Catherine Sevenau's Blog: Writings~Rambles~Rhymes, page 66

Epilogue to Behind These Doors

Revelations and Reckonings

My parents were like black and white, like oil and water, like sin and prayer. Daddy, not one to boil over, married a kettle of emotions. If he could have loosened his grip and if Mom hadn’t completely unraveled my childhood might have been different. But it was what it was. Babe was not the mother I wanted but she was the one I got. Was she a good mother? No. Did I love her? No, I can’t say they I did. I’m not that big.

I got the best of my father and the worst of my mother. I have Daddy’s frame and posture. I have Mom’s moles and droopy eyelids. I have his sense of rightness, fairness and goodness—which get me through. I have her vanity, her stinginess and mouthiness—which get me in trouble. I have his common sense, work ethic, and reliability, her foolishness, self-absorption, and pride. I have his manners, his conduct, and character—her resentment, her entitlement, and disdain. I have my father’s sociability, my mother’s sarcasm, his loyalty, her indifference, his modesty, her arrogance. I carry his confidence and live with her self-doubt. I have his good intentions—and her unattended sorrows. I suppose I turned out as well as I have because I had other good mothers throughout my life—sisters and friends and lovers who filled that mothering gap for me. It pays to be adoptable.

In those five years I lived with my mother, I was raised by omission—by neglect—and neglect doesn’t leave a scar, it leaves a hole. Some say holes are harder to heal. I’ve attempted to fill this hole with shopping, seeking, and sushi, with men and work, and now, with writing. None of these fill it for very long. But time and understanding have helped, transforming this hole into a kind of wholeness—and out of this wholeness—a kind of holiness has emerged. The why of it all longer matters. Mom didn’t set out to make our lives miserable; it wasn’t about us. I finally can accept my mother as she was—her long familiar discord, her cacophony of complaining, moaning, and groaning have softened to a euphony of healing. She was a woman who simply wanted the same things I want: to be seen and to be heard. Perhaps by writing this memoir I’ve done that for her. And for me.

Over the years some of Mom’s belongings have found their way to me. Her pictures are on my wall and in my photo albums. Her heavy pinking-shears rest in my sewing box. Her cast-iron griddle cooks my grilled-cheese sandwiches. Her tiny gold wristwatch with the narrow black band, her Liberty half-dollar necklace from the World’s Fair, and her silver charm bracelet crowded with mementos from her life keep my jewelry company. Her mother’s round mirror, reflecting the three of our images in my face, hangs in my bedroom. And way up high on a shelf in my garage stored in an old workman’s aluminum lunch box, I have her metal meat grinder, where it can’t get me.

I penned the tales my family told me. Inside these narratives I got to know my brother and sisters. I met aunts and uncles and grandparents—Chatfields, Chamberlins, Clemens, and Hoys—departed long ago. I met their descendants, cousins who gave me letters, pictures, and anecdotes that wove our familial lines and generations together. I brought my mother and father onto the same page. And there I met my self. What a congregation! I have fallen in love with my family with the writing of this memoir. I’d always said that if it had been up to me, I’d have kept us all together. Well, I’ve done that—and then some.

Sam: A Dog Story

It was the worst day of his life, and I could hear the despair in his shaking voice. Matt was calling from the emergency animal hospital in Sacramento. My son and his wife were on their way to the Sierras for a camping weekend. Pulling alongside on Highway 80, a woman frantically signaled them to pull over. He yanked his silver Dodge pick-up out of the fast lane and slammed to a halt. Sam was dangling from the tailgate, not moving. Both leashes were twisted so tightly that her collar was strangling her, her back end and legs a bloody mess, eyes rolled back, her tongue hanging from her slack-jawed mouth. Unable to free her, Matt gave up and just cut her loose, certain she was dead. He and Brooke held each other up, screaming into the early morning with Sam lifeless at their feet, traffic hurtling by in the fast lane in slow motion like a bad movie on the wrong reel speed.

Matt heard a small cough. Dropping to his knees he leaned close to Sam’s head and whispered, “Are you alive, girl?”

Sam, Matt’s nine-year-old yellow Lab, loved to lunge to the side of the truck and bark at the big trucks rushing by, confident in the ties restraining her. Except this time she lunged at the semi behind them and flipped out the back end at 80 miles an hour. Secured by two side leashes, she was half running, half dragged, trapped by her ties.

My son blamed himself for ignoring that little voice nudging him to secure Sam closer to the cab end instead of the middle as he was loading his truck. The decision whether or not to put Sam down was what now weighed on him and he wanted to know what I thought. I asked, “If she makes it honey, what will her life be like, and, how much is this going to cost you?”

A month goes by before I see her in the hospital. I’d waited. I’m not big on dogs: a few I barely tolerate, the rest I avoid. But my aversion to dogs is not why I waited—I was afraid to see how bad Sam looked. A tiny thin blue plastic tube snakes up her left nostril, cotton blankets cushion her all around, a catheter retreats from her backside, and her disintegrated hind feet are in rubber casts. In a purple haze from pain medication, she cocks her head and thwaps her tail in happy recognition, smiles at me, and invites me into her cubicle. Lying with her on the floor, we talk and cry. Actually she talks and I cry. She says how nice I look in my dance clothes, that this has certainly put her old hip pain in perspective, and what a shock it was cart-wheeling over the tailgate—like bungee jumping and finding out the rope is not tied short enough but you don’t realize it until you hit land. She appreciates all the love and attention she’s getting, the visits from everyone, the red felt-tip hearts the staff draws on her casts, the green rubber frog her nurse gave her that holds sentry at her furry front feet, protecting her day and night. She says she’d prefer to lie on the flowers people bring her like she does in the back yard at home, but she doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. My head is touching hers so I can hear her. Stroking her soft ears and the part of her back that is still covered with her yellow fur, my hand avoids the rest of her body, which is completely skinned from the pavement and grafting. She looks like half an uncooked Thanksgiving turkey. Wiping my nose to keep from making a mess all over her, she takes her top paw and moves my hand back in between hers so she can tenderly hold it and tells me not to worry. With a single last wag, she drifts back off into a peaceful pharmaceutical sleep.

