My Old Friend

"Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again," Simon and Garfunkel sang years ago in their popular song, Sounds of Silence.

The season of darkness is upon us. Whether you call it midwinter, the longest night, the shortest day, the first day of winter, or winter solstice, the latter part of December issues an invitation to slow down after summer's frenzy of activities and fall's exhuberant harvest.

Often we seek to avoid the long dark days that winter brings - constant days bereft of light, months filled with colder temperatures, the bleakness of land, the emptiness of trees, and endless gray skies.

Invitation 1: Ponder darkness as a spur to reverencing the mysteriousness of the universe. 

Our ancestors developed a cornucopia of therapies to help with the transition into winter’s dark days: large ongoing fires and lots of lights; decorating homes with holly, ivy, mistletoe, and evergreens; giving of fresh fruit and holding of feasts; time and communion with family, friends, and close ones; as well as dancing and singing.

Our sister mammal, the northern bear, shows us another approach. She sniffs the air, listens to the sounds of silence all around, and with a great yawn descends into the bowels of the earth for a long winter nap. She truly understands that slowing down is part of a larger natural rhythm and goes willingly into the darkness.

Invitation 2: Reflect upon winter’s wisdom - the need for withdrawal as an essential part of renewal.

Cultures all over the world have taken this time of year to recognize the reality of rebirth. They knew that seeds need darkness in which to germinate and eagerly anticipated that moment when Earth comes forth from this time of withdrawal into a season filled with light.

In Vancouver, B.C., some communities create and then walk a Labyrinth of Light. Lighted with more than 700 pure beeswax candle luminarias, the labyrinth invites visitors to warm themselves in a self-guided ceremony intended to release old attachments and envision new possibilities as a new season is birthed. This mimics an older ritual in which communities kept a fire burning until the end of festivities, to burn away the unhappiness of the previous year.

Invitation 3: Design your own walking meditation in which you

• Contemplate the elemental beings of earth, air, fire and water
• Honor the guides, guardians and teachers who have helped you
• Acknowledge the source of life itself
• Welcome the devic and angelic forces constantly present amongst us
• Choose individual angel qualities for support during the coming year

Technically, winter solstice is the time when the Earth’s axial tilt is farthest away from the sun at its maximum of 23° 26′, producing longer nights, shorter days. “Solstice” comes from the Latin “sol” meaning sun, and “sistere,” which is “to cause to stand still”. In ancient times, these astronomical events influenced everything from harvests to moods, and so people around the planet observed the occasion in a variety of ways. 

May Winter Solstice 2012 be a time of reflection, releasing of the past, and opening to renewal.

Altered Vision

Removal of the cataract on my right eye has created a different way of seeing, both visually and perceptually. After left eye surgery last August, I was able to continue functioning with my old glasses. But when the second mono-focal lens went in this month, reality took a twist.

I know nothing about the surgery on the right eye because they numbed me up the gazoo and gave me enough anesthesia to knock me out for a week. That ensured that I did not move during surgery, a good thing, but right eye follow-up has been far more traumatic than the left one was.

Evidently the stigmatism in my right eye needed to be corrected for the newly inserted lens to lie flat. Two extra cuts by the surgeon made the eye swell, creating a weird sensation of being continually off balance. That was a nuisance as I attempted to cut mats and frame giclee prints for a show in December and January. Not being able to read, with or without the old glasses, was a shock. After a week of limited computer use and no reading, I bought some cheap reading glasses.

A check up with my regular optometrist confirmed that healing is progressing just fine but no new prescription can be given until the right eye stabilizes. It seems that takes a month. And then there will be the time it takes for the new glasses to be made. That makes six weeks of seeing with “far vision” as my primary mode. So, with cheap reading glasses strung on a chain around my neck and being continuously pulled on and off, I am making my way through the world.

Initial “altered vision” revelations include:
·       Colors are brighter and clearer.
·       In order to see ‘paintings in progress’ from several distances, the studio easel had to find a new location.
·       From a five-month distance, it is clear that the toaster has lost its right to counter space, being no longer used since I went on the “hunter gather” diet.
·      After attending a mentoring conference to discern how we can better guide our students, I now see that I myself need to be mentored in relation to the next stage of my art career, and possibly for life with altered vision.
·       A short blog is better than none at all.

