hurricane news from a Florida prison

Excerpts from a letter from L. C., a former student who is currently incarcerated at South Bay Correctional Facility in Florida

Dear Kathy, I’m sorry for the delay in writing, but as you know Mother Nature has been doing some house cleaning in our area. Irma came through and scared the living crap out of everyone. She completely decimated the Keys. Fortunately, all my loved ones in South Florida were spared any serious damage or setbacks. Power outages. Nothing more. I was here at South Bay for Hurricane Wilma in 2005. I recalled the disgusting conditions and the savagery that it produced. Similar to the free world, people will take advantage of the suffering of others. Prisoners have the added disadvantage of having to rely on staff to provide our needs when disaster strikes. Moreover, we literally live in our bathrooms, which means when the water turns off it’s a real shitty situation. During Wilma, we were using our Styrofoam lunch trays as Porto-potties. The Wilma experience gave me an advantage this time around. As Irma approached, my roommate and I prepared with a huge triple-lined garbage bag full of water.  I would say it held at least twenty gallons. Then, we filled every cup, bowl, and bottle we had with water. Of course, this time around South Bay stood like a mighty fortress. Our water never turned off. We had some temporary power outages and our phones were out of commission. The hardest part was being cooped up staring at the same ugly mugs all day.

Now, I’m looking at how my beautiful island, Puerto Rico, has been flattened by Maria. Although I’ve been to La Isla de Encanta only once (and I was too young to remember much), I still have a connection to the island for obvious reasons. I called my mother last Thursday, and she was worried sick about our family over there. My cousin had to run out of her home for higher ground with her two children because they were taking in water. Then, they had to run out of option two. They ended up at a third home where around thirty people were huddled up. Poor guy’s home ended up being the neighborhood safe house. About ten people in my grandmother’s old neighborhood lost their lives. Thank God she doesn’t live there anymore! We finally heard from our family on Friday and they’re alive, but the island is in shambles. They took up a collection at my mother’s job and it was enough for my mom to purchase a generator to ship over there. I’m a little concerned because now I’m hearing that the gangs in PR have been running around with guns robbing people for their generators. WTF! Makes me ponder the age old question: Is humanity inherently good, or is humanity inherently bad?


How being disembodied attracts predators – an excerpt from a larger work-in-progress

Several of my Aikido teachers referred to a famous 1980s study in which felons convicted of murder and/or assault were shown videotapes of random and diverse people walking on the street and asked who they would pick as their victims. The muggers were asked to rate the videos on a scale from 1 to 10 in terms of “muggability,” one being (in their own words) “a very easy rip-off,” six stating “could give you a little static” and ten warning to “avoid it, too big a situation.” The study found that “the prime difference between perceived victim and non-victim groups…seems to revolve around a ‘wholeness’ or consistency of movement. Non-victims have an organized quality about their body movement, and they function comfortably with the context of their own bodies. In contrast, the gestural movement of victims seems to communicate inconsistency and dissonance.” The study concluded that their findings were consistent with previous students which found that “people participate in their own victimization through the situations in which they place themselves. The results reported here extend these findings to include movement as an important component of victimization. A nonverbal dialogue seems to exist between criminal and victim through the victim communicates his or her vulnerability to the criminal…” (A quick Google search reveals that this 1981 study is not alone in its findings.)

In other words, muggers will rarely choose people who have some kind of physical, athletic training, especially martial art training, as evidenced by their bearing, stride, and vitality. Why? Because they’d be too much trouble. Why pick a victim who has obvious physical awareness and confidence, focus and presence? They’d be too hard to unsettle and unbalance. Why not pick on people who are much easier prey? Go to any campus and you’ll see students and teachers tranced into a stupor by their cell phones. Or their computers, as I was one day at the college computer lab.

Quick story: He must have noticed that I was falling into a computer trance. You know what I mean—falling into the glow of the screen, nudging the mouse here and there, surfing mindlessly, tuning out the rest of the world, leaving your body and floating off into cyberspace. We do it all the time. I can’t even tell you what I was checking on the computer, but whatever it was, I was engrossed by it, and that’s what he noticed. He also noticed that my small blue-jean purse was on the counter next to me, and that I was sitting relatively close to an exit which led to a quadrangle and the street. And he must have noticed my graying hair. I was undoubtedly profiled, but in hindsight, I’m certain the key factor was that he could see that I was headed toward a mild state of disembodiment.

