Easter Parade

Hi, Boomers,

I don't quite know how to respond to Easter. I was raised a Catholic so I celebrated Easter every year until I married a Jew, had two sons and since then celebrated Passover. It seems ironic that I went from the New Testament to the Old Testament in a few short years. The fact is that I was raised a Catholic (my father's side), but my mother was Jewish but not raised Jewish. She used to say when finally revealing her parentage that my grandmother was Jewish, but she didn't really recognize that she was Jewish because she knew nothing about the religion. My mother told me when I was 19 years old that Grandma Rose was Jewish. When I asked her why she decided to tell me that very important fact about her life when I was 19, she told me that since I was dating a Jewish boy, I should know.

If you get that logic, you're a lot smarter than I am.

Except to say that I was well aware that San Francisco and environs carried heavy anti-semetic prejudice. My mother told me that job applications during most of the early 20th century asked what religion the applicant claimed. If you put Jewish, then you most certainly wouldn't get the job. My mother put down that she was Protestant. My mother had no idea what that meant. It just sounded neutral.

Religion is complicated. I went to a Seder on Monday night and had the most fabulous time I have ever had celebrating Passover. Who knew it could be so much fun! We all read from the Haggadah the story of the Jews flight out of Egypt and there was clapping and cheering and the ritual passing of bitter herbs and hard-boiled eggs and kosher sherry, and we even took some intermissions for dancing before we settled down around 10:30 to eat the most delicious food I have ever tasted, which was laid out beautifully on the dining room table. Middle Eastern Jews - the Persians and the Iraqis sure know how to bond as families and feel the intimate joy of oneness.

My Easters were dull affairs without celebration or bonding. My Irish relatives had no sense of cuisine. Outside of the celebration of the Mass on Easter Sunday, very little ritual lingered after 10 o'clock in the morning. The drive from San Rafael to San Francisco in the mid-afternoon was tedious. No one spoke except to wonder if the ham would be salty. I hated ham so I knew I would't eat. Brussel sprouts were overcooked as was everything else that was supposed to be green on the table. The Irish weren't big on fresh green salad; the closest they came to salad was potato salad swimmings in mayonnaise with too many pieces of, what else, green pickles. My cousins and my brother and I played with each other with little interest, and most of the time I sat in the living room waiting to go home, slowly sipping a coca cola that was forbidden to me at home.

In terms of religion, each holiday represents different philosophic concepts. One of the uncles at the Seder took me aside and told me that what really mattered about Passover was the central theme of freedom. The Jews finally got out of Egypt and were able to be free as they went on their journey to the promised land. Easter represents redemption. It was reported that Jesus, crucified two days earlier (Good Friday) and buried in a cave, rose from the dead and was proclaimed the true Messiah by a group of his followers. Some of his disciples said that he made a few visits before he ascended into heaven. Mankind was redeemed; our sins were forgiven. We are not concerned with freedom - freedom of thought, in particular.

But then there was some European pagan ritual that got mixed up with the redemption of Christ and we got Easter egg hunts and chocolate bunny rabbits and an annual NYC Easter Parade . Now if you can find the logic in introducing a pagan ritual into a spiritual context - and mix that with ham - and it simply baffles me and often vexes my sense of spiritual decorum.

I have a tendency to think that religion is based on mythology - like the Greek and Roman mythological stories we may be familiar with. The books in the new testament written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were all written 50 years to 150 years after Jesus lived on the earth. Facts can be altered to suit someone else's truth. It's a little unclear who actually wrote the old testament - probably lots of contributors and lots of good stories ranging from forbidden fruit to an array of punishments that even frightens adults. Did I mention sex, the subservient role of women in marriage and worshipping idols? Neither old or new testament give much credence to individual thinking or philosophic exploration.

It probably doesn't matter much because when it comes to a spiritual belief system developed out of organized religion there is little apparent logic. Belief in a higher power or religious institutions is emotional. I suspect that the need to believe in something other than ourselves is based on our fear of dying and the need to be spiritually and morally supported by "the other" throughout life. It's challenging to live without some powerful ally. God, Jesus, Allah are on my side. Some think that belief in a higher power is based on the concept of surrender and acceptance. Others think that a belief in a higher power is a crutch; i.e, our human belief system developed from our own sense of virtue is not strong enough to get through life and pass on into death. No matter the reason for belief in a universal power or organized religion every person has to get through life and death in his/her own way.

