If that is so, my mother is me, and I am my mother, and I am that altar, and I am its arrangement, and I am this bed and this mattress I feel under me is me and the tree I see out the window is me drinking up the cold fall rain in Cincinnati. A much-needed rain since the beginning of this summer’s drought. Even the buckeye trees didn’t have their pop pop popping period of time when their heavy fruity nuts would drop, and every squirrel would be running hither and yon trying to keep up with the deluge of the upcoming winter’s sustenance. Now the little guys are eating all they can find. I don’t think they have food stored for the long winter. Some may die, others may survive, skinny, next spring.So, 900 Haitians with cholera are me . . . that has been established. I’m unable to help that part of myself, nor the parts of myself swarming with mourning Iraqis and Afghans. I’m hidden away here, trying to heal myself so maybe I can help those women in Africa who are helping other women form coalitions of labor, profitable businesses for themselves; whose husbands often beat them for joining one of these groups called “Javala”. Oxfam let me know that. Oxfam let me know that the woman part of me is rallying together to become more than the sum of these parts. All parts must be cared for equally or life will continue to degrade across the planet. Take care.