A Purrrfect Life/Lives

I feel like I have to write this about the previous blog. I think I need to do this because Mike read it and said the "S" word. "It's sad, all that you went through." I heard his words and immediately felt disappointed. "What if that is all people get from it?" I asked knowing in my heart my intention got disconnected somehow. " I don't want people to think I am sad." Mike responded with, "There are a lot of sad things in the blog, Kel. I know what you went through."
Yeah, he does know what I went through. I walked through hell and made it to the other side. I was beaten physically and emotionally until I nearly disappeared, but that is not what I focus on these days or for a long time for that matter. When I write about my past it is in order to show how far down I was and how far I have come. This is the debate I have in my head all the time. Do I write the absolute truth or dilute it in order for others to feel more comfortable. My want, my need to write doesn't mean everyone should see every word I put in writing, right now. That is why there are editors for books. But my gut says to tell the truth, the way things really were, the attitudes I held at the time, the way things unfolded that got me to a place of happy.
I had kidney problems as a kid, hence the whole bed wetting scenario I paint pretty regularly. I was told as a small child that if things didn't get better I was facing dialysis and possible transplant. I took medication, had multiple surgeries and gave up on ever feeling "normal". The worst case scenario never happened.
I am still here.
I was hit by a car when I was 19 picking up a cat that was nearly dead on the side of the road. The road was unlit and the car was a black car that hit me while I was bending over with a towel trying to pry this crushed cat off the road so it wouldn't be hit again. I had seen the lights in it's eyes, still blinking as cars drove over it. I had a towel in my car's trunk, so I stopped, using the towel bent over to pick it up when WHAM! A car hit my left hip and sent me soaring air born, about 5 feet into a fence. I dropped the cat, who crawled away from me, I think believing it was better off dying alone than hanging around the unlucky likes of me. I could have been killed. I could have been maimed. A thousand different things could have happened that would have made my current life impossible.
I am still here.
I had a full arrest at 28. I lost almost every ounce of blood in my body. My body had shut down long enough for me to learn that death isn't to be feared. I was hooked up to machines I could barely pronounce. It took two years of my life to earn back my spot in the human race. I struggled and still do today with the blow back of not having a brain that worked the same as it did. I would walk away from that experience forever changed by it. But without it I would not have fully lived the life I had so generously been given back.
I am still here.
I fell asleep at the wheel at a stop light because I worked 6 days a week and cared for my four young children, with only 3 hours of sleep a day for years. I lost consciousness in a busy intersection where I still can't believe I and my 4 young kids weren't killed. I jolted awake, seeing the other cars pass me by wondering how long I had been out. There was no one to watch them then. I had to be awake, alert responsible. it was my purpose, in many ways my sole purpose to do that. By the grace of God went we as I drove away from the scene of my parental crime knowing that a second different would have ended my family, due to a tragedy of mine, not being able to stay awake beyond the normal human condition. We went home. I cried and prayed that the next day I would be able to stay awake. Failure was not an option. I continued to believe in my heart and soul that one day we would be able to get off that hamster wheel and have love, and a designated driver if need be.
I am still here.
I got diagnosed, quite by accident with an ovarian tumor the size of a loaf of bread. It weighed 3 1/2 pounds. Had they not found it when they did I would not be here and my children would have been orphans. It was a series of amazing events that saved my life. I would have ignored the constant pain, the constant symptoms thinking I was the last one to be taken care of. I would have died of a rupture, cancer or gangrene. All things were in motion to kill me. Things were taking place in my body that I actively pushed aside in order to not think or have to pay for with my health or the precious little money we had to take care of each other. But it was found. I was saved. My dreams did come true.
I am still here.
There have been so many times in my life when I have been spared. My mom says I am like a cat with my many lives. I suppose I am, since I have been lucky enough to land on my feet. I have been blessed. I believe in God and have for a very long time without all the drama of going through my life, but if I hadn't believed back then I certainly would believe now. My life has been nothing short of a divine intervention keeping me here, alive and happy, hopeful and learning. If I hadn't lived the life I had been given, then I would be different. I said different, not necessarily better. I believe I have been given opportunities rather than tragedies. Without the individual events that have shaped and formed who I am, I am not sure I would be so certain of love, gratitude, forgiveness. And I am sure. I am certain how important each life is that connects to other lives. I see the the threads of my life stringing one to another creating the picture of a woman who knows love when she sees it, feels it deeply in her soul, shows emotion without embarrassment now. I see my life as if I am an observer, not feeling the pain of my past, but grateful for the chances, the opportunities to live so fully, so completely that I can feel the joy of my life to my very bones.
I am still here. I am still learning, screwing things up, begging for forgiveness, loving those in my life, dreaming of a future I cannot fathom, but willingly give to God to do as He pleases.
So if the blogs ever make you feel sad, stop! Do not feel the pain, feel the wonder, the awe of a life transformed. Know that I am recalling history, not drowning in pain or my own tears. I am uplifted by my life. I do have regrets, but none that I would seek changed by. I am who I am because of the life I have led. When I recall the sadness, cry if you feel it, but smile as you finish reading, knowing how it all ended happily ever after.

