Why am I here?

"Why am I here," he asked Spirit once again. The smell of moss, moist earth, and woods filled his nostrils. All he wore was his leather pants and moccasins. His skin was a deep dark sinewy red. The tears rolled down his cheeks. He was a proud man and this embarrassed him but he was too weak to stop them.

"My pain is great," he whispered to himself. Unclenching his fists, he wiped his face with his hands.From his left came the sounds of twigs snapping. A huge buck was making its way towards the Indian, its large soft brown eyes targeting the man.

He stood still and waited. The animal raised and lowered its head as it approached demonstrating its power and fearlessness. It walked a complete circle around him stopping in front of the man so closely that with each breath the buck breathed out, the man felt the moisture from the deer's nostrils spray his face.

Without a voice, the beast spoke to him."Touch my coat," the deer commanded.

The Indian reached out his hand and ran it down the side of the buck's neck. He felt the softness.

"Touch my antlers."

Again the man did what was asked of him. He felt the hard bone as the velvet covering was now gone.

"I am soft, yet I am equipped to defend myself. You are, too. Touch your head."

The Indian reached up with both hands. The shock of feeling antlers jerked his body.

"You are here to learn that a man is not one or the other. His heart is soft and his mind and body are strong and to be both at the same time is balance."

The Indian nodded and the dear touched his muzzle to the man's chest. A light burst forth and then the deer was gone.

Blood Moon

The full moon dripped blood onto my plate. It was a red gravy dinner.

Feeling the hot liquid on my chin, I recalled the sounds and the smells. The smell of the wet fur and the sound of the brush snapping under my weight as I rushed to create a crime scene. The memories birthed another howl that began in my chest and with the force of a thousand winds from my lungs broke forth through my wide open jaws.

I needed this. I accepted it. I even wanted it. I would miss it if I had to let go of it.

The feeling of being alive lit up the night, a display of sparks crackled and spit. My aura of pain and power. 

To feed, to touch my prey with greed, to taste them with lust, that is what I was when the full moon dripped blood onto my plate. 

Nightmarish Instructions

I never remember my dreams except when there is a message or meaning. Two nights ago I had a nightmare. I woke up from it remembering all of it. Last night I had a similar nightmare, similar warning, almost the same message. I also remembered all of it and still do.

Here's the first nightmare. I was at a social event with a significant number of other people, maybe around 100 or so. It was being held indoors in a large room in a building. We were all milling about when all of a sudden at the opposite end of the room a terrorist entered. A couple of people and I quickly got to an exit a few steps away and escaped. Since it has been over 24 hours since I dreamt it, the only details I specifically remember are the end of it. There was another woman, blond, and a few men who made it out with me. We didn't know what to do so we found hiding places. Mine was in a ditch and I covered myself with nearby debris. I heard voices and realized that they were terrorists searching for people that escaped. One found me quickly, laughed about my hiding place, and then I woke up before any harm to me could be done.

The next night, last night, I had a similar dream. Again, I was at an event in a large room in a building. Everyone was dressed up and very relaxed as they socialized. They held drinks and napkins with canapes and hors d'oeuvres. All at once a terrorist enters the room at the front. Again, I was in the back and ran out the exit with a few others. This time we decided to go to the garage, get in our cars, and leave lickety-split! We made it to the garage and were just about to get in the car when a terrorist stepped away from hiding place behind a big cement pillar. He was holding a large sub machine gun and while laughing said, "We figured you would try to get away like this." Same as the other dream, I woke up before any harm could be done to me.

I laid in bed this morning pondering the 2 dreams. After awhile, I decided the moral of the story is to run. Get as far away as possible as quickly as possible. Unless, I have the 3rd installment tonight where running doesn't work, either.

Let's Be Real

I hated trying to climb the rope in gym class. I don't know if it is a requirement anymore. For the uninitiated, it was one long rope that hung from the ceiling and you were supposed to climb it to the top.

 I couldn't do it and it became the most humiliating gym class activity I had to endure.

When it came to swimming and horseback riding, I was coordinated. And Chinese jump rope. I was good at that.

I never mastered the ropes. As I got older, I learned to dread the hurdles. Being short didn't help me win the battle with those, either. Running AND jumping over something that is waist high? Fahgettaboutit. That is when I would silently beg the gym teacher to just give up on me. This was my fear each time.

I don't have to tell you how this ends up.

Recently I played a card game in a meeting at work. The deck contained what are considered positive attributes. You had to decide if the card you picked was part of who you are. If not, explain why not and then give it to someone else in your group that you think it better describes. One of the cards I picked had "Optimist" written on it. I braced myself for the responses I was going to get when I tried to explain why that card didn't fit me.

"This card doesn't describe me because I am not an optimist." There were a few frowns, a few intakes of breath, and a few concerned looks. I plowed on. "I am a realist." Now I heard a couple of "Ohhhs" and saw a few nods, and still a few concerned looks.