Breathing together, in and out, softly and evenly, I quietly talk to her while she sleeps. I tell her how beautiful she is; how much her family, her neighborhood friends, and everyone at the Rugworks misses her. I also tell her how the Collins girls across the street are going to set up a lemonade stand to help with the vet costs. I say small prayers for her, and thank her for teaching me to fall in love with a dog. I notice she’s lost a lot of weight and tell her she looks better than ever… well, her front half anyway. I remind her of all her other close calls with Matt: tumbling end-over-end down treacherous ski slopes, sailing over rocky cliffs, paddling down rushing rivers, and as she made it through those—she can make it through this.

Sam and Satchel

I whisper close to her ear, “There are a couple of things you might want to know. Matt and Brooke brought home a small gray kitten last week, and I know you don’t have much patience for kittens. They are also having a baby in a few months. You need to heal so it won’t hurt when the baby gets big enough to crawl all over you, and maybe the baby won’t irritate you nearly as much as the kitten will. You’ll get used to them, perhaps even fall in love with them.”

Sam is so far the most experimental case at the Animal Care Center—a struggling new hospital and the only one of its kind in California—where they are healing her damaged body with science and love. They work Sam daily on the underwater treadmill to exercise her limbs to keep her weight off her feet. They massage her. They care. She’s become the hospital’s beloved mascot and longest resident.

Her doctor quietly appears and joins me on the floor. Gently rubbing the naked places on Sam’s body, Dr. Alexander explains to me how new fur is already growing through the rectangular blocks of skin grafted from her sides to her hips and legs; how the ruby puckered patchwork seams all over her are healing beautifully; how her raw front paw pads are growing back and toughening up just fine; and how Sam is finally well enough to be taken outside where she loves to roll her face in the fresh grass, smell the earth, and feel like a dog again.

I’m touched that Dr. Alexander is sitting on this dark speckled linoleum floor with me at 8:30 on a Friday night. She has done so much for Sam, like keeping her own Lab there on call for a week in the event Sam needed a blood transfusion. Suddenly Sam jerks, her eyes flutter, her nose and mouth rapidly twitch, her front paws race wildly. Startled, I’m afraid she’s having a seizure. The doctor laughs and says she’s dreaming. I’m happy she can run, even if it’s just in her dreams.

When Matt asked me on the call from Sacramento, “What would you do if it were you, Mom? Would you spend $25,000 on a dog?”

“On a dog? No. On Sam? Maybe.”

Catherine Sevenau

September 14, 2002

P.S. Sam has been home from the hospital a month. Most of her fur has grown back; her hind feet are in small neoprene booties. She carefully, and very happily, chases her soggy green tennis ball in the backyard, lies in the flowerbeds (I put in a good word for her), and is making friends with the small gray kitten, Mahari.

On her first trip back to the hospital for therapy and bandage changes, she carefully walks through the front door by herself. Twenty people slowly follow, one by one, two by two, and then in a parade as the furry Pied Piper gingerly makes her way through the reception room, down the long hallway, and into the big recovery room. Arriving at her former bed she turns around a couple of times, lies down, and smiles. The doctors, nurses and staff are gathered: crying, cheering, and clapping. My son, eyes brimming with tears, is grateful.

P.P.S. Sam is twelve years old now. Her feet are healed but her rear paws look like they’re on backwards. She still loves to camp, has outlived the kitty Mahari who was run over by a car, tolerates Shiva, the other cat, and is very patient with Satchel, Matt and Brooke’s now two-and a-half year-old son. I think Sam feels about kids like I feel about dogs, so I tell her what a good girl she is every time I see her, and thank her for being so sweet to my grandson.

Bless This Mess

Cathy Clemens, 1st Holy Communion

Raised Catholic, I’m hard-wired for formal prayer. I find myself reciting the Our Father when an earthquake hits and oftentimes at night as I go to sleep. I think, “how weird,” stop in the middle, but then a Hail Mary (a woman of whom I hold equally wobbly beliefs), arises to take its place. I surrender and move on to blessing my family, my friends, and then the people who irritate me. Some nights I just cut to the chase and bless the ones I seriously want to smack upside the head.

1st Holy Communion
Remembrance Card

In an attempt to reverse my resentment, I practice a loving-kindness prayer. I do it for myself, those closest to me, and for those to whom I feel neutral. By the time I make it to those with whom I have difficulties—which are often the ones closest to me—my “yeah, but” takes over, gathers evidence by rehashing past transgressions, lumps them into one huge hairball, and gets the last word. First I cough, then I laugh. So much for being spiritual. At least I’m aware that I’m being a ding dong.