Powerful forces can also exist within our own psyches or souls. Stepping back a bit from ourselves, detaching with that 10% reserve to observe our actions (kindness and forgiveness is good) is also a fine way to access our moral compass. Finding the power in the energy of our universal is another way of surrendering to and accepting our lives and our eventual death. For after all, we are only passing through this life on the way to death. We can choose to make it joyous or fraught with struggle. We can choose to live by virtue and a strong moral spine or we can simply collect a bunch of bad karma.

The longer I live the more I realize that there is an Easter parade going on all the time in our hearts and minds. It always comes down to having an attitude of gratitude. This is my religion.

Namaste

Joan

Mortality Comes Knocking

Hi, Boomers,

Remember the concept of mortality? We boomers don't like to think much about the prospect of dying because we're so close to it, but I'm forced to do just that today. I'm going in for a "Medical Procedure." Okay, it's not invasive surgery; it's the laparoscopic kind. Three little cuts and it's done! Voila! I'm out of there. I think.

The out patient hospital called yesterday afternoon to register me. Lots of questions, including my mother's maiden name. Why that? My mother died a year ago. What possible...

oh, yeah, they can trace me to some dynasty in the nineteenth century in Poland - to my grandfather Jake - the labor organizer. He certainly wouldn't be popular with Wisconsin's governor. Don't get the granddaughter of a a commie/pinko talking about labor unions.

But the piece de resistance question was:

"Do you have a will?" the sweet nurses's voice on the other end of the phone ask with trepidation.

"You're kidding. What? Am I going to die?'

"Oh, no," she politely replied. "If you don't have a will, we have a form..." her voice trailed off.

Awkward conversation to say the least.

"Yes, I have a will. My son, the lawyer has it. But I don't know if he remembers that I made one out or if he still has it or if he....." I trailed off.

Awkward.

"Well, I have it in my computer," I continued picking up the lull in the conversation.

"Well, good because if not..."

"I know you have a form, which I will fill out when I'm admitted."

Conversation over.

I was left with an uncomfortable feeling that I just faced my demise. Dead. The finality of all life. Dead. Couldn't get it out of my mind. Dead. It came back to me all after noon, through the teaching of two more yoga classes, through "American Idol" final 24, through the shower, through my Cleopatra book, and trying to fall asleep after Antony's disastrous battle against Octavian.

But as yogi, I am prepared for death. Oh, yes, dying in the ethereal sense of the word. We yogis call it transitioning. Our spirit, our soul leaves out mortal body and enters the universe. Energy never dies. All physicists know that. Energy gets somehow recycled in the universe, in the space world. I do believe that. I do believe energy continues to be a force in our atmosphere. I even believe in reincarnation. Thank God. That's kind of comforting about now. However, the mortal thoughts, the dead thoughts are disturbing when one faces an operating table, even though my gynecologist is a genius, an expert, but human. Everyone is human. Mistakes happen. My friend's mother was having a kidney operation and the doctor nipped at the bladder. Opps. So there is that slight chance that the "in and out" procedure won't go as well as ordering a burger from "In and Out." With the latter, you're sure of the outcome.

The unease prevails and the knots grow bigger in my stomach as rain starts to pound the southern California streets. Is that a bad omen? I only know that my adorable yoga student just texted me this comforting thought:

"Just think, J, you can have a glass of wine after it's over."

So mortality doesn't feel so bad after that thought. Starving as I am, thirsty as I am, and dying for a latte as I am at this very moment, I've got some really tolerable goodies to look forward to after my ovaries are gone. Sex, I hope, is another goodie still waiting.

"And how long do I have to wait for that, Doc?" I ask plaintively.

Namaste

Joan

Oh, Ye of Little Faith

Hi, Boomers,

I was walking through the UCLA campus late this afternoon, taking the path up Bruin Way. One of the many tables lining the pathway caught my eye. The sign said: "Religion is for the Weak."

I was surprised by the sign. Now, I 'm not a religious person anymore. I left the auspices of organized religion many years ago. At one time, I was very religious and attended daily Mass and received Holy Communion frequently. But the years of following man-made doctrine blindly lost its appeal the older I got because the more I discovered the divineness within myself (namaste), the idea of organized religion became less appealing. Going to Mass was habit and rote behavior. When I learned to meditate, I was a journey of mind and spirit connection that became a stronger force in my life.

