BLOODY FEARS




For the record, I have jumped out of an airplane without an ounce of hesitation except to ask, “How high?” I used to be a camp counselor where we white water rafted and sometimes hiked alone for days. I can sit atop the highest rooftop and casually eat a sandwich. I have walked up behind a bull and slapped it on the ass. Of course, I did mistake it for our own affectionate-driven cow, Showboat. (I wondered why my mom looked like she was ready to faint). I can scoop up spiders and bugs without blinking, and cockroaches and rats only startle me. I traveled parts of Europe by myself. I have never shied away from a fight regardless of the person’s sex, position, or extra 75 pounds. There isn’t much that frightens me. With that said, these are some of the things that I am deathly afraid of: snakes, The Teacup ride at Disneyland, bureaucracy and needles. My biggest fear would be riding The Teacup ride with a python and a dozen needles pointing at me while filling out legal forms in triplicate.

I decided it was finally time to give blood.

I don’t know what exactly triggered this. I think it started a week ago when I was walking through the mall in a lingerie quest (where can you find hot pink boy-cut shorts? – long story) and saw a group of people lined up to give blood. I looked at them enviously, wishing I could be so fearless. So, on my way out (sans the pink underwear) I bravely jumped in line. During my time in the mall, I convinced myself that if the people were still there on my way out then I would donate. It would be fate. I was so nervous about the possibility of it actually coming true that I accidentally walked into the men’s bathroom while I was preparing to “pysch” myself up. Instead of recognizing the immediate error of my ways, I actually had to stop and give myself time to wonder. “Huh, what is that man and the urinal doing in here?” The embarrassing part was the long walk out of the bathroom, as there seemed to be a sudden influx of old men with pressing bladders. With this social faux paus out of the way, I bravely approached the table. “Am I too late to give blood?” I asked the woman counting a large stack of money. Instantly, a new rush of goodwill swept over me. Unfamiliar with the exact procedures of blood donating, I decided that I would decline any sort of compensation. The woman put down her pile of bills and squinted at me. “Honey, this here is for flu shots.”

Noble deed dashed.

I was positive I would never be able to sum up the courage again. Suddenly, everywhere I went there seemed to be an urgency to donate blood; a child with a disease, an officer who was shot, or a friend who was in a car accident. But it got me thinking about my recent post regarding having more fears than desires. I made up my mind that no matter what, I would give blood.

I have a somewhat tumultuous relationship with needles. If I was to guess the exact origin of this phobia, I would speculate that it all started with the wound on my foot when I was seven-years old. I forgot how the bottom heel of my right foot was cut open, but I shortly thereafter caught the chicken poxs. The virus got into the cut and infected the bottom of my foot, turning it almost black. I had to go in and have it worked on numerous times (burned, frozen, scraped). Every procedure started with a shot. It took three nurses to hold me down, and the only reason why they succeeded was that one nurse momentarily distracted me by asking me about my new Star Wars watch (bitch). To this day, I can’t have the scar on my foot touched by anyone, not even me (so, I guess that is actually five things I am afraid of).

After that, any time a shot was in my future, my family had to take special precautions. Or I guess coercion is the correct word. One time, after establishing a price of a pound of gummy bears and a banana split, I went into the doctor for my shot. The first one went okay. The second… Well, let’s just say my dad “forgot” to mention that there would be a second. He says sometimes he can still hear my screams. “WHAT???? ANOTHER SHOT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!! BRING MY DAD IN HERE NOW! WHERE IS HE? WE DIDN’T DISCUSS THIS!” I came out of the doctor’s room, shaky, angry and ready for renegotiation. After that, I only accepted payments in advance.

Another time, when I was fifteen, I split my foot open with a razor. I seem to have this bad habit of stepping on sharp objects in my bare feet. “You’re going to require stitches,” the doctor told me. I told him that wasn’t a problem. Then he said I needed a shot; my mom had to physically barricade the door to prevent me from bolting.

I don’t know what it is about shots. I can handle pain fairly well. I’ve sustained various injuries and operations without so much as a whimper. But there is something about that half-second before the inevitable that sends me into a tizzy. It’s almost like static electricity or popping balloons (okay, two more things that terrify me). Anyway, my life, until now, has been a careful journey of avoiding shots at all costs.



The writer relaxing between doctors' visits.

