At the end of summer.....

Silver Lace drapes across my arbor, making entrance into my home a mystical experience

Great News for COSL

As some of you might know, I work as a Research Assistant for Center for Open and Sustainable Learning, with Dr. Dave Wiley. This link tells how we finally got the Utah Legislature to give us money to develop more classes (open courseware). This is an exciting event for all of us!!!!!!

http://opencontent.org/blog/archives/311

I have developed one of those courses that is online, that teaches you about Web2 things, such as podcasting, screencasting, mashups, folksonomies, social software, bla, bla, bla.

http://ocw.usu.edu/Instructional_Technology/new-media

Such a Long Time!!!

I am in my second semester of a PhD. It has been a very busy year. I am also serving as Vice President of the Instructional Technology Student Association, which has proven to be a very productive and active group. We are producing a Journal, sponsoring Professor Presentations (Professors from around the country in my field), Informal nights at Professors homes, Brown Bag presentations, search for a new Professor, and a search for a new Department Head. The most exciting thing for me is the direction my group, COSL,is going, thanks to our 'leader', Dr. Dave Wiley. We have taken on a project in the Himalaya's, (Kathmandu and four other villages) thanks to Tiffany Ivins (a member of my cohort and COSL). She and her new husband Mitchel set up some computer/technology training centers while there in December. In May, a team of us will be there for further research, and to help set up 4 more centers, as well as conduct instruction. The project is very unique. Our intention is to build it so it can be easily replicated in other third world countries. I hope to be able to take this to some of the countries where my heart still lingers to be, such as the Dominican Republic.

One never knows, this early in the PhD, but I will venture to say that my research is centered around elder populations (such as myself) and using computer games to enhance lives mentally, physically, and socially. I am in a games class now, learning to build games. I know this is a computer resistant population, but because there is tremendous benefit, I am looking for ways to convince baby boomers of the importance of computer games, and turn the producers of this culture toward the later-life learners, whose numbers exceed the youthful. I will be working on a few pilot projects before I jump in. If anyone has any useful suggestions - I am listening.

Idaho Falls

I have not left the country, as planned, but at least I had a chance to leave the state. Vistied my father's grave side then played golf in Idaho Falls in his honor. He played golf right up to the end. He tried to get me to tag along when I was younger, but I just didn't want to go. Now I find it a nice escape.

My First Audioblog

Well, my first audioblog ain't much, but it is something. I will have to try this out again - I shall call from the great outdoors and describe the beautiful outdoors of Utah. Hopefully (or not), there will be cell phone towers so that I can do it. Today promises to be a beautiful day and I look forward to the freezing cold in the mountains as well as a get away from studies. Can't get too far from studies, though, because many things are due next week.

I am finishing the OCW course for David Wiley - about Web2.0 things. I am taking PHP and MySQL and have a storefull of data due. And not least of all, I have to regurgitate, in writing, deep thoughts on what grant I want to write for.

Mapping

I have been looking at various mapping tools and decided to jump in with Wayfaring Wayfaring. It seemed pretty straightforward. But it does not recognize Logan, Utah as a place. And when I put markers on the map I later found that they actually do not correspond to actual spots on campus. Still, it was easier to use than Mapbuilder.

Graduation

Finally, the day has come and gone. As we marched through the streets of campus, people lined the corridor, clapping, honking horns, cheering, taking pictures, celebrating our achievments with us. But the part that brought tears to my eyes was when we entered a tunnel lined with university professors, dressed in their unique regalia, clapping and cheering us on. I let lose some tears. The talks were inspiring and became the line of demarcation between struggling to get my masters and realizing I had achieved it. Now on to the last phase of my goal - the Doctorate degree. Thank you to all who have supported me thus far......................

A Landmark Day

I received a letter in the mail today that had me crying so hard I almost turned around and went back into the house instead of to the grocery store. I could hardly control my emotions. The only way to explain it is through the experiences I have had as a mother.

I attended three years of college in Los Angeles which amounted to Junior College work, general education and floating around trying to find an interest. I went from Philosophy to Economics. Many years later, in 1998, I finally applied to a university for a Bachelor's Degree in Psychology. The day I got that letter of acceptance, I cried - it was a great landmark, comparable to the day you realize that you are pregnant (13 times for me).

And then in 2004 I received yet another letter saying I was accepted into the Masters Degree program in Instructional Technology. It was comparable in feelings to the first time you feel that baby kick inside of you. I wore a glow, daily, enjoying the pregnancy so very, very much, but finally ready to welcome my baby into my arms. I have similarly enjoyed the journey of getting a masters degree.

But today is the beginning of a whole new change in my life. It is here. I held the letter in my hand that said I was accepted into the PhD program for Instructional Technology at Utah State University. It was like holding your brand new baby in your arms, knowing that you will love and nourish this baby for its life and you will grow through all of the hardship, through all of the miracles.

From where I stand, this is one of those landmark days. I am the only one to get a bachelors degree amongst my siblings and my ancestors. I am the first (because my #3 son is in an MBA program) to get a Masters degree and now a Doctorate. Oh my gosh. You just can't imagine what this means for me - a very life long dream is about to be embarked upon.

