It is the Kentucky Derby and Cinco De Mayo weekend at La Posada. Kristen from the hotel said I should go; it would be fun. Sheโs a feisty young woman with clear, penetrating blue eyes and silky brown hair. Youth dances in her expressions; other times, it wilts from being locked down to an indoor job. Sheโs an adventurer who camps out in Belize and South America. Now, sheโs talking about Antigua.
I walked out to the courtyard to see what was going on. The tables werenโt set up yet, but the Donkey stood idly and annoyed at the other end of the yard. I donโt know why they bring him, maybe for the kids. In the bar, a few guests were watching the Derby. The elan of race anticipation is shining like a light. I ordered a Mint Julep, and the guys were all watching as Dude whipped it up with finesse.
โ How is it?โ Dude asked without needing any approval.
โ Magical. Who are you betting on? Greta asked.
โI want a Titty Tut, something nasty.โ
โ Oh, stop that. You do it too much.โ She replied.
โ Not nearly enough! Okay, hereโs my horseโPromises Fulfilled. Oh yes, thatโs mine.โ
โ Everything you say is a metaphor for sex.โ
โ You bet it is.โ Whoโs your pick?โ
โ My prick is Justify.โ
โHah, see, now you get it.โ
I sipped my drink and wandered around the lobby, stopping to greet Jackie, Monserrat, and Danielle. They donโt know what their smiles and caring comments do for me. I must tell them more often.
โ I donโt know what Iโd do without all of you.โTo be continued.
Adventures in livingness aren’t just about extroversion, what we say, how we behave, or how we respond. More importantly, they are about our inner changes when life demands that from us. No one hears what threads are spoken in our heads, the ones that are flawed from indecisiveness, the ones that have been molded from things long past, the new threads that are unfamiliar, and the ones we need to rip out entirely.ย
Sunday thinking: future, plan, prepare, implement. What if I go West, East, North, or South? One at a time. I use it a lot; itโs my mascot, mental disability. If I got over it, I would delete it from wherever it rose.
It reminds me of Rudyard Kipling’s If Poem. I am fearless one day and fearful the next, a collage of paradoxical thoughts. Emotions are my yellow brick road and also the vouchers of the victim. Iโve never been an A student of defensive tools; my acquiescence serves my need to be approved, which is so annoying.
I am not going back to childhood experiences; that cathartic tunnel has been examined, and approval and cherishing is the pillow of my contentment.
Today is the day to stop punishing myself and outlive what has aborted my adventures in livingness.
No longer incubate to avoid disappointment, irritations, chaos, uncertainty, and senseless fear. I’m not alone, and you’re not alone. Friends of marvelous careers and lifestyles admit the same. We remain at home, where comfort, familiarity, control, and sustainability are our foundation.
No longer! Debasing my flaws, failures, and finicky flashes, manage them like I’m preparing dinner. If the pasta isn’t fabulous, I don’t go into a fit of failure.
I no longer will have apprehension and anxiety when buyers arrive to tour my home. The great philosophers advised me on Facebook that anxiety never solves problems.
Why can the leaves turn lemon, plum, and tangerine? Why does the sky allow storms to shake up its translucent surface? Why can nature reinvent momentarily with wind, rain, hurricanes, and earthquakes? Why can’t I change the colors of my mood? I get daily messages from an Instagram member named Asadโinspiring, and he circulates around the themes of mood, attitude, loneliness, and inner strength. All of these have toppled my life since I can remember. I’m more taciturn than most people perceive. I can display a mannequin of poise and joy, but if you remove the surface, beneath is a conundrum of self-doubt, second-guessing, punishment, and fear. What’s even more destabilizing is I actually think I’m alone.
Last week, I observed the cashier’s facial expression and gestures at the Stop-& Go, which alerted me to her distress. I was buying a Cadbury chocolate bar after reading that chocolate is mood-changing, not just the hip-hop of energy; it can change your mood.
” I read that chocolate helps with depression, and these dreary dark days don’t help,” I admitted.
