Cottonwood and San Francisco: What Do They Have in Common?

The city of San Francisco and small town of Cottonwood can both be found in Northern California. Though they are one three hours apart they are different worlds, both unique and charming in what they have to offer.

As I type this from daughter’s apartment in San Francisco where I am visiting, I can see out over a breathtaking Bay. In about an hour fog will billow in, dipping in and out of pine-green Cypress trees and making the ocean in the distance invisible. It’s cool—55 degrees. When I go out, I grab a scarf and jacket.

In the sleepy small, rural town of Cottonwood at the top of the Central Valley where I live, my son is practicing soccer in 110 degree heat. The weather man is talking of the sought-after cooling trend, while the Bay Area weather people report that all regions (coast, bay and inland) are below record temps. The 55 degrees difference in weather amazes me.

The differences don’t stop with the weather. The City is packed with tons of people and tons of stuff—cool stuff, and lots of it. You can find a Whole Foods on every corner. People like to talk and are helpful. Farmers Markets are a dime a dozen. You can find Power Crunch Bars. And Gloomaway. And anything you want. You can take the BART straight into Bristol Farms at the Westfield Mall and then go to Burke Williams for a massage when you are done shopping at one of the 8 million stores there. (But just try and find a comfy pair of black sweats!) You can go to the food court and get silverware and real plates and 8 different kinds of veggie burgers at one stop. Diversity of all kinds surrounds you, a kaleidoscope of choice. People from all over the world come here as evidenced by the open tour buses flagging Union Square and singing, “Honey, Ahh, Sugar, Sugar” at the top of their lungs in varying accents. You are surrounded by the most entrepreneurial homeless people I’ve ever seen. There are six billion people on the planet and each person is unique. Here, they gather.

Cottonwood, a town of around 2,000, reflects a slower pace. You never have to struggle for a parking spot or pay for one once you’ve parked. You can count on a friendly wave as you drive by another even if you don’t know them. When you go into the store, people chat with you, and are always intrigued by another area code as there is only one area code there (and you don’t have to add a one and dial it.) Neighbors bring you cookies, or pecans, or cherries when you move in, depending on the season. And the seasons are clear. Hot summers. Colorful Autumns. Freezing winters with the occasional snow dust. Fragrant, blooming spring with its unpredictable spring showers and wonderfully predictable lilacs. There are no Whole Foods here, but the Trader Joes (the first and only 25 minutes away in Redding) caused quite a stir and people are still talking about it even though it’s been open 7 months now. The land swells with Native American heritage, rivers and lakes swell with fish, and forests offer beautiful hikes. The independent movie theater uses real butter. The public schools are supported by community pride. Our yard smells like horses.

What I find these two places have in common is that each is beautifully unique. Yet most people I speak with only like one or the other because they are so different. I often wonder why it is hard to appreciate these differences.

Similarly, I wonder what kind of world we would live in if each person could appreciate the differences in each person they meet for it is the differences that add such color and interest to our world. After all, wouldn’t life be unbearably dull if all places and all people were the same?

Steve Lopez & Nathaniel Ayers end a perfect day

Can I just say Nathaniel Ayers is an amazing person? Jordan wants to have a playdate with him and is disappointed he didn't get his number. His authograph to Jordan reads, "The San Francisco Little Symphony, Take me to your leader. Go Obama--there's more and quite a bit for Amanda & Alix who had to leave early on the other side.

The day opened with Marsha Linehan unraveling Dialectal Behavior Therapy which has proved highly effective for suicidal patients. Before Borderline Personality Disorder was even familiar to Linehan she came up with this therapeutic approach. Turns out, it symptomatically treats BPD symptoms--and other disorders--with a high success rate.

Following that session were discussions about metabolic issues with mental illness, and cultural variables that need to be recognized and changed. Both of those were a bit depressing.

