THE ONLY EXCUSE

I’ve been a ‘member’ of the Yoga In the Park facebook group for years. I joined the group thinking that I would go to the yoga events, but I never do. The group usually meets at 2 pm on Sundays outside of the Nelson Art Museum. So..yoga with shuttlecocks. The teachers rotate and vary. The class is free but donations are recommended. I see the reminders for classes all the time and I always come up with some reason for not getting my butt off the couch. That’s not fair. My butt is usually not on the couch at two in the afternoon on a Sunday. I’m usually in the kitchen chopping vegetables for the week or folding the last of the laundry. So my usual reasons for not going is that it is just inconvenient.

My marshmallow body is the excuse I’m using for everything these days. I just sit back and watch as my barrel shaped torso get larger and larger. I’ve taken to buying the kinds of dresses that keep you guessing on the shape of the body underneath, partially for reasons of girth and partially for reasons of I like to keep people guessing. I’ve been minimal maintenance over here for months. This attitude is fading. I have been consistently getting ten thousand or more steps in every day and I’ve added weights to my yoga practice. So, on Sunday when Michael asked me if I had plans, I told him that I was thinking of going to yoga in the park. He said if I rode my bicycle, he’d ride with me to the Nelson and then go do his own thing while I did yoga. I agreed and we figured out a way to strap my yoga mat to my bike. We were at the Nelson in no time and agreed to a meeting time. He went his way and I went mine.

I found a nice spot in the shade to roll out my mat and did some people watching while I waited for class to start. The class was nice, not too flowy but moderately challenging. My biggest distraction was the guy who rolled out his mat directly behind me. I mean DIRECTLY behind me. I’m sure that at some point during the class, his nose was inches from my ass. Surprisingly enough, this was not the thing that bothered me the most. What drove me absolutely bonkers was that the guy was wearing heavy wool socks. His yoga mat wasn’t a true a yoga mat, but one of those really thick gym mats and every time I was in down dog, I could see this man struggling. It took all my willpower to not be yoga teacher Cindy and tell the man to at least remove his socks. By the time savasana rolled around, the sun had shifted. So I moved my a foot forward to be in the shade and to create some distance.

And this is why I make for a terrible yoga student.

Michael rode up just as I was putting my yoga mat on my bike. I told him about yoga and wool socks. Then we rode our bikes to Char Bar in Westport for linner. We spent most of our afternoon on our bikes and I was not mad about it. In fact, I learned two things that day. First, I don’t think I like yoga in the park. I mean, I didn’t hate yoga in the park, but it may not be the yoga class for me. Secondly, I love riding my bicycle. Like, I really enjoy riding around on my bike. When I was a kid, I went every where on a bike. Bicycles went with us on camping trips. I always had a bike. Once we moved here, I hated riding. Even Bessy the Bingo bike turned out to be only mildly enjoying to ride and that was only if I wasn’t going anywhere with Michael. Because I am slow and I don’t like to work hard. It’s raining here today and I am actually sad that I couldn’t ride my bike to work. And I am little confused as to who I am now because I never thought I would be someone that enjoys riding a bicycle to and from work. My ebike makes me less slow and I only work a little. That’s not true. I get in decent cardio workout while riding. I never stop peddling and the peddle assist kicks off once you reach a certain speed. It’s only there to give you a nudge up the hill.

A nudge up the hill is all I needed.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

First, I’d like to start off with a list of some accomplishments or sort of accomplishments for this week:

• I rode my bike on Monday. My intention was to ride at least three times this week. On the way home it sounded like it was rattling apart. Michael asked me about the ride because he knew I was hesitant about my ability to ride a bicycle. I told him that it was great except the rattle. He told me to not ride again until he could look over it this weekend. Even though I only rode once, I feel like this is still an accomplishment.

• Dog walks every morning.

• Mammogram

• Completing safety training for my visit to MBL in a couple of weeks

• Refraining from murder

• Quality yoga mat time every day this week (probably helped with whole not murdering thing)

This is Michael and The Cabbage’s last day of school, which means we start our summer schedule next week. I’ve already made an Excel spreadsheet of all the chores I do, organized by weekly, bi-weekly, every other week, number of times a day. I’m ready to hand this spreadsheet over to the two of them and relinquish the majority of my chores. I’ve been anticipating this moment for weeks and thinking about how it feels like a freedom. Michael asked me what I was going to do with my Saturdays if I don’t have to go grocery shopping and I said that I might find a morning yoga class. There’s a vegan bakeshop in Brookside that doesn’t open until 10:00 AM on Saturday’s. I’ve been dying to get brunch here, but the timing is always wrong. Now, I could go to yoga and then to the bake shop afterward. Or I could beg Sarah to take me kayaking and then the two of us could get brunch after. Or I could go roller skating at the outdoor roller skating park. Or I could grab my big camera, hop on my scooter and zip around the city taking pictures with the morning light. Or I could print out every thing I have ever written in regards to a book, find a cafe and sit down with these pages and a red marker and start to put something real together.

All of these options sound like a vacation to me.

I think I’m making this my song for the summer. I don’t need the whole year, but I need these next three months. I need three months of making as few decisions for other people as I possible can get away with and focusing less on other people’s needs. I need three months of not being so dang considerate. I need three months of not my usual chores so I have time for the chore of cleaning out my closet and the rest of the house. I need these three months because I can’t tell you the last time I lounged in my hammock in the backyard.

And the next three months are something to be grateful for.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

By the time you read this, I will be driving through Kansas on my way to OKC for Quinn’s high school graduation.

That’s a heavy sentence to type.

It is surprising to me that Mental Health Awareness month has been so mentally difficult. There is nothing special about the month of May, no birthdays or anniversaries. Yet it has contained difficult losses and bittersweet memories and there’s still basically week left. All along the way, a voice has been whispering “Chris should be here.”

First of all, don’t feel bad that I’m gone. While I will miss spending time with each of you, I’m sure it will be an interesting time for me and I look forward to seeing all of you when you come over. To each of you I send my love. If on this side of life I’m able to watch over and help you out, know that I will. If I can’t, I’m sure I can at least be waiting for you when you come over. This all may sound silly to you guys, but what the hell, I’m gone—and who can argue with me?