I caught his movement with my peripheral vision. He was thin, fast, and motivated. Probably a meth-head. He snatched my purse and was out the door like a dust devil. I stood up stunned and said something brilliant like “Hey, that’s my purse!” but he was already out the door. What he didn’t count on is that I snapped back into my body and gave chase, yelling as loud as I could, “Stop him!! He just stole my purse!!”

I say I gallantly gave chase, but this guy was fast and I’m no track star. A few paralyzed onlookers gawked like they were watching us on TV. Lucky for me, three things happened. First, a campus police car rounded the corner. He must have heard me yelling and spotted the running man, because he hit his lights and gave chase. Second, a man on foot and a person on a bicycle also heard me, sized up the situation and gave chase. Last, a friend showed up and was happy to go log out of and turn off the computer where I’d been working and recover my coat, which I had left on the chair. By the time I caught up with the police car, the thief was cornered against a building, panting with exhaustion, and the young man who had caught him handed me my purse. Nothing was stolen, and luckily no one was hurt. But had I been paying attention to my body back in the computer lab, I’m certain the thief would have chosen someone else.

The Undoing of Arrogance


Arrogance, colored pencil, 2011.

I drew this colored pencil painting after 9/11, but I think it still speaks to a fundamental problem in our society and in the world, as evidenced by the struggle of the Water Protectors at DAPL and the Black Lives Matter movement, and by this horrendous polarizing election. The first world, bloated with smug, narcissistic arrogance and patriarchal contempt, rides atop the the third world, who crawls on her knees and still wears the chain of slavery, while the great and greedy towers of civilization are attacked and fall. Meanwhile, the vegetative power of Mother Earth and her ally, the primal serpent of the Ancient Goddess, rise up from the verdant ground, empowering the downtrodden to survive, endure, shake off their burdens, and stand strong, not just for their rights but for Mother Earth herself that she may stand strong and shake off those forces that would rip open her belly, spill her blood, and poison her life-giving waters.

Excerpts from “Embodiment 2: What horses can teach us,” a chapter from a manuscript in progress

There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.

Sir Winston Churchill

As a girl, I found that when I was around horses, my sense of body shame transformed because I didn’t feel divided between my mind and body. I felt fully embodied. Horses didn’t care that my hips were growing or that my eyes were strange. They didn’t care about surface appearance. What mattered to them had to do with your core. Could you be trusted? Were you consistent? Were you gentle and kind? Did your actions match your intentions?[1] I knew intuitively that being around horses was the salve I needed because in their presence I felt completely attuned to the instinctual and animal nature of my body. No body shame could exist in the powerful unity of that state of being because there was no mind-body split into which to lodge. Thank goodness my parents allowed and encouraged me to have that transformative connection with horses.

Of course they said no to my pleas to have a horse in the backyard. But every June they sent me off to summer camp in the rolling hills of Maryland. There I learned to shoot rifles and arrows, swim and canoe, make my bed with military corners, craft lanyards out of gimp, and most importantly to ride and care for horses. Waredaca (an acronym for Washington Recreational Day Camp) was run by the Butts family who owned a few hundred acres of fields and woods with fifty to sixty horses. Together with my best friend Shorty, we were entrusted to train a couple three year colts so that they would be safe for any inexperienced rider. Short on actual information and skill, Shorty and I shot from the hip, trusting our instincts and limited experience on more seasoned horses. I find it amazing, looking back on it now, that we both survived intact, and so did our charges, Sundance and Little Cuss, two palominos who taught us through their bodies to stay firmly rooted in ours.

Since those early horse-crazy days, I have tried my best to have horses in my life, or at least to have neighbors who have horses. Although that love affair started in the East, moving West made it much more possible to be in close proximity with horses, sometimes, happily, right in my backyard, as they were in Oregon. I like to think, and it has been mostly true, that I am a better person around horses, more connected to myself, more conscious of my surroundings, more mindful of the simple fact that we humans are not the only sentient beings here on this glorious planet, and that compared to the natural grace of horses, we have a lot to learn.

