A new story for "Frau Trude"

Today's tale, “Frau Trude” is a change of pace. We've mostly been looking at happy endings-but not today!

I think the original fairy tale is more than a “mind your parents” cautionary fable. It speaks to the dangers of naïve and unbridled curiosity--a risk for all ages.

Jamie watched the shadows on the ceiling. Their movements depicted a battle between light and darkness. She was part of the story too. A valiant maiden, fighting for truth and freedom. Her parents (represented by the black smudge in the corner) were the cruel tyrants to be overthrown.

Jamie saw the entire saga playing simultaneously on the ceiling, in her mind, and in the cryptic lyrics pulsing through her ipod. She wanted to write it all down, but the mystical tale was moving too fast and she was very tired. She'd taken a higher dose of the shroom than before. Too much? She felt faint.

Eight hours later Jamie was ready for more. She'd be more careful this time to get the perfect dose so she could record the brilliant messages coming to her through the TV, the fish tank, the stars and most especially, the trees.

But when she went to find her stash (perhaps she'd just do the pot and save the mushrooms for another day) it was gone. Confiscated by her captors.

There was no use confronting them. They'd simply yell or lecture or threaten her. But what could they threaten? No prison was worse than this house. She'd warned them to leave her things alone. She'd warned them.

It was a Friday night and her tormentors were leaving. Perfect. She'd have a head start.

Jamie grabbed cash from her hiding places, and a duffle bag. She'd travel light. She couldn't hitch with a suitcase. Besides, she didn't need much. Just some more money.
A trip to the ATM proved lucrative. If she were frugal, she'd have enough for a month or more. She'd get a job with the fake ID Kira had provided.

In three days, she was in Berkeley. So poppin! If only she’d been born 30 years earlier. To be here during the summer of love? Epic!!!!

Her first evening in town, she found a party. Was she the youngest there? Hard to say. Most looked like college gowns but there were some townees--girls who looked 14. Jamie studied them. Could they tell she was in their grade? She tried to stand tall and stick out her chest. She told the group she was 17.

She was hungry for a hit of something-pot, speed, something. But this group, however friendly, ignored her less than subtle hints. Did they think she was a NARC?

Crap! Here she was in friggin Berkeley, CA and no drugs??? A Monday night and no way to get high? She'd have to ditch this party. It was too bad, the guys were cute and the vibe was awesome. Everyone was beautiful and sexy and fun. She was meeting film people and musicians.

An older woman (was she 35?) sat in the corner, surrounded by a harem of eager, young guys. Frat boys? She was telling them a story and they were screaming with laughter. Were they high?

Jamie inched closer and smiled. The woman, Trudy, beckoned her closer. Trudy's eyes sparkled and her smile was like a bank of camera flashes. She sent the male harem away and cuddled on the couch with Jamie, asking her questions.

Jamie felt like a princess, chosen by the Queen to have a visit. She told Trudy her new improved bio-much more glamorous than the real thing. They shared pizza and coke and finally Jamie steered their talk to drugs.

“Are you looking to get high tonight?” The Queen’s smile widened. Jamie wondered if perhaps Trudy had bleached her teeth once too often. The shocking white glow now appeared almost blue.

“Yes,” Jamie whispered, “do you have something I could buy?”

Trudy pulled Jamie closer. “I have something very special for you. A mixture very powerful…”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Are you sure?” Trudy sang this question and then laughed.

“I'm not afraid.”

“Good. I didn't think so.”

Jamie swallowed the large pill and then lay down on the couch, her head on Trudy's lap. The light in the room began to dance and conversations looped back on themselves. She'd hear the start of a joke, then the end, then the middle, then the start again. The room seemed broken up into fragments of time and space. Jamie laughed.

“Right… be…. be… back…. right…” Trudy’s words echoed as she moved off the couch. She moved off the couch again and again. Finally, Jamie stretched out and closed her eyes to enjoy the music. Then she felt a tickle near her face. She opened her eyes and saw an enormous cat sitting near her head. She pulled her arms over her face.

Jamie peeked out through her fingers. The cat was still there. It was planning to scratch her. Jamie wanted to scream but she was too relaxed. Her body wouldn't move.