Life is meant to be fun, and joyous, and fulfilling. May each of yours be that—having each of you as a child of mine has certainly been one of the good things in my life. Know that I’ve always loved each of you with an eternal, bottomless love. A love that has nothing to do with each other, for I feel my love for each of you is total and all-encompassing. Please watch out for each other and love and forgive everybody. It’s a good life, enjoy it.

Jim Henson
Letter to his children, to be opened after his death

There is a generation of us who grew up watching Sesame Street and The Muppets, a generation who were molded and shaped by the creative works of Jim Henson. As I drove to work on Tuesday, the radio DJ went through a list of events that happened on May 16th. One event is that it has been twenty five years since the release of Torn by Natalie Imbruglia. Ouch. The other event he mentioned was Jim Henson’s passing in 1990. He passed away on May 16th from streptococcal pneumonia at age fifty three. I remember being in the checkout line at Walmart and seeing the cover of a magazine with Kermit the frog sitting next to an empty director’s chair bearing Jim Henson’s name. Tears streamed down my face whileI handed the cashier my money for my purchases. It was soon after the DJ’s announcement that I noticed various Jim Henson related stuff on social media and the above letter to his children caught my eye.

Years and years ago, Chris and I made our only just the two of us drive to my grandparents home in Mississippi. All previous trips had been with my parents, but this was the first time Chris and I had to make the trip on our own. My Pepaw had passed away and my parents had rushed out of town to get to my mother’s home. This would end up being the last trip I would ever make to Mississippi other than to drive through to get to someplace else. The first town we came to after crossing into the state was Greenville, the birth pace of Jim Henson and Kermit the Frog. They have a tiny little Jim Henson museum and though I had driven through this place countless of times with my parents, we had never stopped. I can remember mentioning this to Chris as we came in to town and he immediately pulled over and into the parking lot for the museum. The museum is so small; we only spent ten or fifteen minutes in the space. Most of our time was spent reading over the hand drawn Christmas cards he would send to the museum every year.

Life is meant to be fun, and joyous, and fulfilling.

These are words that Chris would be telling Quinn today as we celebrate his move into new adventures and I have a feeling that Quinn knows these words to be true already. I would not be surprised if these are words that Chris has whispered into Quinn’s ear while he’s sleeping. So, to that voice that keeps whispering to me that Chris should be here, there is no need for you to whisper them.

He’s already here and in some ways has never left.

I am so grateful for the timing of this trip because I need some time away from my current responsibilities. More than anything I am grateful to be part of the celebration for this boy/man. He used to have the most violent sneezes and a disproportionate amount of snot would come out of his tiny nose to cover the lower part of his face. It was traumatizing to him and everyone else involved in the clean up process. There were times I was concerned that actual brain matter was coming out of his nose. So to see him succeeding and have legitimate life/career plans fills me up with joy. Traci and her Chris have raised a successful human. This does not amaze me, the idea that these two would in fact raise a successful human, but they are just as deserving of celebration as the graduate.

I raise my glass to them for doing the work while continuing to live a life that is fun, joyous and fulfilling.

WE WERE BLOGGERS

A month ago, I started writing a blog post where I waxed nostalgic about the old days of BlogHer. I had been thinking about how nice it had been to be in the room with these women I follow online and meeting new people, hearing their stories and reasons for blogging. I would walk away inspired to do more with my blog, be a better writer, take better pictures. That conference was something I never expected to be drawn to attend, but I never really expected to be a blogger. When Chris built my first blog in 2000, I looked at him with a raised eyebrow and said “What am I supposed to do with this?” He told me that this was a space where I could keep our friends who had scattered themselves across the state and country up to date on what was going on with me. I did not think that the blog would ever be anything more than that.

Over the years, this space has been my soapbox, my navel gazer, my practice in creative writing and my therapist. When Chris built that blog, he opened up a world of other voices and I found a community of women who awed me, inspired me, made me feel hopeful, and made me feel like I was a part of something. Many of those women I never spoke to in person, only on the rare occasion when I would be brave enough to leave a comment and maybe a word of hello at BlogHer. I never failed to fan girl geek out whenever I was face to face with some of these bloggers who I considered to be celebrities. I knew I would never be as cool or popular as these women, but I could cheer them on from the sidelines and buy their books. Even though I didn’t know these women in real life, a number of them reached out to me when Chris was sick, sending cards of support and care packages. I’m not sure I ever really expressed my gratitude for their thoughtfulness. Then things changed. Most of the women I followed in the blogging community have stopped blogging and have moved on to other things.

Except me. I’m still plunking down words full of navel lint as if anyone else might still be paying attention. 

When I saw the news of Heather Armstrong’s passing this week, I immediately reached for my phone to text Chris. Then I was just standing there at my desk, my phone in my hand, blinking at the screen. I felt untethered and between worlds. The one person I knew who would understand what I was feeling was no longer available. Heather Armstrong of dooce.com was one of the first women in the community of bloggers I followed and it was through her blog that I found other women like Maggie Mason, Alice Bradley and Karen Walrond. I wanted to meet women like her, women who bravely shared their ups and downs with us on the internet. Without even knowing she was doing it, she challenged me to be a better photographer and her words inspired me to keep writing. I have her books prominently displayed on my bookshelf along with the books by the other women bloggers I follow. Her words gave us all permission to be honest and open about our flaws, but she was also hilarious. I mean life can be a real shit show. We are better off finding the humor in it all and Heather Armstrong was pretty good at doing this. I never met her in person. I only very rarely left a comment on her blog. There is a small subset of women in the blogging community who did know her personally and seeing them sharing their memories of their time spent with her has been beautiful and sad. While Heather Armstrong could be a magnet for internet trolls and haters and she sometimes said things that we disagreed with, we can’t deny the impact she had on the internet and communities that were formed from her influence. I mean, dooce became a term we used for someone who got fired for their blog. It was a Jeopardy! answer. She opened up space for talking about uncomfortable things.

In the beginning, I remember having to make explanations about what a blog is or why someone might blog. People outside the blogging world thought we were crazy and often met the word ‘blog’ with some disdain. “Oh…you blog.” they’d say as if they had something sour in their mouths. There were people who just couldn’t understand why or how we could write about personal things and share it for the world, THE WORLD, to possibly read it. Whatever. Blogging is not for everyone, but I will say that we were the beginning wave of a mental health revolution. Women read about other women struggling with parenthood, jobs, sexuality, anxiety, depression and so much more and they could see that they were not alone. Many of those women bloggers normalized talking about mental health. We normalized talking about our bodies and all the weird things they start doing with age. We normalized talking about the hard adult things. I count myself as one of the smallest voices in this revolution. I’m grateful to the women like Heather Armstrong who were some of the biggest voices in this revolution, even if she was messy and flawed. And while it may seem odd to mourn the loss of a woman I never met, never really knew, I find that my grief over her loss encompasses the way things used to be. She was a part of that.