Photo credits: Justin Wikinator, feathers boutique, Best Image Optical

VOTE!

VOTE!

Do not allow Romney to Swiftboat Obama. Call out GOP lies :

Romney Lies

GET EVERY WOMAN YOU KNOW TO VOTE DEMOCRATIC!

Romney and the GPO will push women back into the dark ages. Have women watch the attached video.

What Women Need to Know

GO TO A STATE THAT NEEDS HELP GETTING VOTERS TO THE POLLS!

Remember hanging chads in Florida. Ohio, Iowa, Wisconsin, Florida, even Arizona can use our help.

Ohio Matters

ALL HANDS ON DECK TO KEEP THIS COUNTRY MOVING FORWARD!

Every vote counts. You can make a difference.

Don't Let it Happen

Gift of A Mentor

Recently I spent two weeks in Ventura, California in what is called Open Studio. This annual gathering of artists is an opportunity to support and encourage one another and to receive professional feedback from abstract artist Katherine Chang Liu. Some artists attend every year. I go every other year.

Making arrangements to do our art in a place away from our home studio is something of an ordeal. Not only do you have to make all of the travel and lodging reservations, you have to anticipate the work you will do, pack all of the appropriate materials, and ship your “boxed-up studio” to Ventura within the designated time frame.

Preparing to Work With A Mentor

This year I struggled with the Open Studio requirement that you bring eight images of recent work. Two years ago I began a body of work related to humanity’s migrations out of East Africa to every corner of the globe. At that time I focused on our common origins in Africa, completing five paintings in the first year after my last Open Studio. These were published in our book, Art Twenty-Eleven, so I could hardly call them “recent work”.

Since then, I had gotten sidetracked into publishing PILGRIMAGE Wonder Encounter Witness and helping edit four other books. I had also taken 18 months to teach a Heritage Mandala class based on the migration journey of each participant as revealed in individual DNA tests. I did this because I wanted Children of Eve to be grounded in my own truth. Researching each stage of my migration journey and those of my students had resulted in binders filled with articles and online material.

Completing the Heritage Mandala, I tried to get back into painting large again by pulling out former unfinished paintings and practicing on them. I got one quarter-sheet painting out of that endeavor. I call it “My Multicultural Fertility Goddess.”

So my compilation of “recent work” consisted of two paintings: my Heritage Mandala and my fertility goddess. Wanting to conform to the eight images requirement and at the same time be honest, I pulled out two of the visual journals I’ve been keeping over the last couple of years and photographed six pages. That may have been fortuitous.

A Mentor Knows You

During the first two days of Open Studio, each artist has a twenty-minute session with Liu in which she reviews the eight images and discusses what is evolving in the artist’s work. Reviewing my images, Liu allowed as how my mandala could be in a section of the Eve exhibition on my own journey. Good. However, my fertility goddess seemed “too hip” for the Eve series. My heart sank. Continuing through the images, she asked, “Are you into book arts?” “Sort of,” I replied tentatively. I mentioned that I’d been thinking of having installation components with the paintings.

My recent lack of productivity must have signaled an impasse. Liu said, “When content is so large, it’s easy to get overwhelmed. Why don’t you go geographical? You think that way and it brings to mind the culture, the fabrics, the language and food for you. You’re a writer, so start writing. I know you. You work by chapters. Start with Southeast Asia since that’s where the first migration went.”

“Can I use collage?” I queried. “Collage is part of your vocabulary,” she replied. “What about installation components?” I asked. “Your sketchbooks can be part of the exhibition." Bingo! "They can be on pedestals in front of the paintings to which they relate. Maybe you can have some things on the floor.” Relief swept through me.

I went to my space and immediately made a chart of the geographical chapters. I could see how some of the research material I had gathered might be included in the sketchbooks. I took out a new sketchbook and began writing about Southeast Asia. I decided the underlay for each composition would be geographical. Next day I pulled out my maps and began tracing Southeast Asia and the Pacific Islands (SEAPAC).