I am humbled, I am ready and I am thankful.

Philadelphia Area Education Technology Conference

I have returned from Philadelphia. It was my first time visiting the East coast. I stayed at the beautiful Wyndham Hotel on the campus of Bryn Mawr. On February 22 I gave three lectures at Haverford College: Lessons Learned, Bliking in a Third World Country and one on building an educational game in Quake III. The last one was actually Marie Duncan's lecture and I just added my 2 cents worth. Laura Blankenship and Jean-Claude Bradley sponsored the conference. The following day I spent with Laura meeting faculty and students at Bryn Mawr and visiting her technology department. An added plus was meeting her husband, Doug Blank, and seeing his robots and talking about Emerging Pedagogy as well as a business model he wrote about opensource education. The intellectual atmosphere was energizing. We are of the same mind and community and yet we have never met before. Quite a testament to the world of technology today.

I do have some wonderful pictures of Bryn Mawr but I haven't downloaded them yet. And because I live in two worlds, far apart from each other, I am always leaving something at the wrong place at the wrong time. Jean-Claude and I produced another blog with some of the lectures from this conference. You can find it at http://phillyedcast.blogspot.com He did more work than me. I came home from Philly with bad bugs that invaded my body and sapped my strength.

Home from the Dominican Republic

I had a wonderful time in the DR. It was warm (no calor) and beautiful. Of all the latin countries I have spent time in, this one, by far, is the most friendly and gracious. They held a press conference with the Secretary of State in our honor. We were introduced to the country and made to feel very welcome. TV and newspapers covered the conference. We met with the Presidents of the Unversities and visted campuses in Santiago and Santo Domingo: UNAPEC, UASD and INFODUSO, and various BioTech labs throughout the country.

I was impressed with the interest this country has in technology and the efforts they have already made to bring the country into the world of computers. The UASD library was extremely impressive, as well as the technology in use at UNAPEC and INFODUSO. UASD, the largest university, with 150,000 students just finished computer labs that were impressive. The US research team consisted of Lex Shakespeare, myself and Deepak Subramony as the PI. The Biotech team consisted of Bart Weimer (PI), Kamal Rashid and Kathy McConkie. I left my pictures on my PC that is, at the moment, several hundred miles away.

I am enjoying Xmas in the country with my family. We will be presenting our research in Orlando, Florida in March. And I will be presenting an offshoot of that research in Philadelphia in February. More later..........

We are the team chosen to assess needs of Higher Education in the Dominican Republic. In two weeks we leave for the DR.
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The BioTech team from the Domincan Republic (plus Bart and Morris from USU)
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Tanya, Lex and Isabell. Tanya and Isabell teach Mathematics at UASD.
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Lex, Deepak and the team from the Domincan Republic (minus me, who is taking the picture). We will be in their country soon.
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Friends in the Canyon
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incognito
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JC in Hardware Ranch
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JC in the canyon
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Hardware Ranch
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Logan Canyon
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Logan Canyon
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Tears in October

My daughter was buried today, so many years ago. Does mourning never end? To the great friends we could have been, to the memories we will never share, to you Frankie D'Anne.......I miss you, I love you. Still.

But this October brings a whole new set of tears, different kinds of tears. For I will soon have another daughter to love and to hold, to share friendship and memories with. Her name is Erika. I leave in a few days for California to celebrate the marriage of my son Kris to Erika. She is beautiful and charming and smart and she loves my son. I am blessed.

Hurricanes

A journey of the heart can sometimes be like a journey into a hurricane.

In my youth, after becoming a certified scuba diver, I became a part of a team of people that sought extreme adventures. This adventure is about diving for sunken treasure. We prepared to dive for a Spanish Galleon in the Yucatan. A few years before, we recovered the large artifacts and placed them on the island Akamal. Now it was time to go for the small stuff. We arrived in Cozumel to find that the ship we reserved would not leave shore because of an impending hurricane. We finally found a small 36' day boat (no kitchen, no bathroom) whose captain agreed to the adventure. As we boarded at midnight, which I thought was strange, I could not shake off the feeling of dread, of impending doom.

We were at sea for a very long time, passing up other discovered shipwrecks before we finally found the treasure of our dreams. But to our dismay, someone else had claimed it, and very recently. We anchored near a deserted island for the night and discussed our next step. Suddenly a few young Indian men appeared in a canoe and their intended victim appeared to be me, the only woman on board. In an attempt to dissuade them from doing harm, we gave them all of our liquor and hoped they would leave. The fear and our dashed hopes probably led to the decision we made that night to go home.

At about 2 AM, we were awakened by the churning motor of our boat and wondered why the sudden move. Had the captain spotted our earlier guests? Actually, it was much worse. A hard, hard rain and wind was sweeping over us. The captain sensed something very wrong, like maybe that dreaded hurricane would soon be upon us. As a Mexican captain, he took pride in never using a radio, so we had no way of knowing. By dawns light the rain was so hard that it felt like embers burning our skin. All of our tanks had broken lose and lay somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, where it seemed we were headed. At one point the ship tipped up on its side and we all fell on Richard. His strength held him to the boat, but our bodies slamming into him dislocated his shoulder. We desperately tried to tie ourselves onto the boat. Looking up at the face of a wave was like looking up at a towering highrise on the streets of downtown LA.