It is a more than unfortunate loss and I can imagine how unfathomably difficult this is for her family. 

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals in the United States. 988lifeline.org

THEY'RE BACK

Sunday morning, after being gently nudged many times by Josephine, I got up and headed to the kitchen to make us both breakfast. When I stepped into the kitchen, I noticed the bag of cat food was sitting on it’s side near the pet door with a large hole chewed into it. I realized then that this is why Josephine had been nudging me for the last hour. I shouldn’t have been surprised. A week or two ago, Josephine treed a raccoon in our backyard. It was an early morning, still dark out, and I was getting dressed to take her for a walk. I could hear her barking her head off while I tied my laces. I walked out with a flashlight to see what she was barking at and there it was, a raccoon nervously staring back at me from its perch in the tree. I looked down at Josephine and said “Yup, there’s a raccoon. Now are you ready for your walk?” She happily abandoned her guard post for our walk because walks are her favorite. And she’s smart enough to know there’s nothing she could do about the raccoon.

I wish I was smart enough to know this.

I sprayed all of our pet doors with fox urine. The cat food has a new home behind a closed door. Michael set his trap and baited it with marshmallows. I used most of what we had left of our little spray bottle of fox urine, so I ordered more from Amazon. Since Amazon is what it is, when I searched for fox urine, it suggested I buy spray and granules. First, I should tell you that two days ago I ordered stamps from Amazon because I can’t seem to physically get to a place that sells stamps. Those stamps are scheduled to arrive Thursday. The box of fox urine spray and granules arrived this morning. Overnight. It was almost as if Amazon was saying “I see that you need to mail a card to your mother for Mothers’ Day. That’s nice, but it seems like this whole need for fox pee is an emergency situation.”

Is it an emergency situation? Yes and no.

Early this morning, Josephine demanded to be let out. Her barks shifted from warning barks to fighting snarling sounds before I could get my shoes on. By the time I got out there she was in a full on tussle with a raccoon and I think the only thing keeping her from damage or causing too much damage was me yelling her name. She let go just long enough for the raccoon to dart away and over the fence. I checked her over and there doesn’t appear to be any scratches, but the incident left us both a little shaky. There is going to be at least one week this summer where we will have no choice but to leave the pet doors open for the cat. Why I care about that dang animal, I don’t know. I took a lovely nap on Saturday. A nap! Me! I napped! It was a miracle. I woke up refreshed with a dog on one side and a cat on the other. I laid there a few more minutes and then the cat stood up and projectile vomited across my bed. It’s fine. I was going to wash all of those things anyway, but seriously. The cat is a jerk, a jerk that we have conditioned to eat from his bowl on a table in the dining room area. Not the basement. Not the garage. Though moving his food to those areas just means the raccoons are going to eat the food in the garage or basement. We’re going to come home from vacation and Albus will now be sharing his space with a couple of stray cats and three raccoons. They’ll be playing poker and smoking cigars in my basement.

Summer vacations are stressing me out.

Except it is obvious that I need a vacation. I saw a thumbnail image of an ad in my Facebook feed and at first glance I thought it was an ad for a deep learning cell tracker program. It was an ad for tile for a bathroom. Look, if you’re a cell biologist, you would have thought the same thing. Any way. All I can do now is make the whole outside of my house reek of fox urine and hope for the best. I was going to say that I should be like Josephine and happily abandon my post for vacations because vacations are my favorite, but now I know that Josephine doesn’t always abandon a post and go on to full attack mode. Maybe it’s really about just deciding what battles to fight.

So I’m settling on being somewhere between abandonment and fighting.

THE THINGS I DON'T REGRET

I thought I was firmly planted in the idea of living a life with no regrets. It was a philosophy I shared with Chris. No Regrets! Really, though it might not be truly possible to make it through life without a few regrets. In my dwelling on and contemplation of regrets, I’ve discovered that I have more regrets than I would like to admit to having. This list started growing after…Some of those regrets would not have changed the trajectory of the life I am currently living, but I keep them filed away for later reference anyway. Regrets don’t have to be all bad; they can be very educational. It is not my intention to list my regrets. Those regrets are mine to hold close to my chest and when I lay on my death bed, I will whisper “You will never know my regrets.” to whoever is in the room or no one before slipping away from this earth. The things I do not regret are easy.

In 2008, Chris and I had zero business buying scooters. We were broke and our credit was so bad, I had to get Dad to co-sign on my loan. It was the best spur of the moment decision we ever made. I tended to hold us back on things requiring money and timing. We’ll buy a house when the timing and our finances are more secure. We’ll have a baby when we’re financially stable. We did buy a house when the timing was right. We were never financially stable enough for a baby. My choice and for sure not a regret. Particularly now. The decision to buy the scooters at the time we bought them went against all of my practical judgements. For someone raised to be practical, to avoid buying the expensive red shoes, but instead buying the expensive shoes in a color that goes with all things, purchasing the scooters felt shocking and bad girl.

I’d do it again and again a million times over.

After Chris died, I made a choice to say yes to everything. Even if it made me uncomfortable or I didn’t really want to. I said yes to dangerous encounters and meeting strangers. I feared that if I didn’t, I’d end up a hermit, never leaving the house except for work and groceries. I’d spend every evening eating a sleeve of crackers with a can of tuna, washing it down with a bottle of wine. This might seem like a perfectly reasonable meal for a Friday night, but not every day. Saying yes got me out of the house and meeting interesting people. I have some funny stories from online dating. I didn’t end up with some strange vitamin deficiency from limiting my diet to tuna, crackers and fermented grape juice.

The caveat to always saying yes is that it becomes a habit and when you really truly want to say no, you can’t.

