Story 1: School w/in a School..ongoing

     She was small for her age, and simply dressed.  Clean, but a bit ragged around the edges.  I remember looking down at her little feet as she tentatively and gently stepped through the door.  She had white tennis shoes on, neatly tied, but the canvas top was frayed and on the verge of pulling away from the white rubber edge holding her shoe together.  The young lady was wearing no socks to keep her toes warm in this February winter.

     The girl had long hair, the color of the whitest corn silk spun soft like a spider's web.  Her braids were crisp, and tight... they meant business.  Her sky-blue eyes were framed by eyelashes that shone gold in the morning sun as it invaded my classroom through the lone window.  Her face was pale, with a tiny hint of freckling sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.  Holding her notebook tightly against her thin sweater, she looked directly into my eyes and cleared her throat.

     Watching this middle-school child gather her courage, with every breath drawn and the settling of her shoulders, I welcomed her with a smile, that I hoped was welcoming.  I noted the lightening quick glances her eyes made as they calculated the ilk of her new peers.  She was the last of my hand picked students to arrive and gather for their first day in my School-within-a-School classroom.

     Looking over the heads of my new students, corralled without their acceptance in a Portable building, with a leaky ceiling and flimsy, bouncy floor,  I gazed at the posters I hung the night before.  "To be heard, is the gateway to being understood" and "Write to be understood, Speak to be heard, Read to grow"...... Feeling my confidence waver, and knowing that the reading levels of my students tested between first grade and tenth grade skill, I swallowed hard.  Because it was a new environment for my students, and their faces were not familiar to each other, they were noticeably compliant and even attentive.  They all looked so young and fresh and innocent to me, and I had to find the steel in my backbone to find my voice. 

"Good morning."   There.  The oxygen seemed to come back into the room for me to breathe.  "I am so glad you are here with me."   Thus, began my new journey as a teacher in an unprecedented program for the district, and it was all mine.
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     Through that year, I learned more than my students did.  I worked with young men that were farmers and mechanics after school, and much bigger and bolder than I would ever be.  I had students that were mothers already at the age of 13 and 14, and most all of my students lived in a squalor that my own mother would have been appalled at.  Most of the children lived in homes that no longer had a foundation or floor, and sweeping the loose mud and sand out of their living room was a daily chore. The vocabulary of my students sometimes shocked me, sometimes tickled me, but always amazed me.  These students grew up in a bubble community.   A community that had a strong current of faithfulness to one another, yet a violence and a passion that could turn crazy at the turn of the moon.  These children, sitting in quiet expectation in front of me on that first day, showed me how much courage and humor we ALL have inside of us...as a human trait regardless of our situations.

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hello friends:
This is just bits and pieces of a story I have started.   I would love to have some feedback and would appreciate knowing if this would be interesting to continue writing, or if I should explore other options.....

"Let it go"

"Let it go".....easy words; some of the first words I learned to read.  These words were the first words out of my mother's mouth when I mentioned I was planning on joining the "Women's March" in DC on the 21st of January.  Easy words to convey, when one is a victor in a game to the "loser"....  It gave me pause when my Mother's advice slammed me in the face.  "Let it go."

In a split second, silent movie reels ran through my mind.  What was the "it" that she was ordering me to "let go" of?  Visions of the rows and rows of Nazis and German soldiers marching and saluting in rigid stances.  A nuclear launch button pressed, within a six minute interval of chaos...masses of women, children, and men, old and young, being beaten with batons, sprayed with tear gas, as they tried to hold firm, just saying "no." And the biggest "it" of all:   a picture of a sweet neighbor, hanging laundry, trying NOT to look at the family who had previously enriched her life, being dragged off, belongings thrown to the side, as they were "escorted" by SS men into the street...never to be seen again.  This woman, their neighbor who calmly was hanging her family's clothing out to dry... "let it go." 

I think those images were so powerful that they made me feel, in a blast of seconds, the hatred and the fear of three simple words.  I wondered, "WHERE are the heroes, the super-humans, the protectors..."  Those special beings that I learned about as a child, to count on and to respect and to honor? 

Well... after appropriately watching Bruce Willis in "Live Free or Die Hard" yesterday, there was my answer.  Heroes are "that guy."  The ones who sacrifice their marriage, their dignity, and their livelihood because there isn't anyone around to be "that guy" but oneself. 

So that was it.  I am going to be "that guy."  I want to be on the right side of history. When our future world looks through the history books at what happened here in the United States of America, when the Electoral College defeated the will of the people and turned our "united" country into an eviscerated, roiling mass of anger and injustice.  When one man, single-handedly gifted our beloved democracy to a foreign dictator who has ever been known to be an enemy to all things fair and democratic.

I am hanging onto a different set of simple words, to give myself strength, and even righteous power that fuels courage:  I am not alone.  MORE simple words, also words we all learned early on in our reading lessons.  But these words are MORE powerful, to me, than those that came from my mother's mouth as she sought to bend me, even break me, because of her embarrassment that I would say...NO.  

"Snowflakes" the Trump supporters call us.  Well...I embrace that term.  Enough snowflakes make a blizzard.  Enough "snowflakes" make an avalanche.  "That guy" can be ALL of us.  Do not "let it go" ..... We are not alone.

Borrowing History

Curling bannisters, balconies, frosted corbels and woodwork, porches and nooks... I love old houses.  Obsessed with them, more like it.  Years of yearning, while nesting in subdivision homes of cookie cutter redundance, has made me treasure the years my husband wrapped us in the house of my dreams in a little town of Reedsburg Wi.  The coziness of its fortress-like hug, is but a memory, or more like a hangover, not leaving my heart ever quite the same.  Like having the perfect husband, who is long gone, new ones just don't compare. 

I grew up with a Dad who had wanderlust in his blood...or soul, I can't divine the two.  He had "Big Ideas" always.  Fortunately, for us, he had the carpentry skills and the diligence to build and remodel. Never once did he fail to provide a home made with imagination and excitement.  I grew up with the smell of paint in my nose, the dust of wood cut carefully to fit together like Lincoln Logs, and a layer of  his hard work muting the colors of our clothing until we dusted off before bed and bath. 

As soon as one house was completed to satisfaction, my dad would move us to another Big Idea and started over from scratch again.  My dad was a River Rat, having grown up on the Kawkawlin River with the mouth of the Saginaw Bay within a short walk from his home shore.  He remained a River Rat, pretty consistently, with every move we made... moving about 3 miles from his original childhood nest.  I attended four elementary schools in the Bangor School District, which, to me was a plus.  By the time I got into the Jr. High, I had accumulated friends from previous years in each school, helping my popularity a bit.  But each "new" home was soon gutted, painted, added onto, and otherwise "touched" by my dad's artwork.  I loved it.  I breathed enough sawdust that I guess I didn't need fresh air anymore. I "caught" my dad's wanderlust. 

My mother's blood, was made of simpler and more consistent stuff.  She must have loved my father very much to have made him her life.  She did not transition easily.  It did not help that my Dad often did not give us any warning, but walked in the door with a couple of boxes in hand.  I did not sense, from my mother, the spark of excitement that I felt.  I will never know if my parents planned together or made decisions to uproot together.   My mom never seemed surprised, but never gave us her own warning either.  I just saw her gritted teeth, and her mechanical distribution of orders, directed at my older sister and me.  My brother and sister, because they were so much younger than us, were off the hook.  My job was to keep them out of the way and entertained....not to bother any of the adults doing the "important" work of packing.

It wasn't until recently, that I have sought internal peace and understanding of my soul. Nobody in my family has moved more than I have.  I don't say that as a braggart nor do I say that as a degradation, but just a statistic.  I have ever yearned for the big old homes of by-gone eras, that I've read about in stories.  I have always wanted to be a "Little Women" type growing up in Victorian charm.  And a "Cheaper by the Dozen" family surrounding me with life and fun sliding down the bannisters of a 1920's mansion, well-worn with family... 

Realizing, all of a sudden, that my children will never experience the memory filled home of their childhood, stable and never-changing, I recognize my Father.  I have moved my boys from place to place, while trying to find my footing in a world fraught with change.  Nothing is stable for them, for us.  The closest I have gotten to my dream was after I found my sweet husband, Chris.  I have ever searched for "home" in houses, in communities, in apartments and in farms.  When Chris purchased our first Big Old Charming House in Wisconsin, just for me.... oh, I rolled in every corner and nook like a pig happy in the mud.  Seth was able to slide down the stairs in a box, and he had a clubhouse deep in the secret closet under those stairs.  Good memories were made and my heart was satisfied.  I thought it was because the house was charming.

Too few years we had in that home.  We found ourselves having to make a move to better assure our family an income.  We sold our home with heavy hearts.... I felt like I was saying goodbye to my dream.  We purchased a cookie-cutter house in a cookie-cutter neighborhood in a state that stifled my spirit.  I threw myself into the remodeling of this new, sterile house.  Trying to make it something it could never be.  We lived there for eight years, to allow my youngest to solidify his education.  We made the best of it. But I no longer could touch my dream, and I mourned it.