Things brightened up with "Arts and Recovery," a colorful session presented by several artists showing their mediums of expression. The moderator was colorful herself covered in bright scarves (grandson's name Aloha Sunbeam) and introduced a singer/songwriter, writer who leads creative therapeutic writing at Stanford and a woman who dabbled in artistic trading cards, "Fat Lip Readers Theater" (created by 10 fat ladies discussing fatness in our culture) and Threshold Choir, a group of singers throughout the State who learn the same songs and sing to people who are dying or in need. I loved the creative writing as a pathway to help people through recovery and felt lead to start my own to help people in the North State once we get settled.

Jordan's own creative juices started in our next session and he wrote a touching poem he called "Hope."

The night couldn't have ended more appropriately than with Nathaniel Ayer's astounding musical talent filling the Ballroom. He opened with the violin. I don't know about Steve Lopez. His passion is more about homelessness (also one of mine so I'm good with that) and his friend Nathaniel, not exactly mental illness change. And, maybe it's just me, but he's not exactly a personable guy. I could just be holding a grudge because during his column writing I wrote on several occasions to thank him and tell him about NAMI. He never responded and tonight said 500 people from NAMI wrote so that may explain his lack of response. But you know what, Lopez? Pete Earley is busy and he always responds! If Lopez does choose to give mental illness change his focus, change will be made as he is clearly a powerful writer and force where he puts his concentration.

Nathaniel, on the other hand, was full of personality and warmth. He was kind to Jordan and took so much time with each person waiting for an autograph that at 10:45 he was still signing and really intuiting each person. He's an intuitive soul and you just feel happy when you are near him. He's so talented and we felt so proud of his performance. While we waited in line for a signature, Lopez discussed the movie and book--the accuracies and inaccuracies. He also said the trip coming from LA to San Fran was the best he'd ever had with Ayers hanging out the window playing the French Horn.

The bond between them is special. The movie captured that well. And Nathaniel. Priceless.

NAMI '09 - 30th bday in City by the Bay

NAMI had humble beginnings. It grew from a few parents who refused to let ignorance and predjudice color the lives of their children. It has grown to a movement responsible for the development of groups such as NARSAD, leading researchers of the brain and how it relates to mental illness. "When Medication Got it Wrong," a documentary to be released by Katie Cadigan in May, 2010, tells the story of those beginnings. The NAMI Conference opened Sunday eveninig with that screening, with Cadigan discussing her journey and with some of the original players making their way to the stage to receive a standing ovation.

Monday was dedicated to various leadership institute workshops which needed to be signed up for in advance and were added this year to create more NAMI leaders. Dr. Caitlin Ryan of San Francisco State spoke to GLBT issues in her cutting-edge research known as the Family Acceptance Project. She has interviewed families in both urban and rural areas (from a variety of religious backgrounds) who have had a child come out. Not exactly surprising, a family's rejection has high correlations to suicide, drug abuse and mental illness as the stress of such rejection can trigger a break. Conversely, the family's level of acceptance which meets the child where they are can result in the child's possibility of a happy and mentally healthy life.

Convention orientation was necessary on this day just to understand the whacky escalator system in the Hilton. Breaks are important because so much goes on--Jordan, Amanda, Alix and Robyn had a feast and sleepover and Mike and I had another bonus date night in San Fran. (Amber India and "Yes, Man" at the hotel. I know. We live a wild life.)

Tuesday morning gave many choices, but the sessions were too long for our taste (3 hours!) We opted for Child and Adolescent issues, under which transitional youth (18 -25 years) fall. It was exciting to hear what many states are doing to educate teachers, administrators, school counselors and nurses about mental illness and suicide prevention/postvention. The National office is working on a social networking site for transitional youth with mental illnesses so that they can ask peers about issues they struggle with. That's an exciting project. We were interested in what was happening on college campuses across the country to try and educate students. Apparently MIT (following their suicide after which they paid a handsome price) has become a model campus in the way they educate their students.

After some pretty awesome clam chowder and seafood lunch, we listened to the official "opening," which came off a bit rough due to some technical problems with the audio visual. Michael Fitzpatrick, NAMI executive director, gave a historical sketch of the past 30 years. National NAMI President Anan Pandya spoke to the issue of parity, treating mental health issues the same as other medical health issues which until last October had been a 30 year struggle. Fred Frese echoed this, both emphasizing the biggest struggle is yet to come. Frese, who has schizophrenia himself, gave an animated and entertaining presentation about the last 30 year's struggle (his and NAMIs). Catch him in "Minds on the Edge" with Pete Earley and others role playing various scenarios, such as how to handle a college student that's showing manic behavior, as you probably know the subject of my YA novel work in progress.