But that doesn't mean to say that codes of ethics and behaviors in organized religion aren't important. I believe they add direction in life if they are based on a generosity of spirit and forgiveness. Most religions portend to extrapolate on those themes. But the idea that I should go to church for an hour every Sunday and listen to a preacher tell me how to live a peaceful and joyful life doesn't sit well with me because I can leave Church and steal a lipstick from CVS while I buy Kleenex at the check out counter.

Does religion truly make us weak? I find that to be a pretty radical concept. Perhaps it doesn't truly make a person weak, but religion can alter the perspective of the individual and urge him or her to accept only what the institution has to say. What then happens to personal responsibility? Who is creating one's spiritual journey? The institution or the self? It's easier to let the priest tell me what I should think or how I should act. Hence, our divineness doesn't emanate from within our own soul to act with charity and responsibility to each other or to nurture our individual spirit. It comes from someone telling us to act in a specific way.

As I walked away from the table on Bruin Way, I felt a sense of relief that in the positive energy that I generated within myself, I had the ability to give back love and respect to those I care about, my family and dear friends. I truly believed that a life of fulfillment and peace begins by taking steps to find the divine within ourselves.

I remember wanting to go to church at one point in my life because I wanted to be with like people, people who believe with faith and love that the church we were attending was the institution that helped us live a better life. That's not a weakness to believe this; it is an idea based on faith. And faith does not make us weak. But there is more to faith than believing that the institution representing a divine being is always on the right path. The right path is a path of our own choosing attained through mindfulness and staying conscious and present in life. Through the study of yoga and by practicing meditation, I discovered that it would be through my efforts at self-discovery and growth that I would achieve some kind of transformation and finally acceptance of my Tao, my life's journey.

So namaste, boomers. The divine in me recognizes the divine in you.

Joan

Brother Where Art Thou?

Hi, Boomers,

It's always the best laid plans that go astray in my life. I was away for two consecutive weekends; one weekend was the tango festival in Albuquerque where I danced and sold my book, SIXTY, SEX, & TANGO, CONFESSIONS OF A BEATNIK BOOMER; and just last weekend I was in San Francisco for a book signing at Barnes&Noble in Corte Madera in Marin County. Just happened there was a tango marathon festival in San Francisco. Then I had a house guest staying with me for a week and I have been itching to blog and have had no free time. The week was a whirlwind of activity between teaching and my friend's needs.

But the essence of the San Francisco trip was my book signing - an event that was a kickoff for my 50th high school reunion next year. I landed in Berkeley on Friday night with my friend, Marc, who picked me up at the Oakland airport and I was immediately hit with memories of Berkeley in the 60's. I seemed to be carrying nostalgia for hours on end as memories engulfed me. There was San Francisco looming as we crossed the Bay Bridge; the hilly city streets I was so familiar with; Broadway and Columbus; North Beach, the Broadway studio, which was once a bordello where we danced tango on Friday night. I was tripping.

Before I knew it I was headed to Marin on Sunday morning to have a delightful brunch with an old school chum and his wife. Then to the bookstore to set up and then the arrival of friends from high school, especially my oldest best friend since I was two years old. It was so good to hug her and be in her presence. And those from my high school class were absolutely terrific people who evidently live with a lot of happiness.

Then, out of nowhere, I feel a tap in my shoulder. I turned around and there was my sister in law. It took me a moment to re-adjust to my surroundings. I thought I was in Vegas and I suddenly forgot what I was supposed to be doing.

"Where's my brother?" I asked without thinking. "He's coming," she responded casually.

There he was. My brother was walking towards me smiling like he had just swallowed the canary. That cool cat, my brother. I was speechless and feeling so loved that I wanted to collapse in tears.

"Did you drive from Vegas?" I gulped. "Of course. We left this morning?"

'You're crazy," I joked.

"Wouldn't miss it, Joan," he said with joy.

Who does that? Who loves his sister so much that he wouldn't miss her reading in our home town? What did I ever deserve to have a brother who is so selfless and tenacious, a man whose values have always been in the right place.

"Did you visit mom's apartments in Greenbrae?" I asked.

"Yep, all five are there and in great condition."

My mom and dad built apartment building in the Greenbrae hills and they are a great source of pride in my family.

The reading, the event with old friends who were smiling and laughing and supporting was icing on the cake. I loved this moment more than ever because my brother was there! I decided to read from the tango section of my book and then my friends and I did a tango demonstration. And there were questions after and there was so much interest that we could have gone on for another half hour. My brother had never seen me dance tango. It was special.

I think that there could be no higher joy that seeing my brother walking up to me in the Barnes&Noble children's section that afternoon. I know I will cherish this memory and experience for the rest of my life and it will be one of the highlights of living on this earth.

