Secret Gardens

We each have a secret garden
deep within our selves
and when it gets to over grown
they become our private hells.

Sometimes it's the things
 we wish we could take back
 just as often it's the times
 fear made us think we lacked.

The Wedding Photo

For thirteen years she had looked at the same wedding pictures showing the celebration in their eyes. Their love, hopes, and dreams shared that August, at Old Westbury Gardens; the North Shore Long Island, Charles II-style mansion with formal gardens. The ceremony had taken place in the Rose Garden. Afterwards, the pictures were taken throughout the many themed gardens; the Italian Garden, the pond with swans, the alcove with topiary peacocks, and the long front lawn, bordered on either side by perfectly groomed hedges as tall as a house, the very one used in opulent alcohol advertisements.
Her favorites had always been the candids. She paused on the picture of Steve and David pretending to push Frank into the pond, as Dena and Bev pulled her out of the way. Everyone’s laughter was so clear that it could still be heard through the paper images. This photograph showed the silliness that made them who they were. Their youth and naiveté had been captured forever.
As she sat, going through the pictures for the first time in over a decade, she was struck by the odd feeling that she could momentarily be transported back to that day, despite time, despite restraining orders, despite divorce. She suddenly realized that she had kept these pictures for her children. She knew that they would need the proof that their parents had once loved one another. She had not been able to even touch the wedding pictures since her marriage had ended. It was too painful, and her hurt had worn the mask of anger for a long time. Only now had enough time passed for her to feel the distance, making her mind’s trip in time a complete surprise.
She slowly fingered through the photographs until she came to one in particular, a close up candid of her own face. She had been caught laughing and spinning around in response to something said from behind her. Her hair was flying out of the way of her face, showing her spontaneous smile. As she studied the image, her eyes stopped when she noticed something on the edge of her left jaw...
What was that? No... it couldn’t be... but, there is was... it was undeniable... a bruise.
It had been almost twenty five years and she had put the event completely out of her mind. She could not remember any details. But here, staring her in the face, was the proof that their first physical fight had occurred the week before the wedding.
She was unable to move, unable to swallow the growing lump in her throat, unable to avert her eyes from the hideous truth. She was looking at her divorce, foreshadowed. This picture was not for her children. This one was hers, as a constant reminder and warning of her own potential for blindness in love.

Mayan Body Memory

It wasn't until the second time that Herb and I visited Cancun, that we decided to visit the Mayan temple of Chizen-Itza. It was now or never. The top of the tall pyramid shaped temple with a long, steep and straight flight of stairs on each face, would be closing for public access in the next month. If we did not go now, we would not ever be allowed to do the climb to the top.

Due to my own impatience with guided group bus tours, we rented a jeep. I preferred the open air of the jeep, to the air-conditioned confined and crowded tour buses. I loved the dual roles of map-reader / copilot, and my energy increased anticipating an adventure.

We left Cancun taking the toll highway 180, (There is a parallel 180 which has no tolls and goes through little villages. One of the largest of which is Valladolid, east of Chizen-Itza, where the gold being sold in Cancun is purchased.) The sun beat down relentlessly with an intensity that is not known in New England, where we had come from. It reflected off of the highway making it impossible for me to not wear sunglasses. It was a straight two lane paved road with occasional dirt driveways and paths to either side. It was only by paying attention to the trip milage that we realized that most of the dirt driveways and paths were roads to villages. Rather than being marked with names or numbers, most were marked with various combinations of non-biodegradable trash items. The items would vary from tires to red, white, blue or yellow detergent bottles, or rusting metal objects. We joked about how it must be to give directions in the area... "Turn left at the two red tide bottles below the tire."

We drove for over an hour. The only other vehicles on the road, beside two tour buses, were various open backed pick-up trucks over-flowing with riders in the back, all standing and stuffed in like sardines. It was obvious that there was no such thing as child seat, or safety belt, laws, let alone concerns. Earlier, we had discussed the differences in Mexican automotive safety standards with a Boston area Foreign Car dealer. The differences were more than just the windshields.

Looking at the passing countryside vegetation, I fell in love with it, knowing that to live here, I would have to live close to a natural water hole, where the vegetation was more lush. Butterflies danced along the solid wall of trees that lined both sides of the highway.

