unseen in the changing twilight, had concealed the very thing we sought.

"That was beautiful" he says and I smile and agree.

Turmoil- The Start of a New Day; Chapter Three; waxing gibbous Harvest Moon

Turmoil...

in the streets and in our hearts. So much useless suffering...

OH! OH! I am so tired of being defensive and guarded.  (The shields won't take it Captain!)

About four weeks ago, I decided to start smiling. I started saying "good morning" to people and smiling at them when our paths would cross at door thresholds and such.  The result was that I was feeling more content and confident with each encounter.  I liked bringing them a small amount of recognition of their humanity. I even enjoyed when it caught some completely off guard and they would suspiciously scowl.  I loved the ones who thanked me.  I truly adored the people who smiled back.  

This idea came from my Buddhist who told me a story about how he chooses to consciously practice Loving Kindness Meditation while in the line at Starbucks.  He acknowledges each person in the store and soundlessly offers them the simple lines of the meditation.

May you be happy.

May you be free from pain and fear.

May you walk at ease in this life.

The Buddhist said that he could choose to lose himself in his phone as everyone else is... 

OR he could spread something immeasurable but valuable for others and mostly, himself. He spoke of how it was one of the high points of his day.  He felt joyful.

I think I saw him very differently at that moment.  He can be a complete a-hole at times, but he is consciously striving to be someone better.  AND that alone, could change the world...

So please, smile at me and I will smile back.  

It isn't a proclamation of my complete happiness...

It is simply me acknowledging the beauty in you.  

Being the Part, Chapter Two: The New Harvest Moon

So, I want to be a Hippie Goddess, earth connected and beautiful, 
LOVE oozing from every pore...
I Got the look (reference Chapter One)
Now what?

It is so very easy to be grounded and serene when I am in nature; so much less easy moving about my typical day in suburbia.   

What is it about being around strangers- human strangers- that trips our circuits and turn us into deaf and blind auto-trons?  (Scotty, get those shields UP now!)

For me, it is insecurity that I don't measure up. Not cool enough. Not thin enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough. Not successful. Not talented. Not the so many words that were uttered to me by insensitive family, friends, strangers or more than likely, just invented on my own.

Isn't it so uselessly cruel that everyone is wandering around in such doubt about their worth?  The less self aware take verbal stabs at others to bolster their perceived inadequacy while the rest of us remain unemotional and guarded. We are all in such turmoil.  Don't make eye contact...

And Yes! even him...that dude over there with the Armani suit and Rolex.  Maybe him even more as he is bolstering himself with his fancy possessions...

Wait, I do that too...Let's not forget Chapter One...feather earrings...

So, Yes, I am in turmoil too...
In the line at Starbucks...
In the food store...
At the small deli I love...
While I type this...

Looking the Part, Chapter One

Route 16 south is moving slow and I'm both anxious and wary of the start of my seven hour drive home. The traffic inches along this main street as I revisit my latest purchase, a large, antique Kali figurine.  I own that mix of thrill and dread; thrill that I will have her in my home to use in my spiritual work, dread at the credit card bill that will need to be defended to my Buddhist spouse.  

I take in a breath as my eyes watch the pedestrians swarm this tourist village. Color and textures flock by. Shorts, skirts, sundresses, jeans, a bathing suit with a sarong, and a business suit pass with their various owners. Long hair, short hair and pink hair.  Flip flops, cowboy boots, high heels.  

I look down at my own capris, dusty from the waterfall hike. I wish I had on the patchwork maxi skirt that I had packed.  I take a quick look in the rear view mirror (ah vanity!) and smile at the necklace I had decided needed a good home on a different trip. I'm truly an easy mark for well made unique sterling jewelry, but this pendant had an additional appeal- it housed a spiral seashell. A spiral seashell!  How fitting for an earth goddess...

I turn away and then audibly sigh at seeing the capris again.  I will definitely change at the next rest area...

And then I am struck by a thought...

Do I really define myself so simply that a skirt and a pendant can make me whole?  

Does looking like a hippie goddess girl result in me being spiritual?

I know the answer is no, but damned if I don't stop at that sweet Native American shoppe and buy those silver feather earrings.

After all, a girl needs to look the part, doesn't she?

A waterfall, a boy and me: Waning Scheherazade Moon

The little boy won't stop screaming to his mother for her to look at him. He is twenty five feet above his mother on a rock ledge strewn with fast moving water. How he got there I cannot reason as I had tried to move higher on this same rock face before finally accepting the rock where my ample ass now rests.  The mother waves and pictures are snapped. One of so many taken here.  Will it be blurry or overexposed? Perhaps the focus will be perfect but the whole scale lost in the lens.  Maybe a month from now the camera will sit in a case, in a closet, the whole sum of her son's accomplishment lost in data.