My husband recognized my dream, and held it close, even when I was trying so hard to let it go.  Quietly, he determined that he would get that dream back to me, without realizing exactly what that dream was.  The time came, after our youngest graduated high school, to let go of cookie-cutter.  We followed our boys to New England... where houses were charming and towns were exciting and warm.   We bought our charming old house.  I wallowed, at first.  When my youngest left for college, shortly after we unpacked our boxes... I became aware of the quiet.  The dust.  The broken doorknobs.  The shifty cupboards.  The stained floors.  The stairs.... so ....many...stairs.  

I am 61 years old.  My children are their own people.  I am not the most evident in their lives at this point.  Sitting down abruptly, in the middle of this charming Doris Day house, I cried.  I sobbed, and I broke. 

What I finally realized, in this journey of mine, was that I had the wanderlust of my father, but the dreams of my mother's soul ...of history and of family and of stability...... I had disregarded as dust to be waved away in annoyance.  I chose the wanderlust as my venue to seek the stability.  Talk about an oxymoron.  What I realize, with intrigue, is that I have been living my dream on OTHER people's history in their homes.... the dings in the woodwork, the worn spots on the bannister.... were made by people I will never know.  My children do not see this as "home".... no matter how old, how charming a place is.... it can never truly be our home. 

My husband has been gone this week.  He drove my son to a new college in a different state....2,000 miles away.  Looking forward to him coming home.... it appears I may have misunderstood what "home" really was.  We are empty nesters, in a too-large nest, filled with antiques of other people's histories.  We are living in borrowed charm.  And it will never become "home."  My husband is coming "home" to me.  We are each other's "home."  Wherever we are, if we are together, we are truly "home."  That is something good to wallow in.

Monster in my Belly, Part 2

After wallowing in my Momma's rejection, my thoughts gave way to memories. Growing up in the early 60's and 70's, was a treat for those of us experiencing such and we didn't even know it.  I believe our generation was the "F"bomb of the times.... gaining attention by questioning and rebelling from the conservative world of picket fences and high heels. 

I remember wearing little white gloves to church on Sunday. They had a little pearly button that gently and perfectly kept them closed.  The gloves encased my little hands, and hid the flaws of my nature.  My nails were bitten down to the nubs, sometimes holding a bit of the earth around the quick from my last minute play in the garden while I waited for the family to get into the car.  The little white spotless gloves covered my "all-to-real" skin of my hands. 

That epitomizes the 50's and 60's to me.  Being taught to "cover" anything real and precious, and not to make waves by shedding the beautiful covers of dress that our mothers put us in.  "Misbehaving" meant simply doing or saying anything that questioned the strict norms of every day routine.  So exactly portrayed in the black and white portion of the movie, "Pleasantville"...

I remember some of the things I learned from my momma.  I learned to tie my shoes, at first with the Butterfly method, and then later perfecting the more grown-up version...... I learned to ice skate, with my mom's arm wrapped firmly around my waist as I tried to balance on my double blades strapped to my boots.  Looking back with great respect, I am remembering how my mom single-handedly shoveled a huge ice skating rink for us to use, in front of my house on the Kawkawlin River.  I'm sure I learned something from watching her struggle with the piles of snow making our rink the smoothest and safest in the neighborhood.  She was so tiny, and the piles of snow were so large.

She taught me how to read, while cuddled up next to her with our Book-of-the-month selection all fresh and new from the mailbox.  I could read before entering kindergarten, so I could concentrate on other things...like learning to open the icky cartons of milk they made us drink.  Learning to read was the best lesson... I have practiced much and because of it, I experienced many many worlds and characters that otherwise I would not know or understand. 


Then I started thinking about the "conversation" that prompted such anger in both of us.  Where did I learn to start thinking for myself?  When did I take those little white gloves off?  Early on, I'm remembering.  I was a natural rebel.... and I realize that taking off those gloves, refusing to put on the dresses that were so itchy and confining was the beginning of the volatile relationship that defined us.  I started asking why, and demanding some reason to base the behavior expected of me from her.  It began then.

She taught me shame.  She is the one who caught me picking my nose.  She did teach me not to.  I rarely pick my nose to this day.  She taught me shame for my body... not to touch it, not to bring attention to it, and certainly not to share it.  I couldn't look at myself, as I grew up, and grew breasts, and changed shape, without feeling a bit of shame for it.  Betrayal.  It happened in spite of my attempt to "behave."

I was ugly with my rebellion.  That's what she called me, often.  (I was often rebellious....) and I internally substituted the word "ugly" for "rebelling. "  There was nothing stopping the fire in my belly, from growing.  I was often in dispute with her on something, and everything.  She chased me around my bedroom with a stick when I was getting bigger than her..... the visual makes me laugh, today, but I remember the day I stopped running.  I turned and faced her, and demanded she hit me.  She spit in my face saying "you.....lit..tle....shit."  but she did not hit me.  That day I discovered the fire made it up to my heart.  I won something that day, but I realized in some way that innocence was lost.  I found the beginning of my power.  I stopped accepting the shame.  So, I guess in a roundabout way, that day...my mom taught me that, too.

That day I stopped going to church.  I stopped wearing the clothes my mom required of me.  I stopped "behaving."

That free'd me to start gaining.  I learned how much I liked to apply myself for good grades.  I actually LIKED making my body strong and fast and muscular.  I learned that I wanted to jump off the earth and fly.  That was the day I started to BE.

I can look back on the other day, on our devastating phone conversation and realize that my mother does not get to "feel" ashamed of me and she doesn't GET to feel embarrassed by me...I am not HERS.  I think I understand now, that she hasn't figured that out yet, and maybe she is afraid to let go of "me."  And with that, she has taught me a huge lesson that I will never forget and always appreciate.  With my own children... I send them off without restraints that I personally put upon them...they are not MINE, anymore... I taught them what I could, some things good, some things not so good...but they are their own persons now and there is nothing they can do that will embarrass me or shame me... they will continue to intrigue me, and to interest me and to feel pride in, but I will never feel ashamed of them.  And that, I learned the hard way.  

The Monster in my Belly

I thought I was finished with blogging.  But then.... the 2016 Presidential campaign ..happened.  The results were shocking to me.  The Electoral College put a Devil into the White House.  

This changed things a bit, to my voice.  To my existence, as a peaceful warrior for life and humanity.  Something grew in my own belly that was not sweet.  It started with a seed, wrapped around a fire so hot that it could consume its surrounding shell and grow into a flame that spreads without control.  

This isn't a "side job" that we are talking about.... it is the President of the United States.  Donald J. Trump, failed businessman, wealthy only by birth and unethical dealings, thin skinned, and of reality show celebrity fame..... will soon become the most powerful person in control of our country.  I doubt he has even looked at the Constitution of the US since he was in sixth grade.  But that is who the Electoral College gave us...not the majority of voters, but the whim of Republican gerrymandering and manipulation.  And we have since discovered by way of our esteemed Intelligence community, he gained office through a treasonous venue via Russia.

In my opinion, we are fairly doomed.  The Democratic Party is no longer viable as a check and balance.  We have quietly become a one-party system... making our way to Dictatorship.  I say "quietly" despite the noise of "the people" out in the streets protesting, or on facebook trying to present real news to take over the ever-growing Fake News permeating social media...and Trump's mouth.  

I see our country breaking apart.... there is no redeeming situation that will unify the heart of our beautiful Democracy.  Trump is working hard to silence the voices of reason and truth, as they proclaim...voice by voice... transparency is getting clouded by the day.  The media is in disarray and confusing in its floundering to make themselves heard and read above the noise of the Republican party's booming assertions.  

Well.  War is imminent, being blasted across neighboring fences like children taunting their enemies ...Our own children being the weapon of choice to throw directly at the Middle East, Korea, China...whatever country is showing disrespect to the great Orange Leader .... blood by blood, our country will be depleted of its strength, its intelligence, its imagination....and its hope. 

Brother fighting brother, longtime friends battling on issue and fear... it begins all over again.  Too reminiscent of the historical rise of the Nazi Party and Hitler's horrendous massacres.  Step by step, closer to repeating history with the processes of marking, registering and corralling masses of humanity. 

 And, personally: 

 
I lost my mom last night. Not to death, but to Fox News hypocrisy and to Trump. She called to scold me and told me she was so ashamed of the things I have been saying on facebook. Note, she is NOT on facebook. I looked at my friends list after that phone call and blocked most of my family members on the list. She told me I was a traitor to our country. 

Of course, I am heartbroken. But I tell myself that even Jesus himself was disrespected by his childhood friends and community.  Besides, anytime I can invoke the name of "Jesus" to my mom the better my argument becomes.  She is really upset that I don't claim christianity as American. Not even the fact  that I don't believe in god, but that I don't think it is in the Constitution. 
 
So. Yeah. I am doing some thinking this morning and may have to come up with a more organic and elegant resisting method than what I've been doing. 

I know I learned some important things from my mom.  Not all of them good.  Some things that I learned, I learned by observing and digesting and making it a commitment NOT to be like her.  She taught me to read, to dance, and to speak.  But the fire in my belly came from life.  I will use it to power good things and not let it go out from the wet dampness of discouragement.  I can let go of the things that are not working for me.  But the fire stays.

Maiden, Mother, Crone....

This skin that holds me together, and defines me by texture and color and smell, has been changing so slowly and constantly that it evaded my notice.  Where did the smoothness go and the sleek sheen of my golden tan?  The long soft fullness of the hair on my head has broken and dulled and needs care. I am like the Autumn now.  The brightness, fading into a knowing and deeper shade of wisdom.  I am becoming more like the blending of the earth as the dying leaves make a blanket on its edge. I am becoming less of the sunlight and more of the shadow.  The in-between age, before coming into the glowing stage of the moon.  This is middle age.