Always an awesome speaker, Pete Earley, former Washington Post reporter and author of Crazy, passionately wrapped up the session speaking of the importance of speaking out to stamp out stigma. People so often are afraid of the repercussions of speaking out against the shameful way our culture treats the mentally ill and/or their own relationship with mental illness, but Earley emphasizes this is essential. Earley became a tireless advocate for changing how our culture treats the mentally ill when his son had a psychotic break at 18, broke into someone's house to take a bubblebath and was subsequently introduced to incarcertation. (Read Crazy. It's powerful.)

We wanted to go see Joyce Cooling, jazz artist, but we ate Greek food then had a little basketball game in the park (parents won but don't tell Jordan!)... and then everybody got really sleepy which is why I have time to write this.

We're excited about tomorrow. The day opens with Marsha Linehan who develeoped Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, a therapeutic process which has shown a high success rate with chronically suicidal patients. We're also leaning towards attending "Cultural Issues in recovery" and "arts in recovery" in the morning. Tomorrow night Nathaniel Ayers is planning to play the cello and Steve Lopez will speak at a screening of "The Soloist," which of course we've seen, but not with Nathaniel's introduction. How cool is that?! Ayers is the recipient of Rona and Ken Purdy Award to end discrimination for his openness with reporter Lopez in sharing his story on which the film was based. When Lopez wrote these columns for The Times, I read Sunday mornings in the LA Times with fascination as the story unfolded. This feels like full circle in a relatively short period of time in the publishing world.

There's still one last day after tomorrow. I'll let you know what happens. (It's really cold here! Summer? What summer?)

On your Mark!

If you've never had the pleasure of attending your child's first swim meet, please--join me.

The weekend started with a hike. I'm not sure they all start like that.

"It's going to be a fairly, flat, easy hike," says Coach Soares. I learned on that hike Coach Soares has penned and published 7 hiking books over the years and, while writing those, would hike 25 miles a day. Are you kidding me?

The driving road to the hiking location gradually became more and more narrow, which meant two cars could not pass at the same time. Occasional bike riders made that even more exciting. When we got to the hiking location, Coach announced the "Cliff Lake" hike was off and this new hike was on. (We'd somehow missed the turn.)

This hike was anything but flat. I exercise daily, but my hair was wet with sweat and I was panting like I'd just ran 10 miles (not that I do that.) We started at 11 and ended at 5:30 and moved at a fairly fast clip without rests, excepting our final Lake Helen destination. Nobody knew where we were, but drilling our hiking author masquerading as a swim coach I discovered this to be called the Trinity Divide. We were on the Seven Lake Trail (and we passed about 4 of those lakes) which crossed the Pacific Rim Crest and dropped down (and I do mean dropped) to Lake Helen. The lake was isolated and serene, the pine trees reflecting in the glass water to create a double forest. Some team members swam. Some wandered. Some practiced skipping rocks. I took great shots, but in an uncanny incident, my camera card cracked the third morning of our trip, especially unfortunate since I was writing an article for the Valley Post and supposed to provide photos. (A little scrambling around Sunday gave us the few shots we got.)

It was phenomenally picturesque all around to be sure and I only fell on my butt once while trying to scale a manzanita sort-of path thing. I felt misled--but I'd go again...even though my legs still hurt three days later. And talk about dirt. I had nasty, dirt ankle rings.

As we arrived at the High School football field, the sun was setting. We'd eaten with the team at Bob's Ranch House (pretty much all man first names for all things in this town like Ray's Food Place, Ed's trucks, Scott Valley...you get the idea). We decided it was fate that the place closest to our truck was open and that must be ours. Close transport of all that stuff.