The only time that I felt disconnected from horses was the result of a sad incident that I write about later in the chapter titled “Over-riding intuition.” Suffice it to say here that my participation in this incident upset me so much that I thought myself unworthy of having horses in my life. I raffled off all my horse sculptures, and carved the rider off of a perfectly good wooden horse sculpture. I felt I had sinned against my totemic animal—the horse—and only hoped that after my time of doing penance was over, I would be forgiven by the Horse Gods and Goddesses and granted the honor and responsibility of caring for a horse of my own.

Imagine my gratitude (and trepidation) when, in January of 2011, a dear friend gave me a three-year-old bay filly with three white feet and kite-shaped star on her forehead, an Arab/Morgan cross named Esperanza. Barbra had more horses than she could care for. A seasoned horsewoman, mother of six, and former mine laborer, she rescued horses, pit bulls and cats, but because she lived in the prairie of the San Luis Valley with no infrastructure, no water, no electricity, she kind of needed rescuing herself. She had seen me around her horses, and approved of how I treated them, plus I was making a habit of going to visit her ramshackle assortment of trailers and crude pens to help out in any way I could. Barbra had had a rough life, and although she said she was happy and content living with her animals, anyone having to haul water in winters where forty below is not uncommon is, in my book, still having a rough life.

For about a year I worked with Esperanza from the ground, teaching her to lead, stand tied, lift up her feet, back up, lunge in circles around me, and plow rein as I drove her from behind. She was smart and wanted to connect and learn as long as I went slowly and didn’t pressure her too much. I may have been around horses off and on my whole life, but this was the first horse I have had the privilege to gentle and train “from scratch.” Given my recent history, I sure as hell didn’t want to screw it up.

We’ve had a couple rough patches. One time I pastured her at a friend’s in Northern New Mexico. I was practicing saddling Esperanza with my old Aussie Western saddle and all seemed fine until she felt the metal stirrups thumping against her ribs. She bolted and I lost control of the lead rope. She ran and ran around the low fenced corral in a panic. With Henry and Sandy watching, I must have felt that I needed to appear in charge, because when I managed to catch Esperanza, instead of taking the saddle off and calming her down, I tightened the cinch. Wrong move. She bolted away from me again and finally, wild-eyed, leapt the low fence and tore off into the field to be with Sandy’s horses. The saddle slipped upside down and it took a few days to find the stirrup leathers. It could have been a major wreck. When I caught Esperanza, she was slick with sweat and heaving. With Henry’s and Sandy’s help, we got the saddle off of her and I walked her back to the corral where all seemed well. But for a long time after that, Esperanza hated being saddled. And I got a lesson in the danger of allowing peer pressure to influence my work with Esperanza. I’m not saying Henry or Sandy pressured me; I did it to myself. I wanted to show off for them, plain and simple.

Esperanza and I had another rough patch when in 2013 Henry and I moved to Dolores, Colorado to help my cousin run a horse ranch focused on natural horsemanship. Although the horse whisperer my cousin employed, Ramon Castro, is the real deal in my opinion, and helped me immensely with getting Esperanza used to all the unexpected, chaotic, and irritating things that come along with humans and being ridden—flapping stirrup leathers, ponchos, bumbling mounts and dismounts, for example—I found the competitive atmosphere of natural horsemanship clinics counterproductive to furthering my connection with Esperanza. Pressure, agendas and ego-driven competition are not helpful when working with an anxious and young horse, and I was guilty of all of that.

Ironically, Esperanza and I got along much better as soon as we both moved off the ranch. I had lost a great deal of confidence—I had fallen off her and quickly learned that when you’re in your sixties, the ground is much harder than it used to be and you don’t bounce as well. Plus, Esperanza developed a mysterious abscess near her udder, so riding was out. Once we realized that the veterinarians really didn’t know what to do about her abscess, I began to rely on alternative therapies, my intuition and Esperanza’s direction to heal her. I would research different poultices and salves, and, when I allowed her to smell the medicine, she would either walk away from me, clearly saying No, or she would encourage me by actively pointing at her belly with her nose, and lifting her hind leg to make it easier for me to treat her. A clear Yes.

