I much prefer

I much prefer sunshine

yellow and warm finding every crevice and crack in my being

melding into me

reminding me of who i am.

I much prefer bliss

Ecstatic overflowing joy

tickling my everything

no where for sorrow to take hold

I much prefer peace

the state of still waters

a knowing that no matter what has come or will

all is well

I much prefer love

the all encompassing dance made of blues and oranges

reds and purples

connecting me to you

me to all

I much prefer dancing

the whirl of skirts and smiles

colors and music entwined in

happy surrender

I much prefer the knowing that I am part of all that brings laughter and fulfillment and creation and hope and joy and peace and love.

Yet,

only in the occasional absence

of that which i prefer

can

i truly

know

it's truth.

Like Me

I am challenged by

myself

By choices and my reactions to them.

I am faced with acknowledging that despite

my ability to accept spiritual and intellectual truths...

like

meaning is not inherent, but determined

attachment is a choice that can lead to pain

my feelings are born out of my own personal choices

i can change the way i feel by questioning and changing the way

i think.

Despite my ability to spiritually and intellectually accept these truths,

I struggle to apply them to the situations that arise in my life.

I made a choice.

I acted on that choice because i wanted to experience that choice.

That choice was tethered to an attachment I have.

I don't regret the choice,

and

the choice has

consequences

just like all choices do.

And though all is well, I moved myself into a space where applying

the things that I "believe" is called for.

I find it interesting that as a child, or even as a young adult, one

assumes that at some point in adulthood, we'll "get it". We'll have

ARRIVED.

Get it,

meaning....

It will all be clear

there will be nothing left to learn

we'll make no more mistakes

we'll have "reached" our goals

We sort of live like those things are true, don't we? And, though we

as

individuals

may realize with clarity

that

nothing is clear

there is so much left to learn

we make mistakes

we haven't reached our goals

we act as though we're the "shizzle",

wrapping ourselves in invisible

protective super-hero capes that keep everyone else from knowing that

we are the

ONLY ONE

who...

struggles

wishes

yearns

aches

isolates

fails

.

So, here, I admit to you that I know that like me, you are human.

Like me, you wish you were better at it.

Like me, you know you could reach higher.

Like me, you get tired.

Like me, sometimes it seems like a little too much.

And like me,

you forget just how perfect it really is.

Thanks

for

the

reminder.

And So it IS

Life

is so literal.

So, i'm doing this work.
spiritual work -- i guess

and what i do is claim.

i claim that i am not
do not want to be
am working to avoid
being

attached to things
situations
specifics.

i can almost hear 
Life
asking me, "Really?"

"Well, yes. Of course",
I retort (with a dismissive snort).

"Ok then", Life responds.

And, then, I make plans.
I get excited about the architecture of them
and get all giddy with detail in my head

about what will be
and when
and how
and why
and exactly this and that.

Life raises an eyebrow at me.

And I plan and think about 
a time that not only may, but

will come.

And I get all gleeful about it.
And then.
I get sad

thinking about what if
something goes wrong
or keeps it from happening
or rocks my very 
elaborate 
plans 
from their ever so carefully orchestrated foundation....

GASP.

And the now, 
in which I live 
continues

it's ever moving
never moving
existence
as it always has
always will
always does.

Calendar pages flip
digital clocks skip through crimson lit numbers
tick tick tick
of the watch wound to keep track of moments leading up 

until
away from
toward
into
getting there
further from

something
someone
anticipated moments wrapped in 
illusory ribbons
holding what is assumed to be
perfection
forever
elation
the 
it
we 
are
all
looking
for.

As I walk toward my lovingly crafted plans
things
critical elements
begin to fall away
fall apart
out of the illusion that I created
and told myself
so convincingly

was real.



There is no real

except the very moment
the very experience
the very breath
that I am taking right 


NOW.



And I hear my love,
the Life that created me 
say, "Remember your claim? 
That you accept, You walk into,
You willingly dance with
only that which really is. That you 
allow the fluidity of this very
energy to create the painting
that you see, and that you will love it
with all that you are. 

Remember?"

Life Smiles

and I remember.



And so it is.

Gimme

I wonder if we all have "alters".

I just finished watching the entire season one of The United States of Tara on Showtime.

First of all, it was amazing, and Toni Collette is brilliant, yet

that isn't what keeps the story on my mind.

The character, Tara, allegedly had a traumatic experience when she was away at boarding school as a teenager, and coped with it by splitting her consciousness into several different personalities.

Though the majority of us don't manage our personal traumas, secrets, shames this dramatically, I wonder if we don't have personalities that help us to cope.

When I was watching the end of the show, I couldn't help but think about all of the judgement that we heap upon ourselves and others in this culture. 

We are expected to live within the lines drawn arbitrarily by religion, politics, and social mores passed down through generations.  We are expected to paint on this face of "ok-ness", and if we can't -- or don't-- we aren't acceptable.

The personalities that Tara developed into could be seen as somewhat cliche, yet, don't we all have them?  There is "T", the sexually aggressive, 16 year old pot smoker who doesn't give a rats ass what boundaries are expected of her; there is Alice, the 1950's kick back who is going to paint on her Better House and Garden's face and cover any adversity with blueberry muffins;and there is Buck, the Vietnam vet, drinking, smoking, tough talking, gun cleaning, punch throwing, fart lighting dude who will stand up to even the slightest disrespect. 

And then, there is the alter that really interests me.  The name given to it is "Gimme", and it is like a child that has been raised away from any culture, full of fear and anger and shame.

Gimme acts out in wild, completely unacceptable ways to protect Tara from herself.  To protect Tara from healing.

Gimme made me think of myself. Not that I am like Gimme. I like to think that my cultural assimilation is one of my more charming qualities.

Yet, there are secret, dark places in me. There are shames that I rarely speak. To my knowledge, they are not things that you would recoil in disgust or judgement over, but tell that to my Gimme.

One of the areas that I have dysfunctionally coped with internal discord is with the addiction to being overweight. I find it fascinating that though I am as well-versed in the methods of how to change this as any consultant on The Biggest Loser, I have not made this change. 

Now, I have lost, and gained the same 30 lbs many times. This tells us that I am, indeed, able to do this thing. And then, just when I feel like progress is within my reach --

Gimme.

Sabatage.

And whatever that deep, dark, angry part of me is trying to keep hidden, is protected.

I'll keep working.

Do we all have a Gimme?

As you go.

choices

want this.

not that.

all spilled together

colors and substance and light and 

and

and

and

like drops of water in the ocean

joy illuminates isolated moments

blocks of moments

lifetimes of moments

elation adds music to silence

moving

carrying

intoxicating sound

connection creates bridges over 

angry seas

depths unknown

years of learning, wanting, needing

a story with missing pages

a song with notes imagined

a lifetime with moments longed for

creates questions

breath taking certainty

and shadows

and light

and bliss

and angst

a scale holding two sides of the same thing

a child's teeter totter 

giving glee to shifting shapes

weights constantly changing

perception ever fluid

Life

Never a dot to dot

Never a paint by numbers exercise

But a joyful

jumble

fumble

rumble

A dance made up

as

you

go.

a thread through time

life never fails to enliven my days
with joys
in the form of people.

When I was 15, I went to a church youth conference.
I honestly don't remember a lot from the conference itself
except that it was flippin fun.
A group of high school aged kids from my church road tripped to Michigan
and spent a week
high on God
friends
laughter.

I met Michael that week. I believe he was 17. I was 15.
I wish I could tell you when, why, how we connected.
I don't remember. I remember laughing
A LOT.
Michael was a Jesus freak hippy.
Adorable. Long, dark hair, blue eyes, an unpretentious "i'm cool" way of dressing....
also
he played guitar. my complete weakness.
I would sing along with him floating in bliss.
He was also funny. hilarious.
singing and laughing.
singing and laughing.
singing
laughing
laughing
laughing


Our relationship played out as a friendship
chaste and God focused.
But oh, did I love him.

He trumped everyone, and everything.
In the following years, there were phone calls.... phone bills
travel to see him
the kind of youth drenched, innocent immersion in another
that great summer movies are made of.

As I moved into college, Michael faded into the background a bit.
more and more.
I never stopped caring, I never stopped loving him.
Just -- sort of like your childhood bedroom.
It's always there, you love it, you want it to be there
but you just don't think about it as much anymore.

I had relationships, graduated from college, started a career,
spent time at a church, had my heart broken, married.....

Mike and I have had a sort of "Christmas card" friendship for the past
several years. There have been a couple phone calls - but none that
dove past the "how've you been, whatcha up to, how is your family" line of conversation.

Sometime in the past months, we connected again through email and i
happened to ask if he had an instant messenging program. He did.
I added his name, and then forgot.

Last week, his name was lit up.
My heart skipped a beat.
See, as valuable and meaningful and impactful as Mike
has been to the formation of so many things about me, I had a fear of
talking to him in depth.

Part of the foundation of my friendship with Michael was our
shared devotion and unwavering love of Jesus.
Christianity - radical and unapologetic.
Jesus freaks laughing and loving singing and knowing.

In the past decade or so, my heart's awareness of it's maker
and the requirements that maker places on us as children
have changed dramatically.
If you know me, you know that I am pretty brave.
Outspoken, clear.
I will share the way my soul feels about such things with the best of them.
But with those who's very hearts break at the thought of me becoming a
"lost sheep"?
I tend to steer clear.

The thought of facing the "How is your walk with the Lord" talk
has often made me weak in the knees.
I never want to disappoint people that I love.
And I know the kind of disappointment that goes along with
finding out someone you once shared your most intimate life view
no longer shares it.

Michael and I began to chat.
Maybe it was the media -- the format,
but all formal illusion fell away, and as soon as I knew it, we were laughing
and talking and joking as if the past 25 years hadn't passed at all.
A connection that transcened every major and minor detail
that has colored the landscape of our lives since then.

In a moment of "what the hell",
a level of trust had been established... I broached the scary subject.
Couched in vague hues,
I told him.... that my relationship with Christianity had altered
dramatically. Before he could respond, I confessed that my
heart had feared
telling him.

pause.

"You'll be relieved to know that mine has too"

We talked about it.
Though our stories don't mirror one another's,
and we may not be exactly on the same page,
I felt like floodgates had opened.
I was accepted by this person
that I had loved so much.
respected beyond reason.

Would it have mattered if my fears had come to pass?
If he had offerred up judgement or disappointment or
attempts at convicing me otherwise?

I think so.


Would I have judged him in turn?
I hope not. I guess I can't say. I hope not.

All I know is that again,
a friendship, clothed in the back drop of time
has re-emerged for me
into a new and meaningful
now.

I am so grateful.

It makes me want to

laugh
and
sing
.

Pie in my face

just when i think,
mistakenly,
that
i'm blessed with some sort of spiritual standing
i manage to slam a metaphorical cream pie
in my own face.

as some of you know and some of you don't,
my biological father makes choices...
has made choices...
continues to make choices...

that I judge.

Why do I judge him? Why should I?

I was adopted by my mother's second husband. I have written about him before.
Advanced Education, highly successful, polished, well-respected, high expectations.
He worked hard to provide for my sister and me.
That is who I was raised by.

My father, who's DNA I share, did not attain these same accolades.

And so, I have spent my life
judging him
as
not
acceptable.

What would Jesus do?
What would Love do?
What would Life do?
What would I do?

What would I do......

The other day, I received an email from my dad's ex-girlfriend.
She told me that my dad,
who is living in Flagstaff in a hotel
still drinking
did not want to talk to me because I would tell him what to do.
"Chew his ass", as he says it.

I was wrankled.
Thinking....
all I do is care about him!
all I do is try!
all I do is reach in the face of silent apathy!
all I do
is try to make him who I want him to be.

Get Sober.
Get a job.
Read a book.
Try harder.
Get on the internet.
Call someone.
Do s o m e t h i n g.

Be someone other than who you are right now.
You are not ok with me.


I called him.

and
unleashed
my
14 year old
adolescent
pissed off
unrelenting
hurtful
holier-than-thou
opinions on him.

So, I guess he was right

after all.


This relationship with my father, though often in the background of
my "real" life, is one that continues to challenge me in many ways.
It has affected my experiences of

men
emotional security
addiction
family
acceptance
rejection
satisfaction
self-esteem

me.

I'm almost 42 years old, and I'm still figuring this out.


Later, I called my sister and she listened
while I cried
wondering why he just doesn't love me
enough to be everything he could be
for me.

And my fury, my lack of acceptance, my anger
started to make sense.

Pie in my face
I humbly acknowledge that I am yet a child
longing to be loved
by her
father.

I'm sorry I yelled at you dad.

Response to outrage at Obama's Inaugural choice.

Why did he choose Rev. Warren for the opening of the inauguration?
I have a few thoughts on it, the first of which has to do with one of the main reasons that I was attracted to Obama as my president in the first place.