” Oh, I know. I used to be a registered nurse,” she said, facing me squarely into my eyes. I noticed a lot of cashiers don’t do that anymore.
” I suffer with anxiety and depression so I had to quit. I can mix up a Cadbury bar with a Snickers but not with medication.”
” I have the same as you, it’s changed my life as well. ” I looked at her name tag, without my glasses.
” You’re name is America? She laughed and her smile emerged.
“No, underneath, Dolores.”
” Thank you for listening to me,” I said
” Thank you, customers rarely acknowledge us.”
We don’t want pity or empathy; we all need recognition, and not in a text!
My emotional tail is wagging. Curled up in my desk chair, I feel almost as if I was born in this chair. Itโs cushioned me through a cyclone of adventures in livingness. This piece of writing was handwritten on a tablet back in late January. Iโve made some minor additions and deletions. Before submitting to a publisher, the editor I used asked me, โWhy do you keep switching between past and present tense?โ I told her I donโt control that until Iโm in final editing. My control over my writing is identical to how I live. Acting on impulse, expanding the mundane into a musical, feasting on all the emotions, and fabricating thorny Walter Mitty encounters. I donโt even think of applying proven methods; I make up new ones. Back to this plateau of solitude. Love what you have, and especially yourself, with all your flaws. Integrity is more critical; be proud not just for yourself, but because someone out there needs you.
PART TWO: After reading this and while emptying the trash, I was struck by this: the big payback to living as I described is an adaptation to proven methods. I’m learning pragmatic over poetic.
Part Two. Solana Beach Morrocan Bungalow 2003.Maurice was 84
Maurice married the love of his life on December 25, 1941. They married in December because Maurice had saved one thousand dollars and made one hundred dollars a month. Agnes, his girlfriend in Grant, Iowa, is the woman who led Maurice out to Rancho Santa Fe, California, from his home in Grant. She and her father worked for Ronald McDonald, a prestigious resident in the ranch. She was responsible for housekeeping and cooking, and her father was the chauffeur.
Agnes and Maurice went to the US Grant Hotel for dinner and stayed at the Paris Inn on Kettner Avenue in San Diego. The following day Agnes went off to work. Maurice stayed in the little guest house she occupied on the McDonald property. Two days later Maurice received his draft notice. On December 31, he left his new bride and reported for duty in Escondido. He had one short visit before he left for overseas. Then, the next time he would see her, he would be changed.
Buna
One summer evening, I was sitting on Mauriceโs front porch. Sometimes, we would sit out till after eight oโclock at night talking about different parts of Mauriceโs life. Maurice is really busy in the summer; he tends to his garden of fruits and vegetables, he delivers furniture for all the Cedros merchants, and he helps his friends. He never seems tired, he likes to sit on the porch, have a beer, and tell stories. I used to like it when my father told me stories, but they were unlike Maurice’s. There didn’t seem to be anything he
couldnโt talk about. Once he said, ” You can ask me anything you want.โ
โMaurice, how old were you when you were drafted?โ
โWell, I was thirty-one years old in 1941 when the war broke out. I had to leave my wife, which bothered me, but I wanted to go overseas and fight for my country. There were so many nice soldiers, the best people in the world. I recall two boys from Chicago that were only eighteen years old, they lied to get in the service, and they were the best soldiers you ever saw- they werenโt afraid of anything.โ
โWhere did they send you after you left San Diego?โ
โWell, first, I went to Camp Roberts for thirteen weeks of training, but I got out in nine weeks. Then they sent me to Fort Ord to get my gear, rifles, and clothes. We left San Francisco on April 21, 1942. We got into Adelaide, Australia, after twenty-one days at sea.” Maurice paused like he had to catch his breath. I watched his face, thinking he may want to stop.
โYou remember so much… Do you mind talking about it?โ I asked.