Women, mostly, tend to become invisible in middle age.  Not so much "the unseen" but more like "the overlooked."  It is an easy thing to have happen.  Men are still quite vibrant and present, in their jobs and their lives...with people depending upon their sharpness and honed skills from years of practise.  Holding up the world with their bare hands right up until the time of transfer to their sons.... but women....oh, women.  Women flitter and bend and are constantly moving until they become thin like the air.  Without them, men could not stay so solid, yet the more we flutter, the more we lose of our covering.  We flitter away all that previously defined us, so people don't recognize us without our skins...and all we have left is our soul.  Right out there bare naked.  It is a drawn-out process, and takes a long time to peel away, flake away, fall away.... but when it does.... well.  Boom.  That's when we find our power.  That is when we become the Moon.

I am looking forward to being a light again.  Not like when I was young, and I was warm and bright like the sun.  No, I will be cool and blue and glowing and will hold up the oceans and the seas and swim in the ebb and the flow of the moon's power.  I will be gliding and streaming and skimming on the stars with my bodiless soul... leaving a trail of shimmering womenly light.... ageless.... so old that age won't matter and I will become real.  I watch my mother shrivel into a perfect beauty that will soon shine through her layers of years and time and skin....and understand that her path is my path...and on it goes.

I sit in the home I have made cozy, with all my thoughts of my family and loved ones wrapped within....cleaning and straightening and dusting.... seemingly with no purpose but to enfold us all together for this short season in time.... and know that my skin is starting to fall off.... to wrinkle and shrink...to change.  It is my time to let it go, so I will be able to feel my soul emerging and growing.  My moonlight is nigh.  All is well.

Losing oneself is the easy thing....finding it, well, that's another story.  I lost myself, or the perception of myself, one day.  It changed me... that little fall through whatever veil allows our soul to be seen, and I may never really be the same again. 

The day started out like any other, in my middle-aged daily maneuver of "getting things done."  The highlight in my morning was a shopping trip to a local crafting store, where I have spent copious hours previously, perusing its bits and pieces of glory and gifts unfolding in each aisle.  Reading labels of glue bottles, making decisions over every tedious word, as to the success of its stickiness...and feeling the textures of the printed fabrics folded in little squares, offering their neatness to the artists of quilts and cleverness.

I have a crafty little business that I am playing with, called "Crafty Classics" (It's a "Novel" idea)...creating purses from second-hand and well-loved hardcover books... embellishing them with whatever unique and fanciful elements I can find.  Flea markets, estate sales, junking shops, and arts & craft stores are my happy domain whenever I get a free moment to spare in pursuit of crafty fun. 

CraftyClassics via facebook.... This particular day, I planned on a treasure hunting trip for new creations.

After a few cups of good morning coffee, I was excited to drive to my crafting store to pick up a few elements needed for some of my orders.  I was going to try and make labels for my bags and needed to explore the options.  I parked my cute blue car in a parking slot near the door, and waited the five minutes, for the store to unlock its doors. 

I love stepping into a freshly unlocked store... it makes me feel like a part of that new-day-bustle electrifying the air as employees all rush about with the smell of shampoo and soap in their wake.  I meandered about, poking at this or that, as I made my way to the label making kits. 

The display was that of a slotted magazine-ish rack, and I was glad to find it.  I had to read the directions of the kits, trying to find the easiest labels for me to make.  That was when I saw those familiar "lights" blocking my reading view from my sight... I call them the "blinky blinks" having experienced this before, many times.  I have always blamed too much caffeine on those flashies.  Often it occurs at the big hardware store with my husband, and I cannot see my feet or anything within inches of me.  It doesn't last long, and it helps if I squint my eyes shut, opening them quickly to catch a glimpse of where I should put my feet, or words that I try to read.  I end up blinking a few times, clearing my vision of the flashes, and they go away.  Alas, this time they did not go away.  I fell down to my knees, trying to read the display through the flashing, and then time just disappeared. 

I have no idea where I went at that moment.  I just didn't exist anymore...until I found myself pushing a shopping cart in an unfamiliar world.  I don't remember getting a cart.  I don't remember standing up.  I just "was." 

There "I" was... no identity.  I tried so hard to get my bearings, but had no idea where I was.  "I" was just a bodiless conversation in my head...words telling my body where to go, what to pick up to identify... without being able to.  "I" had feelings...annoyance and frustration that I could not recognize things or places.  "I" told myself to maintain composure, feeling that it would be very impolite to appear crazy.  Somehow "I" knew that it was craziness to look lost.  I saw faces floating towards me, then by me, not seeing any distress.  Seeing one come in from a door, I thought I would take my chances to get "out" of this insanity... I felt confined, and needed to get my bearings in the air.

Stepping foot on the sidewalk at the entrance was a relief...for a second.  Nope.  I still didn't know where "I" was.  Trying not to panic, I searched all around me hoping to find my way to clarity.   Noticing I had car keys... I knew they were "mine."  So, I must have a car.  All I wanted was to sit down in my car.  My eyes sought the parking lot filled with vehicles.  None of them looked familiar.  My car was out there someplace.  I pushed the "panic" button on the back of my keypad.  Hearing the beeping of a car, like the sound of a foghorn to a ship, I stepped out into the vast car-filled lot tentatively, following the sound calling to me. 

As I stood in front of the car that was beeping, I realized that I did not recognize this car.  Turning the panic button off, then on again, assuring myself that the button belonged to this car, I reached out and opened the door.  Thinking the whole time, "I am sure gonna get into trouble ...sitting in someone else's car..." but the urgent need to sit down was strong and I scooted in behind the wheel.    It felt safe to be seated within the bubble of the car.   Exploring my purse, I pulled out a phone... I knew "Chris."  The name seemed like a friendly and welcoming life preserver.  Yup...there was his name.... two phone numbers that I did not recognize.... but as I pushed the first one, hearing his voice telling me he could not get to the phone right now made me so happy.  I pushed the second number.... and the minute he answered things started coming back in a gush.  As did the tears.  I was finding myself again. 


So... losing myself was very easy... like sliding down a hill when your shoes turn into skis ... and I learned a new perspective that day.

People are fragile.  Reality is fragile, and also a matter of perspective.  I contemplated, since that day, what it would be like to have that dreaded disease Alzheimer's, or Dementia?... If you lose your own memories, do you still exist?  Or do you become a whole different person?

Lots of questions have come up for me since this day... but I have found some remarkable and solid things to be sure of as well.  Through this, I found that I could count on my husband to be in my psyche as well as my heart, in a good way...as my rock, as my anchor.  He will always be here for me, even when parts of me disappear for times and places I may never know. 

I have friends who care for me and worry with me and for me that I never quite felt sure of before.  And the rest of my family, even though I may go to places that I don't know their names, will love me until I come back and then some.  Of that I am sure.  It is true, what that song says, "All you need is love."

I will remember that.  Wherever I am.


There is a hard part to the aftermath of losing oneself.  I have to be more careful from now on, and because I should not drive or be alone too much, I lose a huge chunk of my precious freedom.  That is hard to take.  And I have to ask for help.  That is harder to take.  But I think it is all part of the journey that is Me.  And I can only hope that if I disappear again, it won't be for long, and it will leave me stronger for the next adventure along the path. 

What fuels YOU?

Starting up a running routine again, after years of avoidance, has been interesting.  After training for a marathon when I was in my forties, I seemed to have lost the "joy" of the Run.  I've missed it, the Joy, not the Run...but couldn't seem to pursue it as I've aged.  Now, at nearly 58 years young, I have found my desire to seek my joy again. 

The last couple of years have been hard on my body, making it clear that I am well ensconced in the middle of that tide, pulling me ever to my winter years.  Struggling to learn about my "new" old body, with thyroid disease, Hashimoto's (an auto-immune disease), and just plain simple aging processes, it has not been fun.  Watching my old high school chums turn into grandparents and seeing the reactions of young people all around me deferring to my age, I knew I had to get serious.  Having had a child late in life (I was 42 when giving birth to my youngest) drives me to vindicate myself, to drive myself into staying fit and healthy so I can be the best mom I can be while he is young.... It was a big motivator.  Staying alive.  I mean, really alive... not just living.  There are things we want to do as a family, things we want to see and places we want to go.  I don't want to be unable to climb mountains and forge valleys as needed....So, my journey began in earnest.

I faithfully maintain a wonderful Boot Camp class... doubling up this month so I am Boot Camping every day except Sunday.  Isotolp Fitness has been such good medicine for my body, but more importantly, for my spirit.  I have become strong...not just strong-er, but really strong.  I have become confident... well, more confident... still working on that.  But the work-out has really taken my aging body, and is putting life back into it that I never thought I would see again.  I am very very careful, these days, what I put into my mouth.  There is no magic pill.  It takes a mountain of will power to keep those corn chips, Celtic Nachos, bread, and cheese from entering my body.  It isn't always fun.  But it is always worth it.  And... believe it or not, I am finding my long-lost Joy. 

