My Father, My Friend

Frank P. Haas 1942 – 2012

I first met Frank in 1978, when he was courting my mother Sandy. He had “passed muster” so he could meet my sister and me. I remember a big man in aviator sunglasses, wearing a leisure suit, and driving a mint green Lincoln Continental Town Car.

Soon Frank also gained my Grandma’s approval by pruning a rose bush and repairing the fridge. One of my first memories of him is of him helping my Mom prepare dinner. Something about the patient way he chopped the vegetables and prepared the sauce gave me pause. He gave his full attention to the task at hand, and in doing so, clearly enjoyed the work.

Eventually, Frank would teach me how to drive, found me after-school jobs, and helped fund my education. He had a life-long habit of putting others before himself, taking care of his mother, father, sisters and two young children, as well as his numerous clients and countless close friends.

I learned that Frank entered the workforce at 12 years old selling newspapers – going on to sell ladies shoes and cars, and finally, with astronomical success for almost 30 years, insurance. At State Farm his wise advice and conscientious effort made him the quintessential Good Neighbor.

He was the “go to” man for many, and he loved being that man. He never hesitated to step up to the plate and take charge of any situation, and yet, he was humble, too.

Over the years, Frank and I chatted about what is important in Life. We would invariably distill it down to three concepts: Giving is Receiving, Work is Love Made Visible and Always Look on the Sunny Side of Life.

Frank’s secret was simple: He Lived to Give. He was one of those rare people who understood what Real Love is: He gave of himself to others — his intelligence, his hard work, his humor and his joy. In return, he was genuinely loved by many, many people in his community and beyond. Frank taught me that Love is more about giving than receiving.

The poet Rilke says: “For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate test and proof, the work for which all other work is preparation.”

The love between my parents, Frank and Sandy, was a joy to see. They were, quite simply, each other's best friends. Together, they fulfilled their dreams: creating the life they wanted, traveling to places near and far, watching their children and grandchildren grow, and cherishing each other deeply for 35 years.

Throughout his long illness, Frank continued to love: interested and concerned about others even though he was suffering greatly. In an almost mystical way he gave us all time to be with him during these past months, and at the end, to say our goodbyes.

Most of all, I think he wanted to stay for Sandy, truly the love of his life. As Frank began his journey home, I asked him to continue to be our Angel on the other side, watching over us, and helping us to love and take care of each other. We all hope to live up to the high standard he set for integrity, humility, and kindness.

One of Frank’s many affiliations was Optimist International. Members believe that giving of oneself in service to others “advances the well-being of humankind, community life and the world.”

As we celebrate Frank’s life today and wonder how we will go on without him, I hear him reciting the Optimist Creed. Whenever the chips were down he would say~ “Press on to the Greater Achievements of the Future.” We need to be our very best selves, we need to live our lives to the fullest in his honor. He would want us to press on!

We miss you Frankie.

And we will see you again — finally at home, where you are happy and free, glowing in the bright healing light of Heaven.

Played for Frankie in the hospital the day before he went home

Church of the Convertible

In the Church of the Convertible prayers are always answered, sometimes in surprising ways. A matador-red Miata landed on my doorstep recently, and when I take this pretty pony out for a spin everything is beautiful again.

Many of us in mid-life find ourselves seeking answers that soothe, enlighten and heal. As as we wake up with quicksand in our bones and our brains feel mushier every day, we ask ourselves: How much play-time do we have left? Has it all been worth it so far? And, what do we do now?

For me, it's time to renew my love of play and pleasure, knowing Life is not forever, and that this really does apply to me. Voilá - the mid-life crisis! Sometimes, it's OK to live a cliché...take up flamenco dancing, and fall in love with a car.

In Spanish, the word for convertible is "Descapotable" (Des-cap-oh-tah-blay) such a sexy word, conjuring Hemingway, bullfights and love in the afternoon. As I downshift into the tight curves of our American Riviera in Big Sur, coiffure-protecting scarf in place, I remember Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief (and try not to think about her demise). With Kipling riding shotgun, my needs are wonderfully clear: the car I've waited 30 years to drive, with my dog as my co-pilot. There is therapy in the simple pleasures, after all.

My philandering uncles drove sporty cars. So, my psyche has that imprint of fast cars = danger = sexy. As advertising firms know well, there is something sexy about a driving experience that demands your full attention, and fills you with that delicious feeling of youthful foolishness.

