The city of Santa Fe has rules.  

It is an old city with the oldest church in the nation. I could feel the history there. This is a rare feeling for a West Coast American.

The air is thin at this high elevation. I felt things were surreal bordering on the mystical.

What do people do here—I found myself wondering. 

I couldn’t see signs of industry.

When I met a government official at the hotel, he said their industry was art.

That made sense. I had glanced over the many art shops because it seemed to rich for my blood, but there were so many of them they must be doing some business to stay open.

The thing I noticed about this NEW Mexico culture—unlike the OLD Mexico I was familiar with in California—is their buidings were very plain. Pueblo style, slightly melted squares of adobe mud. 

Now, the old buildings I could believe were original pueblo style.

But the parking garage?

I learned that this was the rule. This style of architecture and no other was permitted in the whole area. More than a hundred years ago, the city had decided to have only this pueblo style for anyt building.

It gave a peace to the eye as I looked over the downtown streets. No jarring corners or edges, smooth and neutral color.

It blended in with the trees in a comfortable way.

How startling for a town with so much art, to choose this conformity.

I’d always thought of artists as eclectic, and messy. Bright colors, things that caught the eye. 

Not here. The town had chosen a strict style. 

Could it be that the discipline placed on the city cramped the artists possibilities? I would think that artists would avoid these kind of rules.

And yet, the culture and the business of the town proved me wrong. The artists came and created there, were drawn to it. Perhaps the constraint inspire the art, like a poet might choose a tiny Haiku to express a large idea.

My family watched Dr. Strangelove o the Fourth of July. It was a timecapsule of Cold War absurdity. The competitive stances between the Soviet Unions and America was highlighted as the story had them racing to find a way to save people from the detonation of a nuclear doomsday device

The only way to survive would be to hide in deep mine shafts for a hundred years or so.

The next day we all flew to New Mexico, where Chris and I visited once of the largest caves in the world : Carlsbad caverns.

We got the full experience of this natural wonder, arriving just before sunset to join with the other nature tourists in an ampitheatre of local stone to watch and wait for the moment

The moment when the first—then many thousands— of bats emerged from the cave to go eat.

They do not eat us, the ranger assured the children. THESE bats don’t eat blood.

The group was surprisingly quiet as the bats zoomed out of the cave in a fast fluttery black spiral.

When we returned the next day, that uncharacteristic quiet returned as we descended into the cave.

The mystery and majesty of these vast caverns inspired us to restrain our voices.

“There are a lot of kids here,” I said to Chris. “But I don’t here them making much noise. I don’t even hear babies crying.”

“Who would take a baby in a cave?” He asked.

“I don’t know, I’ve seen peopel take babies in all kinds of strange places. But you are right. I don’t see any babies being carried.”

“They would be stolen by goblins,” he smiled.

THe power of the babe.

I had been thinking of goblins and dwarves from stories this whole time. 

“We have to listen for drums” i replied.

But aside from fantasy legends, I wondered about caves.

What are caves used for? 

“What do you think would have happened if a cave like this had been discovered in Germany in 1200? Or China? Or Africa?”

I had just been told what happens in 1900 when this cave had been discovered. They drilled down to “mine” the guano from all the bats for fertilizer. 

And then it was turned tourist destination and the government put it under protection.

They made the smooth paths that I could walk down in the dark, with an elevator to get back up.

Would Germany have turned it into a fort?

I think the ancient Greeks would have turned it into a shrine to consult Oracles.

After we got out of the cave I asked the internet about it.

Carlsbad caverns is 9th of the top ten caves of the world. Number one is in Kentucky and was discovered in 1791.

THe next biggest cave is in Mexico—underwater! 

There is an enormous cave in Switzerland that was discovered in 1875.

It seems that big caves were mostly discovered after the 20th century. But from what I can tell, big caves are not practically useful.

We walked through the cavern, the water tracing through the caves for centuries and making their marks. 

The sun did not shine there. No algae grew in the small pools of water.

Gollum would not have found a fish in these pools No life can be here!

But how could I forget the bats? They live even deeper in this cave than I could get to.

There are many mysteries still in this world.