In 2004, when a nationally unknown Obama spoke at the Democratic National Convention, he initiated a dialogue that he culminated in his recent presidential acceptance speech in Chicago.This is not a country divided by political party. It is not a nation colored by red or blue; not place separated by moral stance, socio-economic position,color, religion, or orientation. This is the United States of America, and each person, regardless of whether they hold views that oppose our own, are equal, valuable members of this nation.

I see Obama's choice as a reaching out, once again, to a person that he respects as a human being. An American. A symbolic gesture to speak clearly that Obama recognizes that though he holds positions passionately, he realizes that they are not the only positions held by Americans. He acknowledges that he does not agree with Reverend Warren on various issues, but that he does on others, and that they agree to respectfully honor one another's positions.

This radical idea, that we can all live together as a united and mutually respectful people of Americans with unique and differing perspectives is being highlighted symbolically in Obama's choice of Reverend Warren. What is not being talked about is his choice of the pastor that will close the inauguration. Obama chose Reverend Joseph Lowery, a veteran of the civil rights movement, a pastor who has worked tirelessly to unite people and lift up those who have experienced judgement and oppression.

Earlier today, I heard a perspective on these pastoral choices that I find poignant and relevant. Perhaps Obama chose Reverend Warren to open his inuaguration to reach out in acceptance to "where we currently are as a nation". Reverend Warren, though working to acknowledge our nations failure to deal with poverty, maintains a strict, right-wing moral stance on issues related to a woman's right to choose and on a person's right to choose whom to love. Some would consider these ideas divisive. That is where we are now.

Then, he chose Reverend Lowery to close the ceremony - a symbolic movement to show where Obama wants to take us in the next four years -- to acceptance. to peace. to gentleness. to non-judgement. To equality as an American people.

Is this his motive?
I don't know.
I do think it's meaningful
and inspiring.

So, do I think it's hypocritical that Obama chose, to swear him in as President of the United States of America, a person that differs widely from himself on matters significant to the people of this country?

No.

I think it's beautiful.
I think it's brilliant.
I think it's poignant.
I think it's unifying.

And I think it's long overdue.

Background

MacKendzie

sweet kitty girl

sweet high pitched incessant demanding
meows
the softest
snow white and ebony
fur
enveloping
simply
an
elf

an independant
confident companion
draping her limbs
over couch backs and window sills

while I

got a promotion
fell in love
had my heart broken
married wrong
had my heart broken again
moved across the country
left my friends in my favorite place
married right
blended animal families
became a teacher
made new friends
got my masters degree

lived a lifetime
in the background
for me.

seventeen
years.

My faithful friend
painting the canvas
the foundation
the home

of my life
with loyal
loving
sweetness.

I will miss her
so.

Goodbye my Kendzie girl.

elusive

a longing from the
strong silent place at my center
deeper than me
reaching out and toward
the

ahhhhhhh

once felt.


Wrangling to hold tight
to that which is only

movement.

futile warring with fluidity
trying to tether the soothe

a moment easily recalled
a moving picture in my mind

vivid moving alive

a moment that fed a ravenous place
for only a pinpoint
in
time.

Then gone.

As if with anger
a hunger unrelenting
demands
it's
return.

a hard sell that if only
one more time
another moment

and the completeness will stay...


An illusion of longing.
I am not sold

but
reminded to stop
reaching

and embrace the elusive impermanence

of
life.

Working it through: A dialogue with self

A little background.....

I dated someone from the age of 17 until I was approximately 24. It didn't really end until I was 26 or so. Though I loved this person very much, and respected him as much or more than anyone, I was not good to him. I might argue that I was young. Yes, I was. I was fun, spontaneous, affectionate, and loving (according to my then understanding). I was also a bit of an emotional tyrant. I expected him to be giving and loving and kind and respectful and accommodating, which he was.... to a fault. While I held the bar high for him, I was not always those things to him. I don't know that I could see it then, but in hindsight, I do. Clearly. As you will see - old habits die hard.
Another thing about me. If I have loved someone, I always love them. Letting them go completely is like trying to pry a T-bone from the jaws of a pit bull. I don't do it willingly, or easily.
I have never felt good about how things ended with this person. I have always held him in the highest esteem and have always wanted to "right" things with him. Explain. Renew friendship. Evolve into something else. I have spent many years not giving up on this endeavor. It has never gone particularly well. Though in the background of my full and meaningful life, it has haunted me.

Recently, I talked to someone who knows this person. Essentially, this is what he said to me:

For his sake, and yours let it go. Leave him be. In his life, his marriage, his world view, there is no room for you. He is not ready -- no, not willing, to consider any sort of revisiting with you. He is not social. He is not interested in expanding his life outside of the few people in it. He lives his life in an expected, comfortable way, and he is completely content in it. He is not pained over you. He is healed and moved on. When I think of qualities I recognized in you so long ago, I can see that you have become more of that. Wide and expansive, full of life. When I think of qualities that I saw in him, I see that he has become more of that. It has moved you both in completely opposite directions. Neither good, nor bad. There is just no room for anything other than letting it go.

My thoughts:
Ouch. If you know me, you know that was not an easy pill to swallow. Hearing it made it very clear that the girl in me, who needs to know she is loved regardless of her behavior, is still trying to run the show. What I think my friend was saying to me is that even if this person were willing to allow some sort of friendship to exist (which he isn't), he believes that I would not find what I hope to find. That based on what he knows of me, it would be an exercise in futility and interpersonal frustration. I think my friend was trying to tell me that I have grown into a place...and this person has grown into a very different place... and that they are very far apart places. I also think that my friend was trying to tell me that there is nothing for me in trying to return to a place that does not exist.

My message to me:

My friend. Perhaps, rather than looking for vindication in this person's eyes, you need to seek it from yourself. You seek to love. Both others and yourself. It is not loving to make it someone else's responsibility to free you from choices you made in your past. You need to let yourself off of the hook. Realize that you have grown, and you have changed, and so has everyone that you have affected. You desire this person's forgiveness and approval. What now, that you cannot have it? From whom can you seek it? From yourself. It is not that this person is willfully withholding from you. It's that it doesn't exist for him. It exists for you, and therefore is your responsibility. If you want him to know that you are loving, then act from love. You have misunderstood your own motivation. You have believed that managing (or trying to) and positioning in order to express yourself is working toward love. Truthfully, have you not been emotionally strong-arming this person so that you feel better about yourself? If, what he longs for is to be free of the past, and of you, is it not loving to trust life and to willingly provide that? Know that you are ok, no matter what you did, and what you caused. Know that he is ok too. It is not your job to fix it anymore.
I ask you, my friend, to give this person the greatest gift you have. Let go. Release. Trust. and Love.

A gift unwrapped.

A connection with
someone
from long, long ago.

A person who was not a prominant note in the soundtrack of my life
but one who hovered in the perifery

circles of lives barely intersecting

heard about me through
a name woven lightly amidst
stories of other people
and other times.

One who did not, along side me,trudge through the mud and growth
of my life
But could, from that vantage point
see the splatter that occasionally happened as I ran rough shod
through my own story.

Someone,
to be honest, I was not always sure liked me very much.

A man eater
I believe was a term applied to me.

Ouch.

A moment, I'm sure, long forgotten.

And despite the shadow of one of
many people
on the outskirts of the
production of my being

I noticed
this
person.

Wise. Determined. Outspoken. Willing. Inquisitive. Driven. Intuitive.

Some of those qualities scared me.
Caused me to wonder
caused me to
perhaps
cower just a little.

A million years ago.

Not knowing that
while big hair
blue eye shadow
Valley Girl sang on the fm radio
a seed
of friendship
had perhaps been
planted.

and lay dormant in the safety of years and years.

A gift having lain unwrapped and unnoticed while life progressed.

Only to offer the possibility of
a
friendship.

Now.

Shall I?

Shall i come to you?
Shall i?

Will i walk toward you and realize that that
there is no difference between
what makes you you
and what
makes me me?

That we are both part of the same
spectacular painting.

Might I move toward the beauty and uniqueness
of who you are?

Realizing

that there is nothing
that who you are
can
take from who i am.

There is only more than can
be had
by both of us.

An indulgent feast of life.

Combing colors of you
with colors of me.
creating breath taking awareness of truth,
full of texture and newness and depth before not known.

Won't I experience the awe of abundance?
The richness not of gold or diamonds,
but of life.
Of sharing the breath that gives life to life.

The
I
AM
.

The wonder of relationship.

Might i look toward you and realize that there is no
barrier between us?
That it is only an illusion...
a lie
that keeps me
housed within the guise of walls
that I experience as surrounding me.

Can i?
Take the risk to give?
to take?
to blend and experience?
to dance with that and who which is not familiar to my human
limited
mind.
To challenge the lie that there is something to lose?

Perhaps I could.
Perhaps I will.

With arms open and heart accepting,
come to you.
And releasing the lie that there is division
fall deeply in love
with the rest of me.
the rest of you.

I think I might.

So
much more
than the walls
of this
house.


Yes


I shall come to you.
and I shall know.


Abundance.

Grieving

I'm grieving.
My heart is hurting.
My mind is seeking ways to find what it longs for
right now.

I look outside on a day just a skip
a pulse
away from

October.

Only to see the seething Nevada sun yet beating down on
pavement and rocks long ago
surrendered
to heat unrelenting

I reach into the air
my mind,
heart beats of anticipation
counting on memories of years upon years
expecting the cool, crisp bite of pure September
only to feel a familiar blanket of
flat
predictable heat
beckoning me with it's repulsive, overstayed flirtation

No.

I'm done.
Recoiling back into the forced, artificial cool.
June called. It wants its weather back.
Hoping to blind me with reprieve.
Soothe me with plastic, silkscreened cool laid upon
the truth of
the desert.

No.

The fabric of my youth calls for me
to return.
To grab a sweater and head out the door to
the light autumn air.
promises to whisk me beneath golden canapies
and to titilate me with the song of crunching
leaves
and the laughter of delighted children
burrowing holes in piles of crunchy gold orange yellow red.

My core pleads for days that foreshadow
the stillness of winter
and give
gift upon gift upon gift
of oranges and fading crimson
the scents of spice and pumpkin and ripe glistening apples and pears.

Perhaps like the feeling of one
imprisoned far from the land and customs and surroundings
that they love...
that make them who they are.....

My autumn heart
is jailed
in the blistering
Nevada
sun.

Junior High

twinkling eyes sparkling with daily anticipation
the uncertainty of
what and who and why and how
will happen today

amidst new friends and enemies and adults who claim
to know what they
should
need
can
must
know

a cauldron of fear and excitement and burgeoning courage

how do i know....

who to trust?
who to like?
when to reach?
what to believe?
how to question?
what to do?

Beings not quite grown to fit the size of their skin
the energy of growth and expansion
bursting through in exhuberant expression
decibles beyond comprehension

fill the halls
with glee and pain and questions and pushing and flirting and hiding and moving

feeling their way
into the first chapters of independance

their faces telling so much
the beginnings of voice and confidence
perception
longing
defining
learning who to be

life force clear and unbridled as a
colt finding his legs on a new spring morning field
and in some

the readable sadness of a childhood stolen
windows into a soul too telling

lives beginning
wings unfurling
direction being determined

and me
there
trying to show the way.....

the doorway

memories encased in significance
in the rooms
of my mind

the doorways to them becoming

further

away from where
i now sit
but still clearly seen.
memories bathed in the thick soupy stillness
of moments that are so hard
to believe
even in hindsight.

I can easily retrieve the memory of that day.

it started out with the same banal regularness
of any other day

The train to work
the crisp bite in the air that comes with a midwestern autumn morning
bagel in hand
coffee from Dunkin Donuts
trapsing amongst commuters.
Elevator up
briefcase
just ready to be dropped on my desk

when there is a new sort of


hush .


in the office
a gaggle of mouths agape
staring at a small 5 inch tv
rabbit ears reaching up
on someone's desk

What?
I asked.

No voices

yet the answer came with looks of horror
pointed back to the screen.

A Plane Hit The World Trade Center

What? How? Why? When? What? What? What? What? How? Why? What?
What? When? What? What? What? How? How? How? Why? What? What?
How? When? Who? Who? Who? Why? What? What? Who? Who? Who? Who?
What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What?

What?

How
is
it
possible
?

I worked in downtown Chicago.
At 8:30 am
it was announced that
we were to evacuate.

The commute, reversed.
yet silenced
there was no banter or laughter or din of conversations about meaningless nothingness.
no hurried pace of morning monotony
but
a quickened gait of confusion
and fear
and the sick ache of knowing that unspeakable horror is happening

right

now.

to
people
just
like
me. and you. and that guy. and her. and.....

Home
after what I experienced as hours
but was actually just minutes
i arrived
again
in my brand new condo.

Workers ripping out baseboard and doors for renovation
dust and
debris
mirroring my mind.

in a bean bag
i sat amidst boards and nails
dust and chaos

and
watched



the



towers



fall.

like a real life
real people
real death
real horror
game of jenga gone bad.

that moment.