"What this means is if there is a situation, (I pointed at the table) I look at the facts and work through it (I drew an invisible straight line and stopped.) Of course I am hoping for the best outcome, but if I am ignoring the things that happen along the way, (I pointed along the invisible straight line) I may never get to the end successfully."

What I was trying to say was that stating that everything is fantastic and going to work out won't make it so. I know that flies in the face of what we've been taught by authors, lecturers, and preachers but I don't care. They aren't magic.

Please see below an excerpt from a Scientific American article written by Michael Shermer entitled "Kool-Aid Psychology: Realism versus Optimism":

Isn’t positive thinking better than negative thinking? All other things being equal, sure, but the alternative to being either an optimist or a pessimist is to be a realist. “Human intellectual progress, such as it has been, results from our long struggle to see things ‘as they are,’ or in the most universally comprehensible way, and not as projections of our own emotions,” Ehrenreich concludes. “What we call the Enlightenment and hold on to only tenuously, by our fingernails, is the slow-dawning understanding that the world is unfolding according to its own inner algorithms of cause and effect, probability and chance, without any regard for human feelings.”

I don't walk around like Eeyore expecting the worst to happen. I do my best and hope for the brightest outcome possible.

No amount of wishing or speaking positively was going to get me up the ropes or over the hurdles. The definition of realism is the attitude or practice of accepting a situation as it is and being prepared to deal with it accordingly. 

A few weeks ago someone said I was a survivor. My path hasn't been an easy one but I never gave up or stopped trying. Knowing one's strengths, limitations, and the fact that the world will do as it pleases is not being negative. Looking down the road and determining the what ifs is being prepared. I can hope and I can wish but I must look reality in the eye and deal with it.

Lolly, the Courageous!

Everyone that follows me knows Poppy, the dog on the left. I've had him since he was a puppy. On the right is Lolly who I adopted from a rescue organization on January 3rd of this year. When I took this pic this morning, I was talking silliness to the dogs trying to get a good pose. I don't think I need to point out the differences in body language between the two. Hopefully, after Lolly has been with me for one year, she will look just as bright and happy as Pop.

After 3 1/2 months, I have learned what Lolly's life must have been like just by how she reacts to what goes on around her.

First, let's discuss her physically. She has stretch marks on her belly and the skin hangs. This is because she was bred over and over again.

You can't really tell from this pic, but even though she looks like a Chihuahua, her markings are Jack Russell and boy does she act like one! She can jump vertically at least 3 feet in the air from a stationary position no problem. I have seen her do a 360 degree twist in the air. She plays with toys by tossing them around and growling them. When it is just her and I on a walk, she keeps the pace quick. She barks at loud vehicles, like trucks and motorcycles, that pass by with a ferocity that means business. She's a little machine and I love that about her.

Senator, my 20 lb Tuxedo cat, was used to ruling the roost. Imagine his surprise when he met Lolly and she was having none of it! She is fearless when it comes to Senator so it's her way or the highway. They've come to an agreement of sorts and I only have to reign her in a few times a day now.

Lolly is very particular when it comes to men. She sizes them up quickly, like she can see into their hearts, and if you don't pass, she lets you know it. I did see something amazing, though, during one of our walks. We were stopped because one or the other smelled something interesting in the grass. I looked over and saw a man walking our way. He was dressed in white with paint spatters all over. There was something about him. I immediately recognized that he was gentle and kind.

As I said, Lolly doesn't trust men but as he came closer both of the dog's heads popped up and noticed him. I knew Poppy would be friendly; I was waiting to see what Lolly did. She started wagging her tail! Both dogs waited for him to get closer in the hopes he would stop and pet them, which he did. He spoke mostly Spanish so our communication was more in smiles while he crouched down and gave each dog loving. That is the only time, so far, that I have seen Lolly immediately give her trust away to a man.

I think she views life as eat or be eaten. Take no prisoners. Lolly likes to quote part of a speech Blake made to the sales team in the movie Glengarry Glen Ross, "Put. That coffee. Down. Coffee's for closers only. You think I'm fucking with you? I am not fucking with you."

But, if you look at the pic above, you see a dog that is still expecting the worst. When I call her to go out, I have to go looking for her because instead of running to me with exuberance, like Pop does,  she is lying on her back, belly up, in a submissive position. When I pick her up it is like lifting a wet noodle. She doesn't perk back up until we are out of the house.

The broom is her arch enemy, even more than Senator. I was horrified the first time I went to sweep the floor. She took one look at it and became extremely aggressive. I thought to myself, "So, someone teased and attacked you with a broom - repeatedly." 

Since I've been sick, I've had both dogs on the bed with me while I've napped. One afternoon I reached over to scratch Lolly's sides while making a "ch-ch-ch" noise. She whipped her head around growling and showing her teeth. Poppy sees these things I do as they are meant - being playful. Not Lolly. This was torture.