Everyone in my Boot Camp has inspired me.  Yes, they are all much younger than I am.  But I am just as strong.  I am just as alive.  It is a wonderful feeling.  They have gotten on this "obstacle-mad run-challenge-yourself" crazy train of Spartan races.  And, it pulled me.  I said I would never run again (bad knees, old age...ya da ya da).... Well, never say never.  I signed up for a Spartan Sprint in March.  Taking a deep breath, I donned my running shoes, so I could start preparing.  I know I tell people, "I am doing this just to 'finish' ..just to have fun"  but I know me.  I want to do well.  I don't even think about how old I am, unless it can inspire me. 

I started running at near-by Lake Pine.  It is a very civilized path, hugging the pretty man-made lake.  Paved, of course.  People run it, but mostly people stroll.  With baby carriages, and lots of dogs on leashes.  I have not, as yet, felt the need to upgrade to the National Forest paths that are ruggedly advanced and wild.  Well, okay, I am starting to feel the need to upgrade, but I am deathly afraid of getting lost on the trails.  Hahaha.  I will have to overcome that soon.  But running at Lake Pine has been the first step to my discipline.  And to finding my joy.  That isn't saying that it has been FUN though.  Nope.

I hated the first day out there.  To put it mildly.  I couldn't breathe right; my jogging bra felt too tight and was not letting enough oxygen into my lungs... my knees were starting to give me pains.  And the people.... oh, my Lord.  The people.  My fuel was "pure annoyance."  To this day, I can use the very same annoyance to fuel my runs.  Thank goodness for people.

The path is only so wide.  You would think it wide enough, to look at it, to aptly provide for numbers of people to use it.  But that is not the case.  Too many people, obviously NOT runners (ever), meander in groups of three or more... gaggles of people....spread out across the path so as to easily chat while they meander... apparently unaware that there is a whole world of other people using the path also.  And this happens mostly while on an upward incline, if you can imagine trying to maintain a speed going uphill while having to change direction to go around and off the path into territory uncharted for poor old wobbly ankles.  That would not be such an annoyance if said gaggles would honor the sweaty runners' plea of "to the left, coming to the left" while maybe moving out of a lane with a simple step to the side....but no.  Many people stand their ground, while looking you in the face as if daring you to "steal" their little piece of path.  "I was here first" is not the way to think of public walkways....Boom... there is some fuel for me to speed strongly past them, getting me to my goal much quicker.  Thank you for providing that passionate push for me....

Another "fueling device" is to post my goal on facebook, for all the world to see.  When I feel like slowing down, or walking, I picture the words OUT LOUD that I so proudly posted... and Boom.... more fuel.  I cannot go back on my words, and there is the added spirit of motivation.

Visualizing the goal's end in victory... boom, that is another bit of fuel.  I can use that whenever I need it and as often as I need it...sometimes it is needed more than others, but it always works for me.  In my head, I imagine coming into the finish line, BIG, with arms spread wide and crowds cheering... even if I "only" ran two miles.... hey!  It's MY imagination... and whatever works, right?  I might look like I am limping, sweaty, and a mass of old lady tears with pee running down my leg and ready to collapse...but in my head I am a champion.

Yesterday I completed a 6.6 mile run averaging 9.7 minute miles.... this is just a beginning now.  I am almost 58 years old and I am a runner.  What fuels YOU?

Of "Jumping" Times...

Jumping.  How fun is that really?  Jumping rope.  Jumping for joy.  Just plain jumping.  If you are a child, the word jumping fairly calls obligation for you to do it.  Jumping.  Oh, inner child....just wait. 

Jumping overboard.  Jumping Ship. Jumping to conclusions.  Jumping takes a fair amount of trust in ourselves as adults.  Trust in ourselves and in the security of our environment.  Trust that we will land square footedly, without injury to our aging bones.  These days, jumping isn't much fun.  As I have gotten older, ahem...wiser?, my trust in myself and my world has gotten weaker.  It takes more courage to "just jump"....

I remember, as a young girl, springing from the roofs and balconies of homes and cottages out at the beach where I grew up.  Climbing...I was a climber...and prideful of the heights I could reach.  But climbing meant inevitably, jumping... and oh how I loved to jump.  Springing up and off, spreading my arms like wings and landing...always landing.... on my feet, knees bent and letting my body roll with the earth and the sand ...Taadah!  Jumping up with the whole joy of the flight and the edginess of solid earth, as something to be counted on, knowing I wouldn't fall farther than Mother Earth's bed.

Memories now.  "Jumping" has become something respected, and even feared.  NOT jumping has become my aim.  Because nowadays, if I jump, it is usually not on purpose and becomes known as "falling".... Falling ends up with a painful landing, not controlled nor desired. 

Now the worst jumping I do to myself is "jumping to conclusions."  Which can be horribly disabling, and should be considered dangerous.  The latest "jumping to conclusions" has ruined quite a few days in a row for me, ending in nightmares in which I am suffering and out of control...jumping to conclusions is not doing a damn bit of good for me and I must find a way to stop.

I have spent the last year and a half struggling to maintain the beautiful and fortunate good health I have enjoyed previously for so many years.  My body is falling to pieces.  Between thyroid and old broken bones and knees that ache, and eyesight that is failing...now the beautiful golden skin I have been growing on my body since before birth is betraying me.  Everyone said it would.  Skin is the largest organ of the human body.  It is a lovely thing to have, indeed.  Skin covers all the gruesome mechanics and oils and blood and guts, making life pleasurable to ourselves and to everyone else who doesn't want to see the mess underneath. 

I have become aware of how horrid we could look without our skin, by watching a series called "The Walking Dead" in which lovely human people, attractive in their own right, lose bits and pieces of their skin, becoming patchworks of gore.  It doesn't seem to bother them, however, since they are in fact "dead" and only the "walking" part of them seems to be alive.  Oh yeah, and the part where they get hungry to eat living people, also.  But I am digressing.  Skin.  Beautiful skin.  Skin that can have cute freckles, to accentuate innocence, skin that is white and pale and fragile enough to see the pretty blue vein that reminds us of the delicacy of life, skin that is tough as leather and strong and worthy of warriors.  My skin is sort of olive, especially in the summers after the sunshine warms it as I play.  Dark skins, light skins... skin that can measure health by changing colors if we become ill.  Skin that holds temperatures of our soul in place... hot, cold, making us aware of life itself. 

Well.  As I have enjoyed my skin heartily, through all of my 57 years... starting at a young age appreciating all of its benefits... especially as a teenager when it became apparent that I could actually change my color all by myself by exposing it to the amazing warmth of the sunshine.  Oh, I used the clean smelling baby oil that my mom used for rubbing on my baby brother and sister...I loved the smell.  And when the sun heated it up, I was in heaven.  It gave me a golden color that I got complimented for, over and over again.  My girlfriends and I would have "tanning contests" seeing which of us lucky girls could get the darkest and prettiest tans during our Michigan summers before school started up in the fall.  I added iodine (yes, I did... thought it was a great trick that I learned from fashion magazines) to make my tan deeper and darker.  I basked.  I think I read about a thousand or more books every summer while I "worked" on my tan.  I was a lovely thing.

As you can probably see where this is going... yup.  Addiction.  I felt healthier with my tan, skinnier, prettier.... wearing white and feeling really happy when neon clothing became popular... wow.  Looking at some of my old pictures, I can't help but think I looked like a negative of myself.  My eyebrows and my hair fairly glowed in the dark with the lightness of the sunshine while my skin contrasted like a roasted shadow of youth.  Like a coffee bean with hair.  Pretty attractive stuff, eh?  (I laugh, in jest of youthful ideas...)

I have been lucky as I have grown up, with my skin.  I exercise a lot.  I eat right, most of the time.  I take care of myself as well as the next person.  I don't smoke (never did, never will) and rarely drink alcohol. I am consistent with my dentist appointments, and my ever-increasing doctor appointments, to maintain the health that I've enjoyed.  So what's the problem? 

On my last visit to get my yearly skin check by the dermatologist, there were a few "spots" that concerned me.  Especially with my history and relationship to Mr. Sol... and it proved to be worthy of concern.  I have an area above my right breast that will be burned out due to a cancer.  Luckily THAT spot is "just" a basel cell type, which is fairly superficial, and in early stages.  But it is just the beginning.  Here is where the "jumping to conclusion" comes in. 

I am not sleeping.  I worry all the time now.  I feel desperate to "do" something but am turning circles in my mind as to what and how and when.  It is making me crazy.  And frightened.  I frantically pulled my hair back from my head to see what I would look like bald and even snipped some of my hair off in my impulse to do what Susan Surandon did when she sheared her hair marking a moment in time to reconnect with her soul in The Banger Sisters.  Yeah.  That went badly for me;  luckily I can cover the snipped part with the top longer hair that escaped my panic.  But it better grow back fast.

I guess you could say that my "jumping to conclusions" didn't do any good for me.  And makes my case that it is dangerous.  But in writing this, I have discovered a new thing about myself.  Maybe IT can be used to do good.  Maybe I can get a hold of myself, in the "jumping to conclusions" and just jump.  Maybe it is what I need to wake up and start LIVING again.  Really living, not just doing laundry and cleaning my little world.  I need to use this "jumping to conclusion," to actually JUMP.  As in Jump for Joy.  As in Jumping Rope...for fun.  