.live.

while i stood there in my living room
people hurled
down
stories

smoke
burning gas
melting steel
into a silent pile
of lives
ended.

my emotions
had
no voice .
tears streamed as i sat
aghast
involuntary muted thoughts
in the pain
of all creation
that comes
from the manifestation
of
hate and
judgement and
decision of worth
of
another.

Since that day
life has gone on
just like it always threatens to do
and always does.


sun
moon
days
work
families
aging
illness
shopping
holiday parking lot wars
biased media
code orange
dates
sex
dinners out with friends

and the doorway
behind which the memories rest
gets further away from where i am
right now.

yet i see that doorway


clearly.

encased in the thick
still mist
of memories

like

that

one
.

Perfect for now

sunday morning silence

eric is still sleeping.... reveling in nothing to do
eyes hidden from bright nevada morning light
cozy
i came downstairs
fed my persistant 17 year old cat
water
and fed the dogs

now me

the sound of percolating coffee
bubbles of lazy perfection
against the hum of the air conditioner
keeping us protected
from the
still too hot nevada summer sun

the smell of morning
reminding me of the sounds of clinking spoons against
cold water glasses at Ann Sathers on Belmont
the feel of crisp Chicago fall mornings

the now of my life
quiet and calm
perfect
for
now.

On a clear day

On a clear day...
She stood before a sea of us
and sang

On a clear day.......................
You can see forever....

I listened
and heard

You know the difference,
don't you?
When something comes to your ears
and it penetrates
the film
of keeping out curtains
that keep so much
away from
our longing souls.

Sometimes that's good,
and sometimes
it puts off
peace
and growth
and more good.

On a clear day
she sang

i felt the truth of it.

When I am clear....
I can see forever
when
I look without
and when
I look within.

On a clear day
there is nothing between me and God
Nothing between me and life
living
feeling
creating
being

So many things can get in the way
of
a
clear
day

Fear. Anger. Wanting. Needing.
Indulging. Procrastinating.
Engulfing myself in something other than
what calls for me
in every single clear moment.

It might be the foggy, thick dependance on someone, something.
Food.
Sex.
Purging.
Pot.
Being heard.
Hiding.
Depression.
So desparately wanting to be loved.

Yet
on a clear day
we can see forever
and
know
that all of those things are
simply fog
in the midst of perfection.

Shades of immediate pretense of satisfaction
that hide the
so close truth
that

love
belongs
to
you.
forever.
and there is nothing that can ever change that.

On a clear day
you
can
see.

Boasting of Summer

So, i'm on summer break. that is really weird to say as an adult, but mannnnnnn is it fun.
For the past couple of years I have been long-term subbing for the Clark County school district. I have had "summers off", but wasn't paid.... So, I had to work. I got my teaching contract in January of this year, and therefore, though I don't make A LOT of money, I am getting paid. Right now. while I sit on my couch drinking iced coffee and watching the today show. Right now. While I'm listening to the dryer hum and watching my pups doze in the morning sun. I cannot tell you how fun it is.
I'm a week and a half into my ten weeks off. I know it's going to fly by..... And, to be fair, I'm not COMPLETELY free this summer as I'm taking classes toward my Masters in Education degree that I'll have completed by the middle of December. Regardless, this is decadent and wonderful. When I started this program, I was thinking that teaching would be a stop on my career journey.... That may be true in the end, but this summer thing won't be easy to give up!!

In the ether

it
breaks
my
heart

knowing that you're out there
hurting wanting
feeling alone and impotent in the confines
of a life
that lives you

knowing that you're navigating monsters that live inside your head
on your own
makes me want to reach through miles and miles of darkness
to
you

because i am contained in the silent ether of your mind
i cannot help in a way
that feels real

i can't give you the comfort of
a smile
a hug
a touch
a knowing look
i can't offer all that i have

to you

and
i want to
i want to

A special friendship.
Magic.
I love that you bring out the
funny
intellect
biting
loving
sides of me all rolled up into a stimulating ball of hilarious
loving
interaction.

Words can't capture.

can

they.

Could this magical, silent, friendship last forever
just as it is now.
Would that be so bad?
No..... not if i look at it through the windows of

each
moment

the unanticipated
spontaneous
times
we both appear in the same place
shock my mind
with glee
and joy
and electric connection.

you make me laugh & wonder & long for.

There is so much I don't know.

a
b
o
u
t

y
o
u
.

Your life, a canvas with only smudges of color that
i can see.
Yet I know it is rich in it's fullness.
Your depth and texture
your unique injured purity

speak to me.


I am here. In silent ether.
The secret confines of your mind
hidden behind

cheerios and baseball practice
arguments over bill collectors and paint colors
the drive to a job that fills the days to fill your wallet

hidden behind the furniture
neighbors
moves
questions
hurts

daily daily

i remain.

your.
friend.

English Teacher

she's 81 now.
hard to believe.... completely.
she's one of the reasons that i believe in myself.
funny, how a moment, a million years ago could
be burned into my memory.

she was my english teacher
in high school.
my junior year i believe.
i remember absolutely nothing about that class
except
for a paper i received back
with a comment

i think i have it in box of memories somewhere
it would take awhile to find
though
but i know it made me know
that she saw beneath the typical 17 year old costume
and into
who i was
who i am

i kept it
and i kept her

how did i get her number in the first place
i don't remember

it was a time before cell phones
email
texting

yet, as the years flew by
college
boyfriends
apartments
career
marriages
millions of moments

she has remained a light
in the recesses of my life
a reminder
that i was seen
and what she saw
was valuable

i love her for that
have always loved her for that

I called her today.
The phone rang and i held my breath
for i know
that her health has been failing for years.
waiting for a recording
or just the rings of a phone
that never even got
an answering machine.

An answer

Her nurse first and then
that
voice

A voice of wisdom
consternation
high expectation
and part of me
relaxed in the knowing that
she's still here.

In our lives there are isolated
moments
and people
that may feel or seem
insignificant

yet in that moment
they may
have given
a breath of life
of love
of belief in you

and they are forever part
of the tapestry
of what is good
in you.

She is part of the tapestry
of what
is
good
in
me.

Thank you
Ms. Helen Schallerer.

multi

nothing makes me more
aware
that we are
all

working with
the same capabilities

of love
and hate
gossip
and forgiveness
wisdom
and inappropriateness
fire and ice
awareness
betrayal
depth
vulgarity
peace
inciting anger
creativity
selfishness
and texture

than
looking
at
my
very
own
life.

Won't I miss her?

For those who don't know, my mom died of cancer when I had just crossed the threshold of 10 years old. What follows is an imagined dialogue between myself and God prior to my birth.


Me: God?

God: Yes love?

Me: So, I'm going back again soon....

God: Yes my expression, you've wanted to go again.

Me: I know. I do want to. I'm just always a little scared when I get ready to leave.

God: I know. I understand. I think you will love this go around.

Me: I think so too... I'm not sure about this losing her while I'm so young.

God: You've had her many times before, and this time, she wants to help you learn to really believe in yourself on a deeper level.

Me: Yes, I want to learn that. That I am capable and lovable and able. That I have everything I need within me.

God: Indeed my love. You will learn that and so much more.

Me: I'll miss her though, when she goes, won't I?

God: You will. Yet this missing will teach you as well. And we both know she'll be very close to you even when you can't see her.

Me: I know.

God: And, you'll be back here before you know it. Stronger, even more loving, and full of joy.

Me: Yes. It's gonna be great. Hard, but great.

God: Great indeed.

Paradise

How does one find
the balance between
trusting people and protecting oneself?

does it matter
if
people i trust
don't honor me with their words
or their actions?

does it change me in any way?

Not long ago, I was teaching a group of children
the truth that
no one
nothing
anything
at
all
can change the beauty that they are

I had them envision the
most beautiful bouquet
roses
lilies
yellows and reds purples pinks and oranges
bursting with
delight
and fragrance
a paradise of senses

I had them set this bouquet in front of themselves
and
begin to

berate it.

tell it that it is
ugly
stupid
hated
horrifying
dissapointing
nothing
ignore it
betray it
talk behind it's back

and i had them look at the flowers again.

Had they changed?

No

the children said
they had not.

The flowers were still just as beautiful
and pink
and fragrant
and miraculously wonderous
as they
were
before.

Nothing can alter beauty.
We forget.
don't we.

Nothing can change the beauty that is you or
me or
him or
her or
them.

A lesson I taught children
yet
I
haven't
quite
learned
myself.

Entwined

entwined
I'm one of those people.
the ones that talk, reach, send, give, create for
others.

I love other people.
I love their uniqueness, the texture and result of their choices, their voices --
what they have to say.
Sometimes, when what they have to say differs dramatically from what I have to say... well,
that can be a challenge to appreciate -- but in truth -- i do.

People fascinate me.
I love that each factor of our lives,
each choice, each turn around a different bend, each surprise, each new moment of each new day creates a new pattern, an altered hue, a change.

I love reaching, and experiencing people.
I can discuss it in a way that makes me sound altruistic and painfully generous.
I can do that. Yet, in truth,
I wonder if that is indeed the truth. Not altogether,
I am sure.

For reaching and touching and connecting and giving and considering and loving and knowing and talking to and hoping for
others
does a couple of things -- for me.

One, it enriches me. It provides for me
new texture, new shadows, new sounds and music, new things to consider, new ways to approach.
my life.
I love that. More than anything I believe.
People.

weird, sexy, wild, courageous, fearful, learning, wondering, judging, waiting, trembling, heart-filled, musical, conservative, cutting-edge, loving
people.

It does another thing for me as well.
The darker side of all of this people other than me focused living.
It keeps me from the silence.
that
is
soley
and
completely
inside
my
being
with
no
other
sound
but
my
own.

I know that I can live my life without really being all that concerned with that fact.
But there is a part of me that knows that spending time in this place is part of the next.... deeper....wise....experience for me.
for all of us.

Being completely alone, for me, is not an exercise is fear -- as it is for some.
It is an undertaking of courage.
It is in the silence of me, that my spirit pauses and my mind trembles.
Certainly my mind.
My mind loves to be busy... reaching, giving, considering, solving.
But to send my mind to the still, quiet waters of my own being? With nothing to distract? Well..... you're asking
quite
a
lot.

So, I look at the yin and the yang, the up and the down, the soft and the hard, the you and the me of my life. and when I do

I long
to know
both.

To embrace the texture and the sound and the noise and the problems and the solutions and the music and the dance and the interaction of

others.

And, entwined with the patterns that live outside of the edges of my own mind
to know intimately.... my own,
still silence.
Where i suspect
joys
and
secrets
reside.

Rough (morose)

i am a flippin emotional sponge.

a person i barely know,

but who's blog i read recently

lost a friend.

i'm not positive, but this person i know can't be over 30.

she is a brilliant, funny, irreverant writer and

i find myself at her writing daily.

She writes about her kids,

life,

stupid people,

the gamut.

Recently she has been writing about a friend who died.

Her friend was a mother.

Sounds like she was funny, sharp and kind.

she was also an addict.

The person I barely know

wrote of how it was hard to see her friend

spiral

out of control.

How she longed for some way to connect, to effect, to inspire

her friend to change.

She didn't.

A week or so ago she died.

Alcohol and perscriptions.

lethal.

I didn't know this woman. Why should I care?

I don't know.

maybe it's my unbearably annoying empathy

which really

cramps my fun loving style sometimes.

Thing is.

people are in pain. hurting. dying. crying. desparate. alone.

Whether they are the ones causing it, or the ones watching it.

It's going on

and it breaks my heart.

and yet, I'm perplexed.

while all of this pain and crap is going on right now...

Joy is also happening.

right now, I don't feel it, but I know somewhere... it is.

Every fucking thing possible

is happening right now.

How dizzying is that?

Just venting.

Feeling for this woman I barely know.

for the people who loved the woman I didn't know.

For all of us.

Cuz life....

its shit and pain....

despite the joys....

Will spare

not

a

one

of

us.

Life Lesson #476 Repeated. Again.

i am struggling with the reluctance to really face things that
are uncomfortable to face.
namely the responsibility that i have when i am feeling out of sorts.
discord.
angst.
upset.
still... though i know much.....
i show up in a day knowing very little about
how to be clear emotionally.

Feeling like making someone else responsible
for my state
of emotion
panic
sadness.
Wanting to flail.

There is a still small voice
reminding me of what i know.
what i claim.
what i say.
There is only me at this control panel.
It is glorious choice
that has me feeling
whatever way I am feeling.

If I am feeling sad
or mistreated
or maligned
or grumpy
for frumpled
or irate.

It is only me that ordered that plate.

And what is on the plate?

Sometimes so hard to swallow.

Dance.

thoughts.

running through. seeking a place. bounding
past where i might be able to
see
feel
understand
control them.

newness.
a dance riding on a wave of never
before experienced
like
a belly laugh coming from
a place unexpected.

knowing that
riding on a burst of delighted moving air
can
never
sustain
throughout
the mundane series of days.

but
knowing

things like this
are rare punctuations in rote
real
concrete
obligation
expected.

