You Are My Spiritual Practice

You close the door in my face
as I stand on the porch
with my basket of gifts
and hear the loud lonely sound of the
bolt clanking into the lock

red leaves fall on the bright green lawn behind me
and white snow falls
and tiny yellow flowers push up through soft brown earth
while I wait and wait and wait and
hope
with my basket of good bread
and money for the vending machines
and new shoes without holes
and fresh white socks

You are my spiritual practice
as you chase me down the front stairs
and out into my car
screaming my faults through the window
as I turn the ignition
You paste yourself on the driver-side door
clutching the roof with two palms
while I drive away
slowly
praying
for you to give up and peel off
unharmed

You are my spiritual practice
as you spy out my sore spots
and poke them with a sharp stick
as you bend my spine to your will
and stretch every tendon taut
until I'm almost snapped in two
and cry out
NO!

You are my spiritual practice
as your blue baby body's aborning
and the kind nurse dabs the blood from my thighs
after
in the darkened room

You are my spiritual practice
when your brown hair full of vaseline and chicken pox
stands stiff in the wind
as you run across Ocean Beach
in the dazzling gray morning
with your siblings chasing after
your wild energy all uncontained

You are my spiritual practice
particularly when
you lock me out
You chase me away
and still

I don't forget you
I do remember me
and all it means
for a mother
to love

On Lemons and Lemonade

I was chagrined when I got kicked out of a San Francisco-themed Facebook group recently.

First, the administrator deleted a lively thread in which people were discussing homelessness in San Francisco. He explained in a private message that he didn't allow discussion of politics in his group. Okay. Understood. I would restrict myself to posting pretty pictures of my favorite city, like the one above.

But I wondered if he knew where I could go instead for the conversation I craved. He provided a name, and I checked it out. The group description began with the question, "Ready to Rumble?"

Well, no. I'm not.

Anyone who's tried to talk politics on the Internet lately has been in a few rumbles, whether they're ready or not. Because political discourse has become a bloodsport in America. But I've never liked the taste of blood.

What I wanted, instead of bloodletting, was a place that people could go in a spirit of cooperation to talk about problems we face in San Francisco and try to come up with solutions. I didn't want to cry, kvetch, insult, accuse. I wanted to discuss. But I couldn't find a good place to do that on Facebook. So I created one. Then I went back to the original group and posted a comment, saying it wasn't appropriate to talk politics there, but people who wanted that type of conversation could talk over here.

Three minutes later, the admin kicked me out.

He said via private message that I was "poaching" his members. He said I'd misbehaved. Here's the thing, though. It's not an either/or decision. You don't have to choose between pretty pictures and politics. You can have both.

It's also not a competition. I don't want the biggest group on Facebook. I don't want the bloodiest group, or the most entertaining. I just want a group of sincere people trying to fix a broken system. So, high on the adrenaline that chagrin provided me, I added everyone I knew who lives in San Francisco to my newly-created group and started posting.

That led me to search out good information for my posts. I called the DA's Office, the Police Department, the Department of Homelessness, and reported on what I learned. I wrote emails to politicians and shared what they replied. I attended a meeting of the Local Homeless Coordinating Board and wrote up a summary. I re-posted Chronicle stories of interest. And I found myself on a new path.

Here's the thing. Since retiring from teaching high school in June, I've been a little bit lost. Don't get me wrong. I love retirement. I love the new way I'm experiencing time, like a gently unfolding ribbon before me, instead of a noose tightening around my neck.

I'm developing a schedule that meets most of my needs: I dance; I write; I lead walking tours; I spend more time with my husband; I meet with friends. But one need isn't met. One itch isn't scratched: the desire to contribute something useful to the world.

But now, it seems, I've stumbled on a way to continue doing that in retirement.

So I guess I should thank the grumpy old fart who kicked me out of his Facebook group and inspired me to take those lemons and mix up some lemonade.

Feeling thirsty? Come share a glass at "San Francisco Politics -- Let's Talk."

My Little Tree

It was Jan. 24 and I had this little Christmas tree, a living thing, that I didn't know what to do with. Surely someone would have an answer for me. Every year, people buy living trees and take care of them for a month or two--decorating, watering,  placing in a window by the light. But when the season is over, what then? What is the follow-up plan?

