Such a bittersweet day for our family…just like the word in poor Whitney’s song. LIfe is so very, very short. All future plans are just a possibility–take note young people. A cliché, but so true, “live each day as if it’s your last.”

The girls (really women, but they will always be my girls: Cimcie & Ashlee) and I feel such gratitude for Roger’s award, but…so many buts.

Maybe I’ll be able to write about this some day, but not today.

Cimcie, Connie, Jeff "Skunk" Baxter & Ashlee

Connie, Cimcie & Ashlee Video of Acceptance Speech on the Grammy site….

And, he owned one of the first digital watches, the first digital calculator, the first digital recorder…the first digital anything. He called his company Digital Atomics–a nod to his love of all things digital and his nuclear engineering background. He wanted to name our first daughter Smpte, but I insisted we choose his second choice, a more feminine sounding name, Cimcie.

So, when he took his last breath, I tried to look at the clock in-between the blinding tears and thought I saw 3:23 AM. But the nurse put 3:25 AM on the report and that’s what stuck. Obviously, she didn’t know how fastidious Roger was about this.

With all my overwhelming problems and flattening grief, some might think focusing on the exact time of Roger’s death is a bit silly, but Roger would like for me to correct the mistake.

Another mistake is to think he “passed away.” How insulting to such a larger-than-life guy to insinuate he did anything in a “passing” way. He courageously fought cancer and lost, but only his body died. Nothing about him has passed away.

(Is John Boehner crying because of people suffering and dying in senseless wars–or is it more likely he’s relieved that he can now pay back the $50 million he pledged for ads in this midterm election?)

I am amazed and appalled at the total lack of discussion about the two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. And, as it is ALWAYS on the proverbial budget table to cut social services, there has NEVER (and I mean never in my lifetime) been any meaningful, substantial discussion about cutting the cost of the humongous U.S. war machine.

The answer is obvious. The people who are not making any of the $48 BILLION do not have a voice.

Where the money flows:

GO HERE!

Pathway to bliss...

The pathway to bliss…my butterfly garden in Jupiter, Florida. Come hurricane-force wind, come monsoon rain, come killing dry weather…through it all, the garden has survived.

I feel such joy and peace among flowers, butterflies, birds, dragonflies and yes, even the lizards and other reptiles that live in the crevices.

Amid crisis and grief, the healing power of the natural world refreshes my soul and cheers my heart. No gathering of humans or words on a page can compare to a magical moment watching caterpillars eat every leaf off of a milkweed plant. But don’t worry. The plant returns to be eaten again and again and again.

Mother Earth takes care of her own, including you and me. I am reminded of this every morning I wake to a sun-kissed swath of green punctuated with red Tropical Sage, flying Zebra Butterflies and blue Porterweeds.

But, we must continue to pay attention and be responsible. Did we forget?

Why is it so hard for people to understand that our habits are harmful to the air, the water and the soil? I doubt Mother Earth will be destroyed, but humanity? I hope not.

And so, a passionate Happy Earth Day to us, and many, many more.

My heart is saddened for the region and the lives lost.

How many poets or bright souls have been lost due to this tragedy?

In honor of Neruda and his country of birth, I post the following brilliant example of his particular genius.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, “The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.”
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

(En Español)

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo : ‘La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos’.
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La beso tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo tambien la quera.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche immensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto al amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como Ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque ésta sea el áltimo dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los áltimos versos que yo le escribo.

By Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write read by Andy Garcia

(And “geaux” is a cajun nod to “go”– AHHHEEE.

Pain is the one human experience we all share. Rich, poor, old or young, we all unfortunately experience pain, but the ways we deal with it can be as myriad as the stars.

Growing up in the so-called heartland of the United States, Columbus, Ohio, my family sometimes used the tried and true methods of our farmer ancestors to deal with pain, mostly herbs and snake oil, but the 20th century man in the white coat with the shiny, new science of so-called Western Medicine ruled my house.