I have been thinking about all the things I have wanted to teach my boyz, before I depart.  All the things I want to tell them.  Looking at my life, and realizing I haven't done anything near to the glorious adventures I planned for myself a quarter of a century ago.  This is where the jump comes in.  I have climbed to the top of the roof.  I needn't think about the landing, because we are all gonna land somewhere, somehow.... I am going to reach down to my inner child and find that joy of flight, of jumping, and of controlling my fear to turn it into LIFE.  I'm gonna Jump.

December Dreams... Of Spirit and Gifts

     Inside the Glass house, oh so long ago, the day after Thanksgiving was a most magical time to me.  The whole world seemed to change, the edge of daily deeds blurring into a sparkling hope of what's to come.  As a child, growing up in the late fifties and sixties, there was much to be gained from being young and impressionable.  A time when women wore "dresses" to clean their homes, and moms went to every single PTA meeting ever, and martini's were made and ready for the days to end and evening to begin. 

     My dad had a CB radio, that was as much "toy" for him as it was a communication device to make the world seem smaller and more cosy.  Every night, as he made his way home from work, we would hear his voice announcing "KBV3871" on the box in the corner of the kitchen.  We would all perk our ears, and come running to hear him tell my mom via the magic of radio waves to "get a cold one ready, I'm almost there."  It was my pleasure and duty to run to the basement, feeling the hard, cold cement steps descending deep into our beach house, and grab a cold Miller from the fridge, popping it open to present to a tired Pop as he came through the door.

     My mom would have her apron on, the table having been "set" by myself and my sister, and carrying each hot dish over to set on the hot pads placed "just so."  It happened this way every single night for as long as I could remember.  At least, on a normal night.  The night before Thanksgiving was different, offering not only a change in routine, but in atmosphere.  My dad never had to work the next day, so our dinner was made up of small bits of "specials"... easy dinners to make and clean up, making short work of our time at the table.  Once we cleared up, and the last dish was dried (yes, dried...as in, with a towel...no dishwasher in those days, except the ones named "Kris and Sheree")  the fun and the work would begin. 

     Pie dough was made, with lots of "sneaking" bits and pieces when "the mom" had her back to the bowl...(love pie dough to this day, despite all her warnings that it would give us "worms.")  Pie filling was put together...none of that canned stuff for us.  Sugar started to sparkle and slide around on the countertops, and even the floor a little, added to the dusty flour spillings that were inevitable.  Cherry pies, pumpkin pies, and ...my favorite, pecan pies were "built" and baked for the huge family gathering anticipated on the morrow.  More serious food prep started happening, starting with the big naked turkey and the pink fat ham that was studied and prodded before setting into the grooming of the main courses.  Dressing made, and stuffed into the cavity (gross) of the bird, glaze made to brush over the ham... green bean cassarole put together so it could be just thrown into the oven at the last minute.  And the painstaking slicing of the potatoes for my mom's special Augratin potatoes that everyone asked for each year.  (Not me, I called them "all rotten" potatoes...wasn't a big potato fan, even then)... It seemed that night lasted forever, and I was tired from my head to my wee toes when I finally got tucked into the bottom bunk. 

The next day always brought a flurry of activity, and excitement.  Mom usually made our "Sunday best" dresses, and we had pretty clothes to put on right after a quick breakfast of Life cereal and (eww) milk.  The house smelled good from the moment I woke up, and the warmth of the cooking and the activity made my new clothes scratch and itch, and I had to hurry to zip up my dress before it made me crazy with discomfort.  I always disliked getting dressed up, and prefer to live in jeans and sweatshirts now that I have a choice.  Even on Thanksgiving.  Our house filled up quickly, with the stomping off of boots and shoes of the incoming relatives, cousins squealing and whining and laughing and playing... kids getting shoo'd off to the basement or any other room but where the adults were gathering.  My sister and I had to politely stop whatever we were doing, as the commands started coming like contractions of birth, closer and closer together until it was dinner time.  We set up the "Little Kid's Table" since there was never a big enough table for all of us to fit around.  That "little kids" table is a big joke even today at family gatherings, since my cousins who never made the "cut" as adults still feel a bit ostrasized when it is brought up jokingly. 

     I loved our Thanksgiving Day gatherings.  I look back on my family of old, with such mourning... I miss us.  I miss all of us that have finished their journeys, leaving those of us behind grieving.  But in my memory, it is always the grand-ness and the love and the warmth and the laughter that stays with me.  After such a day, you would think the day after would be a let-down.  But it never was.  It was another beginning ... and the permission for us to welcome the Christmas holiday to our year.  The day after Thanksgiving was a welcome to the world of lights, and presents and kindness and hope.  And, for me, it expanded my imagination for many more years than it should have, for I welcomed the world of Santa Claus to my home.

     My father made Christmas at our house.  He WAS Santa Claus.  Never would I have believed that my little dark haired daddy who was so reserved and quiet in his demeanor, was that magical HUGE presence in white beard and big black boots....but there you go.  Even when we lived in a tiny little trailer, I would be in awe at the Christmas Magic that I woke up to.  Between my dad and my mom and her wonderful baking, and the decorations that came out each year, handled gingerly and lovingly, ... the little candles shaped like choir members and angels and Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus...never lit, heaven's no, and for that I am thankful.  They were a part of Christmas tradition that I counted on without even thinking about it. 

     My dad's role in the decorating, besides putting up lights outside in the middle of cold Michigan winters, was to put up the tree.  Whether we had a real tree or a tree that we put together with sticklike branches that fit into holes on the "trunk" my dad always outdid himself.  I remember one year he got a "movie camera" and he put the "trunk" up of the fake tree, take a shot with the camera of it, stick a branch in, take a shot, stick another branch in, take another shot..etc until the whole tree was up, bulbs and all.... then he played it back to us and with the magic of movie-making the tree grew in minutes right before our eyes.... the more charming for the rare catches of mom's hand slipping in and out as he captured the tree "growing"...

     And Christmas morning...oh my.  We got presents that we didn't even know we wanted.  He went "all out" for Christmas for us.... later, my mom told me that our grandparents used to scold my dad for "spoiling" us each year, but it never phased him.  My parents must have stayed up all night putting together such a magical display of wonder for us... when we got up on Christmas morning (wee morning) all a-shaking and big-eyed, my dad was already behind the movie camera all set up for our first impressions to be captured forever on film. He never failed to amaze us, and never ever did he let us NOT believe in Santa Claus. 

   To this day, the day after Thanksgiving brings back those memories and so much more.  I miss my dad all the time, but knowing how much he loved this time of year, I think of him even more.  He gave us many gifts, some of which I remember and cherished, and some that have gone the way of forgotten things... but I realize the best gift he gave me, that he gave us, was the gift of himself, and of his heart and of all of the every day things he did for us that we don't even think about.  He gave us a love for all things "family"... and I miss him.  I work hard to give my family that experience of "magic" and the awesomeness of imagination and hope that he gave to me.  When my time comes for me to leave, for my own journey to "end" I hope my boys will think back to the traditions of our holidays and see what gifts they really are.  The spirit of love runs in families.  The spirit of love is THE gift that I wish for all of you.  Namaste.

Of Pumpkins and Flames, and the Warmth of the Fall.

The middle age of a woman is warm, and orange...not the dull, muted orange of a daytime pumpkin, but the glowing, welcoming orange of a night-time jack-o-lantern with a lighted candle inside.  The shape of us, as well as the soul of us, is at the mercy of our world.  We can fight it, and some of us do.  We can wallow in it, and some of us do.  We can embrace it..

I believe the light in all of us, has been there since the day we were born.  Each light is kept aflame differently, uniquely and gives us our individual will.  Our shell, our pumpkin, is the shelter given us that protects our flame, maybe adapting with time to adjust the feeding or the manipulation of our spirits. 

For some reason, I consider relationships more closely in the fall.  It seems a soft season.  Maybe it is the time of year that our inner flames need to be fed and nurtured, as our food supply is harvested in preparation for winter.  My age rests comfortably in fall, like being in an old easy chair.  The frolicking of summer has passed, and we all seem to need fall to steady ourselves and store away our energies along with our harvests, in preparation for the cold, harder days of winter.  I hold my friends and family a bit closer, wrapping them about me like a blanket on the cooler evenings of October.

Our experiences, in middle age, become deeper and more meaningful.  We see with a fairly clear eye where we have been, and remember the summer's energy in our dance.  And, we have a vision of what is to come, having observed the way of life that our elders have gone.  The circle of life holds our flame in the center, spinning faster and faster...until the flame puffs out, with the lingering smell of our spirits in the bit of smoke wafting.


I have a couple of young friends, even younger than my firstborn, who have shared their spirit with me in spite of our age difference.  I am learning that time and age have a different meaning to the dimension of spirit.  We have been exploring together, on a path that has connected our individual journeys, knowing we will probably end up in different places some day, but we have the comfort of companionship right now on this path.  We have connected together easily, by the pull of a magic that happens rarely.  I think our inner flames have somehow recognized a familiar warmth from each other and works like a magnet...making three flames into one.This is one circle of magic that I am thankful to have in my life right now.

I have another "circle" made up of two fellow middle-agers that I know will be in my life forever.  We have made a community of three on facebook message, and it feels like a connection that will hold through thick and thin like blood.  We are experiencing our Crone-ness together, and I know this is a circle that will not end, even with the blowing out of a flame.

I am embracing the Fall of my life.

