This is the kind of rain that says, “Give it up Chiquita, cause you’re not
going anywhere!” Mother Nature all ways treats me as a child; sixty-
eight years; almost meaningless from her perspective. Perhaps six-
hundred and eighty would make an impression. Sixty-eight barely
qualifies me as an elder in human terms.

It feels so refreshing to just sit in Quietude, listening to the rain, driven
to madness by the unrelenting pre-hurricane winds; while Starfish snores
blissfully at my side. Being quiet is a valorous pursuit, a noble
occupation; which precedes great acts of creativity. Out of seeming
nothingness the divine speaks directly to those with ears and heart to
hear. To those who would lend their own opposable thumbs and loving
hands to Grand Father Coyote in pursuit of holy madness.

I once had a husband who was driven to unholy madness, when I
informed him that it was a very well-known fact that artists are required
to immerse themselves in the Great Sea of Nothingness for extended
periods to access the creative spirit to a truly noble degree.
Unfortunately, something which appeared to him, a non-creative; as
sloven, unproductive laziness. He wanted to choak the creativity out of
me. He tried many tactics of amercement; none of which had the desired
effect. Alas, I vanished into the Great Sea of Nothingness, only to
resurface, in dew time*, as a newly minted member of the Mersquatch
tribe, here along a most magical, mystical and productively moist yet
rugged edge, abutting the Sea.

We dwell here, the Mersquatch Tribe; our numbers far greater than any
man can ever know. We recognize each other by the forbidden fruits of
our joyous labors. We speak in a mystical language they have not the
ears to hear. Our language is capable of giving birth to life its self. Our
passion is born of the stormy Sea that gave birth to Laxshmi: the
patroness of our tribe. We walk the Earth, all the while, simultaneously
swimming within the Great Sea of Nothingness. For us, this is as natural
as drawing breath: for we are sparkling chips of black obsidian, fallen to
Earth from the great void of nothingness. We may choose to divorce
ourselves from a man now and again; but we are inseparable from the
Great Mother. The Back Jaguar is our traveling companion: always the
tip of her tail flicks in our consciousness showing us the way. She is the
spiritual embodiment of the mystery encoded into the spectacular
shimmering dragonesque scales of seaworthy armor of the Mersquatch
Tribe.

This is the attitude that elevates us from drowning in hope, to swimming
effortlessly in the cosmic knowing of our destiny. We are the future of
humanity. We are the ones who know the way. We are sparkling chips of
the great obsidian mirror in which humanity can see itself reflected in
the majesty of the divine: walking Mother Earth in grace and solidarity.

Cathie Jo AKA Shar Shk Buk, March 9 th . 2025

*“In dew time”: To arrive in the earliest of morning hours when moisture can still
be seen, having condensed on the surface of cool bodies at night.

Three white guys walk into a bar. One black, one white, one brown. They are sweating bullets over their fear of being replaced; losing their grip on their “God given”, good old boy birthright. The first one strieks, “Women aren’t having babies anymore!” The second one laments drunkenly, “Women are taking our jobs!” “They are making too much money!.” The third, such a proud, proud boy says, “Women have infiltrated the military!” The bartender chimes in, “Hell, women are taking over the government!” Murmurs from the crowd can be heard: “Educating girls is the problem!”; “We never should have let them vote!” Their fear and insecurity reverberate throughout the establishment. They are one in their desperation. Forward is not a direction they know. They are lost. They are not attractive; they are repulsive. The Irony! As their chant already be heard in the streets:

KNOCK THEM UP! KNOCK THEM UP!

Cathie Jo Buhlert
copyright September 27, 2022

Dancing Hand in Hand with Our Sisters

It seems the gods are smiling upon us even here, in the Bermuda Triangle of Dementia. Yesterday was Patsy’s first day at senior day care. This was intended as an emergency/stop gap; until we find proper assisted living to fit her needs. In the morning, when I went to deliver her to “The Club” she was resistant; “They dance in wheel chairs”. I was hopeful, but frightened, that she would reject the whole thing, out of hand. Stubborn could very well be our middle names. Five hours later when I returned, she was beaming; she had found her people. I hung around for an hour, until she was ready to leave. They were in the middle of a live concert when I arrived. Like any group of women, there was a more-feisty contingent of gals, that will hit the dance floor at the drop of a hat. By then I was sitting next to my mom, listening to the guitar player; who was belting out tunes with the voice of a very earthy angel. So, when the first woman, then the second and third popped up to dance; I held my breath. With out the slightest hint of hesitation; but with the typical struggle to get up, out of her chair; she was off to the dance floor. For her and the other dancers, this was not “adult day care”, this was not the night club or juke joint of the past, this was the perfect moment of the here and now. It was a party. I burst into tears when I saw her dancing with wild abandon, hand in hand with her new gal friends and the one-man spicing things up for everyone. She was really living in her joy; enjoying life to the fullest. As I watched her dance, I saw her left shoulder rise and fall in a certain way; the way that newly single woman, in her fifties, used to dance; it was a sensuous move. It was a signature move. We all have them, and I guess we always will. After her second dance, since my arrival, she leaned over to me and said, “This is a good thing, this is a really good thing.” After the concert the air magically filled with the powerful aroma of freshly baked white chocolate chip cookies and it was afternoon coffee and tea time. Seems to me she is ready now, to have someone baking fresh cookies for her. She was chatting away like she had known these people her whole life. And in a way, she has; they are her people; raised up under the cloud of the great depression; held down by patriarchy, watching their daughters navigating a changing world. It wasn’t easy to be the wives of patriarchy in the 50’s and 60’s. So much repression and Valium in those days. And still, patriarchy rages on, killing its sons, in so many ways, (war; the emotional neglect of boys; and capitalisms slow march to the gallows, to name just three) before it’s daughters. And so, we dance, hand in hand with our sisters, as we always have and always will.

Cathie Jo, April, 10th. 2019
Pollock Pines, CA