Brian began throwing up, Bill curled up into a little ball, Jim escaped into the wheelhouse, Richard moaned in pain, and I began to sing every song I could think of. We rode the monstrous waves like a surf board, up the front and down the backside for a what seemed like a very long time until all of the sudden, at the top of a wave, the boat turned half way around, perpendicular to the wave and the captain gunned the motor. Now we really were acting like a surf board heading for shore. We listened intently to the already taxed motor, knowing that if it sputtered, if it died, if we should run out of gas, if we entered the shore inches inside the coral reef, we would be fodder for tomorrows treasure seekers.

Our boat, twisted and broken, finally crashed near a shoreline in a shallow pool of water. We sat there in a daze, pinching ourselves to see if we were really still alive. As we began to assess the damage a couple of men in a small canoe came out of nowhere. They motioned for our captain to board their canoe and then disappeared. When they returned they began to take us, two by two, somewhere unseen and we followed. This time we had no liquor to bargain for our freedom. We were completely vulnerable. Were they going to separate us then kill us off one by one?

They certainly could have. But here, the common language seemed to be compassion. They took us to the village, fed us, clothed us and repaired our boat. There were seven families on this island off the Yucatan. We were given the bachelors hut to sleep in. The following day, when I was alone in the hut, the group of bachelors came in and presented me with a gift, a piece of chocolate. I vaguely remember fearing that acceptance might mean I would have to marry one of them, but decided that I had better accept it and eat it, regardless of the consequences. I know they had treasured it for a very long time because it was the oldest, most rancid piece of chocolate I had ever tasted.

I slept in a hammock where a large geiko type animal thought it was his bed too. Similar, I guess, to how some of us share our beds with cats and dogs. That was fun to get used to. The little children would follow me in awe, teasing and laughing. I don't think they had seen blonde hair before. It was hard not to fall in love with every one of them. Within three days we were ready to head out. The farewell was like sorrow when family separates. Their island, also badly bruised by, what would be called Hurricane Anita, was left unattended while they gave of their time and effort to help us get back to sea. It was a humbling experience and the kind that gives you faith in humankind once again.

The treasure that we sought was not found, but another kind of treasure became ours. We took with us the vision of how we reacted in the face of death and how strangers reacted to our vulnerability. And the experience would lay a foundation on which our new lives would grow.

And so, I continue to journey, this time with my heart, knowing that the treasure I seek may not be the treasure that I find, but I go, knowing it may take my life, but also knowing that if I survive, my life will be better for the journey.

The Rings

Recently my mother gave me a set of rings which I then took to the jewelers to be polished and repaired. Ten days later, after picking them up, I happened to catch a glimpse of them on my newly encircled finger when I was reminded of the story they had to tell.

Over fifty years ago, in China, my step father married his first wife. The rings on my finger were the rings they wore throughout their lives to symbolize their union. He is from England, she was from Pennsylvania. They lived in China for ten years then moved to the United States where both went back to college. When they married he was 28 and she was 52. That was back in the 1950’s, a time when such unions had to be against all norms. However, they experienced a long and happy union of over 30 years. Shortly after she died, in her eighties, he married my mother.

I have been mesmerized, by my step-fathers resilience and bravery for marrying a woman he loved though it no doubt slammed in the face of social norms. Never more than now, have I experienced a curiosity, a need, to ask him all about it. Yesterday was the anniversary of Jim’s and my mother’s marriage of 18 years. With that union he became the father I desperately needed, and I became the daughter he longed for.

I now wear their rings as a symbol; to remind me to not be afraid to seek my spirits truth, even though it might be different from what is ‘normal.’

Travels through England Part 5

Finally, the time came for us to leave England. We had visited every place we wanted to see, north, east, south and west. We were to meet Greg and Shirley in Dover the next day. That’s when we got cocky. We were seasoned hitch-hikers, we knew how to pick a safe ride and how to avoid trouble. Just an hour from Dover, what could go wrong?

A little man in a little car pulled up next to us and motioned for us to get in. With a big broad smile that covered his face, we felt pretty safe. Charles opened the front door for me, then sat in the back seat with our back-packs. About one mile into the trip, we knew we’d made a mistake. The little man had a strong Scottish accent and an even stronger smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Well, yi goddamned little yanks, pollutin’ ar land whaerer y go. I’m gonna take ye fir a ride yi won’t soon forgit.” I turned back to see Charles eyes mirror the horror in mine. The little man laughed a wicked, evil laugh when he saw our fear. Separately we contemplated throwing ourselves from the car, then he slammed the gas pedal down to the floor. We braced ourselves for the ride in hell. Quickly, we flew from southern England all the way to the top. We knew the face of prejudice, but only in the form of rejection. We weren’t prepared for the violence.