You have to be 35 to be president.

Like a boundary marker, this one stands out. 

Most of adulthood is unmapped. There are sea monsters and dragons in the blanks. I will have to fill in those spaces with discoveries from my own discoveries and interpretations.

My year and a half of cancer fighting is behind me, but the experience jolted the timeline and I fell into an alternate universe. I was poisoned which made me sick and stupid and I was not myself.

But the fight is behind me, right? 

Isn’t it? 

I am trying to populate in the part where I merge back.

Is it there a back to get to? Or did the reroute of the integration plan take me to a completely new alternative universe?

What familiar milestones would tell me if I am on the map of myself?

I already wrote about this experience making me 80 years old before my time. I want to exit the era of premature elderliness and become the age I am now.

Somehow, though, the current moment remains unmapped.

I’m turned around and lost track of the landmarks.

When it comes to adulthood, there is a literature on how to live your life and achieve goals.

Some books say ‘remember what you liked to do when you were little. The child person was able to be joyful and not hesitate to do fun things.’

I can have fun, sure. But even as a little kid I did have people I wanted to stay connected to, that took care of me and whom I took care of.

I’m thinking of that 35-year-old. That person might be thinking about becoming president. More frequently, that person is not on the presidential track. Either way,  a 35-year-old is expected to be capable of read a situation and make choices.

I meet that requirement to be president, even if I’m not running. I will have to be the leader of myself, although I do feel lost and turned around. I’d better look for the sea monsters to avoid

This is unfamiliar territory, and it’s not what I expected. Nevertheless, I will have to identify or create the milestones that let me know what I’m aiming towards. I have to look for the treasure islands I want to land on.

A long long time ago, I can still remember how

The first time I want to Manhattan it was a work trip, and I was very excited to go on my own and the task I needed to complete couldn’t be done on Friday. I had to stay until Monday.

I was excited to have a whole weekend to stay in the city and explore it. But very quickly, I felt the strangeness of being alone. I didn’t know the city, and I didn’t know anyone. I missed having some people I belonged with.

Chris and Veronica have been away for the week. When the plans were made, they were going to take a road trip across the country. I was going to stay home and work.

Except—as it turned out I didn’t have a job to work at by the time they set out.

I was excited at first to do some things I had been putting off, to have my house and my time to myself.

Until it got very lonely and weird. I remembered the weekend in New York City when it was hard to find a place I belonged.

This week, I’ve had a place. But the place was empty without the people.

My family is an important part of the people that make me feel comfortable at home.

But the shock of unemployment took away an important people group I relied on. I get a lot of energy from the people I work with. Now that they are gone, my energy and well-being have taken a hit.

Back when I went to Manhattan, and when I made the plans for being alone this past week it didn’t cross my mind to be anything but strong and independent.

And I was.

The reality of the experience was stark. I could do it, or course. I could also stop breathing for a minute. That would be a very long minute.

I hadn’t realized how important my people are.

The sun is shining longer and longer with the summer solstice within reach. The bees are enjoying it and happily buzzing around the flowers in my yard.

They are hard-working females just like me. I admire that they are graceful and strong and work together on their home. They all work together on their hive.

Once again, I am cut off from my work. I lost my job and I want to find another one. The bees have a headquarters that I don’t have.

People have heard that I’m jobless again. They are encouraging and offer sympathy.

“You can take it easy! Maybe you should take the summer off. You don’t have to look for a job right away.”

Once, I had a swarm of bees land in my backyard. It was a terrifying spectacle, hundreds of bees zooming around then landing in a heavy swarm on the nandina bush.

They stayed there all night, eventually leaving the next afternoon. They left wax hexagons on the bush. Even just one overnight stay, they were building a new hive.

Yes. Me and the bees. I am always building something, working on a project or expressing some idea. They do not rest when then are resting.

I felt sad that these bees couldn’t keep building on their start. I didn’t want the bees to live in my backyard, but they had a vision for a day that they could.

When they decided they couldn’t live there, they flew on to find a better spot. They didn’t linger once they made up their hive mind.

They don’t relax when they are on the hunt. 