She peeked again. Now there were two cats hovering over her, large and cartoon-like. Jamie swatted the air and one cat scratched her hand. She pulled back again and covered her face.

She listened to the punk playing in the background. She tried to breathe deeply and focus on the beat. “Trudy?” She murmured.

“Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, dear.” Jamie heard Trudy's voice echoing. She peaked through her fingers to look. The two cats and now 20 other eyes were staring down at her.

“Trudy?”

“Yes, dear, nothing to worry about….”

The eyes gathered nearer. Jamie felt herself lifted and moved to another room. The eyes followed close by. Then the room became white light as Jamie's mind when dark. ©Lewis-Barr 2008 Read more!

Between Heaven and Earth--A short story

She was a television stereotype--the fierce medicine woman--a spindly powerhouse who pokes you with urns of pig feet and lichen. Clutching an old spaghetti jar filled with musty brown stems, she walks me through her sprawling home. Every room contains long tables covered with clear jars. Silent daughters organize the pungent merchandise recently harvested from a forest floor. I follow closely. We are discussing the fungus I’ve ingested. Have I taken too much? Bloody Mary (was she in South Pacific?) seems matter-of-fact and her daughters unconcerned. I shouldn’t worry. I am headed for a truly spectacular high.

I wake up reeling. It is 4:30am. Stumbling to the bathroom, I try to remain asleep. To get high on mushrooms in a dream? An altered state within an altered state! I must get back to sleep and find Bloody Mary. But it is too late. The dream is gone. I lie in bed and massage ideas for a short story.

Three hours later I am surrounded by high-end shops in a fashionable Las Vegas casino. Twelve college students, perfect specimens between 20-25 years, huddle close to hear me. The mall is loud. This section has been designed to resemble a Renaissance Italian village. Gondola drivers sing while paddling their obese tourists. But most of the rumble of noise comes from the crowds of happy consumers sipping coffee, eating ice cream, and browsing through expensive leather boutiques.

“The key to flying,” I begin, “is to focus the mind.” At “mind” I bring my thoughts to a still point in the center of my skull. I slowly ascend off the ground. Hovering ten feet above the group, I ignore the shoppers beginning to point. “Flying should be effortless—all that is required is the mental ability to hold oneself aloft. To help with focus, I sometimes start with a movement like this.” I bend each elbow and lightly push down each arm close to my sides, creating a streamlined figure. I rise higher. “To move in all directions: up, down, left, right, or a combination of these, simply dictate this with a CLEAR thought.”

A blond athlete stretches forth his hand and points. “What about this? This is how they did it in that Crouching Tiger movie.” He doesn’t budge. A shy brunette begins to rise.

“Movements are only important if they help you focus your mind,” I say. “Flight comes from the mind.”

“What about this?” The weightlifter is flapping his arms. Others laugh as two more slowly rise and join me hovering above.

“What do you think?” I say with a smile. A few more join the group overhead. “The rest of you keep experimenting. We are going for a practice flight,” I say. I lean forward and the others mimic me. We are now horizontal. I think “forward-up” and begin to glide along the manufactured streets of an indoor Italy. Since flying is a skill that one learns through personal trial and error, I do not lecture much. I do not even look back as I accelerate faster and faster. They will find a way to keep up.

I sometimes like to run personal errands above the ground but today we are gliding for the sheer joy of speed and weightlessness. To fly is not to be a disembodied spirit but to feel one’s body as lean, light, and quick. We dart along the 3rd floor balconies that line the winding streets and I watch the shoppers from above. Bald heads, dark roots. From 300 feet up, everyone looks squat.

I make a sudden turn and quickly duck. The ceilings are covered with a danger--circling fans. We have entered the smoke-filled casino. I want to check my charges but need to keep my eyes focused ahead. Pit bosses flay and there is a sound of sirens. We move quickly above the shuffling crowd. I am desperate for the exit. I want the open air.

The doorways are too low to navigate, so we gently lower ourselves to the ground and walk through. Several of the students have been left behind at crap tables but the remaining few glow with gratitude. We think “up” and briskly rise into the brightness of a clear Nevada sky. My fingers stretch toward the translucent blue--always out of reach. So instead, my eyes drink in the cool and my hands swim in the unbounded space. I push out in every dimension . Pure, clear, infinitude. I am limitless and free.