โNo, I don’t mind; it changed my life, everything about it.โ
โWhere did they send you after that?โ
โWe trained for a while in Adelaide; the people in Australia were so happy to see us. I remember they met us at the beach with tea and cookies. The enemy soldiers were getting close. We went up the coast to New Guinea and into Port Moresby; we got there on Thanksgiving Day 1942. As soon as we got off the ship, the bombs hit us; it was the hundredth raid that night. The next morning we were supposed to get to the Stanley
Mountain range, we were in such a hurry. The Japanese soldiers built cement pillboxes and the army wanted us there. So we got in this plane, and they flew us there. Twenty-one at a time. When I got to the island of Buna, there were dead soldiers scattered all over the beach. We lost men so fast. Then, on Christmas Day of 1942, General McArthur ordered us to advance, regardless of the cost of lives. My division was one of the first to stop the Japanese army, the 32nd Division. After we were immobilized and a lot of our men killed, they sent in the 41st Division to take over.โ
Maurice’s memory was like listening to a documentary, and this was the first time a Veteran confided in me. They didn’t get supplies at first; they had to wait till everything was shipped to Europe. They got what was left over, which wasn’t much. He ate cocoanut bark for two weeks and had no water.
โI can remember so well the first Japanese soldier I saw. He was sneaking through the jungle, only thirty feet off. I donโt know if I shot him, but he dropped. I donโt like to think I killed anyone, and it bothers me to this day that I had to kill. The Japanese were good soldiers; they had better ammunition than us. We fought all day, and we always ran out of ammunition before they did. Iโll never forget Christmas Day of 1942. We went into a trench to get ahead; the fellow ahead of me was cut wide open, and the guy behind was shot. I just lay there on the ground. If you moved you’d be shot. It was so bad; I lay there all day and night. โ
โDid you think you were going to die?โ
โI didnโt let myself think that. I promised God that if I ever got out alive I’d never complain about anything in my life again. Nothingโฆ nothing could be worse than that day.”
โYou kept the promise, didnโt you?โ I asked.
โYes, I have.โ
โAnd thatโs why the war changed your life?โ I said.
โThatโs right. Every day is a beautiful day after you’ve lived through war, at least for me,” he said.
Excerpt from manuscript. All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced without the author’s prior written permission.
HOW ONE SOLDIER CHANGED THE COMMUNITY OF SOLANA BEACH, CA
For many of us, the idea of aging is frightening. We have been led to believe it brings pain, loneliness, and idle time for regressing mentally. Remedies, products, prescriptions, and escapes offer youthful looks, energy, and vitality. The thought of aging is brutal; we pretend we can buy youth. What if you met a man who told you he could do everything today, at eighty-four, that he did all his life without injections, medicine, special diet, or specific training?
What if I told you all his family, including his brothers, mother, and father, is gone? His wife died twenty years ago. That he lives alone and is not lonely. He claims he is the happiest man in the world. Would you want to meet him? He wants to meet you. He would like to be everyoneโs neighbor. He has much to teach in a country of strangers about meeting neighbors and making friends. We who know proclaim him an inspiration, a legend, an angel. And to that, he always replies, โIโm just a regular guy.โ
Maurice Roberts has lived in Solana Beach since 1936, and his recollections of the area are intact. I recorded his history and began writing everything down. Next week, I will startthe first in a series of historical perspectives.
Achievement knocked down the barrier of fear. It feels like lifting off from ground level; I am floating like I used to be in the swimming pool, and I am only at my desk reading the news from my attorney. From one beginning to an ending, five years later, after tedious research, unscrambling legal language, and searching for the meaning behind the case references, this journey is over. I won the lawsuit against the bank that attempted toforeclose on my home and Dodger, my ex-partner of thirty-five years, who, for still unknown reasons, pursued the foreclosure.
Agape, eyes widened, nerves settled like snowflakes; the joy of achievement cannot be understated. During this phantasmagoria, life beyond research, consulting with foreclosure agencies, banking laws, and regulations, I detached from my passion for adventure, creativity, parades, parties, and socializing; I sat alone, and resilience shadowed, then enflamed like a log of fire, encapsulated into a daily doctrine. Music by Ennio Morricone, blue note Jazz, the everchanging scenery of seasons, phone conversations with friends who released ambers of comfort, confidence, and advice, and TCM films nuzzled my fatigue.