Charles tried his inimitable softness of speech. I cried. Charles tried reasoning. I begged. We both did everything we could conjure up. But we were the GODDAMNED YANKS. We could not neutralize the poisons behind this act of violence. The only thing we had on our side was time. We knew that his car would eventually run out of gas or crash. He hadn’t shown a gun or a knife. But where was he taking us?

In a little town called Carlisle, on the border of Scotland, the little man slammed the car up against a stout stone wall and screamed at us to get out. My mind flashed on the fact that he was a lot less drunk now and finally conscious of his actions. He was letting us go. We stumbled, fumbling for our packs, but before we could even take a breath of relief, we realized he had thrown us into the horror he had planned.

Carlisle, we were about to learn, was notorious for its boot-kickers. They were bald-headed, angry young men who traveled in gangs. They were the self-appointed problem solvers, who were getting rid of the hippie on their shores. They encircled us. My whole life flooded my brain with pictures. This was it, this was how I was going to die. Charles attempted a few neutralizing tactics, but it only raised their ire. Thank god he didn’t try the Thed trick. Then, for the first time, Charles and I touched. We wrapped our bodies close in an effort to form a human shield.

Across the street, three elderly women, bent from many years and strong with courage, pushed their way through the circling gang, scowling and yelling and brandishing their umbrellas. If they had been middle aged or younger, we would all be dead. But their age and sureness made the boys back down. Like cocky but frightened little dogs, they growled and left the scene slowly, never showing their backs. The women took us to a safe home on the outskirts of the town where we stayed while trying to locate Greg and Shirley, to notify them of what had happened.

When offered a housekeeping job in the home where we were staying, I accepted. My spirit of adventure had temporarily diminished. After finding Greg, Charles and he left for the Continent and Shirley went back to school.

Eventually, Shirley and I took up hitch-hiking again. We traveled through several countries, experiencing some wonderful adventures then headed for Switzerland. We were walking up a deserted road in the Alps when I spotted someone walking toward us a couple of miles in the distance.

“Shirley, I think it is a man.” We had learned to be always cautiously fearful.

“You’re right. And isn’t that a black hat he’s wearing?”

“Oh, my. Could it be Charles?”

When I was sure enough to not make a fool of myself, I dropped my back pack and ran. Fate had thrown us together again!

We rented a room in the chalet where Charles was living. This time, however, things were very different. His looks had not changed, but his demeanor was different. He asked me to dinner soon after we arrived. We traveled to Vilar and walked into a restaurant and were led to a table where an old man was sitting. As the man arose to greet us, Charles made the introductions.

“Bobbe, I’d like you to meet Peter.”

The man read the confusion on my face as our eyes locked momentarily.

“Please sit down. I know you are wondering what this is all about.” Peter slowly and deliberately spelled it out.

“I am a…. I am his…. I…. I look out for Charles.”

“What do you mean, you look out for Charles? You mean like a body guard?”

“Well, of sorts.”

Together they told me what I already suspected. Charles was no ordinary fellow. Not then, but later, I wondered where Peter was throughout our many ordeals in England. In my mind I asked many questions, but to Charles and Peter I remained silent, listening. My head was spinning and my heart was pounding. I felt small and inconsequential. My reaction was to get the hell out of Switzerland, get the hell out of Europe, get the hell away from Charles, as far as I could get. Abruptly, my European travels ended. I went home.

Three months after I returned home, Charles called me from somewhere in the Orient. He said he was ready to go home and asked if he could stop in Los Angeles to see me first. He wanted help cleaning up before he presented himself to his parents. He could not go home looking like a hippy. It had been a long time since they had seen him. I couldn’t say no, even though it killed me to have him see how I lived. We cut his hair and bought new clothes, throwing away every remnant of our travels and our life together. Every few years we reconnect, but never in person. Once, last year, I called him and he said he was looking at my picture on his desk. We planned to meet for breakfast while I was traveling near where he was going to be, but I could not do it.

There is an ugly prejudice among us, one that turns us against ourselves. May you never experience it, or any kind of prejudice, for that matter.

Travels through England Part 4

Prejudice goes both ways. It bubbled up in my veins one lazy afternoon. We were sitting on a park bench, just outside a hostel, when I noticed a black Harley-Davidson moving straight for us. I did not have to know the guy on the bike in order to hate him. He was a formidable picture in black: leather jacket, boots, fingerless gloves, greasy hair and evil eyes. He was the dark soldier of the Hell’s Angels. The only break in this unimaginative monochrome picture was a smattering of silver objects. I grew up with idiots like this and I knew too well what to expect.

But not Charles. When the front tire of the Harley stopped within a micro inch of my knee, Charles whipped out Thed and presented him to the intruder.

“Hi. Meet Thaddeus.”

My heart stopped. The Hell’s Angel lumbered off of his bike then slammed his big black foot against my thigh. His dirty, hairy, fingers pulled up his pant leg and encircled a black handled knife. As he slowly pulled it out of its shaft, he said “Meet EDGAR.”