I saw piles of big Christmas trees discarded on street corners. But those weren't in pots. They were brittle, dead things, waiting to be taken away and recycled. My guy didn't belong with them. He was fresh and green, fragrant, thirsty for water, and hungry for the sun.

I looked out my window, surveying the possibilities in my vicinity. I live on the third floor and don't have a yard. The green I can see from here is all fenced in. Should I hop a fence in the dark of night with my tree and a trowel? The idea was appealing. But I'm 62; fence hopping could be catastrophic.

Should I knock on doors, ask if anyone wants to adopt my little guy? The chance of success seemed non-existent.

I googled "what to do with a living Christmas tree." There weren't any answers beyond planting him in my non-existent yard. I asked the public on Facebook. Same. I called Friends of the Urban Forest. Did they have any advice? Nope. Would they take my tree as a donation? Afraid not. The advertising flyer from Cole Hardware advised, "Your Christmas tree should be in the ground by now." I know. I know!

So I went rogue. I'd read of a campground in the Presidio where Native Americans do an earth healing ceremony each year. Perhaps I could do my own little bit of earth healing? It had recently rained. The soil would be soft. I loaded the tree and a trowel into my car.

When I turned off busy Lincoln Blvd. onto the side road that led to the campground, it wasn't as deserted as I'd hoped. An older couple sat on a bench. They eyed me suspiciously as I parked as far away from them as I could get, and continued to peer at me as I got out of the car and went around to the passenger side to retrieve the tree. I had it hoisted under one arm and was starting up some log steps carved into the mud when a big white ranger truck rumbled up the road. I slipped the red wrapping paper off the pot so it wouldn't be visible, put it down on the ground, and continued on my own to scout a good spot.

And I found one. In fact, I found many good places where my tree would be happy--would thrive. I wanted to plant him tenderly, whispering sweet nothings, and come back to visit him each year, marveling at how big he'd grown. I knew he'd enjoy the wide open space, fecund earth, and fresh ocean air. But the big, white truck was now up at the restrooms, directly in my line of sight. The ranger wasn't going anywhere. In fact, he seemed to be keeping an eye on me. So I approached.

Would it be okay if I planted my little Christmas tree here?

No. Sorry. No planting allowed. They often take out trees, he said, to clear an area. There's a master plan. New plants have to be native. Some areas even have a soil disease. My tree might not be safe. And by the way, the campground is closed. He was just up here to check on the goats, and make sure homeless people weren't moving in. Perhaps I could contact the Parks and Recreation Department? They have a nursery.

Then I remembered one day when I was bicycling through Golden Gate Park with Ace, how we'd stumbled on some big, white tents full of potted plants, with half a dozen young botanists entering and exiting, laughing together, slapping the dirt off their big gardener gloves. I thought it was behind the Carousel.

So I drove out there, and found a nursery, though not the one I'd remembered. This one was huge, behind a chain link fence, with hundreds of potted plants lined up on pallets. Two people in yellow vests were driving forklifts in the distance. Others were bustling under a far canopy (was this the back side of the place I'd seen?). Another lot to one side was full of big work trucks and guarded by a man at a turnstile, but the narrow lane to the nursery was open. No one was near.

I snuck in, put my little guy down on an empty pallet, and scurried off before anyone could shout at me to stop. It wasn't as satisfying as planting him in the ground, but in the nursery, at least, he was among other plants, in the care of plant lovers. I hoped one of them would find a place for him. I thought he had a chance.

That's the way life works sometimes. Like with my adult son, who is locked in a psychiatric facility and not talking to me--not talking to any of us who love him. I don't get to know how he's doing. I don't get to hear his voice, see his face. I don't get to set him up somewhere that I know he will thrive. I can't find that place. I have no idea where it is.

All I can do is release him and hope the experts will save him--will help him sink roots in some patch of good ground. Is mother's love a nutrient? Is there any magic in my dreams? Because I see him growing tall in a forest of redwoods, fragrant, thirsty. After 13 years of chaos, I still see him basking and stretching, hungry for the sun.