I am learning to pay attention to the nos that I truly want to say no to. And so far, I can say that I do not regret a single thing I’ve said no to. This probably has something to do with being focused and intentional with my no. Recently, I was asked if I wanted a snow cone. I said “No, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get one for yourself.” I still ended up getting a snow cone and I ate less than half of it before I threw it away. I don’t like them. I’ve mentioned that I do not like them a number of times, yet that doesn’t ever seem to be reason enough for the person asking. This snow cone situation is a lesson and it has taken me this many years to figure out that the things I end up regretting are the things I wanted to say no to in the first place.

With one exception.

Ten years ago this June, I sat on a bench outside of Bella Napoli’s waiting for a date to show up. I was texting with Chad and I suddenly got the feeling that I did not want be there. I remember asking Chad if I could just get up and leave. Chad said that if I wasn’t feeling up to it, then I could leave. It was the permission I needed, but just as I stood up, the date walked up to me and introduced himself. I stayed when I wanted to leave. There are regrets within the relationship, things I wish I’d made more clear, moments I wish I had stood firmly with my no, but I don’t regret staying. Because right before that date, I had just decided that I could not ever be in another relationship, that I would never feel comfortable taking my clothes off in front of another human.

Never say never.

I don’t know what prompted me to tell you all of this other than that the month of May is turning out to be a month for memory tsunamis. I keep get knocked over unexpectedly with waves. It started the second to last day in April and it feels like I might need a bigger flotation device; something better than my current set of water wings. The other night I dreamed that I was deep under water, trying to swim to the surface, but I was wrapped up in fabric. I struggled to free my arms and legs and I could feel my chest convulse with the need to breathe. Just when I thought I couldn’t hold my breath a second longer, an orca swam up from under me and pressed its nose into the arch of my foot, driving me to the surface. I woke up gasping and sweating, tangled in my bedding.

I’m not going to drown.

This might be the beginning of something.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

A long time ago, at a blogging conference, I went to a panel discussion on bullying and the internet. I was not being bullied online or receiving ugly comments with every post. I went to this discussion because I followed the women who were on the panel and I thought, still feel, they are the bees knees. I wanted to hear what they had to say about dealing with a constant barrage of hatefulness. There was one woman on the panel that I didn’t know, someone I now follow on instagram. Shauna Ahern is “a writer, teacher, inciter of joy.” Those are her words, but they’re true. This woman is devoted to kindness. During the panel discussion she shared stories of the hate mail/comments she received on a regular basis and the things people would write to her shocked me. I was absolutely floored by the amount of hatefulness.

Michael and I were watching a re-run of Saturday Night Live recently. The musical guest was Coldplay, a band I happen to love. Michael said something about it and I told him this: Snow Patrol and Coldplay started around the same time. They have similar sounds and I love them both. Snow Patrol tends to be heavier, with lyrics that stab me in the heart. Coldplay is light and more spiritual. Coldplay feels like the good parts of church. So Michael sat with me and listened and then he said “Oh…oh…I think I get it.” Then he asked why was it that so many people hated on Coldplay. It’s true. It’s not just a criticism of the music, there’s people that put out some serious hatefulness to all that is this band.

My answer for Michael was simple. It is because it is something good. The same reason why people send out hatefulness to bloggers who spread kindness and light. I don’t know what makes a person inherently hateful. It could be a thousand reasons, but I suspect all of the reasons lead back their own self. Seeing other’s joy and light makes a hater feel inadequate because they can’t see their own goodness. They lack joy in their own lives. They lack the ability to find comfort in their own true selves and they lash out at those who are brave enough to be true to themselves. It is a human trait that has been with us since the beginning of societal groups.

The choice to remain a person that continues to look for the light and share joy can at times be exhausting. Sometimes it feels like you are the underdog in this fight, that there is no way you are ever going to win.

Gratitude is what makes optimism sustainable. - Michael J. Fox

Everyone loves an underdog story.

I know that Shauna Ahern has a gratitude practice and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the members of Coldplay also have their own gratitude practice. In every interview I’ve seen of Chris Martin, he has shown genuine gratitude to his fans. Gratitude really does seem to be the key to maintaining optimism. I am grateful for those who inspire me to keep up this fight against hatefulness. I am grateful for those who remind to look for the light, seek out the joy, and be brave enough to be my true self. This gratitude gives me the strength to see straight through the bullshit for the good that is on the other side.

There is always going to be this war but every time I find myself on the other side of that bullshit, I am winning.

GHOSTS

The kid was good. Not outstanding, but good. The problem was that even though he looked like a young Chris on that stage playing a role that Chris would have been playing, he was not Chris. The kid didn’t quite have that magnetic ability that Chris seemed to have whenever he stepped out onto a stage. Chris always managed to draw your focus regardless of the role he was playing, lead role or bit part. And he did this without force or ego or intention. He was just the guy that when he stepped out on stage, you noticed him and you thought “Oh…this guy is going to do and say something important.” The kid on stage didn’t have that. He had to work for it, but there’s potential.

Maybe I’m wearing rose colored glasses.

On Sunday, the Cabbage made a request to go to the book store. They had a gift card burning a hole in their pocket. I’ve gotten into the habit of being a hermit on Sundays and not leaving the house, but I agreed to this request. I’m never going to say no to books. Or fruit. So, we all went to the book store, scattering in separate directions upon entry. I browsed the new paperbacks, picking up a couple of books I remembered reading reviews for in the New York Times. Then I sort of wandered aimlessly through the science section and eventually walking down the reference/education isle. I noticed a copy of Bird By Bird prominently displayed on the shelf. This was the thing, Chris’s writing bible, that forced me to sit down on the floor with my head in my hands. Ironically right next to a display of Crying in H Mart.

This book store is my H Mart.

Sitting on the floor in the bookstore, crying next to a stack of books about crying and grieving, reminded why I usually have to be bribed to come here. We used to spend countless hours in this book store. Often, we’d sit in the cafe area with an overly sweet hot beverage and flip through magazines or pretend to write in notebooks. Half of the time we were chatting and discussing whatever it was we were reading and the other half was spent in quiet, in our own little world bubbles. Often we were with friends. I realize now that I’ve avoided this place since Chris’s death. I have to be begged and cajoled, bribed with ice cream whenever Michael wants to go. It just got mentally added to the list of things I don’t do anymore, like movies and live theater. The last movie I saw in the theater, I sat partially alone, watching Everything Everywhere All at Once. This is probably how I will also see the new Wes Anderson film that is supposed to come out this summer.