Slowly as she healed and as we learned that we could make our wishes known to each other, our relationship—all from the ground—improved to the point where I began to throw a saddle blanket on, and then gradually the saddle (minus the stirrup leathers), and then so on until we worked through her PTSD. I learned, with the help of a few key horse people I happened to meet, to take the pressure off as soon as Esperanza even began to do what I hoped she would. This was her reward: to take the pressure off. I spent a lot of time with her out in the field with no agenda at all. My touch got lighter. My patience grew. I listened more closely to my intuition. I listened more closely to Esperanza. And to my amazement, she responded by becoming calmer, steadier, and more willing to make and keep our connection.


Now it is 2016 and Esperanza is eight. Despite our troubles and setbacks (or perhaps because we worked through them), we have managed to develop a mutually beneficial relationship: Esperanza gets to learn good social skills so she can serve me as a steady mount and companion as I age, while I get to experience the world through the senses and wisdom of a fully embodied creature. She is naturally grounded and centered, two Aikido principles I discuss in depth in future chapters. Every inch of her is alive and responsive with natural ki as she extends her field of awareness in every direction around her. When I climb up on her bareback, she is alive and alert to every shift of my balance, every movement of my hands and legs. What her eyes cannot see, her swiveling ears hear and sensitive nostrils smell. Even in the darkest night, her kinesthetic intelligence gives her all the information she needs to know where she is and what’s happening around her. Many horse people say that a horse’s embodied intelligence is so developed that they can sense more subtle energies of thought and intention. No wonder. Horses are prey animals; their very survival depends on their ability to sense and respond to the dangerous presence of a predator and to read their intentions before it’s too late.

Unlike me and most humans I know, Esperanza has never doubted the wisdom of her body; it doesn’t occur to her to separate thinking from everything else her body does. She does not suffer from the angst-filled ramifications of a mind-body split or its ugly stepchild: body shame. To the contrary: if I willing to listen to her, her embodiment is contagious in the best possible way. In her presence, my breathing slows and deepens. On the ground my balance becomes steadier, as if I too have four legs. Astride her, my balance becomes more dynamic and undulating, attentive to each small shift and change. Watching her vigilant ears swiveling around to catch each sound, my own hearing becomes more acute. When she jerks her head up and gazes intently in the distance, I’m alerted to that truck in the distance I had not yet spotted. When she suddenly shies or crouches down as if to run, I’m cued to extend my senses so as to better harvest the world’s mysterious bounty of information so obvious to her. I try to take what I am learning from her everywhere I go.

Of course I am not always successful. Some of the places I go are places Esperanza would detest and attempt to flee from as soon as possible. Airports and airplanes, for example. High-rise buildings. Parking lots. Classrooms with windows that don’t open. The vice-grip of a mammogram machine. The gridlock of a city. For some insane and unearthly reason, we have constructed a world of human activity that segregates us from the natural world, and from our bodies. If I look at these places the way Esperanza would, it is obvious why they are detestable. Like her, I flee as soon as possible for the green and quiet and open.


Horses are surprisingly astute when it comes to picking up the mind-body split and the difference between having the idea of something and the physically embodied intention of it. You can think Whoa all you want, but unless that’s accompanied by clear physical cues, even if they’re very subtle, a horse will not react.

One of my most influential Aikido teachers, Robert Nadeau, spoke constantly of the difference between the concept of an idea and the EXPERIENCE of that idea. A cerebral understanding of an idea without the bass chord/root of the body’s experience results too often in an ethereal, airy, space cadet, head-in-the-clouds kind of quality rather than a solid, grounded, vital dynamism. He spoke of embodiment as the physically manifest expression of a state of being. To practice embodiment is to bring the idea of developing an inner life home.