Here’s my routine for getting a shot. 1. I can’t see the needle. Some doctors think I’m kidding and insolently stroll into the room holding the weapon in full view. If this happens, they have to leave the room and come back with the needle properly hidden. 2. They have to let me know right before they do it. 3. When I keep asking, with my head turned away and eyes tightly shut, “Are you done? Are you done? Are you done?” They have to say, “Almost” and tell me how brave I am being. 4. When I am done and the needle is completely dislodged from whatever part of my body that is has been jammed into, and taken out of my view, it’s imperative that they tell me how brave I was.

It’s a fairly simple routine, and I am always very clear and specific about the guidelines. “Do you have any questions?” I ask my doctors. “Is there anything you don’t understand?” You’d be surprised how many doctors screw it up.

I remained relatively calm when I drove out to the West Bank Blood Center. I took a lot of deep breaths. I tried to trick my mind into believing I was driving across the bridge for something else. Something pleasant. A facial. A lunch date. A colon checkup.

The Blood Center was easy to find. When I approached the door and found it locked, I gave a big sigh of relief. Even though I had called earlier that morning to confirm, I figured it was the gods’ way of telling me that they didn’t need my blood; I was off the hook. A nurse popped her head out of another door, “Down here, sweetie!” I was trapped.

After showing my driver’s license and filling out paperwork, they asked me numerous questions. Have I paid for sex? Have I swapped needles with anyone? Have I spent more than 3 months in the United Kingdom from 1984 to 1997 (just missed it). The basic stuff. I passed. Phew.

The nurse at The Blood Center then informed me that I had four options in giving blood.
1. I could get a free t-shirt.
2. I could choose to put it toward Camp Challenge. For every 200 donors that donate, a child with cancer is able to go to camp for a week.
3. I could list myself and three other people, and if we needed blood anytime in the next year (regardless if our insurance didn’t cover it) I would be guaranteed the amount I donated. Like a blood voucher.
4. I could choose four people for the blood voucher.

I chose Camp Challenge. And not to tell anyone what to do but… choose the camp! Choose the camp! Choose the camp!

Camp Challenge


Afterward, we went into another room where the nurse informed me that they would have to do a finger prick to check my iron level. I hadn’t been counting on this part of the procedure and could feel myself starting to get anxious. “You mean like a needle?” I asked.
“It’s just a little prick,” she reassured me.
“What if my iron is too low?”
“Then you can’t donate.”
“So, that means I would have gotten my finger pricked for nothing?” The nurse looked at me oddly. “Could you just take my word for it?” She couldn’t. “Is there a waiver I can sign?” There wasn’t.

Still, I was there, I was in the chair, I passed the verbal test; I was halfway home. Even though this was just a prick, I told the nurse of my routine and she understood, following my directions to a tee. Afterward, she wrapped up my left index finger and told me what a good job I did. I was soooo brave. Luckily, my iron count was 4 points above the bare minimum so I was free to give. Now I was on my way to the Big Chair.

When I sat in the chair another nurse came over to me. I quickly asked her if the other nurse had told her about my method. She nodded. “Okay, I don’t think you are aware of how terrified of needles I am,” I told her. She said she understood and I don’t know if it was my testament or the somewhat nauseated look on my face because another nurse came over so both of them could hold my hands. I took a deep breath and tried not to pass out, but once the needle was in I realized that by looking away from my arm, I was looking directly at another woman with a needle in hers. So I cried. Not big, gasping, body-wracking sobs, but “quiet, lips pierced, tears slowly streaming down my face” crying. The kind of crying I do when I am at the dentist (all right, all right, another thing I am scared of). The nurses brought me tissues and a stack of “Good Housekeeping” Magazines to distract me from the needle in my arm and to shield me from the view on my right. In between recipes for peach cobbler and tips on making my own environmentally safe laundry detergent, this is what I tried to think about.

One out of every three people will need blood before they turn 72 years old.
Blood, unlike medication, can’t be manufactured it has to be donated.
There are so many children and adults out there with illnesses whose recovery depends on donated blood.
The Blood Center took a hit from Hurricane Katrina. They need to replenish their supplies.
It’s pretty simple; it doesn’t take a lot to help save lives.

The procedure took about ten really long minutes. When it was all done, the nurses wrapped my arm, helped me up and gave me orange juice and cookies. And even though I chose Camp Challenge, they gave me a free t-shirt anyway. And a clock.

I am that pathetic.

If I chose, I can come back in eight weeks to donate again. And while it may not be eight weeks on the dot, I know I will. It’s important.