I’ve seen more onstage productions this year than I have in eleven years. Michael has been having Alexa play show tunes and I sing a long until it’s a song from Les Miserables, Phantom, or Hamilton even though it came out after Chris died, and then my throat closes up because theater was a really important part of our lives. The first time I truly noticed Chris, he was on stage in Much Ado About Nothing. If it were not for the theater, we may have never spoken to each other. I would not have spent so many not wasted hours in a bookstore.

To the kid on stage: keep it up and it may all lead you to your best friend. It might lead you to the person you will want to spend hours with in bookstores and weekends in movie theaters. You will spend hours dissecting and discussing these movies and plays. You will have friends that go on to other things and other productions and you will be their biggest cheerleader. They will remember you forever for it. They will also remember you for your wit and comedic timing, but mostly for how much you supported them.

Keep it up and it could lead you to a really nice life.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Josephine and I have made it out for our morning walks every day this week with the exception of Monday. During our walks, we have seen rabbits, opossums, one fox, two deer, and one raccoon. We heard one owl. The raccoon almost doesn’t count as a walk sighting because he was in our backyard. Josephine treed him in our big walnut tree in the back. Now all of our pet doors smell like fox urine because I have sprayed all of the entry ways with it to discourage another raccoon kitchen party.

I have made a personal connection with my yoga mat every day this week. Meaning, I have gotten my yoga mat out for other reasons besides when I am teaching in some time. My personal yoga practice has been trash for weeks. On the few times I’ve been on my mat, when I lay down for final relaxation, I last five minutes before I’m up and turning the timer off. Thursday, I stayed a full fifteen minutes without fidgeting or falling asleep. My body is pleasantly sore from planks and lunges.

My physical health has seen better days. I’ve allowed myself to fall out of some good habits I created a while back and the result is that in addition to feeling mentally blah, I’m feeling unpleasantly pudgy. It is time to roll my body out of stationary mode. To help me do this, I have created a whole new color coded calendar I call Healthy Body and it’s devoted to everything from walk schedules to doctors’ appointments. I feel really smart for doing this, so smart that I am going to create another calendar for just writing and maybe for photography. I’m going to give myself some deadlines because I am deadline motivated.

I kind of marinated for longer than usual in a state of blahs knowing full well that I’d feel better if I’d just move my body. It was a trap. This state of the blahs. The longer I marinated, the harder it was to motivate myself into motion. I’m not saying a week of movement has brought me out of the blahs, but I will say that I am seeing more in color and feeling a little more than nothing. May is Mental Health Awareness month and I just realized that May is here in two days (depending on when you’re reading this). I told you that I am highly motivated by deadlines. I’m kicking things off a week early.

Today I have deep gratitude for my morning walks with Josephine and my yoga mat.

THE NEXT THING

Sunday afternoon, sitting in the sun in Sarah’s backyard for our final (for now) meeting of our book club, it was my turn to respond to the beginning session prompt. We start our sessions by going around the circle and asking how are we feeling, stating our names and saying what we are thinking about this week. My answer was that I was currently feeling nothing and that I was/am thinking a lot about what’s the next thing? A few weeks ago I down loaded and printed out Jumpstart Your Writing in Six Steps from Alice Bradley and it’s just been sitting untouched on my desk between a paper on 3D CLEM and a book someone lent me on making miso.

Monday morning, the dentist installed my permanent crowns which are so much better than the temporary ones I had to wear. This made me a little late to work and just late enough getting home for Josephine to pee and poop on my bed. I don’t know why she chose the bed. Panic? Revenge? This is probably the second accident she’s had in the house since she was potty trained (and that time at Deborah’s house where I was paying attention to her cues and she tried to poop under the Christmas tree). Everything including the mattress protector had to come off my bed and go into the wash. I took advantage of the situation and rotated my mattress all by myself and when I told Michael what I had done, he said “You’re the strongest person I know.”

I replied “That’s probably true.”

I am the strongest person he knows who cannot manage to finish even a shitty first draft of a writing project. I’ve woken up twice in the past three weeks from dreams that could be woven into frivolously fun romance books and each time I’ve failed to write any thing down. My brain wants me to write. My fingers do not want to have any thing to do with translating what my brain has to say. And I don’t know why I dance around and name this something other than what it really is. It’s like my own personal Voldemort.

And I'm writing a novel because it's never been done before - Father John Misty

I am writing a book. I am going to write a book. It might be one of the fifteen I have already started, but I am doing it. I haven’t figured out when or made up any kind of writing schedule but three days ago, I thought about buying some 3x5 notecards for organizing an outline. That’s a start, right? Yes…I know. Starting doesn’t seem to be the problem. Stamina and focus on the other hand are places where I could use some work. Are there notecards for that? Oh, wait a minute. I’ve been blogging for twenty three years. Consistently. Okay, maybe there were some weeks here and there when I didn’t update the blog, but I think of those as vacation weeks. We all need a break form time to time. But if I dissect my consistency in blogging, I can see that I am writing a little over five hundred words two to three times a week. That is almost 1,500 words a week. The average adult fiction book contains 70,000 to 150,000 words.

I need 100 weeks to write a shitty first draft.

BANKSYLAND

Melissa had a spare ticket to Banskyland and asked me if I wanted to have a girl’s date. This is something I would have loved to see, but would never have made the effort to buy tickets. So, I hopped up and down and said “Yes, please!” Then we made reservation for fancy dinner and ordered way to much food before driving down to the Westbottoms for the event. The exhibit was held in the Rumely Historic Event space, which we got to hear the history of the building twice as we rode in the in the largest, oldest working elevator in Kansas City. Melissa had purchased VIP tickets which included an audio tour and a free poster. We collected our headphones and made our way to the second level.

This is where things got confusing. We were told to start on the second level, but the tour didn’t match up with the art on the second level. Eventually we figured out how to skip around in the audio tour to match whatever it was we were looking at and then things made more sense. Michael later asked me “How was the exhibit?” and I said “Well, at first it kind of felt like someone had gone to places that had Bansky art on the walls, took photos of them and then printed and framed those photos for us to look at.” Which still feels true. Most of the original stuff was on the second level. Also, Melissa and I were the only ones in the building listening to an audio tour. Everyone else was standing around in groups, talking about art, but not art while holding plastic wine cups. It was a place to go to be seen. The hip thing to do. Melissa and I were the only nerds listening to the hows and whys of each piece of art and there to truly learn and see the art.