When I first got her and would pick her up, she would grab onto me and try to get up on my shoulder. Through repetition, she has learned that my arms are a safe place and she can relax. When I put her on the bed, she would scramble out of my arms out of fear. Now she waits to be gently placed on the bed. She used to growl when I kissed her head. Now she accepts the affection. Lolly is learning confidence in love, safety in love, and that fear and self-preservation are not necessary.


I thought she had come a long way in a short period of time until this morning's picture taking session. While she has made some strides, my desire for her to be happy has caused me to have unrealistic goals. It doesn't matter, though. She is here to stay and with time will blossom into the dog she was always supposed to be.

He was alive

She heard a questioning "Hello" from below. Getting up and nearly knocking her chair over, she couldn't make her way to the 2nd floor banister fast enough. Looking below, her heart pounded in her chest and her mouth went dry. He was in the foyer, hat in hand, looking a bit bewildered. Her body reacted on its own; her legs taking her to the stairs. With unsuppressed emotion, she quickly started her descent. Her dress was inhibiting her from going as fast as she could and the frustration of it all wrinkled her brow and made her grimace. Pants should be for women, too. It was alright for her to play in the mud in her older brother's pants as a kid. It should be okay for her to wear pants now, too.

He heard the long forgotten but familiar sound of women's garments swishing around her legs. Her only speed was fast and he knew she was cursing her clothes. A flurry of pastel appeared at the landing and stopped. Time froze as he watched her dress go still but her chest still heave with each breath she took. She was a beautiful butterfly looking for somewhere to light.

She was frozen. It had been 3 years since she last saw his face. His cavalry uniform only compounding the adrenal rush, she reached for the banister needing it to keep her steady. She watched him call her name, but couldn't hear his voice. Again, his lips moved. "Emily." He had told her so many times she was the strongest woman he had ever known but right now she was weak. Her legs trembled as if their one job to keep her standing was too much. He was no apparition. He was alive and here.

Horrified, he saw her sink to the floor. His hat, released from his grip, dropped to the floor. He raced up the stairs to the landing where she was sitting, her dress like cake frosting crumpled up around her. Putting one arm around her, he reached into his jacket and raising the beer can said, "This Bud's for you."

Just kidding!

Kneeling on the floor, he gathered her to him. Her face was wet with tears making her lips taste salty.
"Emily." This time she could hear his voice.

Jim - Still Here

It has been 4 1/2 months since Jim passed. I think about him. When I do, sometimes it is reviewing the bad times and I realize I am still angry about those. Sometimes I think about the Twin Flames connection we had. Still have. There are some memories where the two connect.

In this memory I was mad at Jim for some reason. It could have been because of any combination of his drug use, drinking, or lying. We both acknowledged that in our pasts we were together in some form or another so in my present anger I told him that I have cut the cord. I was done. I wouldn't have him be a part of my future lives. Flabbergasted, he replied, "You can't do that!"

I said, "Yes, I can! I am done being there for you and then helplessly stand by as you continually make the wrong decisions. I'm not doing it anymore. It is so frustrating and it hurts me."

When I see a man that resembles Jim, I do a double take. The pain in the pit of my stomach tells me I still feel the loss of not having him in my life, even as spotty as it was prior to his death.

The connection we had, we still have. He visits me from time to time sometimes so intensely I am filled to the brim with the comfort and love he can now share. I think it's funny that he likes to visit when I am with my mother, like he did today.

My Sunday visit with Mom was routine - lunch and Goodwill shopping. On my way to taking her home, I turned into her subdivision. That is when Jim popped up in the backseat. I asked him, "What are you doing here?" His answer? "I'm just here for the ride." Typical Jim. I started laughing and shared it with my mother. She said, "Isn't that clever," and laughed, too.

Your loved ones are never far from you. Even if you can't hear them or see them, feel them or touch them, they are there. If you talk to them, they listen. Their love is still yours. They know how deeply you feel their loss and that, for some of you, you are walking through this life with a chunk of yourself missing.

They want you to be happy so do what you can to be happy.

Cops without Badges

https://twitter.com/carlbernstein/status/832863337603952644?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw

 (If the above link isn't clickable, please copy and past it into your browser.)

I was 16 years old when the movie, "All The President's Men" was released in theatres. My adolescent brain battled between drooling over Robert Redford and following the story line. Even so, I got the gist of moral lessons.

Lessons from Doing Wrong

• Presidents are not infallible.
• Presidents are just like me in that they have issues and an Achilles' heel.
• Lying, paranoia, and all around doing the wrong thing will eventually catch up with a person.

 Lessons from Doing Right

• Believe in yourself even when others don't believe in you.
• Persist in your mission through the tough times.
• Eventually the truth will win

There is one more lesson I learned. The movie drove home how important the role of the press is. They are the cops without the badge. The reporters that seek the truth and possess a moral obligation to their countrymen, they are the ones that make sure that power is kept in check.

