Wednesday, August 13, 2014


God loves depressed people.

Before you start churning with pat answers about how God didn’t create depression and how it’s not of Him, let me first elaborate.

A lot of us have friends and family that struggle with this baffling disease.  It’s neurological, physical, emotional and spiritual, making it the “whack-a-mole” of the medical community.  Once one symptom (mood swings, sleeplessness, dark thoughts, a feeling of hopelessness) of the disease is struck down, another is quick to pop up.  No medicines have proven themselves to be very effective against combating it; many depressed people find that self-medicating works best.  Alcohol, methamphetamines and tobacco seem to work the best for them – even with all of the dangers, side-effects and addictive properties.  Many of my friends have told me that the ever-present self-doubts become very noisy and demand attention; few medicines can shut them off.

I have recently become a fan of twelve-step programs for a couple of reasons: one is I have been transformed; the second is I have been awakened.  In my wide-awake state, I can see that I am not in control of another person’s behavior, thoughts or actions. 

Most people with depression are surrounded by people who love them.  These people often make things worse by trying to tell them how to get better.  I’ve been guilty of this until recently.  Our biggest fear is that the depressed person will give in to their fantasy of ending it all once and for all.  The thought keeps me up at night; I don’t have any power over the matter and can’t even imagine the conflicting thoughts in their heads. 

As I was writing one of my friends called, wrung out from her day of mixed emotions.  She called with happy news, news that she could hardly contain and we celebrated together.  As we talked, I recognized the thing in her voice that is there during dark times.  I felt fear at first because of her history, but then I listened.  She was “dipping” but I wasn’t in charge of buoying her back up.  I was in charge of two things: my words and my prayers for her. 

“I love you no matter what,” I told her sincerely.  “I love you when you are dark and I love you when you are bright.  You are woven together with dark and bright threads which is what makes you beautiful.”

As I said this, I realized that the same could be said of King David, Moses, Elijah, Ezekiel, Joel, Peter, and many other of our "heroes" in the faith.  They were all people who experienced depression and were in touch with the terrible suffering in this world.  They felt things heavily and hard; they wondered why others didn’t. They spoke often with God and would never be accused of neglecting time with Him.  He had a special place in His heart for them, because He actually put His heart into them. 

That is why I  believe that God loves depressed people. 

He is literally the only One who understands the depth of their hearts; He is the only One who understands their desires of being done with the battle. 

Will You Be My Friend? 
By James Kavanaugh

Will you be my friend?
There are so many reasons why you never should:
I’m sometimes sullen, often shy, acutely sensitive,
My fear erupts as anger, I find it hard to give,
I talk about myself when I’m afraid
And often spend a day without anything to say.
    But I will make you laugh
And love you quite a bit
And hold you when you’re sad.

I cry a little almost every day
Because I’m more caring than the strangers ever know,
And, if at times, I show my tender side
(The soft and warmer part I hide)
I wonder, will you be my friend?

A friend who far beyond the feebleness of any vow or tie
Will touch the secret place where I am really I,
To know the pain of lips that plead and eyes that weep,
Who will not run away when you find me in the street
Alone and lying mangled by my quota of defeats
But will stop and stay-to tell me of another day
When I was beautiful.

Will you be my friend?
 There are so many reasons why you never should:
Often I’m too serious, seldom predictably the same,
Sometimes cold and distant, probably I’ll always change.
I bluster and brag, seek attention like a child,
I brood and pout, my anger can be wild,
But I will make you laugh and love you quite a bit
And be near you when you’re afraid.

I shake a little almost every day
Because I’m more frightened than the strangers ever know
And if at times I show my trembling side
(The anxious, fearful part I hide)
I wonder, will you be my friend?

A friend who, when I feel your closeness, feels me push away
And stubbornly will stay to share what’s left on such a day,
Who, when no one knows my name or calls me on the phone,
When there’s no concern for me – what I have or haven’t done-
And those I’ve helped and counted on have oh, so deftly, run,
Who, when there’s nothing left but me, stripped of charm and
Subtlety will nonetheless remain.