Of course, in retrospect, I won’t just eat peanuts for breakfast. I will also not make the fatal mistake of donating blood and not allowing enough time to eat before my physical therapy appointment. My therapist sent me home early because I was doing my knee exercises at a ninety-degree tilt.

I was somewhat loopy for the rest of the day.
And my arm still hurts.
And thinking about it makes me want to cry.

I came home, ate some food, and took a nap. When I awoke, I cooked myself some shrimp pasta with olive oil, pine nuts and fresh basil from my herb garden. I made it with angel hair pasta because I can’t have pasta that’s any bigger than regular spaghetti unless it is lasagna. Anything else in between, like, say, fettuccini freaks me out. And definitely not elbow macaroni.

Never elbow macaroni because that really scares the shit out of me.

Here are the local Blood Centers that are up and operating

42268 Veterans Ave
Hammond, LA 70401
(985) 542-0263

3400 16th St.
Metairie, LA 70002
(504) 887-2833

2701 Manhattan Blvd
Harvey, LA 70058
(504) 263-1190

1137 Gause Blvd. Ste 106 (Opening the first week of November)
Slidell, LA 70458
(985) 641-4400

For more information, visit

The Blood Center




So, here is my point. If I can donate blood, anyone can. Seriously.

PLEASE DONATE TODAY!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!



Writer on the left, 1981. Now, that's scary!

BUDDHIST HELL

It’s only fitting that when in Japan, you visit a love shrine one day and a “Buddhist hell” temple the next.

It wasn’t Buddha, but British novelist, E.M. Forester that said, “Death destroys a man, the idea of Death saves him.” Are men saved because of fear? Is all religion an attempt to frighten individuals into compliance? And, if you’re only motivated by fear, does that make your actions sincere?

A short story in a futile attempt to illustrate my point:

When I was seven-years old, I was sent to a Christian summer camp for a week. While some children stood by their parents crying, or were pulled from their cars screaming, my only anxiety was getting their early enough to secure a top bunk. I barely had time to say good-bye to my parents before I rushed off to say hello to dozens of potential friends.

The second day at camp, aside from learning to avoid the last bathroom stall and not to litter for fear of bears, we learned that it was essential to ask Jesus into your heart. If you didn’t, you went to hell. This confused me.

I asked about babies. I was told they were exempt.
I asked about people in Africa. I was told they were exempt.
I asked about people who lived alone on islands in undiscovered parts of the world. I was told, once again, that they were exempt. However, this time it came with a disclaimer. “If you don’t know, you’re okay. But if you do know and choose not to let Jesus into your heart, then you will go to hell.”

Me: What if you’re a really good person?
Christian Camp Counselor: No.
Me: What if you saved someone from drowning?
CCC: No.
Me: What if you have a whole farm full of stray dogs and stray cats?
CCC: No.
Me: What if….?
CCC: Little girl, stop talking! There’s no excuse. If you know and you don’t ask Jesus into your heart, you’re going to hell. That’s all there is to it.
Me: (sheepishly raising hand): Well, I am not quite sure if my dad has or not; mostly he stays at home when we go to church. I mean, he goes on Christmas and Mother’s Day, but that’s about it. I am pretty sure about my mom, but I don’t know about my dad.
CCC: Well, you’re dad is going to hell.
Me: What? But he’s a really nice person!
CCC: Sorry; he’s going to hell!
Me: Are you certain? Wouldn’t Jesus see that he’s nice and stuff?
CCC: Nope, sorry. You’re dad is going to hell. Next topic.
Me: (frantically waving my arm) Is there a phone I can use?

I spent the next week in complete turmoil. What if something happened to my dad while I was at camp? Although, not savvy to the ways of the world, growing up on a farm I was aware of death. I also witnessed it on the human level. A child in my class that year died of leukemia. Another friend’s dad died of a heart attack. With the possibility of death ever looming, how could I enjoy canoe trips and marshmellow roasts when my dad was destined to spend eternity withering in agony? Smores lost their taste. Camp songs lost their zing. And kick-the-can didn’t ignite my usual passion. Aside from worrying about my dad’s soul, what about mine?

Feverishly I prayed to Jesus at all hours of the day to come into my heart. The door to my heart was wide open. But if Jesus could read my thoughts, would he know that I was mainly triggered by this sudden burst of religious accountability because I was scared? In my top bunk at night, I would try and reason with him. “It’s not just because I am afraid, Jesus. Really it’s not. I mean, I kind of am. But I want you in my heart, I do. Because I love you. I really mean it. Really. But if you are coming down to earth this week and destroying everything, can you wait until after my soccer game on Thursday? I’d really appreciate it.”

