Regina Ravioli

From the time I was in kindergarten through eighth grade I was tormented by a little red-haired, freckle faced Italian girl who I’ll call Regina Ravioli. Her real name was Regina Something-Very-Italian and I am sure even after all these decades if I used her real name here she would crawl up out of the bowels of our litigious society and sue my ass for speaking ill of her. So she will remain Regina Ravioli. I was always tall for my age and after a badly broken leg at age seven kept me wheelchair bound for three months I was fat too. She was petite and therefore cute and by default one of those people that can get away with anything.
Some of the things she got away with were the standard like taking my lunch money and throwing my sandwich in the garbage. In second grade at the end of the day she would regularly take my coat off the hook and throw it on the floor before taking hers. Once I even persuaded the teacher to observe her doing this. The teacher, a Catholic nun and therefore a thoroughly frustrated woman herself, observed this behavior, huffed a disapproving look at me for attempting to draw her into my mini-drama and turned and walked away, thus allowing Regina Ravioli to continue this coat abuse until spring finally came and resolved the problem for me.
Regina would befriend me from time to time always, of course, when she wanted something. I was a lonely and insecure child having little respite from ridicule which was heaped on aplenty at home by family and at school by both peers and teachers. (Again, Catholic nuns – frustrated, demeaned women who had few to release their frustrations on, save for the lonely, insecure children entrusted to their care.) Recently I was reminded of one memorable bus ride home in third grade when she spent the entire ride detailing for me how two boys were fighting over her for her affections. Now I was only in third grade but I do remember distinctly thinking this was absurd at the age of eight. (It was, remember, 1957 and kids weren’t nearly as sophisticated then as they are now. These days eight olds are getting chemical peels and boob jobs.) I also remember thinking, in the vernacular of my eight year old brain, what has rendered you so insecure that you need to tell me, of all people, about this alleged battle for your affections? I was able to think it then; I wasn’t able to understand it until years later when I came to learn that some people need to attempt to bolster their own egos and assuage themselves of guilt by appearing to bond with someone upon whom they look down on as inferior. Regina, it seemed, was feeling a little insecure and maybe even guilty herself.
Recently I was reminded of the pathos of Regina’s plight when a friend who’d slighted me reappeared one day requesting a favor. The slight had been disappointing but not relationship ending although it did offer valuable insight into the true character of the friend. To extend the favor would have been inconvenient for me but only for a short period of time and I was prone to give it some consideration. Until two thing happened. First, the friend attempted to manipulate me into extending the favor, which was clearly only for their benefit, by trying to convince me it had merit for me as well. And second, the friend felt compelled at this point to apologize for the past slight in a shamefully apparent attempt to gain the favor.
I’ve learned a lot since the days when Regina Ravioli threw my coat on the floor and regaled in telling me tales of pre-pubescent lust on the school bus.
I know it’s hard for some people to apologize for inconsiderate or even bad behavior. But the apology would have meant a great deal more had it not been attached to a self-serving request. In that instant I was back on the bus listening to Regina and thinking, WTF?
And speaking as someone who spent a great many years being maligned and manipulated by parents, teachers, priests, nuns, friends, husbands, lovers, etc., etc., etc. It is never a good idea to try to manipulate me. I might not catch on right away but I will catch on.
I haven’t seen or heard of Regina Ravioli in more than 40 years. But wherever she is I hope she is living a happy and fulfilled life. Maybe she ever married one of the third graders who vied so ardently for her affections. Do I want to see or hear from her again? No, not really. But the lesson she taught me lasted a lifetime. Thanks Regina.

June 1

June 1 is an important date to me. On June 1, 1992 my best friend, who had flown from San Francisco to Delaware where I was living, and I loaded all my worldly possessions into a U-Haul and drove it from Newark, Delaware to San Francisco, California where I would live for the next 4 years and 1 day, literally. On June 1, 1996 I watched a moving van pull away from my East Bay apartment again loaded with all my worldly possessions and this time I drove alone cross-country again this time headed for a friend's house in Maryland about 50 miles from Baltimore where I would live for the next 7 years. I actually left on June 2 for that return trip because the final apartment clean-up took a little longer than expected, accounting for the extra day.