Yet, no.  The accomplishment occurred.  The boy rejoiced.

Recorded or not, reality happens.  Are we  present to experience it?  Or are we wondering how it will look on Facebook.

The boy rejoiced.

Scheherazadress!! A new identity for a new moon, so long overdue...

I've been remiss.  I've been in my own head. I've been fretting. I've been unsure. 

The moon has been cycling, waxing to waning or vice versa depending on the date and I've been in clouds...
figuratively and literally.  The moon has been very shy in my neck of the woods. It is partly the angle of rotation, partly the weather, partly the time of rise and set. Basically, the moon has been missing from my life for a few months. Or more accurate, I have been missing from the moon.

The new moon was on the 26th. The Sturgeon Moon they call this one. Hardly, a romantic name.  Fish Moon. "Hey Honeydoo, let's cuddle by the light of the big ol' Fish Moon...Pucker up..."  ewwww.

No one has written songs about this moon as they have about the Blue Moon and Harvest Moon...

"Feeesssheeee Moooooon. Oh wonderful Feeessheeee Moooooon. Beautiful Sturgeon of Lakes so Deeeeeeep".   ewwwww. Again. ewwwww.

No choice but to rename it!!!  
I dub thee the Scheherazade Moon.

Let me explain...

Four years ago, when asked what I did for a living I would answer with an unsure "Artist?"  I never quite felt the title was mine and I wasn't even sure what I meant.  I do ART.  I DO art. What does that even mean?  The majority of the public does Art every now and again.  Why is that my definition?  I would love to use the term "Creationist" as I love to create and bring creativity to every endeavor I undertake; however, that term has political and religious implications that are so NOT me.

On a different social media platform, I coined the use of the term "to scheherazade" as to embody the creation of something wonderful from basically nothing. It was a reference to the mythical princess Scheherazade, who spun colorful tales nightly to beguile her husband, the King, who was bent on beheading every wife the next morning. She made fantasy become real. She made something out of nothing.  She spun her tales for one thousand and one nights until the King was very much in love with her. "To Scheherazade" is to make something wonderful and whole out of nothing.  It is to create with the intention of bringing joy. 

So, next time I'm asked about what I do for a living...

"I am a scheherazadress!!"

...and I'll be doing it by the light of the Scheherazade Moon

Caustic Encaustic Wax aka My Unique Bren-ness; the Waxing Flower Moon of Doom

I just ate a bagel with butter dipped into the remainders of buffalo wing sauce that my husband had made this weekend.  It is a total zero in nutritional value, but there is something about how it feels in my mouth that is very sensual- a kind of velvety heat. My lips plump from the spice and my tongue feels thick.  Did I mention that my husband's hot sauce is from his job in college at a local infamous eatery for killer wings. And it is killer.  In taste and in heat. In those days, my spouse smelled of cooked oil and chicken fat.  He smells better now.

That first paragraph is really a procrastination to the real meat of my blog. A way to disguise my shame. So let me just state the painful facts:
I caused the complete evacuation of the local three story Arts Organization where I am taking my second class in encaustic wax painting. Yes. Evacuation. Sirens. Fire truck.  Just like in a Christmas Story where Ralphy is watching in horror as the fire trucks are called to release his pal's frozen tongue from the light pole, I shrink down on the outdoor bench trying to disappear.  I watch everyone milling around as they wonder out loud 'What happened?' Someone looks my way. Me? What? No, I have NO idea what happened.  Shake head, look down.

From the start, I had clouded ideas of what this class would entail. After all, the Fayum Mummy portraits were painted in this medium and I do love all things Mummy. (Anubis nods in approval and I wave back)  I thought it would be a graceful medium that would tweak my creativity in a new way and allow me to make edgy, unique art. Instead, it is like decoupage gone horribly awry. Gloppy wax, cooling to an opaque white covers the art I painfully arranged on my incredibly expensive primed wood art board.  I look at it and think 'huh'.  It isn't the good kind of 'huh'.

The teacher comes over and says "That is incredible. Just incredible.  You have a gift with this."  I have to cough to keep from out right laughing.  This looks like snot. No. Worse.  It is snot covering a rather beautiful collage.  
"You don't like it?" the teacher asks seeing me looking at it askew.
"Um. No." 
"Really?"
"Yes"
"What don't you like about it?"  she asks sincerely and I want to answer truthfully. I swear to god I want to blurt it out that it looks like snot. But I don't. Decorum twists my tongue until I say that I thought it would be more translucent.  Jesus, that is an understatement.

