Hark! Is it the Sound of Three Hands Clapping?

My spiritual head is still spinning somewhere between my astral plane and my upper mental body after today's class, "Archangels."  I had assumed there would be an intermission at some point during the instruction.  There was not. 

The man who led the class was nice, but his syllabus lacked direction.  He started with a Spiritual Body Meditation his wife had received in a dream from Gordon, her own personal archangel, in which you imagine a set of stairs and seven "mini you"s to mentally place on these stairs.  You tell them to Stay!, which keeps your spiritual bodies aligned.

There was a handout called Activation of Kundalini Energy, which involved opening your crown chakra center (which is purple) "like a camera lens" and mixing Color Energies (they move in a counterclockwise direction) with a sexual partner until the colors ranging from Ultra-Violet to Ultra-Red become gold.  Sherwin-Williams might be wise to post warning labels under their lids.

Naturally, the thoughts that sneaked in to rescue my dehydrating eyeballs used the instructor's pseudo-religious message as a springboard.

My family tree includes serial church-surfers.  Mom wanted the five souls at her breakfast table to have a fighting chance at the Grand Buffet in the Sky, so she interviewed pastors and tried a few congregations on for size.  We tagged along and met some of the strangest people on the planet.

Anyone who has ever spent a week at any Church Camp need read no further.  In fact, we may have church-camped together if you grew up in Texas and migrated to the mountains in Wyoming every July, where it was fun to smear your accent all over the locals.

We had no idea what any of you were saying.

Except once.  The night the ninth-grader Texan girls stopped by the pre-teen cabin to chat about sinful temptations awaiting us in JUNIOR HIGH.  My cabin mates and I pretended to catch their syrupy drift by laughing our fifth-grader laughs, then cried ourselves to sleep the second they left.

My family belonged to a rogue church (not in a national chain) the year I was poised to transition from JUNIOR HIGH to sin's big leagues.  The pastor was a gentle old man whose wife was a dead ringer for Mrs. Claus.  She could simultaneously play the piano, blow her nose into a tissue, and smile at the "crowd" while she sang.

Pastor Santa wanted more members in the Youth Group, so he encouraged all four of us to invite friends into the mountains for a Jesus Festival.  This was in the early 1970s when anything with the name 'Jesus' stuck on it was terribly en vogue.  Just ask the Doobie Brothers.

So I invited Bonnie, one of the freer spirits I knew, and she accepted without hesitation.  She had just embroidered the word 'Jesus' somewhere on her Levi Big Bells, so it seemed like A SIGN.

A few things still stand out about that First and Last Annual Jesus Festival.

Our church didn't have a bus, so the pastor delivered us in a panel van equipped with metal folding chairs.  It was all singing and clapping as we motored up the switchbacks, until the pastor double-clutched on one huge curve and sent Bonnie flying down the "aisle."

Her super-tight Jesus jeans split right up the crotch and she hadn't brought another pair, so she spent the entire week scooting between events with a scratchy army blanket wrapped around her waist.  She tried passing herself off as Native American, but her flaming red hair cancelled out 95% of her introduction.  Everything, in fact, except the word Bonnie.

The National Outdoor Leadership School, a company specializing in survival trips for rich hippie kids from Back East, had recently moved into our tiny town.  The rich hippie kids were deposited at the top of a mountain range in June, shown which berries would kill them, then turned loose to find their way back to the valley before the snow flew.  Like Hansel and Gretel, but with rolling papers instead of breadcrumbs.

A small, ravenous band of rich hippie kids smelled our Jesus Festival hamburgers and staggered to the campfire, aiming to skew their chances of survival just a tad.  They stayed for cocoa and s'mores, singing "Kumbaya" the way domesticated animals do stupid tricks for whatever the humans are eating.  Then they rolled out sleeping bags next to our tents and were up extra early for breakfast.

But when they gave a demonstration on skinny-dipping in freezing water, Jesus, Santa, and Mrs. Claus put every one of their feet down and cast the whole bunch out.  This was probably what JUNIOR HIGH was supposed to have been like.