The 1992 trip was very Thelma and Louise (that movie was only a year old at that time) although in our version no one died or took a header into the Grand Canyon. It was a good time spent with a good - a very good - friend and some parts of it still live on in my memory as fresh as they were 18 years ago. The ensuing 4 years were 4 of the most important in my life, especially as my development as a psychic are concerned.

The 1996 trip was good too even though I did that one alone. I bought a cell phone, then called a mobile phone, at Sears in California. It was the size of child's shoe box and cost $325 and all it did was make and receive phone calls. It had a charger twice its size and I would take it into the hotel room every night and charge it so I would have it the next day, just in case. I returned it to a Sears in Maryland, slightly used but none the worse for the wear, and got all my money back, except for the few usage charges. Ahh...now that was a long time ago.

One of my favorite memories from that trip is a rainy afternoon spent in a diner in Iowa. I'd parked my car in front of a large plate glass window where my California license plate was visible. It was mid-afternoon, between the lunch and dinner crowds. The waitresses had been talking farm talk. Iowa is farm country and the only good parts of my horribly dysfunctional childhood had been spent on my grandparents' farm so I knew farm talk. June is planting season and the talk center on fathers and husbands planting various crops. It felt like home. One of the waitresses noticed my license plate and asked where I was going. I told her Maryland and she let out a longing sigh. "Charlie won't even let me drive to Des Moines alone," she told me. She was too old to still be under the watchful eye of a father so I assumed Charlie was her husband. Des Moines was less than 50 miles from the diner. To her it could have been New York City. She envied me my freedom and I envied her her Charlie who wouldn't let her go to the big city alone. Life is a trade off. We make our choices and live with our consequences.

In June of 2004 my friend from California was in a horrific accident in Montana. She and her husband were hospitalized in Montana and didn't return home to California until the following October, and even then it was by helicopter. She spent the next several years enduring several surgeries to save her leg which, I am happy to report, was eventually saved. Today she is on her way to Milwaukee to see her dying father.

I am recovering slowly from a broken shoulder and wouldn't have the nerve to drive cross country alone again. Although I'm really, really glad I did it the one time with my best friend and the other time alone.

Life is a trade off and a process. We make our choices and we live with our consequences, our failures, our triumphs and our memories...

Not "LOST" Anymore

OK, I admit I was a "Lost" fan. Sort of. I watched faithfully for the first couple of seasons. I was cool with the flash backs and tried very hard to follow the plot line most of the time failing, but I watched anyway. About season three the producers promised answers but I just got more confused. When they started with the flash forwards they lost (pun intended) me. But I would still watch when I could hoping to figure at least some of it out. So of course I had to watch the grand finale seeking some answers but mostly closure. And I got it.

First, let me say I think the producers were brilliant. And if they ever need alternate careers they could probably be great politicians as they proved for 6 years to be very adept at answering questions while never answering a question. (That's a compliment in this context, by the way, for the producers.) They showed their skills again in the finale which is evident in all the online buzz in the aftermath as the "Lostie's" - and I do NOT count myself in that category - mull over what the ending meant.

So for what it's worth, for anyone who cares - and I'm not offended if you don't - here's my perspective on it from my somewhat unusual perspective.

All the characters were karmically connected before they got on the plane. When it crashed they all died except Jack and Vincent (the dog). The entire series was a jumbled hallucination on Jack's part before he died which he finally did with Vincent at his side, just the way the show started 6 years ago. They all waited for him to join them so they could go into the light together. So why were some characters who hadn't been on the plane or died in the series in the church waiting too? Because, as Jack's father explained, "we all die sometime". (Besides, some of them got a day off from their new roles on FlashForward.)