I Have Changed My Status To "in a relationship with Kellie-it's complicated"

I have decided I want a relationship with me. I will be honest here, I haven't actively wanted to be a part of my own social circle for a long time. I find myself to be droll, most days. I live simply, but sometimes that requires me to be simple, not a compliment in my house. I am an intelligence snob. I find myself drifting from conversations about someone's kids or dogs or jobs, if what they say doesn't tell me who they are. It's a little like discussing weather. If I want to know the weather I have Google, The Weather Channel or hey, better yet I will just look outside. Being a bed wetting, band geek did nothing for me either. I knew my own stories and found most of them to be boring, or embarrassing, rather than funny or interesting. I had spent most of my twenties trying to forget my past, thinking of it as irrelevant and more than a little pathetic. When I turned twenty eight, I had a child, my youngest, where I had a full arrest including no blood pressure, no pulse, no respiration. I was gone, Man, really gone. For two and half minutes I ceased to exist. When I awoke I found that my memory had taken a hike. I got exactly what I asked for. No more embarrassment due to bad young behavior , no remembering how I got through high school, junior high or elementary school. I remembered who I was, who I was married to, who my kids were and my immediate family. I didn't know how to read and write, how to drive or why I would even want to. I knew who my immediate friends were, but lost the ability to recall anyone else. After years of wanting to be anybody but me, I got exactly what I asked for. I was that way for months. Actually, since I have decided to be more honest than politically correct, I was that way for years. For about two years, I had no idea of who I was prior to that moment in time. I could literally start over and be anybody I wanted to be. The question then became, "Who do I want to be?" versus "Who was I?".
Everybody I have seen who has had a near death experience watched the bright light. I had no bright light. My experience was totally different from anything I had ever heard about before. Mine was about not being afraid of the dark anymore. I had been afraid of all things dark and scary. Where I had once loved horror movies, once I was married and had kids they terrified me. I no longer found any fun in dark corners, dark bars, dark theaters, dark anything. I am night blind and have been since I was a kid and figured out I didn't know what was going on because I couldn't see. Once when my friends and I were in a cemetery playing tag at night, I bumped into a statue and excused myself. My friends were bowled over laughing about how I talk to statues. I ran into trees, tripped over rocks, fell into gutters, and generally hurt myself weekly from trying to navigate the night. That is how I had pictured my childhood, me bumbling around, bumping into things, always doing the wrong things in order to feel a part of my surroundings. With this in mind, it doesn't take Einstein's theory of relativity to see why I was wanting to forget my relativity to anyone while I was a child.
Once I had conquered my biggest fear of the dark due to my extraordinary experience, I wanted to find out more about what I could become rather than who I had been. Whatever had happened to me in the past was just that. But here I was in my late twenties getting a clean slate. I had hoped that if I stayed away from those who knew me when I was young, I wouldn't get caught up in who they thought I was, and who they were certain I had become. By deleting my past I was certain I would be able to be anything I wanted without paying the price of changing anyone's perception.
The downside to this was all I was giving up too. It meant I had to give up going and catching up with old friends, going home to see anyone but Mom and Dad, and letting go completely of who I had become as I traveled through, learning the lessons. I had to stop trying to exercise my brain to get it to recall anyone from the time when I was someone very different. Not everyone accepts change, especially big change when you are going through it. Thus began my time of staying away from the childhood of someone I could no longer relate to.
I did actively choose to be alone rather than be with people who knew me before February 21, 1992. Having to learn how to read and write, drive and do activities of daily living helped me in my cause. When I would see people, I would choose to not try and remember. I did remember, by accident, those whom my mother thought was important, in the beginning. Eventually, many memories came back to me, but not before I had the chance to morph them into innocuous ideas instead of concrete facts.
I wasn't living a lie, I was living a limbo. I didn't refuse to believe my past, I just didn't seek it out anymore. Until I hit the wall and found I had run out of time and path away from it. That is the funny thing about living longer than you had thought you were going to. I had thought when the doctor I might not make it, that I would be gone at 28. I had thought by taking the time to get my "things" together that I would not have to face the future, so why bother figuring things out. But I had lived, I had been given a second chance to be better, do better, think differently, learn more, teach more, live in a way I could be proud of.
It was no accident that my divorce happened two years later. It had been a very rocky relationship and I had been a battered wife, waiting for things to get better. I had waited for years, ever hopeful if the house were clean enough, if the kids were taken care of enough, eventually I would be enough. But the truth was I wasn't enough for either of us. I hadn't initially fought for my own life in the hospital. I wanted to go, be done. I had a bad marriage, no job and felt trapped in a life that I had helped create. When I saw Betty for the first time was when I wanted to live, just for her.
I will confess, that while I was "on my way back" I yelled at my doctor for saving me. Being illiterate, having gaping memory lapses and having incredible difficulty with my short term memory as well, I was less than enthusiastic about being "still here". Eventually, I saw for myself in real terms what being here could mean. I was given the gift of a George Bailey moment of knowing what it would have meant for my children had I not made it.
While I got so much bravery to go out and start my life again, I also got all the pain that comes in waves, too. I got to see just how much damage was caused my husband and me to each other. I got to feel to my very bones what it was to walk out on someone who never in their thought process believed I would have the guts to do it. I watched Danny be reduced to a shaking child as he said, "No one will love you again! You didn't deserve me! I rescued you from that shitty little town. You are nothing. I never really loved you!" And there it was...the verbal vomit of someone who had now been hurt a bad as I had previously. Not having a brain cell in my head that I was able to count on for life experience, since I denied my own past, I took it all in. I became the guilty party. I allowed all the fault driven hate to fall directly on me, knocking me clean to the ground. I wore that iron suit for many years, until I could look at the child me full in the face and say what I should have said long ago,"If you were me, what would you do?" That's why we have those visceral memories, those hurting haunting images of the lessons we learned in the past, so we can draw on them and remember that we won't die of a broken heart.
So I am now in a relationship with myself. I have decided I need the child me to protect the adult me from breaking down, from having to learn all the hard lessons over again. I need the child me who looks at clouds still creating dreamy images in my head while lying on the grass. I still need the little girl who is awestruck by magic tricks, fast music and heart pounding feeling when my husband looks at me in that way that makes me giggle. Yes, she was stupid, ignorant, naive, dorky, a bumbling fool. Yes, everyday she gets up, so much of that is still true. But I need that child to remind me that I am still here. I didn't really start over, I didn't really leave all of who I was behind me, without it I am a hollow shell of person, whether I have improved or not.
I am in a relationship with me, the dorky bed-wetting, verbose, bossy, bumbling fool. So far things are going well, though not without pain. But as it turns out, we have so much in common.