    Will you be my friend?
For no reason that I know,

Except I want you so.

Monday, July 28, 2014


Alicia came 21 days late - she was due on July 7 and was born on July 28 after doctors decided to induce me. 

I never quite caught up with all the joy I felt the day she was born. We didn't know the sex of the child and after three boys, we knew she would be our last.  When she was born, we erupted in praise and I screamed for joy.

"A girl!!  A girl!!"

There was a rush of excitement and then breastfeeding and then a time warp: bonding that only mother and daughter could do, family togetherness.  Reading, addition, pig-latin, drama, sports, friends and then school outside the home.  She looked at me with the most sincere, round brown eyes and trusted every decision I made.  She started slipping through my fingers sooner than I ever imagined. 

At about twelve years old, I realized she wanted a life outside of me and I was devastated.  More specifically, I came out of denial and I realized she was growing up.  She had more friends than changes of clothes and they were constantly coming over. 

She was a social butterfly, which lasted until she moved away from us- a transition I wasn't ready for.

Like every mother, I look at my daughter and sigh, thinking that it all went so fast.  I barely got used to the idea that she was grown up when she told me she was expecting a baby of her own.  First came Harmony, then came Alannah - both little replicas of her - complete delights to our family.

Today she is twenty-six.  Twenty six years have passed since the day I gave birth and screamed for joy the moment she was born. 

Today I will see her - a business woman, a mother - and an adult.  I will resist the urge to call her my baby, giver her too much unsolicited advice and worry about her.

Instead, I will say that I am proud of her and look forward to the year to come. 

Happy Birthday, Alicia.  One day your babies will be in their twenties and you'll know all of what I'm talking about.

I love you - today and forever. 


Saturday, July 19, 2014


A Cache of Words Writer's Group Just Write Challenge
July 14th Prompt: Write a poem about regret

Deep in the night is when the ghosts come out.
Longing and dreaming and crying like babies;
Relentless haunts – no excuses
Of better things that kept me-
Make them go away.
Dreams unrealized;
Joy stillborn;
Victories not realized;
Absolute darkness creeping in –
How can I make it up to you?
Forgive whatever you can...

I have no like-gift for myself.

Saturday, July 12, 2014


July 8: A Cache of Words Writer's Group writing prompt for July 8th:

Argentina has a rich history and landscape. 
Write a poem or story about it or the recent news coming from there.

Their uniform colors are blue and white; stripes that descend vertically, rather than horizontally, different from their flag.  The horizontal flag stripes are forever etched into my heart.  I still remember painting it on the faces of kids the morning of the Argentina vs. Nigeria match in 2010. My kitchen was alive the morning of the game against Nigeria then; the game was to be held at Ellis Park later in the day and Mario was going with three guys who were given tickets by a group of American nurses. 

Argentina won that game, three to Zero.

Situated in the south-east corner of South America, Argentina is far from a poor third-world country.  Their economy is thriving, their beef is the best in the world and their Spanish is elitist, almost Spanish Spanish and we Mexican Americans see them as our light-skinned second cousins who live worlds away from us.  Still, I hope they defeat Netherlands and crush them deep into the earth and come away cheering in Spanish – the world needs to cheer in Spanish again!

Germany and Argentina.  The only thing they have in common besides two incredible soccer teams is a history of harboring Nazis. hmmm...

Go Argentina!  

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Friday, July 11, 2014



You might be checking out my blog because you think I have new car – I don’t. 

In fact, I drive a 1998 Volvo – a square and boxy one that I used to make fun of when I was younger.  I love my car – her name is Beatrice and I call her my old lady.  Reading is a skill that most Americans are losing slowly but surely.  Their chances of beating the affliction we have named as ADD (or ADHD) increase tremendously if they simply read regularly.  By the time you have reached this sentence, most Americans have already moved on and clicked off this blog post. 

As a writer, my job is to keep you reading.  Here is the challenge: as a writer, I annoy a lot of you.  I write, read and talk a lot about how much I write and read.

