Eulogy for Dorothy

Today is the fourth anniversary of the death of my grandmother, Janet Dorothy Wells Ennis Huggins. The following is and edited adaptation of the eulogy given at her memorial service. Wherever you're dancing today, Grandma Dorothy, you're in my thoughts and heart.

If Dorothy were here now and saw so many weeping eyes she would be among you drying your eyes and having a good time of it. She is in a better time and place … Modern folklore gives us a gauge of a woman’s tenderness. Did she cry when Ole Yeller died? Grandma Dorothy cried when Little Toot got kicked out of port.

I’m going to tell you stories about pennies and love. Pennies are a little girl’s coin and since she never got old it is appropriate that I speak of pennies. When Dorothy was a little girl she walked to downtown Cincinnati with her sister, Anna Mary in hand. She skipped and did a balancing act on the curbs, walls and fences. She did it when she was eight and she did it when she was eighty-eight. If she saw a little boy who looked like he had pennies in his hand she charmed him into letting her see and when he did (and he always did), she did the old pop-the-back-of-the-hand trick, and she became pennies richer. She originated the one-more-penny scam; in which she would approach a stranger and extend her open palm with four pennies in it and say, "Mister, my little sister lost her money and she needs one more penny to ride the bus home. We’ve walked so far today and she’s so tired and I can’t carry her any more. Please, just a penny." She knew instinctively that a man in a suit with a date on his arm was a sucker for innocent blue eyes.
She was born in New York where her dad died when she was seven, leaving her mother with nine or ten children to raise. Her name was Janet Dorothy then, but at seven she was already making decisions and defining who she became…she became Dorothy. She had wonderful stories about the gypsies who camped near the big house she lived in and how they watched Anna Mary because Anna Mary had their dark eyes and complexion. If they wanted her sister they would have to deal with Dorothy.

The 1922 equivalent of the Child Protective Services made a noise about taking the children away from her; so, Dorothy’s mother, Clara packed up the kids in the middle of the night and headed for home in Cincinnati and the German farming community of Sunman, Indiana. Clara did her best to put the children to sleep but little Dorothy was a survivor and she knew that to survive you have to be alert. She remembered the train ride in detail, right down to her white dress with the purple sleeve bands. The purple dye ran when she got a drink from the train drinking fountain and died her wrists purple.

She was a great storyteller and she told this adventure to her children and grandchildren often so they and now I cannot forget. A death, a desperate train ride, a child in a ping-pong white dress, bouncing down a rickety-rack railroad track, willy-nilly looking for a future. Life would be hard for little Dorothy. Her brothers went to the farms in Sunman, the Wells girls went to a rich, evil Cincinnati relative who put the unwanted girls to bed early so the rich children of the house could be feed cookies and milk. Dorothy would hush the hungry Anna Mary as they both watched the cookie feast while hiding like little mice behind the staircase spindles. When ever she served cookies Grandma Dorothy would tell that story starting with the train ride and ending with the very same kind of cookies she was serving. Life was hard for little Dorothy but her will was as hard as the train rails and if she were to be bounced she would choose the direction.

She began to choreograph her balancing act while collecting pennies and the little girl became a beautiful young woman who could dance. On her casket here my sister and I placed a pair of dancing shoes symbolic of another Grandma Dorothy story. She danced so much she was always wearing out her shoes and as she left the house Clara would say “Dorothy, whose shoes do you have on. Those are Anna Mary’s not yours.” Before she could deny it, she was out the door and down the street.

It was 1932, Dorothy made a curious choice: A young man who liked to sing came calling and Clara told him that Dorothy was at an audition to become a dancer. It was said in vaudeville "never follow animal or kid acts"; Clarence “Happy” Ennis and his brothers and sisters were the kids you didn’t want to follow. They were talented and they made good acts look bad by comparison. Happy didn’t know of any vaudeville auditions. By 1932 vaudeville was dead. He was headed for Vine Street before Dorothy’s mother could say "the Gaiety Theater". The Gaiety! Burlesque! Vaudevillian people didn’t even stay in the same hotels as Burlesque people. His strong hands locked around the once purple dyed wrists; he pulled her from the theater…"No wife of mine is going to dance in burlesque!" Defiantly she countered, "I’m not your wife! We’re not even engaged!" but she meant something else. And Hap Ennis replied as emphatically, “We are now!”

