When I wrote The Parable of Miriam the Camel Driver 20 years ago, I wrote it in the style of a fairy tale. I called it a parable to indicate it was something different–a heroic journey with obstacles and an imperative goal to accomplish.  Fairy tales gave us a well-known world with dangers around the bend.  The treacherous stepmother leads the child heroes into the woods, and they have to find a way to safety.

 “What do we do now?” recurs though the story.  It’s life or death in a familiar setting. Stay out of the witch’s oven!  Stay on the path and recognize the wolf’s big teeth when you see them. There is no time to make it complicated.

I’ve loved the fairy tales since I was a child, reading the blue, red, green fairy tales and as many of their cousins as I could find. I devoured them and looked for more. Homer’s Odyssey felt that way and so did Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. I assumed that these tales from oral tradition had this common style.

As I went deeper into the library stacks, I found books that went deeper into how people thought. Charles Dickens wrote Great Expectations  and gave us Miss Havisham. She was full of the past that rippled into her future actions and plans. The modernist authors James Joyce (Ullysses is a call-back to the Odyssey) and Woolfe’s To the Lighthouse accordioned out the many many many thoughts a person could have in a day.

And Henry James, whose writing makes an infinity of a conversational pause.

I assumed this was something new– not in only in writing and literary  style—but evidence  of a change in people. Humans were increasing  complexity in consciousness. Humans had expanded their capability for sophisticated thinking.

So when Woolfe take a whole novel to tell the story of a day, readers are invited to pay attention to the shades of interpretation and nuance.

I was gifted Beowulf—Tolkein’s translation—and picked it up again to live in the immediate world of fairy tale again. Tolkien  is a linguist and scholar, and he translated Beowulf in 1926. He was never satisfied with his translation so I wasn’t published until long after his death.

This translation shows how much was happening in the story. Not psychological like Henry James, but the story of a line of people. How the fathers and grandfathers built the hall and fought together. The history of what came before and a foreshadow of the monster that is about to attack. Then the slow build up to how the monster is slain, but the danger remains for everyone.

 Old English comes to me from the foggy past. But this translation shows me how the peoples of that time considered their lives and their actions. This is not a simple fairy tale. I’d only read the story in a flattened translation. I’m changing my mind now. I think the people of the past understood more than I was giving them credit.

The immediate action of fairy tales matches my life. Go go go– make a choice take the action—are still true. But knowing the story of why and how I got here adds a richness and satisfaction to the next steps I choose.

Story pulls me forward.

I got to see a Steve Reich piece performed” Six Pianos.” Other pieces of the performance had 4 hands on one piano

I chose to sit in the balcony so I could look over these pianists and watch their hands. I play, nothing near as good as them but I wanted to see. The six pianos on the stage nestled in with their curves meeting like puzzle pieces.

The keys were on the outsides like fringe.

Pianos have 88 keys I’ve pressed each and all when I was first learning. What are these on the edges? Are they the same? How are they different?

Kids will come in to play the edges when a grownup sits on the bench–wanting their piece of the significant thing but only daring to sneak in on the edges.

I have an electronic keyboard I play. It only has 61 keys, sometimes it feels cramped at the bass side, but I rarely hit the high notes on it.

Watching those pianos get played expertly by two people at once made me consider what is possible. I should practice more. I could be much better than I am.

But also, what can this instrument do that I haven’t explored yet?  Yes, I am not everything I wish I were. But even allowing for my shortcomings this keyboard offers more.  There are a lot of keys with dust on them waiting for me.

The musicians playing were obviously mature. They were not kids. They had spent time playing the keys.

They were doing things usually passed over. This performance was unique. That was probably why the house was packed.

Tolstoy said happy families are all happy in the same way. Most instruments are used in the same way. My life has worn pathways of same-same-same I do every day. I have a dent in my pillow because I even sleep the same way again and again. I chose the road and I travel it often. Every day.

Yet—it has less travelled sections.

These piano players were doing new things with a familiar instrument. I could use what I’ve learned in my life in a different way.  Even though it seems ordinary and uninteresting, I could flip it on its side and see what happens then.

It may be the same old thing, but it does not have to be the same old way.

 What else is possible for me?

A cheerfully plump brown bird, almost as big as a robin was curious about me

I heard him chirp as I sat in my office work chair with the door open. It took a few more chirps to pull my out of the office suite and I looked up from my computer monitors.

Lo, and behold this little guy was not in the yard. He had hopped into my office and was looking up at me from little rug laid at the door with expectation.

A bird? In here?

“Did you come inside? What do you think you will find?”

He chirped again, a playful dart of joy bouncing into the walls.

And tilted his head, one big eye nailing down my gaze.

My messy workspace received a visitation from a glorious glossy creature of mystery and flight.