How to be famous in a week and a half

Want to be famous? Want your tweets, or facebook comments, statuses and website to go viral? Do you find yourself lonely, out of touch with reality, wanting everyone on the series of tubes to follow your every breath? The answer is simple, as is the mindset you will have to have in order to accomplish this rather insignificant, short-lived explosion of infamy. That is what I am talking about, infamy. Dave Chappelle who ran all the way to Africa to get away from the barrage of fame said it best, "You can never be un-famous, you can be infamous, but you can never be un-famous."

All I have to do in order to sell my book is pull my pants down, take drugs, get drunk, video my bad behavior and say some really horrible things followed by weeks of press coverage of "heartfelt" apologies, until my stats go down and the cycle repeats itself. Seems simple enough. I could start by saying incredibly insensitive things about Japan, then go to making fun of Elizabeth Taylor, while simultaneously writing lies about her, as if it were the God's honest truth. I would work my way through politics, saying I had evidence that every member of Congress was born out of wedlock to the same father who is now trying to take over the world. An alien invasion always makes good press.
I will falsely accuse those who I say I love, tell family secrets as if they were recipes and make sure I have at least on arrest, misdemeanors only, because I don't actually want to have to pay for a crime in jail, posting my mug shot for all to see. I will make it my profile picture. After months of just awful, embarrassing behavior including, but not exclusive to the launch of my faux music career on youtube with an over produced, manufactured video and endless autotuner, to cover up the fact I am a no talent hack. I will pen my memoir and sell it through an endless stream of PR people, agents and lawyers.
OR...I could just work at my job. I could write everyday, trying to improve upon my supposed skill set, constantly checking for errors, reading more to improve my vocabulary and here's a crazy notion, try to do the right thing by not using people's tragic ignorance or indiscretions as my personal entertainment. I could focus on the good in people and try to promote art, culture, good deeds, altruism, patience, kindness and decency. Oh, but that takes too long to become famous that way. I would actually have to prove I have some kind of talent, and what if I don't? What if I spend years writing and no one thinks I am any good? What if I work everyday at what I love to do and I still don't have what it takes to pass up Snooki on the New York best sellers list?
There is no such thing as an over night success, unless you are talking about the manufactured and packaged child stars who eventually end up in the criminal system, because their parents pimped them out for fast cash. Even then, these idiots have spent months on the road dressing up their little darlings in inappropriate outfits, dragging them to auditions, making them perform like a trained poodle, until some sleaze bag grabs a hold of them getting them commercial time and a Disney show.
Some poor kid threw out a video, mind you she is only 13 years old and the infamy started rolling in. The remarks I saw on twitter were despicable, hateful and damaging. I suppose for her parents it's all good if the cash rolls in. They can say they did it to raise money for college. They can excuse their bad behavior as parents letting everyone know she asked for it, she wanted this. They don't have to have any foresight in this. They don't have to protect her in any way if as a child she requested them to pay for the atrocious video that has put her on the map. Those that destroy her can claim it is the price of fame. She is a public figure now, isn't she?
Here's one of the few things I am certain of, no kid understands the price of fame. Hell, most adults don't get it until it's too late. The idea that being infamous is the same as being recognized for real talent is ludicrous. Famous people with all their money, can be hostages of the very thing they thought they were seeking. I may never be recognized as a "famous" author. Most people who write, paint, or produce don't become a household name, at least not until they are dead, and that is a price I am not willing to pay just yet. The few, the very few who are alive and well adjusted who are famous are a minute percentage. Just because a few "lucky" people make it out alive after being discovered on the interweb, doesn't make it the best idea to pursue.
You, too, can be famous in a very short period time if you are willing to lose your conscience, your mind and your privacy. But be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

Gaman

I was looking at my blog stats, when I noticed I had been visited several times by Japan. What I found interesting, riveting even, is that it was since the earthquake. I could not believe that with everything they have going on, anyone from there would be remotely interested in my little dog and pony show. Here I am talking about the simple life of our family, not saying anything of real importance. I wish I had something profound to say about the world events. I sit and try to wrap my brain around what is happening to the middle east, Japan, and even here in the states with certain Governors, unable to articulate anything of real value. I am completely dependent on the news and others thought processes in order to unravel my raw emotions.

"Gaman" in Japanese loosely means to hold in one's emotions and show quiet strength, to endure with dignity and fortitude. It is, in effect, the job of getting on with it. The first time I ever even heard the word was from George Takei, during an interview about his feelings of grief about the Japanese disaster. For those of you who have not been outside in the last 40 years, George played Mr. Sulu on the original Star trek. He spoke about being Japanese/American, and first learning he word himself when his family was put in an internment camp here in the states during World War II. He spoke of how his mother would say "Gaman" to him as a child as they were imprisoned, for no other reason then their heritage. In Japanese culture as it was explained to me, Gaman is to show inner strength and resolve in the face of great adversity. It is ingrained in their culture, their very lifestyle. It is a deep and resounding part of who they are. The Japanese people are showing/practicing Gaman, everyday now while they wait to see the fate of so many of their people, their homes, their country.

The closest thing I have in my history that even remotely relates to Gaman is when my children walked slowly, quietly, with great resolve behind their father's casket. The day they buried their beloved father they stood still for hours, not making a sound, not moving around, not being children at all, but tiny adults in children's clothing. As a family we showed it when we had to go back to doing what was necessary each day, me making it quite clear that losing their father was not a reason for any bad behavior. It was the harsh, but mostly effective way I could put it. Here is the exact quote, "You will not use your father's death as an excuse to fail. You will live as an example of what was best about him. I am not expecting this, I am demanding it." My tiny tots stared at me, tears in their eyes, thinking that I must have buried my heart along with their father. The truth is, I knew if I became the mother who allowed self pity, self destruction would follow. They were expected to be strong, because there was no other choice. We couldn't all lay down and die because Danny did. Failure was not optional.

