Nobiya's Story

On February 19, 2011, Jordane, who worked with City Critters in New York City,

brought Nobiya to the home I shared with Wayne Mareci in midtown Manhattan.
We were going to foster him, not adopt him.

Jordane said he was the sweetest cat in the world. He had been living with a Korean family

who had to go back to Korea and couldn't take him. He was currently living at a vet's office,

because he might have some urinary issues and they had been watching him and assured
her he was healthy and fine, just needed a special diet. They guessed he was about
4 years old.

She dropped him off while I was out, and when I came home about an hour later,
she and Wayne were sitting on the floor talking with Nobiya right beside them,
apparently listening to every word.

Nobiya immediately got up and greeted me at the door and started purring and
rubbing up against me. I squatted down and started petting him, ears, head, chin,
back, feet--ouch! razor sharp claws--let's fix that--and within 5 minutes of meeting
each other for the first time, he let me trim his claws. Snip, snip, just like that,
they're done, no struggle, like he was offering them up to me.
 

I announced, “I’m keeping him.  Not fostering.  Adopting.”

I googled his name “Nobiya” and found that there was a Japanese manga
character with a similar name, and a Japanese artist by the name, and that it
also meant “sweetheart.” I figured the Korean family had children who loved
manga and named him after a cartoon character they liked, and that image
pleased me.  When I arrived in California and said his name, people laughed. 
It turns out there’s a Spanish and Tagalog version of his name that
means “girlfriend.”  Either way, he’s a sweetheart. 

In Manhattan, he lived on the 15th floor in a sunny apartment with lots of windows.

He was a happy indoor cat.

When I moved to California, the airlines required that he be on a leash inside a carrier.
I lived in California for 3 months without him, and during that time, Wayne taught him to
accept the leash and carrier. He took to it right away.

For the flight to California, all I gave him was a homeopathic remedy called Animal
Rescue that I had discovered during the previous foster fail. No sedatives. The trip
turned out to take 10 hours, with long delays, but he was quiet the whole way. He
made 2 little peeps at one point during the flight, and he didn't want to eat anything,
and his eyes were wide open the whole time, but he was taking it all in.

We arrived late at night.  The next morning I thought, “I should show him where he lives

now, let him smell the air, the ground, the plants, let him get his bearings.  He seems
okay on his leash.  Let’s try it!”

I put his leash on with ease, and opened the door, and he trotted down the hall like
it was the most natural thing in the world.  I opened the hall door to the outside stairs,
and off he went.

I thought it would be a one-time experience, but the next day, he was at the door
meowing, and it became our morning ritual.

After about a year, he had to have some teeth removed, and the vet told me I
should brush his teeth.  

I decided the only way I could make myself do it was to make it part of our ritual. 
Brush my teeth, brush his teeth, put on his leash, and out we go.  He accepted it.

Some mornings, he even jumped up on the bathroom counter, watched me brush
my teeth, and waited for me to brush his.  He would curl his lip up on the right side,
and let me brush, then move to the left.  He was never as good with the left side,
and resisted a bit, but still let me brush.

Then he would go into the entryway, jump up on the bench and wait for me to put
his leash on.

Over the years, we’ve varied the routine a bit depending on circumstances, but it’s
been essentially the same for 7 years, and we’ve only missed a few days.


I call him "King Nobi." He seems to have accepted that the tooth-brushing and walking
is what I do as his loyal servant, in addition, of course, to the chores ordinary cats have
their people do (feeding and litter box maintenance).

He is a wonderful companion, and we have had many happy adventures together. 

Sightings at the Edge of the Universe: Rainbows and Snails for 2020

I ventured out onto the cliffs of Del Mar this morning after another night of rain.   The sky was full of clouds, rain in the distance, spots of blue, and a quiet, wet hush all around.  The ground was soft and moist.  The cliffs were covered with the lush green vegetation that only comes with rain.  Tall green stalks with what look like geranium leaves that grow higher than my head.  Bush after bush of bright purple flowers in tight clusters--the kinds I used to only see in flower arrangements as filler, but now see covering the cliffs year-round, drying up and becoming pale in the summer and coming back to life in the winter and spring.  Long, thick swaths of  tall bright yellow flowers that look like some kind of daisy with white buttons in the center.  And white ones with yellow buttons.  Ah, spring!