I'm staying away from Archangel Anything as a post-retirement hobby if these are the memories it evokes.

The Archangel Meditation we received in class has steps that include extending all four of your hands, palm-up (right hand, left hand, right astral hand, left astral hand).  But I needn't have worried about getting that far in the instructions, anyway, as I failed completely at the first line:

1.)  Ground yourself.

(Sponge Brain is taking a break!  November is National Novel Writing Month - 50,000 words in 30 days - and she has plans for an epic, sprawling, inspirational mess of an Old West, coming-of-age story.  Working title?   Go, Girl, Go!  www.nanowrimo.org.)

I Carry Butter Knives in Case There's a Food Fight

You cannot imagine my embarrassment when I realized I was the only person who brought a baseball bat to our cooking class.

The class was called "Mexican Sweets" so I naturally assumed there would be a piñata.  I knew the actual piñata ingredients would be supplied, but figured if I wanted my favorite slugger on my side....

My mouth watered all the way to class, anticipating delectable homemade fare hitting the floor instead of those American (Wal-Mart) Sweets that bounce - and taste - like plastic.

The instruction took place in a Mexican restaurant kitchen, and the diners up front were enjoying their meals until I burst in with a weapon - panting because I was five minutes late.  But I calmed the crowd by quickly turning the bat into a cane, and spent the rest of the evening remembering my right leg's new limp.  Or maybe it was my left.  It's been a few days since the class, but the 'cane' was short enough that my back still hurts.

Further showcasing poor judgment skills, I had eaten dinner on my way to the Mexican restaurant.  Other students were smart enough to arrive hungry and order from the menu, completely negating the possibility of fast food breath.

I must admit - I signed up because the class description had me at the word "Mexican."  I LOVE Mexican food, but could not think of one dessert I'd ever ordered at a Mexican restaurant.

Oh, wait.  There's flan.

Ironically, flan is the one thing you hope does not fly out of a piñata.

When the chef described the sweets we'd prepare, he talked about his grandmother, his mother, his childhood celebrations - and that's when it hit me:  Tradition can neither be purchased by, nor taught to, a bunch of salivating strangers.

My mother lived in Mexico for several years and when we visited one Thanksgiving, we had excellent Mexican Sweets.  Mom's pumpkin pies.

We were there in March for my daughter Abi's 12th birthday, and Mom made one of her legendary cobblers.  Mangoes took the place of peaches, and she used lard for the crust since the stores didn't carry Crisco - but it was so delicious, partly because it was Mom's.

(My sister Debby and I have a problem with cut edges not being totally EVEN on certain baked goods.  The night of Abi's rooftop party, Debby and I kept sneaking downstairs to 'trim' that mango cobbler.  We eventually evened up the entire thing, and as we swallowed the last bites - the birthday girl herself showed up for a slice.  Her total confusion prompted us to demonstrate how the burglar had shimmied up a large tree outside and squeezed in through the kitchen shutters.  It might have worked if bits of mango spit hadn't punctuated our performance.)

The night of our class I was distracted from a large chunk of instruction because a kitchen worker placed this thing of beauty near my right shoulder:

I had to keep repeating THAT is not a piñata.

Then a huge container of gargantuan cinnamon sticks appeared.  Holy cow!  They resembled freakishly large cigars.  They refused to sit for a photo and I was understandably afraid to insist.

I'm used to those teeny cinnamon sticks, all the same predicable size, each staying in their assigned space in the little glass jar.  So there would be nothing specifically comforting in this class.  Tasty?  Oh, yes.  Familiar?  Um, no.

This will not be a viable option for my post-retirement hobby, but may be a way to help fellow diners decipher a Mexican restaurant's dessert menu.

Man, it sure would have been a terrific way to WOW Abi's third-grade class on International Culture day - if I had dug that note out of the backpack earlier.  Instead, I drove around town at 6:00 a.m. looking for a gas station mini-mart that sold fortune cookies.