Namaste

Joan

Bragging Rights

Hi, Boomers,

I was recently talking to a young mother about being a grandmother. I have five grandchildren at the moment, and I was telling her how sometimes unreal it all felt to have so many grandchildren, to love unconditionally so many children from my children. At that moment, I got all choked up and emotional.

I felt there had been no preparation for being a grandmother. Once my progeny left home, a declared all out freedom of movement, freedom of speech, freedom to do dumb things without children bearing down on me and co-opting my energy. It felt unbelievably liberating. It didn't feel unbearable - the empty nest and all of that. It didn't feel emotional disconnecting. No more meals to make, rules to make, beds to make, suitcases to pack and unpack, daily laundry to do, papers to write, prom dates to take pictures of, ski trips to pay for, cars to by, and the list goes on.

I am a parent who didn't feel depressed at sending my boys to college. I even encouraged the to choose a college back east. They went far away to meet new people and get new experiences and travel when then could do so. I saw them on the holidays or parent's day and finally graduation. Off to work, now, boys and get a good job, find a nice girl to marry.

And it stopped there. Stopped at find a nice girl and get married. Raising children was a memory, a dear memory sometimes and a nightmare memory other times. We've all been through it and we all know the drill.

Then one day, the oldest son, wants to get engaged. His intended is adorable, getting her PhD in psychology, stable, rather wonderful family, and all looks rosey for everyone. The wedding is large and beautiful, the parents are beyond happy, the guests are having a blast, and the honeymoon is a success.

And then one day two years later, my daughter-in-law is pregnant. And one day without warning, a baby boy appears and I am a grandmother. I don't know what to do, how to feel. Anxiety pervades my being and I am lost in another title. I thought I was done with titles. I was a wife and a mother and a significant other and those were enough titles. Sufficient! Basta! I wandered around being a grandmother for the first year. Just as I was getting the hang of it - diapering, feeding shifts, strolling, napping, crawling, talking the first steps, first words, building lego towers, dancing to music, picking up from pre-school - another grandchild is born. There were two grandsons now. I was going through it again. Different dynamic. Different little boy's personality. Same dance all over again. Lots of visits to Las Vegas to the family. Lots of flying. Lots more love and happiness and disconnect from grandmother title once I return home.

Son #2 gets finds his love, gets engaged, gets married in the meantime. Two years later, he has a boy. Now there are three. Are my arms big enough, strong enough? I still feel like I might not have the hang of being a grandmother. I'm single. My ex isn't the grandfatherly type and shows up every once in awhile. One day my oldest grandson asks me why Papa and I aren't living together. His idea of grandparents are that they live together in the same house. Papa and I do not live together, haven't so for decades.

Then another boy. And then several months ago, a girl. A girl! A real girl! Joy, joy! And I am in love with all of them and I finally find myself believing I am a grandmother.

I told the young girl that it sometimes felt surreal being a grandmother, but now mostly it feels real. Being a grandmother is another state of being. That's what I didn't get at the beginning of my grandmother journey. I'm operating on other cylinders as a grandmother. I'm not a mother. But I am responsible as a mother would be for the care and nurturing of my grandchildren when I am present with them. But then I am not there everyday so I have to be extra, extra conscious when I am with them. My job is to stay present with them in their real time and not worry about anything else.

My son said to me at breakfast this morning as we were about to drive to Los Angeles from Las Vegas for a photo shoot for his son because my grandson was signed by an agent to be a kid's model that if anything would happen to his wife and to him, I wouldn't be able to raise his kids.

"You wouldn't be able to do with other grandparents do," he said casually.

"You'd better believe I could take care of the kids!" I shot back. "I still have it in me to raise a few of my grandkids!"

"No, you wouldn't," he said.

"Yes, I would and don't you think otherwise," I proudly responded. "I still have the skills and fortitude to do it."

"Well, you are organized," he remembered.

And I'm still a mother lioness, I wanted to say, but stopped my protestations because I had made my point. My son wanted the reassurance that I would always be there to be a grandmother, and I believe I gave him every reassurance.

The photo shoot of his son went splendidly. It was amazing to watch a two and a half year old understand the camera. The photographer said he's get a lot of work with his look. He's the picture of all American apple pie with dreadlocks. Edgy, huh?

I've got bragging rights today.