We finally saw the signs for the approaching toll booth. I was looking for the exact amount in pesos, when I heard Herb say, "Whoa, holy shit." I quickly looked up to see armed guards at each toll entry. Despite the chill that flew up my spine, I joked, "I guess that they are there in case anyone tries to drive through without paying." It was one of the few signs of being outside of the United States that I would never become fully comfortable with due to my personal dislike of guns.

We drove through and paid our toll without a problem and continued a short distance to the exit for Piste. As soon as we got off of the highway, we were on a small paved road which took us through the heart of Piste before it went by the temple of Chitzen-itza. The the roads had close gravel shoulders and each village contained many topas (speed bumps) where congregations of children holding out their wares, desperately tried to get us to stop. The open jeep gave the small salesmen the hope that they could slow us down. It became obvious that the adults assigned the selling the the youngest members of the family, knowing that it is harder to say "no" to an adorable child with big hungry eyes. Because of my own knowledge that there were too many for me to "be fair" and buy from each, we continued without stopping.

We arrived at the temple parking area and walked up to the entrance, which naturally had a small shopping area for local merchants to market wares nearby. Inside the primary entry building was a wealth of mayan information and some beautiful examples of archeological finds from the area. As usual, we avoided the guided tours and set off on our own.

The large temple that is easily identifiable as Chitzen-itza is just a small part of the preserved remainders of this once thriving Mayan hub of activity. It was once a busy city to one side of the temple, beginning by a large stone wall, the remnants of which still remain. There is a miniature version of the large pyramid directly in front of the primary flight of stairs on the large temple and the infamous ball court is on the opposite side of the two temples from the city.

First, we wandered around what had been the city. By the remaining stone, it was clear that Chitzen-itza had thrived in it's day. We decided to save climbing the temple for last and headed to the ball court.

The playing field in the ball court was surprisingly large, with walls that seemed to be two stories tall. Although I had seen pictures and had read descriptions, I was shocked by the height of the stone circles that players were to get the eight pound balls to pass through. I was also struck that the holes were not much larger than the balls, making accuracy critical. Many of the stone carvings still showed incredible detail for the time they had endured the elements.

I stood in the center of the court imagining the spectators in their assigned seats. King Kulkulkan had his seat of honor at one end of the court. At the opposite end, sat the wealthy merchants. The wall farthest from the temples was were the rest of the villagers would gather on the grass and gravel ground that was level with the top of the wall, and view the game looking down. This also gave them the important view into the top alcove in the "Temple of the Jaguars," which created the fourth wall of the court. It was in this alcove, that the head of the captain, of the previous winning team, was kept on display to oversee the games until the next captain's head would replace it.

Considering that the games would last for days, my preconceived notions of self-preservation and depth of faith were intellectually challenged. I over-heard the conversations of some other American tourist's who were traveling with a guided group, and they appeared incapable of grasping the concept at all. As though in denial, they said, "No way, it had to be the captain of the losing team." I picked up a small stone on the ground in front of King Kulkulkan's seat, and walked with Herb toward the tall temple, thinking about the depth of faith within the Mayan culture, whether or not I found a bit convoluted.

When I finally arrived at the foot of the temple stairs, I was overwhelmed by the size of the structure. It towered in front of me like an angled sky-scraper. I followed the example of the other visitors, and climbed up the stairs using my hands, and leaning forward, almost hugging the stairs as I got near the top.

We had climbed the side closest to the ball court, and when I arrived at the top I saw that there was a room that passes through the structure on top. Not quite ready to see the height from the approximately four foot ledge around the top structure, I entered the room. It passed straight through with an open space to the back side creating a small room.

On the floor, in the back corner of the room, I saw a small dog. There are many dogs running around the Yucatan Peninsula, and all but the few that have come with their transplanted foreign owners, appear to be from the same gene pool. I was immediately curious about how this little guy had made it up there, and even more curious about how he would eventually get down. It made me concerned about how long he had been there hiding from the heat of the sun. I spoke to him with some eye contact and he appeared receptive and friendly. I walked closer until I was within a couple of feet from him, bent down and emptied my water bottle in two indentations in the floor. He immediately repositioned his body and began drinking the water. Knowing this was all that I could do at this moment, I told him that he was a good boy and continued to explore, making a mental note to mention him to an employee when I saw one.