Any pill, operation or procedure Dr. Miles prescribed was the law. His inner office was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves of tiny drawers with labels that contained identical white pills (to my eyes). After a short interview, Dr. Miles would instruct his nurse which pills to stuff into small white envelopes that were then handed to us when we paid the bill. These pills inspired awe and wonder in me. How did Dr. Miles know which one was which?

My parents lived to an old age (86), but I watched the number of daily pills multiply until it seemed to me that the pills became the focal point of their latter years. My mother eventually lost her mind due to stroke and/or Alzheimers, and my dad lost the use of his limbs and sight due to heart/diabetes complications. Their experience inspired me to look for other ways to deal with illness.

I moved away from Ohio to live in Manhattan and Los Angeles, where I was exposed to other approaches to illness, such as homeopath and acupuncture. Even now certain relatives roll their eyes when I talk about getting stuck with needles. The herbal system of Chinese Medicine is more palatable to their ears, as it triggers the dim genetic memories from our agrarian roots we westerners have lost.

My recent bout with pain led me to Yo San University in Venice, California, and the talents of Dr. Lau and Dr. Wing. Last July 25th, I broke my left ankle while visiting my sister-in-law at her house in Lake Havasu—one itty-bitty step. Tibia fibula trimalleolar—three bones and a ligament. Immediate surgery put my ankle back together with a titanium plate and six screws—the most intense pain I’ve felt to date, before and after the surgery.

During and after the surgery, I popped pills like there was no tomorrow. With this kind of pain, there is no tomorrow. The pain envelops like a fog: a killer fog. Nothing matters but eliminating the pain. And then the cast….

There were times I was so traumatized that I seriously entertained thoughts about taking a chainsaw (more realistically, a butcher knife) and hacking 0ff the cast. After a couple weeks of this, I knew that I would either a) damage my liver b) become permanently dependent on pain pills c) go insane or d) all of the above. Oxycodone and Hydrocodone were my mainstays. My mother’s deranged image haunted me.

Thankfully, Dr. Lau and Dr. Wing gave me immediate relief. After my first session with the needles, Dr. Lau showed me areas to stimulate near my knee that controlled the swelling in the cast. This technique saved me. After removing the cast, Dr. Wing applied soothing herbal compresses (in addition to the needles) that transformed a mangled mess into a recognizable ankle within weeks. Further soaking in Chinese herbs continued the healing process, which x-rays confirmed.

Five months later, I’m walking without a cane and I can sleep most nights without meds. Acupuncture also helps me deal with the neck injury I received from a car crash a year ago, but that’s another story.

While studies exist that seem to prove acupuncture creates some placebo effect (Madsen), I believe what my body tells me. I didn’t create the pain, but with the specific help of acupuncture and the added benefit of Chinese herbs, I turn the pain off. I literally hear my liver say “thank-you.” It’s important to remember that researchers rely on test results and I suspect the definitive test does not exist to entirely prove to the western mind all the merits of acupuncture.

The World Health Organization published a report in 2003 that listed many ailments for which acupuncture demonstrated an effective treatment such as depression, headache, stroke and many more (Zhang).

Why is it that when Dr. Lau or Dr. Wing put needles on the top of my right hand, my left foot tingled with recognition? Why is it that the kidney stones a doctor wanted to surgically remove disappeared when all I did was acupuncture? Why is it during my pregnancies that when a certain point on my foot was needled, the baby kicked every time? Why is it…I could go on and on.

Dr. Leon Hammer, a psychiatrist who enhances his practice with Chinese Medicine with great success, believes the West can, in some ways, inform the East, thereby influencing Chinese medicine “…in a direction which will ultimately speak more cogently to the issue of a personal, rather than a mass, psychology” (Hammer xxxiv). So, Aristotle’s push for individuation may be incorporated into the Chinese system making it more palatable to the Western Mind.

All I know is this: Chinese Medicine, which dates back to at least the Stone Age, a fact based on texts and stone needles (Ma), has “saved” me on more than one occasion.

Pain rhymes with gain. I’ve gained a deeper insight into the ongoing mystery of the inner workings of my body—the miraculous vehicle that houses my consciousness. Of course, I will go to Western Medicine for certain things, but why shouldn’t we incorporate the best of both systems?