It is believed Napoleon said, "Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than 1,000 bayonets."

That fact that Trump is aggressively pursuing the press like a hyena hunts down an antelope is extremely disturbing. The press is not the enemy of the people. They are our powerful ally in times of trouble. They take down the giant with their weapons of words and truth. That's why Trump is so afraid of them and disparaging them. 

Trump is the man behind the curtain and the press is Toto, scrappy and unafraid to disclose the truth. 

Strength's Misconception

Batman stands at the top of my cubicle at work. When I become overwhelmed and don't know what to do next, I look at him and think, "It's simple. You can overcome whatever is happening. You are strong." I become calm and with a clearer head I go back to work.

He watches over me and is always there. Batman is my reminder that I can do what I must and even more. It doesn't bother me that you may think I am strange to have Batman as my focal point for times of stress because number 1, I don't care, and number 2, it works for me. His strength becomes my strength.

Lolly, my little rescue, looks for strength from Poppy. When I leave for work in the morning she gets very sad so she sits as closely to him as possible while she watches me walk out the door. Lolly has finally stopped chasing the cats and they have stopped hissing at her. She still has emotional wounds that have to heal but she is making headway. Bad memories are being replaced with happy ones.

We are but a wisp of smoke in time. Our bodies keep us pinned to the earth. Our souls look out from inside. We are not made to be totally alone. It goes against the rules of life. We need to understand others and be understood. We need strength so that we stay alive, loving and growing.

It is okay to need someone. It is okay to be needed. A bridge is crossed one footstep at a time but not necessarily alone.

Aging

My confirmation, Temple Emanuel

I think this picture was taken around 1975. My mother is the woman on the far right. Her mother, my grandmother, is the woman standing in the pantsuit in the center. Her husband, one of my grandfathers, is beside her.  It's funny that my dad kept his sunglasses on for the photo. The man on the far left is his father, the other of my grandfathers.My siblings are also in the picture along with one of my aunts who is my father's sister.

It brings sorrow to me that all have passed on except for my siblings and my mother. It is sorrow for love gone by. The deaths in my family of which I was a part were not long and drawn out. My beloved Nana Anna passed very quickly. I lied about my age in order to see her in intensive care. My Poppa Jack also passed away in the hospital. I got to see him one time, too. My father never woke up from what turned out to be his final heart surgery.

My mother is turning 82 on Tuesday and it is getting harder to be around her. Whenever she spoke of the final years before her mother passed, she would reminisce about how mean she was to her. My older sister witnessed it but at that time I lived halfway across the country and had my own issues.

I am looking at the picture and realize I am flanked by my grandfathers. I remember Poppa Jack making sure he was next to me. It was a protective act.

I am losing my mother as her brain changes with age. She was never the milk and cookies type of mom and our relationship was rocky but these past few years she tried. We had fun together and would laugh. Being with her now is a lesson in patience and reminding myself that her hurting me is a symptom of what is going on with her physically. Apparently this is heredity. My older sister, not joking, reminded me the other day on the phone that we have a pact that if one of us gets mean when we are old to say something.

With each new visit, I hope that the time spent with her is without me getting my feelings hurt. This probably sounds selfish of me especially when I know she is oblivious to the effect her actions and words have on me.

I have started to mourn my mother. She is leaving me very slowly. Little pieces of her are breaking off and crumbling never to return. After each visit it is taking longer for me to recover my balance because she is getting worse.

I was going to write about Lolly today, our (Poppy and me) new girl. She's a 5 year old Chihuahua that was rescued from euthanasia. I'll have to talk about her soon. Until then, here's a pic.

The Year of Transition

To celebrate the end of 2016 and the beginning of 2017, Carolyn, my Reiki teacher and compadre in all things spiritual, went out to dinner at a delicious Italian restaurant called Dolce Italia. It was Carolyn's suggestion and an excellent one at that. The food was so good!

I have always been attracted to people that are different. I don't know why. Sometimes it as not been the healthiest thing for me. In Carolyn's case, it has been very healthy for me. We both see dead people so it's all good.

One of the topics of conversation was 2016 and politics aside, all of the different things that took place. It has definitely been a year of transitions. Each December, I think about receiving my W-2 and submitting my taxes. This year I will have FOUR w-2s. That blew my mind.

Starting at the top of the year, I spent the first few months at the job I had worked at for four years. Every day was a new torture to endure and I have never been so glad to leave a place.

The second W-2 comes from a window installation business that one week into my employment the woman that hired me was fired. Her replacement wasn't a fan of mine and after three to four months I was told I should be in a supervisory role, not this one. Please move on. Here's a small severance package. Good luck.