Some days, I remained in bed, staring at my Icart Ladies of Leisure prints, or sat by my favorite window seat and studied clouds, birds, and leaves. The blossom of tenacity grew into a tree trunk and taught me the art of persistence and emotional strength, which were missing links in my character.
Achievement in fine-tuning relationships, setting down the needle gently instead of plummeting riffs and arguments. In the present, as you all know, if you read the news, our culture has replaced argument and debate with assault and violence. I digress; renewed confidence in my aptitude to fight battles, disputes, and disappointments without Dodger is as solid as concrete.
The next episodic internal journey is regaining my passion for opening the door to interaction with strangers and discovering newness in that engine of life.I hope this admission reaches others who are experiencing depriving themselves of love within and without.
SILHOUETTE of a Taos night out in 2006. It begins with the sunsetโa bubble-gum pink sash that swirls like taffy just above the distant hillside. The transcending forms and colors in the sky distract me; they silence me, keeping me from turning on the television or answering the phone.ย
The sunset has settled into my routine. I watch it from the roof garden over our Adobe Home and Gallery every night. ย In the midst of dressing to attend an art auction at the Millicent Rogers Museum, the sun has vanished. The sky turns Taos blue; a luminous oil pigment canvas blue that appears like an endless tunnel you can walk through. As I descend the staircase and cross over the mรฉnage of piles shoved in a corner to allow SC to paint, I think, โThis is going to be my home. Iโm still hereโ Adventures in Livingness
In the courtyard where new flagstone has been laid, and a mud ditch blocks the exit, Rudy hitches me on his back and carries me out the side entrance through Tony Abeytaโs yard. Tonyโs yard is piled with sand from our flagstone project, and my high-heeled black suede shoes are not at all practical for crossing New Mexican dunes. This is how the evening begins.ย Out in the parking lot, we circle around once and stop in Robertโs gallery. He has offered me his turquoise squash seed necklace to wear at the auction. The necklace is from Turkey, and sells for $1,800. Millicent Rogers events always attract women with extravagant jewelry, and Robert knows I have no such possessions. He hands me the necklace and says, have fun.
At times like this, I can forget the faces and routines I lived in Solana Beach and feel swept into a labyrinth of unfamiliar vignettes. There are two police cars in the rear of the parking lot, the church looms like a fortress of wet mud, and SC is listening to The Band CD we picked up in Santa Fe. I slide into the car, ensuring my shoes donโt fill with gravel.
There is very little street light along the desert road, and cars approach you at disarming speeds. For newcomers, the pale yellow line that separates oncoming traffic, roaming animals, hitchhikers, leather-clad bikers, and abandoned pets is of no comfort or value. Boundaries and civilities between people are vague, and sometimes, conversations elope into poetry.ย
At the Millicent Rogers Museum, the director, Jill, who is there to welcome each guest, greets us at the carved wooden doors. This museum was once a home, like most museums in Taos.Each room is an envelope of Native American jewelry, ceramics, paintings, weaving, textiles, and metalwork sealed with Millicent Rogers’s ethereal presence. By coming to Taos and bridging her New York chic with southwestern individuality, she set global trends in fashion, art, and living.ย he museum collection includes some of her designs that evolved from her residency in the desert. She moved here in 1947 and died here in 1953. Although she could have chosen anywhere in the world to live, she settled in the unaltered, surreal lunar beauty of Taos.
I wandered through the tightly packed rooms, alternately viewing the guestโs attire and jewelry. The woven wraps, belts, and hats worn by men and women form a collage of individual expression.ย Almost everyone seems to attract attention by the texture and color of his or her attire. It is a festive traditional look, with southwestern accessories paired with jeans or silk dresses.ย If you come to Taos, look for a belt buckle, one piece of Native American jewelry, and one piece of art.
When the auction was announced, I admired the same etching as the woman next to me. She remarked that the artist was also the teacher of one of her children. I learned that Ellen had six children and 11 grandchildren. She was petite with curly blonde hair, and I liked her instantly. I told her I was a writer.
โSo am I,โ she answered.