Yet sportscar driving is also an awareness practice. You are not going from A - B in some quiet behemoth that feels more like your living room than a car, playing a video game with your life. Rather you are driving with intention and therefore a higher level of consciousness. With all the traveling I do in Big Sur and out into world, it's good to be just inches above the pavement, paying close attention.

I've no desire to talk on the phone (can't hear) eat (doesn't really work) or apply makeup (can't shift gears with a mascara wand in my hand). I'm hyper-aware of my speed, other drivers, and the natural world around me (especially with the top down!) This lovely Miata has a Momo steering wheel, causing the mechanic at Jiffy Lube to express awe. "It's a performance steering wheel," he said reverently.

Last weekend I drove through the highway corridor of eucalyptus trees near San Juan Bautista, made famous by Hitchcock in Vertigo -- shadows of these tall trees falling across the lanes in the late afternoon sunshine. When I entered the Big Sur Valley sometime later, I imagined the bird's eye view of myself from the tops of the redwoods, hawk or crow's vision captured by a flash of red.

The sound of the engine, the feel of the wind, the smile on my face. It's funny how life is more beautiful when you're awake. Like Cinderella at the end of the ball, soon I may need to return this scarlet carriage to the fairy godfather who so kindly loaned it to us. But I have been reborn in my new faith, the Church of the Convertible, and will worship as often as I can!

Publish Post

Dog is my co-pilot, photo by Toby Rowland-Jones

A Man from Another Time

When I describe my neighbor Jim, I sum him up with the words, “He’s like a man from another time.

Now I would say he’s a kind of bodhisattva, his joy glowing through the yellow finches chattering in the tops of the trees in the garden. Perhaps he's in the owl who called from the branches near my front door when I met his brothers the night after his death. Or in the crow who cried outside my office window for hours the next day.

Like the tiny finches, musical notes that can’t be seen but are heard all around, Jim will always be with us here on Partington Ridge.

The Rosicrucians believe that the soul reincarnates every 140 years or so. So I wonder: will Pink Floyd be around 100 years from now, when Jim comes back? I know he would like that.

Why is it when someone dies, there seems to never have been enough time to have completely loved and enjoyed them, to have fully savored their unique spark? Jim never told us how bad his cancer was, and I imagine he downplayed the gravity of what he was facing so he could continue to enjoy the love and optimism that came his way from us.

In Big Sur we are “social hermits”: we treasure our privacy, nurturing ourselves with views of Nature, both expansive and intimate. Many of us also shine in sharing the majesty of our gardens with a circle of loving friends. Jim did this, and for years much laughter and joy flowed from the little house on the edge of the cliff where he lived.

Jim was smart, Mensa smart, but he was modest and low key. A true bachelor, he was a little shy with the ladies. His brother revealed his genius IQ just a few days ago. Jim’s mother related how he was only five classes short of a degree in biochemistry, but decided he didn’t want to be part of the corporate world, opting for a free-spirited life instead.

Jim had a gentle, wise laugh, perfect olive skin and 70’s rock star hair. He would probably have “cleaned up pretty” as we say in my neighborhood. He could have worked in the music industry, worn a suit, had a wife and kids, a house in the hills. But he chose the top of Partington Ridge, a life of friends watching epic sunsets over the ocean, sports on the big screen TV, and a little dog named Vinnie.

The range and depth of Jim’s musical knowledge was impressive, his love of music profound. He was a connoisseur of sound, and the premier audio guru for musical events here in Big Sur. To his great joy, he was able to do this work the Monterey Jazz Festival for the past 6 years.

“Sit here” he said to me recently, pointing to the space between him and his friend on the leather couch in his living room / kitchen / bedroom / entertainment center. “This is the best space for hearing sound, “ he added, and I agreed, the wattage from the huge speakers and all the old-fashioned sound equipment making my body vibrate. “This is the Church of Analog” he smiled.

And now as to how he died: the way no vital, well-loved and hardworking person in the prime of their life should die in this country -- uninsured.

Jim fell asleep on his couch last Tuesday night, and slept all night long, rare for him these days. In the morning he was still dreaming peacefully, the cancer swiftly taking over his body like a dark tide. Quietly and in solitude, he slipped away. There are those who would say that, given the kind of cancer he had, that his non-medicalized death was a kind of “blessing.”

But let me tell you a truth: Jim was not ready to die, did not want to die, and would not consider his death at 47, a few short days before his mother came to see him, as any kind of blessing.

The night before, I stopped in to visit. We went over his Obamacare PCIP “Pre-existing Condition Insurance Plan” paperwork. He was excited to have been approved for coverage, which kicked in the first of January, in time for the surgery he had scheduled at UCSF on January 4.