My cat relaxes. My dog relaxes. 

Bees don’t much. Neither do I.

The backyard bee swarm were not angry. They were on the job of checking out their new surrounding for suitability.

There have been times when on the job hunt, I was agitated and freaked out. I don’t feel that way now.

I feel like the bees again. Looking around and assessing. I’m seeing what different spots have to offer. 

I’d like to lay down sturdy hexagons that will last.

Two things happened this week.

On Saturday, I went to a 40,000+ person punk rock festival and became a fan of everyone.

The Monday before, I lost my job.

In between sifting through the memories and impressions from the show, I’m thinking of what punk rock means. Going my own way. Rejecting the rules, rigidity and corporate do-the-regular-thing—that’s punk rock.

Well. I got rejected by the corporate world, even though at the moment they kicked me out I would have been happy to stay.

I am going my own way now.

I’m thinking of the movie School of Rock. It’s silly and its true:

One great rock show can change the world.

I went to this rock show because job that kicked me out had already given me free tickets. It was the last parting gift.

The music, the energy, the fans and the whole experience made me want to do bigger better more exciting things.

Every band I saw was excellent, and I didn’t see enough of them. These musicians had done the work. They suffered as they pushed to get better at their craft.

I am willing to bet…that just like the loser hero of in School of Rock, they were kicked out of a band or two. Like I’ve been kicked out of a job or two.

It hurts, but it’s not the end of the story. I’m ready to see what else is out there, get a new set list and find a new gig.

I have a sense of the sounds, of the energy I’m looking for.

When I was at the stage, getting pushed and pummelled in the sea of humanity that wanted to get to the action, to get close to the music I had to keep my feet under me. It was scary. It was dangerous.

It was so exciting! It was the most punk rock I’ve ever seen.

So this finding a new gig part, I can say this rock concert changed my world about that.

It’s left me with a new view on my world and what I want. As I’m looking I can repeat the prayer from the movie: 

God of Rock, thank you for this chance to kick ass. We are your humble servants. Please give us the power to blow people’s minds with our high voltage rock. In your name, we pray. Amen.

“…and they had all kinds of different music..”

“What kind of music did the teacher band play?”

It had been a high school event called Battle of the bands. A lot of different bands I had never heard of were playing, and somewhere at the end there was a band composed of teachers. Her music teacher was part of it.

“I don’t know. I mean, there were a lot of teachers in the band and I didn’t stay around to hear that much of it. “

“You didn’t stay around to hear your teacher? How could you miss his performance? He probably was looking forward to his moment.”

“Mother, I don’t think so. I mean, he plays the trumpet. What kind of band uses of trumpet?”

“How can you say that? You know a lot of bands that use trumpets. You were in Jazz band in Junior high. Your teacher probably has been looking forward to this day for months. He was going to do his OWN music, and perform. How do you know this wasn’t his dream before he became a music teacher?”

She stared at me.

“Right now, he is at home, thinking of how much he loved performing.”

“Mother, that can’t be true. He has little kids.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. His kids are trying to sleep, and he is holding his trumpet, feeling and remembering. He can’t play because of them, he has to put it aside.

But tonight, on this night…The night he played his own music, he feels it.

I can see him, taking his trumpet outside. HE has to go far away, down the block to sit on the swings at the park, in the dark. He’s playing his trumpet right now…blowing his heart and soul out on this night of nights…”


“You are completely wrong. Your imagination is not what is happening.”

“I don’t think so…Your teacher has dreams too.”

“I’m going to bed,” She flounced away to the bathroom.

I smiled at her, and in sympathy to my imagined horn player alone with his dreams in the dark.


It was night, but there was still time. I went over to my computer to use the last few minutes of the day to work on a chapter in my book draft.

There is a saying:

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

I spent the last year playing a very serious game of fighting cancer. I won. 

The prize felt very stupid—

I get to stay alive. That’s serious. 

But also ridiculous. I WON that prize. Should I have to win it every day?

Apparently I did have to win it back.

Making progress towards my goals is a big deal to me. I am always thinking of the next achievement I’m striving for.