Facing the Sun...Absorbing the Rain

The sounds of a spring-time rainy day in North Carolina are soft, and fairly cosy. The greens look greener, the budding trees more full. But it dulls the edges of my heart in ways that bring discontent, as well as a limp laziness of not caring to my day. Unable to shake this off, and just do something, I melt and wilt deeper into my blanketed chair. Hugging my umpteenth cup of coffee to my chest, feeling a bit of the sleepiness from the warmth, without the futile buzz that comes with caffeine. Oh yeah. I am beyond mellow. Starting to slip into the old fetid swimming hole that is depression, I question my emotional maturity.

I had great hopes at the beginning of this year. New medication that was supposed to make me dance with energy and lightness, hope that our life was really making sense to the glories of the future. Chris' new position in his job, that would bring my dearest friend back in place of the stranger his old job created. I felt assured that we were making positive decisions regarding the most important four years of our son's education. Moving ahead with confidence, and the ability to ignore the flagging red tips of warning flags along the way, my heart was hopeful. I still had the ability to talk myself out of the slipped footings as I made my way through my days.

It became apparent to me that I was losing ground, when I found myself deflated and defeated and uninspired with my Irish dance classes, and even my hard-earned place in my Intermediate Boot Camp was making me whine and balk. My joys were turning against me.

Something is wrong.  But I don't know what.  

Dan, this one is for you. You are going to be good for my Family.

Wow!  It's been a long time since I sat down and actually had something to say.  Not that life didn't go on without you, dear Blog, but I found motivation and inspiration in odd times and did not make you accessible to me.  So, I am going to attempt to catch up.

This summer as been a challenge, good and bad, as all challenges are.  The only thing consistent to ME has been my Boot Camp class, which doesn't sound poetic at all, but has held me together body, mind and soul, to get me through some tumultuous waters.  Like the ocean, this summer has had a tremendous rip-tide that could have easily pulled me under and dragged me out to sea.

From the outside, looking in, I can understand how people may think my life is very calm and secure.  The very peace of it, however, is exactly what creates my storms.  I have never been able to feel truly settled, or calm, unless things around me are challenging and a bit dangerous.  As I grow older, less of me is being pulled into the eye of the tornado, and finding peace within an already calm space has become something I want to learn better how to do.  It isn't comfortable, as one may assume, and my body seems to crave constant pressure and movement.  Sitting still feels stagnant to me, even when I am overwhelmed with the need to "rest."

I am living with two men, one young and one ...well, "old"...(no offense, honey...I am still older than you)...Both of these men are currently very satisfied with staying still.  It is within them, a sort of peace that makes me feel as if their calm harbor is where they maintain their strength.  It makes me crazy.  Period.  I feel that I am their "nucleus" and they are pulled magnetically to maintain a close distance to me, and I am afraid to go anywhere outside of THEIR comfort zones.  I don't want to shake them up with my own frenetic need to wiggle and blindly jump about.

I am trying to fill my calm space with very active things, that I can be passionate about.  It makes me think of a cup of hot water with its energetic ions and protons and neutrons bopping around about and into each other as the water heats up.  Maybe I can maintain this calm exterior and NOT burst... so, I am starting up my Irish dance classes again.

My Irish dance academy has a new teacher, who is fast becoming a good friend to me.  My friend has one of those "calm exteriors" also, but I sense a kindred spirit inside, and I'm thinking his molecules are ever-moving and keeping up with the frenetic energy I contain as well.  His dancing is beautiful.  It is powerful, and yet sweetly smooth, as if he has a bit of fairy-light within lifting him off the ground.  I will dance like that someday, I think.  I can feel it.  I have taken only three classes with him so far, but he is teaching me about where the body has the most strength, in the most unsuspected places.  Who knew that to lift off, being on our toes would get us higher than pushing off from the very solid whole foot....?

Which leads me to this thought:  I wonder if our "power" in everyday living, both spiritually and physically really comes from the often overlooked small places?  Never obvious...maybe that's how people who have become very powerfully accomplished and famous, surprise us.  Take Mother Teresa for an example: She very quietly, steadfastly, and yes, calmly, took over the world in her own way and learned to contain her goodness and her strength to accomplish outrageously energetic things.  In history, there are many people who have learned to move their "cup" of energy without disrupting the calm ... learning to push off from the small places of their bodies, their souls, seemingly to defy the laws of nature...

I know many people who are proud to call themselves "Christians" will determine that it is "God" who is their strength and motivations, inside of their peace.  That's good, I think.  I accept that.  I think we need to use whatever visualizations and imaginations that we can to feed our souls, to heat up our energies. I like to visualize God, myself.  I am not sure of His absolute reality, and do not have "faith" in all that seems to be the makings of our society's Christianity... I think it is much bigger than that.  And smaller, too.  I believe every religion has those accomplishments, and finding the fires within ourselves individually takes an unearthly separation of body and soul... and giving it a name just seems to limit the possibilities.

I am, personally, going to start looking closely at the smaller, more hidden places of my strength...not overlooking every potential therein, nor underestimating the smallest or the weakest.  Let's surprise ourselves, and start jumping off from our toes, instead of our whole foot.

Ragged Days of Falling Together...

In crafting home-made paper, one has many options and processes to choose from. Being the kind of person I am, less exacting and more impatient to finish than others, I prefer to create ragged edges as compared to the precise and meticulously framed borders that accomplished artists market.

I find that ragged edges bond more seamlessly when I combine two or more paper sections together when making larger pieces from numerous smaller ones. Ragged edges adhere together with more strength, and also bond as though originating as "one," not being able to tell where one section ends and another begins.

It figures that I craft my life in the same ways. I feel much like a ragged person, whose edges are rough and unpredictable with no semblance of order and planning. I never really know what I will do next. Obviously, I accomplish little due to my many distractions and ever-changing interests. I have the attention span of a puppy. Or so it seems to me.

In looking through a Glass Half Full, I can be thankful for my ragged edges, as I have been blessed with a husband who sees my ragged edges as something attractive and exciting... and of late, my ragged edges shook up his world as well as mine for the sake of a life that, all of a sudden, could be cut shorter than we'd like. My husband is a sweet man whose edges were born less ragged than mine, but I'm seeing that he has intentionally been tearing some of his sharp lines, sometimes painfully, to mesh with my own. That is love.

I understand that I am a frustrating muddle of a mess more often than not. He is a man that prefers to know his boundary and the expectations of life. He likes to plan, even though he isn't particular when plans go awry. He just adjusts his boundaries. And such, he is gifing me with this process, so entirely "him." I see, now, that he is adjusting his boundaries often. He thinks about our next moves very carefully, too carefully for me, but he is meticulous and cautious taking a good long time in his decision making. What I failed to see, before, is that this is part of his process to start tearing bits of his comfortable straight edges off, leaving chunks of himself torn wide open baring itself to the elements. That is love.

We have a ways to go, while creating our "bigger piece" but I am seeing our edges beginning to fade one into the other. I recognize our different textures, and colors, still...and may always be able to discern our differences. But there is certainly more blending and bonding being done in these days than we can yet see with our eyes, but can feel in our hearts. I acknowledge the tearing that it has taken, the desire in his heart that keeps him hanging on to this very amateuristic piece of work that is "me"... I am seeing less and less of the "edge" that comes between us, and look forward to the days when we will be truly "one piece." Happy Anniversary, darling. Thanks for letting me be me. That is love.

...and the Days of Black and White

Like an old 1950's movie reel, or photograph, life unrolls in black and white through the lens of Depression. Various shades of grey, blending the whites and the blacks into soft and messy edges muting and distorting the borders of reality. I find myself sort of "feeling" my way through the days that are so filled with shadows. It seems that my eyes cannot really be relied upon, and that I need to use my heart to navigate...blurring my day, my paths, with tears, weeping being the only thing keeping my spirit from exploding away from me in a panic. I need my spirit, and intrinsically will fight for it, knowing instinctively that without it I am just a corpse. Weeping happens, and I am thankful for it, because of the releasing pressure, like a hot water heater's valve, keeping me alive for my child and my days.

On a positive note, hey...I am not dying. So sure that my previous blood draws and medical proddings would prove a cancer, a deadly end to my body, that it would seem an amazing and wonderful new look at life to discover, at this point, I am cancer-free still. Still awaiting the results of an ultrasound, but without fear of the unwanted nodules being found ... I am trying to be celebratory...trying to "join the party" so to speak that I see my husband making. I do have a disease, but like everything in my life, it is common and not that unique or special, and is definitely treatable with the science of medications. Even my disease is mediocre. You would think that my body could do something extraordinary for once!

I have a disease called "Hashimoto's Thyroiditis" which is not a thyroid disease at all, but an autoimmune disease...apparently my warrior-like white blood cells are fighting my own thyroid. Also apparently, I have had this my whole life and it finally makes some sense of my historic craziness. Not that it is an excuse for my many sins and bad decisions, but it does help explain a bit of the actions I have chosen. It is very disconcerting to think I made such huge decisions in my life based on the silent, but heavy, lurkings of a disease. Learning that this disease is a hereditary one, it also gives me a clearer view of my endearing, but totally dysfunctional childhood family. It seems my father suffered greatly from mood swings and depression, and I'm thinking my siblings and I have inherited more than good skin from him. Now I understand his drinking, his inability to stay in one house longer than a few short years, and his seeking to appease some sort of inner wildness that he failed to control. Oh yes. I get all of those now.