Rather than talk about her work, she began talking about her daughter, who is also a writer.
โIโm so lucky–all my children and grandchildren are creative and artistic.โ
It was obvious that her life was a garden of earthly delights and that she had raised many roses. When the auction began, she vanished, and I quickly viewed the art before returning to the two etchings. They were both sold.
As I was walking out, I bumped into Ellen. She was clutching the etchings.
โSo, you bought them,โ I said.
โOh, yes, I had to have them.โ
She left me with a beaming smile and a closing remark I often hear: โWelcome to Taos.โ
I love hearing that so much I donโt want to stop saying, I just moved here. After the auction, we stopped in Marcoโs Downtown Bistro, where we joined an improvisational party. It started when Marco introduced us to his friends, Pablo and Joan, who were visiting from Santa Fe.
The dim, glowing melon adobe walls of the bistro, Marco hugging everyone, Joanโs melodious, high-pitched laughter, Pablo telling jokes, Rudy laughing, and then Philip arriving to tell stories crossed over from strangers in a bistro to a fast-rolling film. The conversation and laughter surfed breathlessly from one person to another.
Joan remarked, โMy fifteen minutes. This is the best for me. The first time you meet someone, you’re both talking without effort. Itโs so perfect.โ
We closed the bistro past midnight. Marco had gone home. Joan decided to stay at a friendโs house. Philip agreed to drive to Santa Fe the next day, and we took Tylenol before bed.
Not every night out in Taos is like Joanโs fifteen minutes, but chances are you will have something to write home about. The beginning of Gallery LouLou Taos, NM
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“I respond to intensity, but I also like reflection to follow action, for then understanding is born, and understanding prepares me for the next act.”
JANUARY
SNOW, ARTIC BLAST, ICE, FREEZING. Maelstrom of inconveniences toppling down in every nook and cranny of body, home, and outdoors. I wore a long-sleeved liner, wool sweater dress, rabbit poncho, and over that, a wool wrap, laptop mittens, sherpa leggings, wool socks, and boots. Mornings, eight degrees, afternoons eighteen, and the absence of sunlight grids my spirit. Repetitive lessons in endurance, tolerance, and acceptance. The outer world stenches corruption, propaganda, cruelty, violence, and haranguing reporters. The election year dominates the bunkum reporting.
It’s been almost a month since I texted or called Dodger. Somedays, I enter the memories, a reel of episodes on our cross-country road trips, hiking barren, narrow, unclaimed paths in Baja, mountains and canyons in New Mexico, and lakes and forests in upstate New York. They appear to be aberrations of myself; I am unrecognizable as he is, too.ย
FEBRUARY
MATURITY has caught up with me, and I am viscerally aware of this pendulum as replacing the nonacceptance of my lifestyle and future to hardened acceptance, which is a relief. I used to be full of follies, gaiety, and impulse; inner choreography is now critical thinking, studied decisions, and a spoonful of distrust. Instead of unleashing all that I think and feel with strangers, the narrative is split between inching closer to listening rather than personal tete e tet. Once a week, I go outing to the social club, where I find conversant strangers,couples, singles, divorces,and a variety of ages, and yet they all have a commonality that I don’t, they seem genuinely satisfied with their lives, one comment this, after asking the bartender how are you, he smiled, slapped the polished wooden bar with both hands and replied, I couldn’t be happier. Then he opened his phone and showed me a photo of a baby boy. His expression soared through my senses, and I adulated with compliments. Another evening, I opened a conversation with a couple next to me, and for the next hour, I learned of their life; children, travel, cruises, especially, ” Oh, you’ve never been on one? You must go, you’re so perfect for a cruise.
” I’m uncomfortable with more than twenty people.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.” Wendy was really fit to her name; she wiggled in her seat, her hands never at rest, and her thoughts poured like raindrops. Her husband, Christian, nodded a lot, and when he tried to speak, she ran right over him. A few times, he rolled his eyes at me. They’d been married thirty-five years, looked to be in their early fifties, and semi-retired. I left feeling love, had tipped our kinship, a surprising need to leap from trivialities to more substance.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 
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