The geography of SEAPAC is huge. I determined that I wanted Southeast Asia and Australia to be dominant. I decided the islands needed to be two smaller paintings that would visually overlap with a bigger Southeast Asia painting. Together it would be a triptych, with each piece hanging at different distances from the wall.

I brainstormed in my sketchbook, recalling experiences I’ve had in that part of the world. One evening as I reflected in my hotel room the sketch for the triptych flowed from my pencil onto the page. Over the ensuing days I got a good start on the triptych.

A Creative Cyclotron

Most mornings during Open Studio Liu makes a visual presentation. Two I especially appreciated were on Installation Work and Abstraction. Other presentations also fed my imagination.

After the first two days of individual reviews are done, Liu makes daily rounds. She systematically goes artist by artist from one end of the room to the other, checking to see if we have questions. It is not that I or other artists could not figure things out on our own. It is that having her eye helps us move faster.

For example, I had purchased some cloth to experiment with it as collage material. When I showed Liu the sketch for the triptych and told her how I was thinking of using the cloth, she commented, “In working with fabric, use it where wrinkles won’t matter and do layers.” She also suggested that I do another part of the design in layers of paper. I saw immediately that this would complement the cloth, making it not a singular collage element.

The two weeks of Open Studio are an incubator or cyclotron. Mostly we artists work in a semi-conscious trial and error way. When a mentor holds up a mirror and describes to us what she sees us doing, it accelerates our learning process.

Stop Moving! This is Eye Surgery!

A very pleasant man with a Spanish name introduced himself. He was the anesthesiologist.  Because I detest medications of any sort, I told him, "Keep the anesthesiology light, please." 

“Oh don’t worry. It won’t be much," he said. "You have to be able to hear when you’re asked to move your eye left and right, up and down.”

The surgeon asked, “Do you need anything?”

“I need for you to do good work,” I said with a sigh that revealed my discomfort with putting the fate of my eye in the hands of someone I don’t even know. That was the reason I had postponed cataract surgery for well over a year.

I sat back in their monstrous brown leather chair. The chair shifted to a horizontal position and I scooted up at least a foot to get my head in the right place.

“Can you scoot up another inch?” asked one of the nurses. 

I pushed myself up further and was grateful when she connected a heating hose to the paper gown I was wearing. At least I wouldn’t have to freeze while these two doctors performed their ten-minute surgery.

The nurse placed a mask over my face that had an opening for my left eye. I barely felt the surgeon make two small holes through the membrane covering my eyeball. However, I did feel a slight sensation as liquid entered my eyeball and shattered the cataract.

The surgeon had told me he would be using a miniscule vacuum to extract all pieces of the cataract. Feeling the pressure of the vacuum moving over my eyeball was uncomfortable. I must have squirmed.

A loud voice said, “Stop moving! This is eye surgery.” I have to say, that was pretty scary. I realized that if I didn’t lie still he could poke my eye out.

I felt pressure again when he moved the vacuum to the bottom of my eyeball. “Don’t move!” said the loud voice above my head. The surgeon was a large man so of course his voice seemed loud to me. It also had that edge you hear in a parent's voice when a child is doing something dangerous. 

At that point the anesthesiologist shot something into the IV in my arm. All sensations ceased.

While I was out the surgeon inserted a folded lens into one of the holes he had made. The lens unfolded. From a video I’ve watched, I know he put some sterile drops in the eye to prevent infection.

The loud voice above my head said, “OK, we’re removing the face mask.” I felt it being pulled away and the chair being brought upright. 

I literally floated out of the chair, into the prep room where I was given some orange juice, and downstairs to await my driver. Whatever the anesthesiologist gave me, I was so energized I went into the studio and painted for seven hours. When I sat down to do some mending, I was astounded to be able to see all the tiny stitches I was making.

Post-op sessions have shown that with my intraocular lens, my left eye has nearly 20:20 vision. I find myself filled with gratitude. 

The “strange shot” I was given lasted until five days later. When it was out of my system, all of the anxiety of the experience washed through me. I sat down and cried.

I know that for those two doctors and all of the nursing staff, I was just number nine, the last one of the morning. However, for me, this was “I” surgery! My left eye has always been my weak eye. Now it is the stronger one. The eyelid had begun to sag, probably because the eye was so tired from trying to see through the cataract. Now the eyelid sits up the way it should.