Dorothy was beautiful and she had the grace of a dancer, no one knew how smart she was until in retrospect we all realized how long with limited memory she conned us into thinking she didn’t have a problem. She called everyone “Honey” because she couldn’t remember your name.

She was never a candidate for the Pulitzer Prize for literature but her handwriting was a work of art with either hand. She dropped out of the 10th grade so she didn’t understand the nuances of literature and she never learned another language, but she gets the golden ticket to the pearly gates because she understood the concept the Greeks were getting at when they specified the word “love.” Where English has only one word for love, the Greeks have three. Philos, meaning fraternal love. Eros, which signifies the physical and carnal. And Agape. This is the stuff Dorothy knew so well. It was high octane and 200 proof. Agape is unconditional love. Her response to all of our sins was always "You shouldn’t have done that…but I love you anyway." Dorothy was a forgiving machine. Someone said that as you learn to forgive you are forgiven. She was a lady who forgave so fast and so completely one can visualize the angels in heaven shouting “Hosannas,” saying "Quick! Get over to that cloud and see what Dorothy is doing now.

She never judged; she listened and counseled. She never criticized; she always encouraged.

There never was a child she did not love and there never was a child who did not love her…and she made you think she loved you most of all.

Eternity is divided in to seconds and a life is explained by little things. There are bits and pieces of Grandma Dorothy that linger: "Go to the dance with whoever asks you. When you get there you can look around" When I was a little girl, my grandma would gather the little girls around her jewelry box and we would gaze, gape-mouthed at the treasures she received from the countless men who pursued her “Keep the ring,” she admonished. “It’s what you get for the trouble.”

There came a time when she didn’t remember any of us but I believe she could see herself in everyone and she loved and trusted what she saw. She couldn’t remember her stories, but that was okay, we had learned them. And just in case we became confused and troubled and could not see her in the shell she occupied for the last part of her life, she left us a gift. The essence of her was there; her vocabulary was reduced to "wonderful,” “beautiful,” “lovely” and “sweet.” She knew Cole Porter and George Gershwin where she was and is now. All you had to do was begin a tune; her toe would tap; her shoulders would roll; and her body would sway saying “Dorothy is here.” But she wasn’t really with us. For a long time she had been dancing on the hardwood floor of the Island Queen as it steamed up the Ohio River to Coney Island. And she followed the advice of my Uncle Tim who at four or five years of age would say “If you ist goink on dat dance floor you ist goingk wit no one but my pop.”

The last time my father saw my Grandma Dorothy, he sang her favorite song. At Dorothy’s funeral, my father called his sister, Janet to the podium to help him read the words to a song and help recreate that tender moment with his mother.

He said, “I called Sis to the podium to help me with this because Happy Ennis took her to see the movie “Hello Frisco” in 1943 when she was seven or eight” Janet remembers the occasion and the song, I remember Happy singing it to Mother.”

He read: You’ll never know just how much I loved you…”

Janet read: “You’ll never know just how much I cared…”

It was too much. They are the children of a would-be dancer and a vaudevillian. They SANG the rest of the song.

Capacity

After September
Eleventh
Afghan widows
opened their ears
(akasha*)
To the familiar tale
of the broken hearts
of women
in "that village
in New York"
where a bombing had occurred.
akasha.

In one village
burka'd hearts
unreserved
gathered from their hens
and offered up
their very best.
akasha!

Eggs--
sustenance in tiny wombs
(akasha)
Heart offerings
flown
half a world 'round
on
Air-currents
(akasha)
transmuted
into Love-currents.
akasha! akasha!

Listen to the wind--
it whispers the tale
as loudly
as the rhythm
of an open heart.
"Akasha!"

--Pamela Dawn

*Today, my bus ride reading was the chapter in "The Heart of Sufism: the Essential Writings of Hazrat Inayat Khan" entitled "Capacity." The word "akasha" was defined in this manner:

"The Hindu name for capacity is akasha. People generally think that akasha means the sky, but in reality it means everything. Everything in its turn is an akasha, just as all substance is a capacity: and according to that capacity it produces what it is meant to produce."