The third W-2 will be from the temp-to-perm agency that hired me for the job I am at now. To fulfill the contracted obligation, I had to work a certain number of hours before I could be officially hired so I got paid by the agency from 7/5/16 through 10/31/16. It was a weird situation to be in. I was a part of the organization but not really.

The fourth W-2 will be from the organization that waited out the contract with me and officially hired me on 11/01/16. I love where I work. The people are fun, amazing, and wonderful human beings. It takes a certain personality to be comfortable working in and around the kind of patients we have. Our mission statement:

The mission of the Community AIDS Network is to provide a continuum of medical, social and education services essential to the health and well-being of those living with HIV/AIDS, Hepatitis C, sexually transmitted diseases, other diseases and to enhance public awareness.

This transition took three moves on the game board, but they were worth it to get to where I am now.

Two personal relationships ended. One was my choice; the other was not. I am still working through Jim's passing. He hangs around me quite a bit and I find it comforting. I learned so much about life and myself from being with him. He learned from me, too.

I hope that this year brings more joy than sadness, more growth, more love, and more success for you and me. Surround yourself with people that have good intentions and open hearts. Ones that want to play and be mischievous. The kind that will laugh when you laugh and cry when you cry. Those that are like the citizens of Who-ville. They will help your heart to grow.

From Dr. Seuss, "How the Grinch Stole Christmas"

The Bell

Her consciousness bubbled up and up and up from the depths eventually, slowly, breaking free. Her body, especially her brain, had needed the time to heal. Now it was time to get back to living. She was back.

She was back? It was so dark. Was it nighttime? Where were the stars and the moon? She blinked and blinked. Nothing. She reached up with her hands to feel her eyes. Her knuckles hit something hard. She stopped. Her breathing became fast and shallow as her heart jumped and heaved in her chest.

Spreading out her fingers, she felt the wooden box's top, sides, and bottom. She kicked her feet, listening to the thuds with no echos. The blood that now furiously coursed through her veins pounded in her ears making her head hurt.  

Profusely sweating, she felt for the rope. It has to be tied to here somewhere.

***

Inside the church everyone was singing except for Robert. He was too devastated to sing. He wanted to punch the walls, kick the pews, and yell about his sorrow that ran through every muscle of his body filling his mouth with acid. And yet, here he was with his neighbors, head down, sitting quietly this Christmas morning.

God wasn't real and he sure as hell wasn't his savior anymore. The scene kept playing over and over in his mind making the choir's singing and pastor's words a garble of background noise. The wild pony kicking his beloved in the head. Rebecca dropping to the ground like a lifeless sack of flour. Robert running over to her as if in slow motion, his legs not moving fast enough. Finally grabbing her up in his arms speaking her name. Blood trickling from her ears, her eyelids fluttered then closed.

***

There it was. Her panic subsiding a bit, she felt the course rope tied to her right wrist. She knew at the other end of it, suspended above her plot, was a bell. Grabbing the rope with both of her hands, she pulled down. Rebecca wished she could hear it ringing. She let the rope back up then pulled down again. Again. Again. Again.

***

The alcoholic town doctor stood at Rebecca's bedside and facing Robert told him there was no hope. She was dead. No! No! No! He couldn't silent the screaming in his head. Seeking revenge, anything to make himself feel better, he grabbed his rifle. He charged out the door not hearing the loud slam as it violently closed behind him. Through the bedroom window, the doctor watched Robert speed forward to the corral. Not being able to handle one more death, he turned around. Taking the flask from his breast pocket, he took a long swig.

Robert looked at the pony over his rifle. The horse's big brown eyes looked back. He and Rebecca hadn't named her yet. They were waiting for her to be able to be ridden first. She was beautiful. They both fell in love her the second they saw her. If he killed her, he would be killing Rebecca. He lowered the rifle and leaning it against the fence post he cried. He crumbled to the ground, his back against the corral and his face in his arms. Grief blanketed him and he embraced it.

The doc, his emotions paralyzed by the hootch, turned back around to look out the window. He hadn't heard the sound of a gun shot as he expected so what was happening? He had trouble believing what his drunk eyes saw through the wavy glass so he walked out to the front porch.

The mare poked her head through the fence to snuffle Robert's neck. He jumped at the unexpected contact. Spooked, she pulled her head back in and snortled. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he stood up and faced her. She didn't move. He turned back around and waited. About a minute or two later, he heard her hoofs hitting the hard earth as she walked back to him. He felt her head slide next to his. He reached up slowly and felt her soft muzzle. She chortled so he ran his hand up her face to her forelock and back down. Moving slowly again and being as quiet as he could, he turned around. The mare remained close. Robert cried new tears as he hung to her neck.

***

Rebecca was sobbing but now it was getting harder to breath. Her arms were growing tired. She couldn't remember what got her there. Robert. My sweet strong Robert. She had to get back to him. Each time the horror of her reality rose inside of her she squelched it as best she could. Pull the rope. Ring the bell.