When someone acts completely stoopid, the best I can do is to be grateful that I’m not living inside their skin; I can’t imagine what it must be like for them to wake up every morning and face their reflection in the mirror, which is enough to get me off whatever momentary rant I happen to be on. Then there are the awkward moments when I realize that I AM them, and that they are simply reflecting ME. And the occasions that really bring me to my knees are when a veil lifts and I can see my part in setting up a whole catastrophe, ferreting out what I get out of replaying the story that has me by the throat. Usually it’s my righteousness, my “how could this be happening to me,” my “how did I get here, this isn’t my fault.” Maybe I just want to be mad. I know what being mad feels like: familiar, oddly comforting. Or maybe replaying my old narrative is another chance to heal it. It’s just that I don’t see my part until after, that the choices I made delivered me right back into my old and astonishingly familiar doorstep. What I find fascinating is that a door is involved in every one of my it’s got me by the throat again stories, every damn one of them! I recognize it as a sign, a symbol, a clue hinting, hinting, hinting that what’s happening (my particular slant of it anyway) may not be  r e a l i t y … like the parable of the elephant and the blind men. Thank God (which one, I’m never sure) I’ve gained some perspective and that I’ve a sense of humor. Many days it’s the only way I make it through, then night falls and I’m back to trying to bless this mess. And maybe I try minding my own business and let the chips fall where they may. Now that’s a novel thought.

Both of my grandmothers were Catholic, stubborn, and right. I’m very much like them, though I don’t know why I still refer to myself as Catholic. I’m addicted to being right (a first cousin to being perfect), both which have a tendency to be corrosive in relationships. Like kidney disease and bad eyes, resentment is in our DNA coating, creeping down through the generations, across lines, round the corners and back again. Like my Grandma Nellie Chatfield: the higher she stood on her moral ground, the lower her family descended. When Grandpa Charlie (who had the propensity to err) died, the only thing she had to say was, “serves the damn fool right,” then she buried him in an unmarked grave in the non-Catholic section of the cemetery. Now that’s pissed off.

It’s hard to restore family grace if there wasn’t much there to begin with, though it does make for good storytelling. C’mon, who’s captivated by the tales of Catholic farmers who had a million kids, stayed on the same land for generations, worked hard, and never broke the rules? They lend stability via my Clemens’ side (for which I’m exceedingly grateful), but offer little of interest to write about. Fiction is too complicated for me to create, and really, why bother when my Chatfield, Hoy, and Chamberlin lines teem with an overabundance of characters who supply me with endless material. I’m fascinated by these folks (while at the same time rather appalled at their bad behavior) and couldn’t make some of this stuff up if I tried. I have missing mothers, though they do generally reappear (of note: there are four generations of mothers in my direct line who, with infants in tow, left their husbands; I am the last of that tradition. Actually, my mother didn’t leave with her children, she just took her coat and two suitcases). I’ve been gifted the stories that could make for interesting page turners: drugs, pills, prison, gambling, murder, kidnapping, rape, child abuse, molestation, neglect, abortions, racism (you’d be horrified; I am), asylums, shock treatments, and suicides. I also have poisonings, cattle thieves, embezzlers, liars, bookies, bettors, bootleggers, and drunks. I have a grandfather who gambled away the ranch. I have gay elopements, multiple marriages, numerous divorces and a boatload of annulments. I have flying saucer abductions, a tea leaf reader, spirits, voodoo, and ghosts. And that’s just on my mother’s side, though I notice that several of us married into similar lines, cementing our proclivity to chaos. I don’t have to ponder what to write about. I have to ponder what NOT write about. I bear generations of resentments handed down: siblings suing each other, daughters dancing on graves, parents cutting children out of the will. We like to hang on to things. I know that most of the hurts siblings nurse against one another stem from when we were little kids. LITTLE KIDS! Little kids who were just being little brats. Those are the wars I wonder about, how things that happened when we were younger than five or six years old can ruin a relationship for life. Really? Like when my sister Liz was dying, she forbade her husband and children to allow Claudia, another sister, to attend the family get-together after her passing. When Claudia found out you know what her response was? “It’s okay. She never did like me, ever since we were kids.” REALLY??? And Claudia was just one on the list to not be included. For whatever reason, and with all that goes on, there are more than a few of us who don’t speak to one another, or if we do, we tread lightly, but that’s been going on for years. It’s how we keep the home fires burning.

What can I do in the family to counteract our genetic umbrage? Exposing light on it—though writing about certain things tends to irk some when it’s too close to home. I can do my part to not perpetuate conflict. I know how hard it is though: I so often want to slap the other cheek, and I‘m not about to easily turn mine. I can counteract it by not living as if we’re not connected, and by holding the possibility that things can change. I can choose not to take sides. I can keep an eye on what I’m up to. I can make amends to whom my shiv has wounded; “I’m sorry” goes a long way.

The Metta Prayer

May all beings be happy, healthy and whole.

May they have love, warmth and affection.

May they be protected from harm, and free from fear.

May they be alive, engaged and joyful.

May all beings enjoy inner peace and ease.

May that peace expand into their world and throughout the entire universe.

“If you pray for rain long enough, it eventually does fall. If you pray for floodwaters to abate, they eventually do. The same happens in the absence of prayers.” —Steve Allen (1921 – 2000).

Calvin and Hobbes, by Bill Watterson 8-31-1992

I believe in the ineffable power of prayer, though it’s presumptuous of me to suppose that I can decipher—in the grand scheme of things—to pray for what I think is best. Some say prayers can move mountains; that’s where my critical thinking raises its hairy head, seeking evidence. The best I can do is to still my rattling mind and sit in wonder, silence, and gratitude. To continue to silently recite as a reminder and a comfort: forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, the sacred version of let it go, let it go, let it go, sometimes out of habit, other times with intention. Forgiving someone doesn’t mean forgetting what was done, it just means being able to stop pointing fingers and move on. We don’t have to have lunch together.

“If the only prayer you said was thank you, that would be enough.” ―Meister Eckhart (1260 – 1328)

Amen.