I conceded the staring contest to look around for bird danger here. Mostly safe, but not if he were trapped and couldn’t find his way back to nature and the sky.

“This is not a spot for you,” I said.

He considered my words. A small hop took him closer to the open door.

He still looked at me.  “You don’t want to get lost in here.”

Chreep

He only looked at me.

A few moments of friendly contemplation, then he stretched his feathers and flew back to the sky.

The next day a storm came through. I was expecting it. My sweet husband keeps me updated concerning the weather, especially when it is exciting.

But I had Teams meetings to join and there were agendas to update and notes to capture.

Then the rain came down against the roof like I was inside a snare drum. Startled, I hit  mute so those remote team members wouldn’t be disturbed.

They were oblivious.

I muted my camera to jumped up and see.

I swung open the door, seeing the high splashes of the drops hitting my walkway. The tension of nourishing violence vibrated in my being.

Up in the sky–right above–a black crow swirled in a dance through the downpour.  Ah,there were two. The force of the rainwater ricocheted off the land. Were these birds in trouble?

I was in shelter but these two birds found the air between the water and played together with the action of the earth and sky.

I was exalted in the action.

The meeting plodded on, and I stepped back to my seat.

I am split between the drone and the drama.

Taking notes.

We are so aware that this is our last –our only—child and this is her last year of school. We all know things are going to change as she will move away and go to college. In this state of mind I feel very loving and generous to this precious person. And I also know she doesn’t need me to do that much.

I have worked all these years to help her be independent.  There are so many things a person must do when they are on their own. I have taught her some things, like laundry and cooking. My impulse is to do all those things for her now. I fear could be counter-productive.

Certainly, when I was a kid I had to do more than most kids are expected to do now. More than I expected her to do. Sometimes I have come up to dishes in the sink and said “You didn’t realize that the magic fairy who takes care of these dishes if off duty today.”

She will look shamefaced. It doesn’t happen very often anymore.

I’m looking back to remember when I was a teenager and a twenty-nothing year old. I had to do some dumb things to learn how to be the capable mom that I am.

I remember making different sets of keys because I was always losing them. I started with making a spare set. Then I would lose both sets. I had 5 different sets of keys before a friend gave me the advice of hanging a hook by the front door and always putting my keys there.

Magic!

A huge problem solved so easily.

It wasn’t magic, though. It was me making a change, upon advice. I struggled and tried different solutions. In the end I was my own fairy godmother.

Same things with my career, and my marriage. I got up, struggled, arranged my face into the smile required to make a place for myself among civil society. I tried things, learned things, got some results I wanted and others I didn’t.

It helps to be around people who pay enough attention to my life to give good advice.

And I learned to trust myself to keep trying and get closer to what I am aiming at.
I trust that she will go after what she wants. My girl is so capable. I’ll have to let her make the kind of mistakes that she can learn from.

Let me peel that away. She’ll be fine. What about me?

Am I ready to do the work to make my next magic story? I’ve kept track of my keys for her whole life. Now I think I need to open the lock on a next level.

She is hungry to grab life. I’ve had my first trip through that buffet. I  also know that it’s a lot

I’ve learned that habit too—practicing the magic of the struggle. To get up, try things, and then try again to get even closer. Those godmothers make it look easy. Magic takes a lot of practice. We’ll each work under our own hats.

I’ve heard that artists make beautiful art by taking the marble and chipping away everything that doesn’t look like the art they want to create.
Art is an expression of the point of view of the artist. What I choose to include and exclude to express my vision is what the art means.

I haven’t carved marble yet. I use words.
All day I make professional documents. I’ve gotten very good at it. Keep it clean. Oil the barrel, chamber the bullet points.
Aim and shoot. Time is money.
Hmm. Both can be exchanged for a lot of things. What could I choose to buy with my time?

I have been restraining my words. Caged and domesticated. Do I want to be the best at what other people decided?
I used to have notebooks filled with thoughts and attempts at profundity trying to find the beauty I saw around me, to pin down the borders of my oceans.

A few nights ago, I was keeping my daughter company while she did karate exercises in the backyard. She asked me to tell her a story. Then another. I was tired so I grabbed my short story book.
She took the book and read more of the stories
“You are funnier when you say more.”
Oh.
I have not been leaving room for art, and it shows.
I squished down those stories and skipped the wonder and the glory.
The metaphors the images are there if I take the time

Just like her karate moves, I should warm up. I can do a few revisions and allow it to breathe. The metaphors and turns of phrases might need time.

Every time I write I am staring into a mirror of my soul.