But it all came down to this, was Jesus smarter than a seven-year old girl with hell on her brain? Could he read my mind? And deep down, I was terrified that I was more driven by the thought of the skin burning off my flesh while crows picked at my boiling eyeballs until the end of time than I was at the idea of “unconditional” love. How can you really love if you’re scared all the time? Deep down, I was also petrified that I wasn’t being honest.

When my parents came to pick me up, I threw myself around my dad and screamed, “Have you let Jesus into your heart?” He looked down at me and my troubled expression and answered, “Sure. Of course I have.” After my initial sigh of relief, the harsh realization swept over me that I wasted my precious camp experience worrying about hell. “Can I stay another week?” I asked.

One of my favorite quotes is from Francis Bacon, “It is a miserable state of mind to have few things to desire and many things to fear.”

I must admit, my knowledge on Buddhism is limited. I do keep The Four Noble Truths and The Noble Eightfold Path written down in my journal. I’ve read books on Taoism and the Primordial Breath. Judaism and the Gehenon and Garden of Eden. And I have some inkling on Hinduism and the caste system, and the Native American religion and the Peyotist doctrine. But with all of these, I realized (except for Christianity) that I have no idea what any of these religions’ interpretation of hell was. I was shocked even to discover that Buddhism had a hell, let alone eight hells. Perhaps, it’s my tendency to always focus on the positive. I like to discover new things and learn the assorted roads to enlightenment. I’ve never really been too concerned about what will happen to me if I don’t achieve that goal. But I am trying. Perhaps it is my hell-filtration process.
I don’t want my actions controlled by fear.

But, like always, for my back-story, I apologize.

“Buddhist Hell,” is the Hanibe Gankutsu-in Temple in the town of Komatsu located on the coast of the Sea of Japan. Upon entering, the first sight you see is an enormous Buddha head. Gigantic. Even in the drizzling rain, the sight was impressive. He was perfect, down to the ears that looked like the #8 and the sea-shaped curls on his head.



Leading up to the caves, the path and walkways are filled with countless Buddhas and various statues.






Once you make your way up the walkway, you are lead into a room filled completely with jizos. Apparently, the temple has become famous for the in-demand service of “mizuko reijo” or the exorcism of aborted fetuses. An entire room is dedicated to the lost souls of aborted babies. When you walk through the room with the tiny statues covered in miniature blankets, or charms, or religious paraphernalia, you can feel the guilt of the mothers. The jizos, draped with messages and toys, hang like bribes begging for forgiveness.








Continuing up the steps are more statues, until you enter the caves. The caves are made of limestone and dark with low ceilings. Even only standing at 5’7, I had to duck more than once.




At first, you are greeted by welcoming statues, many with their hands in the mudra position (symbolizing fearlessness). There are also various stages of Buddha’s life represented.

And it’s quite apparent that Buddha didn’t have a problem with sex, as a variety of the sculptures are dedicated to the age-old art of lovemaking. In fact, Buddha seems to look kindly on not only experimenting with your partner, but various partners as well.






Despite the dampness and the mold, the caves appear peaceful, that something this beautiful has to be hidden away.






But then you turn a corner, and a large beast stands with his hand out, beckoning (almost inviting) you into hell.




The first table has four demons dining on eyeballs and entrails. Next to them is a jug of blood.





Further down the line are people decapitated and chopped up.





For telling lies, a man is eaten up by snakes.



For having an abortion, a woman is forced to eat her healthy baby.



For believing in Jesus, you are mutilated, just like Adam and Eve.




Everywhere you looked people are brutalized in one form or another. I couldn’t understand the sin of the man with the inordinately large penis, but he did appear exhausted.



The images and statues in their cruelty are upsetting but what was truly disturbing was they were meant to represent your future if you did not obey. Obviously, religions don’t make their money by being nice. Like the counselor told me when I was seven, if you don’t follow the rules, you go to hell.






Like the duality in the caves, how can we recognize good without recognizing evil? Still, in my stubbornness to try and see the good in people and religions, I have to acknowledge the balance of life. Like Lao Tzu so eloquently wrote it in the fourth century BC

The whole world recognizes the beautiful as the beautiful,
Yet this is only the ugly; the whole world recognizes the good as the good, yet this is only the bad.
Thus Something and Nothing produce each other;
The difficult and the easy complement each other;
The long and the short offset each other;
The high and low incline towards each other;
Note and sound harmonize with each other;
Before and after follow each other.