The Shape I’m In

Artist: Mary Patterson; Fishchild
12″ x 12″ acrylic on primed masonite

This house was one I often drew as a child, and other than simple stick figures, my only attempt at art. An illustrator turned my drawing into the cover for Behind These Doors: a red house with a peaked roof, a door, a window, and five flowers—surrounded by a tree, some grass, and a sunny blue sky. I later ran a jagged crack through the upper quadrant so it would not appear to be a children’s book. Represented on the cover are five shapes, external symbols of our internal psychic states, along with some other representations. Below is a paper regarding these shapes that I wrote ten years back.

Signs of Life: Five Universal Shapes

What are the five universal shapes? There is the circle, symbolizing wholeness, the square which equals stability, the equidistant cross signifying relationship, the triangle indicating goals and dreams, and the spiral which stands for growth. These five basic shapes are a part of all cultures, appearing in their art and artifacts. They are a part of our language, living, and dreams. They are also a part of me, appearing in my psyche and my everyday life. These shapes and I, we dance together, and as I grow and change and transform, our dance changes too.

Where am I? (The circle, my current growth process, and my place from which I deliver my gifts.)

I am a circle, in wholeness, unity, and circulation. I’m a soft edge, a smooth rim, a wheel in motion. I’m at the core of my very nature, my current growth, and where I bring my gifts. My circle is my essence.

There are things outside my circle however, things I can’t be with—about me, about you, about them. I have anger, victim mentality, and thoughtlessness outside my circle. I have blame, judgment, and retaliation outside my circle. I have resentment outside my circle. I have Bush and Enron and right-wing fundamentalism outside my circle. How do I expand to include them, and have them contribute to me? Ahh, now that is a question—and a whole other conversation.

I am a creature of comfort. I’m content when my stomach is full, my body warm, and nothing is poking me. When my comfort is at risk, my alarm bells go off to protect me from the certain death from freezing, starving, or exhaustion, even though I’m simply cold, hungry, and tired. I’m a creature of order. The minute I have everything tidy, a little clutter here and a little clutter there pops up, like gophers in a half-dozen gopher holes. Then I frantically bat them down and put everything back nice and neat; it makes me feel like I have control. I’m a creature of perfection, with an eye for detail and for what’s missing. Some just think I am nitpicking. However, I like my circles perfect.

They are everywhere: the sun, the moon, the earth, the planets are all circles. They are the doorknobs in my house, the polka dots in my robe, the blueberries in my pancakes. They are in a bowl on my blue tiled counter: fresh oranges and grapefruits and melons. They are in my yard: an umbrella table, a bird fountain, a silver gazing ball. They are gumballs and green peas and red holly. They are a wedding band, a string of pearls, and my grandmother’s mirror. Everywhere I look there are centers, dots, orbs, and cycles. My lamp bases and candles, my steering wheel and tires, my flower pots and stepping stones and plates and pans and bowls. My pores and moles, my irises and pupils. My compact and my lipstick tube, my pen point and my pencil lead, my CDs, records, and my iMac base. The period at the end of this sentence. Michael’s mandala on my bedroom wall, my watch face, my hoop earrings, my quarters and nickels and dimes, my drains, dryer door, tea ball, my God, they’re everywhere! I’m spinning in circles, just thinking about them.

Circles are social, they are soft, they are sensitive. They are harmonious. Continuous. And endless. Circles are whole. Holes. Holy. We are born, we live, we die—we come full circle. The acorn grows to an oak and the oak tree reproduces acorns to grow more oaks—they come full circle. Mysticism led to formal logic. Formal logic led to dialectics, and dialectics to trialectics. We are now returning to mystery and mysticism—full circle. It’s like the line-of-dance in the clip of a country-western two-step and the lilt of a waltz; the couples pass by where they started—full circle.

Where I think I am. (The square, which currently has my  attention and where I’m most aware and most comfortable.)

I think I am a square. I think my inherent strengths are responsibility, stability and the ability to be fully committed where I give my word. I’m known and valued for my integrity. My square is my foundation.

A square is also a box, like the one my sister claims I was born in. What does she know? Just because I’m confused at times, just because it’s safer in here than out there, just because I can be gullible does not mean I was born in one. Maybe I choose to be in here. Maybe I like it.

Boxes (squares) keep things in, and they keep things out. They (boxes and squares that is) are contained, neat, and orderly. They have sharp edges to protect me and defend me. They are dependable, sensible, and useful. You can stack them, live in, sit on, store in, and tie red bows on them. They come in all sizes, but not so many shapes. A square is a square is a square. There are square acres, square inches, and square yards. There are town squares, quilt squares, and graham-cracker squares.

If you lay it flat, you have a mat. If you stand it up you have a wall, overhead—a roof, underneath—a floor, cut in half—a door. If you turn a square on its point, you have a diamond, which come in Jacks, Queens, and Kings. An Ace of Diamonds is handy too. Squares are hard working and committed. It takes a lot of energy to constantly keep four corners from bending, folding, or collapsing out of shape. My perfectionism and attention to detail serve me well, in spite of making me predictable, very, well, square-like. I’m organized (when I’m not cluttered), and tidy, logical, and practical. This is not just where I think I am—this is where I live. I live in a box step, a Rumba, a Traveling Four-Corners, the predictability of an old-fashioned square dance. I like it that way,

What are my strengths? (The cross, which assists  my growth and comes to me effortlessly.)

The equidistant cross is my strength, my current nature. It symbolizes equality, and even though I want to be special, I know I’m the same. It brings me back to my center. It is a meeting in the middle. It’s a venturing out to the four directions, north, south, east and west. It’s balanced. It’s equal. It’s integrated.

My strengths are my process of integration, my people skills, my ability to develop relationships easily. It is my ability to achieve balance (I know it’s out there; I see it every time I swing by). But it’s hard to walk a cross. Do you retrace your steps, do you meet in the middle and back track, do you go from end to side to end to side? How do you do it right? If you’re not careful and decide to cross outside, you could be a fish instead. It’s confusing. You get cross-threaded. Then what? Cranky, cross-eyed, at cross-purposes.

