Here she is

There is something magical about having a hummingbird nearby, nesting in a tree that has been struggling to make it. Not properly planted, my Fuji persimmon tree's poor spindly trunk just now supporting a nice green canopy and maybe even able to bear some fruit this year. Once a source of worry, the tree is now a perfect place. There may be hope for it after all. Maybe the good juju of this little bird will infuse the tree with new life, some course correction for what it is supposed to be but has fallen short due to lack of proper care and feeding.

Not like this nest and the little mother in it. Proper care and feeding. A reminder that we must do this for ourselves too, lest we lose our way. Feed our souls. Feed our minds and bodies. Giving life a chance to show itself off, the details of the Grand Design peeking through.

Backyard Blessing

It's been a while since I sat outside on my patio. It's as messy and weather-worn as I've seen it, plants in disarray, weeds everywhere, dried leaves from as long ago as November still stuck behind the trellis. I know from experience now that I don't have the same spry energy that I used to to get out there on my hands and knees and make it right. That will have to wait for when I can afford a helper.

Ignoring the mess--a big deal for an anal-compulsive with an aversion to grit--I felt compelled to sit out there, to be silent and observant and let the day come to me.

I've noticed in the last several weeks that there are at least two pair of birds vying to make a nest of their own in the protected overhang of the patio eaves. Yesterday, sitting without any purpose except to finish Pete Dexter's wonderful new novel, "Spooner" and to get a vitamin D fix and tan my legs, the birds were very active, hopping about on the copper frame I had built to be a camellia bush support. The sun was hot but the air velvet, life was peaceful and full of promise and out of nowhere came the loud whirring of a hummingbird, chasing the other bird couples off the copper.

What's this, I wondered? Then I spotted it. A tiny perfect cylinder of a nest, all soft and cushioned, nestled in the crook of one of the branches of my Fuji persimmon tree. It was the hummingbird's nest and she was letting the others know to stay away. Through the afternoon I watched as the pairs of birds flew up into the palm tree, way up above the roof, keeping a respectful distance from the hummingbird. And in between the whirring and aerial mapping of her territory, the mother nestled tight into her nest, sitting with patient vigilance atop her eggs, alert to interlopers minding her time and her own business.

Ah, the cycle of life, I thought. When mothers serve notice to the world that they are doing their job, as best they can even when it doesn't always work out. Babies die or are eaten. They falter somehow or never learn how to survive. In the best cases, they thrive. All their mothers can do is to get them to a place as close to leaving and thriving as they can...and then let them go.

I have no clue if birds love their children, not in any sense that humans do. But the job is the same in either case. Feed the life you bear, nurture it until maturity, let them go. So, Happy Mother's Day to Gaia and all those who helped to sustain me, much as a mother would have. I'm sure like those eggs in the nest in my tree, we are grateful for the blessing.

Storm Prefaces Sweet Beginnings

Tonight, for the first time in years around here, the sky blew up with lightening and the thunder cracked through the walls, rattling and challenging my sense of safety. It was awesome, in the true sense of that word.

Been gone too long. The Ink Tank ran out of gas for a while, life can do that. But I'm back--thank you Adrienne for the push--and so here we go. Got so used to being scared and anxious and fretful that I forgot those are choices I can choose not to make. The sky pouring down now, soaking everything, knocking buds on trees into bloom, filling the hills and roadsides with green. There's a promise of something better coming. Some sweet beginning. And I'm so grateful for the friends and, at last, for hope.

For Pamela

Today is my sister Pamela's birthday. I stole the day from my boss, called in sick and spent the day finding my energy again. A gift to me, from Pam. Or rather, the memory of Pam. She died in 1990 and I think of her all the time. We were very close, clinging together like the abandoned children we were. Our mother "gave us up" so I never knew my mom, but Pam knew her. I think Pam never got over being cut loose, being three and knowing that something wasn't right, helpless to do anything about it. I was a baby, 18 months, when the ties were finally broken. Such as they were. Family lore has it that Pam and I were outsourced to foster homes, in the way of our mother's struggle to make a new life with a new husband who didn't want her kids. And my father, who knows where he was or what he was doing during this time? He remains conveniently mum, because of course he had abandoned all of us, making a new life for himself with the woman who would become the only mother I knew. And she turned out to be crazy.

But today is really one of celebration. I walked along the river, nursing my foot into action, willing it to regain its ability to carry me along without pain. And it worked. When I got home, for some reason I can't explain, I was seized with the desire to clean up my two little back and side yard patios, too long left to the spiders and dirt. Every weekend for the past six or seven months I've said, "I really need to clean it up out there." And every weekend I'd find I was too tired, or it was too hot or windy, or I just didn't feel like making the effort. I'm chalking it up to recovery from the radiation therapy, not laziness.