He had taken some pain medication, and was laughing with a lovely young woman who sat with him on his couch. The overall feeling was bittersweet: sad and overwhelmed but also happy to be enjoying the evening.

In the previous weeks Jim shared with me his feelings towards Esalen Institute, where he worked for the past 8 years.

Esalen, Jim said, a non-profit center for the “human potential movement” (and here he rolled his eyes) had over the years prevented him from receiving health insurance. That was the word he used: “prevented”. He was told to work less than 30 hours per week so he would not qualify for this essential benefit.

He waited, he said, through different administrations there, to receive a benefits package. “They were about to give us health insurance,” he said, “ and then they bought Abalone Gulch instead.” (A property to the north of Esalen.) He felt betrayed, and that these actions ultimately deprived him of a fighting chance against his illness.

Jim did not seek out the care he needed months ago, because, in part, he was concerned that if he was sick, he would have a “pre-existing condition” and not qualify fast enough or at all for any kind of insurance coverage.

Tragically, he turned out to be very, very sick. In December he was hoping to receive a position with benefits that had recently opened in his department. He had support from his colleagues in this effort. But, in what Jim felt to be an astonishing coup de grace, Esalen completely abandoned him by denying him the job, the benefits, and any other assistance at all.

There is something especially heart-breaking about telling someone you love that they’re “going to be OK” and then realizing that, in fact, they’re not. My neighbor, my soul brother, who loved his life, his home, his family and friends, who looked forward to many more joyous years on this planet, is gone.

The gentle guest who joined us for years of dinner parties and holiday celebrations (always late, with a big smile on his face and a nice bottle of wine under his arm) will not grace us with his presence again. We pray that he is resting in peace, surrounded by celestial sound.

Oh dearest, sweet, Jim. Jimbo. We miss you, so very, very much.


Jim, and his mega-watt smile
Jim, the day we all returned home after the Basin Complex Fire, 2008

Photos by Linda Sonrisa

What inspires you now?

One of my Muses asked me this highly stimulating question yesterday. As winter approaches and coldness seeps into my house on a Saturday morning, I find that my wood-burning stove inspires me.

Creating heat in my bedroom by crumbling paper, stacking kindling and logs, torching it all and then sitting back to watch the flames (blessed moment!) comforts me.

My cats, assuming double-decker placement on my lap and thighs (what my husband calls my kitty lap-dance) inspire me to sit on my cushion, and eventually, meditate.

Watching Pearl Grey neatly wash Minnie's face as they're curled together on the wool blanket at the foot of my bed, soothes me. As does their abundant sisterly attention for each other and the way they look at me when I interrupt them with a kiss, one on top of each furry head.

The stack of unread spiritual books below and above my bed whisper to me to be still, and to finally read them in the coming month(s), thoughtfully, with my orange highlighter pen, over many cups of tea. Or coffee. Coffee inspires me, warm, sweet, hot and forcing me to recognize yet again the hamster wheel that is my brain.

Sheepskin beneath my toes under the covers of my bed makes me dream of ancient tribal royalty traveling via caravan across Mongolia. Bells tinkling around my ankles, wrapped in colorful fabric, I dance beneath the enormous skies of the steppes, or on top of Partington Ridge, in the sharp winter morning light.

Sapphire blue ocean, tranquil, so deep, reaching to where it meets the sky, topped by a wave of cumulus clouds across the horizon. Emerald green grass swoops downhill from my door, each blade illuminated from the east. Wind-chimes bouncing from the Datura branch, singing an almost bird-like song. Hummingbirds appear, and perch at their feeder, what I think of as their "table for six", inhaling nectar.

The Datura blooms outside my bedroom door inspire me. Miraculously, four or five blooms are opening even now, in mid-November. At night I stand on the deck and lift the most open golden blossom to my face, drinking in the amazing delicate scent. Datura perfume and winter skies filled with crisp stars, Milky Way flooding my soul.

The fascinating contents of my fridge call me to cook up something tasty on a cold winter morning. My happy dog rolls on his back in the grass and stretches, arching his tummy up to the sun. The laughter in my little sister's voice on the phone brings me home to myself and who I really am, or was, back in the beginnings of my life. But now is better. Now is always better.

The landscape before me breathes and vibrates with sacred life, more vivid to me than ever before, perhaps because I am simply receiving this vision. The holy work of genuinely accepting the moment, other souls (and myself) just as we are, right now, constantly inspires me and, when I have succeeded in savoring a tiny taste of this, contented tears flow from my heart.