My God Charles, what have you done? We are going to be killed. I was screaming but no sound spilled into the air. Charles read my eyes and shoved Thed into a pocket. In silence he found a space between me and Edgar, then turned his back, pushing us both towards safety.

The guy was looking for fear and Charles didn’t give it to him. He followed us into the hostel, slicing the cool wet air with Edgar. In a split second of insanity, Charles turned back to him,

“Are you from the States?”

Duh, I thought.

“What part?”

Oh Charles, what are you doing?

“That’s where Bobbe is from.”

Thanks you idiot!

“What brings you to England?” Charles skillfully pulled the guy into conversation.

Edgar is safely tucked away, let’s leave this jerk alone!

But Charles continued on, into the night, talking to this fellow. I knew this guy right down to his stinky socks. I felt no pangs of curiosity. Something thick and twisted began to surface in my gut. Was this interest Charles had for the Hell’s Angel the same interest he had in me – just a strange curiosity, nothing more? Why did I care? Why was I churning inside? I was silent for days, not understanding what was going on inside of me. At least I was unwilling to acknowledge what might be happening to me.

Travels through England Part 3

Neither Shirley nor myself had ever hitch-hiked before. For three days we’d raise our thumbs and our hopes and for three nights we would return to the Manor House disappointed. Down the road from us was a couple of guys trying to do the same thing. I recognized one of them as the strange fellow I avoided at the school whose name was Charles. They would perform a little show every time a motorist drove by, like clowns begging for a ride. They too returned every night.

At the end of the third day, the boys approached us with a proposal. Charles flipped his lucky ten-pence into the air, “Heads travels with me, tails with Greg. The only way we are going to get out of here is to pair up as male/female, you know, not frighten the motorists.” I can still hear his snotty accent splitting the air.

Not frighten the motorists? Are you kidding? Here spoke a guy whose looks had shock value. While the general English population stood in the five foot range, Charles was reaching for the nose bleed section. His long, brownish gold locks of tangled hair shot over his shoulder in every direction from a black foreboding hat. Hair and hat hid his face. When you did get a glimpse of the face, you could not see cheeks or lips or brows, for the piecing, curious eyes absorbed your vision. There was an intelligence that consumed me, and without my permission. His heroes were Merlin the Magician and Bertrand Russell. Was he a hippie? The hat and hair is all one ever saw. After avoiding him for months, at the school, I realized that there was something very curious about him. I think he was trying to dress and hide in the persona of a hippie but when you looked closely, he was not. He had no rough edges like the men I knew. He put out a real icy feeling of distance, unconquerable distance, coupled with an insatiable need for attention.

Then there was Thaddeus. I was introduced to “Thed” in the library, my very first day at Greatham Manor House. He was a tiny crocheted doll, that went everywhere Charles went. While I was trying to covet my anonymity, Thed was trying to covet my attention. The two were a pain in the butt. Whenever they approached me, I fled. Now I was going to be traveling with the two? Shirley was convinced of the necessity of pairing up.

“Of course, Shirley! I am to be the companion of Charles and Thed, not you.” I protested then gave into the decision. Maybe it was just a familiarity I had with self-destructiveness.

The plan was to travel in this pairing to a pre-chosen town that had a hostel. Because a hostel had gender dorms, a free dinner and cheap price, the plan seemed like a good one. Greg and Shirley had no problems. Charles and I did. Together our looks were lethal. We learned quickly that certain parts of England were taboo for hippies. We were escorted out of towns before we had a chance to take our packs off our backs. No food, no drink, no smiles. We were the object of intolerance, suspicion and hatred for no reason.

One night, over dinner, I had my limit of Charles and his snooty ways. I did not know yet who he was, but I had my suspicions. Too often he made a snide remark about my lack of proper training. In other words I ate and drank like a pig. There apparently is, in his world, a proper way to put milk and sugar in the tea or was it coffee? I still don’t give a damn. On one night in particular, when he put his long accusing finger in my face, I smashed it and his entire long skinny hand into a warm plate of butter.

“Who are you?” I screamed. “And why are you wasting my life worrying about the ‘proper’ way to eat? We’re lucky to be served at all!” My frustrations were vented on him using yellow, oily, greasy butter. I stared at him in anger as his brain searched for the ‘proper’ reaction. His eyes and his mouth were both gaping wide and open, searching, but not finding.

“Show some emotion you bastard!” I wanted him down on my level: base, wild and real. “Say something, say anything!” His mouth closed, silence was all he purposely gave me.

He retrieved his hand from more danger, cleaning it off, ever so poised. I broke out in a very loud, crowd magnetizing laugh. The quieter he stayed, the louder I laughed. Soon everyone in the cafeteria was infected with laughter. He slowly and quietly pulled himself up to standing position, turned from me and walked away.

I didn’t see Charles until the next morning. He acted as though nothing had happened. I too, pretended that nothing had happened. He never again made fun of me and I quit hating him. Somewhere inside I began to realize that I respected this man. He was calm beside my rage, he was proper beside my wildness. He had strong convictions, strong beliefs and a destiny. Beside him I was learning, I was growing and it felt good.