Then I saw the rainbow--or part of it.  It  was a thick and vibrant pillar of fluorescent pinks, yellows, greens, and blues, out over the western edge of the ocean and leaning at an angle toward the north, ending in the rain clouds.  I walked toward it, watching it fade, then brighten, back and forth, depending on the angle.

And then I saw another one:  a pale, pale, barely discernible pillar over the northern edge of the ocean towards the coast and pointing west, as if  the two pillars were falling into one another, but not quite at the correct angle for them to meet.  One far out to the west over the ocean, the other closer to the northern shore.

They were facing one another.  The red edges of each column facing the center, and fading into purple, pink, yellow, green, blue, and indigo on the outer edges.

Maybe at other points along the coast they would actually look like one column, and maybe at others form an arc.  Who knows what a different perspective would show?

As I continued each column brightened, grew, and faded, until I could only see them because I knew they were there.

In the center of the trail, a big fat snail sprawled out horizontally across the mid-line.  Usually snails stay to the periphery, but here it was front and center.  A rather dangerous place to be, but fortunately I saw it and stepped right over and went on my way, and I hope the snail did too.

Returning home, I walked past a small palm, fronds bobbing in the breeze, and there was a snail at head level riding on the frond, bouncing up and down, having a ride.

Happy Monday!  May we all soak up the light, gain perspective, take our time, sprawl as necessary, and ride with ease in the breeze.

For My Sister Kim, February 18, 1960 - August 21, 2016

Afternoon Delight

 (for Kim)

When we were young, my sister Kimberly loved

Mrs. Strohschein’s pansies too…

And the big Magnolia tree in the front yard

And the swing off to the west side of the house

And the mimosa tree in the back yard,

Where you could sit in the bowl of the tree and twirl bright pink puffy mimosa flowers and tickle your nose.

I loved all of that too, and

Stripping the mimosa leaves off their stems,

Feeling the skeleton of the leaf and the bump, bump, bump of tiny little green leaves popping off, one by one

And sitting in the Lancaster’s tree next door and twirling mimosa flowers in my nose, and dreaming of the day I would rule the world with love and be free to roam wherever I pleased,

Especially through the bamboo forest between our house and the Andrews’

And into the tiny windows at the base of the Southwestern Bell building across the street, where the men came and went every day in their big mysterious trucks with all the tools and ladders and ropes,

And under our house, crawling in the vast expanse of cool, dark earth

And playing in the church’s gravel parking lots, next door and across the street, right after it had rained,

When the dirt smelled so fresh and rich and new, that we could feel the universe in every particle and see our history in every trace of sea creatures across the tiny pebbles.

We would walk through the live-oak and crepe myrtle lined streets,

Twirling mimosa flowers in our slender, young fingers,

Sucking sweet tender honeysuckle flowers through our teeth,

Singing childhood rhymes, church hymns of love to God, and pop songs of desire—they were all afternoon delight,

As we played games of make-believe and fun and chattered gaily among ourselves, like little birds. 

“His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches over me.”

The whole world sang to us and through us, and it was all love.

Late Sunday Afternoon On the Beach

Late Sunday afternoon on the beach
Blue skies
Light breeze
Warm for Southern California water
Families set up with shade, food, toys
All kinds of people in the water boogie boarding, swimming, playing in waves

And further up the beach from the crowds, these sightings:

A tiny little spiky-haired boy with blue floaters on his arms and waist, who moves as if he just learned to run, darting in and out of the surf, laughing and screaming with delight, surprise, and excitement at each lap of the waves, and running circles around his slightly bigger but still tiny sister who is sitting on the beach at the edge of the water in a muddy spot, her back turned away from the ocean, plopped down and unmoving, in her red and yellow and blue jumpsuit, a blank look on her face, her hair matted around her face.  Their older brother stands slightly back, watching with concern for both, looking for any sign that he might need to jump in, moving hesitantly around his little brother, like a lifeguard.  Two young women in their 20s stand fully clothed in the middle of the scene, arms folded, no particular expression on their faces, softly chatting to each other.