Sorry! The lifestyle you ordered is currently out of stock. - Banksy (original street art)

This was the neon installment in the elevator and the first thing we saw. Melissa read it out loud and then said “Ain’t that the truth.” Melissa’s story is not my story to tell, but she is a paraplegic. I’m sure she felt those neon words more than most. Many people responded to my picture of this piece with a thumbs up and even a sad face because I think many of us can all relate in some way to these words. Losses, divorces, job choices gone wrong, falling into a financial hole that you can’t seem to climb out of. Losing the use of your legs. This is just a minor list that none of us would ever have ordered up for our lives. But my friend Eagle had the best response. He posted a gif of a woman yelling “Improvise”.

This should be tagged onto Banksy’s piece.

For those of us living a lifestyle we did not order, many of us have become pretty dang good at the art of improvisation. Sometimes the lifestyle we ordered for ourselves just doesn’t fit right and we have to order up something else. Sometimes the lifestyle we ordered for ourselves turns out to be the absolute wrong order. We ordered a life that really should have gone to someone else. Not only does it not fit right, it doesn’t feel right. The life my fourteen year old self ordered did not include one that contained love. That order I placed then was all work. College and medical school and nothing outside of that. I am happy that life was out of stock. This right now is not the lifestyle I ordered though. I have had to improvise, continue to improvise, because life is change.

Banksy originally plastered these words over a reproduction of a well-known painting. It was his protest statement against the art market and consumer capitalism.

a rebellion against the great corporations that manage our lives, our forms of consumption, even the space in which we live, through choices that are exclusively aimed at making profit. -Banksy

You wouldn’t know this by just reading the neon quote, particularly if you didn’t know this artist. Moving it to neon and taking away the well-know painting behind the words allows one to take it all out of context. Now those words speak to me as a challenge. Okay, that life you thought you were going to get isn’t going to happen the way you thought it would. What are you going to do about it?

Improvise.

I’m going to improvise and practice contentment with this life.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I have written and deleted three different versions of today’s Thankful Friday post. This either means I found an abundance of gratitude this week or I’m reaching to find much of any thing. I suspect the later. Michael is working with his school drama department as the assistant director for the Spring play. Recently, he received a certification to teach drama and debate and would like to eventually transition into teaching more drama and less math. Right now, he’s content with helping out as an assistant. The kids are performing Rumors by Neil Simon starting next Friday and so Michael has had many late nights as they work on being ready for opening night. Every evening, he’s sent me texts telling me when he was going to be home and each time he includes his gratitude for me being so supportive of this new venture he’s taken on.

While I appreciate his gratitude, I am a little surprised. My feelings are that of course I would support this. This is what people do in relationships. Unless it is racist, homophobic, trans-phobic, or general hate for those who do not look or talk like you, you support your partner. This also reminds me of just how different our past relationship(s) have been from each other. There are a number of things I learned from my parents marriage that discouraged me from wanting to be married. Then Chris came along and things changed. This also opened my eyes to the things in my parent’s marriage that were good. I saw how they often worked together as a team. When Mom worked late, Dad made sure I made it home safely from school and took charge of dinner. Dad worked early hours and Mom took over morning duties with making sure I had breakfast and was at school on time. While it didn’t always look like they lovingly supported each other, they were still doing the work together.

I am grateful for the lessons I have had in supporting the ones you love. Those lessons in return, I believe, have made me a better person, a better partner. It is important for me in my daily practice to have and find gratitude for things/people in my life. It is rare and somewhat difficult to accept gratitude from others. My instinct is to brush the gratitude aside and make less of the effort I have made to support or help that person. Deep down, I think I do not deserve the gratitude because my actions seem simple, like something anyone would do for another human. Everyday the news and general interactions with society reminds me that simple acts of kindness are not everyone’s normal. Self-help books and gurus all tell us that we are all deserving of love, but how often do we hear that we are deserving of gratitude? We are all deserving of gratitude for our conscious and unconscious acts of kindness.

The next time someone thanks you, don’t brush it aside. Simply say “You are welcome.”

ACCOUNTABILITY

A certain man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who both stripped him and beat him, and departed, leaving him half dead. By chance a certain priest was going down that way. When he saw him, he passed by on the other side. In the same way a Levite also, when he came to the place, and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he travelled, came where he was. When he saw him, he was moved with compassion, came to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. He set him on his own animal, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. On the next day, when he departed, he took out two denarii, gave them to the host, and said to him, 'Take care of him. Whatever you spend beyond that, I will repay you when I return.' Now which of these three do you think seemed to be a neighbor to him who fell among the robbers? -  Luke 10:30–37

When I read the news report regarding the shooting of Ralph Yarl, this parable was the only thing I could think about. Yes, the man who shot Ralph must be held accountable for his racism, but what about the two homes that Ralph went to for help? The owner of the third house that Ralph went to, reluctantly called 911 while telling Ralph to stay on the ground with his hands above his head. Treating the victim like a criminal. Those people who claim to be christian while pushing forward ideas of hate, who turn their faces away from someone who is suffering because their skin tone doesn’t match their own, are not followers of Jesus. They are liars.

The only reason there is now an arrest warrant our for the man who shot this boy is because the people of Kansas City and outside it, inundated Clay county’s prosecutor, Zachary Thompson with phone calls and emails demanding justice. Don’t stop calling. Don’t stop emailing. Don’t stop constantly pestering your senators and representatives. Don’t stop demanding changes to laws that make murder legal. Don’t stop demanding proactive gun control laws. Don’t stop demanding justice for racist behavior.

Donate here to help Ralph and his family with medical and legal fees.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

It is time for my annual Oh My God, It’s Spring post. Except I don’t feel as excited about Spring as I usually have in previous years. I mean, yes I love all the color and the warmer temperatures. My Instagram feed is filling up with pictures of tulips of all shapes and colors. I can’t help myself. I cannot pass by a tulip with taking it’s picture. I have ridden my scooter almost every day this week and it has been glorious. Josephine and I have not quite made it back to our regular walking routine. We are not walking every day, but we are walking on some days.

Which is enough for now.