How often do you read? What do you read when you do read?  Newspapers and comics count – so be fearless in answering.  Where ever you read this, post your reading habits and what your favorite thing to read is. 

By posting, you are doing even a greater thing than reading: you are connecting.  This is also a skill that Americans are losing, slowly but surely.  Let’s connect and stay connected!

Sunday, July 6, 2014


A Meteorite has hit the earth very close to you. What do you see?

Photo Credit

It was Friday the 13th, a day my Grandma told me to stay off the road.

“Mijo,” she said as I left her house.  “I know you drive a truck, but you must call in sick on Friday.  I have a feeling down deep it will be a bad day.”

“Ah, Grandma, I gotta work.”

“No,” she shook her head with such force that the braids at the back of her head shook like the reigns of a horse.  “Call in sick, Jose.”

I couldn't say no to my Grandma, so I told her I would call in sick.  I had no intention of missing work; I had taken a good job that paid good money. I was scheduled to bring a load of portable toilets to Burning Man and I was pretty stoked to do it - it was really good money.  I had no intention of listening to my Grandma’s superstitious warnings.

Friday morning, as I brushed my teeth, I remembered what Grandma said.  I laughed at her perception of what I did.  I was an independent contractor with my own truck; she suggested that I call in sick.  I guess I can call in sick to myself, huh? 

The roads were so clear at four a.m.; I always liked the early start.  My bullet thermos was filled with coffee, and I had two leftover tamales from the night before.  Jane agreed to manage without me for the weekend; soccer tournaments and activities with the kids would have to all be done without me there -again.

I was changing the radio station when I saw it: A flash of light zipped in front of me – like a plane on fire, crash-landing right in front of me.  I slowed down, startled.  Then  (Ba-BOOM!)  an explosion  lifted my cab up and slammed it down again.  My ears stopped working; thank God I had my eyes shut tight because my side window imploded.  Glass flew everywhere and I felt it, like sand in my face.  I breathed in smoke and coughed, which popped my ears.  What were those fumes? I cautiously opened my eyes and saw the road: a horizon in front of me.  My truck had miraculously stayed upright.  I was stalled, but upright.  I looked over my left shoulder to see the field on fire; a ball of fire, as if the sun met the earth.

“What in the hell…?”

I heard horns; people honking behind me.  I looked over my left shoulder to see a row of incongruous cars, all upright, but most knocked off the road.  Black smoke billowed from two vehicles in the fast lane; one was on top of the other.

I quickly did a quick inventory of my rig.  Everything seemed to be in order; should I go out?  No cars were moving and I needed to check to see if my tires were popped or…. 

I cautiously opened my door and stepped on to the road.  The field was hypnotic.  Everyone was staring at it.  It was ablaze -  a flaming rock, buried in the dirt at its center.  In front of it, a burnt path was smoking from where it skidded to a halt. 

“A meteorite?” I whispered. 

I looked around.  The impact caused several explosions of windshields;  broken glass covered the highway like confetti.  In addition to the glass, mirrors and plates were on the street; a few, like me had left their vehicles.   We all seemed dumbstruck; my ears were ringing.  In the distance I heard a low roar, the sound of flames. 

Above me, a helicopter appeared and circled above us.  I looked up, observing a machine with greater power than the burning rock.  It hovered, clever and careful, watching us all below; observing the meteorite and all of the victims below it.   The great fuming rock hissed and sputtered, but wasn’t moving.  It nearly killed me.  Now it was stuck in that field, smoking and reminding us all that we weren’t so safe from the greater space that surrounded us. 

I guess Grandma was right.

After the highway was cleared I called my buddy, Jerry, to meet me at the I-5 truck-stop where we used to have coffee.  I asked him if he would consider trading vehicles for the weekend.  He could take the truck to Burning Man for me; I could take his car to use until he returned.  He seemed pretty stoked about taking the job;  it paid really good money. 

Jane was surprised to see me when I showed up at soccer.  “What are you doing here?” she asked, coyly.