Regardless of my brief descent into hell, and my appreciation of the Four Noble Truths, I still feel blessed because, like Francis Bacon, I have more desires than I have fears. And that’s the way I believe it should be.

THE LOVE SHRINE

The validity of premonition. The verity of signs. What is coincidence and what is fate? Whether it is in a hammock, scented bath, early mornings hidden under the covers, long car rides by myself, or sprawled out on my chaise lounge with my feet in the air, these are topics I have given considerable time. It’s always been frustrating to me as someone who works in metaphors and analogies to desperately need explanations.

Rituals bring comfort. What makes someone who has OCD and needs to touch a light switch 32 times so they won’t explode any different from someone who has to say the rosary three times a day so they won’t burn in hell. Are all rituals a false protection like a stuffed animal you tuck under a child’s arm at night so they won’t have bad dreams? Do we replace these stuffed animals with more acceptable but equally useless versions of security? Is it worth it if it eases our mind? One of the fascinating things I find about other cultures are their rituals and customs. It’s a glimpse into what alleviates their pain or brings them hope. It even displays how they punish themselves. We all have some form of “Hari-Kari,” be it through drink, or reckless behavior or even parasitic relationships. But how do people submerged in their routines keep their faith when things go awry. Do they keep their heads bent and minds true, or do they seek out signs as guidelines to show them that they are on the right path?


I have been trying to decipher if I am only reading signs just because I am striving for a connection. I can’t disconnect the oddities or the happenstances that often make me pause and reflect, but maybe a pause is all it is worth. When it comes down to it, perhaps I am clueless in my interpretation. I don’t know which is more enigmatical, that you read someone incorrectly and didn’t use proper judgment, or this individual is not who you thought. The pain of being wrong, or the pain of losing faith in someone - neither is a happy solution.

Just yesterday, my friend Colleen handed me a quote from the Dalai Lama “We also often add to our pain and suffering by being overly sensitive, over-reacting to minor things, and sometimes taking things too personally.” It was completely relevant to my current state of mind. That same morning, I got more Dalai Lama quotes emailed to me from an unusual source. For the record, I don’t usually have people giving me advice from his Holiness.

Last week, when I was finishing my blog about Maya Angelou, I received an email from a old friend, who I had not heard from in years (and have never received an email from) with a list of Maya Angelou quotes. There was no greeting, no update, just quotes. Both of these are pleasant synchronisms, but do they mean anything? What are the degrees of importance when it comes to judging signs?

Recently, I have been deliberating the value of signs. Am I putting significance on something that doesn’t need to be? Am I holding onto someone that needs to be let go because of some list of odd events and coincidences that triggered a strong emotion in me, but in reality means nothing? When does effort become wasted energy? Do I go against actions for instinct? How long can I keep the faith before it is just plain stupidity on my part. So, after the burning on Chirihama Beach, I settled into the back of the car as we headed to the Love Shrine.

The Keta Taisha is a Shinto (the way of the gods) temple in Hakui City in Teramachi. It’s located on the sacred forest on the Noto Peninsula and has been a place of worship for over 2,000 years. Shinto is the indigenous faith of the Japanese people. It’s characterized by revering nature and ancestral spirits without a formal dogma. Shinto, influenced by Buddhism and Confuciusism, does not believe there are absolute rights or wrongs. Nobody is perfect, but they believe humans are fundamentally good. They deem that evil is caused by evil sprits so the meaning of many of their rituals is to keep evil spirits at bay.

Okuninushi-no-mikoto, the god of marriage lives at the Keta Taisha Shrine. One of the reasons it has grown in popularity as a “love temple” is that one of the Royal Family prayed at the shrine and became engaged shortly after. Now, people come from all over to write down their wishes, desires or blessings on an ema (wooden plaque) and leave them at the shrine for the kami (spirits or gods) so they can read them.







After cleansing myself at the purification fountain, I wrote my prayer on my ema and looked for the ideal place to hang it for the kami to read it. I saw a tree and hung it on the back branch away from the others but still in the sun. The tree was lush and incredibly green. Later, I discovered that it was a 1,000-year-old holy tree.