I stood and continued toward the exit on the opposite side of the passage. It opened to what would have been an ariel view of the remaining remnants of the city. The ledge was only about four feet wide and stirred butterflies in my stomach. I walked around the ledge enjoying the view of the horizon across the tops of the trees. From this view, I could see how the wall by the village was perfectly placed for dramatic effect during ceremonies. It is placed in such a manner than on the summer solstice the alignment of the sun and stairs casts the shadow of an undulating snake, descending the temple stairs, on the wall.

Despite the beautiful and expansive views, I kept feeling my attention drawn to the smaller temple. From this elevation, I had a clear view of the entire top of the small structure which stood in perfect alignment with the immense flight of stairs descending in front of me. I shivered, as I imagined various human sacrificial rituals being performed on the apparent stage below. It seemed so obvious to me that it made me nervous and I tried unsuccessfully to divert my attention.

There was a small room, not visible from the ground, and not connected to the passage. I thought that it was most likely where the king waited as the procession passed in front of him, then he could come to view of the people below, and watch the rituals.

Herb and I took a couple of the required "I was here," snapshots, and prepared to descend.

On the front flight of stairs, the side looking at the small temple, a rope had been attached. Everyone used this rope to crawl slowly, backwards down the long expanse. It was important to be able to use the ball of the foot on the stairs. The steps were only half the width of normal stairs. I am a women's size 8 and only half of my foot would fit. The rise was also unusually high, about four inches taller than a normal stair. It made for an awkward combination. I had held a nervous fear of the trip down since I had begun climbing in the first place.

There was finally only one person in front of me to use the rope, and I suddenly stepped out of line. I walked over to the middle of the flight of stairs and straightened my spine, centering the weight of my backpack with my body's core.

I no conscious thought or plan of what I was doing. My body had taken over.

Herb asked me what I was doing and I simply said, "I can do this."

In retrospect, I jokingly credit the couple of elementary school years that I took tap and ballet... I rotated my feet outward and took a step down, using my thighs and bending my knees to right angles. I took one step after another and immediately developed a rhythm that flowed. I was afraid to think too much about what I was doing for fear that it would disrupt the flow. As I proceeded down the center of the flight of stairs, I could envision an entire procession of costumed mayans descending these stairs in this very manner. I suddenly realized that the visual image would be astounding. It would appear as if the actual serpent form of King Kulkulkan was coming down from above.

When Herb and I met up on the ground, he said, "How did you do that? That was the weirdest thing that I have ever seen!"

All that I could respond was, "I don't know."

Later, when I looked up the name of the smaller temple, I was not surprised to learn that it was called "the Temple of Venus." We wandered around a little longer, found an employee and mentioned the dog, and then hopped into the jeep for our return drive to Cancun, this time taking the non-toll road.

Even now, years later, I am not sure what it was that I experienced at Chitzen-itza.

A Voice Against Warfare

*First written several years ago, but always a pertinent subject.

My guardian angel was a veteran of three wars. When my first born was six weeks old, we buried my grandfather at Arlington National Cemetery. Despite my minimal contact with my father's side of the family, since living with my mother. I made the train trip from Long Island to D.C., bringing my new son Adam. I knew that Adam's presence would be the greatest testament that I could give my grandfather, since I had a deep feeling that he had hung on long enough to hear that he was born healthy.

I could write an entire book about how special my grandfather is to me, as well as how special he was to many others. He taught me cribbage. In second grade, when I saw the movie "Born Free," he used his connections as a large animal veterinarian to give me the experience of playing with a baby lion cub. He knew when my feelings were hurt, and knew how to talk to me to help me feel better. His love was warm like sunshine.

The same year that I played with the baby lion cub, I gave my grandfather a candle for Christmas. It was a realistically shaped yellow-green apple, with an overpoweringly strong apple scent. Just the type that a child would choose as a gift for a teacher. These many years later, I barely remembered the gift, until I was told at the funeral, that he had kept it next to his bed since the day that I had given it to him, including his bed in the hospital where he died. This tiny tidbit of information had an effect on me so profound that it transcends words.

My grandfather's actual burial was the first military funeral that I had ever attended. Admittedly it was stunning. The dress guard at Arlington, are the elite. Everyone commented on how Adam startled with each fire, but never cried during the military gun salute.