I am grateful. for fun. for you. for friendship. for initial insatiable emotional
mental
physical
hunger.

A connection of 2
locked within a mutual gaze
while the world rotates
in it's every day
way.

Feeling your hunger for knowing
meet my hunger for knowing.

Dancing.
Dancing.

Brings that quiet reminder that tumbling this way
is a vacation.
Because
it
cannot be sustained
in
it's
present
form.

As a fire that blazes through slumbering unexpectant wood.
You stumbled into my days.
Laughter
knowing
the
slightest angst of awareness.

gifts.
all of them.

for the memories of what is possible can always be sustained

in the midst
of
rote
everyday
obligation
remind us
of
the
joys
that
can
be
when we dance with unexpected joy.

one point

realizing every moment that brings a challenge
or a tear
or hurt
is an opportunity for me to look within and see
what
how i am
expressing my own life.

because
the point is
not to judge anyone
or anything else
but to realize that one's entire
awareness resides
withing the boundaries of one's own awareness

therefore
the only thing
that can change my experience
of life
of others
of situations

is me.

one might think me niave
or simple
or stupid
of short sighted

but as my life progresses
i can more clearly see
that there is only one point

to love.

a broad and simple word
don't you think?

give
forgive
laugh
release
allow
rejoice
wonder
expect good
forgive again
again
again
again

recently i have been faced
with the addictions and choices
of someone that i love very much
passionately
through lifetimes perhaps

i hate what he is doing
and choosing
and expressing
and letting go

what am i to do with the
judgements and anger and sadness and hopelessness that i feel?

look within and acknowledge
where i am being dependant on something
selfish
short sighted
needy
hurtful
self absorbed
disrespectful
hoarding
small

it is not useful for me to ask these questions about
him
or you
or them
or that culture
or that group
or that country
or that religion

it is only useful
to ask it of
myself.

every hurt
is an opportunity for me
to become
what
i
know
i
agreed
to
become
in
the
first
place.

a difficult task.

it's always easier to
look at

you
the neighbor with a messy yard
al quaida
george bush
my boss
the friend who hasn't called
the arrogant ass
the driver cutting me off
the family member who won't see it my way
anyone
other
than
me

yet, looking at them. judging them.
adds poison to an
already very poisoned
life.

i want to bring healing to life.
and i can only do that
by healing

me.

heaven

what if there is no
real
separation between

heaven
and
here

me and you
snow and sun
light and dark
good and bad
them and us

what if it is as if
we are looking
very closely
at an impressionist
painting

and rather than a whole
we
see
individual dots
of color
smudges
contained within
something more

i suppose it's not wrong
to see
life
in
just
that way

just a way
one way
to see it

experience it

maybe knowing that
it is simply
one way
of
a
million
ways

would give us
freedom to

see
allow
enjoy
rejoice in
invite
accept

other ways
of
seeing
life

maybe that would be

heaven
.

my sister's house

i'm at my sister's house.

minnesota today
is beautiful.

snow falling in tiny fast falling wisps
that make you squint when you're
treading your way to the car.

i'm reminded of the joys
and challenges of
the kind of cold that makes
your nose hairs curl
and demands that
tootsies be well warmed
against
a fire
covered in thick wool socks
after the desperate relief of the
warmth
inside.

my sister's house.
is lovely.

always a pot of tea on the stove
josh groban melting hearts on
the cd player.
the tree silent with
warm glistening joy.
and Maggie
holding a pair of thieved
socks in her mouth
wagging her brown stump
with joy overflowing.

the giggle of ten year old
siblings
vying for attention
or the mastery of the
most recent gameboy acquisition.

my sister's house.
a perfect blend of
pottery barn and garage sale
treasures
seamlessly inviting
class and cozy.

The fire ablaze
battling the constant
chilled air
trying to slip from the insistent
minnesota december.

slippers
tea
fire
tree
dog
family

love.

my sister's house.

So do you.

i don't have kids.

for much of my adult life, i have worked in settings in which i didn' t
interact much with children. People that behave like children?
Well, that's another blog for another day :)

i do, however, remember being a child.
quite clearly in fact.

i was talking today with some co-workers about memories of school.
junior high. high school. college.

we were in a consensus that we didn't have many memories
of actually learning,
being engaged by learning in our secondary education environments.
I'm sure this isn't true for everyone,
but it is true for me.

What I do remember is Mrs. Malinowsky.
She took just a moment in my third grade day
to let me know it was ok that I'd asked her if she was pregnant
(she was, phew!) when I was horrified with embarrassment.

I remember Mrs. Yost, who told my fourth grade class
that my mom had died. She showed up at the funeral.

I remember Mr. Mapes, my 6th grade science teacher who gracefully handled
a class of nutty 12 year olds while dissecting frogs. Even when Steven bounced the
eyes like tiny super balls.

I remember my 11th grade Sociology teacher, who jumped up onto a chair
and belly laughed to make his point
to the horror and silent admiration of his students.

I remember Mrs. Schallerer.
She returned a paper I had written with
a comment that made me know that
she believed in me.
And she was proud.

I don't remember much in the way of subject content.
As important as the area of a parallelogram is.....

It is the people who impacted my life

that
I
remember.

Those are the moments that
Shaped me.
Gave me.
Taught me.
Saved me.

When one doesn't have kids, the news about the education system
often falls through the auditory sifter.

funding.
teaching shortages.
no money for programs.
cutting of arts and music programs.

as i recall, it was much like background noise.
must be important
or it wouldn't be on the news.
but it's probably more important to someone else.

For the past almost three years I have been teaching.
It started as a "something to do" job while i waited for other
opportunities to arise.
funny how life works.
Since then I have decided that I enjoy it
(so much better than working with govt employees. go figure).
and now.
it's
important
to
me.

Making a difference in the lives of people.
people who are growing and learning
about life.

defining themselves
and others
learning
how to
be
in the
world.

yes,
they need to learn how to diagram a sentence (wait, do they?),
add fractions with unlike denominators (again..)
what the chart of elements look like,
blah blah blah.

I do that.
some of it anyway.

But what I really teach, and what I long to teach
is how to do life.
How to be ok in this crazy, insecure, fast-lane, road-rage, consumer oriented, gossip laden world.

Even in a perfect world, teaching a 13 year old how to feel good about themselves
is no easy feat.
But it could be the most important thing I will ever do.
For them.
For me.
For you.

Teaching a child about joy, and kindness, and patience
makes
a
difference
in
our
world.


Do I succeed ? every day?
Well, I want to say yes, but the truth is..... probably not.

But I hope that I show these kids how
to
be
human.

A flawed, honest, kind, giving, curious human.

And I hope that
when I make them laugh
or challenge them
or demand kindness
or smile and sincerely want to know who they are
that
I
inspire them
to
be
the
same.

I don't have kids.
But then again
I do.

So
do
you.

my story

i decorated my tree today

decorating my tree is kind of a sacred occasion to me

i wait for the perfect day.
not too close to christmas, not too far away.
too close to christmas.... well, one gets ripped off of delicious christmassyishessness
too far..... crunchy needles and far too much vacumming

anyway.
today was the perfect day.
december 9th.
I found it.
good height.
nice roundness (christmas trees should be a little on the chubby side)
no gaping holes.
slender easy to manage trunk.

she's a keeper.

so into her cocoon of white plastic netting she went and off to her last home she was carriaged.
eric says she was being driven to her death throes.
he's not very festive when it comes to christmas trees.
scrooge.

i love the ritual surrounding the tree.
honestly, it's a good thing that eric doesn't have
much investment in the tree,
because i think i'd hurt him if he tried to introduce gold garland to
the mix.

ho ho ho

it had begun.
Johnny Mathis on the cd player,
giant tupperware ready to be opened
fire ablaze
all i was missing was the spiced cider on the stove
and cookies in the oven.
there are years i have done that too, but... well.... i wasn't
channelling martha this year. It's ok.
It well regardless.

I keep my ornaments in a giant, pepto gree tupperware.
inside, the ornaments are separated a by a cardboard grid.
there they were.
waiting for me.
blinking awake after a longgggg nap.

Some people adorn their trees with
green
red
blue
silver
balls they bought at walgreens.
i don't have those.

my ornaments tell a story.

the first one i took out was a paper mache one
my mom made before i was born.
she was young and creative and too poor to go to walgreens.
i think it was supposed to look like a ball,
but it was really just a wad of newspaper paper mached in blue
with gold specs

it's the most beautiful ornament ever made.

when i stood on the step stool and put it
near the top, i thought of her
i smiled and cried
all at the same time.
remembering
all
of
her.

there are the ones i made out of sugarless cookie dough
of my dogs
and random things that make me smile when i see them

there's the one that looks like a tennis ball and reminds me
of my dad before.
before.

there are the ones of ruby feathered cardinals
that remind of when i sat on a chair
my socked feet not quite reaching the floor
eating cereal on winter break
looking out the window of
grandma's kitchen

there are the ones that are old
and have a greyish green patina.
they belonged to my dad's
ex girlfriend from a million years ago
but i can't bear to give them back
because in years that were sad and mom-less
she gave me warmth and love and made me feel safe
at christmas time
so i keep them.

i don't think she'd mind.

my christmas tree tells my story
if only to me

tonite i sit here in the quiet
a fire
the white lights
and i have a sense of
home

sitting so close to
my

story.

Come see.

'll tell it to you.

wonder bread

out there
among the what not
the many whos
surrounded by the world
i cannot see with
my everyday eyes

wondering what you're
thinking
and
if
you
think about me

If you wonder at all.

Or if you are different than i am
somehow
and the questions don't intersect
with the banal
mundane
everyday

bagels and coffee
newspaper on the front porch
traffic jam
damn that long red light
like
they
do
for
me.

As I sit behind the car idling
on the highway
blinkers on
stuck in the lane
with red blue silver black whizzing past
as I am stagnant in a moment

I think of you

where you must be
what your same moment might hold

maybe painting
wonder bread with chunky and grape
following a toddling child
scolding an adolescent for too much computer time
the toilet paper is out
we need milk
where's my phone....

do thoughts of me

intersect

?

Illusion

suddenly humbled.
no,
that's not honest.

reminded and humbled.

patterns created when i was 10. 13. 15. 19. 25.
continue.

motivated by a need for acknowledgement. a desire to be wanted. needed.
adored.

humbled again.
i feel foolish when i look at my angst from the view of an outsider.
how silly.
foolish.
childish I can be.
Why don't I already know that I am worthy of the love and care of others?
Why is it an unfillable hole?
Someone tells me
shows me
reminds me that i am loved
and
into
the
bottomless
hole
it
goes.

Oh, at first, It feels good.
Ahhhhhhhhh.
Like the hole squeezes together just past the opening.
It's filled.
Feels warm and knowing and good.

But in moments
hours
days
months.

The hunger is there again.

Humbled when I look at myself.
How I long to fill others.
Because I love them.
Because I want to show them how I want to be loved.
Because I hurt.
Weep quietly in a silent isolated place inside myself.
Sometimes even when joy abounds
outside the walls of my body.
Weep
at the emptiness that I
really
do
know is a lie.

I am projecting the fact that I don't love myself the way
I want to be loved.
Humbled.
Awed.
Can I love myself
and
fill the unfillable hole
so that I am no longer driven to create situations
to prompt others to fill it?

But I do love them. So much.
I do love me.
Someone
Something
Sometime
painted my canvas with colors
dull and lonely.
Colors that tell a story of not good enough.
Colors that bleed through the bold beauty of red
and gold, sea blue and sunshine orange
that I have created in my life.
to create spots of not so pretty
that surprise me
when they
become more clear than is comfortable for me


Humbled.
Questions.
Not answers.
Knowing.
that there is no need to find them.
But to know.

Despite the intensity of the illusion.
An illusion it is.

recycle

there are people
shadows of heartfelt memories
of people
spaces uninhabited
in my heart
but felt.
still.

my heart longs for people it has loved.
it hurts to think that i am not
anymore.

is that possible?

Why is it feasable for my heart to allow relationships to alter ?
evolve
change
grow
find a new place or definition.

yet for them
it is not.

my heart longs for
their eyes. their voices.
their intentions. their families. their values.
their songs. their views. their laughter. their magic.

i miss them.
i miss many.
i have been priveledged to have experienced.
so blessed.

i wonder if they even know that their
absence in my life is felt
noticed
pained.

not everyone feels as i do.
once a relationship fails to fit in the box we purchased it in
it is released
discarded
recycled
regifted.

not how I feel.

feeling this way.
is lonely.

yet
maybe
having
known
them
at
all
is
the
gift
.

new friend

in my life
i trust
that
the ongoing
gift.
the waterfall
of
friends
will continue.
drop.
by.
drop.

i trust
that
life
will honor
myrequest
for the next person
who will
open
my
eyes
and
bring joy
to my mind.