Horses know the difference between someone who is living in their head and someone who is living in their body. They know who is spaced out and who is solid. From a horse’s point of view, this distinction is rooted in nothing less than survival. Horses are herd animals; they are tuned into each other so that anything that threatens an individual will be instantly communicated to all members of the herd. But questions of survival depend on reliable communication. A horse that’s willing to stand guard while its herd mates lie down for a nap in the sun is playing a valuable role and must embody the herd’s trust. In contrast, a horse that’s not paying attention cannot be relied upon for accurate communication, and indeed, may soon become a dead horse.

When it comes to horse-human interaction, the same dynamics rule the day. I have seen Esperanza physically move away from someone who was scattered, unfocused, agitated, and not in his body, even though he insisted at the time that he was fine. Something about the intensity of the man’s mind/body split and the incongruence of walk versus talk must have spelled danger for her. In contrast, just the other day I saw her tolerate the wild fluctuations of an over active child as he climbed the fence, ran back and forth, and poked his hand through the corral; I can only guess that she wasn’t alarmed because there was something congruent in the child’s energy.

The sensitivity horses display toward mixed messages and the level of embodiment in humans may help explain the growing field of equine facilitated therapy, in which disembodied humans practice being with embodied horses in order to reawaken to the life spring of our body-based wisdom. This sensitivity may be even truer if the horse has suffered abuse and learned to mistrust humans and their ability to honestly walk their talk. Linda Kohanov writes about this dynamic in her books about equine facilitated therapy when she notes that some formerly abused horses are especially great teachers because they will be only respond to people who learn to become congruent in mind and body, even if that congruency is one of terror, or, in the case of the over active child, frenetic energy. Maybe Esperanza trusted that child not because she particularly likes wild and sudden movements, but because the child wasn’t trying to mask anything or cover up his crazy impulses with a thick layer of socially acceptable behavior. Perhaps horses prefer authenticity.

[1] As Linda Kohanov has written in her important book, The Tao of Equus, the fact that horses are prey animals that run in herds means they are especially attuned to noticing and assessing intention; their survival depends upon not only being able to discern what a predator is up to but also to instantly react to the collective response of the herd.

Lucky’s Last Flight

You could see in his eyes the wild gallops of his past,

his lush mane streaming and his glorious tail wind-whipped in his wake.

Eight years in the wilds of Utah, a stallion, maybe with his own band,

maybe running in the bachelor herd, a life on the move—

grazing, finding water, rutting and running on stony ground.


But then his flight was thwarted. Capture, castration and servitude.

Scars on his dark russet hide, scars on his heart, a wariness filming his eyes.

I imagine a brutal breaking to the will of man, and then years of packing

their stuff deep into the mountains, trussed and hobbled.


Luckily, Lucky’s luck changed. A slight and tender woman and her daughter

decided they needed a mustang to round out their hearts, gentle to their hands,

rub and admire and fuss over, sing their love songs to, bandage and woo back

from sickness, and to leap upon in wild flights through the field, Lucky’s short legs

pumping through the long grasses, his long back cradling them both.


I missed all that and only know of it through Carol’s tales. By the time I met Lucky

he was an old man, sway backed and dull-coated, losing his teeth and graying.

But I saw how lucky Lucky was to come into another sweet time in his life,

to feel Carol’s gentle hands on his neck as together they faced the sunset.


I rode him only once, ever so briefly, during a wounded time

when I needed a steady old horse to help staunch my leaking confidence.

I knew him better later, from the ground, mixing his warm mash of senior feed,

watching him slurp and gum it with gusto, scratching the itchy places

along the dip of his spine, guiding him from corral to field and back again.


And my mare knew him, Esperanza the young and sassy, bossing Old Man Lucky

around, herding him in front of her with her ears laid back, and biting his butt

if he didn’t move fast enough. Carol said he needed another horse to tell him what for.

He didn’t mind that she was bitchy to him. He was smitten, and they were inseparable.


Esperanza has taken time every day this week to stand in the sandy spot by the fence

where Lucky last laid down, where he tried to rise but couldn’t lift himself further

than sitting on his haunches like a dog. That’s how I found him last Tuesday morning

bringing his breakfast. No telling how long he’d been down and how long he’d been

trying to rise. His breathing was already slow and ragged, his back legs played out.