I sit typing on my computer thinking about the Japanese families who have fathers, husbands working at the nuclear plant, feverishly trying to keep the radiation from destroying the country they love. They are facing a death sentence. The families that said their good-byes know they may not see each other again. Even the smallest of children of these brave workers are expected to practice Gaman. My heart goes out to the Japanese people. The catastrophic nature of the earthquake, then tsunami, then nuclear near melt down is somewhat too much to bear even watching from a distance, so I can't even begin to say I can imagine how they feel or know what they are facing.

I normally pray on my knees. I am Catholic so the aerobic program is something I am used to, but today I laid face down on the floor, with my arms forward, completely open to my God. It is the position the nuns take when they take their final vows, their marriage to Christ, their sacrifice of mind, body and soul to the church. I did this as a way to become more open, more accepting, more able to practice Gaman as I watch the world unravel. There is no moral to this story. There are no answers here, amongst the simple lines of text. The only thing I can offer is a prayer for all those suffering and the attempt to practice Gaman. I wish you peace, and the quiet knowing that this too shall pass.

The Cinderella Complex

I have the Cinderella complex, but it's not what you may think. In my version, Cinderella did the heavy lifting, the grunt work that even the average every day servants didn't want to do. She was the one who cleaned out the fireplace, extreme manual labor, making little ones out of big ones. She was the household backbone who got the big things done in order for the maidens to do the lighter fluff stuff.
I don't believe she waited for her prince to come, I believe, in my version, the prince recognized she was a leader of men and married her to help run the kingdom.
It's not the popular Disney version, but I think it's more realistic than the fairy tale version.
Mike and I spent the weekend doing the heavy lifting in the yard. We put in a patio, installed an in-ground fountain and did general clean up of the yard. Raking, scrubbing, digging around beds, creating our silk purse from the sow's ear we were left with in our new home. When it comes to house work, that is what I have in mind. If it's tearing out drywall, re-tiling a bathroom, or putting in a new floor, I am in. If it is about vacuuming, dusting or doing dishes, then I am about to moan and groan for hours about not wanting to do it. I would much rather grab the tool belt than the dust pan. I like hard, heavy labor. I like sweating profusely rather than spritzing gently while doing more female stereotyped chores.
I am the worst housewife ever! I hate all the mundane activities of the accepted female trades. I hate shopping, sweeping, cleaning in general and bed-making in particular. All the little touches that make a house a home are not my thing. I do things because I have some warped feelings of obligation, but I feel no satisfaction from any of it. If the floor needs to be cleaned, I will clean it, begrudgingly, but I will do it when and only when I absolutely have to. I would much rather be the one who goes off to work, toiling in the hot sun, or in a corporate boardroom. Since I feel no gratification in housework, I feel no respect for it, either. I admire women who do it day in and day out, wondering how they manage not to end up sitting in a hot tub, razor blade in hand. I have no patience for it, as I push the sweeper around the floor the millionth time that week. Bitterly, I rinse the dishes to put in the dishwasher, again as I have done every day for the last 20+ years. I wonder to myself why I do it when they are only going back in the cupboard for some oaf to pull them out and get them dirty again in the next ten minutes.
I had always wanted to stay home with my kids when they were growing up, or so I had thought. I still feel so much guilt about not being around more when they were little, and needed me the most. What I had never had the desire for was to clean my own house. Build it, yes, but clean it? YUK!
Some women get so upset when you call them a housewife, because according to them they are not married to their house. But aren't we? Even in the smallest measure, aren't we married to our house if everything that happens in it, to it and around it is something we are accountable for? I often call myself the "Fishwife". (Insert bad female joke here). I say that because it is derogatory and no one in the world wants to be called the old Fishwife. That is exactly how I feel about the daily housework.
I freely admit, that when it comes to family positions, I am more male than female. I am more aggressive than submissive. Mike is the easy going one, going along for the ride, keeping the peace, doing what I ask. He is no push over and in every aspect, all man, but if we had traditional roles assigned, I would be the overbearing, dominant one.
Michael, bless his heart worked like a dog this weekend. He puts so much effort into everything he does. He is a control freak like his wife and asks for little help. He will while away entire days working alone, doing more than anyone person ever should without a single complaint. Not me, I will do the work, but everyone in the house and in a three mile radius will know all about how disgusted I am by it.
In the end, it all gets done in our house, the working, the loving, and eventually the playing.
So, much like Cinderella herself, I am in charge of our kingdom. I run the castle and all it's contents, even if I hate holding the broom. My handsome prince will come today, change into his work clothes and help out with whatever there is to do. He will sweep me into his arms after the day is done and tell me that he loves me, still, even though I am the worst housewife ever.

