Sunday, October 23, 2016


The past doesn't matter: the stories, slights and grievances. Who are you today?

Who will you be?

Will you walk in anger, scowling at all you see? Or will you smile and shake hands? 

Thursday, October 20, 2016


Remember the vastness of your soul.

Open your heart, melt, loosen the bonds of your molecules. Float.

Be large.

Be as big as the world and see how small your troubles become.

Be small. Be as small as a drop of water. Feel your connection with all the other drops of water in a puddle or a pond. 

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Chemo and radiation

Question. Can the Reiki practitioner be harmed by sharing Reiki with a person who just had chemotherapy or radiation therapy?

Answer. Well, short answer, is No.

I don't know of any way the Reiki practitioner could be harmed. If you feel that you're being harmed, look within. Your answers are within. Do self-Reiki. Drink fresh water, rest, meditate. Self-Reiki. Examine your fears. Know yourself.

Longer answer. Oncology nurses wear special gowns and gloves when they handle chemotherapy. The Reiki practitioner will not be handling chemo, so does not need the special gowns and gloves. Nurses wear regular gowns and gloves to protect from body fluids. Reiki practitioners should also wear this protection if there is a chance they'll come into contact with body fluids. Universal precautions, we call this. It's more likely that the Reiki practitioner will come in contact with body fluids if sharing in a hospital. Less likely in an infusion center, even less likely in an outpatient support center.

Oncology nurses take no special precautions with the person who just experienced radiation therapy. That person is not radioactive. Unless and except when the person has radioactive implants. That's different. Then the person with implants should take precautions, keeping social distance for several days/weeks, as the implants do their thing.

So. The person enduring chemo and radiation can't harm you, the Reiki practitioner.

If you believe you're experiencing harmful effects, look within. Ask and listen. Know yourself.

Just for today, don't worry.
Warm Reiki hugs.


What does it mean when I get 109 views from Poland in one day? 


I voted. It was thrilling.

It's done. The political nonsense can stop. The horrible revelations, insults, threats, and lies can stop.

I voted early. No lines. The place was deserted actually, except for two nice ladies who checked me in. They were happy to see me. Whee! A customer. They had to turn on the laptop. We had a pleasant chat.

Early voting: highly recommended.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016


I woke up at 5:15 and half an hour later was on top of Cadillac Mountain, in Acadia National Park. "Acadia," home to Mi'kmaq, then a French colony, now Maine. Cadillac: they say it's the first place where sunlight hits the USA. So there I was.

I parked in the front row and turned off the engine; the wind rocked my car. It was dark, cloudy, and foggy. Would I even see the sun rise? I waited with others for the first light of dawn.

It was 39 degrees and dark. I sat in my car drinking hotel coffee, snagged the night before from the lobby and left overnight in the car for this breakfast. Cold raw 39-degree coffee, dense and bitter. Fog blasted by.

There were four or five cars when I arrived. I had my pick of parking spots. We sat in the dark. Others arrived and sat with headlights on. Their lights filled my car and reflected painfully from my mirrors. Why would you leave your headlights on when you're waiting for first light? I got out and walked away from the cars.

I thought about sharing space with tourists. I remembered the day before, hiking around the park. There are narrow trails, and signs asking you to stay on them. They clot the path, taking selfies. They walk two and three abreast; with strollers, backpacks, and walking sticks, talk talk talking. They don't adjust as I approach; they knock me off the path. They smell like fabric softener. Why don't they walk single file? Can't they see me? Is it the gray hair? Is personal space so much smaller where they live? If so, I don't want to live there.

I stumbled around in the dark, sliding on wet rocks. I stepped into a puddle, soaking my right shoe. The wind was powerful. I was glad of my layers, topped with a winter jacket, a wool hat that Karen made, scarf and gloves. The wind blew the surliness out of me.

I noticed I was singing. The Star Spangled Banner. Sunrise, Sunset. And, to the tune of "On top of Old Smoky," "On top of Cadillac Mountain." All covered in fog...

As I walked around the top of the mountain,  I realized that I could see the pink of my coat. I could see the puddles. No sunrise, as it was overcast and foggy, but it was dawn. First light. When the wind blasted a hole in the fog I could see the town below, the water, islands, and cruise ships. I could see twinkles of light in the gray. Everything was gray: outlines of trees and rocks.

Colors emerged: yellow and red maples; salmon-pink rocks, covered with bright green lichen; white lichen; red leafed blueberry bushes.

The parking lot was full, maybe 100 cars. Tourists hurried by, herds of them, hunched into thin windbreakers; bare ankles, moaning with cold. I was glad of my wool socks and warm gloves.

I took photos at the top, but they came out black and blurry. I couldn't hold my hand still in that wind. It was strong enough to unbalance me.

Foggy and puddly, cold strong winds: maybe not the best time for a bike ride, but that was next on my list. I descended the mountain.

I rode on the carriage trails, crushed rock over dirt. The sun came out. Blue sky and water, pink and gray mountains covered with pixels of bright red yellow and green. I rode and marveled til my camera battery died and I got hungry. I was cheered, ready to rejoin humanity. Back to the motel for hot coffee, eggs, and waffles.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

October flowers

Last blooms of summer. It hasn't frosted yet. Frost will end them.

So the October flowers are holding on. Grabbing sun and warmth. Persisting. Enduring. Seeking