If you've read this far you must be wondering why on earth I am bothering with this blog entry. Well, I have to tell you because I had a good laugh at myself at the simplicity of it all and how obvious it was from the beginning, and I of all people, couldn't figure it out. Of course they all died in a crash in the middle of the ocean - DUH! Of course, they spent some time wandering through purgatory or whatever until they worked out their issues. And since linear time as we know it is only an illusion, time is different and doesn't matter over there.

Certainly there are people out there who would disagree with me and I invite you to. I was neither a writer nor a producer on the show so I don't know for sure this is what they had in mind but it's the way I see it.

There are a few things I think most of us would agree on. Josh Holloway is hot. Naveen Andrews is also hot. And Matthew Fox (hot again) absolutely deserves an Emmy for his physically challenging and emotionally demanding performance in this last and everlasting episode.

My only question now is, what's going to become of Vincent?

Old Friends, New Friends Still Equal Good Friends

One of the most surprising aspects of this period of injury, dependence, and convalescence is how many old friends didn't come through for me and how many new friends did. I must admit I did (read sometimes still do) feel disappointed and betrayed by some of the old friends that didn't come through for me.

But then I suspend wallowing in what coulda-shoulda-woulda-been and realize how grateful I am for the new friends that did. Some are friends I knew before my accident and have simply stopped by to visit and others are friends I didn't even know before this happened and who came into my life as hired help, literally, and have become invaluable people to me.

An old friend (not in the category of above mentioned old friends) reminded me recently that I once told her sometimes people are lost to us because they have served their purpose and moved on to someone who needs them more now. I don't remember saying that but it certainly sounds and feels like something I would say. And I believe that's true.

People move on for lots of reasons. Distance sometimes weakens bonds, karmic purposes are fulfilled, people grow in different directions, the list could go on and on.

When I was 11 years old my parents hired a houskeeper who lived with us 4 days out of the week. She was also to serve as my surrogate mother since my own mother preferred her typewritter by day and Whiskey Sours by night. Her name was Dorothy White and as far as I know she died early in 1984 - a long time ago - in Cleveland, Ohio. If by some chance this blog ever makes its way to any of her family please, please, please contact me. Dorothy was heaven sent to me and was my savior in my teenage years. I don't think I would have survived my family had it not been for her. She told me once that it was unlikely I would make more real friends in my life than I could count on one hand. I know what she was saying. She was talking about the life-long, live-or-die, bail you out of jail, type of friends. And she was right. Those friends come along only a few times in a lifetime.

But the other ones, the ones that pass through for a year or so or even less, well they matter too. Because they have served their purpose and moved on to someone who now needs them more. These lost friends should not be mourned. We need to offer thanks for them and be grateful for them. For they were there when we needed them and we have now outgrown our need for them and released them (whether we realize it or not) to move on.

And that's the way it works. People pass through our lives for a variety of reasons. I suspect most of the time we don't know the real reasons they are there. Life is an ever evolving process and the people that flow into and out of our lives are part of that process. To honor these friends is to honor the life process, by first letting them in and then letting them go.

Keepin' On Rollin' On

This morning I went out with arm in sling and walking with my cane for balance to pick up my Sunday paper, which was not there. Either the News & Record had failed to deliver it or one of my neighbors had absconded with it on their way to church. Okay, that was unnecessarily cynical so I'll retract that remark. Anyway, it was early, around 7:30 a.m. and I heard a sound behind me. I turned to see a large German Shepherd, alone, on the other side of the street. Despite having owned a German Shepherd 30+ years ago (my ex's idea) I am generally afraid of dogs, especially large dogs and especially ones unaccompanied by a responsible adult. We caught each other's eyes at the same moment and it took me about a second and a half to see he had his (or her - not sure) front left leg newly and expertly bandaged all the way up and secured around his waist. We assessed each other instantly determining neither was a threat to the other and shared a moment of mutual commiseration over our individual plights. If either of us had been able-bodied we might well have crossed the street to greet each other but simultaneously we decided that was too much work and he turned and hobbled, 3-legged, down the street. I admired his - or her -tenacity.