Travels through England Part 2

The next morning, after Jenny left for the States, loneliness and fear consumed me. Where shall I go next, in fact, where am I? I did not know the geography of England. When Dr. Schaeffer’s driver appeared and asked once again if I would like to go to Greatham, I replied with a yes. I really had nothing to lose. I was driven to a world of Medieval England, to Greatham Manor House, something like a castle, where his daughter Susan ran the school L’Abri, one of several throughout the world.

In exchange for schooling, they required me to work four hours and study four hours every day except Sunday. For my task I cleaned the carpet in the entry hall or some days oiled the beautiful dark wood staircase intruding upon my carpet, leading up into a world forbidden to me. The Manor House contained so many staircases and so many rooms that I am sure I never found them all, but not for lack of trying.

My auburn hair, dangling to the seat of my worn out jeans, won me the title of hippie, someone who rejected class distinction. In reality, I was only poor. But my fellow classmates came from worlds far removed from my own. Their interests, their lofty discussions, their passions were alien to me. I did not mingle with them but did my studies quietly, trying not to bring attention to myself. They paid their tuition, which was hefty, and I’m sure even paid for their airfare – both ways. I was just another Jenny, a lost soul among the ‘found,’ a miracle Dr. Schaeffer hoped would happen.

The secret medieval gardens and the thousand hidden rooms occupied my longings and my free hours. England should have been my real home. The ghosts of history held me in their arms, a long lost relative. Something empowered me as I walked the cobble stone paths and the long, musty hallways. Something was changing me forever. I felt it one night as the mists covered the landscape and the moon lit the tower window where I hid.

One afternoon, when I was sneaking up to my hideaway, a closet behind a closet near the library, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Shirley, a Canadian girl from my dorm.

“Are you following me?”

“Yes, where is it that you hide every day? I mean, why do you hide from us every day?”

There was genuine care in her voice and in her eyes. She became the first and only person allowed to visit the secret places I discovered. Not long thereafter, we teamed up and prepared for an adventure in the outside world. We bid our farewells to Susan and promised to stop by L’Abri in Switzerland to see Dr. Schaeffer.

Travels through England Part 1

My parents left Utah right before I was born. They moved to a new suburb of Los Angeles that would later be called Little Watts, for it became a microcosm of racial tension and hatred found in the ghettos. When the burning and shooting began, we moved to the fringes, where we watched in fear, as racial anger seethed and exploded, marking the landscape with as yet unbridled, unfocused passion. Prejudice I saw, but prejudice I did not know, not the oomph, not the squeeze, not the searing pain, not yet.

In the early seventies I silently plotted my escape into history: to England, to Scotland and to Spain. I dreamed of sitting and talking to Picasso, of bearing my soul to him of how Guernica, his painting that evoked the agony of genocide, ripped me apart, I knew not why. I longed to escape my roots and my youth, slaughtered with wrong choices. I purchased a one way plane ticket to London, England and let destiny take care of the rest.

I still can see the English farmland, covered in a cloudy darkness, as I first saw it from the sky. The plane circled above the sheep who ate undisturbed by the familiar sounds of large aircraft. I can still taste, with sweet longing, my first hours in that new and strange place.

A friend of a friend met me at the gate and took me to his mothers home where I stayed that first night. In the room above the staircase, there was barely space for a tiny bed. Hanging from the top of the only window, as it had hung for the last thirty years, were blackout curtains from World War II. I could only think of the Guernica these people lived through and obviously still feared. The blackness of the room, the void and the thousands of miles which now separated me from the people I loved educed millions of tears like I have never cried again in my life. When dawn arrived I lifted the black-out curtain to meet a bright sunny morning, goading me on. The past was in the past. I had to move on.

I stopped first at the American Express to exchange my few American dollars for the English pound and pence. In the line just ahead of me was a young woman, near my own age, with a weathered pack-pack hanging from her shoulders. I watched pensively as she exchanged her pounds into dollars, thinking that she must be on her way back to the States. My stares bore a hole right through her, for she turned abruptly and gave me a deep, curious once over.

“Your back-pack looks new. Have you just arrived?”

My face was no doubt wearing what a year ago was painted all over hers: fear of the unknown.

She spoke again, her American accent divinely wrapped in something foreign, “Do you want to go get some coffee?”

Yes, yes, yes, “YES,” I could barely slip through my lips.

She possessed all I wanted: the knowledge of how to get through this. We talked as we walked, sharing our personal backgrounds, first mine then hers.

Tall, light complected, with long sandy reddish hair, Jenny told me why she had come to Europe and how a Dr. Schaefer had saved her life and he could do the same for me.

“I was once one of Charlie Manson’s followers, imprisoned for trying to smuggle him a gun. When they cut me lose, I pan-handled my way to New York, then pan-handled enough fare for a plane to England. Dr. Schaefer, a famous theologian, found me in Egypt and effectively changed my life. I left a young son in the States and now I am ready to go back.”

She was very frank. And though the name Charles Manson evoked fear in me, something in her demeanor made me trust her. We were soul sisters with many things in common.