Edivacation - Travelling to Learn

I was thinking back to Mike and my trip to New Mexico. I loved it there, so scenic, so magical in all the colors that show themselves in the twilight. The picture is one I took of a sunset. We visited the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, while we were there. Her work is stunning, so smooth, colors fading one into another without any sign of transition. She was brazen, taking on the art world as a woman, doing what she wanted without thought of repercussion from the established art scene, made up primarily of men. I am always so awe stricken by strong women who don't give a rat's ass what others think about their lifestyle, work or decisions. I remember standing in front of photographs of her thinking I would give anything to be that independent, that certain about any of the decisions I have made.
As I was daydreaming about what courage it must have taken to be a woman in the 1920's living as an artist, traveling to where her heart took her, I was so aware of the shift in my life that I have been feeling. In the museum there were photographs her husband took of her, some in the nude. Women could not even vote back then. We, as women, had no rights. We were expected to marry, have babies and keep our houses clean. Miss O'Keeffe, married a divorced man, studied art, lived in and for nature, without being caught in the web of self imposed expectation, or convention. She was an individual, rather than a sexual stereotype. I wondered where she got the strength to do what she wanted, when she wanted, without the fear of social backlash. My daughter paints. Armed with one degree in art history, she is gearing up for her second degree in French and then on for her masters degree and possibly her doctorate. My child doesn't think of marriage, or children right now, even though so many friends of hers are getting married, having babies, starting families. We were out talking one night when she said wistfully, "Maybe one day I will do all that. I would like to think I will have a family in the future, but right now I can't see it." "Hmmm..." is my only response. I understand why she wants to wait. We as women still do so much heavy lifting when it comes to babies. There are lots of good fathers out in the world, but not many men who would put their careers on hold to stay at home with the kids. Whoever marries Christine will have his hands full. She is wicked smart, strong willed and emotionally accessible. Whoever wins her hand will have won the marriage lottery, but he will have to know how to allow her to fly.
Christine's artwork has always reminded me of Georgia O'Keeffe. The incredible depth of color, smooth lines and ability to see the tiniest shift in hue. I see other similarities as well. I see the inner strength, the fortitude of a power deep in her soul that pushes her to independence. I see where my child doesn't give a rat's ass about convention, either. She can be bold, brash, unsettling in her remarks. I try and let people who think she is still the shy child to buckle up if they want her opinion. She will tell you in an instant exactly what she thinks and walk away without giving it a second thought. Everyone we know says she is like me. I think sometimes that is because her father is no longer around to remind them how much like him she is, and she definitely is. I see him in her eyes, her nose, her hands. I see him in the way she lays in wait for someone to say something insulting to her, referencing her intelligence, just long enough for her to coil back and then strike. They never fully recover. As a snake with paralyzing venom, they sit shaking, unable to move. The family if around to bear witness, will slowly back out of the room shaking our heads. "Poor sap never saw it coming", we mumble so as not disturb the angry artist.
Christine in many has come right through me. I did not have the guts she has. I was more passive about things I probably shouldn't have been. I have let opportunities pass me by in order to keep the peace. It took me much longer to stand on my feet and feel as comfortable in my own skin. She is the best of her father and I. I wish so often he were around to witness how strong, how smart, and just how beautiful she is. Something in me tells me that he can see it all, far above where we are now. But I still wish he were here in flesh and blood to stand next to me awe struck by the woman that came from the baby we had.
For years I gave my strength to her, in order for her to grow and become an independent person. Lately, she has allowed me to borrow some of hers as I shift into my new role of not caring for children. When things get too difficult, too overwhelming she makes me laugh. Self deprecating, she uses herself as the punchline of her humor.
I have seen many of the places Georgia O'Keeffe traveled in order to be inspired, including Palo Duro Canyon, here in Texas. I have walked much the same path as Christine during her lifetime. The trail is out there if I choose to follow in the foot steps of the great women I have studied, including the one who lives with me. Maybe it's time for me to find my bravery , much like Piglet, who always felt like a "very small animal" and strike out on my own journey to discover something wonderful. If I do and somehow get stuck, I have Chrisitne's number on speed dial.

A Glimmer of Hope

I am usually a very hopeful person. Lately, I have struggled to keep my hope alive. The last few months have been extremely difficult for me, while I watch the in fighting in my own house, the tragedies unfold around the world, and the blame game thrown at so many of the people in my own country. My personal problems are intangible, except that my father is sick and in the hospital 1200 miles away, while my mom is alone dealing with it. That is very tangible to me. It is visceral and audible as my heart pounds in my head, from worry, fear of what I cannot even offer help.
I have been feeling desperate, more than a little broken about what I cannot control, what I cannot change. I hang on with whatever is at my finger tips, this small key board, my racing brain, my breaking heart. My hope is in me, though smaller than it was, I continue to hold on to my belief that if I hang on just a little longer something wonderful can happen, though the odds certainly aren't there to verify it's existence. For me it has never been about what does happen, but rather what can happen. If not for those moments of pure joy just thinking about what miracle could show itself in any given moment, I wonder if I would simply disappear. I watch for the the tiniest shifts in the atmosphere to show me I am on the right track, that my God given ability to try and see the bright side is still alive.
I am all about the simplest of pleasures. A smile from a stranger, the laugh of a child seeing something for the very first time, the moment I see someone I love. All these things show themselves to me as signs that there is still good, still wonder, still awe to be felt in this world I live in. Everyday, there are those who find me simple, as in insipid. Their cynicism is what seems to guide them in their beliefs. They say, write or tell things that knock my breath away just long enough to remind me that not everybody is nice, as if I needed that reminder at my age. I have seen things so wrong they haunt me still. Working with the elderly I had seen unbearable cruelty, often times by the very families they sacrificed to raise. I have seen unkind, thoughtlessness. I have never needed reminders of those.
Moving to Houston, after having lived in my home state of Ohio for so many years, took real courage. We are not all equal around this country. I was made aware of people who moved to Ohio from here who also were not immediately, if ever accepted. I have lost the careers I counted on. I cannot support my family, though I had done it all my adult life. The sacrifice for me had been harsh and often times so humbling it has brought me to my knees. So I need my hope. I need my signs that things can be so much better than they are now.
The first thing I noticed the summer we moved here was there were no lightning bugs. No fire flies roamed the yard, lighting up guiding the moon beams to cross my face. No tiny insects flew around my eye line and head, swirling in the night sky, reminding me of the romance of a cool evening breeze. I had naively thought Texas had no such bugs. Maybe it was the humidity, the giant prehistoric looking cockroaches, the predators unseen in the darkness, I was not even aware of. Whatever the reason, we had no little delights lighting up our sanctuary.
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting out back at our new house, just enjoying the cool air, listening to the coyotes, I now hear in the distance. So many new sights, smells to take in here as if I had moved hundreds of miles away from our last house, when in reality we moved only a couple of miles. No longer did we have a bayou behind us, but now we had woods, great towering pine trees, with flowering vines hanging as banners in the moonlight. I saw a simple flash of light, the tiniest shooting star twinkle within the branches of the trees. First one and then another, dashing lights weaving my dream state through the woods. I couldn't wait to tell Mike, who at the time was fitfully sleeping in our room just steps away.
Tonight, while sitting under the evening sky, I saw my little miracles, the flashing lights of my childhood. There were so many tonight, it looked as if they were Christmas lights twinkling just outside our fenced boundary. I couldn't help but smile. It was a sign, tailor made for me. This is how my God speaks to me in hushed tones and small reminders that my hope, though slightly battered lives on in me, and Him. I had prayed for a glimmer of hope this morning. I knew tonight, all was asked and answered.