***

Robert stood along with the congregation. Hearing the Merry Christmas greetings around him was too much. Quickly, he made his way to the front door and out the church. What was that sound? He stopped to listen with earnestness. Congregants were starting to leave the church, too, and he raised his hand and voice telling them to stop and be quiet. He heard it again and hat in had took off racing toward the graveyard. Confused, they followed him anyway.

Someone yelled, "Grab a shovel!"

***

The rope was getting slippery from her bloodied hands. All of a sudden it was pulled from her grasp! Was she hallucinating? She felt around for it in the thick blackness and pulled on it again. There was a return tug on the rope. She cried with joy, relief, and impatience. She listened so hard wanting to hear the voices of those above her. She yelled, "I'm here! I'm alive!"

Shovel. Dirt. Shovel. Dirt. Muffled voices.

"Rebecca, honey. We're coming to get you. Don't you worry, girl. Don't give up. We're here. Robert's here." He kept wiping away the snot and tears, drying his hands on his pants so he could keep a grip on his shovel.

Light burned her eyes as the lid was removed from her coffin. Robert reached down and picked her up. Then she felt someone take her from his arms and gently lay her on the ground. She squinted against the sun until it was blocked by a shadow. Opening her eyes, she saw his face. "Robert."

For the Love of a Dog

I woke up at 2 o'clock this morning because I had to pee. Having done that, I got back into bed. As it goes at times, my mind starting obsessing, racing, non-stop. Now I was tossing and turning. 

Poppy, my Chihuahua, sleeps in bed with me. Because he likes to nestle under the covers and always be touching me, when I move, he moves. Half the time I end up at the edge of the bed with him up against me.

There I was, probably a half an hour into being unable to quiet my mind and get back to sleep, when I feel him giving me dog kisses on my back. I reached behind me and scratched his little neck just for a couple of seconds. He kissed me again. I scratch him again, and so forth. I finally turned over and gently moved him into my arms. Talking quietly to him, I told him how much I love him.

This little bundle, in the middle of the night when I know I am disturbing his sleep, gave me love. While I held and petted him, I talked about what was on my mind. It wasn't for a long time, just a few minutes. Feeling better, I quieted my mind using the tools that always work. All I have to do right now is sleep. I started to meditate and was soon asleep.

Don't ever underestimate the love of a dog. It is so simple and uncomplicated. There are no machinations. Just love.

Anxiety at the Deli Counter

I don't know what it is about men who work behind the deli counter but another one flirted with me this past Friday at Detwiler's Farm Market. With the top of his hair bleached blond under his hairnet, he looked like a kid to me so I'm guessing I am old enough to be his mother. That's not what I want to talk about, though. What I want to talk about is anxiety.

Anxiety at the Deli Counter

One of the repercussions of the car accident that has hung around is anxiety. It makes my skin itch. It makes my heart race. It makes me sweat. I keep it under control as best I can but under certain circumstances it gets the best of me. Standing around with everyone else while waiting for my turn at the deli counter gives me anxiety. I have to gently push my way to the front to pick a number from the dispenser. I fumble around trying to rip off one ticket and end up with two. I don't know where to put the extra one; this dispenser is freestanding and it is mocking me. I lay the ticket on top of it knowing it will probably fall to the ground. Oh, well! Not my problem.

My number is eight. The number lit up on the deli counter display is four. Not too bad. I look around. It isn't that crowded. I find a place to park my cart. Not too far away but not a part of the herd. I'm also claustrophobic. The kid with the hair hands someone their order and they are done. He looks behind and then calls out, "Number five. Number five. NUMBER FIVE. Is anyone NUMBER FIVE? Number five. Number five?" The herd is looking at one another. No one is admitting to be number five. Did five give up and decide not to wait? Does it matter? No one is answering. Move on, please.

Then he calls out, "How about number eight? Is there a number eight?" What!? I'm number eight but I see people standing there waiting that are ahead of me. I look to my right and ask the woman next to me, "How did hego from five to eight?" She just smiles and shakes her head. One of the herd speaks up and offers, "I'm six..."

Great! Let's go people.

Another deli person looks at the number on the counter and asks,"Number five. Number five?" I look at the counter and see that blond hair never updated it. A man that has been silent this whole time says,"I was number five but I am being waited on already."

Oh My God

He decides to speak up now instead of a few minutes ago? I looked at him incredulously. The deli girl updates the number to five. "Six. Number six!" Six speaks up and we are ready move on to seven. The counter is updated again. 

While this is going on I am getting a headache. I feel adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream. The lady that had number seven puts in her order and walks back to her cart to the left of me. I turn to her and admit I have so much anxiety right now. She smiles and says, "Imagine having number seven. He went from five to eight! I wondered if I would be waited on at all or left standing here." 