Unlike many people who are living with this disease, I had a doctor who knew enough to actually test for it. Many folks are being treated for the symptoms of Hashimoto's without being treated for the disease itself. Depression is tops on the list, along with forms of anemia, inability to fight infections, dry skin, dry hair... and this disease leads potentially to more serious things like Type I Diabetes Melitus, Grave's Disease, Addison's Disease, Crone's disease, Lupus, Rheumatoid Arthritis...and other sobering sufferings. My "Glass Half Full" is certainly thankful for our modern day medical field, and that there are very knowledgeable naturapathic professionals who can educate me with diet and nutritional ideas.

So. I started on a magic pill that is supposed to assist my pituitary gland in regulating my endocrine system, but until this pill's dosage is adjusted just right, I am in the throes of distress not really of my own making. It seemed to take the color out of my world, attacking any hard-earned self confidence (what little I had to start with) and turning it into a muddy black and white film of the empty part of my Glass. Giving me restless nights filled with disturbing dreams of the edges of all nightmares unremembered but deeply felt, long after waking.

Adding to this, I have become the "Night Mama" to a new puppy who really belongs to my son, but-we-all-know-how-that-works. Needless to say, my first weekend on medication was spent in a zombie-like cocoon, filled with Alice-in-Wonderland-tears oozing from my eyes uncontrollably...no way could I function outside of my house. And, wildly crazy, when I DID interact with the general public, I was able to smile and laugh and died a little deeper each time I pretended like this. No wonder Depression is a disease that is scoffed at and frowned upon... we sufferers should have our own country where we could go so as not to affect our families, allowing us to wallow our way through it in peace.

In the past, before I knew that this was a disease, I managed it by simply trying to run away from myself. I did it over and over again by packing up my meager belongings and moved to another place, state, environment in a very natural gypsy-like way that felt more like me than the settled self. The stimulation I received from this crazy-like action was enough to appease the crazy...until the next time. Granted, I cannot tell which of my instincts and actions are induced by a natural craziness and restless yearning, or by the disease that is Hashimoto's. There is an element of stability that I've discovered in the past fifteen or so years since I've met my husband and been able to provide a home for my kids that seems admirable to me, but not really "me" and I have fought my urges to "up and go" for a long time now. It has become such a part of me, that it will be interesting to see what proper medication does. I am not all that sure I want to know who that person is who does not have a bit of craziness left inside. I will give it a shot, but although I will not miss the Black and White days of depression, I think I will miss that bit of color that comes with crazy.

The Waiting Days...

Here I sit. Trying to quiet the pounding of my heart, to still the nervous bouncing of my right foot as it keeps time to the ever-increasing momentum that anxiously announces the end of a waiting period, I sit. After weeks of blood draws and measurements collected, my Doctor's consult is nigh upon me. I have been telling myself "no news is good news" for so long, I hesitate to complete this journey, not wanting to jinx the "good news" part with "news." Two more days to put any considerations and possibilities on hold.

I decided to document this journey, good or bad, in order to share with others who will inevitably be stepping on this path. Of course, in my moments of "Glass-half-full" I imagine myself rejoicing a long and healthy life where future decisions will actually make a difference, but once in a while that persistent, but silent dark cloud shadows my thoughts with all the "what-ifs" of the horror stories of my friends and family who have lost their battles with Cancer and other life-crushing diagnosis'.

It is odd, and kind of funny, what my mind has played with. I went from feeling invincible and strong, given my glorious Boot Camp mornings where I can throw a 14 pound medicine ball around in various positions for half an hour...to more presently, being weakened by imagined or real, sore throats, ear aches, head aches and muscle-joint pain. I am laughing at myself at this point, acknowledging my always-active imagination, but there is that ominous quiet cloud shadow making my chuckles die out with a question mark.

My husband, ever supportive, has been treating me with kid gloves due to an upheaval in our relationship status... (interpreted as: "it's complicated" on facebook... leaving much to the imagination.) My timely condition ultimately includes him as a participant of my "Waiting Game" as well. I recognize his generous sweetness as a willing addition to this game, but I question his motives, interpreting his generosity in the moments of my dark cloud as a pre-determined strategy in the game end, with me as the big "loser." I am a bad sport, and being a "loser" just doesn't sit well.

So, I close my eyes and wait. I try to visualize the workings of my heart, cleaning my life-giving blood and distributing it to all my parts, carrying with it my hopes and my laughter and my prayers...We only have one chance to live this life... I want to embrace the good with the bad, and to be sensitive to everyone around me who shares this human existence. And this is where magic happens. In the game of "Wait" I am drawing the Magic card. Because I can. So I sit, waiting.

The Very Naked Days...

It seems that this part of my journey is to be taken naked. Baring my bones, removing clothes and flesh and the cozy coverings of hiding places. Taking off the pretty make-up that transforms flaws into perfection. How much courage it takes to step up onto a stage alone, to pour one's heart out on a public page, to shear one's head into a camera lens... to be naked. So few of us explore the cleansing and healing powers that come from nakedness of heart.

Life has gotten a bit unbalanced for me recently. Or not so recently, but certainly has culminated in some shaky ground of late, which in turn has uncovered an earthquake fission of insecurities. On the tail of that earthquake, which I am not elaborating on due to the impossible depth and breadth of its source, rides opportunities and possibilities galore... I am hanging onto that tail for dear life, but it seems that all my coverings and clothings are flying off right and left, leaving nothing but pure "me." If I let go long enough to grab at some of my dignities, I will be a goner, so here I am, riding naked....but still alive.

I will start with my passion for the Irish dance. I started Irish dance classes mid-February of this year. Learning Irish dance means UN-learning the things my body was taught about ballet. Most of them anyway. It isn't an easy thing to "un-learn" something. Practice, practice, practice. I practised Irish dance, thought Irish dance, talked Irish dance...making my friends surely a bit annoyed with this topic posting in their faces day after day. I never knew such dancing existed... oh the energy and the beauty and the intricacy of it! And mostly, the history and ancient tradition of this dance that awakened in my blood, my Irish blood that recognized and celebrated its knowing, finally able to express the hidden origin of spirit.

Irish dancers compete. With themselves, mostly, but also with and against other Irish dancers. Challenging their feet to fly higher, faster, sharper, lighter... We compete in an important event called a feiseanna, or feis (pronounced fesh) which incorporates Irish music along with dance in a weekend long competition in which dancers can "graduate" into levels and of course get medals and trophies to prove their gained skills. Most of the competitors are children...very young to young adult. And the dresses, costumes, of the young dancers are simply amazing... almost ridiculously intricate and extravagant... costing upwards into the thousands of dollars.

Well, it isn't so glamorous or even popular, to be a Beginner Adult Irish dancer. It takes work and time and lots of energy and concentration that most adults do not have. We have to make ourselves practice around school schedules, laundry and housekeeping routines, soccer practices, cheer-leading, dance classes and meal preparations, to say nothing of the doctor appts and vet care and things that make up an adult's life in addition to earning a living. So, yeah, there are not many of us out there who are not so exhausted by daily life that we find a wee dance class to be relaxing. Not much thought is given to the adults, in the Feis competitions, although I believe a little more attention is being given nowadays as the adult numbers slowly grow.

After much hesitation, and not a little fear, I joined the small rank of Adult competitors. I felt good about my dances, well, as good as I could being so new at them. Having had quite a nice ballet background, I felt confident in my toe pointing, although I haven't used those muscles in years...the feeling came back soon enough. I felt ready to compete as a beginner. Adults don't get to wear the fancy dresses until they are really really good, so I was happy enough in my little black skirt, white blouse and black tights. I felt it made me less conspicuous, and also able to hide any insecurities I had about body issues... simple is best...black is best...now if I just didn't pee my pants, I would be fine. (there is a fair amount of jumping to do, you know... anyone who is a mommy will know exactly what I am talkin' about)...

Luckily, for me, the competition has accommodated the status of Adult Beginner. This particular feis, my first feis, was in Charlotte, NC and there were only TWO participants competing as Adult Beginner. I was one of them. I looked my competitor over, head to toe, and felt truly satisfied that I would do well... I looked like a dancer (in my mind) and I was confident in my hours of practice. Our turn came. We walked up the steps to the stage. Somehow, I knew what it felt like to be a prisoner walking to the gallows. I could feel my heart beat way up in my forehead. I thought for sure my new shiny headband was expanding and contracting blatantly with each heart beat. I remembered to stand and wait for the music with my feet in Irish Feet position. I looked at the audience and noticed not ONE single face, but a whole sea of faces, standing room only. Naked. I was naked. Everyone could see that I didn't know what I was doing. I focused on a spot on the floor to remember my first step...then heard my teacher's voice, "head up" and my head flung up as the music started. My first step was completed, well done... my feet took over and somehow I got through the Reel and was bowing to the judge. One dance down, three more to go.

A repeat for my Light Jig. I was gaining confidence. Did it. Danced it... kicked high, pointed toes... I was REMARKABLE. I ROCKED. Yay!!! Feeling damn proud of myself I went to my seat. My friend came to get me, excited that the scores were posted for my first two dances. It took forever to wind through the hallways to get to the score board. He was so excited for me, surely I must have gotten first place!