Namaste

Joan

Notes From the Hindu Underground

Hi, Boomers,

I'm home and the emersion back to reality has not taken place yet. Hey, the day is almost over and maybe I won't be jarred back into the daily news. A weariness is beginning to creep into my bones and my mind is fuzzier than at noon when I wandered through Ralph's trying to come up with a week's worth of food. Not Whole Foods? Okay, so I had a bunch of Ralph's coupons that needed to be used up.

While my body is shopping and organizing bills and juggling next week's marketing activity and classes, my mind is still back in Bali. I'm still flush with the warmth and generosity of spirit and daily offerings of gratitude that encompasses this most unique Hindu society. Despite the hundreds of motorbikes and taxis flooding the streets at all hours, the rhythm of Bali resides in the beats of one's heart. Care, kindness, and gratitude is the mantra chain. Karma determines your way into life and your way out of life.

One of the most unique experiences I had was attending a cremation ceremony. The funeral was held in a small village about 10 miles outside of Ubud - the city where I stayed - and it began in the home of the deceased. We were served water and cake before the ceremony began. There were relatives and villagers milling around or sitting. Music was playing; children were happily wandering around; the ladies were gossiping and the men were organizing and erecting the very tall edifice where the deceased body was to be placed.

When it was time to gather on the center road in the village, we all moved into the street and watched the finishing preparations. On the very top of the funeral edifice, a beautiful young woman, dressed in Balinese ceremonial clothes, sat perfectly still. She was a member of the deceased family. Below her was a life-size black cow made out of wood; upon that cow road an important person from the village. He looked like a cowboy in a western movie. He was happily showing off to the villagers how much fun he was having atop that cow.

In this particular funeral ceremony, only one man was going to be cremated. The deceased was considered to have some wealth in the village and so he was allowed to have his own separate cremation. Sometimes many people are cremated at the same time if they do not have the means for an individual funeral. This was an unusual event.

My friends and I hung out with two adorable Italian men who spoke English very well and so we all walked together down the pothole filled street, wind blowing dust around our bodies as the oppressive heat made our throats dry. I thought we should be sad at this moment, but no one around us was sad. Everyone was joyfully talking and laughing and it all seemed so, well, perplexingly not like a funeral.

We walked into a large field and the villagers stood back as those who prepared for the cremation did their work.. The black cow was situation on its own platform and was separated from the edifice where the body was held. Actually, the body was wrapped much like a mummy in ancient Egypt and placed in what looked like a casket. Then men lifted the casket and carried it to the cow where it slowly slide into the body into a carved out cavity inside the cow. Evidently, the cow had movable parts and functioned somewhat like a crematorium. In the ensuing half hour, piles of wood and straw were placed around the cow. Still, the crowd talked and continued to carry on as if they were standing around at a market place.

The family approached the funeral pyre to pay their last respects. The wood and straw were beginning to burn. When the cow was sufficiently burning, I walked up to the sacred cow which housed the burning body and paid my last respects. I knew from my yoga and study of Buddhism that this was a moment of transition for the deceased. His soul was moving on into the spiritual world and he would, of course, come back into another form. If he had lived life with good karma, he would return a happy man. If not, his life would be full of struggle.

I asked our driver, Wayan, why there were no tears. Why there was no sadness. Why were the villagers were totally relaxed and peaceful. The sense of balance in the crowd was pervasive. There were no high or lows; the energy of the villagers was uniquely tranquil for just having seen their beloved relative die.

Wayan told us about the Hindu philosophy of death and dying; it is much like the Tibetan philosophy of living and dying. For Hindus and Buddhists, death is a transition after life. That transition has meaning because the energy of the soul does not evaporate. The soul lives, it resonates in the universe at the moment of death. Death is a happy time in these unique cultures. It is a time to assess karma and give gratitude for life on earth. For those who are close relatives of the deceased, a wife or a daughter or son, then there may be tears shed but not in public. No one mourns or long.

I am still feeling the vibe of peace and non-violence at the core of the Balinese society. I sensed no anger; I sensed no impatience; I sensed no judgment. There is little crime and not much drug use. There seems to be a lack of coveting of things or fighting over the spoils of events or situation. The island of Bali and its people are embracing and loving and the the richness and textures of this most magnificent and lush environment and its spiritual people will have a long lasting influence on my soul.

I didn't do any yoga while I was away. My friends asked me if I missed the practice. But I told them that my practice was more meditative and not so physical because we were hiking most of the days and the physical exertion was vigorous. So my thoughts turned inward many times a day as I let my mind wander and absorb the purity of the air and the stillness in my environment. Can you imagine meditating in a rice field? It's heaven. And Bali is surely as close to paradise on earth as it gets.