It is very strange to have been awake when the cataract was shattered and removed but to be asleep when the miraculous new lens was put in place. I wonder how often this has occurred without my awareness: watching as the old me got shaken up and thrown away but not being aware of the new me taking its place.

A recent series of dreams has been filled with people (parts of me) dying. I have not yet seen signs of who or what the new me will be. Do you suppose there is an intraocular lens for that? Or maybe when they do the right eye, the new "I" will become visible to me?

Re-Sculpting Your Body

Recently I gave up eating grains. In three weeks, I lost three inches from my waist. It was attending a health presentation that upended my food assumptions. I learned that when it comes to the shape and health of our body, our ancient ancestors, the hunter-gatherers from whom we’ve all descended, have wisdom to share with our ultra-modern culture.

Some of the research we were shown compared the diet and health of hunter-gathers with that of the contemporary American family. It seems that once societies become affluent they move to a grain-based diet that reduces the quality of their health. I’m not just talking about the skyrocketing obesity in the United States, but the diabetes epidemic in India.

We can blame the success of the agrarian revolution 10,000 years ago for both the amazing cultural advances that settled life produced but also for the decline in our health. Our bodies are the product of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, most of which were spent hunting, fishing, and gathering fruits, berries, vegetables and nuts. During the last 10,000 years our bodies have confronted a more sedentary lifestyle and the geometric expansion of a grain-based diet. We are now seeing the results from the last 10,000 years and they are not pretty.

The presentation included evidence that twenty minutes a week of high intensity training (HIT) will do more for your fitness than hours of workouts in the gym. HIT is geared to build muscle. Muscles burn calories, especially from protein and fat. So building muscle begins to use up all the fat that your body stored from carbohydrates in preparation for days and weeks of famine that modern societies do not confront with the regularity that our ancestors did.

Along with giving up grains, I bought the book, 21 Day Total Body Transformation by Olympic athlete Mark Sisson to learn how I could do the high intensity training. I was relieved to learn that I don’t have to go to a gym. I get most of the basic exercises recommended by Sisson in my yoga classes: push-ups, planks, and squats To do pull-ups I have to go to a nearby playground once a week.

I have no idea how long I can keep this going, but so far it’s been fun to watch the physical changes in my body. Right away I began to notice an increase in energy. I no longer felt slow and sluggish. Next I saw my midriff begin to shrink. Then it was my sagging belly. Now it’s my hips. Then the stiffness in my right hip diminished, allowing me to move gracefully from lotus position to child’s pose for the first time in three years. Now I’m noticing diminishment of the chronic pain in my right arm caused by a vein that chemotherapy caused to atrophy.

Over the last three years, stress at work has taken a physical toll on me. While I don’t expect the gray hair and wrinkles in my skin to disappear, if I can get my waist size into a healthier range and regain the vibrancy that I have enjoyed in former years, I will be a very happy camper. The path I have laid out does not involve scales. To gauge the success of becoming a modern day hunter-gatherer, I am going purely on measuring my waist, seeing how my clothes fit, and improved energy, flexibility and strength. I'd love to hear about your latest health discoveries.

Berries, nuts, and plenty of veggies to all of you!

Images from Google: Savannah Hunters, Cave Art, Nollman Hunter, Veggies

The Courage to Create

Manifestation: Intention and Desire Will Become Reality

It began in October of 2010. My Heritage Mandala students and I committed to following the migration journey of our maternal ancestors out of East Africa. Nineteen months later, altered in ways we continue to discover, we completed our ancestral journeys.

Our journey together was launched with blank sheets of paper. Pristine paper is beautiful. Without a doubt, once we touched it with our brush, we would scar and deface it. How dare we mar its surface?  It takes bravery and daring to transform a white sheet of paper. Each paper had the same penciled-in structure for the painting we would create, a structure that would serve as the vehicle to carry us on our adventure.

Adventurers of ages past set their canoes into uncharted waterways. Just so, we faced the unknown. None of us had any idea what colors or forms would fill the structure. We had no idea what inner experiences would be evoked by this exploration into the origins of our unique existence.