“I think you’d really like Dr. Schaeffer. Why don’t I give him a call, see if he’d put you up in Switzerland, where he lives?” She stood up and went for the phone near our table, dialing Huemoz, Switzerland. The pause in conversation gave me time to pinch myself. Was I in England? Was I just offered a place to live, in Switzerland? Am I dreaming?

“Sorry Jenny,” said the person on the other end of the phone, “he isn’t here, not until day after tomorrow. He’s doing a radio show in London.”

Fate was laying out the road before me. Within hours we reached the address where he was and we were begging for entrance from the “no one can bother him” guard at the door. As we turned away, Dr. Schaefer caught a glimpse of Jenny through the window and ran to the door.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Excited to see Jenny, he invited us to lunch. It was evident that he loved her dearly, after all, she was one of his ‘miracles.’ Once, briefly, when I was staring into his eyes, I thought I saw the shadow of Charles Manson. I didn’t know any of these people. I imagined all kinds of shadows lurking. Across the extremely long dining table, covered in beautiful white linen and candelabras, Dr. Schaeffer turned his attention to me. He probably wondered if any C. Manson’s drove me, alone, to the shores of a foreign land. I prepared to withhold my soul from this stranger, but he saw beyond my hazel eyes, he knew what I refused to tell. He offered me the same life he had offered Jenny. I said no.

Charismatic Leaders

In the winter of 1972, I arrived in London, England, alone and hell bent on suicide. I was standing in a line at the American Express Office when I noticed a young woman, just ahead of me in line, that seemed to be a mirror of myself. She was exchanging English currency for American dollars, a cue that she was returning to the states. My eyes must have bored a hole into her back for she abruptly turned and stared straight back at me. Her eyes slowly descended, taking note of my brand new backpack and hiking boots. Hers by comparison were old and worn. She looked up at my face and smiled, "Would you go get a cup of coffee with me?" The sound of her California accent was soothing to my heart.

Within minutes we were sharing our deepest darkest secrets, as only two strangers ever do. First I divulged the wreckage of my life, then she spread before me the horrors that took her on the same suicidal trip a year earlier. She had been a follower of Charles Manson, imprisoned for attempting to smuggle him a weapon. After her release she "pan-handled" her way to Europe to get away from his power.

I trembled as I listened to her tale. I knew too well about Charles Manson. I was living in Los Angeles during his reign of terror. But somehow I could not reconcile those gruesome images with the beautiful young woman whose kind words were floating out towards me.

Ultimately we became good friends. In fact, she is why I am still alive today. For years after she returned to the states, we continued to correspond. Then she began to write about going back to Charlie. One day her letters stopped. What happened to her? Why couldn't she be free of him? She had admitted enumerable times that she did not want to go back to him, yet like an addiction, she could not resist.

Through the years I have watched family and friends get pulled into cults or cult like groups. People of all ages, intellectual levels and income brackets seemed to be vulnerable. In fact, it has been reported that around twenty million people have been involved in cults just in the last couple of decades. (Singer & Lalich, 1995 p.5) Almost 1200 people have died in notable mass suicides or cult-related deaths in that same time period.

The cult leader can be defined as a 'transformation leader,' or a person that can inspire followers to transcend their own needs in the interest of a common cause. They emerge during times of crisis and change, and although they have popped up across the strata of human history, the tragic mass-suicide-murders, tainting the last few decades, seem to be unique if not more numerous than before.

Past cults appealed to marginal groups, but ever since the 1960's, the disenfranchised have actually come from the mainstream of culture. There was a massive break from traditional societal values that necessarily left many people vulnerable. Then another phenomenon began which I think sheds some light on this unique time. At the end of every century our mortality is felt and a rash of doomsday prophets predict the worlds end. What we saw though, was not just a century's end but a millennium's end. Transformational leaders were appearing in record numbers never seen before.

I wanted to know what the characteristic of such a leader are. And I wanted to know who was vulnerable to their deathly message. Is it 'them' or could it be me or you? How can followers be manipulated to perform horrendous actions? Research to appear in a separate blog.

A Higher Power

Whenever there is a belonging, there is an alienation. The very country into which I was born, and in which I choose to belong was founded on religious freedom. We are "One nation under GOD, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." The assumption is that you can believe in any religion you want to, as long as you also believe in a god.

What do I believe? Like the landscape of Mother Earth, my beliefs have changed throughout my time on her earth. Today I question not just the belief in a higher power but more, the need for one. Through the years I have watched family and friends join groups that are called cults. I keep asking, what is the difference between a 'cult' and a religion? Each has a 'higher power.' This higher power (through men) names the laws and the rituals. They have leaders who inspire followers to transcend their own needs in the interest of a common cause. But what makes one religion a cult and another one not a cult?