More colors
to the palate
of my experience.

thank you for being
a reminder.
and a new drop
of
color.

Sunday Morning

Lazy waking
eyes slowly peeling open
to the persistant mews of
the smallest cat

Gentle movements
of my happy
groggy
husband

The sound of the shower
his whistled tune
glorious alarm

The sound of coffee
beginning to brew
against the
canvas of morning silence

click click click
the dogs nails
saucer eyes asking
for
food

Slow rituals
a lazy brook
contentedly meandering
around
glistening
boulders

Clinking of spoons against
coffee cups
and the
beginnings of
a slow
starting
day.

belief

what's the difference
between what i believed then
and what
i believe now?



believe seems such a weird
and odd
word to me now.

BELIEVE.

What is that anyway?

To state that something
is
TRUE

even though there is no way to know?



I've heard it said
that's what
faith is.



I feel like an ogre
in that I have a problem with the term.

but i do.

Maybe belief and faith
are not the same thing
at all.



Believing may be accepting as true something

something
that
cannot be
or has not
been proven.



Belief in....



A needed savior of the world
Aliens
Joseph Smith and his seer stone
That God wants women to wear burkahs

and the list

goes

on.

So, what has changed for me?
I no longer cling to a belief,
or a doctrine
or specific covenant

but have faith
that
there is something.

and that when i strive to know it
and live from a place of
love
and
responsibility
that

I participate in
God
in
this
moment.

afar

saying goodbye is difficult for me.
even when it is clear to
every
clear
minded
person
that goodbye is the right course of action.

i often get commended for keeping in touch with people I have known.
i am quite good at it.
If I do say so myself.

but what they don't know
is that
there is
a
girl that lives within me
that fears
letting go
and being left behind by those i have been loved by.

sounds silly
i know. im working on it.

i reach out to people i have loved

recently
long ago

because
when i love someone
i never don't.
love.
them.
in.
some.
way.

a hard concept for some to imagine.

yet, it seems within the
joys of possibility
that
a love
can take many forms. and can shift. or change. or learn to be. something new.

a lover
a friend
a husband
a confidant
an occasional but real connection.

it has taken me quite awhile to see that
there are people who don't see it this way

at all.
when a relationship alters, it is gone. for good.

rest
in
peace.

well, i have made best friends and kept them
because my affinity for them
has an iron grip.

i wouldn't change it
for the world.

but there are hazzards in the practice.
and i have to be reminded
that there are some
people that i have loved
that i
would be wise to
love from
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
afar.

friends.

i have amazing friends.
i really do. if i have done something outstanding in this lifetime, it is to have made
incredible friends.
some of them i see often.
some rarely.
but i cherish each and every one.

i had lunch with an old friend today.
i haven't seen this person in almost 2 years.
yet, when we sat down, the distance melted into nothing
and we were right back where we always are when we get together.
it's like the rest of the world is
happening in a morph where i can see it
but it just doesn't matter
because i am enfolded in joyous contentment

sharing secrets
encouraging eachother
affirming truths
laughing together.

it was good.

I have seen many of my dear friends of late
and i am so grateful

reminded of
what i love
about
them.

If I have done one thing for which I am very proud
It is to have made these friends.

A
treasure
more
valued
than
gold.

crap i tell ya.

looking glass
looking glass

why do i feel shame
so often
when i look your way?

where did i read somewhere
long ago
that there is a list
of ways to be
when gazed upon?

The Book of You

Chapter One through never ending....

smooth skin
clear like a babies
always
aging must not show
narrow lines
hide
round
curves
for they will offend

When was I taught that the lines
my experience on this planet have written
on my eyes
are wrong?

Where did I accept that my soft
round
belly and behind
are
a sign
of failure

Why was did I learn that
there is always something
that is not ok
with
me
?

How has it taken me
forty glorious years
to realize that
this
is
all

CRAP.

:)

thanks

i am so grateful
for every moment that i realize that
there is something for me to

learn

i am grateful for the wisdom of those who have come
before me
since me
for those who have the courage to speak

wisdom

no matter it's source.

Buddha
Jesus
Aunt Jane
Crazy Ned on the corner
Father Patric
Bishop Jones
Mother Theresa
your 3 year old child
a whisper of love during a still moment alone


the wisdom that lives in

life

that lives
in

it
them
you
me

i am grateful for every moment
that a corner of
darkness is illuminated
by

a word
a thought
a deed
a song
a choice
a gift
a seemingly meaningless act

I am grateful that every second is rich with abundant love

if
I
am
willing
to
see.

Chicago is....

i'm in Chicago
my home away from home

i love it here.
honestly.

even when the air feels like warm sticky soup

like
it
does
today

i love it.

i love the bricks carefully stacked one upon another in the year 1928
the artist having had no idea
that a million years later
i would take such comfort in his creation

of a home
a temple
a building
a place

where generations of loves and questions and anger and growth and failure and births and deaths have been housed

whether in oak park
or ukranian village
or boys town
or uptown
or lakeview
or wrigleyville
or wicker park
or korea town
or evanston

I'm home

and my heart sings

to the man standing at the end of the on ramp at Fullerton and the Dan Ryan.
to the crazy lady painting with black and grey and white in the cafe while she argues with invisible combatants at Borders in Uptown.
to the 30 something yuppie mom with her $300 stroller in Lincoln Park oblivious to any lifestyle but her own.
to the drunk Cubs fans staggering down Clark Street after a game elated by a win, or a loss.

I love passing the place I lived in Ravenswood for what feels like a million years
and
I love seeing the church where I found God and the place where I lost him and the place where I found her again
and
I love knowing I am within minutes of the best thai food anywhere on the planet
and
I love passing under the El and having to suspend conversation because the roar of metal on metal takes precedence to any thought I might be sharing
and
I love watching the tattooed doe eyed girl with a pink mohawk and safety pinned thigh highs saunter down Belmont with her friends

and
and
and
and

Chicago.

My
kind
of
town.

Annoyed

Each day we encounter situations which wrankle our egos.

Damn that driver.
Boss annoys the crap out of me.
Why does my mother have to say exactly what will push my buttons?

And
on
and on
and on.

What if, these situations were presented to us specifically to help us become?
Become exactly who we know we can be, but generally haven't been.

WHAT IF?????

The person you know you can be.
Think to the moments you have given yourself a hard time.
You judge yourself because you're not....
the person you can be.

That feeling of who you know you can be at your best
is
a
gift
from
Life.

It's your map.

Know that every moment that bugs you, or annoys you, or pisses you off is an opportunity.

To become. Who. Your highest self. Knows. You. Can. Be.

So next time your boss bugs you. Your kid annoys you. your spouse makes you crazy.

Say thank you.

And grow.

Freedom

it's father's day again.
every year
it seems
i
understand more
that
fathers
are

just

people

too.

I wonder if everyone thought their father's were Gods.

Some might think that holding a man
on a pedestal
is a sign

of love of adoration of admiration.

But
is
it
fair?

Knowing that the men...
the people
who have been my fathers
are simply
men.
flawed.
real.
learning.
growing.
trying.

Frees me from feeling not good enough.

This fathers day Dad
I
give
you
freedom
from
unrealistic
expectation.

and
I love you for exactly who you are.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has come and gone.

turkey carcasses slumbering at the bottom of trash cans awaiting the garbage truck.
sweet potato peelings making healthy headway toward being compost.
The silver snuggly wrapped in their special places until the next occasion.
Aunt Jenny and Uncle Bob
headed back to anywhereville
adorned with their Christmas sweatshirts and left over fixins for the road.

Thanksgiving makes me think.

We gather, in whatever way we do, to give thanks.
For whatever it is we do.
Health.
Family.
Money.
Our newest toy.
The recent boyfriend.
The kids.
The ability to visit parents in their fancy schmancy house in Scottsdale.

Then there are others.
Maybe those who dined over a card board box
on a donated turkey and box stuffing.
Yet they give thanks. don't they.
For the love they share.
The hope they have.
The possibilities.
The gifts that they do have.

Then there are others.
Who don't.

Does everyone have something to be thankful for?
The homeless man living under the Wacker Avenue Bridge?
The woman afraid to go home to the drunk, flailing fists of her husband?
The teenager unable to process the pain of growing up?

Who am I to say that they don't have something to be thankful for? Isn't that what I believe? That we all can? That maybe that's the point?

Yet, I want to be cautious when I give thanks.
To remember, that maybe it isn't the things or the specifics that I should be thankful for, but for the fact that we all can.
No matter what.

To remember that the family still living in a trailer in New Orleans are rich with the intimacy that love and tragedy can bring.
To know that the homeless man may have had the most magic interaction with another person when a hand was reached
a meal offered
a smile shared.

Maybe those people
sometimes
have more to be thankful for

than me.

Change

I just got back from a visitation.
The kind you go to when someone you know has died.

I didn't know this guy.
I mildly know his wife. Amy.
She's a light-filled being that I admire.
They have a one year old daughter. Sadie Grace.
Her husband had a heart attack 2 years ago.
He committed himself to health.
Changed the way he ate.
Started working out.
Riding his bike.
Rode in fund-raisers and competitions.
A 180.

Monday night he went out to ride.
Training for a 100 mile ride to raise funds for Childhood Leukemia.
He didn't come home.
Amy didn't think much. He rode long distances.
She got a call.
We couldn't rescesitate him.

Gone.
No more bedtime stories from Daddy.
No more walks at dusk.
No more daily love texts.
No more kisses good morning.
No more dutch ovens under the covers.
No more of him.
In an instant.
Gone.

Life changes.
Life changed for her.
In the shadow of a benign evening at home.
Life changed.

The whole thing has cast a shadow on me.
Challenging me.
I believe this isn't the end.
I believe we can make it through anything set before us.
I believe that dying is like birth to another experience.

Then
Why
Does
It
Scare
Me
So
Much

Why do I want to hold Eric close and gasp with gratitude for every extra day I have with him?
Why do I wonder if the next moment will take me?
Take him?
Take someone I love?

My mind and heart are full of tumult.
Not questioning.
Not even truly fearful.
Yet, on some level, I sit alone in a corner, covered by a blanket, my knees pulled tight.
Shuddering.
Weeping.

Don't change my world.
Please.
Please.
Please.

It's the condition of life, change.
It will.
It is.
My world changes in every blink of every moment.
Even if it's not within the walls of my house today.
It changes.
It changes for someone.

Monday night.
It changed for Amy.

Same.

there is love in the midst of every moment,
every disaster,
every conflict.
between the cracks of hate, you can find love.

a hand offered, a bed given, a meal, an embrace, the forgiveness of petty anger,
in seeing the big picture,
in experiencing oneness.

what is going on in the world right now is a mirror. the flipside of love.
showing that on this planet we are the same.
the same challenges, the same struggle. the same humanity.
the same desperation. the same anger. the same want.
the same harried attempt to feel that we have some guage of truth.

it is the darkside of what makes us beautiful.

love lives is in the space around me.
Love cannot be mandated.
It springs up organically when the facade is destroyed.
when the waves sweep ones world to the sea.
when the majestic creation is turned to rubble.
when one's desperate need to be right gives screams out in violence to make it's point.

in the still small spaces of the canvas of those drastic paintings are the places where love can take root.
When you can see another and see not a different person, but your brother. Your sister.
Made of the same stuff as you.
The same hurts.
Pain.
Desire.
Frustration.
Need.
Fear.

Same stuff. Different labels.

What is going on in the world is hard to watch.
Hard to know that people are hurt and suffering and abandoned and alone and in pain.
In those moments
perhaps
someone is reaching them
and the love that underlies all humanity is born.

again.

Protected

i don't like guns.
i think they are part of the problem.

i believe that everything has an energy which effects the world.
i don't like the energy of guns.

they are created only for hurting.
killing.
maiming.

you might say for protecting.
protecting with violence.
with bloodshed.
with ripped flesh.
protecting with hate.

I can't accept it.
i can't.
I don't want it near me.

I believe that the energy I put out attracts back to me.

I put out love.
I do not put out violence.
I do not expect violence.
I expect love.

From there, I have to trust.

Should I be in a situation where I might find a gun handy, then so be it.
I face it. However I can. The best I can.

There are too many factors.
Too many directions.
Too many unknowns.
Too many......

call me naive.
I call myself protected.

Peep's Words

I have, as long as I can remember, had an issue with my weight.
Well, since I was 9.
It's the first memory I have related to my body image.

I remember that I was walking with my mom and my dad's father.
Peep was what everyone called him.
Anyway, we were walking in one of the parking lots in the apartment complext that Peep lived in. It was evening and there was a light snow. My mom said that she was cold.
I proudly responded that I was not cold.

To which Peep stated something that, as benign as it was intended, influenced the course of my life.
He said, "That's because you are fat."

It had never occurred to me that I was fat before that. In fact, I don't think I had ever had much awareness of a body image.
But there it was.
A statement of fact that I soaked up like a sponge in warm water.
Truth be told, I wasn't fat. I was an average 9 year old.
That all changed soon.