"...We ourselves are also akashas, and in our akasha we get resonance of our rhythm. This resonance is like the feelings we have when we are tired, depressed, joyous, or strengthened. All these different conditions which we feel, it is our akasha that feels them: and what causes this is our rhythm."

"...In the Qur'an it is said, 'Their hands shall speak and their feet shall bear witness of their deeds," which means...that everything is recorded, written down...Nothing of what we say, do, or think is lost: it is recorded somewhere, if we only know how to read it."
(Sufi Message 11: 20-24, Hazrat Inayat Khan)

Sometimes that message is written on the wind...Akasha!

Heartsong

My heart,

my heart,

my heart bears a wing

to fly away from you.

My heart,

my heart,

my heart wears a wing

to rise with you

into

The Heart of the Beloved.

Let these hearts—

yours and mine--

fly into the fire

of Love.

Let these hearts—

ours—

shine together

through embered

Ash.

Burn, burn

oh, burn our foolish hearts

with parental Love

until we are reborn

as golden beams

streamed forth

from the Light

of the One.

--Pamela Dawn

Three Cinquains

Awake
Lost and afraid
Light reveals the unknown
Stay still awhile. You will be found
Alive.


Open
There is no war
Put yourself in "Joy's way"
Don't try to create--discover
your bliss.


Transcribe
Ancient knowing.
Soul memory imprints
Upon the pages of a heart.
Karma.

Eclipse

Leto's granddaughters
hide
the moon
dancing darkness
across the sky
binding their breasts
loosening their hair
homage to the Huntress
Soul sister

Laughter lighting the stars.

--Pamela Dawn

Rumi-Ode 314

Those who don't feel this Love
pulling them like a river,
those who don't drink down
like a cup of spring water
or take in sunset like supper,
those who don't want to change,

let them sleep.

This Love is beyond the study of theology,
that old trickery and hypocrisy.
If you want to improve your mind that way

sleep on.

I've given up on my brain.
I've torn the cloth to shreds
and thrown it away.

If you're not completely naked,
wrap your beautiful robe of words
around you,

and sleep.


Fine, Mr. Rumi, et al. You have directed my writing practice with your little ode here--no whining over words. But be warned--you said naked. SD.

Afternoon With Ardyth

I took a much needed mental health day off from work today. It was good—at least the sleeping in part was great, and I immensely enjoyed the open possibilities that a full eight or nine hours to myself offered. Then I realized how bombarded I was by those possibilities.

Sunday afternoon, I had come home from the library with three new books added to the one I had still out and had renewed. There were two DVD’s and three CD’s to listen to. I knew I wouldn’t put on the DVD’s—my attention span just isn’t long enough to sit through a whole movie, but I could listen to the CD’s while I did whatever else I decided to do. The books and the movies alone would fill an entire weekend retreat. But like the script of a Saturday evening infomercial, I heard a little voice inside my head shout, “But wait, there’s more…”

I had dreamed about a new jewelry design, a Celtic knot bracelet with tiny freshwater pearls that I wanted to try twisting and I was drawn to my new self directed study of Sufism, particularly turning my attention to the soul-enrapting poetry of Rumi. There is always so much to write and I am currently overwhelmed by ideas that vie for my attention like reporters at a press conference. Maybe I could settle down with something to write after I had read a bit and spent some time with Rumi and rubies. I could alternate my activity between the jewelry at a makeshift bench by the computer and Rumi while I took a look at my ever growing email inbox.

I sat down at the computer and answered most of my email and checked the blogs here which have piqued my particular interest. That propelled me into a conversation with a friend via email, the subject of the conversation being one that should and probably will be blogged at some point, but not now. Still the thought and writing process was cathartic and I’m “counting” the correspondence as meeting my “writing something every day” requirement that I have recently imposed on myself.

I had read a chapter in my renewed library book earlier and had taken notes that I thought would make great material for a couple of poems. I put the notes aside intending to return to them and produce two wonderful poems after I had spent some time with Rumi. Sadly, after that encounter with the great mystic poet, everything I tried to write appeared to be pathetic sentimentality and worthless drivel. Note to self: NO Rumi before writing—but oh, what a Lovefest!