About 10 feet away, a gray and white seagull with a wet black sock in its beak, struggles along the sand for several minutes to carry the sock out to the ocean, and almost makes it--got the sock into the surf, which then took the sock from the bird and deposited it back on the sand as it receded.  The seagull picked up the sock again, trying for a few more seconds to drag it back to the water, but dropped it several times, and unlike Sisyphus, eventually left it where it dropped on the sand and walked on without looking back.

And then this carefully constructed creation, another 10 feet or so away and further up from the surf:

Happy Father's Day ( a bit late, but always relevant)

https://www.theadvocate.com/baton_rouge/news/communities/zachary/article_ace83704-9167-11e9-912b-a33df5dcaaa4.html?fbclid=IwAR1nE7yDKomEtLgrfyMmfOISVHy4eGgI8yOZAUwSX-gl-ZzLUTQstCnETZY

This is my father.  When I was 18 years old and starting college, he took me out of school for 2 weeks in the middle of the semester to take me to Israel and Istanbul with him.  I was concerned about missing that much school, but he wasn't.  He said I'd learn more on the trip.  I loved my classes, and still remember them and my teachers with great love.  But, yes, the trip.

We had a long wait in the JFK airport, so he put me in a cab with some of the adults on the tour, gave them a bunch of money, and said to drive me around the city in a cab and show me as much as they could in the time we had.  It was my first glimpse of the city that would one day become my home.  I loved the crowds and the busy-ness and wanted to experience that for myself.

We landed in Tel Aviv, and I was amazed at the beauty of the city and the green of the land.  On the way from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem we stopped at a Kibbutz.  I loved it and wanted to stay.  It seemed like a great way to organize life.  In Jerusalem we stayed in a downtown hotel that had been a YMCA and that still had bullet holes in the elevator door from the 6-Days War and that served us cold fish and onions for breakfast.  One evening we went to the shop of the family of the man who had bought the Dead Sea Scrolls from the Bedouins.  They greeted my dad with great love and affection and gave me an embroidered shirt.  We went to the Old City, the temple, the Dome of the Rock, and the wailing wall.  We posed for pictures on camels.  We went to the Holocaust museum.  I couldn't talk for a long time after.  We walked the old streets of Jerusalem and into the Garden of Gethsemane, such a respite.  But still it was all deeply sad and weighed heavily on me.  Our last night, we went to a nightclub in Jerusalem.  People were laughing and talking and having drinks.  The band was playing, and then the belly dancer took the stage, danced through the room, collected her tips, and I wanted to stay there all night.

In Israel I was seeing the history that I knew and stories I had been raised on brought to life. 

Istanbul, though, was a whole other world, one that I had only glimpsed in William Butler Yeats' poem "Sailing to Byzantium." We had read the poem in my freshman English class that I was skipping out on, and I had written a paper analyzing it to the best of my ability, given that I knew nothing, and was completely mystified by it, but I loved it, and here I was, and now the poem made sense. 

The city did not appear to have any stop signs or traffic signals--just cars, buses, and trucks in a frenzied, hair-raising, death-defying free-for-all.  The Sheraton we were in had a Thanksgiving display with a live turkey strutting around in it.  The people were all gorgeous and impeccably dressed, and did not look anything like American tourists from Louisiana. Then we stepped into the Hagia Sophia.  It knocked me into another world.  The immensity, the grandeur--I could feel God everywhere, and I was humbled.  I was reluctantly led out and into the museum of the sultans' palace.  Bedazzled by the jewels on display in the Topkapi Palace Museum, I came blinking out into the street.  We boarded our bus and headed to a rug salesroom, where they served coffee and Turkish delights.  I wanted to buy all the rugs. 