When she hugged me, I didn’t want to let go.  I was so happy to be alive; so scared of losing her and the kids.   In a few seconds she realized something had happened. 

“What happened?”

I told her the story, but it occurred to me that it wasn’t a long one.  Even now, as I tell it in words it goes like this:  I was driving and then I saw a flash of light.  It turned out to be  a meteorite that caused a great explosion and even lifted the cab up off the ground; it broke my window.  Jerry took the truck and I took his car, realizing that I couldn’t drive.  I’m pretty sure I’m okay now. 

That’s the story.  It really doesn’t sound so bad, does it? 

Grandma was right; I shouldn’t have gone.  I should have offered the job to Jerry in the first place.  Now when I drive, I feel edgy and hyper-alert.  I wish things would get back to how it was before.  The whole experience left me empty and afraid; I want to know why.

Saturday, July 5, 2014


July 5th Writing Prompt: This picture is one entitled "Migrant Mother" - (Later "Destitute Pea-picking Family in Depression") taken by Dorothea Lange in 1936.It was supposedly taken just outside of Nipomo, California. Write a paragraph of her thoughts. What is she thinking?

Migrant Mother by Dorthea Lange
Public Domain

It’s been four days since we had real bread.  This morning we had rice and beans, but we had to cook em all and now we sit here waitin.  Jim and two of my elder boys went off to town to git the radiator repaired, but I don’t know how they’re gonna fix it without no money.  We gotta have the car.  Without the car, we’ll starve for sure.

 We came here to harvest early peas, but the harvest never came.  What has come is people, and lots of em.  There must be ten thousand families camped here, waitin just like us.  The farmer’s  association decided to send a notice to call for pea pickers all the way to the dust bowl to bring those folk in for cheap labor, but the early freeze came and destroyed all the crop.  

The folk from Oklahoma and Missouri came, all of em with their homes packed up in their trucks.  Those folk aren’t like us; they’re pale and skinny, not used to the fields of California.  Even so, they’re like us;  all of us are in the same boat.  Waitin and starvin together and nobody seems to care. 
A girl with a camera come by and says can I take your picture, do you mind? I don’t have the energy not to mind, but the little uns don’t have their faces scrubbed so they look away.  One of em puts her face into my shoulder and hides, she’s so ashamed.  

We all are waitin, just knowin that maybe Jim might get that radiator fixed and maybe someone might give him something to eat for the kids.  We might as well just sleep here tonight.

The girl says thank you missus what’s your name.  I tell her its Florence and she asks me what else.  I can’t tell her Christie, the name I was born with; I can’t tell her Owens cuz that husband of mine died and left me to fend for myself and find Jim.  I can’t tell her Hill because Jim and I aren’t quite married in the church, even if we have three kids including this baby in my arms, so I tell her – Florence Leona.  My middle name is Leona and I won’t be lyin.

She just nods, like she’s done askin questions.  She doesn’t seem like the rest of us; her shoes have no more than two days dirt on em.  She tells me don’t worry mam these’ll never git published anyway.  I ask her why she doesn’t take a bigger picture, one of all the people, sittin and waitin under tents out here.    That way, if a newspaper buys it the people will be forced to look at us, all of us starvin at their doorstep.  If I were you, I tell her, I’d take that kinda picture.  She just thanks me and walks away.  I don’t have too much energy left to care about that picture.   Just one picture of my face isn’t gonna make a big difference to a bunch of out here now, is it?

Dorthea Lange, the photographer who took this picture, sent it and five others that she took of Florence Leona Owens Thompson  to the San Francisco News and the Resettlement Administration in Washington, D.C.  Papers ran the pictures almost immediately, with Lange’s report that 2,500 to 3,500 migrant workers were starving in Nipomo, California.  Within days, the pea-picker camp received 20,000 pounds of food from the federal government.  By the time it arrived, Florence and her nine children had moved on with her common law husband, Jim Hill, in their newly repaired car to  Watsonville, California – where they were working the harvest.   

Migrant Mother, the picture of an era, is one of the most famous portraits in the USA.