Thursday, October 31, 2013



Photographs are the reason I am living..
When I was a mother of two young daughters in my fortieth year, I yanked the brakes on my runaway life to a screeching halt. You could smell the psychic rubber fuming all the way from Orange County to LA. 
Everything I had been doing and the way I had been doing it was coming to an end.  It was as if the sands of my female hourglass were running out.  I was forty.  At a crossroads.  No signposts.  No maps.  No tracts.  No wise women.  I was desperate.  And for the first time in my life, I went against my mother’s dire warnings:  "Never trust a woman.  In fact, the only woman you can ever trust is your own mother." 
I found my first female therapist. She was exactly my age and I sensed right away that this woman was a master surgeon when it came to bloodletting the toxins that had been in my psychic body for so long I never knew there was such a thing as 'normal.'  I put myself into her good hands for the next two years.  When I asked her why she thought I might have been abused, she was careful with her words and replied, “Well, if you had a list of fifteen red flags, I could check off every one of them.”   I didn’t understand her, but I trusted her.  She never pushed, just asked me to bring in my family photos, whatever I wanted.

"The Seeding of Phoetics..."
It was on one of those milder-than-mild early Southern California mornings when my Lady Santa Ana's softly ushered me off in a Great Mother sweep to Pat's modest two-story gray clapboard offices, sequestered beneath ancient eucalyptus trees off some anonymous, intimate back-road in Tustin.  I got out of my black Jag, dutifully dragged from the trunk a dirty dusty weatherworn box crammed with photos from every era I had ever lived, psychically and physically and made my way up the shaky elevator.  Little could I have guessed that day that this was the beginning of the rest of my life and what I would come to know as My Calling.