After my mom died when i was 10, I did indeed begin to put on weight. Not enormous amounts, but noticable. Mom died during 4th grade, and I remember my 5th grade school picture.
Round face.
Bad bowl haircut. (Could this be where my deep belief that if i'm fat then i have to have long hair came from??)

Since that time, my weight has vascilated between the heavy side of average, and the more socially acceptable side of overweight. With some pushes toward heavier than that.

I have lost between 20-35 lbs several times. The first time I lost 25 lbs in response to grief. I had recently broken up with my longtime boyfriend and (wisely) responded by working out 5 days a week. Once the grief wore off, so did the consistent exercise.

The second time, I lost with the aid of some brand of ephedra. You know. Ma Huang. Since been made illegal in some states. Effective, while giving you the sensation that you just drank Juan Valdez' entire stash. I lost 20 lbs that time.

The third time, I lost 30 lbs doing Atkins. I really liked this way of eating. Amazing what no sugar and lots of cheese can do. Go figure. I felt great, had the support and eating companionship of my boyfriend, and looked pretty good.

The fourth time I lost 35 lbs, doing Weight Watchers. It works. Until you stop doing it. But, that's the case with everything right? Start replacing celery with ding dongs and you're going to get a different result.

Now, at the low metabolic age of 39, I have begun low carbing again. When I think back, I feel like i responded best to this way of eating. However, I began over 3 weeks ago and have not had the dramatic response that I remember.

I began officially on July 5, 2006, and today, on Aug. 1, I have lost 6 lbs. That's not a lot considering the low-carb diet guru's tout that you ought to lose 8-13 lbs in your first 2 weeks.
I have been following the general direction of the Southbeach Diet. Me thinketh, however, that I was eating too many nuts and cream during this time. After the 3 week mark, I decided I should add in a little fruit. I'm up 1 lb since then. Ugh.

I know that I need to think of this as a long term deal. Perhaps the daily weighing is a disservice to myself. So, this will be a year long journey of discovering what works, and where I'll go with it.

I believe that no matter how many times one says that they are changing their thoughts to change their lives, if their lives haven't changed, then neither have their thoughts.
This applies to me well in this situation.

As I work on looking for the best way to fuel and love my body, I will also work on letting go of Peep's words.

The Hoff

Life is so heavy.
Also hilarious.

I'm sure you've noticed the recent resurge in popularity of the ever loved in Germany, David Hasselhoff.
The Hoff
as he likes to be called.

Is he funny? Well, no.
Talented? Depends on your country of origin.
Handsome? Um, in a spray on tan, nip/tuck, trying too hard sort of way.... sure. I guess.

Amusing?

Oh my yes.

I am quite sure that he doesn't try to be amusing in the way that he is. We all remember him from Baywatch. Well, I didn't watch it honestly, but I know that show, and the ever so serious and mysterious Night Rider, are where he draws his original fame.
Could be there is more that I'm unaware of. I do not claim to be a Hoff-o-phile. My respect and complete confusion to those of you who are.

Have you seen this guy on the newly acclaimed, filling the gap for real television entertainment during the summer, show 'America's got talent'?

Wow.

Really. that's all i have to say.

Please check out this link and read the blog called, "Don't Hassle the Hoff". You'll take a wander through the long and admirable career and wardrobe of the Hoff.

Get a kleenex.
You'll likely cry - either from horror or hysteria. For me it was the latter.

http://www.snarkywood.com/

Gifts

People stand on righteous pedestals and proclaim truth.

about morality.
about God.
about choices.
about musts.

It is so!
Believe or be damned!
This is the truth!
Accept this or you're....

Wrong.
Hellbound.
Stupid.
Daft.
Horrible.
Immoral.

This is done from many a platform.
It's done from the pulpit, the news reel, the theater, the literary masterpiece,
the cave in a desert.

Thing is.

When we shout our particular understanding of "truth", we forget that it is a a joyful and divine privilege to be able to come up with and create a theory of our own.
To look within, put the pieces together and come to an understanding that makes sense to us.
We forget that to share these understandings with the world is a gift.

These things are gifts. for everyone.

There truly is no way to know for sure if what we proclaim is true for anyone, let alone everyone. absolutely.
We can feel it overwhelmingly. Know it in our spirits. Our hearts.
Strongly.
We can claim our understanding, and our experience.

Then we give it.
Give.
Give.

Gift.

Take this. See if it works for you.
Feel this and guage whether it feels right.
Take it if you like it. If not,
don't.

When you give a toaster to a bride at her bridal shower, do you tell her that she had better use this toaster for all time or she will burn in hell?
Do you tell the new mother that if she fails to embrace this bouncy seat that she will have to accept the inevitable consequence of having her home destroyed by rockets?
On your best friend's birthday, do you demand that she love your gift or you will reject her?

Probably not.

As people, all we have to give are gifts.
Anything else is an illusion created to make us feel safer in our own minds.
To assure to ourselves that we, indeed, are right.

Certainly I have given my "gifts" with a heavy demanding hand.
Certainly so have you.

If Life is showing me anything right now, it's that all of us could stand to look at how we give.
Of ourselves. Of what we "know". What we believe. What we long to share with the world.

With a fist and a scowl?
With a voice of condemnation?
With a demand?

Or with an open hand.
And no expectation.

I've always thought gifts were nice.

I offer these thoughts to you.
Take them.
Or not.

Rockets Red Blare

Several years ago, I was wrangled by my insatiable curiousity about the mysterious into reading the Book The Bible Code.
I know.
Kooky.
Ok, I'll give you that.
But also thought provoking. Fascinating Even.

Then, I read the Bible Code 2 when it came out. Bleck.
Horribly written, and therefore, held litle credibility with me.
This was sometime soon after George Bush didn't win the 2000 election.
You remember that don't you?

So, anyway. I'm reading the ill written book and it says that within the Bible Code it says that there will begin a World War III in the year 2006.
It will be largely surrounding the middle east, and our dear Mr. Bush will play an integral part. Peshaw.
Peshaw.
?
Perhaps substandard writing doesn't negate prophesy.

So, here we are, more than knee deep in the year 2006.
Now, I don't know for sure that the last several day's international events will escalate into World War 3.

Countries hurling explosives at other countries.
The USA at Iraq.
Pakistan at India.
Israel at Lebanon.
North Korea at..... the UN.

So, no. It's not world war 3. Yet.
But countries are aligning.
Big bad boys from every corner of our planet barking at eachother.
You do the math.

The whole thing makes me wonder about people and makes me very, very sad.
Like, REALLY sad.
I can feel my heart well up with confusion and compassion.
Generally, it isn't these big barking dogs that suffer at the hand of war.
It's all tacks on a big wall map for them.
Intellectual and personal philosphies being held to hearts like personal survival.
But they will survive.
Won't they.

It's the family in the village just miles from the Lebanon border who's cinder block house is demolished by a rocket that suffer.
The Indian child who's father never comes home because his train was exploded.
It is the American mother who goes to the airport to recieve pieces of her first born.
It's them.
It's not the suit, or the turban, or the flowing robes that sit safetly in the SITUATION ROOM.

I wonder if the people at home felt this way during WWII.
Or was there so much American pride that there was no real compassion for our human family members?
I'm sorry, I just can't feel that way.
If we were fighting another planet, there would be no division among country or race.
There would be people. Just people. All of us.
Earthlings.
Do we have to start an intergalactic war to see what is really real?

It's a fight between big ego'd boys in a sandbox multiplied by ..... a what. Gazamillabillion?
It's stupid. Every part of it is stupid.
Call me a commie. Call me anti-American. Call me whatever you want.

I'm human.
I'm spirit.
I care.
I care about whomever you are. Whether you believe what I believe. Whatever you wear or what you eat or how you talk or whether you like me.
I care about you.

So, what do I do?
I just care.
I smile at the people I pass.
I tell the people in my life that I'm grateful for them and that I love them.
I make sure what I do in this world makes people feel seen and known and understood.

It won't stop rockets as far as I know.
I hope it does something.

More than DNA

Father.
Fathers.

Such a complicated topic in my own life.
I have 2.
No, not like the 1980's sitcom.

My biological dad. His name is John. Boy, I thought he was cool when I was little. The Marlboro Man. He rode a green motorcycle and took my little helmeted self on Sunday rides. Sounds idylic doesn't it?
In a picture postcard sort of way, I'm sure it was.
Like when he'd talk to the neighbors outside. Sliding his can of beer to me when I'd beg for a sip.
The memory has a slightly grainy, greenish hue - like fading white edged photographs from that time.

When I was 4, he left. I remember sitting on the front porch, holding onto the iron railing as he walked down the 4 concrete steps to my left. Carrying a duffle bag. I was crying. I don't remember if he leaned down to kiss me goodbye. I don't remember. I don't think he did. I don't remember.

I was 4. I dont' know exactly why he left. What I pieced together was that he didn't want to be domestic.
Soon after, he lived in a pepto-bismal green apartment building with a 19 year old girl named Kim. My sister and I visited there sometimes. There were lots of half burnt candles and plates of incense.
He had long hair and smoked cigarettes. It was the 70's afterall.
Despite it all, we never stopped seeing him. I credit this to the eternal wisdom of my mother.

Enter Father number 2.
Though he wasn't a father at the time.
His name was John too. A cosmic joke in my little 5 year old universe.
My first memory of him.
We waited with some excited anticipation as my mom's new friend... old friend was coming over.
My little sister and i were playing a game in which you throw plastic rings over a plastic flower. We played in sight of the door. And then he arrived.
Did he carry flowers? I don't know. I dont think so.
He might as well have. He brought much more than flowers to my mom. to us.

They dated. He taught me how to put my napkin on my lap.
expected manners. I remember that.
We called him a neat-nik.
So different than my other beat-nik dad.

They got engaged and the wheels began to turn. A family again.
Though we never stopped seeing my biological dad, and I never (and still haven't) stopped loving him, this was a different kind of dad.
The kind you see on TV.
The kind that is there when you go to sleep and is still there when you wake up again.
That kind.

Then, a twist.
They had dated less than a year. My mom was diagnosed with cancer. 6 months to live, they said.

Would you? she asked.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
We'll have to ask him.
I know.

Will you? They asked.
Defeatedly, yes.


My sister and I were adopted by our second dad.
We moved to Chicago.
Our mom lived for two more years.
Then she died.

Though my birth father lived a short ways away, and we went on drives in his orange and black striped Datson from time to time, this one raised us.
The second John.
He was there in the evening and the morning.

Again.
and Again.
and Again.
and Again.

It wasn't always perfect.
There was an entire year of Swanson TV dinners.
There were 3 Polish housekeepers to help keep our ducks in a row.
There were adolescent screaming matches and being grounded for weeks.
There were disappointments and fears.

But he was there.

After just 3 years in our midst, he had "married" my sister and I. In a way that few marry. With a devotion to forever. with a heart that will not deflate. With a love that is not conditional. With the spirit of love.

In so many ways, this man is my hero. My Dad. My Dad. My Dad.

My first Dad. I love you. My heart often weeps for you. Please find your center and know that you are ok. You gave us the greatest gift in the world when you said that he could adopt us. It does not make you a failure. Find your path and walk it. You have shown me many truths and given me many gifts. I love you.

My Second Dad.
My Dad.
My Dad.
My Dad.
My Dad.

My Father.

My heart explodes with gratitude. You have shown me many truths and given me many gifts. And still do. 35 years later. I love you to depths surprising.

My two dads.
Both have taught me immeasurable things about this life.
Neither perfect.
Opposite ends of the spectrum.

You may want to judge one and honor the other.

Don't.

Just be grateful with me.

Happy Father's Day.

Phil

It would have been his birthday today.
I'm not even sure which one. 60? 58?
I don't know.
His name was Phil.

I used to live in Oak Park Illinois.
An iconic, tree-lined town just west of Chicago.
I walked daily to the train to and from work. 6 blocks exactly.
It became my solace. My meditation.
I passed the homes, built in the 1930's, surrounded by picket fences, flowers, bushes, sidewalks with remnants of yesterdays chalkplay.
Hop Scotch, portraits of stick-figure families, giant daisies dancing in green and pink and yellow.

The seasons were my companions on those daily walks.
The lilacs in bloom in April.
Lush green tree-top canapies over the streets in July.
The piles of autumn oranges and reds rising under undressing limbs in October.
Paths through snow mountains pushed to the sidewalks edge in January.
Grey, angst filled winds howling in March.
They were my companions.

About a year before I moved from Illinois, I noticed a person who stood out among the seasonal changes on my daily walks.
He didn't really fit in in Oak Park.
There was no preppy jacket covering an worn oxford shirt that hung out over softened jeans.