You Are Cordially Invited

Ever had one of those day when you just wanted to pull the covers over your head and not come out? Yeah, mine started in January. I was thinking yesterday how easy it would be to just sit around and feel sorry for myself. My pity party would be all the rage, hats, music, flowing bottles of alcohol, lots of whining with gnashing of teeth. In my head I had it all planned out. Why not, I thought? I have the time and resources. Surely, all the things that have happened to me lately would back up my feelings of doom and gloom. Oh, wait, I remembered, I can't do that, I am the hopeful one. Being hopeful, with a sunny disposition sucks! Because I am more happy than not happy, I don't seem to have the focus to manage to the time it takes to feel that bad for that long.
Although things have been a little rough, no one has cancer, the house is still standing, the animals are healthy, Mike and I are still here. Just exactly how bad do I have it? Turns out, not as bad as I feel. But if I feel like crap, shouldn't that be enough? No, turns out it isn't. It takes about 7 seconds to turn on the T.V. to see hundreds of thousands of people who have it worse. Even Charlie Sheen, who has been everywhere on the news has it worse than I do, and he sleeps on piles of money, with porn stars as his beck and call girls. I say he has it worse, because he isn't grateful for anything. His attitude, regardless of how crazy he is and I personally think he is nuts, is one of a spoiled child. So, he may have money and fame, I have never had to battle my own addled brain, just to be decent when speaking of others. I am neither ungrateful for what we do have or what income makes it to the house. So I have it better than your average Beverly Hills millionaire. After this thought, I instantly knew I had no real gripe. I am not a drug addict, alcoholic, insane, disease riddled, or spoiled. I have the ability for perspective. I still have my marbles, even though many have been lost or at the very least, loose and rolling around in my head.
Maybe, Charlie isn't the best example of what I should compare my problems to. Hmmmm, let's see what is going on in the world. Then the news of Japan is plastered everywhere. Nope, I still have it so much better than anyone living over there. I didn't have to run for my life away from falling buildings and a tsunami the size of the California coast. Let's take a look back this way. I lose again, against the bus tragedy in New York. OK, I will check myself against something closer to home. Let's stay in Texas for a minute. I will narrow it down to Houston, even, so I have a fighting chance to keep all my self absorbed, self pitying ways. Crap! I can't even begin to fathom what those parents of the little ones who died in the day care where the owner fled to Nigeria, felt like as they buried their children.
Seems I don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to pity. When seeing my problems in real time, everywhere I look, there is something worse going on. I would like to think I am justified in my self centered, "feel sorry for me" thinking, but in truth, it really always could be worse. Maybe, this is why I usually don't waste my time on it. Back when Danny died, people didn't really understand the grief the kids felt, or that I felt at the time. There was no time to sit back and feel bad because the days kept coming. I used to say back then, one day I would take the time to have the nervous breakdown I so richly deserved. Our biggest, most traumatic moment wasn't really dramatic for anyone but us. It was a time of quiet, deafening silence of a grief stricken family, having no earthly idea of what to do next except get on with it.
That is what real drama looks like, it isn't dramatic at all. It isn't like the movies where you're rotting in a house surrounded by a thousand cats, or hordes of people show up with pie. It is generally quiet, contained to those who are grieving their loss. I remember feeling how odd it was when the sun would shine, the alarm would go off and I would dress for work and pack the kids away to school. Our life altering event looked by all means, "normal". I suppose I could have gone off the edge and no one would have blamed me. I saw a father who had kids in the same school, do exactly that for the same reason I had; the mother of his kids died of cancer. He became an alcoholic, drifting further and further from reality, until he was no longer recognizable. I suppose, I could have gone that way. But I didn't. I went to work, putting my head down, just trying to wait until the darkest days passed.
My life now is not really all that dramatic. I have problems and "situations" beyond my control, beyond my scope of expertise. We deal with whatever lands on our door step one day at a time. When things get really tough, my family bands together. My kids check to see what they can do to help. My husband reassures me he loves me. My animals lay close to me offering their silent solace. The people and pets in my household travel in a pack.
So I am rescinding the invitations to my personal pity party. I am in much too good of a mood and way to happy to look that sour, or feel that bad. Put away your party hats, your sad Irish bar songs, and wait for the next time when I pull my out my Pity Party supplies. I am saving the decorations for a time when I may actually need them. For now, I'm going to put my head down, get to work, remember to feel an ounce of gratitude I have a family who loves me and wait for the dark days to pass. Oh, look, here comes the sun, now...