Namaste

Joan

I Get High With A Little Help From My Friends

Hi, Boomers,

Ah, yes. The bliss of a yoga retreat. There is nothing quite like the beauty of going somewhere special and joyfully doing nothing but yoga, chanting mantras, encountering holotropic breathing (an LSD high without the LDS), vegan cuisine, swimming and hiking and sleeping in the cold night air and trying to find the bathroom at in the dead of a dark night. And never getting there in time.

I hadn't been on a yoga retreat in about a year and a half. The last time was in Costa Rica and I was the only one in attendance. My daughter in law's brother was a yoga teacher at this particular retreat near Jaco on the west coast of Costa Rica, and he said he'd meet me there. But had decided to leave a month before I came and forgot to tell me. So I arrived and became a part of an Argentine family who ran retreats as well as lived an idyllic existence on the premises. I simply became an extended part of the family structure for a week. I didn't want to leave my new family when the week was over, but I had to go on tour with my adorable eco tour guide who ended up getting dengue fever and leaving me to fend for myself. I should have taken up their offer to adopt me and have me teach daily yoga to the locals.

This weekend's retreat was in the Ojai Valley. It was held at a place called Casa Baranca. There is a very large beautiful lodge on the grounds with a winery alongside. Tea houses are scattered around on the premises. The most beautiful yoga room I have ever scene is the centerpiece of the retreat. Next to that is a beautiful swimming pool with a jacuzzi. Hiking trails are everywhere.

I intended to not to talk very much. People who know me are laughing out loud now. But I had an intention to keep to myself. However, when I met he various yogis and yoginis and saw the huge smile on my yoga teacher's face, I knew this was going to be a great ride. Everyone was joyful. There was electricity in the air; energy was bouncing off everyone. It was so not a solitude moment for me and I surrendered to the collective energy.

I had no expectations about the retreat. I never do. I try to stay in the moment of my practice, listen to happy breathing in the room, the ever loud rock and roll selections by Steve, wait for the pithy comments, and relax into the flow of moment. The practice is always like a dance for me and the chanting is forever an inspiration. I get high with a little help from my friends. The holotropic breathing sends me into the world of the unconscious where the fears and dark memories reside, and by the end of the hour, they are all released into the universe.

We gather in the kitchen for meals and they are always lively and witty and full of fun. On this particular trip, there were some very intelligent people with exceptional talents - both men and women. One man, in particular, was a very funny Hollywood screenwriter who was never without an hysterical quip or riff on our grueling yoga practice or Steve's insensitivity to our physical pain. "It's all good," Steve repeats as his mantra. "I just don't feel your pain," he adds.

The physical beauty of the land, the way the early morning fog curls around the mountains, the way the sun rises to meet the sky, the perfect intensity of the afternoon sun, which made our bodies warm and supple, the blissful temperature of the pool, the sounds of birds and animals everywhere, the lovable resident cat, the cheerfulness of our vegan cooks, the outdoor eating patio that was surrounded by luscious ice plants and giant oak trees - all made my weekend glorious.

Even driving home on Sunday after a rigorous yoga practice and an exquisite vegan lunch produced no negative energy as I stalled in traffic on my way back to Los Angeles. My life was getting back into balance. I was on the road to recovery, maybe even to transformation.

Then, there is real life. There is my ever present sty above my right eye which won't go away. I made a pit stop at UCLA emergency care to see what was up with it because it looked like it was growing daily. Not much was up with it. It was still hard as a rock and cloning twins. Cleaning and shopping and unpacking and getting ready for Monday's work and the arrival of my step-daughter, cheerful as ever bringing me food and wine and joy were all part of my extraordinary day.

So it was a pretty great weekend, I'd say. I am grateful for my bliss, my joy of yoga, my new friends. I'm grateful my book is on Kindle and it looks smashing on my book page and all ladies who are reading it are laughing and really like the story. So, yeah, I into the gratitude mode as I shuffle the energy of the universe around myself and those whom I love dearly.

And today, another blissful encounter with my yoga classes. I walked into my 5:30 class, my last of the day, and wondered what the noise was about as I stood outside to listen. I finally entered and there was my book, Sixty, Sex, & Tango opened to the chapter entitled, "Men and Other Sociopaths I have Met" being passed around and everyone was laughing. I got ribbed to death and then we settle down for a energetic flow class. Another joyful day.

Namaste,

Joan