The man was bald.
He wore a grey muscle shirt, sleeves torn off many a year ago.
A chain holding his keys hung from his belt buckle.
A mickey mouse earring waving gaily from his lobe.
An ominous linked chain about his neck.
Worn Chuck Taylors on his feet. Ageless.
A somber quietness about him.
He walked a tiny black dog that looked like the pill verson of my black lab Jack.
I passed this large, odd looking guy and his pill sized dog many times and thought that I'd like to know him.
Why? I have no idea.
He had a shy smile.

After months of soft hello's and me petting the pill sized pooch, I said that we should get together for lunch or dinner or something sometime. It took more months for it to happen. I don't even really remember how.
Eventually it did.

His name was Phil. He was in his late 50's. He was gay. Lost his partner Doug over 10 years ago. Well read. Intelligent. Not well spoken. He stumbled over words. Life made him nervous. Somewhere in a portal to goodness in Oak Park Illinois, we became friends.

He had brought tokens of his travels to Mexico and South America to his 3rd floor Oak Park condo. I helped him choose new countertops. We shared rasberry liquer on the back porch overseen by a Mayan Sun. He showed me how he brushed the pill sized dog's teeth.

Phil didn't sleep well. He had started to get sores on his skin. He didn't want to use the drugs. He scoured health stores for remedies made of royal jelly, herbs. He didn't sleep well.

I moved to Las Vegas. We wrote emails, jokes, stayed in touch. In June, I visited Chicago and saw him as he planted a Hawthorne Tree in his front yard. Adding to the canapy. I said I'd be back in a few months. We'd have Thai or Cuban food when I did. We hugged. Said goodbye with a light, over the shoulder wave.
We'd see eachother then.

The last email I recieved from him was July 5, 2005. Less than a month later.

Then
nothing.
Silence.

I worried.
After 2 weeks I sent a friend to knock. Ring every doorbell in the building. I felt the panic rise. He hadn't been sleeping. He had been hurting. Fearing.
Then someone.
next door.
No, he's not there.
He died.
2 weeks ago.
Just a day after the last email.

He took his life.
The note.
Pain. No sleep. Dementia setting in. Have to go. I'm Sorry. I'm Sorry.

My heart ached. Knowing he made that decision and told no one. Trusted No one.
He had seen Doug die.
He had seen the confusion, the horror, the pain.
Decided to leave before.
A hard decision that I respected.

This man.
A gay, intelligent, loving, hurting man.
A man who loved life and said goodbye to it when it threatened it's end.
A man who taught me about gentleness. Loving through pain. The subtle joys of unexplored places.
A man who wore muscle shirts and mickey mouse earrings in Oak Park.

Today I think of the memories of my daily walks.
Lilacs in bloom in April.
Canapies of lush green tree tops in July.
Piles of autumn red leaves in October.
Mountains of shovelled snow in January.
Piercing winds in March.
Mickey Mouse earrings.
Chains and Chuck Taylors.
Shy smile.

I am so glad I knew him.

Happy Birthday Phil.

All things

All things are used by God for good.
All things.
We Say it. We Preach it. Sing it. Proclaim it. Know it. Exclaim it.

Mean it.
Do we mean it? Can we?
Can you feel your soul recoil it the profundity of what that means?

What IS the meaning?

All things.
All things?!
ALL THINGS.

It is easy to see how many things are used for good.
Dance. Joy. Music. Love. Giving. Accepting.
How does God use hatred for good? How is the denial of a human's essential humanity used for good?

When a human is. made. nothing.

Her hair shorn. Her children taken. Every token of her life. Her shoes. Her clothes. Her family.
HER BREATH.

Her. Him. Him. Him. Her. Her. Him. Her. Him. Him. Her. Her. Unending.

When we move to talk about it. To say, "Of course. It is used for good." My hair stands on end and screams to stop.
But can we. Mustn't we talk about it? Mustn't we consider... And feel... And question... And cry...And act.
Together.

We stay silently content to refuse to remember.
Content to wrap the memories in pain.
Someone else's pain.
Behind doors locked tightly too scary to go behind.

If we don't go there.
If we stop.
If we're still.
Tight.
In our muted voices, our fists clenched, we think.
Someone else will go.
Someone else will reach.
Someone else will remember.

Our eyes and ears tightly sealed as a child singing "lalalalalalalala" so he cannot hear.

Isn't it destined to happen again? Isn't it happening again? It has happened again.
It is happening again.

What could the meaning possibly be?
Maybe the sight of the shoes collected at Auschwitz can shed light.

Piles. Mountains.
Millions of shoes.
Small.
Large.
Heels.
Work Boots.
Elegant.
Old.
Flowered.
Ripped and worn.
Bought for holiday.
Worn for years.
Someone's.
The fabric of them still holding the stories of those who's footsteps they shared.

Shoes worn by Jews. And Gays. And Political Prisoners.
By humans. By you. By me.

The Holocaust showed no favor. Hatred shows no favor. If you were a Jew, you were denied yourself. You were eliminated. It mattered not if a person was rich. or talented. or poor. or brilliant. or slow. or immoral. or holy.
It did not matter. It did not matter.

What good. What good. What good. What good.

That we are one. We are human.
The talented. the brilliant. the slow. the immoral. the holy. We are one.

Remember this. Live this. Claim this. Preach this. Know this.

And maybe.
Just maybe
That is Good.

Mystery

A very good friend of mine has a little girl that she adopted out of the foster care system. Ellie was 2 weeks old when she came to live with Danielle. She was born into situation as different as humanly possible from the one she was about to move in to.

When Ellie was 3, she awoke crying hysterically one night. Wails of discontent echoed through the midnight stillness. Dani ran to comfort her and found Ellie crying, "zschoooos" "Zschooooooooooos!!", amidst unconsolable sobs.

Juice? Juice?
Waaaaaaaaaah!
Ellie? Do you want juice?
Nooooooo Mommyyyyyyy!
Then what honey? What do you need?

MOMMY!!!! I NEED SHOES! I NEED SHOES NOWWWWWWW!!!!!!!

Well.

If this isn't evidence for nurture over nature, I don't know what is. You may have to know my friend Danielle to know this for sure, but trust me. It is. As I am about to discuss, all women love shoes. But for Danielle, it is a love that transcends. A Holy love.

Honestly though.
What is it about shoes?
It seems to be this mysterious vortex that most certainly punctures through all levels of Time and Space, let alone culture and country. A place where a woman's deepest needs can be surely sated, if not completely met.

Shoes. Even the sound of the word soothes my weary mind.
Shoooooooes.
Ahhhh.



I went to DSW Shoe Warehouse today. It was a lazy, uncommitted Saturday afternoon. Much of the day had slipped away and I wanted to get out.

But where?

Then I felt the pull. Ladies, you KNOW what I mean.
The pull. The pulllllll.
And like Pavlov's Dog, it began. The mental salivation. The wonder of, "What will I find in the cornacopea of footware....?"

It's sandal season.

Beaded flats?
Thongs that fit just perfectly and will make my overworked hoofers squeel with delight?
The oh-so-cool heeled sandals made from the softest leather.... and 40%off?

BE. STILL. MY. HEART.

I was wandering down the first aisle as I found the first pair. Brown Born Sandals. I slipped them on my tired feet. Oh. Oh. Ohhhhhhh.
My first hit.

I realized that I was actually experiencing a high. My heart racing. My mind delighted and eagerly seeking the next find. Is this what a drug addict feels like? I make a further mental note never to try drugs, considering.

The store teamed with women. Really. It was probably about 100:5 as far as the female:male ratio went. Our eyes would meet with recognition, a wry smile of understanding. She has 3 pair, her.... 4. A nod of the head. We understood eachother.

I collected my own 4 pair of delicious, perfect, brown and black sandals and sauntered slowly to the counter. I sighed and metaphorically licked my lips and rubbed my sated shoe belly. All was perfect in the world.

So, my sisters. Here's to the mystery. The secret place, only we (and Carson Kressley and his brothers) can go.

I can't solve all of the worlds ails, and confusion wreaks havoc on our daily lives. I don't know how to meet the needs of everyone, all the time.

But. There is one thing I do know.

Shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes.

Ahhhhhhhh.

dive in

every day i swim
inside this pool
its walls the edges of my skin

it's water
the joys
pains
questions
answers
ah ha's
tears
potential
disappointments
desires
hopes
sorrows
love

swimming here is sometimes lonely.
not always.

in fact, the waters nice.

come on in.

Sign This.

eesh.
i'm teaching sign language to 8th graders.
perhaps this was my first mistake.
no, i'm not fluent and i'm learning a step ahead of them.
so~
anyway.
we've learned a bunch of words, and their assignment today was to put together a sentence and say it in sign in front of the class.
Other than the general mayhem, all is going smoothly.
They even enjoy it.
Then, there's this kid.
A bit on the morose, may just go postal at some point, side.
He hadn't gone so i call him up.
He pays attention for about 20 seconds a class period, but he manages to pull this out of his trick bag.



You. Are. Fat.


Lovely. One of those moments as a teacher where you want to screw the possibility of news crews at your door later that night.
The kind of moment when your aspirations toward spiritual maturity just vaporize.But, instead... I said,

Yeah, I know. Great Sentence. (and silently muttered "asshat")

Anyone want to beat up an 8th grader??

too cool

you know,
i've (perhaps erroneously) always thought i was rather on the hip side of life. you know, the right clothes, the right attitude, the right look.
not perfect by any stretch, but cute, and definitely in the realm of cool.
then last night i went to the beauty bar in vegas. off strip, seedy part of town, working girls and meth users wandering the street outside.
trendy in an, 'i'm so cool i've actually surpassed thinking actual beauty is beautiful' kind of way. inside, a dj spinning actual LPs. the base and the smoke thick and oppressive.

then...the people.

the kids.

goth rock hair, the 80's decade back in vogue like leg warmers and ripped fish nets have never graced our ill fated fashion sense before.
pat benetar reincarnated in 22 year old girls -- and boys.
crop circles opening up in gyrating crowds to expose break dancing dance-offs.

break dancing back? oh my god.

even mena suvari was there with her 20something, dreads in a knit cap, grungy oversized jeans, bustin a move boyfriend.


i have accepted the truth.

i am not on the hip side of life.

you'd think my walmart koolots would have tipped me off.

How Dare You

Thousands of Children in the Sudan walk 5 miles every night and every morning to sleep in a cage to be safe from LRA rebel soldiers.

I NEED NEW FURNITURE IN MY FAMILY ROOM.

Those children who are abducted are turned into soldiers. forced to kill their siblings. gang raped by their captors.

MY THIGHS ARE FAT.

Religious intolerance and fundamentalism fuels genocide around the world. The entire region of Darfur Africa has been burned, killed, pillaged. The inhabitants forced out to live with no shelter. No care. No food.

I SHOULD HAVE CHOSEN STAINLESS STEEL APPLIANCES.

In the Congo Africa, women are gang raped in front of their children by the rebel forces. Their skin carved. Their bones broken. Their legs tied to trees and their innocence consumed by violent rape.

I CAN'T BEAR TO DRIVE MY JETTA ONE MORE YEAR.

Women in the Middle East are denied the human right of merely being a human. Girls denied the human right of education. Slaughtered in the street for showing the skin of an ankle. Killed for even the illusion of impropriety.

I AM SO SICK OF MY JOB.

Four million people in Pakistan are displaced. No home. Buried alive.

MY COFFEE TABLE IS OLD.


People. Children. Women. Their breath. Their ability to eat. Their ability to learn. Their ability to sleep the night without fear. Them. Them. Them. Them.

I AM BLESSED BEYOND COMPREHENSION.

Their suffering lives in my spirit.
Only self absorbsion blocks my view.

really?

“I mean, think about it.
Other than the war in Iraq,
the Katrina disaster,the deficit,
the CIA leak,torture,stopping stem cell research,
homeland security,global warmingand undercutting science,
we’ve yet to really feel the negative effects of the Bush administration.”

– Bill Moyers

memories of goodbye

My mom died 29 years ago tonite. I remember that it was late. People were staying at our house because she was so sick. I was on the trundle bed in my sisters room. My dad came in and woke me up to tell me that mom had died. It was about 1:30am in Chicago. I was 10. He put me on his knee on the yellow and green chair that mom had recovered. She loved yellow. I covered my eyes and said, "no no no no no" while shaking my head. I remember that I was thinking that I watch too much television. Weird huh? I really thought that.

Then he woke Carrie. He took us into where she was laying on their bed. She had asked him to bring us in before he body got cold. A request that sounds so forensic, but contained love all the same. I don't remember much from going into that room. She lay where she had slept. Still. Laying. Breathless. Peaceful. My next memory is being back in bed, watching from a dark room out the open door. Movement in a late night house. Muted lights, muted voices. Then, people I didn't know. And a gurney wheeled out. My mom on it. She left our house for the last time.

The next day was 50's day at school. Dad said I didn't have to go to school, but I didn't want to miss it. I rememember getting there like a hazy dream. Like the memory has white clouds around the edges. A weird, uncomfortable smile on my face. Like I had a secret. The whispers began. "her mom died?" "whitney's mom died last night". "nu uh" "yuh huh". Then Mrs. Yost told that indeed, Whitney's mom had died.