Ashes to Ashes

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. The first bad news I got was that it was a day of fasting and fish. Catholic, smatholic, fish and fasting is never good news for a girl who adores chocolate. The second bad news I got was about my car. Yes, it could be fixed, but to the tune of $1,800.00. My car is a 2000 ford Windstar, minivan, hardly a classic. Thanks to the person who hit and ran from the scene of the accident, this is all back on us. I was sitting in the back yard wondering where I would pull this from out of my behind, when my kids started arguing about the most ridiculous crap. Having had my zen place taken over and destroyed, I began heading back in when my phone rang.
My mom was on the other end, talking in a staccato, monotone voice about my dad being taken to the hospital by ambulance. Another wave crashed over my head but this one really hurt. I felt my legs buckle, but only enough to land me back on a patio chair. We talked about whether I should fly up and when. "Just wait for now," my mom told me. "I may need you more later." I sat back, put my head in hands and softly cried into my palms. "palms..." I thought for a moment. It was still Ash Wednesday and no Catholic worth their salt missed mass. Even the crowd the regulars referred as Chreasters, showed up for this one.
I'll be honest, I had about as much desire to go as I did to go in for a voluntary root canal. What I wanted to do was sit on my back patio and drink enough wine to put me into an alcohol coma. I wanted to forget that I am a responsible adult and act like an irresponsible teenager. I wanted some pot, cheap wine, a few shots and the ability to think that consequences don't exist. Since I haven't smoked pot since some time in the very early 80's, the wine in my fridge was not at all cheap and doing shots either makes me very friendly or vomit, I opted to go to church. Plus, I remembered that I am not stupid anymore. You just can't unring that particular bell. I took a shower, put on my makeup and headed for a packed house at our church. The priest spoke about giving ourselves back to God. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." was the constant. While I was trying to feel hopeful that all would be well with my dad, the Ashes to Ashes theme did little to comfort me. As if on auto pilot, I did was I was supposed to do. I was a good catholic, kneeling, praying, crossing myself, and standing when needed. In a singular moment of clarity, while I was on my knees waiting for Communion, I had a single thought. "This out of your control, this is out of your control, this is out your control." There it was, the most important lesson of Lent. I would voluntarily give up something for 40 days because I had control of it. I would wear the ashes of the palms on my head because I controlled going to mass or not going to mass, but the real lesson in Lent is the lack of control I have over a million different things in a single day. I had to give myself back to God and let Him have it because I have no control.
I would hardly call this an epiphany, but rather a reminder of what I already knew. Was God speaking directly to me? I think not. I think God has bigger fish to fry during Lent, than whether or not I can keep my crap together in order to do the right thing. It's not say that my prayers go unanswered, they get answered all the time. I don't always like the answer at the time, but I have lots of patience and broad shoulders to bear it out. My prayer for my family is simple, "Your will not mine." I am incredulous most days that God has trusted me with this body and soul. I know just how human I can be, so if I were the Almighty Father, I probably wouldn't have that much faith in me. I guess that is why it is best to reconnect and give it up to Him. Some days I don't think even God knows what kind of damage I would do if it were all up to me.
I have no control over anything that has happened recently. There was not a single thing I could to prevent it, stop it in progress or contain it. So as I start serving my Lenten sacrifice, my first order of business is to give up trying to control that which is beyond my scope. I am going to focus on today, being present, standing in the light of gratitude that today even exists for me. Because one day in the future, however far, I will be giving back to the earth I have so loved, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Ring, Ring

Yesterday was my mom's birthday. We are apart by 1200 miles. I haven't seen my mom face to face for over a year. I try and not complain since I am the one who moved so far away from friends and family. It is what it is. I do what I can to keep contact with those I love, and let the rest go. No sense crying over spilled mileage.
I talk to my mom by phone about four times a week. We are on opposite sides of most political issues, so that has been a regular topic of conversation lately. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? We argue about politics all the time. We catch up on family news, she usually has me on speaker, so I can give a shout out to my dad as he wanders in and out of the kitchen. We talk about what we have seen, who is doing what and general family business.
I guess I am used to the distance thing, now that it has been almost seven years since I moved. We have the phone so we take advantage of flat rates and cordless phones. I was laughing with a friend of mine about how in our lifetime we used to be tied to a cord attached to the kitchen wall. My dad installed an extra long cord when my sister and I were teens, so we could do the dishes and talk at the same time. We lived on the phone back then, waiting for the latest boy to call, hanging out in the kitchen or the family room, curled up on our Naugahyde bar stool, chatting away about absolutely nothing. Our phones were rotary phones back then, right after we invented fire. It was a major inconvenience to have friends with a lot of nines or zeros in their number. I thought twice about calling those people because just dialing their numbers took an incredible amount of time. There were no answering machines to leave messages on, just angst filled frustration at not being able to reach people. The phones weighed ten pounds, so you could use them to do curls with as well as contact your family members. I got a work out in just calling a few friends. When people refer to the good old days, I have to smile at how far in technology we have come. I recently signed up for video conferencing via Skype. I haven't used it once. I want my mom to sign up so we can actually see each other and I won't feel like I moved to the end of the earth, which living in Texas is how we feel, especially during hurricane season. When I was growing up my dad worked for the telephone company. Remembering my youth I recall when they came out with the idea of video phones back in the 70's. It was all so unbelievable back then. See someone while you are talking to them? It seemed all so unbelievable. What if you were in your bathrobe? What if it was your crush and you had no makeup on? What if you were innocently having cereal in the morning, just having woken up and your boyfriend called? My God, the trauma of it all was too much to think about.
That was during the time when bell bottoms were totally cool, people used the word "groovy" and foil metallic wall paper was all the rage. It was inconceivable to think of where we would end up in technology.
I called my mom the morning before her birthday. She wasn't home so I left the message, "Today is not your birthday. I just thought I should let you know." Being the family smart-ass in the family, I felt that I had to.
I woke up on Sunday,March 6 and called my mom. I wished her Happy Birthday and she laughed about the previous message. She was getting ready for church, just doing her usual Sunday thing. I paced the house, drank my coffee while talking to her, went outside, walked around the garden while chatting, thinking how much I missed my family. We said our good byes and I said what I say nearly every time I talk with my mom. "I'll talk to you soon, Mom". And I know I will, calling her again in a day or or two. Sometimes the guilt gets to me that my parents are aging and I am not around. I console myself with the thought that at least if I am going to be tied up in knots it's due to the guilt rather than the archaic dumbbell phones we used to have.