I am very grateful for the doctors and staff at Yo San University. 谢谢

Works Cited

Hammer, Leon. Dragon Rises, Red Bird Flies: Psychology & Chinese Medicine. New York: Station Hill Press, 2005.

Ma, K (1992). “The roots and development of Chinese acupuncture: from prehistory to early 20th century”. Acupuncture in Medicine 10 ((Suppl)): 92–9. Web. 20 Nov. 2009

Madsen MV, Gøtzsche PC, Hróbjartsson A (2009) “Acupuncture treatment for pain: systematic review of randomized clinical trials with acupuncture, placebo acupuncture, and no acupuncture groups.” Web. 15 Nov 2009

Zhang, X. “Acupuncture: Review and Analysis of Reports on Controlled Clinical Trials”. W.H.O., 2003. Web. 20 Nov. 2009 < http://apps.who.int/medicinedocs/en/d/Js4926e/>

At that time, I wrote about the recording studio, Abdala, for EQ Magazine and fully expected to return soon to continue my love affair with the island, the music, and the people, but historical events botched my plans; in particular, the selection the following year of Bush and friends in D.C. and their allies in South Florida. Couple this with the strangle-hold Castro & friends have on free speech on the island and what is left is an escalation of anger and embargo policies.

These different factions closed all doors leading in and out of Cuba for citizens of the United States. Imagine. My passport does not let me go everywhere anymore—at least not without incurring the wrath of my government. Depressing. And sounds a lot like a communist country. The irony. An island a mere 90 miles from my house in South Florida is off limits.

But today, I see a ray of hope, and once again music leads the way. I watched John Denver open up closed doors in Russia in 1984 and in Havana, Cuba earlier today, Juanes, an award winning fusion rock singer/songwriter orchestrated a Paz Sin Fronteras Concert, in spite of threats from the usual suspects in South Florida—Cuban Americans who think only of revenge and retribution—not the way forward in any relationship I’ve been in.

In Che’s Revolution Square, where I stood practically alone with my daughter a decade ago, a sea of people (over 700,000) congregated to watch Juanes and friends.

And from the live feed on NBC, I could feel the joy of the long suffering people of Cuba as they exploded into song. May this be another stepping stone on the path to reconciliation between the U.S. and Cuba. I know so many Cubans on the island and in Miami that want this.

As an outsider looking in, it feels like the anger of this Cuban Civil War should have been diffused a long time ago. My own U.S. Civil War still rages on in some ways, so maybe I’m just a Pollyana. But it seems to me that if the Cubans in Miami had truly wanted to get rid of Castro they would have kept the dialogue and the doors open. Culture and human nature would have taken care of him.

But the Miami group that desires revenge and retribution on an entire island of people, who mostly had nothing to do with any of this disaster, except for their accident of birth, perpetuates a failed policy that has led to the misery of 11 million people who in many ways endure their suffering as a badge of martyrdom: the “Us Against the World” type of martyrdom.

I will never forget the college-educated Cuban girl I interviewed for my article who candidly told me off-tape in a resolute tone that she foresaw “no hope” for things ever changing for the better in Cuba. Heartbreaking. At the time, I believed her wrong, but thus far, she has been right. And things got a lot worse soon after.

I don’t presume to know how it feels to lose your home and your loved one, only to watch the villains of this crime (Castro & friends) go unpunished, and continue to survive and somewhat thrive. It must be miserable beyond words. But how does punishing an entire nation of mostly innocents fix any of this pain? Embargoes don’t work. Pain begets pain. La paz genera paz.

Thank you Juanes and friends for this concert—so nice to see Los Van Van once again. In 1999, angry Miami Cubans pelted me with cans as I entered a theatre to hear a Los Van Van Concert. As a musician, I refuse to let any one group tell me what music I can listen to. In my life, music trumps politics, especially failed politics.

Time will tell if things can really change, but maybe through new efforts and new policies, especially those of our new President Obama, one day I will get to return to Cuba and resume my quest to explore the island in the flesh, instead of in my mind.