Remember "Friday Night Lights?" As night came, those were the lights shining straight into our tent and lighting it up like a Walmart! We seriously had to move the shade dome in back of the tent to block the glare. It became obvious why nobody had taken the spot as this was the passageway for all activity.

Our blessing, though, was our kind neighbors. They were campers. Good campers. Good neighbors. They had a stove. They percolated coffee. They were like real live campers...and they liked it. The Streges made our camping trip fun.

The other good news is that we were sort of close to the girl's locker room. You did need to walk by three really loud snoring tents and a motorhome with puke rolling down the side, but running water was right on the other side. There was toilet paper the first two days.

You really have two choices on personal hygienne: shower in the open high school style showers or don't shower. I tried to sneak mine in after the morning rush, before the evening rush while nobody was looking. And only one in 3 days which was disgusting.

The meet itself was quite a deal. The kids head over at 7:30 a.m. and get their events written on their hand in sharpie so they don't forget. (Just when I thought I'd broke my son of that habit, too.) The swimmers are in the pool by 8 a.m. warming up. Parents are getting in timer chairs, or officiating, or working in snack bars, or sitting at the timers who-check-the-timers table or just hanging around under "First Up" shade covers, which line the pool like LA condos.

For first timers, there is a lot to learn. I, of course, filled out the meet sheet on the light side so our son had only one race the first day. This did not stop him from sitting pool side the entire time both days, never to leave a sporting event while people are still there.

Swimmers start oldest to youngest in each type of event. Events are divided by stroke and distance. There is a whole posting system where the heats, lanes and events are put up on a wall and all the kids and parents hover about like ants on watermelon trying to figure out where everyone is going. Next to that hangs the results of who is winning and what their times are.

Meanwhile, there is a huge barbecue going in the background. It starts at 9:00. Cookies the size of a small planet and all kinds of snack bar food abound. Parents flank the pool cheering on (sometimes obnoxiously) their kids.

The little kids have a variety of reactions. Some, as young as 6, go like heck. Others cry and want to get out. Others swim two strokes then hold onto the lane line and stop. And repeat. The big kids swim with such beautifully-tuned strokes you feel like you're at the Olympics.

You have lots of time between races (especially if you are only doing one) to eat planet sized cookies and get to know people. It's a very social thing for such an individual sport and I loved the families more than any other sport we've ever played. Friendly, inclusive and fun.

After the races, people do a variety of things. Jordan just wanted to play with the kids: soccer, slip and slide, ultimate frisbee, whatever. The parents wandered to such find Etna establishments as the brewery or old fashioned drug store. Some stayed behind and watched the kids. I felt like I was living in a kibbutz.

I don't really get camping. Planning for days, unpacking, setting up, packing again, unpacking--all while we're packing to move our home. But Jordan's words when we got home summed up why we went, and why we enjoyed it, "I miss the Scott Valley meet."

Yeah, bud. I know how you feel. We'll always fondly remember our first meet.


Note: Despite the fact my camera card has proved non-recoverable, you can read the article (and my scrambling shots) in the Anderson Valley Post either this Wednesday or next: http://www.andersonvalleypost.com/

Celebrating Love in Mt. Shasta

Mt. Shasta was our Big Island this year. One mountain rivals the other with the added bonus that we didn’t have to fly five hours each way. And we got to stay at our new favorite Shasta MountINN B&B again.

Northern California exudes beauty. We caught some of it and added some firsts to our lives keeping in theme with our 2009. (You know, like moving from a city of two million to a town of two thousand—stuff like that.)

Mossbrae Falls was a destination mismatched by its journey. The Falls are water veils that spray out of the side of the mountain covering lush, green ferns and moss with sheer, delicate waterfalls that pour into the blue-green pool below. A peaceful and serene, meditative space, the Falls line about 300 feet of the cliff. In a gracious moment, the sun reflects off the water to create a rainbow that stretches to the creek below. This is a vision straight off the Island and much like the ginger-lined pool we ride horse-back to reach for four hours. Breathtaking.

The hike to get there is also breathtaking—but in a different way. We moved methodically down railroad ties like toy soldiers on a mission. This is necessary because the path is so rocky and narrow and the best way to travel is on the 1.5 foot spaced ties. Not such a big deal? But wait, there’s more.