The treading water fight for life from cancer was not very satisfying. I was happy to have my martial arts to make progress on.

Not many people have a black belt. I am going to get one.

I tried to find out how many blackbelts there are. It’s not so easy to find out.

What’s it for? A lot of people get to the rank of black belt, dust off their hands and call it done.

The true experts say that the black belt is just the beginning.

But it took me years of practice every day to get this far. How can it be the beginning? I know I’m not that good. I have so much further to go. It would be a shame to take that movement literacy and not do anything more.

In that way, it’s like winning the prize in the cancer fight. I win the right to keep going.

I have the right. Will I exercise it?

I didn’t notice that life was hard when I didn’t have to fight for it.

I didn’t notice much about fighting until I started my black belt journey.

The cancer stuff was not what I expected, but I did it. Life goes on.

The fight goes on.

I plan to use what I learned and what I earned to keep going and earn more prizes.

I didn’t make it to the class on Monday, but did make it last night. I wanted to do my best at the class. I’m almost a black  belt, but I was sick and tired and sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I look like at 80 year old running around the dojo. But I’m here and the stumbling run was the best I could do.

This wasn’t how I wanted to show up, but I was showing up and that would have to be enough.

Last Wednesday I got to work, stomach cramping and head ringing. I was doing a meeting and let slip that I wasn’t feeling great. My co-worker said,  “oh, maybe you should take it easy.”

If I let beign miserable stop me I’d never do anything.

And then the misery came in for real. I had a tough week. I spent my days and nights close to the bathroom with the strength of a noodle.

I couldn’t let that continue. Saturday night me and a friend had tickets for a music festival.

She was excited too. Duran Duran were headlining and she’d been wanting to see them forever.

I had imagined myself, dressed in my best 80s gear—Maybe even pink hair!—as I heard the band that meant glamour when I was my daughter’s age. I would storm the stage, jump up and down screaming and dancing

I wanted it,  hungry for it.

Yeah, like a wolf.

Would my medically induced sickness keep me from it? Everything in me pushed back. I had to find a way.

The day came. I put on some comfortable clothes, with just a dash of flash

I took a nap, took Imodium and made my way. I trusted my friend, we walked slow and I got to hear the music. I went over to a fence so I could lean against it. 

It was not like I imagined. But I still got to have it.

Like my class. This is who I am today. I’ll be a black belt, hoping I will not be ill on the testing day. I’ll do what I can with what I’ve got. 

My black belt journey doesn’t look like Jackie Chan. In my mind I can do amazing tumbles and spinning kicks.

In my mind I can flaunt pink hair and jump and scream to the music.

My body today can show up. It will have to do. I’m still here and proud of it.

If an artist wanted to make art using time as the material, the obvious thing is music. Time is the pillar that holds music up.

I’ve been writing about both music and time.  

Time is not as stable as I had thought. The metronome my daughter, the  classical violinist, uses is very rigid. More regular than reality.

Art that inspired me shows a different perspective. Sometimes that is a yank back into the rigid. And sometimes it tears down the walls of expectation.

My musical culture is made of fours. Quarter notes and 4/4. The familiar but surprise variation is the three quarter tim. One two three one two three…waltz with me. You know it, right?

A different familiar.

 Can something completely new—not following the pattern and the usual—can it still be beautiful? Or would it be unsettling?

Jazz famously pulled music into new shapes. Dave Brubeck and his quartet created an album Time Out in 1959. He intended to try different time signatures, after traveling around Eurasia. 

He didn’t expect much from it, nor did Columbia records. 

So he and his quartet created this exploring album, with an extraordinary result. This album, taking a risk with not a lot of expectation became the best selling jazz album ever. Wrapping the mind around the wrong way, a new way of making music, the whole album had strange time signatures.

Take five proves the delight, the surprise…if no one told me it was in 5/4 I wouldn’t have noticed. But it is very catchy and even though it goes on forever it doesn’t feel repetitive to me.

Composed by his saxophonist Paul Desmond, Take five reached number 2 on the billboard charts.

I might be the only one who feels the attraction for the odd thing I’m trying to create.

Or I might not.

I still want to create.