By noon, I had written my last non-blog worthy email to my friend who had wisely returned to his work, I was Rumi-saturated, disillusioned by failed attempts at two absolutely awful poems, and had completed one bracelet, not to mention the chapter I had finished.

The down comforter I had thrown on my green velvet futon was looking fairly inviting, but I had already taken advantage of the eastern sun shining through my huge living room window and I NEVER (well, hardly ever) nap, even when I’m sick.

So I sat in the quiet of the afternoon in my little house until Ardyth appeared. Ardyth is the “other resident of our circa 1946 tract home that was built to accommodate WWII vets on the then-new GI bill.

The U.S. Census Bureau would count two people living in our 840 sq. ft. abode—me, one female aged 43 11/12ths yrs. old and Dee, one male, aged 51 9/12ths yrs. old. They would not count the cat—full named Isadora Duncan, and they would not count Ardyth, deceased.

Ardyth is a war bride and original owner of this little white house and although she passed just last July and Dee and I pay the mortgage, Ardyth calls the shots around here. She carries her esoteric barely five feet high, semi-corporeal framework around here like a queen. She is soft spoken, but don’t you dare pass through the front door without wiping your feet and you’d better watch your language. Even Carl (also deceased), her rough-edged gentile (translated Utah non-Mormon) husband left his boots at the back door and “that kind of talk” at the rail yard where he rotated his shifts.

I have a list of instructions from Ardyth regarding this house—some I’ve accomplished, some waiting for the cash and time:

-the bathroom floor needs tiling

-replacing the shower-only set up with a bathtub is my option—eventually one I’ll take. I can’t imagine how I’ve got along without one this far, except to say that I take advantage of hotel tubs when we travel anywhere.

-the electrical absolutely has to be re-done even though Carl was an electrician and should have done it years ago.

-it was perfectly ok to take down the crumbling moonscape mural that covered one whole wall of our bedroom, since Ardyth's little Danny grew up to become a sub-contractor instead of an astronaut.

-but leave the railroad tie lawn border. Carl brought those valuable ties home one at a time as an act of protest and rebellion—his solution to sweetening a raise that simply did not meet his standards.

-and don’t touch the 30 ft. pine tree that shades the add-on room. That item has been emphatically set in stone since we looked at the house.

“Ok, Ardyth, ok,” I quickly respond. “I promised you, as I was signing to close on this house that I would never cut down that tree. It will have to topple onto the roof of the garage room first.” “But, I never promised anything about the overbearing English Ivy,” I add with just a hint of rebellion in my voice.

“Don’t forget to lower the kitchen cabinets,” Ardyth commands. She sighs. “Why Carl set them over five feet from the floor, I’ll never guess. I can see you’re making good use of that stool I left.” She nods her head in the direction of the footstool I keep handily under the cabinets.

Ardyth smiles quaintly at me as she drifts gently through the ceiling into the attic. I can hear the faint hint of her parting whisper, “Rip out all the goddamn ivy you care to.”

“Ta ta, Ardyth!” I giggle after her. “Come visit me again, especially when my mental health needs tweaking.”

Blessing Place

My breath, my blood, my spirit blent with One
Whilst daybreak woke to brilliant beck'ning sun
Still left my Home, the place where blessings live.

With haste my reckless intellect far-gone;
Without a backward glance I took my leave
And turned breath, blood, and spirit from the One,

I scorned the Hand that lifted to revive,
Set my cold heart as if it were a stone
Yet longed for Holy ground where blessings live.

I fin'lly lost each war I thought I'd won
My heart lie broken, weary and bereaved
With breathless pose, blood spent, and spirit gone.

At last I'd fallen ready to receive
That Grace as bright as on the day I'd flown--
And viewed, with hope the place where blessings live.

When mortal men declare this journey done
Consider not that I was deign to give
My breath, my blood, my spirit bent toward One:
Memorial to this place where blessings live.