Because today I managed to hose down everything, trim the plants, pull the weeds and nurture into niceness those two spaces that are like extra rooms, visible through windows from the living and dining rooms. Where I got the energy I do not know but it was great to get out there and sweat and make things right. It was all sort of an homage to Pam. And when I was hosing down the walls out back a bat flitted out, I think it was a bat and I was filled with gratitude for the blessing. "Oh please be a bat and not a bird," I prayed. "Oh please come back, I've cleaned your spot, please stay and bring me the luck and grace I know you can bestow." Having bats in your belfry (or your house) is considered an omen and a blessing in China so it works for me.

So on this day, Pam's birthday, I wish everyone good health, happiness and a sense of belonging. I think that sense of belonging is what eluded Pam and I both and why, in the end, she died of a broken heart. Her huge and generous heart just couldn't sustain the ravages she had put her body through nor the aching she'd had all her life for someone to take care of her. That's all we needed: someone to take care of us but at least we had each other. Happy Birthday, Pam. I love and miss you.

CVS Pharmacy: The Anti-Customer Company

This is a story of how not to treat customers and what happens when a business forgets why they are in business. I'm speaking of CVS Pharmacies, the guys who took over when the friendly neighborhood Long's Drugstores became history.

I get that there are usually bumps during a transition but none of that excuses how the store's personnel interact--or in this case, don't bother--with the customer. Case in point: A month or so ago I had a number of prescriptions to refill. I had taken the time to navigate a rather difficult and not particularly user-friendly CVS website where they had at least migrated my Long's prescriptions to the CVS data base. I clicked away and re-upped the ones I needed and a little sign popped up saying that they'd be filled and available for pick up by 4:00.

Great, I thought. So, after work I stop by and there's a really long line, the after-work-crowd. I notice that there are at least four people, I'm assuming at least one pharmacist and the rest pharmacy techs or clerks, milling around behind a glass partition, visible to us and of course, they can see us, if they look. No one is out front at the cash register and no one is asking, "May I help you?" The guy in front of me tries to get someone behind the counter's attention but is ignored. Finally, after ten minutes, one of the clerks walks out to the order area and meekly says, "Next."

For each of the transactions in front of me it takes a good 10 or so minutes. Neither the clerks nor the pharmacist seem to have a handle on their role, who's supposed to be doing what, and no one is taking charge, saying, "Hey, we've got a bunch of customers waiting in a growing line who are starting to look agitated. Let's at least greet them and ask what they need."

It gets to be so bad that the gentleman behind me and I strike up a conversation, trying to give them the benefit of the doubt but both acknowledging that this is no way to treat a customer. Sighs are getting audible and still the pharmacy personnel seem only capable of fielding one timid clerk while the other three stand around. Oh, and there are two cash registers so it's possible, if they had it in them, to double their effectiveness but that is apparently lost on them.

A couple of weeks later, I had to get another prescription filled. A similar story only this time I'm told by the pharmacist (a new guy) that he won't be able to fill my prescription between 1:00 and 1:30 because he'll be on his lunch hour. Ok. I understand. It's about 12:20 so I figure if I give him the script he'll have 40 minutes to fill it, stick it in the hopper for pick up and still get fed. Just then another pharmacist, a woman, grabs my script and says she has to see if they have it in stock.

They have it so I smile, and say, great, can you fill it now, so as to beat the 1:00 deadline, on account of I'm in a hurry? She bristles at this and starts to explain to me like I'm a five year old that she first has to check to see if it's covered by my insurance, process it and do all manner of red tape things before she can put the medicine in a plastic bottle, label it and hand it to me for purchase. I tell her it is covered, I've been coming to this store for 23 years, my insurance hasn't changed and permission to fill this Rx should be no problem. Her lips tighten as she clacks away at the computer, never acknowledging me or what I've said, annoyed because I've questioned her authority and her procedures.

So I go grocery shopping, whizzing through the store so I can get back to CVS before 1:00 and avoid the customer black out period. There's a line and there they are, the man and the woman pharmacists, doing nothing. Not eating. Not working at a computer. Not stuffing pills into containers. They are talking. For a long, long time. Ignoring the growing line. No one, including the two clerks, come out to say, "May we help you?" or "I'll be right with you." The line is getting restless, peeved to be ignored, wondering what the hold up is. I point to the sign that says that the pharmacist will be eating from 1:00 to 1:30 but it isn't 1:00 yet.