Trains are constantly using these tracks and we had to get out of the way of three during our mile hike in and out, running once to get to a large enough clearing not to get hit.

From a more relaxed perspective, we saw train tracks again on our sunset dinner train dinner, a smooth ride through the forest while enjoying a four course meal on china and silver. From the prosciutto-wrapped, date-covered almond start to the turtle cheesecake end we savored our meals. The most interesting part was trying to walk down the train after drinking a nice Syrah and not fall into fellow passenger’s meals.

Another first was the Mt. Shasta Lavender Farm. Picture rows of full Lavender thriving on the lap of majestic Mt. Shasta. In the middle of the fields is a Lavender labyrinth which you can walk while drinking lavender lemonade, which mainly tastes like lemonade but looks purple and has a nice fresh piece of lavender in it. We brought gluten-free crackers and almond butter and sat in the middle of the field surrounded by Lavender. Purple, purple everywhere. We picked fresh bundles of Lavender to take home and learned you do not put it in water if you plan to dry it. Just hang it upside down.

We soaked up the hippie culture of the mineral springs and arrived during the sweat lodge ritual so took our baths to the beat of Native American drumming. I’m pretty sure every toxin that dared to reside inside us took off.

We also met a gracious woman who taught us what Feng Shui can do for a home.

Filled with gratitude for our twelve years together blessed by the mountain, we returned home restored and ready for the pre-moving extravaganza.

Grassroots--not astroturf.

Next month, the NAMI National Conference will be held in San Francisco.

Things will be happening. Steve Lopez will be cruising the hallways. Pete Earley will give his always dynamic speech while accepting his most recent--and well-deserved--award for mental health activism. And on July 5th, the first evening, there will be a screening of how this 50,000 strong grassroots organization all began.

Back in the day (and sadly, not so many days ago) the docs were pretty sure children who "caught" schizophrenia had really "cold" mothers. It wasn't about brain chemistry. It was about faulty parenting. Just another strand of prejudice to claim as our heritage.

There were a few families, however, who bravely stood up and said two things. The first thing was, "We have mentally ill people we love." Still today, some people are afraid to tell anyone if they have a child, sister or parent with a mental illness. Yet, I find as soon as I start speaking about the novel I am working on with a young mentally ill protagonist based on our own family story, I consistently and unintentionally solicit stories that have never been shared. It makes me wonder just how inaccurate the statistics truly are.

The second thing this group of heroes said was "Docs, you're wrong." They challenged the notion that mothers who don't breastfeed their children long enough cause them to have schizophrenia. (As ignorant as this comment seems, and despite years of research to the contrary, there are still some old docs out there who believe it.)

These people--these roots--dug their heals into the ground and challenged the medical community. In the documentary to be released Fall '09 called "When Medicine Got it Wrong," NAMI goers will see what advocacy is all about. This is not the astroturf activism we so often see where advocates just advocate to look good. This is the kind of activism that needs to spread to all areas of predjudice and discrimination to truly form a more peaceful planet.

Wouldn't that be cool?

Chestnut Ridge Farm

This year has been about exploring different lifestyles. This weekend we soaked up Boonville, CA.

Boonville, located in the Anderson Valley about 50 miles east of Fort Bragg in Mendocino County, is a short collection of quaint stores with a Restoration Hardware feel (but smaller) and an assortment of whole grain, organic spun eateries without a happy meal to be found. Refreshing, really.

The Farmers' Market, held Saturday mornings, houses a few stands of plants, fruits and leafy greens, a folksy trio playing background music and a group of people who all seemed to know each other chatting about a small plot adjacent to the Boonville Hotel where, rumor had it, John Scharffenberger had stayed over, possibly in town to check on his former winery--or is it still his winery?--down the street.

I think the story goes he sold the winery to make chocolate instead and now does something else. We were really interested in seeing it mainly because the other Scharffenberger delivered Jordan and we felt somehow connected that way.