--Pamela Dawn

Gatherings

Indigenous women spend much of the autumn season—the harvest—gathering, drying and storing seeds—foodstuff for the pending winter weather and planting material for springtime sowing--calculated survival, a skill women have been practicing and perfecting since time on this planet began.

Winter is a time to rest, to lay low, wait. I have been waiting for this waiting season for quite some time now. It seems the gathering season has extended itself out on my calendar for over two years.

At the start of this gathering season, my husband, Dee and I had been married three years (it was the second time for both of us) and we had attempted from our beginnings as a couple for the last chance at conceiving a child together. I had been pregnant three times before, two of those pregnancies viably blessing me with my beautiful daughters. My last pregnancy was over eighteen years past and the idea of conception at 42 was dubious, at best. Also, Dee has diabetes which can cruelly beat the shit out of the male reproductive system. Still, it just didn’t seem fair that Dee would not have the chance to be a father, in his own right. Damn it! He would be such a good one.

So against the odds, and full of hope and faith, we set out to beat the odds. We were convinced we could do it—after all we could be counted on in a crowd of congregants to lift our hands in witness of a miracle. Wouldn’t that be enough? Just to raise the odds a bit, we opted to play the reproductive roulette game of artificial insemination.

Four failed attempts later—each time literally flushing precious lifeblood down the toilet, we made the agonizing decision to forego further attempts. I was beginning to relate somewhat to the Holly Hunter character, Edwina in the Cohen brothers’ film, “Raising Arizona.” Upon finally realizing the dream of conception was simply that, a dream, Edwina’s husband Hi reported that “Edwina’s insides were a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase.”

We resigned ourselves to the notion of practicing parenthood in alternative ways; improving our relationship with my already grown children, welcoming neighbor children into our yard and home, volunteering with the youth groups of our city and church, doting on our nieces and nephews, and someday our grandchildren. Those who have played this routine out know it just isn’t the same and it’s performed on the backdrop of heartbreaking disappointment.

But the Universe wasn’t finished strewing seeds across my pathways for the gathering.

About the same time that we had turned in our conceptual letters of resignation, my oldest daughter informed us that she had successfully conceived and that she would be keeping her baby. I was not over-pleased, the sting of my recent failures still inflicting bitter pain and due to the appearance that she would be raising her baby alone. It certainly affected the way I handled the gathering of that seed.

In retrospect, I realize and accept that it was not seed for my gathering. On the other hand the situation was more complicated than dividing and compartmentalizing problems into baskets labeled “mine” and “someone else’s.” This was my daughter, formerly estranged and arriving at my door desperately needing her mother. What could I do? I’m her mother and I’m a gatherer. I collected her across my threshold, sowed seeds of new hope in anticipation of my first grandchild and awaited the pending harvest—every effort exerted to that end.

As an experienced gardener, I ought to have known better—harvest rarely yields exactly what one expects and it is NEVER an end. The “unexpected” was that after a seven month absence from my daughter’s life, her boyfriend reappeared—literally at the delivery room. Within three weeks time my daughter and granddaughter were whisked away amid the shattered hulls of my expectations and dreams.

But, contrary to the “Raising Arizona” line, I discovered that there were seeds sown of which I had forgotten that did find purchase and had grown. One of the sweetest was actually not one of my gathering or planting—it was the fruit of the seed of forgiveness that my ex-husband had sown in his own heart. It came to fruition the moment our granddaughter was born. As we gazed together at the miracle, my ex-husband quietly slipped his arm around my waist offering me his support and approval. No words, but it was a most beautiful gift—a cornucopia of reconciliation that has given me the encouragement to plant seeds of good will toward my granddaughter’s father.

I proudly watch my daughter mother her child but I am vigilantly and often too critically observant of the fathering. The seeds of forgiveness have transcended my failings as an impatient gardener in this area of my life and I am pleased with the growth I see, in spite of myself. Materially, life is hard for that little family, but my granddaughter is happy in the love of both her parents and I am satisfied that the seeds I once doubted have fallen on good (I dare not say fertile) soil.

And I can do nothing else but what I have been doing all along these past two years—gather more seeds.

Recently, I discovered the seeds of creativity gently wrapping little tendrils of their roots around my life—in my renewed attempts at writing and a newly discovered interest in making wire jewelry that goes beyond the simple stringing of beads and which blesses the lives of those I love.