I don’t think I’m tromping around this year saying “Finally! Winter’s over!” with a heavy sigh because Winter wasn’t really that bad. I feel a little guilty for saying it, but it’s true. Sure it was cold, miserably cold, but I only had to shovel the driveway once. I have friends in Utah who had to shovel so much snow that their shovel broke. People are still dealing with Winter weather even though the calendar has declared it to be Spring. I’m also a little hesitant because I have been fooled a number of times by April/May snow showers, an event absolutely unheard of during my years in Oklahoma. My collection of frozen tulip photos is my reminder that Winter doesn’t move on easily.

But for now, I’ll bask in this Spring light.

I find myself struggling to write these days. My focus has been on the mundane tasks of being an adult. Paying my taxes. Reminding myself to print out the form to renew my passport. Making up the weekly menu. Last week I was buried under a pile of slides that I had to batch image and process. This week I’ve been planning my trip to the Marine Biology Lab in June, a month and half away. Then I remember that I also need to make plans to go to Oklahoma for Quinn’s graduation. I haven’t even mentioned this to Michael. There hasn’t been time.

We are both busy.

My tether of thoughts and mental lists seem to only break apart when I step outside for a walking loop around the building. The moment the sun hits my face, my focus shifts to photographic possibilities. I know that rays of light are leading to me something and I keep my eyes open, my senses sharpened. Like an easter egg hunt. Often, my hands itch for my bigger camera which I hardly ever take with me to work, but maybe that needs to change. Sunday, Michael bribed me into riding my scooter with him all the way across the river to where he works. He’d left something in his office that he needed for a paper he had to write for his CE class. Except when we got there, he couldn’t get into the building. So we ended up riding all that way for my bribe which was ice cream (always and forever). I hadn’t been prepared to leave the house on Sunday and didn’t really want to go on this ride, but as I was flying across the MO river, I desperately wished for my big camera. These are feelings that hibernate during the winter, this desperate urge to get the camera out and fill the memory card with pictures.

Right now my world is shifting from words to pictures. Right now, I see my world in vibrant colors and I’d rather capture it on a camera than with words.

Side note: Events have happened since writing this entry. Josephine was mauled by a dog last night as we walked to meet Michael. The owners of the dog were fast in collecting their mut and concerned for us, gave me their number, all the things. Josephine’s ear was bleeding and ears bleed like crazy. I had blood all over my hands. She had it all on her head. We stopped at Terry’s to get cleaned up and take breath from trauma. We cleaned Josephine’s ear and I washed my murder scene hands. Terry recently purchased some singing bowls and played the singing bowls to calm us. Then we went on our way. I am so grateful that Terry lives in my neighborhood and I’m just grateful for Terry. He always seems to know how to sooth. Josephine got a bath. Her wound was just a small puncture and she’s fine. This could have been so much worse for everyone involved.

Gratitude all around.

FIRST DATE FAILS

Friday evening, Michael and I ended up eating at a Thai place downtown. It was a new to us place and I was excited because they had som tum and sticky rice on the menu. I never see this on the menu at a Thai place. I mean, they usually have it listed as papaya salad because white midwesterners don’t know what som tum is, but they never have sticky rice. It was a busy night, not just for the restaurant but for the whole of downtown because of First Friday. This is the first one of the season where the weather has been nice enough to wander around outside and browse the art galleries and food trucks. The Thai place was packed and noisy. Big garage style windows were open so that the street sounds mingled with the restaurant sounds. The place smelled like walking into Sang Wan’s house.

Michael said that if this was a first date, it would be a terrible one. We both had ordered Thai beers. He had ordered chicken wings, both of us were eating our appetizers with our hands. Chris and I partially joked and partially seriously agreed that if you really wanted to get to know someone on a first date, then you should go out for BBQ ribs or spaghetti. This is what I thought of as Michael tore into a messy chicken wing, but that was not the reason why Michael had said that about first dates. He said it because at some point I’d have to explain why I was so comfortable and familiar with Thai food. I’d have to explain how I knew to take my sticky rice and use it to pinch up some som tum or how I knew the difference between hot and Thai hot. The difference between a tiny end of Thai chili versus half a Thai chili is vast.

What Michael failed to realize is that I didn’t need to be in a Thai restaurant to ruin a first date. Checking the widow box on the dating app was a guarantee to add a sourness to any and all of my first dates. I went on a number of bad, weird, awkward, at times slightly dangerous first dates. Men picked me out of the line up as a curiosity and I agreed out of my own curiosities. They all wanted to know the gruesome details of death. I was the car wreck they were slowing down traffic to gawk at and look for bodies. And I let them. I let them gawk and ask their stupid questions, not because I felt that I owed them this, but because I didn’t care. I was a sideshow queen, an oddity. At the end of one of these dates, the guy would walk away disappointed that I didn’t put out or even offer up a hand job. I’d leave disappointed in wasting my time.

My first date with Michael was only slightly awkward, but it lacked that circus sideshow feel. For the first time in a long time I felt relaxed in the presence of a man who was not (is not) Chris. There was only one brief moment when he looked at me with pity as he asked me about Chris. It was a brief, rip off a bandaid moment. I think Michael is the only one who could tolerate me and my constant Chris stories. I can’t pass the artichokes in the grocery store with out clutching my chest and coughing out ‘arti-choke’ like Chris used to and Michael just shakes his head and says “is Chris in the house today?” and I’ll throw my hands in the air and say “Woop, woop. Chris is in the house!” He tolerates and even finds it funny, though he’ll never fess up to the last part. He meant it when he told me that Chris never goes away.

I used to pick all the places to meet these men on first dates. Usually it was at Bella Napoli’s because it was close to my house and they have a great pizza special on Monday’s. Some times, we’d meet at a pub in the neighborhood. My feelings were that if I was going out, I might as well pick a place with good food. I ended up paying for my portion anyway, so I didn’t see that it mattered.

I never once chose a Thai place for meeting anyone.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Last Saturday, I purchased $300 worth of picture frames and then I threw up on my shoes. Tonight, Michael and I are going to the art reception for the artist currently in the space where I will hang my pictures in September. I received a list of the artists and reception dates a while back and the line up is all women which is great. It looks like I am the only photographer (ha!) of the group which makes me nervous. I thought that moving my showing to September would give me time to settle in to the idea that I might be a little bit professional, but instead I just waver between confident and fake.

I’m a big fake.