We did take a trip by Scharffenberger Cellars and the nice tasting man gave Jordan some organic juice so he would feel included in the tasting experience. (He then proceeded to skewer the juice bag and juice went squirting everywhere which somehow just added some down home fun to the champagne tasting.) We also stopped by our oh so fave Roderer Estate Vineyards and discovered that when you bottle the same vintage in a regular champagne bottle and a magnum, the results are wholly different, with the magnum rounding and mellowing the sparkling wine. Who knew? (After two vineyards, Jordan was pretty sure we were alcoholics so we decided to go hunt down Scharffenberger chocolate instead.)

Our main purpose for going to Boonville, however, was to visit my Uncle Tom's and Aunt Pam's Chestnut Ridge Ranch, a pastoral 160 acres atop a hill via dirt road which overlooks the Anderson Valley. When you start on the dirt road, you have 30 minutes straight up with lots of blind turns on the one way dirt road before you reach the ranch. You're committed once you're there. There's no "running out" for milk in these parts.

On the way up you pass an "intentional community" where people build homes from strawbales and live in a self-sustaining commune type fashion. Kind of an organic, Haight Ashbury meets the woods feel.

You drive through forest, past vineyards, cross a creek and through meadows and eventually roost on top of the world, or at least that's how it feels.

The farm is filled with flowers late this year due to weird weather patterns. Landscape roses cascade over lattice in every color you can imagine. The Georgia rose stands about six foot high with deep red blooms and tells the story of a lady who brought the cutting from someone else right before she died. The Dogwood tree out behind the bass-filled pond was planted when my grandmother passed and stands tall to commemorate what would have been her 100th birthday this past May. The Lorraine Lee rose in bright pink is showy and fragrant, with no thorns on the stems. Every plant has a story. Amazingly, Uncle Tom and Aunt Pam know every plant like parents do children, reminiscing about them the way parents remember their child's first steps. It's too much work for two people so WOOFers (World Wide Opportunity for Organic Farmers) come and help work the land. These are people from all over the world who trade room and board for an agreed upon work schedule. Two girls from Estonia recently came and shared with Uncle Tom great music. (So many Woofers have turned him on to music he actually burned a CD called 'Woofers'.) Then there was the Vegan who taught them how to make a really awesome chocolate cake. Everybody brings something different and they help each other in unique ways.

The Brewers have taken time to build 15 sitting spots fully equipped with footstools and tables across the property so that you may get different perspectives of the valley, a grouping of flowers, the forest, the chestnut orchard. The perch's call to you, "Sit here. See things from this perspective. Smell the sweet rosemary waft by from the herb garden. Feast your eyes on the bright reds and purples where the butterflies dance. Sit here." And we did. Sitting with my family, laughing and talking while overlooking the Valley--priceless.

This morning I took Bailey out on a walk through the forest loop just after dawn. It was a bit spontaneous. First, we were just out for our morning poop (her, not me) and then we headed down the first part of the path to check it out. After starting down it, it was so steep I didn't want to walk back up.

Off we went deep into the forest. I knew it was about a 3 mile loop. Half way through, I had to trust the masters and angels surrounding me to bring me back because I really had no idea if I was following the right road. We were on a high cliff with jack rabbits darting out of the forest and across the path, and Bailey being the city dog she is would likely have chased it right off the cliff had she seen one.

Your mind wanders in the forest. During this time, I started thinking about how life is like walking through the forest. Sometimes you can see around the bend and up the hill and sometimes you can't see anything up ahead and you feel like wild animals are watching you from the thicket. It requires that faith arm wrestle doubt--and win. It urges you to walk through what could scare you if only to experience the exhilaration at the other end.

And the forest is there to teach you. The towering Redwoods so firmly rooted in the ground reach towards the sky yet stay grounded. Multiple species of birds sing just because it's morning. Each tree seems to work with the next, knowing that they are connected, and creates such a peaceful forest because of it.

This weekend reminded me of the poignancy of the Dali Lama's annual message: go see somewhere new each year. In seeing some place new, you sit in a different seat looking out from a different perspective, and in so doing learn a deeper meaning for the seat you sit in each day.