Our favorite vet shot the euthanasia drug into Lucky’s vein, two shots it took

for Lucky to breathe out his last, and for his big head to finally slump down

on Carol’s lap and for his great heart to cease, her hands smoothing his graying hide

as she cooed her last love song and his spirit flew up from the husk of his body.


We cushioned his head and blanketed his body against the summer flies. All day Carol

kept vigil, even snuggling under the horse blanket as if napping with him, and then

Esperanza joined them, standing over them both, shooing the flies with her tail, lipping

the blanket and pushing it aside to snuffle Lucky’s fading scent as she waited for him to rise.


Esperanza is neighing into the sky, a full throated and plaintive bugling. I wonder if she

still sees Lucky’s last flight the way I did, hoisted into the air with a neighbor’s front end

loader, chains wrapped around his front and back legs, hanging upside down against a cobalt sky,

head thrown back, mane and tail flying in a strange swaying gallop. I wonder if she will

recognize the hollow in the field where we buried his body deep in the sandy earth. I wonder

if she realizes that we’ve saved enough room her to lie down next to him when her time comes.

Old musings upon the Muse

When a sculpture is going well, I feel as if I am in a dialogue with the emerging form, with each tool used, and with the material itself. My hands and eyes are listening, responding, exploring, coaxing. Sometimes what comes out is a complete surprise to me, as if a combination of my unconscious, the life of the material and the spirit of the form are being reflected back to me.

When a sculpture is not going well, I have ample opportunity to observe my impatience and insistence to push or hurry the process. Oftentimes this is when something breaks. In that clear moment of destruction there can be incredible insight and the chance to see/feel what the form/material is really all about…

I owe much of my training and inspiration to several teachers: David Park, my uncle, a Bay Area painter whom I never met, but feel akin to nevertheless. I grew up surrounded by his large, moody figurative paintings. He died when I was nine, but lives on through his work and lately a modest fame and recognition. Perhaps as part of this legacy, when my own talent emerged, my family strongly encouraged and supported me.

Edith Truesdell, my great aunt, a painter of landscapes and figures, and David Park’s mentor. She painted well into her nineties with excitement and devotion.

Judith Simmons, a potter and sculptor who with gentle hands and voice showed me how to feel the life of clay, the miracle of transforming fire, art as a private act of listening/feeling inside.

Gordon Newell, my uncle-in-law, a sculptor of wood, stone, clay, bronze, plaster, good friend to David Park back during the WPA days. Upon seeing my ceramic sculpture when I was eighteen, he catalyzed my own desire to move myself along the path of an artist. His Sculpture Center in Monterey became my home and workplace in 1971. Gordon introduced me to carving, to the beauty of the California desert, and to the fellowship of artists. My affiliation with Gordon, who at eighty-something is still robustly carving stone, continues to this day…

excerpts from my artist’s statement, Deer Run Art Show 1990

The Oxygen of Love

Not just the words, but the compass they offer…

That’s what I want, what I need. The ability

to  keep balanced as humans wobble the earth

on her axis, insanity inflames, and demagogues

spin their lies  in a thick and sticky web, ensnaring

true vision, feeding on ignorance and fear, offering

easy answers all tied up in a pretty bow.


The drumhead tautens, threatens to tear

while the drummer sets a rhythm too fast,

too tight to hold, and the beat dizzies, erratic,

out of control. How do we stop feeding the madness,

prune the shallow roots and suckers that seek out

sustenance where there’s none to be found—

that can’t be sustained—

that can never really satisfy.


How do we sink down our taproots beyond

the hard and rocky layers, the ones

that seem hopeless and impenetrable,

the ones that make us face our loneliness

and longing, the ones that actually require work,

until we break through the deep into fecundity,

the moistunderworld of la tierra sagrada.


Only there can the taproot marry the rich earth,

entwine and intermingle, inter-depend,

each feeding the other. Only then can

the trees of our bodies spiral upward,

our arms extend into the heavens,

beautiful, balanced, belonging. Only then

can we breathe in the madness, transform

the poison within the universe of our cells,

breathe out the oxygen of love.