I am in the process of reconfiguring my field of faith and planting fresh new seeds. It is a wild field of wheat and tares which won’t be plucked out or burned. Who knows but that I might use the twine of such as those to weave baskets—containers for future seed gatherings.

I have been blessed with the seeds of new relationships that are peeking their vestiges above the crisp ground promising to blossom like the daffodils and crocuses that greet me on my afternoon walks. And I look to the wonderful man with whom I have shared my plantings these past five years and I can do naught but smile. He is a sturdy perennial ever offering regenerated seeds of the constancy of his love.

These past two weeks, the Universe manifested the vision of my gatherings and literally dropped pods of those Kentucky Coffee Bean trees across my path—confirming the validity of my gatherings (see the “Not Made of Wood” posting earlier this month). And just yesterday, almost immediately after my departure from the Kazeon Center (the zen sangha in Salt Lake City), the auspice of one of many seeds of faith springing in my heart—a single buckeye dropped directly in my path. A sign? I don’t know but I really think I’ve completely skipped over winter, there is no waiting with spring so soon to begin—fields cleared and I’ve got baskets of gathered seeds to sow.

International Women's Day

Dedicated to all women on March 8, 2006, International Women's Day. May we each, in our own way, find strength in the nourishment of our minds, our hearts and in our own bodies.

Feminine Essence


Amazed,
I view these unbound breasts
Mounds of flesh and blood
and milk--
food for man--
Marveling
that for all their use and wear
I'd never truly realized
the ecstasy of them
for myself.

In the shower--
even at perimenopausal forty-four,
I have sometimes seen the opaque liquid
they still secrete
in pearl-droplets,
and I've wondered...
but never dared..
until overcome by the hunger
of never having known...tasted...

I gazed transfixed,
unbound and daring
gently lifting
nervously craving
yearning
stretching forward aslant
beyond my own flesh.
Head bowed in reverential ceremony
and for the first time
tasted the essence
of myself.

--Pamela Dawn

Suppertime

In Pioneer Park
the homeless shuffle
in shoes weighted with sorrow so heavy
that the grass gives way
to the furrows they've plowed with their pacing.


On the playground,
One lone pair of bare feet
crumbling years of dirt
and caked-on memories
eagerly take flight
while the swinger's calloused hands
grasp
long forgotten chains soon made familiar by the rhythm of the swing:
"Back and forth" and "Up and down"
Incanting
Memories
breezing over
granting childish freedom
until Jesus at the rescue mission
rings the supper bell.

--Pamela Dawn

Quote

There is no end.
There is no beginning.
There is only the
infinite passion of life.
--Federico Fellini

Letting Go, Smiling

We held on for an eternity it seems

Too long
To the hope of love
To our restless, unsatisfied desires,
To the pain—
You said the pain of love shouldn’t last forever
Or was that some old movie line
The one we repeated too desperately.

The tumult,
The din-my own making-my busyness
Yearning
for perfection
Drowned out the tenderness
from my own voice
Raucous harshness
Insanity eclipsing all my summer days
And me slipping away
Like the tears escaping
From your questioning eyes

Sent me away and
Alone
Until

Welcoming sunshine
Baptizing me
In pure brightness
Transporting me to my
Self
And you forever gone

I see you now
Bathed in more certain embraces—
I could never write our love song—
Her shadow even
casts warmth on you

His promise to make me laugh
Every day
Never fails

And they evoke from us what we never could for each other

I’m glad you found your smile again.

--Pamela Dawn

ReLeaf

(A Response to a Soliloquy that was Never Directed to Me)

Of course my love was autumn
Why did you think summer would last forever?
The heat of it
Could melt an entire planet.

Autumn must have her way.
Brightness
From our bodies
Warmth enough
Amidst surrounding crispness

Crimson Leaves
An altar
A bed
A table
My body softly beckoning
You supped
Completed your fleshfest
Consumed all
Satiated
Until you saw
The emptiness you left
And the impending winter storm
Darkness
Frost that leaves
Blackened scars

Your heart
Took flight like swallows
That flee against grey skies
For the promise of a warmer clime

I watched you go
As snows buried me
And knew that you would not return

Winter was eternal
Certain death
Would take me with his icy stare
And almost did

But for the Sun
Returning on a vow
Renewing green fresh
ReLeafing blossoms
Fruit offered freely on request
Nubile like a virgin

Someone else would see
My love is spring.