--------------------
The soft, female drawl on the other end of the line is always patient, calmly explaining her procedure as my blood pressure rises. I rub my eyes. I’ve been on the phone for an hour, listening to inane commercials repeated endlessly, or even worse, left with no sound at all, wondering if the kind Southern clerk has banished me to phone limbo. After 15 minutes of enforced silence, during which I can neither focus on my writing, nor unkink my aching neck, I am tempted to hang up. But experience has taught me that this would be futile: I would be forced to return to the beginning of the same torture, or abandon the hope of medical care. On a messy sheet of paper I scribble half-baked ideas from my flying dream and wait.

I had finally succumbed to the idea of seeing a dermatologist—having exhausted my experiments with herbal concoctions—but first I was to be tortured with a bureaucratic rack. Kafka could not have come up with a more perverse system. I am told that I need a referral through my Primary Care Physician. But my PCP isn’t in their system. They are trying to fix this problem. Meanwhile, Brian can help me. I am transferred to Brian but receive a voicemail that boots me into an endless ringing line. I call the 800 number again. Lisa answers and wants to understand why my PCP isn’t in their system. “They” are taking care of the problem I say. I simply want to get in touch with Brian for my referral. “Sure, no problem,” says the soft twang. I am dispatched to a different office with voicemail that transfers me to the dial tone. I call again. Stacy answers and wants to know why my PCP…. “Do I have to explain everything? Can I just get a referral from Brian?”

“But Brian can’t give you a referral without the PCP’s approval.”

“But Lisa said…..”

“Lisa isn’t in this office.”

“Do you have a supervisor who can help me?”

“Sure,” sings the drawl.

I wait light years in the silent echo of an unattended phone. Kelly answers and we run the drill. I am persistent and these women are agreeable. They will allow me to waste their time as they waste mine. Kelly calls for Brian. Again the exhausting exercise of pretending to be patient while your morning slips into afternoon. More inane doodles on my indecipherable paper. This morning I was ready to write the great American novel; now I am constructing an illegible suicide note. Kelly returns. Brian won’t talk to me, he can’t help me, he wants me to leave him alone. I try to echo the reasoned tone of my captor. Surely, after several hours of waiting, someone can help me with a referral? Kelly explains a new scheme: we will call my PCP together. But first let’s decide on a dermatologist. I sigh.

It is rather sweet the way Kelly mispronounces the names of towns within 15 miles of my home. We pick one out of the mix and off she flies to battle another bureaucrat while I hold the line. I sit and wait. I am stuck in the torture I hate more than any other--held fast, unable to move, wasting time. Think, Ann, think! I can muster my resolve and concentrate, even with an appliance attached to my ear. I must make this moment count. I find a blank spot of paper and begin outlining a story idea. Crude thoughts accumulate. I gain a small amount of momentum as Kelly returns.

“I have a referral number for you. You can make your appointment.”

“That’s it? I’m free?”

Kelly sweetly drawls goodbye. I hang up, slightly dizzy. I want to finally run to the computer to write about my dreams this morning, but I should first call the dermatologist and make an appointment before this rash goes away on its own. A tired receptionist answers. “Dr. Hudson isn’t a dermatologist. Is this OneHealthPlan?”

“Yes, they referred me.”

“Their records are wrong. Dr. Hudson is an allergist. And she isn’t here anymore. I’m sorry.” Dial tone.
I take a deep breath. No problem. I have the referral number. I will just find another local dermatologist who is in the health plan and make an appointment with them. I’m sure that is acceptable. Especially when your dermatologist isn’t a dermatologist.

I ignore my writing files and jump online. There are plenty of doctors on the plan, I choose three women and write their numbers. Just one more call I coax myself.

Thankfully, the first woman is still practicing medicine but she has a 2-month wait. The second woman has moved. I stoically call the third. Dr. Hoag has a cancellation but it is unclear as to whether she is still in OneHealthPlan. I am told to call my insurance to verify she is a member.

I have stopped breathing. My body feels numb but I propel myself forward and dial. I can be brief. This will be over soon. Helen now answers and I explain that my previous referral was for a dermatologist who isn’t a dermatologist and now I found a dermatologist but we aren’t sure if she is in the plan. Helen listens. “Why isn’t your PCP listed in the system?”