End the first class...fade to black for a week and...TA DA...here I am on a bench wondering why my particular palette of hot wax decided it needed to spill and cover our art, our room and us with dark smoke.  Apparently, the answer is crayon.  Yes, simple crayola crayons. Chopped by me at home to make wax colorant.  I decided after the first class to embrace this medium and make it my bitch. The teacher had suggested the crayons and I ran with it. I thought all week on how I could use what I know and infuse my unique 'Bren-ness' into the class.  I was going to make my mark...
There is no doubt that I did just that... 

Spiders Up my Nose...and Between my Toes! Waning Pink Moon Slumber

"You are not really here..." my husband said to me as we both sat on chaise lounges in the bright sunlight.
"What?" I asked reflexively. I heard him, but that made no sense. Such a Buddhist thing to say. So very much like him. But something felt wrong with me and right with his words.
"You are not really here." he repeated and panic set in my flesh.  He was right. I bolted upright, screaming.

And with this screaming, I awake.  At first, I grip the bed, not sure where I am.  Then I remember and instantly touch my nose.  No spiders! Whew! 

I settle back into the warm covers and look at the stars above. A breeze stirs and the wind chimes play. Next to me, the Buddhist lays sleeping with his mouth somewhat ajar.  I ponder why he does not have fear. Not of the dark night. Not of the lack of a tent. Not of the foxes, skunks, and other nocturnal critters.  Not of spiders. How can he not be afraid of spiders?

I sigh, shift my body, agitated in my restless state, and turn towards him. I imagine spiders parachuting towards us, from the magnolia above.  A flower petal cascades down, as if on cue, and lands near his chest. I imagine an army of super tiny spiders aboard, landing on our sleeping bag beach, ready to storm his semi open mouth and my dangerously defenseless nose.

I sigh again. Turn to the heavens and try to remember why I agreed to this outdoor sleeping without a tent in the first place.  The weather was perfect for it. And despite my groundless spider fears, the insect population after our unduly cold winter was non existent.  Yes.  If ever there was a night to sleep under the stars, it was this one. 

So why can't I relax?  Why I am I sure spiders are coming for me from all angles? I instinctively touch my nose again. All clear. 

Why did I agree to this?

The answer arrives at dawn, when I lay cuddled into the Buddhist's chest, spider free and stunned at the beauty unfolding before my eyes.  A star or two doggedly cling to the heavens, but the sun is on her trajectory.  Everything looks new and dewy.  Birds start to sing "I am awake! Are you awake?"

I smile.  "Yes.  I am awake. Oh yes!!  I am most definitely awake!"

My Pillow; a love story for the Full Pink Moon

My Dearest Pillow,
I've been thinking about you a lot today.  I keep recalling your welcoming embrace as you gently cradled my head and whispered "sleep some more..." and I so wanted to. I wanted my unruly bed head hair to remain nestled in your pocket of protection.  Sleep is the perfect answer.

For a day that seems unremarkable. Plain even.  Nothing going on.

Oh sure, I have things to do.  But I will always have things to do...

So, why not return to your comfort and dreamy illusions of more interesting places? Where I can be both queen and peasant. Both beauty and beast.  Where I can fly and bears can speak.  Why is reality so damn boring by comparison?  Or maybe a better question is why are my dreams so compelling?

The trees are blooming outside.  It is unnaturally warm.  Tonight is a full moon.  And not only full, but a lunar eclipse as well.  Will I abandon my warm sleepy comfort in thy downy fluff for a glimpse of a moon that will be slowly shadowed in red? 

I hope so, but if we are having the dream about the canyon and my spread wings again, all bets are off.

The Moment; peepers are a peeping

You found the email where he had written the recipe. His recipe. Reconstructed from a margarita in Sedona and it feels foreign to you to get down the cocktail shaker, the Reposado tequila, the Grand Mariner. You squeeze the lime, coat the glass edge, run it through salt.  You feel a sensation. Is it anticipation?

You pause to slip on a swimsuit. The hot tub beckons and although you avoid it at dusk when he travels, tonight you can't resist.  Tonight, it is spring. The peepers by the stream are telling you so.  Swimsuit and towel in place, you add ice and shake, being sure to breakdown the agave nectar...beautiful plant honey.

The hot tub cover slides back and you are in.  It is hot, your body pauses, nerves sending data, but then there is a visible welcoming of your body to this heat and you settle in, relax back, and melt.  You had paired the bluetooth speakers to your iPod and the Grateful Dead spills forth, Box of Rain.  The jets are off, and the water has become reflective. You see the stately oaks and locust from the back property line near the stream ripple in the watery mirror. You so often forget that there is a stream. Muddied constantly by a local quarry, it is hardly picturesque.  But the peepers. Yes! The peepers.  Chirping. Chirping. Chirping.