MY EMA

While my friends Neil and Colleen wrote a blessing for Chris and Yuki’s wedding, I wandered the grounds. Immediately, I was struck by kinship of the forest and the human soul -. ancient trees surrounded by ancient desires. People’s wants and hopes were just as old as the trees they hung them on. There is comfort in that. Nature and matters of the heart are sacred and need to be protected.

Standing under the Torii gate (gate of the gods) an older Japanese man in a long white robe approached me. His graying hair was combed back and he wore large glasses. He had a smooth, open face that was perfected with a childlike enthusiasm, but coupled with that rare grace of patience and sagacity. It was a quality I immediately found endearing; he reminded me of the tree I had just hung my ema on – youthful and wise. Regardless of this initial impression, my instant Western reaction was that he was trying to sell me something and I kept motioning that I was okay by myself. He wasn’t trying to get anything from me; he was trying to give. He was the head priest of the shrine – Hideo Mitsui. Despite my polite declines for company or assistance, he seemed anxious to talk to me and continued engaging me. At one point he asked, “What do you do?” Not wanting to go into lengthy detail or long explanations I just replied, “I write.” He smiled and didn’t ask me any more. His English was fairly good and when Colleen and Neil came over, he insisted on taking us on a private tour. With their assurances, I followed along.



One of the first things he told us (and he repeated this no less than ten times) was that when Emperor Hirohito came to the shrine 23 years ago, he was his personal guide. There were pictures of the emperor’s visit all over the shrine. One of Mitsui-san’s favorite phrases was “Very famous. Very famous in the whole world.” Mitsui-san was also the personal guide to many members of the royal family. He was no longer a guide so to receive a private tour was a great honor.

Mitsui-san spoke to us about Shinto and the history of the temple, then showed us the entrance to the woods. No one, not even him, was allowed in the virgin forest. It was holy ground; he was only the guardian. Afterward, he helped me pick out a special charm for protection. The tour ended. Thrilled by this special treatment, we thanked him profusely and then Colleen and I went to find a bathroom. When we came back, Mitsui-san was waiting for us. Asking us to follow him, he lead us to his personal quarters where other visitors weren't allowed.

Earlier that day, I mentioned to Colleen that I would like to get some calligraphy IF I found something that spoke to me. When Mitsui-san took us to his private dwelling, it became apparent that he was going to make personal calligraphy for Colleen and me. There was no hesitation as he dipped his brush into the pot of ink. His slight movements of hand became fluid forms on the paper. I had never seen anyone's hands dance with ink before. I didn’t know if I was more honored that I was allowed to watch him do his art or that he was making a blessing for me. When he handed my gift over, he gave me a smile, a nod and said, “Your dreams will come true.” The official translation of my calligraphy means, “The majesty of God shines on your path.” Colleen’s translation meant, “The Core Belief” which is the foundation of bushido (the way of the samurai). She is the strongest warrior.





After Mitsui-san gave us our calligraphy, he led us to his bedroom to show us where Hirohito rested when he visited. The room was simple with another picture of the emperor to which he pointed. “Very famous. Very famous in the whole world.” It hung next to a scroll he recently completed – Happiness & Love.




Mitsui-san walked us to the car. On the way he told me he learned a lot of his English from American Movies. I was curious what kind of movies a Shinto Priest would enjoy but he couldn’t give me any specifics. I wanted to at least know where he got his charming way of responding, “Well, then, let’s see…” to my questions.

I thanked him again and as we were saying goodbye, Mitsui-san clasped my hands, smiled and said, “Nobel Prize in Literature.” Then we waved our goodbyes.

So there you go…. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it wasn’t. I am still feeling a little off and unsure of my instinct. Maybe the trip to the love shrine for me was to reaffirm what I love to do, not who I love. Maybe that will be enough, or maybe that will be all. I don't know. Ideally, both would be nice.

What I do know is, regardless of my future, I will always looks back on it as a lovely afternoon with an even lovelier man.

Thank you, Mitsui-san.





Some Wisdom of the Dalai Lama
1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
2. When you lose, don’t lose the lesson.
3. Follow the three R’s a) Respect for self, b) Respect for others, c) responsibility for all your actions.
4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them.
6. Don’t let a little dispute injure a great relationship.
7. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don’t bring up the past.
8. Once a year, go someplace you’ve never been before.
9. Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon.
10. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.

JAPANESE T-SHIRTS

Please excuse the condition of some of these - they were taken in a stealth like manner. Enjoy!