Photo by Linda Sonrisa

Float with the Flame

As death is the "change agent" of Life, as Steve Jobs observed, then fire is a growth agent, causing people to pop open like the seeds of certain plants, germinating fresh life. I must be of this species of plant, since fire transformed my journey powerfully on October 20, 1991, in Oakland, California. Yes, twenty years ago this month.

Fire brings a spiritual re-alignment, a crackling pop of a psychic chiropractic adjustment. There is an Aha! of what is really important, and what is not.

The Oakland Hills Fire revealed my ultimate priorities. It gave me the courage to leave my cozy burrow in the hills above the romantic city and migrate to a better place. A friend who also landed here in Big Sur afterwards commented, "That fire was one of the best things that's ever happened to me." I would have to agree.

One of my favorite stories is from my neighbor who, after jumping through flaming hoops to get home, realized just as he came through his front door that nothing in the house was important enough to take. He walked away from it all, and then in the end, his home was safe.

When you lose all of the personal items that somehow define who you are, you release an anchor chain that stretches to the bottom of the sea. That chain, swirled in tendrils of green muck, drops to the floor as the ship sails free. Instant lightness of being. Your focus is freed up to be in the moment as there is less care and feeding of "the stuff".

And then, something magical happens. You see all living things in a new light -- and all your experiences become filled with wonder. For about a week. That state of grace which I enjoyed after the Oakland Fire made me fearless about facing a crisis, and left me floating upward, with the alchemical flames, into a new life.

I can still see the word Samsara almost jumping off the perfume bottle at my friend's house a week after the fire. Of all the assorted toiletries in the medicine cabinet "Samsara", a concept I was just beginning to grasp, was suddenly as crystal clear to me as the label on that glowing vial.

In dreams, my missing cats reassured me that they were napping in the sunshine on the other side. Years later I learned my future husband had stood beside me on that nightmarish afternoon, watching news broadcasts of the disaster at a pub in Noe Valley.

The fire taught me that the capacity for grief is directly proportional to the capacity for joy, that there is always a blessing hidden in tragedy, that angels do, in fact, watch over us all.

The illustration above was done by my friend Dave Ember, who worked as a graphic artist for the Oakland Tribune in 1991. He wrote a lovely poem on the original, which he gave to me.

"The flowers
of the future
spring forth from
the ashes of the past --
float with the flame."
--Love, Dave

Me and my Ice Pack

Time to admire the flowers once more.

Life pushed me down on the playground recently. This is not a metaphor. I actually did fall and twist my ankle a month ago.

It felt like the school-yard bully, some mean girl, came up behind me and smacked me down onto the asphalt. I came up with those hot fast tears in my eyes that come with the question, “Who did that?” I may even have looked around, though I was alone.

Even though I had traipsed all over the rugged terrain of Esalen Institute the previous week (learning about my soul’s camouflauge) wearing these same, potentially deadly clogs, apparently I was due to have my own mini-accident, falling off of Highway One on the way to the Labor Day party.

Ah, the lowly ankle, so taken for granted, and so necessary to comfortable daily living. Unlike other joints, this one gets constant, weight-bearing use.

Anyone who’s lived in uneven rural terrain can tell you how important it is to have coordination, balance and sturdy ankles. Climbing over wood-piles, chasing stray goats, bush-whacking through forests searching for chanterelles, or lugging groceries down stone steps, are just a few of the tasks where losing one’s footing can be extremely inconvenient.

Deciding to practice stoicism (most un-characteristic for me) I didn’t go to the Big Sur Health Center right away. Since piggy back rides from dashing gentlemen only work for the first few hours or so post-injury, the following day I borrowed my husband’s crutches from his ankle cracking last year (a brush-with death-while-pruning event.)

Later that week a Qigong instructor gave me Taoist Liniment to apply religiously to my swollen foot, a dancer friend suggested an arch support, and my dear neighbors brought me a few blessed vicodin tablets. (These same neighbors loaned me a great book, “The Art of Racing in the Rain” a wondrous read for all us dog-lovers out there.)

Now, a month later, I am still hurting, and have learned to love my ice pack. Seems the universe is telling me to put my foot up at the end of the day. However, at this point I am beginning to worry about my caloric intake, since my general pattern of eating whatever I like and breaking a sweat a few times a week has been interrupted. Kind of ominous, as we head in to winter!
Hmmm, nuts and berries, hold the Deetjens Eggs Benedict, for a few weeks at least...

It's 3am in the morning...

and my world is about to change, forever.