After the burial, we walked around to get a sense of where the plot was in relation to the rest of the cemetery. We realized that he was not far from John Kennedy and the eternal flame, and we decided to walk in that direction. During our walk, I became overwhelmed with awareness of the acres and acres of matching gleaming white headstones.

I was aware that they were all there for us... for our freedoms... a primary one being our freedom of speech, which in a political sense is expressed in our right to vote. This secured my belief that it is not my right, but rather my responsibility to exercise my right to vote. It also secured my knowledge that I was not willing to sacrifice my new son to one of these graves.
It secured my voice against war.

I find it interesting when my patriotism is called into question because I am against war, when in fact, it is my patriotism that fuels it. I love my country. But, I refuse to say that I love our children less.

I cannot forget that every headstone in Arlington Cemetery stands in honor of somebody's son or daughter. If my country is going to risk my child's or any other mother's child's life, and set him (or her) up to try to take the life of another mother's child, there better be a damn good reason... no questions, no cover-ups, no rumors of conspiracies. My child's life is worth more than being a pawn in a politician's game of chess on the battlefield, especially if the real goal is securing higher profits for the wealthy 5%.

As idealistic as it might seem, I wonder what would happen if there were a pact between Moms (parents for that matter) world-wide to raise our children to follow the suggestion/commandment that so many claim to believe in... "Thou shalt not kill."
It makes me want to ask every mother, (again, every parent for that matter), who claim to love children, who claim to be Christian or any other label representing a faith in God, why is there not already such a pact?

Salem's Story and Thoughts on Therapeutic Touch

As a Licensed Massage Therapist, I would like to share some thoughts and an experience that happened prior to any of my formal training. I share this hoping to encourage everyone to trust their instincts and positive loving intentions.

We are not meant to live in isolation, even if at times we may wish to. We are as interconnected as the parts of the body or as the leaves on a single tree. Physics refers to "the Butterfly Effect" to demonstrate and explain the vast potential of ripple effects due to this absolute interconnectedness of everything.

On an interpersonal level, we each have an energetic field often called an aura, which surrounds us. We impact upon and influence one another whenever these fields come into contact. When interactions are taken to the level of physical contact, the influences go to great depths including but, not limited to, energy, muscles, thoughts and moods. Safe, non-sexual, physical contact is so critical to our total health that I would add it to the list of survival necessities along with food, water and air. Consider both, stories of orphaned Chinese infants who died in large numbers from "failure to thrive" due to lack of touch and the common experience of keeping vigil over a dying loved one only to have them pass when you are briefly out of the room. We find ourselves in a culture which keeps us feeling isolated and disconnected, even within a sea of people. It is an extension of or societal and in turn individual disconnection with nature, our mother. Eastern Philosophy teaches that we have both Mother Earth and Father Heaven, Our bodies being the fullest expression of their union. Disconnected from both touch and the Spiritual, with not even a moment of silence honoring the concept of meditation allowed in most schools, it is little wonder that drug companies are getting away with "pushing" drugs such as anti-depressants with cute cartoon advertisements on the television.

Each one of us does have the power to make changes and be an influence through our daily interactions. It is as simple as being kind and considerate in small ways. We can trust the universe and leave it to "the Butterfly Effect" to carry the ripples of our small actions on to precipitate greater change.

One month prior to my entering Massage Therapy School, I met an eight week old, black manx kitten who had been stepped on by a three hundred pound man on his tenth day of life. His injury was to the neck and shoulder area. Though he didn't move for weeks, his mother fed him and he had survived to this point. The home he was born at was considering having him put down due to nobody wanting to adopt him. He was very challenged. His neck was locked at a ninety degree angle to the left and rotated forward. He could not jump off of, or onto anything, and was one half the size of his siblings. My daughter already had two cats in an apartment that allowed one, so, I found a friend that would take him after I "fixed" him. With this in order, I took him on as a "pet project." I felt a moral obligation to try to help him if I was going to consider myself a candidate to become a massage therapist, thinking I could "learn" any touch healing for my bread and butter. I do have children counting on me! I worked on Salem, as my children dubbed him, three times daily, each session lasting only ten to twenty minutes with very gentle massage and stretching. One must never forget the clear self determination and attitude of a cat and that one will not remain present and relaxed if you cause them pain let alone irritation. By the time Salem was four months old, we had full range of motion back in his neck. I had not yet completed even my introductory classes in Massage Therapy School.