Lesson number one. Do not look at scores until ALL dances are done. I saw 2nd place after my name. Does not compute. My heart fell. My friend is just about jumping up and down (he obviously has a better way of looking at scores, being much more experienced than I...lol) "See? Sheree...you got 2nd place!" I just looked at him and said in a dead voice...."there were only two people dancing. I got LAST place." (I am well recovered this day to be able to write this with such ease...lol)

My third dance was a Slip Jig. Much more difficult than the other two dances for me, since I learned it last and apparently practised it less. With the heaviness of heart that comes with defeat, my lead feet schlumped up the never ending 3 steps onto the stage. Trying to shake off the disappointment, I smiled and squared my shoulders, in Irish Feet of course. The music started, I took a couple of steps into my first step and .... forgot my dance. There was no turning back... I tried to keep dancing but it turned into my Reel, which does NOT flow with Slip Jig music. I folded. Remembering to bow to the judge, I said "sorry" and tried not to cry. She gave me a second chance (I'm sure taking pity on me, and feeling fortunate that I did not throw up on her stage) and I promptly forgot my 2nd step again. That was the end of that. Reduced to the level of Court Jester, I swept off the stage gathering all the dignity I could find in so many levels of nakedness. And of course, I scored First Place in that dance, since I had no competition... if I had known that, I would have stayed up on stage and just did my dance drills from class all across the floor....! All in all I ended up with either 3 Second places and 1 First place score...or 3 Last places and 1 Undeserved First Place sympathy score. Depending on who I want to impress. But nakedness certainly came into play that day.

Following that day, I ended up having a Dermatology Appt for a Skin Scan. Anyone knowing me at all will tell you that I have been a Sun Worshipper since the day I discovered BabyOil and Lemon Sun-In, way back in the 60's. All my life people were predicting my death due to skin cancer. I figured I was naked already, and really really humbled, I might as well know for sure. I was stripped and naked and the doc looked in every hidden place imaginable..leaving NOTHING unscanned or unstudied. Not only did I pass inspection with flying colors, and multiple compliments upon my good fortune to have inherited my daddy's more French-Canadian Olive skin, but I learned such big lessons all weekend...and standing there in nothing but my skin I felt PRIDE. Way to go me... to look at my own internal nakedness and come out stronger. Courage is facing fears in spite of fear.... and little thing or big thing Courage is Courage. These are my naked days.

From Inside the Glass...

When grown children come home to visit, it seems all of our hidden nerve endings emerge into open air. The house becomes full of unspoken, reserved opinions leaving no room for fresh air to blow around. As much as I love to see my grown young man, and as the opportunity to do so decreases, I am okay with saying good-bye too. It brutally came to my attention this past weekend, when my child made his way to our door after a two year period of limited communication via phones or internet. The "obligation" to visit was apparent upon his face, and I understood that he was gracing us with his presence, if mostly only to reconnect with his little brother whom I know he misses terribly.

So many emotions surface, that have everything and nothing to do with the relationship established on the day of my son's birth. Bringing back those roots that were embedded in a bad marriage, a lonely and poverty stricken climb to higher ground, and a struggling self esteem that somehow was supposed to fearlessly protect and nurture a child as well as the world encompassing us. Obligations felt both by myself and my child, to cling to those old roots that had long since changed and grown or withered depending upon the times...and all of a sudden we looked at each other and did not really recognize ourselves. Talk about a storm churning under our roof.

As with most storms, there is an eye of power. And when the eye of power strikes, damage is inevitable. Our words came out in anger and like the high winds of a hurricane...lashing and whipping against the object in the way. So it was this weekend at one point. And damage was done. Tears were shed. But with all damage, comes healing and restitution also. When the eye of the storm passes, and the winds get tired and disperse....the whisper of forgiveness sneaks in. From the depths of that first seed of love planted deeper than the stems of change grew, our vision and perspective cleared as we look at each other, broken from the storm. There he is. My baby, with his clear blue eyes, sad and hurt and all of a sudden I know he sees me too, for his momma that I was. He had always seen me as His Rock, the only consistent thing in the world to him and all he knew. We only had each other in this whole world. For good or for evil, we were all we had. I had always seen him as my child, to be protected and to be loved and to be handled gently while I held tightly to the leash that kept him safe for the while it took to make him strong enough to let go. Letting go is easier said than done. It took a storm for me to set him free.

Dancing out my Soul...

There is something so ancient inside of each of us, so ancient that we don't even recognize the very roots of its origin. It is our own special passion for something that has been solid and present as we slipped and fought our way out of our Momma's womb. Our cries as a newborn were instinctive and primitive, screaming out with the voice of our being, solidifying our distinct personalities and acknowledgement of self. Even the infants emerging in silence, had their own voice be it hidden from the world, in their own way claiming their passion in ways, though quiet, making a deep impression on whomever welcomed them into existence.

As we journeyed, and learned to quiet our souls, to protect ourselves and to start building the walls of societal requirement, many there are who stilled their voice of passion. Pushing it back inside so as to fit in and not make waves in their pool; losing that bit of themselves that gave them fullness and richness and courage and purpose. Maybe a greed for stability, for financial achievement, for power filled up their intrinsic nature that once proclaimed itself in birth...overwhelming their soul, and instead of filling their hearts, their greed turned on them and emptied it instead.

As for me, my cries turned inward, strengthening my muscles, filling my sinews with a music that I heard in my head and my heart all my days...each beat and note moving my fingers, my toes, my arms, my legs... obligating constant movement...tapping, rocking, swaying, jumping, flailing, and expressing my heart. Joyful, mournful, restful, or wild... my passion let loose in my dance.

It has been that way as long as I can remember. Annoying as hell to people around me... my feet tapping out a new dance under my desks at school, rocking faster, slower as I read my novels and fairy tales.. running in fields became a joyful dance culminating in sliding up trees and swinging from branches, toes pointed and hanging on with the minimal amount of pressure I could get away with trying to defeat gravity and earthbinding rules. Climbing rocks as lightly as I could...flying whenever possible. It took me on many adventures, following the lead of my passion... flying on a trapeze, jumping on trampolines, climbing mountains and swinging on ropes over miles of sparkling water just waiting for the perfect moment , the perfect beat, the perfect note to let go and poise my body to fly....

Everything becomes a dance to me. Making breakfast is a dance, and my day is spent perfecting movement and expression... it is the voice I was born with. I dance out my soul.

What is your passion? How does your soul express itself? You need to dig deep inside, way back to that root, that cry that you made as you entered this world.... it is there. Search for it, find it...embrace it.... Cry as you will....find your way to dance out your soul.....

The Many-faceted Heart is like a Diamond

I think it must be in our hearts, that our souls actually dwell... although I feel my soul seep out into my limbs from my heart and my throat and my mind when I dance, it must rest in our hearts to nurture and fill. Maybe when we sleep.

Our hearts are not so different from each other's...not the way they are shaped nor the mechanics of their beatings. But deep inside, there is the diamond. The soul, that is as individual as a snowflake or a sunbeam, or as multifaceted as a diamond when cherished and cut and shaped to bring about the most glorious and valuable shine of all.

Diamonds have a depth where the shadows lie smoldering, and a glittering and smooth surface where the eye can see clearly it's beauty. No one can ever say they know their own soul unless they have delved deep into their heart. My mind and my heart and my soul are all disconnected in parts, yet enclosed within the same world needing the same life force to work...yet, if my mind and my heart stop living, I like to believe my soul will go on as it is... freed from it's bondage of our physical muscle and blood... recycling into something of magic, while regaining a host.

Thus our souls, our diamonds, are as old as the ages. And they have gathered wisdom from the ancient days when all was new...Our souls, like the mountains and the seas, are ever changing and evolving, adding new landscape to their design and burning with the heat of life and love and all things shifting. How wonderful that our bodies get to be the keepers of those diamonds while we live!

Many people believe that our "life force" is our blood and bones and muscle and grit...but I think it is our soul that brings to us our personalities, and our destinies. I never believed, entirely, of "soul mates" and used to "pooh-pooh" the idea of reincarnation, but I am beginning to feel differently nowadays. It is the ultimate recycling plan...it is the way nature works. Nothing really stops "being" ...it just changes, morphs or something, into another form. Why wouldn't our soul just go on and eventually find itself in another generation and another new body to carry on....?

There is something in all of us that speaks and draws us to a passion that is strong and magnetic beyond understanding. I happen to feel like I am still living outside of my "home"... in a new age, and a new place that I don't quite belong. I have never been to Ireland, or to Scotland, or to anyplace where Gaelic and Pagan hearts gather in peace, and yet here I am.... irresistably drawn to all things Celtic. I come to the conclusion that my soul remembers. Like Harry Potter's snitch, my soul has a "flesh memory" that hangs onto it's origin and it's "home"...

This could all be fantasy. An over-active imagination, brought on by boredom wrought from a suburban lifestyle of a middle aged woman who finds herself planted in a vast superficial bubble of soccer moms and pedicures.

I look for adventures and grit whenever I can... it's tough to satisfy my diamond of a soul, craving wild hikes and hunts, and challenges of defeating anonymous and invisible status. I have been known to climb on my roof to read a book, or just gaze at a star, and to climb fences ten feet tall just to feel it when I fly over them...and to know that I am halfway done with this life already...I want my soul to take my body with it this time... I want to go home, with my soul where it belongs. Wherever that is.