--Pamela Dawn

Not Made of Wood--Well, Sort Of

Every day I walk a tree lined sidewalk up a little hill after I get off the bus to get to work. Earlier this week, I noticed that the trees (Kentucky Coffee Bean) had dropped pods that were bursting with seeds about three-fourths to and inch in diameter. They have this beautiful dark patina and are sturdy enough to drill a small hole through. I started thinking what beautiful beads they would make and that I might even be able to experiment carving, etching or working wire designs against these beautiful divine gifts.

I went to a bead shop and asked someone there what they thought and she said that she thought it could be done. The next morning and at lunchtime, I set out to gathering pods, filling grocery sacks full of the things. I’m sure I was a sight in my black linen skirt, granny boots and red hair falling down all over the place as I bent to pick them up. I know I saw a couple of people from my office area turn their heads and pick up speed as they hurried by in order to avoid acknowledging that they even knew me. LOL! I was sure I could hear someone behind me accusing in a high-pitched British voice, “She’s a witch…”

Meh! If it works, they will sell, especially if I can find a way to vend them on campus

Two Poems

Breath of Grace

The Light within shines bright and clear
Tho’ darkened worlds may mock and sneer
They’ve not awakened from their fears
Nor seen the Vision shining here

They bend their heads in pious shame
From karmic nightmares look to blame
A fate which burns a fiery flame
Leaves still an embered rage to tame

But listen to Love’s whispered call
The chance to fly comes with each fall
Spread forth thy wings, leap from thy wall
To gain, you must surrender all

The Voice has rested in this place
Where ne’er do time nor fear erase
Like beams of light across this face
Awakened by each breath of Grace

------------Pamela Dawn


Eleven

In dreams a dreary world I trod--
A weary vagabond alone,
Forgetting Home, set out abroad,
Lost on strange paths I was but one.

'Til, lo! a light shone cross my brow.
Its lustre warmed as noonday sun.
I reveled in sweet morning's glow
And took communion with the One.

Awakened by transcendant call,
The fear of lonliness was gone,
Discovered Self in step with All--
A Holy Dance as one with One.

--Pamela Dawn

Dorothy

My dear grandmother, Dorothy Wells Ennis (?) (?) Huggins, died four years ago this month. The ?'s are because she was married at least two more times, but I don't remember their names. They don't include the numerous relationships she welcomed into her life and ours.

She was beautiful but never conformed to the demands of culture that told her how to convey that beauty. At sixteen she aspired to the footlights of the burlesque stage where she appeared to audition. My grandfather, who at the time was only one of a myriad of suitors literally pulled her off the stage kicking and screaming, "You can't do this, we're not married. We're not even engaged!" To which he replied, "We are now."

If passion can be inherited, I surely gained the passion of my life from that great woman.

She loved everyone and everything that reminded her of each person. She cried over a simple card and a visit. She wouldn't say s**t if she had a mouthful of it, but she would stand at the pier at the harbor at Long Beach and wait for sailors to disembark for liberty. She took in the really rough ones and found their hearts. They came and left as the winds of March.

I remember sitting on the floor with the rest of my girl cousins in the living room of her tiny house in La Puente, California. We listened with eager ears and upturned faces as her stories of love and romance and we each knew the ways in which we fit into those stories--both as direct products and vehicles to carry on her passion. We marveled and anticipated as we neared our favorite part of the storytelling, when she would bring out her jewelrybox, loaded with rubies, diamonds, gold, silver, and sapphires--some were the real thing, some were not--we didn't know the difference, and we didn't care. We lifted each treasure with reverence and glee, tried the pieces on and preened, giggling and chattering the entire time. And over the din of our childish, girlish prattle, and in my memorie's ear, I can still hear her admonishing voice singing out, "Keep the ring, it's what you get for the trouble"