Sure. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

It is finally my turn and it is the bleached blond guy. "Hello, Sweetie. What can I get you today?" My voice shakes when I tell him. I can hear it. What the hell. I have to get a grip. His overt flirting is embarrassing.

Earlier in the day I was at our company's holiday brunch. I was having a great time up until the point when it was announced that because of the growth we have experienced we were all expected to go up to the front of the room, take the microphone, and talk about ourselves. Bam! My heart jumped in my chest. Eventually it was my turn. I took the mic and spoke into it. I saw the crowd but no faces. I heard their reactions to my words as if I were in a tunnel. I was on autopilot with half of my brain sitting in the copilot's seat and the other half curled up under the bed hiding.

I used to get nervous but never like this. All that extrovert behavior that visited me after the accident packed up its shit leaving behind the one thing that didn't fit in its suitcase. 

 

 

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The Question Mark

There is no normal. There is what is acceptable at present. You can compare it to what used to be acceptable or what you think should be acceptable.

There is no reality. There is what we are experiencing now. You can compare it to what you have experienced or what you think you should be experiencing.

All around you things are happening. Depending on what you choose to focus on is what you see.

Squirrel on utility pole, November 2016

Last week we had a cool spell. For us that means it was in the seventies. I opened the two windows in the house that work along with my front door. After two years of asking, my landlord finally installed a screen door. Having the fresh air circulate throughout the house was magnificent. The dog and cats lifted their noses to examine the new smells.

It was in the evening and I remembered I hadn't gone to check the mail. This is an old neighborhood so we all have mailboxes on posts in front of our houses. As I walked the length of the front yard, I noticed the arm had been swung in the "up" position signaling the mailman there was outgoing mail inside. When I stepped off the curb onto the street, flashing lights caught my eye. A couple of houses down, on the corner, was a silent police car with its lights on and motor running. As far as I could tell, all of the activity was taking place inside one of the houses. An uncomfortable feeling squeezed my stomach as I pulled open the little mailbox door. I have way too many memories of what can happen in a house that causes the police to silently be at your door.

Inside was a letter to a former occupant. It looked personal as opposed to a bill or professional correspondence. Both the return and mailing address were handwritten. Being the Type A personality that I am, since whoever left the letter hadn't, I brought the envelope inside so that I could write on it, "RTS. Not at this address."

As I walked back to the street, I was listening hard. No strange noises. Just quiet. Too quiet. When the police are around, my neighbors become smoke. The cop car was still there.

I put the letter in the mailbox and walked back in my house. Closing the screen door behind me, I turned to look back outside. How was I to determine the situation? Should I close my windows? Should I close my door? Was it time to move? I was thinking about these things when I spotted the squirrel. It scampered up the utility pole all the way to the top. In all of the years I have been consciously paying attention, I have never seen a squirrel do that.

I grabbed my phone and went outside to take the squirrel's picture. At first it looked around and then with quick jerky squirrel moves it turned to the right and then to the left. At some point in these few seconds, he (using "he" in a generic pronoun kind of way) formed a question mark with his tail as if asking me back, "I see you are questioning. What do you think you should do?"

His mission accomplished, he scooted back to the ground. A little weird-ed out but feeling much more at peace, I went back in the house. A change is on its way.

 

The Best He Could Do

As a child, I was told I could do better. I was smart and should never be satisfied with the status quo. I should imagine how I would feel if I got an A+ instead of an A. Maybe if I had spent more time, took it more seriously, stopped fooling around. This is how I became a perfectionist. This is also how I became one who expects others to be perfect, too.

Even in Jim's death, I have learned from him. He did his best. I can wish he lived his life differently. I can point out the many times he should have made different decisions and think about how is life, and death, would have been different. But, it was his path to take. It was his row to hoe. Just like I have mine.

Jim's funeral service was this past Saturday. Interestingly enough, the same date as my son's birthday. Two Marines performed the military funeral rituals. The flag went to Jim's young son. People spoke of what it was like to have had Jim in their lives. He did some pretty amazing things like stealing an airport golf cart with his buddy and driving around the airport in it, throwing airport security into a tizzy. He offered a different way of life to a drug addict living on the streets. He didn't know her, but followed the voice in his heart. Nearly twenty years later she continues to do well, is married, and runs her own business.

As I think about Jim, his life, his actions, his funny Jim-isms, (You: "What's that smell?" Jim: "That's your upper lip.") I realize more and more he just did his best and I have to be okay with it. Perfectionism is an unrealistic unattainable goal. It's also not necessary.

I have learned that even though Jim's best sometimes hurt those that loved him, it compounded his sorrow, too. Superman has his kryptonite. Why shouldn't Jim be afforded the same forgiveness?

Nature, Naturally

She walked down the path to the stream. Tired. So tired. Stopping, she lifted her face to the sun and breathed deeply. The smells of the field filled her.