Reluctantly I was shepherded out and onto a bus taking us to the Grand Bazaar, the biggest shopping center under one roof in the world, I was told.  Hordes of shabbily dressed kids ran after us, calling, "Turkish Delights, Turkish Delights!"  My heart hurt. 

Inside the bazaar, I was overwhelmed by the immensity, the darkness, the noise, the insistent energy. 

But there was a very cute young blond guy, about my age, hawking sweaters, and I liked the sweaters, and I liked his smile, and I could actually afford them.  He spoke maybe 10 words of English--enough to haggle--and my super-shy self enjoyed being free to flirt and haggle in this place that was made for it, and I bought 2 sweaters for $10--the sky blue one with white llamas for me and the white one with sky blue llamas for my sister Kim  I still have mine.  It is the warmest sweater I have ever had.

Thank you, Dad, for introducing me to a whole new world, and setting me on my path.

Baby Butterflies

San Diego has butterflies.  Lots and lots of butterflies.  More than I've ever seen in my whole life.  They just began appearing a few days ago.  According to the news reports, they are called painted ladies, and look like small versions of monarchs, but with different patterning on their wings, and they have come forth because of the rains, which have brought a super-bloom of wildflowers, creating places to lay eggs and food for the emerging caterpillars, which spin themselves into cocoons and metamorphose into butterflies.

Painted Ladies live for about 2 weeks, during which time they lay their eggs.  When they fly out into the world, they are brand new.  They are babies.  And they are exuberant.  They fly all over the place, and fast!  They can fly up to 20 miles per hour.

They're on their way from Mexico to the Pacific Northwest.  But they do not fly in straight lines.

They flit. They zoom.  They spin.  They swarm.  Clouds of flitting, spinning, zooming butterflies.

I first noticed them the other day standing outside with a friend in his yard.  We observed them affectionately, and I felt very tender towards them.  Then I got in my car and drove off.  That's when it became clear that I was killing many of them, and so was everyone else who was driving along the Coast Highway.  As fast as the painted ladies could fly, they couldn't avoid all the cars, and no matter how tenderly I felt for them, I couldn't avoid killing them unless I quit driving all together until the swarms pass in a few weeks.

We're born with more synapses than we need--it's called synaptic exuberancy--and I hoped that the exuberant forces of nature were working in favor of the butterflies, and that there would still be plenty of butterflies who fulfilled their purposes.

Yet, I felt so heavy and crude in my metal car on the asphalt road, following it to my destination in a steady predictable way, with this profuse and abundant wild, light, effusive, ephemeral life flying all around me, so erratic it felt ecstatic.  The bright blue sky filled with light, the ocean shimmering with light all around, butterflies everywhere the eye could see, and here I was sitting in my metal bubble killing butterflies when all I wanted was to watch them and marvel.

But in a few seconds, I realized that they were also a danger to me.  I've driven in fog, rain, wind, hail, and snow, but I've never driven through clouds of butterflies.

This is the way worlds collide.  This is the way we hurt one another, even when we didn't mean to.  In different vehicles, on different paths, going different directions in different ways, at different speeds, some with protective bubbles, some as vulnerable as a newly born butterfly.  Sometimes I've been the butterfly.  Sometimes the heavy metal machine that mowed it down.  Sometimes the swarm so thick and mesmerizing it blinds oncoming traffic.  Sometimes the driver trying to peer through the swarm and keep eyes on the road. That's the way it goes. It's not personal.

The painted ladies are here, the rains have come, the wildflowers are blooming, and we are all here together flitting about.  May we all become lighter and brighter for it.

Video Tribute to Fr. Walter J. Ong, S.J.

I am deeply grateful that I was able to study with Fr. Walter Ong at St. Louis University (SLU) for my doctorate.  He was both a great writer and scholar, person, and mentor.  In 2017 I was invited by Professor Jim Scott of SLU to participate in a video honoring Fr. Ong.  I was thrilled and honored to do so.

Professor Scott made a wonderful video that shows the essence of who Fr. Ong is and the continuing value of his work.  I have much more to  say, but for now

From Storyteller to Cyberspace:

https://youtu.be/voR7aJITu0E