It's a hot summer night, one of the few we've enjoyed this year. Earlier in the evening I light a few candles in my bedroom, burn piñon incense, pray and dance.

At 3am, I decide to venture forth to our outdoor bed to gaze at the billions of stars in the Milky Way. I've left the bedroom door open, to better hear the crickets. (The screen door is broken.) As I get up to go out, holding my stuffed bunny, pillow and blanket, I notice my small Siamese cat, Minnie, peering into the corner of my altar, a low table in the corner of the room beside my bed.

Looking down with her, I think I'm going to see a mouse, or maybe a bat. But no. What I see is full-grown, darkly vibrating RATTLESNAKE, twisted around my sculpture of the Egyptian Goddess Hathor.

What follows next is a blur, even to me now, weeks later. (I'm still recovering.) I grab the phone and start dialing my husband (but he's out of town.) Then I call my closest neighbor Jim, and leave him a long, abject message. Suddenly I grab a pair of kitchen tongs, hearing my husband's voice in my head: "Man up, darling" I can handle this! Yeah right.

When I go back into my bedroom, tongs in hand, the cat is closer to the snake. I scream, and guess what. IT RATTLES. That DOES IT, I think. And I run out of the house into the warm night...to meet Jim, who is running towards me down the path, to help. We collapse together, hugging. My head tucked under his arm, I hear his heart beating, fast.

"Let's go get Richard," we say, in unison. "He has guns!" So we do. We stumble down the path to Richard's tiny cabin. He's our local cowboy, and has taken on the mantle of Partington Ridge elder statesman, a deep source of local lore. He's sitting up on his cot, wide awake. "We have a situation," we announce, and as we give him the details, he picks up his shotgun.

"We don't want to blow a hole in her bedroom wall!" Jim says. Next Richard hands him an enormous machete, and says, "Good luck," to which I reply, "Oh no, you're coming with us, Mister Snake Whisperer!" Then he pulls a handgun out of the pocket of his work jacket. "That'll do it!" we say.

Jim (machete in hand) and I hurry back to my bedroom door, hoping that the snake is still curled up on my altar. It is, and I have moment of sadness for the poor beastie. Did not pick the right place to take a late-night nap.

Richard appears, in full wilderness gear, and pulls out the small gun. "Cover your ears," Jim says, and I stand outside in the cool grass and watch Richard fire several shots into the corner of my bedroom. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. There's no rattling so I assume he's got it. "Did you get it?" I ask, and Richard says, "Well...no." "WHAT? ? ?" I reply, astonished.

He begins to move the baskets under my altar with the machete. "Ah, I hit it," he says, and as I turn up the lights in the room I see a few drops of rattlesnake blood leading...behind my bed. The reptile seemed to know (horrors) where it was going. It's a captain's bed, so Jim and Richard pull back the mattress and Richard fires another couple of shots at the snake, huddled on the carpet, trapped between drawers...Finally, it's dead.

We carry it outside on the machete, which Richard uses to administer the coup d' grace. I carefully place it on the barbecue grill and close the lid. We stand around for a few moments, stunned. And then I say to them both, "You know, this is bad, but, um, I could really use a drink!"

Not missing a beat, Jim points towards my kitchen: "You've got some Jack Daniels there." So we open it, and drink a few shots together. "These are the times," Richard laughs, as he pours himself another tumbler of the golden liquid. As the laughter and the stories begin to flow, I realize how right he is.

I admit to them, "Don't leave me!" knowing it will be many, many hours before I can sleep again. As we decompress and share what's up in each of our worlds, I'm aware that these two crazy guys are really my family now. Family shows up when you're freaked out, takes care of you when you're threatened by your fears, and laughs with you to bring you back to more ordinary reality.

Later, I dance alone by candlelight as the dawn light gently fills the house. I'm wearing my gardening boots and pink sleep-shirt, and I stomp out a special (middle-eastern, of course) dance for my altar-snake. The primal energy of adrenalin still pulses through me.

When, a few days later, I ask my shaman friend what this episode could possibly mean, she looks at me searchingly, seriously, and says, "I think it means...keep your door closed at night." After laughing her wise-woman laugh, she adds, "That creature sacrificed herself so you can become more awake to the transformative mojo of snake medicine." To which I say, "Thank you, Madame Snake, for the powerful gift."

"Snake, come crawling

there's fire in your eyes.
Bite me, excite me,
I'll learn to realize:
the poison transmuted
becomes Eternal Flame.
Open me to heaven
that I may heal again"

---Jamie Sams

Photo by Linda Sonrisa