Some crosses are more tolerated than others:

Acceptable crosses: crossbars, crossbeams, cross-cultural, cross-references, cross-stitches, cross roads, and cross walks.

Unacceptable crosses: crossbones (unless you are a poison warning label), crossbreeds (unacceptable in the past), cross-dressers (unless you live in San Francisco), crossfired crosspatches (grouchy people), cross-purposes, cross coaching (especially in personal growth work), cross talking (unless you are Italian or Greek—then it’s a genetic issue), and double-crossing.

My final strengths? I’m well versed regarding cemetery crosses, proficient with crossword puzzles, and adept in a Cha-Cha crossover break.

Where is my growth, my motivation? (The spiral as it points to past challenges and circumstances that motivates my current process of change.)

What stretches me? That question always takes me where I don’t want to go, but meeting it readies me for my wholeness. It is the spiral, my shadow, my dark side, and it’s all that is outside my circle. It motivates me to do my core work, that place of becoming whole. The spiral is sexuality, creativity, flamboyancy, all the places and spaces and roads and paths that can make me nervous. Dust devils. Cyclones. Tornadoes. Spirals are like bad carnival rides, bad perms, and bad trips—too scary, too curvy, and too mysterious. They are constant movement and constant change. They are messy, confused, unorganized, especially for a square. Squares (where I think I live) are uncomfortable with too much fun. Too much fun is too spontaneous, too out of control, and lead to too much trouble.

Spirals are like a snake, like a plume of cigarette smoke, like the legs of entwined lovers. Spirals make my head hurt. I spiral down, down, down into the dark night of the soul. I spiral down the rabbit hole. I spiral into my shadow; then I have to go to confession.

When I spiral up, however, I find the sacred labyrinth, the pathways in English gardens, and my own process of growth and evolution. Each new level rises, offering me a fresh perspective, allowing my witness to mature, presenting me with expanding possibilities of development and awareness. I am flexible. Resilient. I’m the springs in my bed, the struts in my car, the hair on my Buddha. I am ingenious, creative, interesting. I’m a Tango, a whirling dervish, a Sufi dancer in disguise.

What are my goals and dreams and visions? (The triangle, my least preferred shape, identifying processes I have outgrown, resist, judge, or dislike.)

I am very triangular. Pointy headed, opinionated, competitive. Not a broad thinker. I want things done the right way, my way. I’m the boss, the leader, the manager. I want to be in charge­—I just don’t want to be responsible. I have the ability to co-ordinate and delegate, though can be impatient when you can’t, won’t, or don’t get to the point.

Triads are threes of this and trios of that: love affairs, chords of tones, a section of Pindaric odes. Triangles are the eyes of jack-o-lanterns, the tail feathers of birds, a patch of pubic hair. It is a pyramid, a musical instrument, and George Washington’s hat.

I have achieved my goals of the first half of my life. Successful in business, financially stable, a healthy family life (well, except for my younger son who doesn’t speak to me, but he just wants to be mad, and my ex-husband who I’d like to slap silly because he STILL isn’t the father I think he should be), a balanced physical (except for exercise), emotional (well, that does vary from day to day), intellectual (okay, so I still don’t have a sense of direction but that has nothing to do with my intellect), and spiritual life (to tell you the truth, I have no idea what my spiritual beliefs are, other to define them by what they are not). I practice living in the present, for about thirty-six and a half seconds each day.

Where am I resisting the process of honoring my present dreams?

I have stopped writing my book (temporarily, only temporarily).
I want to let go of my business, but duty, common sense, an affinity for it, and the acquired appreciation of living indoors keep me there.
I have the desire to wake up, but I’m not about to allow, by choice, the complete dismantling of my ego. Of course a car wreck or bolt of lightening could take care of that in a flash.
In my family, I would like to see the genetic traits of resentment and anger transformed; however I see where I still want to slap the other cheek.

The triangle represents my goals, my dreams, my faith. It is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. It is my subconscious, my conscious, and my super-conscious. It is a three-legged stool; more stable then a two-legged or a one-legged stool. It is trialectics, an expanded school of logic (Oscar Ichazo) containing three parts:

Change occurs in leaps at pre-established points in a cycle.
Everything contains within itself the seed of its apparent opposite.
Change occurs in accordance with one’s attraction to a higher or a lower possibility.

Occasionally I have the presence to remember this logic. Really, I try not to believe everything I think, particularly in knowing that I lie straight-faced to myself. I’m so used to my thoughts and emotions dragging me around town that I just don’t want to let go sometimes; it’s so comforting, believing I’m right.

What is my triangle dance? It’s my favorite, the Night-club two-step: gracefully turning on a three-point turn, floating across a smooth wooden dance floor like a soft summer cloud, continually turning away from and returning to my partner’s embrace, being totally free, then reconnected, then free, in still-frame moments of time.

I have respect for my process, for my basic expression of my human nature. I’m well versed in the fact that timing is everything, and it is a time of stasis for me, a time of rest. I honor this time, these shapes, this work. Sometimes I wonder where I will end up; I do not have to give it much thought as my wake foretells my future, and it is good. I only have to show up, pay attention, and dance the dance.

The above paper was written by me in November of 2004, while attending the University of Creation Spirituality. In her book, “The Signs of Life,” Angeles Arrien, a teacher, author and cultural anthologist, developed a Preferential Shapes Test, allowing one to discover one’s current worldview, her conclusion being the five shapes “are indeed external symbols of our internal psychic states. The preference for particular shapes is an announcement of the values and process active at any time for an individual, a group, or a whole society.”