It takes courage and faith to get that image right. I must believe I can find a presentation that is sufficiently true and honorable.
I’ve been settling for good enough. Hurry up and call it done. Like a speeding train I am only capturing the impression of an image.
Perhaps I am ashamed and even less willing to spend time with that mirror. I’ve often tried to sneak up on myself when I’m writing. Trying to catch an interesting angle that makes me interesting and poignant.
Or even better, funny.

In 2024 I was gifted tickets to the No Values punk music festival. Under my life principle of “YES PLEASE!” I went. My friend Eydie came along, and she knew the culture and pulled me into all the best shows.

Two years ago, I met Social Distortion. I was distracted when they hatched in the 80s and then were dominating the 90s. They got my attention two years ago, and last week I went to see them in concert again.

A different punk friend—a girl drummer—who had been a fan from the start went with me. I wasn’t sure I was cool enough to go be allowed to go with her. I forgot that punk is so open hearted.

We had planned this for months, and then word began to trickle back from the tour that the front man was having health issues. Denver was cancelled. Then Reno.

My sweet husband had no interest in attending this concert, but he became my front-line reporter from reddit and other internet rumor sources.

WHAT was going on?

Front man Mike Ness has gone through tonsil cancer, and even before that he had been a heroin addict. The shows were getting cancelled because of a reported chest infection. It’s tough out there.

But the show did go on, and I spent the extra money for onsite parking because we are grownups.

The show was great and my only complaint is that I didn’t get close enough to the stage.

I made friends with another concert-goer—he brought his 17-year-old son.

“Do you think you are the youngest person here?” I asked.
His dad pointed to a tiny kid riding his dad’s shoulders. “I used to do that!”

And still, I asked because of the many grey beards. Mike Ness, fighting off his chest infection was 64. And I could hear his voice was not as strong as it was two years ago. But the energy was enormous, the music relentless and the stage was explosive. They held the audience in their hands.

Of course, I snapped photos and videos with my phone, and showed them to my 17-year-old at home.

She shook her head as if to clear it and said, ‘I forgot this music was old.”

Then she saw my face. “I mean, it has a lot of energy and seems young. But these pictures show different.”

She is not wrong. Me and Mike have the cancer scars. The next day I took Reach for the Sky and did my own keyboard cover.

And I remember again Ulysses by Tennyson:

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Every day the tides come in and out.  Some days the water is rough. Other days it quiet.

There is flag up on the beach. A long thin pole and a flutter of color at the end to make a mark.

Here. Once time the water got this far up on the sand.

Every day we can measure where we stand, between the tide of now and the once-was.

I wasn’t there the day the water hit that mark. I register my storms and lulls with the stories they leave in my memories.  The storms and swells move the sands my lifetime. I make my own markers.

This maxim

This verse

And I know who I am and if I am safe.

As a kid, if a my mother couldn’t remember something, she like to say that Einstein never memorized phone numbers. His theory was that he could always look it up in the phone book, so why waste his brain on it?

And such a fine brain Dr. Albert had. My lesser brain can be saved from the trivia of phone numbers. And driving directions. And spelling. And thousands of other facts that can be apprehended with the ease of a click and a sentence

Information flows though the ether with so much ease and reliability, the sands of my life are barely touched.

The life of the information so prepackaged has been dried and doesn’t take root to connect with me.

Memory has to have soul. Either the information or my own spirit makes the facts and stories come alive to life in my memory. St. Augustine talks about the house of memory.

“The power of the memory is great, O Lord,” he wrote. “It is awe-inspiring in its profound and incalculable complexity… The wide plains of my memory and its innumerable caverns and hollows are full beyond compute of countless things of all kinds.”

“Yet, however it may be, and in whatever inexplicable and incomprehensible way it happens,” St. Augustine wrote, “I am certain that I remember forgetfulness, even though forgetfulness obliterates all that we remember.”

That part about forgetfulness. If I long to remember the important and beautiful things, I can also draw a curtain over hard things. I choose forgetfulness, with partial success.

I didn’t want to remember my chemotherapy treatments even as they were happening. I am happy they are over, hopefully never to return.

And I find myself cauterizing this delicate memory. It used to be so sharp. I hear others talk about ‘chemo brain.’ Certainly I lost speed of recall as I was under treatment.

I want to restore  my tender quick memory. I fear it is scarred like my veins.

Does that sound familiar? Even before the chemo I had fears that I didn’t remember enough of the right information fast enough.

Augustine’s idea of the house of memory is new to me. To use my senses and body in the world to vivify my experience. Those memories could be found in order to be cherished rather than taunt me with their distance.

As a writer and a memoirist, I have spent years unearthing and polishing the memories for my art. Last night, I lay perfectly still in an MRI machine with my eyes shut and a machine CLUNKCLUNK click click ZZHH zzzhhh ZZZHHH around me.