Eyes Wide Open

I remember exactly where I was when I was reading Elie Weseil's "Night". I think that is why I love books; the written word can have so much effect on me, the way they permeate my consciousness, the way the words can stick to me like tar.
I think I wrote because somewhere, even as a child I knew the effect of the words, the weight of them could change someone's thinking or at least stick to them, forever bonded to their memory, attaching themselves to a moment, time, or music. When I was in my teens, I lived by my radio and albums. Here is where I show my age when speaking about music, since albums are nearly extinct. These vinyl Frisbee's with whom I devoted much of my growing to. I lived to save my pennies, creating dollars that could be used to buy the plastic preservation of my youth.
I would play the newest music as I read the book of choice. This attached that particular artist to the writer's words. Either memory of events or music would cause the words in the pages to stay in my mind, forever stored in my memory bank, recalling the emotion I felt at the exact moment I felt them. David Bowie to this day stays permanently connected to a book I read when I was fourteen years old. If I hear the song "Changes" I am instantly transformed into a giggling teenager, reading in the house I grew up in, one sultry summer.
If I am reading a book during a particularly interesting event in my life, then the event is indelibly linked to the book, and the picture painted by the author. It was in this state of semi conscious attachment that I was reading "Night". I had jury duty, something I am less than fond of. With enormous trepidation I boarded a bus downtown to attend to my civic duty. I had learned that so many simply ignore the request by making excuses or not showing up for the chore they had been handed. Having neither a good reason or the will to get caught either by my guilty conscious or by court system, I did what I had to do, and went to the jury selection room waiting to seal my fate. It was during this time I read for hours, as I sat in the uncomfortable seats, watching occasionally to literally see if my number was up. A screen with traveling numbers just above an over sized abandoned desk ran numbers that had been assigned to all of us. Audible groans could be heard as large groups of citizens were called forward to serve. I continued my vigil, waiting and reading. I finished most of the book in the waiting room. What happened next, my being called up to "The Show" will appear in my next book. I was selected to serve on a jury, a moment that haunts me still. The experience taught me that my beliefs are not as nearly set in stone as I had once believed. In some ways I came out happy that I still had some flexibility in my thinking and was not becoming someone who would not be moved.
"Night" is about the Holocaust. Elie Weseil delivers a haunting account of being a survivor during a time in history when the abject cruelty, due to a delusional, hate filled ruler, is still so unfathomable, unthinkable, yet all too real for those who are forever marked with the assigned number tattooed on their arm. My jury number seemed ridiculous in the moments I was reading. There is nothing like a little perspective to make you forget how miserable you are.
Reading Elie Weseil's first hand account of the atrocities stuck to me. I was engrossed by the honesty in his words. I felt the terror, the guilt the extraordinary harshness of the dawning of the people who had ignored every single sign that it was coming towards them. That is the real subject of this blog. My ability to learn from his history, his hard earned wisdom when it comes to human nature. In "Night" Mr. Weseil tells the story not just of what happened to him and his family as Jewish people in the time of extermination, but greater than that for me was the reality that so many had ignored impending signs, symptoms that they were at risk. He writes of Jewish people not believing the stories of the horrors they were about to face. Denial in such deep, saturating existence kept them from thinking it could happen to them. In the book he writes so that we may learn from the pain of having done nothing for the sake of prevention of atrocities of man's inhumanity to man. While reading I felt the people's disbelief. I think I too, would have been short sighted, thinking it ridiculous that such terror, such unbelievable horror could happen as the world watched. Now, as a retired geriatric nurse, I have witnessed for myself the tattooed markings of the insane on innocent people who were tortured, exterminated in the name of world domination. I will never forget holding the hands of those who beared the numbers of being treated in such a hideous manner. I found myself apologizing to them, saying I was so very sorry they had to endure such pain. Even as I held them in my arms, soothing them, gently patting their marked arms I felt such disbelief. I could not comprehend even the notion of it. I just shuddered as I continue to write this. I guess some things never quite sink all the way in.
That was exactly Mr. Weseil's point. No matter how much evidence was right in front of people they could not get their minds to believe the unthinkable. This inability to see things, believe things, comprehend such heinous acts is part of the reason the Nazis were as successful as they were. Rational people could not wrap their minds around it.
In this time of unrest, I feel hopeful. I have decided to watch, act when necessary, but be mindful, present in the days events. It is an absolute truth that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. I am present watching the world change right before my eyes. I will not live ignoring what my eyes, my ears, my heart tells me about what all is going on. I have seen inhumanity, so I assure you it exists, but I will not judge things out of hand either. I will not be a fatalist, when what I really need to be is a student. This is a great time of learning and action. People in this country are watching, they are acting out on what they believe, from both points of view, and some opinions in the middle. It has been our historical difference in the world that we do stand up and say what mean, meaning what we say. It is what makes our country so unique, so coveted by so many, is that thousands will come together to stand in unifying defiance of what they think is right. We are in an extraordinary time in our history. There will be sacrifices we will one day tell future generations about, there will be water shed moments of heart break and joy. In all of this I remain humbled that we are present in this moment of history. Things will change because of our mindfulness. We have learned from the mistakes of others. We believe in our country, the good of freedom, and the rights we hold in such reverence. God speed to you, in whatever you stand up for, just as long as we all remain on our feet. Peace to you, dear friends. Feel comforted that we have learned from history, even if it feels sometimes that our growth is so painful we may not bear it, take heart that at least it is growth. I am hopeful that we will learn now, so that we may teach as Mr. Weseil did, in order for our future generations to not face the pain many of us, all around the world are having to endure.