But here's a fun thought:  What if I break the mold when I have grandchildren, and prepare Mexican sweets every Columbus Day?  I'll make my own fortune cookies to serve at birthday parties - but they'll be shaped like pilgrim hats!

Every Valentine's Day we'll have German noodle kugel, and some terribly fussy French pastries on the Fourth of July....  The little ones can wear Halloween costumes in Easter parades -

Oh, wait.

Those kids probably won't bat an eye.

When Abi was five she had a Halloween party and the game I planned was "Decorating Halloween Eggs."  It's weird to have your child's five-year-old friends stare at you like you have two heads - even for two minutes - how had they become so opinionated in so few years?  But as soon as the eggs splashed into the dye, their confusion turned into unbridled "fun."

The Mexican Sweets turned into something not even the Mexicans recognized:

These are sweet tamales.

Maybe it's best to leave certain traditions alone.  After all, my grandchildren might need someone to show them which gas stations have the most international flair.

(Not sure where the word 'archangel' came from?  Here's a hint:  No St. Louis landmarks are involved.  Learn the rest of it right here next Friday!)

Fuzzy Stuff Over Yonder - Who Wants Seconds?

There are times my brain goes so far afield that it can't hear me whistling when it's time to go home.  After thinking all day about work, reminiscing about people I've known, wondering about people I've never met, then rethinking about work - my mind begs for a little off-leash time.  It convinces me that the elusive what's-for-dinner is hiding just over the closest hill.

Fine, I say, but don't be gone long.

My mind fully intends to come right back when it scampers away, but something fuzzy, dressed in a celebrity-news-flash outfit, inevitably pops up on a distant hill - and the chase is on.  Soon I'm trying in vain to remember the approximate direction it first bolted, and whistling madly to myself.

There are two sure-fire ways of coaxing my thoughts back into my head:  I can sleep (even the most garden variety idea cannot resist an empty dream field), or I can write.  Those thoughts that were so far away - sniffing out two-ingredient recipes - zoom back to criticize my story arcs every single time.

In this week's class, Making a Mala, I discovered a third way to bring them back.

A mala is a string of 109 beads used for sending good vibes into the world.  Kind of like prayer flags, but without the frostbitten sherpas.  It works great to corral your thoughts by distracting them from that fuzzy whatever peeking over the next hill.

Here's how it works:  Grasp the mala without letting your pointer finger get involved.  (Hindus call that your "ego finger" since it points out faults in others.)  Now touch each bead with your thumb as you recite your favorite mantra.  Pull the bead over your middle finger to bring up the next bead.  Repeat until you've sent out 109 bits of love.

Our teacher explained that while mala began in the Hindu tradition, there are several cultures that use strings of beads for meditation.  But unlike some groups that repeat self-flagellating phrases pertaining to death and sin, mala focuses on comforting others.

No asking for a BMW convertible.  (Just an example.)

I messed up while constructing my mala - it has an extra bead.  My mind was off chasing fuzzy playoff-season geese when the teacher gave specifics, so I missed the part about 108 similar beads joined by a different guru bead just above the tassel.  The guru bead tells you that you've reached the end of the string - time to flip the mala and start over.

We learned that guru actually means 'teacher,' but since I thought it meant 'super-smart expert,' my mind ran to rifle through my memory bank for recent thoughts on experts.  Tossing aside ancient information on Ben Bernanke and Stephen Hawking, it finally sauntered back empty-handed in time to misinform me that the mala needed 109 beads - plus the guru.

It's been wrong before.  In fact, the first thing I prayed for after tying super-tight tassel knots on my defective mala was to stop being so hard on my mind when it goofs up.  Also, to forgive my fingers - they messed up quite a few of the 110 knots I tied between beads.

My Catholic friend Anne was born the Middle Child of 13 kids.  With six older siblings and six younger, she has some real you-should-write-a-book memories.  My eyes still bug out when my mind wanders up to one of those stories.

Before that 13th child was grown, Anne's mother had burned through several rosaries.  The problem wasn't broken strings - it was the constant rubbing that had worn the little jewel thingies completely away.  The rosary gave her mind a safe place to hide in exchange for all that attention.