I choke back stomach acid and ignore the question. Can she check if Dr. Hoag…..?

“You can’t use the old referral number for a referral to a different doctor.” Like her predecessors, Helen is professional but she doesn’t have a twang. Her voice doesn’t smile.

“But the old referral,” I weakly counter. We trudge through the same old ground. Helen never loses patience as she explains again and again that my administrative nightmare will not die. I need another referral. The doctor appears to be in the system at another address but she needs to check the current address. She will call me back.

I scream at the dog. My husband calls and I spew forth the acid I’ve been swallowing all morning. I pull my hair and screen my calls. I need a doctor.

In the evening, I’m again surrounded by my students. We fly over broccoli trees and examine the manicured laws as we near Lake Mead. I fly fast. Faster. Stretching myself in the boundless sky. Free. Read more!

The Old Man Made Young Again

Why are some broken by adversity and others made stronger?



That is one of the themes in today’s story-- “The Old Man Made Young Again.”



The central image--a person burning in hot coals-- is also found in the mystical alchemical tales of late Medieval Europe. Here’s an illustration from the period showing the King redeemed through a container of fire.



But today’s story reminds me that I mustn’t “play with fire.” If we aren’t ready to undergo our transformation, we may, like the children in this tale, be born prematurely or undeveloped. Read more!

Another Snake Story

Consider the following synopsis of a story. Perhaps it reminds you of someone you know?

A young man, diligent and thoughtful, begins his work—first as an achieving student at a good university, and then as an upwardly mobile professional. He could be a lawyer, a doctor, a CEO. He works hard and struggles through the myriad of career hurdles and ethical traps of modern life. He develops integrity, self-esteem, talents and great success.

Then he meets a woman. Everyone around him sees that she’s no good for him. Perhaps she’s a gold-digger, or simply unstable. But our hero is committed to her. She puts him down or plays around. Finally, after a long struggle, she improves or he finds another, seemingly healthier, woman. But the problems continue. The new woman doesn’t really love him. She manipulates, withholds, or seeks to control.

While some of his friends have marriages of love and devotion—relationships that promote growth and joy—our hero continues to struggle. He always finds a woman who seeks his destruction.

In the end, happily, he receives help. He reads a book, talks to good friends, attends a support group, or therapy. He resists the temptations of his favorite kind of woman and stays alone. At least for a while.

In “The Three Snake Leaves” we again have the image of the snake bringing life, not death. (These fairy tales were surely pushing against the Christian doctrines of the time.) We have a devious wife who seeks the death of her spouse. We have a loving man who has a troublesome, dangerous feminine side. Did he have a wicked, psychologically devouring mother? The femme fatale demands his death.

But the hero survives. He has developed a loyal assistant (the ego) who serves his highest self (the King). His personality has found ways of healing his wounds and bringing life to death.

Unfortunately, in this tale, the feminine instinct or forces are so corrupt that they must be killed off, like the femme fatale villains of the noir genre.

Read more!

The Sisters of Sundance--Part 3 (of 3)

(This is the final segment of an adapted Brothers' Grimm story started below).

And just at that moment, three homeless women came into view. At least, Jan assumed they were homeless, based on their bizarre, layered attire. She thought of the three “weird sisters” in Macbeth—she’d written a report about them for her Composition class. Were they sisters? They were young—in their late 30s. The blonde was bone thin. She had several pairs of fancy dress gloves, one over another, white, black, red--on each hand and several elegant dresses of different styles and lengths layered over her thin frame. Her cowboy boots were decorated with lace. Was this an attempt to coordinate the ensemble? The brunette was stout. She wore large army boots which stuck out under the bulky, green trash bag pulled over her head. A glittery, green scarf was wrapped around her neck. The last sister had shaved her head and was dressed for much warmer climes. Her tiny arms hung out of a small, black T-shirt with an image to ward off the evil eye. Her camouflage cargo pants were covered in bulging pockets and she wore old spiked golf shoes.

For a brief moment, Jan forgot about her problems.

“What you looking at?” shouted the brunette.