A couple years after writing it, I gave this paper to Angeles at one of her book signings in Sonoma, and some weeks later she sent me a beautiful note saying she loved it and how much she liked my writing. Can I find that note? No, I put it some place safe. Sadly, Angeles, a teacher of transformation and a master in the art of living, died in April of this year, a huge loss to her students and community. In gratitude, intention, and affirmation, I thank her for what she taught me, and blow her a kiss in return.

Catherine Sevenau, 2014

Money: ’tis better to have it than not

Money isn’t my issue this time around, not that it’s easy or abundant all the time. I’ve earned my own money since I was twelve. I’ve saved it, spent it, lost it, found it, stolen, borrowed, gambled, lent, collected, stashed, donated, and shared it. I have frittered it away and hoarded it close. I’ve been foolish and wise with it, thoughtless and smart. I’ve even dreamt about it: feeling lucky, finding a small pile of small change at the curb, or feeling frustrated, coins just out of my reach at the bottom of a pool.

I have put money to good use for myself and for others. I’ve been on welfare and in the top 2% wage earners in the United States. I can be annoyingly stingy in small amounts, surprisingly generous in large. I have been completely broke, and trusted that somehow what I needed would show up. It’s amazing, it always did, and still does. I’m not attached to it, and, I appreciate having it. I have given to others when it was needed, and even when it wasn’t. I have earned it and invested well. I know how much easier it makes life, and I’m grateful for how it appears in mine.

I have a money incident which clung to me like tar: Bobby (my brother-in-law’s little brother) stole my 1954 plain, the best coin in my penny collection (which I still have by the way). I was ten years old. Every time I’d get off the phone after talking about that side of the family with my sister LIz, I’d tell her to tell that little sonofabitch I wanted my goddam penny back. I groused about the theft of that penny for over forty years, until my friend and business partner Linda bought me one for my birthday from a client of hers that was a coin collector. Seventy-five cents it cost her. Man, that was a lot of energy for me to spend on one penny…

Lincoln head penny, 1954 plain

I had a teacher who said, “When you get your limits, you get your maturity,” meaning if you haven’t experienced something, gone through it and come up against it, you know it not. I surmise that’s why money stuff doesn’t dog me so much. He also said, “The only thing I know about money is that it’s better to have it than not.” He had a very good point, and… he also had money issues. Ahhh, the old ‘we teach what we need to learn’ thing…

I have plenty of other issues to work with that keep me busy, places where I’m not quite so “together,” like, my mother, for instance.

Note: My friend, Donna Colfer is a coach on our relationships, behaviors, and patterns around money. I took her MONEY TYPE quiz, sent her a note about my experience, and she featured a version of the above in her newsletter last year. If you’re interested in your money archetype  you can also take her quiz on the attached link. http://www.buildingwealthfromwithin.c...

A Magician’s Story

I Tell Stories About Her

For My Middle Sister Liz

On what would be her 75th birthday

It is ten years since she danced out of our lives,

ain’t that amazing…

and still, I forget sometimes that she’s gone.

I go to call her:

I want her opinion on a difficulty with someone, or

I can’t remember how long to cook a soft-boiled egg.

I want her to read this great book I finished, or

tell her what I’ve just discovered.

It ‘s most inconvenient that she can’t answer.

Who else can I ask these things whose phone number I know by heart?

She comes to me in my dreams.

I tell stories about her.

I wear the antique jewelry she’s surprised me with over the years.

I laugh her cackle when I laugh.

I see her in our mother’s mirror,

hear her voice in mine,

imagine what it was like for her as a child when I write about her.

I look more like her in my pictures now

so I see her instead of me.

She played big, and life is smaller without her.

And yet, she is with me whenever I think of her, which is often.

And mostly, she still cracks me up.

Catherine & Liz 1988

Liz Duchi: Memorial

Disturbing the Dead, Annoying the Living

What calls us to find the ancestors? It goes beyond a simple curiosity. We are taken over, compelled, as if possessed by something bigger than us, begging to be revealed. There is one of us in almost every family called to be the scribe. I am but one of many in our clan’s long line of storytellers. Like others, I’m called to gather and assemble the ancestors; to breathe life into them again as far back as we can reach. We take what we find and chronicle the facts of their existence, remembering their names, who they were, and what they did. They are the sum of who we are. Without them, we would not exist. We greet those who came before us, restoring their place in line. We scribe their stories and their histories. We search for them in public libraries, county records, and weed-filled or well-kept cemeteries. We comb through yellowed newspapers, family archives, lovely old letters and photo albums. We find them! And in finding them, we find ourselves. Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau, Sep 2009 (Inspired by “We Are the Chosen” written by Della M. Cumming, ca 1943)

Catherine & Gordon
Sanders, Montana, July 2006

Taking a sidebar from finishing a family memoir, I spent five years working on family genealogy with my brother—our research and records spanning from our ancestors sailings to America to our parents’ generation. We’ve done a commendable job of exploring our roots, bringing our ancestors together onto the same pages, compiling what would be a library shelf on the family lines. Gordon has been researching for years, I of late. But more important than what we’ve done, is our time together doing it. As he is fourteen years older, I never really knew him growing up, so I’m grateful for this relationship we’ve created. We’ve visited Minnesota: our father’s roots—and covered Wyoming, Montana, and Colorado: our mother’s history. We drove to Sonora where I was born, to Colusa where our parents met, to Brea where our mother is buried. We dug up information on our main ancestral lines, then put it all to rest—assembling and reuniting those no longer with us. I think it stems from my “keeping the family together” thing…  and then some.