Anne's parents knelt by their bed and prayed for a child every night - starting with their wedding night and ending with the trip to the hospital for Mary's birth nine months later.  After the honeymoon phase, Anne's mother used that rosary for every disaster from running low on peanut butter for each school morning's 20 sandwiches (the boys got two), to those awful things that can only happen when a station wagon packed with that many people takes a 'vacation.'

Theresa smashes John's hand through the rag wringer at a gas station in Nevada?  Rosary time.  Flat tire in the heart of Mormon country?  Bust out the beads.  Anne's mother had either become a guru of focused concentration, or her mind was so far gone that her fingers just took over as teeny co-pilots until Captain Brain had revived herself enough to take the wheel.

Wow.  Where do these analogies come from?  I seems somebody's mind has been rummaging through the Suspenseful Movie Plots cabinet again....

Anne's mother was off limits when the beads were out, so the older kids became gurus at raising little ones.  I wonder if she ever went off-script, sneaking in requests that her husband develop a passionate interest in something else.  Anything else.

Like a BMW convertible, perhaps.

Our teacher practices patience by taking her mala to the DMV when she renews her driver's license, but I'm not ready for that step.  Until I get better with mala rules, I'm afraid my guru bead might teach the back of somebody's head a lesson approximately two hours into the wait.

I need to be more like Heifi, surrendering totally to the calming effect of the mala.

Lola trades her flat rabbit for the beads whenever she's super stressed.

So far, my meditation consists of trying to lose track of the bead numbers so I can be real surprised when the guru bead shows up.  I'll keep working on it because I love surprises so much, but I know I'm a hopeless 'counter.'

Maybe I should start small - with a prayer of gratitude for numbers, then move on to being thankful for words, and eventually get around to something more globally specific.  When I start with the global part, I imagine the whole planet having clean water.  That leads to thoughts of world peace, which morphs into millions of people smiling in the sun, followed by zillions of children caught up in bear hugs - and my mind is off to the races once more.

My mala sessions up to this point have involved an awful lot of whistling.

(Ever wish you could lose your sweet tooth?  No, you don't.  Come back next Friday for "Mexican Sweets" and learn about International YUM.)

My, Grandmother - What Big Flat Screens You Have!

My hopes of finding the perfect post-retirement hobby were beginning to falter when I stumbled upon a class for writing children's stories.

Perfect.

Here is something I can do under any oversized beach umbrella, or perched near a blazing fire in a ski chalet, or strapped to a gleaming, wooden deck chair on a Transatlantic crossing.

Kids are so easy!  You take a few words that rhyme, stick them on a page with a picture of a kitten chasing a ball, or a policeman chasing a monkey, or a butcher-knife-wielding farmer's wife chasing a mouse - the main objective here is to captivate the screaming portion of an undeveloped brain long enough to help it go unconscious for a whole night.

Consider this prime example:  B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, and BINGO was his name, oh!

I'm positive the person who invented that also introduced the concept of royalties.

But that's a discussion for later - when I start writing children's songs in my spare time.  I carry a notepad where I record every word I'll need during that phase of my life.  So far, I have:  Click, Clack, Pat, Clap, Flap, Slap, and Poo.

I'll be a zillionaire.

I decided to focus on more honest themes when I registered for this class.  Why should kids wait until Junior High to learn about creepy behavior?  Home is definitely where those lessons should start. 

But after perusing a list of popular children's books, I realized many other authors had clearly beat me to it.  I also finally figured out why today's adults are so screwed up.

Brief Anatomy Refresher:  A newborn baby has all the physical functionality of a new potato, and is equipped with all the brainpower of a bowl of oatmeal.  (Anatomy Refreshers always make me so hungry!)

The Potato Parents, whose Oatmeal Heads have long since crusted over, cross their fingers for 18 years and do the exact wrong things that their Potato Parents did to them.