A great deal of massage is instinctual if you listen to both yourself and the individual you are working on, and for this reason, everyone has access to it without actual training. The primary function of training is to bring these instincts up to the level of conscious comprehension and understanding. So please, allow me to encourage you, especially if you have a loved one who could benefit from the touch. Trust your touch and your instincts when done with honest, caring and positive intentions. Intent is so important that I could write of it alone. By all means, do consult with your personal health care provider and massage therapist for any suggestions or any possible reasons not to do certain things based on a particular illness or condition. ("contraindications")

I should also add that I was unable to give Salem away since we had bonded so deeply through the process of the massage work. This was a good thing for both of us since due to what I learned is called muscle memory, he continued to need regular maintenance work at intervals throughout his life. I am a better therapist from knowing him. So, I thank him and honor his memory as both my teacher and my friend.

Identity: Finding myself in Ann's Arbor

To what extent is identity defined by the name?
Actors and musicians take on alter-egos wrapped up like a bow by the name. Women usually take their husband's names when they marry.
Or, as Shakespeare famously put it, is a rose still a rose if called by any other name?

These are interesting questions to me when I consider that my parents got the name Ann from where I was born (Ann Arbor), and then simply tossed a coin (one side for each grandmother's name) for my first name, Virginia instead of Josetta.


Growing up, I felt that nothing about the name Ann stood out except that it blended into the crowd. So very many girls with pretty first names that their parents favored enough to actually use, had Ann as a middle name, like a mere extra syllable to help the first name flow into the last. It certainly didn't give me assistance in defining myself positively.

just an ann

To grow up ann
in rose land...
plain tan and not
planned, like lily
colored sea foam's
murkey secrets;
tree roots hide my
mirrored crying
all dried; when pain
flies and rain feeds
hunger needs of
small weeds that from
seeds seek to climb
in no time to
find crimes of self.
I'm not a rose.
I suppose, I
must close this short
prose, just an Ann.
In my parent's defense, they were young and desperate enough to have gotten themselves into "trouble" with a college pregnancy, and concocted a crazy plan that blew up in their faces.

I was born shortly after the end of spring finals, on May 20.
I grew up with the story that it had simply taken three days for my parents to decide on a name for me, and that this was why I was named on my third day. This never rang with the solidity of truth considering my name seemed to be be chosen by fate rather than their wills.

I wouldn't hear the story of what actually happened until age 38. I'd hear from my maternal grandmother shortly before her passing, though to this day neither parent has wanted to discuss it.

They had married for my mother's good name to be preserved, as that was still perceived a consideration. Then, the plan was to tell the families that the baby had been still born, and put it up for adoption; freeing them to continue with their educational plans. They did in fact tell the families that I was still born.

What they didn't plan for, was my father not to be able to go through with putting me up for adoption. The fact that I naturally carry much of his side of the family's energy was obvious right from the start. His change of heart forced them to have to call their respective families and own up to my being alive, and I now realize that naming me was probably not as looming an issue as owning up to such a lie.

I grew up to be a geek with too many life analogies which reference gardens, plants and trees, leading to my alter ego Mim and her Garden. One sunny day, it finally clicked that an arbor is a special spot within a garden.

Now, there is a hidden place deep within this Mim and her Garden. A meditation spot called Ann's Arbor, where I know that I am more a child of God than a child of my parents, a place where I found myself in my name.

Mim's Poetry Corner: "Sonnet for Sam's Prom"

Lilacs and purple columbine worn by Tom.
No need for lights this starry night.
The chariot awaits to carry you to prom
as Mom's camera keeps flashing so bright.

The perfect champagne dress which fits just right.
Accessorize, gold and pearls, matching shoes,
realizing not, what a glorious sight,
and of your future beauty giving clues.

Festive music plays, dancing as you choose.
With every turn, the smiling face of a friend.
Bittersweet giggles as memories amuse.
Happy school days coming to an end.

Celebrating that childhood is now gone
and your turn to hold the reins will now dawn.


Dedicated to my daughter Samantha for her senior prom 2005
*even though she didn't particularly like the last two lines




My youngest son just rented his tux for his girlfriend's prom on May 7th, inspiring me to share this slightly older poem.