People of all ages, intellectual levels and income brackets belong to cults and religions. Each group has a higher power which connotes a power-over, supposedly by a source outside ones self. In reality, it is a hierarchical power-over held by living, breathing persons, who also walk this earth and interpret the will of the higher power. In the last couple of decades almost 1200 people have died in notable mass suicides or cult-related deaths who followed the leadership of people like Davd Koresh, Charles Mansen, Marshall Herff Applewhite and the Reverend Jim Jones. Members were not always the disenfranchised. Many were normal, hard working family members. In the last couple of millennia, there has been over 9 million deaths due to a 'higher power.' From our perspective we see those dead as normal, old, poor and probably pagan or people who clung to their old ways against the backdrop of the new way or Christianity. But the thing about higher powers that bothers me most are the billions who belong to a religion that does not allow half of its members, the female half, to speak personally to that higher power, and must submit to those who have the right, the men. Humans are a strange, strange lot.

Believing in an organized higher power has been treacherous, especially for women. Not believing in one could also be socially treacherous. What is it that makes us have need for one? I was twelve when I began to ask mysel if there was a higher power. When I was ten, my sister and brother and I were baptized into the Mormon Church. However, throughout my teens I attended every church I could find, searching for something. I was married in a Baptist church and followed my husband's faith. I attended a fundamentalist theological school in Europe. My first two sons are Baptist, they reflect my early years. My last three sons reflect my present status. They have been baptized as Mormons but their higher power questions are unanswered.

When I was twenty-five, I declared out loud to the whole world that there was no god. When I was thirty, I was swirling in a small boat in the middle of a hurricane off the coast of the Yucatan when I cried out for God to save my life. For some reason my life was spared. Was it God who spared it? The lives of my children have not been spared. I have held my only daughter, dead in my arms, as the warmth from her body turned to cold while her face, twisted from a strangulation, softened into a smile. And I asked God why? I have watched seven children pass from my body, dead, and asked God why? I have watched my five living children be harmed and suffer terribly and I asked God why? Outside my own personal pain, I watch this world of people kill and hurt each other and I ask God why? I have answered this question in a million different ways. Sometimes with a higher power figured into the answer, sometimes not.

Often, when I discuss the question of a higher power with various people, the fear factor always emerges. Some express fear of what might happen to them if they don't believe in God. They are afraid of going to hell, or not going to heaven with the rest of their loved ones. But more often the fear is that if people don't believe in God, what will control their behavior? They never consider what is happening, and what has happened because of their belief in a god.

Higher power. I belive that the definition is changing for many people. As women and men face the issues of equality, the very myths of the existing higher power will also change. I seriously doubt that humans will give up their belief in a higher power, but I can hope that the Bible will be reinterpreted and some of the old stories will be recovered that include a 'woman loving,' 'human loving' culture that Jesus talked about.

Writing again

Many years ago, upon returning from a wild and unrestricted shopping spree in my new candy apple red porsche, I saw a small space on the patio just yards from the oceans crashing waves, that was black with ashes.

"Was there a fire?" I asked of the older man, the source of my new found wealth, as he sat in his richly appointed office, his face bloated from hours of crying.

"Yes there was a fire!" As he angrily unfolded the story a shock went through my body and I crumpled to my knees, too stunned to cry, too stunned to react with words. A large box of brown cardboard, the faded word Mayflower on its weakened sides; the folded tops, lovingily opened a million times; the black pen marks scribbling out a warning "PERSONAL - DO NOT OPEN," "OPEN AT YOUR OWN RISK," lay in ashes, blowing softly into the world of sand and sea. It held every paper, every story, every treasured real and fictional part of my life from the time I was eight years old until that day, twenty years later.

"I found your box in the garage. I think you wanted me to read what was in it. It made me sick. You are not the person in that box, and I don't ever want to see that person in my home, understood?"

Fire and ashes not only consumed my writings that day, but my desire to ever write again. Did I understand? No. And that person in the box never emerged again, but not for wanting to. I gave in to my ex-husbands rage, determined to make this marriage work. I gave in to his wishes, his wealth, his clout, and to his power.

My children beg me to write about the tales of my travels and I always use the excuse that I am searching for a significance in those stories. Afraid to reveal myself, afraid I might not be able to like that person, because a man I thought I loved didn't like her, I remain closed up, waiting for the proper 'significance' to come along.

I struggle here and now, but committed to telling the tales, for maybe some young woman or man will find a path away from the destruction that can waylay their life.

Blogs

This has been a difficult process, trying to figure out what I did last year. I knew that I had set up a blog but I couldn't remember any names or passwords. Now that I think I have that figured out, I think, I will try again.

Howdy from Utah

I am a graduate student at Utah State University in the Instructional Technology Department. I am creating a blog because I have a desire to learn how to do new things within the realm of technology. This is one of them. I wouldn't have done this if my study budy hadn't started it. In an attempt to comment on his blog I ended up having to/or was given the opportunity to create my own blog. If anyone is listening, and you know the answer to this question, would you please respond. What is the status of spectrum these days with regard to the internet? Also, if you have time to volunteer would you please go to http://oops.editme.com. It is a site for captioning videos produced by MIT opencourseware. The captions are to benefit the deaf and those who don't understand english. Of course, we also need people who are fluent in other languages too. But for now, you can adopt a video, listen to it, write down the english and post it back to the wiki. We'll do the rest. Thanks