Perhaps the tequila is enabling, but a sensation is building. Sensual. Whole. Healthy. You feel it in your spine. You are quiet. Every part of you is still.  The wind rustles your hair and you laugh. Smile breaks your lips. You are alive. You are here. You are o.k.

You want it to last, this bliss, so you stop sipping the drink; but the water temperature is 103 and you feel your blood boiling. Why can't it last? The pounding starts and you have to flee what once was the refuge.  You quickly do the required maintenance and slip inside.  You sit and write.  Some moments need capturing.  This doesn't do it justice, but you know that what you want to write is Thank You.  So you do.

Thank you for this moment.

You finish your last sip of the margarita and hit 'publish'.

The Hypocrite; My Ethical Chaos

I am a hypocrite. There I said it.  If there was a twelve step program for hypocrisy eradication, this clearly would be my first step.  I can see you all fidgety on folding chairs in some slightly musty church basement, listening to me come clean on this, my fall from ethic grace.  

I would say it with conviction; but half hoping that one of you would step forward and say "No, no, honey...not a hypocrite- just a women making the best decisions she can as information is thrown at her..."

Yes, I would like you to say that, but I would know it is lie.  And not just a lie for my benefit, but one that exonerates you as well.  See, you are here as well in this cramped, unremarkable space.  The smell of coffee and powdered creamer fills the room as the fluorescent light flutter in rhythm to my halted voice. You are here...

The story unfolds...

I like cosmetics. I enjoy wearing makeup. Occasionally, I'll even go as far as false eyelashes. I love the 'sex kitten' softness of that look. Mostly, I just go for a good moisturizer (Estee Lauder 'Idealist' has been my staple for a decade. Cool name too. And coolness matters), and a light foundation (Clinique), eyeliner (Maybelline) and Mascara (Clinique).  Having come of maturity in the late eighties, when animal testing was being abolished in cosmetics, I chose companies that I believed represented my ideals that testing makeup on animals was ridiculous and unduly cruel.  

One recent, fateful night, I spent an evening with my nephew and his girlfriend.  The girlfriend mentioned trying to find a animal cruelty free mascara.  I naively asserted that Estee Lauder and Clinique were animal cruelty free.  She rebutted that my knowledge was wrong. I was polite but undeterred as I was sure I knew better. These companies had at one time been champions in the end of animal testing.  I was curious, though, and an internet search revealed my utter ignorance. Or perhaps not my ignorance, but the calculated misrepresentation of companies that changed their policies and chose not to inform their customer base.

Estee Lauder and Clinique are both entering the Chinese marketplace and as such, they are required by Chinese law to perform tests of their products on animals.  So they are animal testing.  Instead of choosing principles over cash...instead of informing their customers of their change in stance...

But the saddest aspect of this is that they are not alone! 

Products that have been safely used here for years are being retested to sell in China. Insanity. Cruel Insanity.

Let's say I got a dog from a pound, took it home, and kicked it repeatedly to see what happens when I kick it. I know what happens when I kick it from previous kicking. But I'm going to do it again...just to see. Would you care? Of course. That would make me a bad person. Cruel. Mean. The moniker monster might even be dropped.

And that is what I am. Monster. But not because I kick dogs...but because I wear mascara that supports a policy where the Draize eye test is still administered to rabbits eyes until they ulcer and bleed, blinding the the later 'discarded' animal.  

I can't participate in this, so I have been searching for 'cruelty free' cosmetics.  There is great information on the internet and I'm happy to report that I have found new companies to fill my Estee Lauder, Clinique, and Maybelline shoes.

But here is where my ethics get foggy.  Here is why I am before you today as a HYPOCRITE.  My hair dresser uses Redken (tests on animals) and I love my hair dresser.  I use bleach in my white laundry (Clorox tests on animals).  I use razor blades made by Gillette (tests on animals).  That is just the tip of animal cruelty iceburg. From here it gets worse...

I love the sensual feel of leather. Suede is nice too! I love a good steak.  Oh yes!  Bring on the prime rib! Spiral ham brings me unadulterated bliss.  I adore eggs. And butter. Yes. Sweet creamy cow utter butter. Oh, let's not forget ice cream.  So, I am totally OK with some animal cruelty.  Well, not really OK with it, but accepting of it as a cost of what I enjoy.  

Does this make me ridiculous?  Should I abandon the cruelty free cosmetic ideal simply because I show complete hypocrisy in other similar circles?  

I say nay.  Apathy comes from taking the all or none approach.  So, yes, I am far from perfect. A HYPOCRITE. But a conscious one who can take tiny solace that at least her beauty did not cost an animal its life. 

Update:  I have decided to change hairdressers-  Aveda is cruelty free.  Just shows that positive change is always an option.