Opening her eyes again, she decided the stream could wait.  Instead, she sat down in the soft tall grass, the earth's perfume surrounding her. Breathing it in again, she laid down. Now she had a pillow beneath her head. Stretching out her fingers, she ran them over the tops of the tendrils. Soft and strong.

Tears filled her eyes, ran down the sides of her face, and tickled her ears. A sob escaped from her chest and all of a sudden she was racked with cries from deep within. Over and over she let the waves take her as the sun continued to hang in the blue sky.

A sweet summer breeze rose up, from no particular direction, twirling. The grass swayed, danced really. The tender blades, gladly bending to the strength of the wind, tickled the girl's legs and arms. Soft explosive gusts dried the wetness from her cheeks leaving a salty residue, the only evidence she had mourned.

She was quiet now. Listening, she heard the grass and the stream, bubbling a few feet away. Hypnotized, at peace, she closed her eyes. It wasn't dark. The sun shone through her eyelids. Turning on her side, she eventually fell asleep.

Skating through life

I wanted to glide through this life. I came here wearing a well sharpened pair of ankle high ice skates. They didn't helped me, though. Whenever I built up any kind of speed I would run pell-mell into a stop sign. Literally. So hard I would fall from the impact, with no control I was a jumble of arms and legs spinning on the hard slick ice.

But, every time I fell, I rose again. With lacerated palms, I wiped the blood from the cuts on my knees. Sometimes still bleeding and definitely still in pain, checking my laces first, I forced myself to keep going,

Bruised and stained by my own blood, the healing took place with each new forward push. Eventually I learned how to navigate around sharp corners, stop without crashing, and easily cruise around dangers like thin ice.

Now my pace is an easy sail. No more racing, which makes for less stop signs. Or, maybe this less hectic stride just makes them seem further apart.

Jim is Free

Besides going to the beach, Jim and I used to go to Gillespie Park and feed the squirrels roasted unsalted peanuts in the shell. With each visit they came to know us and once we were spotted we felt joy as we watched them scurry down from the trees and run over. Jim and I sat in the same spot every time so they knew the drill. We did it so often that a few of the braver ones would take the peanuts directly from our out-stretched fingers. For the rest of the crew, we would throw the nuts a few feet to them from our perch on beach towels at the top of a little hill.We enjoyed doing this for many reasons. First, the squirrels were fun to watch and it was fun feeding them. Secondly, having a squirrel take a peanut from your fingers was a thrill. Lastly, it was meditative and a quiet time for us to be together. It was always hard for us to pull ourselves away from there and go back to the realities and stresses of life.


Jim passed away this morning at 11:15. I was at work and was planning on leaving at 1 o'clock to see him. With his brother's urgent text message, I packed up and left at 10:30am instead. When I walked into Jim's room, I saw his sister-in-law at his side and I heard her tell Jim that I was there. I dropped my things on the table, hugged his brother and then hugged his sister-in-law. Before I sat down in the chair next to Jim's bed, his sister-in-law told me that he was waiting for me before he would pass.

"Hi, Sweetie." I took one of his hands in mine and with the other I caressed his head. "Hi, Baby. It's okay. Everything is okay." After a couple of labored breaths that seemed like hours apart, he stopped.

Free from pain, free from guilt, free from all of the bad memories that haunted him. Jim is free.

Dear Jim

Dear Jim,

I spent time with you tonight. Your brother and his wife were there, too. It was good to see them; they look well.

I am no longer angry with you for putting yourself in this position. My heart is only filled with love and sadness. You did your best. That is all any of us could have asked of you. 

Your body was hot from fever so I kept changing the washcloth on your forehead. I gently let my fingers glide across the skin on your arm and hand as I sat next to your bed. I didn't dare use a firmer touch as I was afraid I would cause you physical harm if I did.

When your brother and sister-in-law left us so that we could have some time together, we had a good chat, even though I was the only one talking. I could tell you were listening, the morphine notwithstanding. I told you how much I love you. That you are my Superman. Yes, I cried. I couldn't help it. You always told me there was no shame in crying. If I felt like I needed to, then I should cry and without apology.

I saw your body in a state I never imagined of you. Your pallor was grey and your muscles without tone. Even so, I love you. You will always be the handsome man that held me when we swam in the Gulf. The one that I could go to when I couldn't make up my mind, couldn't untangle logic from emotion enough to make a decision. You were so quick to decide the path you thought to be the right one and then explain to me why. I'm laughing remembering the many times you would say to me, "Fuck 'em." In other words, let it go. It's not worth worrying about or struggling with. Let go and move on.

I put my hand on your chest and told you to be at peace. I told you I would be back tomorrow to see you again but I'm not sure you will be around for another visit. I didn't say that to you, but that is what I was thinking.  

I also told you to visit me, if you want. I would know you were there.

I am glad we had our talk tonight. I am now at peace. I'll see you tomorrow.

Love,

Nancy