This time it was safe. Routine check up. My house of memory invited me to explore. From the comfort of a free and clear present I walked though the past

paralyzing fear

peace

joy

A true home to live in. There are more rooms to fill. Adventures, after all, are just what a person does every day.

Oh no, my work is asking for a new report and I am not even sure what they want.
And are we out of milk? What will my daughter do for breakfast?

Do I have time before my next meeting to get to the store and back?

My husband looks at me “I have…”

I whip around and glare at him, waiting for him to give me yet another task when I have no time and everyone needs everything from me.

He reacts to my attack stance. “I need to tell you something!”

Deep breath. “I didn’t say anything. I’m listening.”
I do not have time for this, I have already missed the maybe-window to run out and get milk, which he seems to be TOTALLY unaware of and the disaster that  is looming.

He looks at me “I’m trying to tell you.”

Yet MORE time has gone by while he kills time telling me that he’s about to tell me something.

“Tell me!”

He tilts his head and takes my hand. “I should show you.”

Deeper breath.

This is my husband.  

He is not attacking me.

He leads me to my desk. “I heard you when you were complaining about the bugs flying in. I have a plug-in bug killer that should help.

I looked up at him.

And threw my arms around him.

This is why I do those work projects. It’s why I get the milk.

We are taking care of each other. And it can be a fight every day. Some days more than others.

This house is strong. It has stood and will stand through many storms.

I don’t have to bring any under my own roof.

Now he can smile at me. It’s safe again

“Thank you baby,”I tell him. “You are wonderful.”

My favorite fairytale when I was a child was Cinderella. And the Disney movie has a fantastic moment when the fairy godmother shows up. She had a magic word:

Bibbity boppety boo!

Cinderella has worked within the system she was given, but the system was rigged. Her evil stepmother served her up to be torn down.

But the magic of her godmother worked when all hope was lost.

The middle ages had a secret study of the mystery which transformed basic things to into precious ones.

Those alchemists practiced The Art to unlock the secrets of the cosmos and transmute lead into gold. As they stretched their understanding, they attempted to manifest their hopes and desires. How far did they get? What did they achieve?

Every day I get up and hope to take my basic day and find the treasure, turn the straw into gold. What art am I practicing? Is it art at all?

I am committed to this weekly wonder essay. I make my attempt, and sometimes I am pleased with what I create. Often I am disappointed, but only practice makes perfect. And really, perfect is not in reach even with practice.

I set aside time for this art. I take time away from my work—both in my house and for my job—to do this. Stuff I do every day is not high art.

I string words together. I write emails, reports, meeting agendas. As a project manager I make plans and gather info to give everyone their “next action” assignments.

With the amount of words I string together it can feel as ordinary as old cardboard. And yet I am building a container for the magic to happen. Those words add the energy and motion which morphs the wish into a reality.

An idea into a design, then into a list of materials and finally into a system that works and connects to itself and others.

I know things don’t always turn out, Cinderella. And then again, dreams do come true. I’ll make a plan and think about it while I fall asleep. I can wake up and write it down. Then scratch it out and try again. If I keep persist it has a reasonable chance to come true

In the cool this morning I went out to trim the manzanita bushes. They’ve grown unmolested for years. They were fine—healthy unremarkable bushes in my front yard.

That wasn’t what I wanted when I planted them. I wanted those throbbing twisted red branches that captured my eyes through my walks in the desert mountains. Could these live in my land?

These bushy little bushes weren’t bringing those desert mountain to me. What is missing? The mystery is under there. Was I brave enough to find them?

I had never taken the trimmers to get the extra foliage out of the way.

Clipping away the little shoots. I began to see the shape of the main branches and grew bolder. I didn’t knowwhat I was doing but the beauty I saw in the tree was my guide on what to cut away.

Then the sun grew hotter and I had to stop for today. The family is going to an art museum.

 The last sands are tumbling through the glass for my daughter’s childhood—she is tracking and crossing off the homework to finish her senior year. The teachers gave her syllabi and rubrics so she knows how to get it right. She has an art class as a treat after her hard work last year.

Careful mama that I am, I hope she has been given the wisdom to go into grownup life. Those instructions that guarantee an A+ are harder to find after graduation.

How will she know what choices to make?

Walking the museum we saw the results of a million choices. Why that stroke? Why that color? The reason and the action synthesize into these results. The cherished objects, highly valued and admired.

Those artists were guided in the same was I had been, cutting to see the beauty of the manzanita.

I don’t know why Van Gogh chose to paint his mother with green skin tones, or what she thought of it. I can’t explain every cut I made on the manzanita.

As my girl steps into the world, without the instructions of a teacher to guide her, I can let her know that beauty can let her know. She is the one who knows what beauty is in the moment. Mistakes will be made. We can both trust that her heart and her life is strong enough to recover as she keeps reaching for the best brightest and most beautiful.