Potato Babies are told:  This is a poisonous plant leaf.  This is a piece of lettuce.  REMEMBER WHICH IS WHICH!

Also:  These are your toys.  These are your pets.  ONE GROUP SCRATCHES AND BITES!

And the classic:  We think you're valuable.  We will protect you with our lives.  GET ON THAT SCHOOL BUS!

Those allegedly precious Potato Babies are flown to Disneyland inside hulking missiles of wafer-thin metal.  This is the happiest place on Earth.  Every single person here is smiling.  HERE'S HOPING YOU CAN ADAPT TO WHEREVER YOU END UP!

But the biggest confusion sets in with the arrival of books.  Kids are still getting a handle on their world when up pops a passive-aggressive, near-sighted fox in green corduroy knickers.

Some parents introduce the same crazy stories they heard as Potato Babies, practically guaranteeing they'll have one thing in common with their own children:  a fear of everything.

Oh, my, look what happened.  This small, innocent child was beaten for making a classic business misstep involving the family's donkey, so he climbed a vine outside his bedroom, and met a giant who kills kids.  EAT YOUR JOLLY GREEN VEGETABLES!

Other parents shun the books they were forced to read, looking for a New Age way of dealing with their toddlers' Oatmeal Heads.

Melissa has three dads, two-and-a-half mothers, an uncle with leprosy, and a child on the way.  CLEAN THAT SELF-ESTEEM-FOSTERING HAMSTER CAGE NOW!

I started reading to my daughter Abi before she was born (she learned the three-book rule real early).  Luckily, her Oatmeal Head was the steel-cut variety so she weathered those early weirdo character introductions fairly well.

She carried books around the way other kids carry blankies.  There were books lining her crib rails, stuffed in the car seat, and floating (or not) in the bathtub.  When I skipped lines while reading that third book, she busted me every single time.  (But most titles contained the words "I Love You" so even at my sleep-deprived, grouchypants worst, I had that base covered.)

My sister Debby read constantly to her son Joshua (a.k.a. "The Cutest Nephew In The World.")  Josh's favorite book for quite a while was "Bedknobs and Broomsticks."  He roamed the house in his diaper, looking to snag an easy target for the seven billionth reading.  It was usually Grandma.  She never figured out where the rest of us hid.

He read that thing until the pages fell out.  One time he handed Debby the cover.  She started reciting it from heart, which led to an impromptu performance art piece - everyone yelling the story in unison from our hiding places all over the house.

He must have loved the thought of regular boys and girls magically visiting invisible islands from the safety of their beds.

So maybe it is better to save the reality stuff for later.  I'm betting those Aesop brothers had seriously effed-up childhoods.  (Oh, was there only one Aesop?  I'm probably thinking of the Cohens.)

Abi loved a book about Muffin Mouse, who laced up her tennis shoes every morning because she preferred walking to riding.  (Yes.  The Importance of Exercise.)

And she loved a book called Possum Magic about a fuzzy little guy who disappears bit-by-bit and his Grandma does everything in her power to get him back.  (Hmmm.  Unconditional Love.)

The Paper Bag Princess was about a girl who rescues a prince from a dragon - then he tells her she's got messy hair and dirt on her face.  She tells him to get lost.  (Yup.  Don't Settle for a Jerk.)  It was Abi's favorite.

No, wait.  It was my favorite.  I read that thing until the pages fell out....

HEY!

Maybe I'll write books for parents - disguised as books for kids.  Parents will see where things got messed up, and kids won't have to repeat the same awful patterns!

I shall get these parents to read my books by reconstituting their Inner Oatmeal.

I'll write about a Potato Baby who refuses to let his growing brain dry up and crack, but instead fills it with exotic fruits, a variety of nuts, and thick, sweet cream.

The first title in my 87-installment series will be Talking Louder Than Foxes:  How One Man Overcame a Crippling Fear of Gardening.

(Come on now - you know you shouldn't text and drive - so next week I'll show you how to make Mala Beads!  Ancient Hindu prayers are more helpful in heavy traffic any day.  LOL.)