“Sorry. Nothing.” Jan, despite herself, started to cry.

“Look what you did now, Nina, you made her cry,” said the T-shirted one.

“I did not. Shut up,” said Nina.

“What’s wrong, honey?” The T-shirted one ran up to the window.

“Annie, what are you doing, they don’t want us around here!” The blonde was now running in place.

Annie scratched her shaved head and turned to the other. “She’s crying. She needs help. What’s wrong, darlin?”

Jan couldn’t decide who was worse off, the sisters or herself. She was moved by their care, and what did she have to lose? She grabbed some cans of juice, and some snacks, and sat with the sisters in the park, telling her story.

They listened attentively, even if Carrie insisted on running in place, Annie continued to scratch, and Nina occasionally moaned. At the end, Carrie did a cartwheel and made a proposition.

“We can help you, honey,” she said. “But you have to treat us well. You can’t pretend you don’t know us when the big shots come around….”

“We used to be big in this town too.” Nina was now biting her nails as she spoke.

Carrie continued. “I’m great at organizing, Nina loves to clean, and Annie can type like the wind, right Annie?”

Annie made typing motions over Carrie’s head.

“We can start tonight, if you want. You just have to be our friend. Invite us to a premiere or two…”

Jan looked at the sisters. They were odd and had clearly lived a rough life on the streets. Still, what choices did she have? She let them into the office and went to bed.

The next day, Jan got to the room early, afraid that Stephanie would find the sisters and freak. But at 9 am (this was early for Jan) the sisters were gone and the room was immaculate! Papers were organized into tagged files and these were alphabetized and already boxed. Stacks of perfectly typed letters sat next to labeled envelopes and all the surfaces had been scrubbed clean!

Stephanie walked in with a few papers in her hand.

“Jan! Wow! That’s incredible! Amazing! Terrific! Here I was ready to send you off with these papers and look what you’ve done! You must have worked non-stop! You take the rest of the day off, dear. And here are tickets to the premiere tonight. You’ve earned them.”

“Thanks, Steph. Any chance I might have three more? I have a couple of friends who’ve been very supportive since I got here.”

Stephanie was delighted to give Jan more tickets.

Jan searched all day for the sisters and finally found them sleeping in the park. She gave them the tickets and said she’d meet them at the theatre.

For once she was thrilled to be invited to a gala. She primped the rest of the afternoon and got to the tiny cinema early, to watch for celebrities. But the sisters hadn’t arrived at the start of the event, when “Bob,” or Mr. Redford (as she was instructed to address him) began his remarks. They still hadn’t arrived when the movie ended.

“Jan! Jan!” Stephanie was walking toward her, with Mr. R! “Jan, I’d like to introduce Mr. Redford. Bob, this is our new intern, Jan. She is awesome.”

Mr. R smiled and, even with their colossal age difference, Jan felt herself swoon.

They chatted for a brief moment, and Jan was shocked when Mr. R stayed chatting, even when Stephanie was pulled away. Then suddenly, the three sisters arrived.

“Jan, dear, Jan,” they sang together, “thank you for the tickets!” They ran up to her.

“Mr. Redford, may I introduce my friends, Annie, Carrie, and Nina?”

Bob smiled. Carrie began running in place, Annie scratching, and Nina picking her nails. But then each began to tell their story. The theatre emptied but Bob would not be moved. He cried as they told how their lives had unfurled. But other stories were howlingly funny. They each described their psychiatrists and their different diagnoses: “obsessive-compulsive,” prone to panic attacks,” and “neurotic.”

Finally, Nina wanted to go “home.” They made promises to take their medication, hugged or patted Jan goodbye, and ran off.

The next day Bob called Jan to his office.

“You know those three sisters? They're willing to sell their stories and I’d like you to spend your time interviewing them. Write me up some notes, you can start the treatment. You could even try your hand at the screenplay if you want. Do you think you might know someone who could take over your jobs for you, in the meantime?”

Jan smiled. She did. Read more!

The Sisters of Sundance--Part 2

(The first part of this reworking of the Grimm tale starts on the post below.)

Jan was trapped. And paralyzed inside. She couldn’t think of an escape and so, a week later, she found herself in a cramped and cluttered administrative office of the Sundance Institute.