At this point I'm near the break point, thinking, I'm so out of this store forever. Rite Aid here I come. But it isn't until today, when I need to buy eye wash for my allergy-ravaged eyes, when I go to the CVS near the optometrist's office, that I experience the last straw. It's early morning. There's hardly anyone in the store. I approach the counter and there are four people milling around behind the glass. They see me waiting patiently at the counter. But no one comes out to see about me until I finally raise my voice to one of the women milling past and say politely, "Excuse me. I just have a quick question." She stares at me. I continue, "I'm looking for an eye wash and have a few questions. Could you help me?" She continues to stare and then says, "You'll have to speak to the pharmacist."

Just then, this older guy who has seen me standing there for about 10 minutes and who is doing nothing, walks along his side of the glass partition, picks up the phone and makes a call. The rest of the people behind the counter continue to ignore me, don't ask how they might help or say it will just be a minute. They just leave me standing there wondering if I'll ever be served.

And just like that I pivot and walk out. I'm pretty sure my face telegraphed my disgust, mostly at the realization that the bad service at the CVS by my house was endemic to all CVS stores and that the CVS culture was to essentially ignore the customer until you bleet out a desperate call for help. Whatever, it speaks to a place of business that basically has and expresses contempt for the customer.

So today I had all my prescriptions moved to Rite Aid, still in the neighborhood but a little longer drive. Well worth it. When I went in to get eye wash and confirm that my Rx's had been transferred, I was greeted immediately, treated with courtesy and care and even escorted to the eye care products aisle by the pharmacist who wanted to make sure he answered any questions. Now THAT's customer service!

And in case you were thinking that my CVS experiences were just me being bitchy, here are some links to customer complaints ("terrible experience") and evidence of CVS being a bad actor in the industry. I'm not at all surprised. I suggest we all just vote with our feet a boycott this awful business.

Beautiful

California's budget revision finished up in an anti-climatic mush last Friday. The legislators were wobbly and a bit cranky after pulling an all-day-nighter. The ink from the Governor's pen isn't dry let alone applied yet and the state's finances are already out of whack. Man, but this makes me feel so bad that they can't--and won't--get it together.

I was kind of down today, coming back to work after spending a really nice weekend in Berkeley, trying to figure out what the legislators actually voted on so that I could inform the clients, be all insightful and clear. I stretched the day as best I could, having a real hard time keeping a hopeful attitude, mumbling to myself that the work I do for my boss and his clients is somehow valuable. Certainly it's worth more than I'm paid, of that I'm sure.

So as I was dragging my sad ass around, looking for anything to pull me from these desperate thoughts and times, I happened on an Off Topic from Good Morning Silicon Valley, "Nora the piano playing cat." A concerto, written and performed around the piano playing of a really smart and well-trained cat. Made me smile, for the first time in days. It was beautiful. So. Thank you Universe for the Up. Here it is to share.

Rock With You

It's only just hitting me that Michael Jackson won't be around to amaze us anymore. Yeah, yeah, I know all about the weirdness but...he was at his heart...a giver. A Virgo. Someone who cared deeply about the condition of the world and who cried out in that high pitched hiccup of a voice that we were killing ourselves and that it had to stop. Sort of like what he was doing to himself.

I started reading some homages to him in The Root and clicked through to videos of him dancing and was suddenly yanked back into my youth, remembering the jaw-dropping amazement I felt watching him gyrate and spin, stomping both feet at the end of a rhythmic riff, like a period to end a wonderful sentence. He'd just send anyone watching into a can't-stop-'til-you-get-enough place. Preternatural, really. Like no one before nor will there be again.

But his gift was more than entertainment. That's just a place he went where he could be safe, where he knew his talent was unassailable. His gift was caring about what shape the human condition was in and making us pay attention. His What About Us? paints the bleakest of pictures, the planet a sorry mess, and even under the anger and pointing out, there is still hope and...caring.

And this is what makes me saddest of all that he has passed because it's getting so hard to find anyone who really cares about things. There is a dominant ethos now of "So What?" or worse, "Whatever...." I see me and what I am about slipping away, an anachronism because I still feel really bad that the Legislature can't pass a budget, that power has become so corrupting, that people who should have a voice don't and the ones doing all the shouting care only about their narrow self-interests. This isn't naivete. It's the reminder that people who care, pay a price. And even with all his wealth and material self-indulgence, Michael Jackson never had to shop for his soul.