I came back into the house, made a cup of tea, and because I didn't have a newspaper to read I opened my new copy of AARP magazine to an article entitled, "Rock Icons Roll On". The article details how the rockers of my generation - Billy Joel, Tina Turner, Sir Elton John, Springsteen, and many, many more are still hot acts. Sure there are new kids on the block, Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber (who??? - only kidding I know who he is), and tons more and of course there always will be because time marches on and the young eventually get old whether we/they want to or not. (Unless your last name is Cullen but that's a different story.)


The point is not to dwell on it. We have to cope with it, deal with it, and then keep on rollin' on.


I flash to thoughts of my ex-husband of 30 years valiantly battling cancer for nearly a year now with a determination and tenacity I don't believe I would have in me in a similar situation. For years I thought myself the stronger one, the better one, for reasons unnecessary to go into here. Now for the first time in over 30 years I'm not so sure. Because with the odds stacked so highly against him he is keepin' on rollin' on. That takes guts and energy and strength, especially when chemo is draining every ounce of energy out of you.

So here's to you, Gene. Remember this one? "Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine, I never understood a single word he said but I helped him a-drink his wine, and he always had some mighty fine wine."

So to all of you out there battling whatever your individual battles and challenges are, I say to you - keep on rollin' on ...

Maybe this is the time, the place, and the way...

About 12 years ago I got the idea to write a memoir. I know a little bit about writing as I had written the great American novel in the mid-90's, loosely based on a particular time in my life. Twelve publishers agreed it was like the first waffle - it should be thrown out. I couldn't bear to actually do that so it is packed away in a dark corner of a rarely used closet where on rare occasion it calls to me. (I ignore it.) I also put it on a computer disk (remember them?) but I think the disk might have gotten corrupted. And before, anyone asks - no - you can't read it. The publishers were right and I realize now it was more of a personal cathartic exercise for me than a story that needed to be told to the world.

Anyway, the idea of a memoir stayed with me along with the abject rejection I felt from the publishers. I have started it a few times and have several chapter drafts, and once in the late 90's joined a writing group where I made two very good friends - Laura and Karen where are you now? After awhile we broke off from the writing group and formed our own and had a good time getting together but eventually I moved to another state. Anyway, I digress...

So along came the internet and self-publishing and eventually blogging. Over the past year or so clients and some folks who come to my public events have started to say they would like to hear "my story". While I find this surprising on some level (I mean...me?...really?) I also think mine is to some extent a story of survival and eventually thrival - ok, thrival's not really a word but you get my jist and that's called poetic license. And because part of the problem I have with writing is that there is a structure or format that has to be followed and that structure seems to get in the way of my thought process or stream of consciousness and thwart my creative process, so maybe blogging my memoir is the way to go. Besides I no longer expect to be the next Harper Lee.

The title has always been and would be "Witchy Woman" and it would be the story of how I evolved from being an unwanted child in whom few if any saw any value to a psychic medium who, on occasion, brings insight, comfort, and closure and feelings of value and worth to those who need it. I have come to learn my life's goal is to leave this world a little better than it was when I came into it and, whenever possible, ease a little pain along the way. Perhaps not a very lofty goal but it's all I got.

I am open to opinions on this (unless you happen to be a naysayer publisher) so anyone who wants to post a comment on this idea is welcome to.

It is now dawn, my favorite time of day, and a time I rarely get to see since I am essentially a nite owl (not a compatible mix) - perhaps I was really meant to be a never-sleeping-Forks, Washington-dwelling-vampire, some of you will get that. So I'm going to go get a cup of tea, enjoy the dawn.

Channeling Event Update

Hi all -

No deep insights with this post. I just want to let you know that I did find it necessary to cancel the event scheduled for this weekend. The next event is planned for June 26, 2010 at Eclectic By Nature www.eclecticbynature.com and you can find more information about it there or on my website at www.kathemartin.com . Namaste to all!