Stephanie, the breezy executive director, gave her a tour.

“Jan, we are so thrilled you were willing to take us on! As you can see, we’re in desperate need of your organizing skills! And your housekeeping!”

Stephanie’s laugh was light and carefree—was it a carefully choreographed display to distract Jan from the filth surrounding her? Even if she worked everyday for a month, Jan could never scrub this place clean.

Stephanie pointed to three stacks—each at least 10 inches high--of paperwork. “These contracts need to be re-entered into the system and these are letters to answer for Mr. Redford. There are forms for the fan mail, something for the agents, here are police forms—if you find notes from crazy stalkers… No! I’m not kidding!” She laughed again and moved to the computer. Jan watched Stephanie’s long, frosted fingernails daintily tap the keyboard. “Here are the files. I’m sure this will make sense once you get into it. This room, over here, we have file folders and boxes. You should have everything you’ll need. Cleaning supplies are in this closet.”

Jan struggled to keep her own plastered smile in place and her tears repressed until Stephanie finally pranced out of the room. Then, Jan locked the door, collapsed into a grimy chair and cried into the evening.

The next day Jan sat in the scummy space, overwhelmed and appalled. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t….she had neither the skill nor the will. To clean, and organize, and administrate? Jan found a sticky radio and turned it up. She locked the door and tried to think but her brain wouldn’t work. All she could do was cry.

On the third day, Jan again sat immobile. At lunchtime, Stephanie knocked on the door.

“Jan? You in there?”

Jan sat motionless.

“Hello? Hello?”

Jan heard the sound of a key and watched the door open. Stephanie was bringing another huge stack of paperwork.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Looking into Stephanie’s mirrored sunglasses, Jan caught a glimpse of her own red, swollen eyes and tear-drenched face.

”I…I…” Jan could only stutter.

“I know it’s overwhelming, and I’m sure you miss your sweet Mother. Many of our interns have a tough first week. But Jan, if you can’t do this, I’ll have to send you home. I hate to do that, especially because it’s late now. You know we’ll have to charge you for your airfare both ways, and the week’s housing stipend. And some other charges. I told your mother this.”

Jan nodded.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Stephanie continued, with her practiced sing-song tone and toothy smile. “If you haven’t cleaned this room up and finished all this paperwork, I’ll have to put you out on the streets. Sorry….”

This was it. The end of the road. Jan went to the window. Should she escape first or wait until dark? Or at least until after dinner? Should she grab the blankets from her cot and find a place to sleep outside? Homelessness. That was her future.

TO BE CONTINUED Read more!

The Sisters of Sundance--Part I

Sorry I haven't had time to compose Grimm-influenced stories lately--been hectic with some corporate training events. But I finally had a moment---here's the first part of a new tale (also visit some older completed tales below....)

Based on the Brothers Grimm tale, “The Three Spinners.”

She tried to forget her mother, sitting in the other room circling want-ads. For Jan. “She wants me to move out, I’ll move out!” Jan practiced this mantra with ferocity. But under her bravado she wondered how she’d manage. She had a bit of money left (a fraction of the largess she’d been given 3 years ago when she managed to graduate) but not enough to live on. But she’d gotten her AA. She’d done that, hadn’t she? Couldn’t her mother give her credit for anything?

And now this stupid networking event. She’d been building toward “being sick” all week but now this fight and the threat! She had to go, to appease the monster and maybe if her mother thought Jan was “at least trying,” she’d be left in peace to…..? That was the problem. What did she want to do? Besides shopping, texting, or hanging out?

Jan’s best friend, Tina, couldn’t understand tonight’s dilemma. The theatre fundraiser sounded like a blast—free food, drink, a band? So what if Jan’s mother would drag her around, “like the prized heifer at the county fair,” selling her to the highest bidder? Jan stopped protesting. Tina couldn’t understand how it felt to be the daughter of a controlling, ambitious, double-Capricorn named Heather. No, she wouldn’t go. She couldn’t go through another public degradation.

But they were in the car together that evening, dressed up (although Jan purposely wouldn’t style her hair or wear earrings—a tiny act of rebellion). Both seethed in silence. Jan felt a genuine headache emerging. How would she survive this evening?