In the early morning and late at night I continue to research and add information to our lines. I make phone calls and send emails to unknown cousins. I search cemeteries. I track down pictures. Genealogy can be quite addictive, and being just a tad obsessive-compulsive keeps my fire fueled. I’ve created or contributed to over 6,000 pages of ancestors and related kin on Find A Grave, a kind of Facebook for the Dead, and have four websites in process on our Clemens, Chatfield, Hoy, and Chamberlin lines. Who’d have guessed that dead people would be my thing?

Find A Grave: Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau

Chatfield Heritage

Teller of Tales

 Teller of Tales

This tale is a history, a fable, a prayer

of those gone before me, now gathered with care.

The diaries and pictures and letters enclosed

deciphered my kin and what they supposed.

Those who are living—their stories intact,

Those gone before us—who knows what was fact?

I met not the aunts nor uncles you’ll greet

Met not the grandparents whose waltz is complete.

I presume who they were by looking at me—

our blossoms and thorns twining through the same tree.

Our shadows and secrets for so long passed down,

those thistles and thorns now replaced by a crown.

It was back in the thirties my parents did meet,

then married, had children with ten little feet.

I am the youngest, this teller of tales,

unearthing my family, removing our veils.

I’m descended from Clemens, the kin of my dad

who married a Chatfield—a girl some thought bad.

I’ve written of both, their histories and lives,

of Mom’s other husband and Daddy’s three wives.

I know they’ll excuse me—my gaffes and asides,

tis those who are living who might have my hide.

I wrote of my brother, my sisters and me,

recording our stories with hazed memory.

Some snort, some are angry, some threaten, some rear—

some nights I don’t sleep from the scorn that I fear.

But it’s none of my business what they think of me—

I wrote what I deemed ’bout this family tree.

by Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau

Clemens siblings, Sonora, California, 1950
L-R: Carleen, Claudia, Cathy (Catherine) in middle, Betty (Liz), Larry (Gordon)

Book Launch @ Readers’

Passages from Behind These Doors: A Family Memoir

Catherine Sevenau, book launch

I posted on Facebook that my book launch Thursday night was a “Life Event.” It absolutely was. I felt held, seen, heard, and loved. It was joyous and my heart was filled to the brim. It could very well be the high point of all this (and you know what, it would be enough) or it will be seeds of my book going further than that room and my circle of friends.

People say their life passes before their eyes just before they think they’re going to die, but mine presented itself that night. I was touched how many from my past and present were there. Most do not get this kind of acknowledgement until they’re dead, and some don’t even get it then. Nearly a hundred people came: friends, family, community, a few I didn’t know. The crowd was out the door and I was over the moon.

I’ve lived in Sonoma since 1972 and my life has interwoven with so many through the years, crisscrossing in various ways. This town is my family, my community, and my safety net. There were friends from Moon Valley School (an alternative school my kids went to for five years when they were little), and people who knew me from Country Fresh Products, a carrot juice company I had in the late 70s and early 80s. There were friends I knew through my sons, and their school friends, kids they played ball with, and the parents of their friends that I sat with in the stands at their games. Friends and clients who bought or sold their house through me, those from the real estate community: my office, fellow brokers, agents, lenders and affiliates. Yoga friends. Neighbors. People with whom I’d sat on commissions and boards. People who were connected through all the personal growth work we’d done together. My dance community. My writing circle of friends. My Random Acts cohorts (an open mic held at the bookstore on the second Saturday of every month). Some who I simply knew from around town. The folks who worked on, advised me, and gave me feedback on Behind These Doors. My fabulous Facebook friends!

Matt & Brooke

Jan, Carl, Julie, Marion, Jon, Catherine

My family who came: my son Matt and daughter-in-law Brooke, their children Satchel (who read with me and stood by me throughout the night) and Temple (who wrapped stacks of books in beautiful ribbon and assisted at the signing table). My son Jon and daughter-in-law Marion who also live here in Sonoma, my brother and sister in-law Gordon and Marion from Carmel, their daughter Jan here from Alaska, my niece Julie and her husband Carl from Seattle and who were my keepers and handlers for this event, who schlepped and coordinated and took care of details and on top of that, paid for the wine! Thank you, thank you, thank you. Those not able to be here were my sister Carleen who lives in Iowa, and my sisters Liz and Claudia, who’ve passed. I told Julie how sorry I was her mother wasn’t going to be here. My niece said, “Are you kidding? If my mother were alive there would be no party. There would be no book! You are delusional!” She had a point. As some of you know, Liz (Betty in the book) was furious with me when I refused to take something out, and actually threatened to put a hex on me, but she was dying and I loved her, so I honored her wishes, sort of. I put the book away for five years, and then, well… you know the rest.

Gordon, Catherine, Marian, Jan

Julie and Carl

Get comfortable, what follows is my gratitude list:

Writing a book is not a solitary event, and this one would not have emerged without my friend and teacher, Stephanie Moore. Years ago she taught me to dance, then she taught me to write. I thank my Monday night writing group from that time, who gave me their attention and feedback a page and a half at a time. Thanks to my family and friends who generously read my drafts, edited my commentary, encouraged me, and nudged me to get to the point. I’m deeply indebted to my mentor, Michael Naumer, who taught me that where I am the most wounded, I am the most accomplished; that work gave me the perspective to write this book as more than just a story. When I was a kid, it didn’t matter to my mother if I was there or not (that’s how I perceived it anyway), and I’ve spent my adult life making a difference, I suppose to prove that I do matter. In a very cosmic bass-ackwards way, I have her to thank for this night.