It took 584 days for the un-manifest to become manifest, for our intentions and desires to blossom into three unique Heritage Mandalas.

Overflowing Gratitude

Each woman’s commitment to uncover her heritage required that she do a DNA test to discern the migratory path of her maternal ancestors, determined by tracing our mitochondrial DNA. As our tests arrived and we swabbed our cheeks, we found ourselves overwhelmed with gratitude: gratitude that women had passed messages to us down through the centuries, gratitude to scientist Rebecca Cahn for discovering these messages in mitochondrial DNA, gratitude to the scientists who continue this research. We waited somewhat impatiently as our tests were processed so the results could be sent to us.

Embracing Uncertainty

Beginning a mandala inspired by Tibaetan Buddhism is a bit like anticipating the birth of a child. After months of development, the infant will appear. Expectant parents have no clue what the infant will be or will become. They watch as the child unfolds. They have no prior assurance that it will survive illnesses and challenges to become a contributing part of society. In trust, they care for the infant, the child, the adolescent, and the young adult until a unique individual appears. 

Likewise, it takes a peculiar sort of detachment to face the uncertainty of this unique way of painting in which you cannot pre-determine the outcome but must paint one stroke at a time. It mimics the way our ancestors migrated from East Africa to every corner of the planet, one step at a time, or one oar stroke at a time. It requires trust that through meditation colors and images will emerge.

Practicing Awareness

This Buddhist way of painting demands that the artist practice awareness, focusing 100% attention at the point where the tip of the brush meets the paper. Each artist has the intention to do beautiful work and the desire to paint with integrity. Each plants these intentions and desires in every stroke, not knowing where the entire painting is going but content to let it emerge.

Once our DNA results were in, each woman studied the information about her ancestral migrations and determined the major steppingstones along the journey. The number of steppingstones determined the number of segments there would be in her narrative ring, the second major concentric circle of the mandala. One woman discerned eight. Another found twelve. I discovered eleven.

Karma

So, one stroke and one step at a time something began to happen; manifestation had begun. Each decision that is made affects all that has gone before and everything that will come later. That is karma – decisions have consequences. For example, when one meditates and finds a base color for the fire ring, the color that is applied sets a tone and an energy that will have ramifications not only for the fire ring, but also for each subsequent concentric circle and for the center of the mandala.

Painting with Purpose

Each woman sought to use her artistic gifts to benefit her family and society as a whole. One will share the discovery that her family has Jewish heritage, something that was rumored and has now been validated. I discovered that my maternal ancestors spent a fairly long time in the Near East before moving up into the Caucasus area. The people of Egypt, Syria, and Turkey are my people.

Another learned that she is indigenous on both her maternal and paternal sides. Both sides made the entire journey out of East Africa, up into the Near East, up into Central Asia, crossed over the arctic circle and made their way down the west coast of North and South America, and then back up into Mexico and the United States. She has a very real and solid foundation from which to teach the 13 Feminine Truths garnered from her indigenous heritage.

Acceptance Takes Time

Each woman had repeated incidents of having to accept what was given rather than reject or fight against it. Personally, I had an ongoing struggle with my fire ring. Because of my preconceptions about how fire should look, I was tempted over and over to scrub it all out and begin again. Time and again, I had to let go of my ideas about what it should be. Another scrubbed out one area five times before she could let it go and let it be what it was. The third kept finding that she had to get out of the way and let what came to her be expressed without judgment.

Together we confirmed that the people of planet earth are one global family, a rainbow people.

It is what it is. Let it be.

Will you share something about your heritage quest? What have you done? How has it surprised, baffled, or invigorated you?

Garden of the Soul

I stopped in amazement when I spotted a white blossom on the dogwood tree beside my patio. The tree is one of two that I received as seedlings five years ago. The seedlings grew slowly as I have nurtured them along, transferring them into pots of escalating size. They were nearly three years old before I put them into the ground. Here for the first time was a blossom!

I rushed over to the second tree, but it had no blossoms as yet, likely because it doesn’t get the morning sun the way the other one does.  The two trees are like siblings; the one by the back fence is growing tall and slender, while the one by the patio is short and full.