Me, in my poodle skirt on 50's day.

Goddess

I wish that I was one of those people who don't have an emotional relationship with food. I don't know how or why it started with me. As a very small child, I have no memories of food, or needing it or wanting it. i really don't have any true memories of food. I think that the shift must have happened when my mom died. At that point, at a very vulnerable developmental period in my life, my most trusting and sacred relationship was taken away from me. It wasn't terribly sudden, but I'm not sure that matters to a 10 year old. So, then began an experience of me feeling like I had to take for myself because Life couldn't and can't be trusted to give to me what I need.

Be the first in line. Have the largest serving. Get more than the other guy. Know something I wasn't supposed to know.

I believe my relationship with food continues to live in that place. Honestly, I don't feel like I really overeat for the most part. But sometimes, I can really feel the emotional tug. Even when Eric and I have dinner, I am aware of which plate has more food. I am quite sure that many, if not most people don't think about this. It's embarrassing to admit. Why is it that if there is cake in the lunchroom at work, I think about how I'll get a piece before it's all gone? These things, combined with what I think must be the slowest metabolism in the Western World, have created a body representing the Goddess of Fertility. Found alluring to ancient cultures.... not so much this one.

I'm 39 and still fighting demons created 29 years ago. Isn't that interesting.

spring clean

isnt it funny how things that have nothing to do with us become percieved as things that speak directly to our worth? why do we do that to ourselves? let things live where they live. clear our minds of things that we have dragged in there from elsewhere. fill it with love instead.

'Bout time

Lyrics to Pink's Amazing Song: STUPID GIRLS

Stupid girl, stupid girls, stupid girls
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Go to Fred Segal, you'll find them there
Laughing loud so all the little people stare
Looking for a daddy to pay for the champagne(Drop a name)
What happened to the dreams of a girl president
She's dancing in the video next to 50 Cent

They travel in packs of two or three
With their itsy bitsy doggies and their teeny-weeny tees
Where, oh where, have the smart people gone?
Oh where, oh where could they be?
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blonde hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Disease's growing, it's epidemic
I'm scared that there ain't a cure
The world believes it and I'm going crazy
I cannot take any more
I'm so glad that I'll never fit in
That will never be me
Outcasts and girls with ambition
That's what I wanna see
Disasters all around
World despaired
Their only concernWill they **** up my hair
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back

What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blonde hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl

Flam

you're coasting along just certain that life is going to accomodate your every plan and whim and FLAM! no such luck. now. CAN I PRACTICE WHAT I PREACH? that is the real question.

so what if i DON'T start my MSW in the fall? How will I use my year? How will I make it count?

Ideas are swirling. It's an opportunity, not a problem. Right?

Cumpleanos

I turned 39 yesterday. Felt calm and somewhat quiet about it. Seems I am beyond the days of weeping when I thought my friends had forgotten to call up a local parade for the event.
And yet, my sweet husband went outside of his own comfort zone to invite a few local friends to surprise me. And surprise me he did :)

My greatest gift yesterday was from a friend. She reminded me to let myself believe that I am loved. That I can loosen my grip on my own need to indulge myself because I fear that no one else will. To know that those who love me will indulge me. Not with gifts or money or chocolate, but with knowing and supporting me. It touched me and moved me. Thank you.

Ahhhhh

Courageous Woman
Courageous Pink
Spoke. Stupid Girls. Sad girls. Losing selves, gaining boobs, Gucci, size 0.

Anything that causes me to be less than i am, in order that someone else can be more than they are, eats away at the essence of who I am.

Girls.

Who are you? What do you think? What do you like? What do you offer? What are you great at? What challenges you? If you weren't limited by tabloid expectations, who would you be?

We have become oppressors of our sisters. The bar is being silently lowered for us, by us.

The problem has been spoken.
The issue has been seen.
The question has been posed.

We, You, I, They. Responsible for what we know. Listen and Know.

Washing your car in a bikini? Not so sexy.

Beat the local boys at touch football? Debate your butt off without bending to popular opinion? Saying no? VERY SEXY.

I'm in!

My husband got me an MP3 player and now i'm in the club! He's had one for a long time and loads it religiously. I watched this behavior with admiration and a detached wonder. I've never been the sort who breathes music as many do. I wondered if having an MP3 would really matter much to me. Then, I got Eric Satellite Radio for Christmas. Since the musician's name is displayed on the screen, I've been able to connect the who to the what much more readily. I've even wanted to look for the work of artists who have flitted past my auditory canals.

Knowing an artist + the desire to hear their stuff + the ability to get it easily + MP3 player = fun!!

Math was never my strong suit, but that equation came pretty easily. I'm late to the party I know.... but at least i got here.

Check out Anna Nalick's music.

8th graders are evil

Am I more annoyed at their behavior or at the nagging truth that I was just as bad when I was that age? It's amazing what a completely different frame of reference we look through when we're 14 from when we're over 35. It's amusing, humbling and infuriating all at the same time.

Today I got back from a long weekend in Phoenix visiting the family to find out that several of my classes were HORRID for the sub. Having been a sub, I am sensitive to it, and just mad that I know they can behave like humans if they want to.

Most of them are really fine. It's just the combination of so many of them at the same time that can be overwhelming. It's kind of funny that an hour that can cause me stress for days is barely a blip on the radar screen for them. Nice in a way. Perhaps it should barely be a blip for me too.

Barclay

Today I had my 14 year old cat, Barclay, put to sleep. I'm sad. Just days ago he started to act sick. Confused. Lethargic. Not eating or drinking. Yesterday the vet said it's congestive heart failure. He wasn't going to get better. Today, it was painful to see him that way. Laying like a wet noodle on the floor. Crying out. Confused. Refusing to eat or drink. I had to let him go. I didn't wait. I let him go. I'm sad. Hoping there is truth to spirit and wondering if he met my Jack on the other side. That's my hope. My heart feels a little empty and the space on the couch next to me is hollow without him. Thank you Barclay for being a quiet presence in my life for so long. I'll miss you sweet boy.

husband

gentle
curious
calm
real
hilarious
loving
adventurous
open
accepting
tender
seeking
surprising
comfortable
willing
friend

and on we go

It's Sunday. Already the middle of March. It's true that time seems to elapse faster the older we get. How is it that I will turn 39 years old in just a few weeks?

I remember when I was a teenager how older people seemed a world a way. Out of touch. I was certain that they had no idea what I was going through. And now, almost 40, I am clear that though I now have a much more broad perspective on life, I am the same girl I was when I was that young. I laugh thinking about the drama. The things that were the end of the world, the immensity of the emotions I was feeling. Not that I haven't felt immense drama as an adult (oh, just a few times....). But the feeling is different. As a teen I wasn't able to apply the big picture to the pain. It was just me, and my experience that created the pulse of Life.

I have a new compassion for people at the end of their journey, knowing that they are the same child that they have always been. The reality of it is truly beautiful. And comforting that when I approach my twilight, I will still be me. It's a thought that reinforces my belief that this isn't the end.

Boundaries

Messages come. Often overlooked as chaff in the wind. Unused.
I hear a message for me.

Why is it that though we may technically be adults, there are huge, viable parts of us that don't mature past the time in our lives that we were hurt. When the wound came.

I am hearing Life whisper to me that I am not 13. I am not in need. I do not need anyone to affirm who I am. I am not alone. I am not weak. I AM.

I am feeling compassion for those who seek to fill that chasm in ways that cross boundaries. Boundaries that are important and necessary because they protect others. Boundaries that keep the people we are working to help-safe in their own experiences. I have compassion for those to break those boundaries and I have anger at the same time. I have not done this, and at the same time, I hear Life whisper for me to pay attention. Fill my own chasm. Anything else is to not love.

To allow oneself to fill it with someone else's attention..... attention that is gained by being in a position of trust...... is to use the warm spirit of a cherished person for our own need, our own gain. The thought makes my soul weep. And shudder.

My hearts desire is to be in a position of trust. A place that others can come to to fall, to grow, to weep, to trust. A place where they can be safe to lose their own sense of boundary. Therefore, I will continue to work to strengthen my own fortress of integrity. It is so easy for it to become a thin veil that blends with the breeze around it... possible to ignore. I will not. I move to remember my core and to love others with a trustworthiness strong enough to handle their lack of it.

Life, Thank you for the whisper.

Dana

I didn't know her.
Didn't think of her often.

Her death has touched me.
Her smile. Her generous spirit. Her heart.

She was the wind beneath his wings.
Her soul willingly intertwined with his.
Then his wings spread and he left.

It's almost as if she couldn't remain without him.
And she left too.
Knowing her strong son had been prepared.

My morning was touched with sadness.
My own loss revisited.
My own tears invited to share in this goodbye.

A reminder of my own woman of grace.
And her goodbye.

fed

feeds me
entertains me
sooths me
encourages me
calms me
loves me
lies to me
blinds me
binds me
weights me
hides me
cheats me

More to come soon

I haven't written in a long time. Forgot how to get in here to tell the truth. But after much digging, I found my way back :)

April 9th

Joy. Sacred. balloons and flowers and sunshine and laughter and

me.

Ow

The delicious languid pain
of needing what is not clear
i feel it now. right now.
i feel you and want you and need you and desire for nothing more than you.
now.
how is it that it was you who left my life. my sight. my touch. my life. my life. my life.
it hurts.
i miss you with every day that comes. every delight i have. every love i know.
it hurts.
it will always hurt. won't it.
it was this day long ago. a second ago.
our souls burst into two from a messy, meshy, mass of one. of you.
and we danced together for a minute. was it only a minute? or a lifetime. or inside out moments that equal nothing. and everything.
it hurts.
and i miss you.

Neverland

Are you there, in Neverland?
just beyond a veil that in my hardened earth mind
I cannot see?
Are you there, in Neverland?
can you feel my breathe my heartbeat my every tiny pore
in neverland?
Are the stars the same there
The chill of night and warmth of yellow
Do children cry and laugh and run
do you see me
Are you there, in Neverland?
with fairy dust and eyes squinched tight
with wish and heart to burst
looking.
wanting.
wonder.
Are you there, in Neverland?

suspense

in 2 days i have a biopsy on a tiny spot in my right breast. it's interesting to observe how i have, or haven't dealt with it at all. i've known about it since the middle of january. one thing after another has put it off, and it's finally here. the moment the appointment was made i felt fear. fear of the procedure, and fear of what could be. is it possible that I could have breast cancer too? Is cancer that insidious in my family? I've always thought I'd be the one to escape without it.... and perhaps I have. I feel a part of me preparing to deflate. How will I feel if I'm told that I have it? numb. scared. aha. see? i don't know. i haven't, in general, taken good care of my body. or my spirit i guess. do i get on my proverbial knees and pray now? beg? promise that I'll be good if I escape this? No. just be in the moment. Two more days.

Housewifery

So, it is my 13th day being a stay at home housewife. I don't like it. I also don't like that the magic perfect job fairy hasn't visited me and provided me a fulfilling and meaningful position of employment. Thing is, by nature, I'm a bit on the lazy side. Really. I have never been that person who is just inherantly motivated to get going, get moving, get cleaning, get calling, get running, get .... well.... any of that. I like to sludge along in the morning, make some coffee, watch the View and finally get my tail out the door to do something, by noon. This pattern does not an employee make. So, I intersperse my shopping and tv watching with bed making, laundry doing and counter wiping. Yeah. Exciting for exactly 3 days and 20 minutes. It's time to light the pilot light and change gear, if even a little bit. Perhaps shoot for getting out of the house by 8:30, go work out, get my drivers license changed, get the marriage license, change my name to Leon, send my resume out. Pavement? Here I come'a poundin. Well, I know me, and perhaps I could get that stuff done in a weeks time. So, while I'm sitting on the couch watching daytime tv, i get guilted by all of the commercials. You know the ones. You too can be a dental technician. Get free financing for chef school. Are you in financial trouble? Call me!!! Oy. Nothin like those blips between talk shows to make you feel like a 3 toed sloth. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. I mean, I DID just move across the country two and a half weeks ago. No one is hounding me (except my fathers incessant tone forever emblazoned in my brain). But, I'm getting bored. That might be just the fire I need under my butt. Boredom.

Today

Feeling still. A question i heard today: if your life would never change from this moment, how would you feel? what would you have to work on to be at peace with it? I would have to work on acceptance. Acceptance of my body, of my relationships, of other people's choices.

I'm in this quiet house, slowly becoming my home. It is the beginning of my third week here in Las Vegas. I am loving living in a house, and I am loving living with Eric who has become my husband. What a wonderful place to be. I have been internally hard on myself for not getting up, getting everything done immediately, finding a good paying job, etc. It is clear that there are things for me to work on. This time is an opportunity for me to grow, take risks, look honestly at myself and my choices. Perhaps I could stand to stop berating myself and just move forward as the road presents itself.