Heather transformed into her loveliest self as they entered the ballroom. Beaming with laughter and lavishing praise on her “exquisite” daughter, she mercilessly marketed Jan as prospective employee or spouse to whoever would cross their path. Finally, after Heather’s third cocktail, Jan was able to wander off and hide in the corner near the band.

Driving home, her mother seemed especially cheerful. Was it simply the alcohol?

“I got you a job.”

What?”

“I got you a job, my darling daughter. It doesn’t pay much. In fact, it might just be an internship, I’m not exactly sure, but, I signed you up and you leave for Utah, next week.”

Should she even bother with a reply? No. Better to ignore Heather when she’s talking crazy.

“If you don’t go, I’m changing the locks.”

Jan felt dizzy. She watched the streetlights pass over her head as the car rushed toward the only home she’d ever known.

“It’s for the Sundance Institute. You know, Robert Redford’s place? You’re going to love it.”

Jan tried to keep her voice monotone. She wanted to sound bored and hide her inner chaos “What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Lots of things. I told them that you “type like the wind, you're a professional organizer and a meticulous housekeeper.” Heather laughed. “It’s a bit of a stretch. But they aren’t paying you and you’ll do well enough. It will be great for your resume.”

“I suck at all those things. I can’t type!”

“You typed your papers in college…. You’ve got a week to brush up”

TO BE CONTINUED Read more!

Driving as a Spiritual Discipline

I have become a wary driver. Since my recent accident I have become keenly aware of how fast and close cars travel. Sometimes all I can do with my fear is to pray while I drive. I pray for protection and use a mantra to try to relax. I repeat a name for God over and over as I watch drivers swerve between lanes at 80mph. I repeat a Sacred Word as large SUV’s zoom in to fill up my rearview mirror. As my mantra teaches me mindfulness, I try to be thankful for this moment in my life; this split-second filled with fear and a quick, defensive maneuver. Since my accident, driving has become an intense spiritual discipline, providing me opportunities to practice patience, forbearance, and trust.

Before my accident I was like many on urban roads today: arrogant and strong-willed. I didn’t admit this to myself at the time. I ignored the fact that once in the car, I was a changed woman. I loved driving fast. Speeding was a habit. I drove fast even if I was early to my destination. I drove fast because speed felt like power. If I was stranded behind some slow-poke (I had more colorful terms then) I took control of the situation. I got around my persecutor one way or another. To move slower than my wish was agony. I couldn’t tolerate delays from anyone. Still, because I often witnessed others who were even more reckless and addicted to speed, I saw myself as “just right;” somewhere between the overly fearful and the excessively aggressive driver. Slowing down, taking care, allowing others their space--these are my concerns now. I still get angry behind the wheel, but now my persecutor is my old self, the driver who impatiently follows too close, the impetuous one who roughly passes in the right lane.

In a world where humans manipulate stock markets and shred documents--simply because they can--slowing down is a radical, almost counter-intuitive act. Why go slower when you can get away with going faster? Speed is a habit that says, “Get out of my way, the world is mine.” Driving with restraint is a perfect spiritual discipline. I can learn to relish the present moment as I follow someone leisurely moving 20 miles below the speed limit. I can practice forgiveness with the man who cuts me off. I can practice trust when I seek to change lanes during rush hour. Still, a spiritual driver isn’t simply passive. She must retain a healthy degree of assertiveness to make it past the entrance ramp on many urban freeways.

I am a crusader now. I wave in my rearview mirror to the BMW traveling inches behind my bumper at 70mph. My sincere attempts to remove our separateness and anonymity often work. As the driver behind me backs away, I hope he isn’t grumbling, but now more aware of our shared humanity. We must remember that a unique soul is hidden within each metal box on the road.

I had one accident and was tremendously lucky--I lost a car but not my healthy body. I also lost my naiveté and unconsciousness. There are still drivers that are far too slow for me. I am not a Buddha behind the wheel yet. But now I am aware of how the unmitigated egotism of our society is mirrored in the way we drive. We do not want to believe that the unthinkable accident could happen to us. It can. We need to slow down in our lives. We need to relinquish control and make room for everyone. Let’s practice these skills on the road and learn them for our daily lives. Read more!