I thank PJ Tyler, an extraordinary friend and astrologer who I’ve gone to every year since 1990, who sees me much bigger than I see myself, and who’s been uncannily accurate in what she’s had to say about my future. She saw me doing this book and said it would be big, and someday would be made into a movie. (ARRRGHHH!!) To dance friend Edna Lucero who showed interest in my writing so I sent her stories and she said, “I want to know more. What about your father? And what happened to your mother. Where’s Claudia? How did it all turn out?” It made me realize that it was time for the book to reappear, that it was an idea whose time had come.

I’m indebted to my editor Deb Carlen who put the final polish on these twenty tales, my voice over coach Madeleine Wild who helped me deliver them in my own voice, and Roy Blumenfeld who recorded and mastered the audio version. I thank Todd Towner, who did the book layout and editing design and who has the patience of a saint. Todd, who also had other things to do in his life would disappear at times, and then I’d get busy and I’d disappear. I asked him once, “just where do you go?” He responded, “to the Mothership.” Thanks to Dianna Jacobsen (local artist Ray Jacobsen’s daughter) who designed my website and book cover, and Mary Patterson who rendered a picture I drew as a child into my book cover. And to In Her Image Photography who did my PR photos.

Thanks to Cory Gilman, who suffered over the back cover with me. To Reva Metzger, in whose honor I did the audio version. Reva loved my writing, and as she was dying, her sister read her one story a night from a collection of about 60 stories that I’d written. It inspired me to put it on tape. Thank you to Heather Piazza from Napa College and Piazza Marketing Concepts, and Judy Baker of Brandvines, who both gave me important marketing advice, and thanks to Judy for introducing me to BAIPA, Bay Area Independent Publishers Association.

To Maurice Tegelaar who had flowers delivered to my doorstep that day, to Gordon and Marion for the gorgeous roses, to my friend Marilyn Kelly for the potted peppers (she warned me not to eat them), and to Temple and her family for their lovely bouquet. She and I were happy in the midst of all that beauty at the book-signing table.

Jude, Andy, and Thea of Readers’ Books

Thank you to Readers’ Books, the Sonoma Index Tribune, The Sun, and the Bohemian who promoted the event. And to those that made that night happen: Andy, Jude, Thea and the staff at Readers’, poet and minstrel friend Chris Giovacchini who played guitar and sang for everyone, fellow Leo and poetess Lin Marie de Vincent who gracefully introduced me, local wine man David Noyes and his wonderful wine, and to book maven Marguerita Castanera who kept an eye on me.

And finally to Bill Swindle, who chases us around on the dance floor with his ever-present camera and then posts everything on Facebook, from whom I duck and cover when I see his lens aimed my way, and who at my request came and took pictures at the event. My fantasy of my last night on earth would be a fabulous sushi dinner with my friends and family, a slice of chocolate decadence for dessert (though I know that clashes with sushi), and a sultry Night-Club Two-Step at Monroe Hall, dancing in the embrace of Bill. I would leave this world a happy woman.

Catherine and paparazzi Bill Swindle

A Chicken Story

“Will you leave me something in your will? No one’s ever left me anything—mainly because most in my family didn’t have much to leave anyone—so just once,” I said, “I’d like to inherit something.”

We were sitting in the shade of Kim’s back yard, crunching thin slices of apples with jack cheese. There were times when she didn’t have the energy to do much, so I’d wander over (we lived three blocks from one another) to keep her company and make her laugh. And there were a couple of  times I stalked over to drag her off the couch to go outside for a walk because she was freaked out, hiding under a blanket all day on her couch. The corner at the end of her block was a long way for her to go, so she’d take my arm and we’d take our time, and we both felt better afterwards. This day happened to be a good day and we were swapping sex, drugs, and rock and roll stories. Kim had a fascinating past: her dad produced television shows so she knew a lot of stars and did some acting as a kid; then she became a flower child and travelled all over Europe in a VW van, then lived on the little island of Formentera. Her stories were WAY more interesting than mine, and we laughed until our teeth rattled loose. We promised one another we’d never tell a soul and take the stories to our graves. No one needs that much information about either of us. Ever.

So Kim says, “What would you like?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” I said, “and I’d like one of your chickens.”

She had a collection of ceramic, metal, and wooden fowl in her kitchen, all pretty cute. Trish, our friend, co-worker, gardening, and interior decorator queen who helped Kim and Dan also design their remodel on Patten Street, had found a few of them for her.

“And if I go before you, which is a possibility but not likely considering the circumstances,” I said, “what would you like of mine?” She said she’d think about it. Then we rambled on about our parents, siblings, kids, and grandchildren, about being Jewish and Catholic, about books and food and work. Then we had ice cream.

A few months later Kim’s lung cancer came back with a vengeance. On the bad days we’d just sit together, the weight of it all too heavy for either of us to carry by ourselves. We didn’t talk about her dying as she had no intention of doing so, but my friend was sensible and had all her affairs in order, just in case. I wasn’t about to rain on her parade by having any death conversations and anyway, she simply wasn’t going to go there. I didn’t want her to leave either, but I also did not want her to suffer so, and from where I sat, things weren’t looking good. It was the inability to breathe, the fluid in her lungs, and the pain in her back that caused most of her suffering. She ended up back in the hospital, where I got to be with her two more times. The second time I knew would be the last, and she passed the next day. Neither of us said good-bye. Not aloud anyway.

Two days after she died, her husband Dan called. “I’m lying here in bed, reading Kim’s will. It’s interesting. She left you something.”

“Really,” and after a puzzled pause I asked, “What?”

“She left you a chicken. It says, ‘Catherine and Trish, pick a chick.’ Why would she leave you two a chicken?”

I smiled, “Because she loved us.” And then I hooted, “Now that’s a good one! How perfect that she got the last laugh!”

Kim’s chicken, holding upper center court in my kitchen window.

Kim Heddy Memorial 1946-2012