I watched that first blossom like a hawk; it  represented pure potentiality and brought me unimaginable joy. I examined the tree’s branches and thought there were signs of other blossoms to come. But alas, the would-be blossoms became leaves instead. Then along came a heavy rainstorm and washed away my delicate white flower. But not to despair, a couple of days later, the tree by the fence produced a single white blossom, also halfway up the tree and on its right side.

Every morning and evening I greeted that single blossom as though it were the queen of nature herself. No mother was more attentive and appreciative. I marveled at its four perfect petals with curled edges the way a first-time dad counts the fingers and toes of a newborn infant. I wondered at the biological clock of these two young trees. What growth threshold had they crossed that allowed them to produce a flower? Why only one? How many blossoms might they have next year if all goes well?

Gradually, my attention was drawn elsewhere in the garden. I replaced broken and tired pots and especially delighted in a lime green one that is the very personification of spring. After weeks of rain the sun came out and everything seemed to perk up. The strawberry runners I’d transplanted last fall not only made it through the winter, pink and white blossoms began to appear. How marvelous!

Then last Wednesday tragedy struck. As I approached my front door, I was brought up short. All the leaves on my eight-year-old jasmine plant were brown and many had dropped to the ground. Only the night before it was green and healthy. Now it appeared to be dying.

I was in shock. Searching for a cause/effect reason for this state of affairs, I thought maybe I’d neglected it when the sun came out. So I drowned it in water, but there was no miraculous recovery. Maybe the yardmen accidently put weed killer on it? No, I don’t think so. The plant looked so sad and terrible, I thought maybe I should move it so I didn’t have to watch it struggling. Then I realized, “This plant likes this space. Moving it would be about my feelings, not about what this plant needs. Let it be.”

Next morning, I googled “brown leaves on jasmine” and learned that this was not the first time a jasmine plant got brown leaves. One article said it was frost. Well, we had had several really cold nights. But then, it had made it through several winter frosts, why would a spring frost get to it? Another article said it was drought. Well, I had been so enamored with my dogwood blossom and a week of sunshine that I had failed to watch and water this plant that had dazzled me with its fragrance for so many summers.  A third person wrote that it was lack of nutrients. I don’t do much fertilizing, so that was also possible. Another just said, “don’t expect blossoms this year.”

I went outside and stared at the second set of leaves that had fallen to the ground. Now more than half were gone. However, the plant’s barrenness revealed something I had missed earlier. Looking closely at some of the branches, I discovered fresh green growth at the ends. In examining the plant, I saw that almost all of the branches had a tiny bit of fresh growth. I thought, “This plant will live!”

I pruned away dead branches, sprinkled Osmocote around the roots, and put fresh soil into the container. All the while I talked to the jasmine, expressing my desire for its return to health. I spoke of how very special it is and how much I appreciate the pleasure it has brought to me. I promised to care for it as best I can by continuing to ask, “How can I help?”

By now 98% of the jasmine’s leaves are gone. It is a bit like one’s hairless head after going through chemotherapy. Nonetheless, I have resolved to appreciate the sculpture of the branches and stop bemoaning the missing leaves. If I allow it, this plant will teach me to stay in the present rather than look to the past or long for the future.

My precious jasmine has taught me Depak Chopra’s Seven Spiritual Laws of Success:

• Pure Potentiality, think Ongoing Manifestation 
• Giving, think Gratitude for Abundance
• Cause and Effect, think Karma 
• Least Effort, think Acceptance of What Is
• Intention and Desire, think Practicing Awareness
• Detachment, think Openness to Uncertainty 
• Purpose, think Talent Given in Service

I would love to hear from you about how your garden (or nature in general) nurtures your spirit.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

In late February and mid-March, I did six book signing events, one in Oregon and five in Washington. Each location offered something special. Four were on dark and stormy nights, one was during an afternoon snowstorm, and one was on a sunny afternoon.

Bloomsbury Books in Ashland gave me an opportunity to do an interview on Jefferson Public Radio and to refine my talk from the November presentation at the Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art in Eugene. A snowstorm prevented my agent, Nadine Cobb, from joining me, so I had to fly solo. It was fun to connect with a former student and a long-ago colleague who introduced me to some of her current friends.

Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park brought out nearby Seattle friends. A big ‘thankyou’ to Roxanna Harper; she recruited a passel of my former colleagues.  A couple of friends took photos and made a video of the event. Nadine and I began to get into the swing of being “on the road again.”

Village Books in Bellingham was the largest event outside of Eugene, perhaps because it was on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Friends from Canada and a couple from Bellingham attended, but the audience was primarily persons new to me. The bookstore staff was so impressed by the engagement of the audience that they invited me back!

Snow Goose Bookstore in Stanwood had a small but very engaged audience, including one long-time colleague and a woman who heard about the event at Third Place Books after it was over. She was so curious that she looked up my website, found the connection to my blog, saw there was an event coming up in Stanwood and drove from Everett in the midst of a rain storm. I was very touched by her and by the hospitality of the storeowner.

The Bookie at Washington State University in Pullman was the only event where I did a book signing but did not give a presentation. Nadine and I arrived in the midst of a snowstorm and learned that University of Oregon had closed because of having seven inches of snow. The store’s marketing manager was a Russian immigrant and I had an opportunity to meet students from Japan and Somalia.

Auntie’s in Spokane brought down two of Nadine’s friends from near the Canadian border and the event was attended by the store’s owner and the events person. The store had a photographer on hand to capture the moment and the owner promised to sell, sell, sell my book.

A Cultural Encounter

The shift from western Washington into eastern Washington was dramatic. Nadine and I got up at 5:00 in the morning in East Arlington because we had to be in Pullman by 2:00 in the afternoon. We left at 5:30 am and we had to go through the Snoqualmie Pass. It was the day of the snow dump in the Willamette valley. We were very anxious. The snow was not that bad going through the pass, but the pass seemed to go on forever. Five hours later, when we finally got through, we were giddy. We knew we could make it to Pullman in time.

We went into a local restaurant and headed for an empty booth laughing and in a good mood. A man in the next booth, poked his head into our space and said to me, “Are you laughing at the president?”

I’m like, “what?’ I think, “Obama can be funny … is he on TV.” There was no TV. I looked back at the man and said, “What?”

He said again, “Are you laughing at the president?” I said, “Of course not, I love the president.”

That should have been the end of it. But in the booth with the man was a little girl, about nine years old. She kept flashing me huge smiles. As I returned from the restroom, she gave me another big smile. So I stopped at her seat and said, “You have the most wonderful smile, is this your birthday?”

Before she could answer, the man said “No, it’s spring break.” I kept the smile on my face and said, “Of course, I forgot.” and tried to get to my seat.

The man said, “Obama doesn’t want kids in school.” I responded, “Excuse me, but education is one of Obama’s big priorities.” I kept moving toward my seat.

He went into a tirade. “Obama left Kenya, Obama left Hawaii. Obama left Chicago. Obama should leave the White House.”

By then I was standing in front of him and having this revelation that I spoke out loud in wonderment. “You’re a racist.” It did not even faze him. He just kept going on.

Then he said, “I bet you voted for Obama.” I said, “Yes, I did.”

At this point a man in the booth on the other side of Nadine and me, said in a surly voice, “I bet you’re going to vote for him again.”

I replied, “Of course, I am. He’s done so much good for our country.”

One of them shouted, “Name one thing.”

That’s when I realized, “LiDoña, things are escalating here.” So I raised my arms and said, “Guys, I don’t need to listen to this.” I sat down.

Silence descended in the dining area. No restaurant staff approached to see if I was all right after this surly verbal assault.

Gradually the normal hum of conversation picked up until the man in the next booth was getting ready to leave. The little girl asked him something, and he shouted in a loud voice, “I have to go back to work so those other people can get their food stamps.”

I kept my attention on my omelet. I couldn’t help wondering how much the government gives this man for not planting wheat. Why is a government subsidy viewed as a farmer’s entitlement but food stamps to help those who can’t make ends meet during a recession is seen as a handout?

Your Turn

I’d love to hear your take on the book tour and this cultural encounter. What was going on? Why did this occur? What's the take-away?