There is a woman I met at camp who runs her own home organization business. She reached out to me a while back asking if I’d be willing to have a one-on-one session with her to teach her take better pictures with her phone. Scheduling for the both of us has been crazy, but we finally put it on our calendars to meet for coffee on Saturday. After we confirmed our date, I immediately started a mental list of things I wanted tell her, things I wanted to show her. I told her to bring a notebook. And for a few days now, I haven’t felt like a huge fake. The feelings I have around teaching someone the things I know about phone photography are very similar to how I feel when I’m teaching yoga. I feel like I know what I’m doing.

I am hesitant to admit that I know what I am doing.

I struggled with a return to teaching yoga after my many year hiatus because every yoga teacher I met when I moved here seemed more yogi than I felt. They often tossed around important yogi names like Pattahbi Jois and BKS Iyengar and even though I know who these people are, I do not follow their philosophies of yoga. I follow and teach an adaptation of these philosophies, but I have strong opinions about about yoga and our bodies and how we should move those bodies in yoga. And I know human anatomy. Despite all of that, it took me a minute to find my confidence in teaching again. I had to remind myself that I know what I’m doing, that I have always known what I was doing.

I quickly showed a coworker how to use a system he had never used before and as we walked out of the room he said “You’re the greatest!” I only hesitated slightly when I responded with a ‘thank you’. I said something about hesitating and he said “NO! OWN IT!” Not too long ago, while reading my book club book, I got to the chapter on celebrating victories and not down playing accomplishments. Like when someone gives you a compliment, you don’t respond with something like “yeah…I could have done a better job” or “It doesn’t look like the picture, but I think it still tastes good.” The whole point of the chapter was to stop giving yourself those little digs that we tend to give ourselves. I feel like ‘greatest’ is a bit of an exaggeration, but today I am owning it. I am the greatest in some things. To some people, this may sound conceited, but I will argue that recognizing the greatness in yourself teaches you to see the greatness in others.

Today I am thankful for small celebrations of self.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I did not wear a coat to work today because I did not need a coat.

We are officially selling our camper tomorrow.

My brother celebrated another year of living this week.

My brother and sister-in-law are visiting this weekend.

I got a two temporary crowns put on some teeth that are two close together yesterday and I’m happy my mouth doesn’t hurt as bad today as it did yesterday.

The tulips are beginning to bloom.

Michael and I got to see Hamilton.

Josephine and I made it out twice this week for morning walks.

I read three different reputable news papers every morning to stay informed. Once a week I look on the government websites to see what bills and proposals are being introduced and who voted for what. I spend some time writing my senators and representatives. Sometimes I feel like my gratitude posts make it seem as if I am unaware or ignoring the atrocities that continue to repeat themselves in this country. I went with a list this week to remind me that even though outside my bubble this country is a dumpster fire, I am fortunate.

YOUR SEAT'S SO BAD...

I had just about given up any hope of see Hamilton live on stage. Tickets are just too expensive and hard to get. You really have to buy season tickets just to get a chance to see the production here and two seasonal theater passes never seem to make it into our budget. Probably a month ago, Talaura sent me a message to remind me to enter for lottery tickets to Hamilton, which was good because I had completely forgotten that the Hamilton productions set aside a number of tickets for a lottery. In fact, I no longer even had the Hamilton app on my phone (Gasp!). I downloaded the app and then entered the lottery for every show date it would allow.

Then I forgot about it.

Last week, I received notice that I had won the lottery. This alone is thrilling. I don’t understand why confetti never just spontaneously falls from the sky any time any one hears that they have won a lottery. Now, Hamilton lottery tickets are not free. You still have to pay for your two tickets, but the tickets are $10 a piece. TEN FREAKIN’ DOLLARS TO SEE HAMILTON. I am the daughter of a man who never forgot to ask about his AARP or Senior Citizen discounts. Seeing a hugely popular Broadway production and only spending $20 for tickets has my inner penny pincher dad jumping for joy. The down side is that I had no idea where we would be sitting. The email you print to redeem the tickets says something about possibly sitting with an obstructed view and maybe not being able to sit together.

Tuesday morning, Michael walked into the bathroom to finish getting ready while I was in the shower. He said “I heard that are seats are in the first or second row.” I replied “Well, I heard that we may have a partially obstructed view and may not be sitting together.” This started the ball rolling. “I heard the seats are way at the top.” “And I heard they make you work as an usher for the first half.” “I heard the seats are backstage.” “I heard the seats are in the alley behind the theater and you have to view it through a peep hole.” This has been our back and forth for two days. On the day of the show, Michael texted me to say that our seats really were in the first or second row. He provided a link to a blog post from another lottery winner. I said “I heard our seats were on a SpaceX rocket and we’d have to watch from the space station.” I just could not wrap my brain around getting front row seats for $20.

Is there anyone out there that remembers Chris’s bit about seeing Robert Goulet in Camelot? When he first started telling the story, he got distracted because he said something about how he had a really good seat. Then someone in the group asked “How good?” To this day I don’t think any one knows what Chris thought of Camelot or Robert Goulet’s performance because he went off on a tangent about his seat. “The seat was so close, I could have shined Goulet’s shoes. It was so close that half way through the show, Robert Gulley asked me to carry him around piggy-back style to finish the show.” He went on and on and each incident was more ridiculous and hilarious than the last. Of course, I could not help but think of Chris and Robert Goulet while Michael and I volleyed back and forth with how bad our seats might be.

Michael and I were still joking about our seats while we ate tacos in the car before the show. He said “I bet our seats are in the second row.” I looked up at the white painted wall we’d parked in front of in a parking garage and said “These are our seats.” I don’t know why, but this was the funniest one. As it turned out, our seats were in the second row, almost center. I don’t think I’ve sat so close to a stage since Mom took me to see A Chorus Line when I was thirteen. Not a single member of that cast was of a color other than white. All white. All skinny. All making the idea of ever being a person who was not skinny, not white could be on a stage impossible. The fourteen year old girl sitting next to me last night said “This is way better than Disney+” and I think that reaction alone is the reason why I greatly respect Lin-Manual Miranda. He created something that inspires and excites all ages, genders and ethnicities. Last night we watched the most diverse cast give a spectacular performance that made us chuckle and cry.

Our seats were so close, at one point they asked me to pick up slack in the percussion pit.

SIGHT

I have a burned out spot on my retina. It happened years ago from aligning an HBO bulb on a microscope. I didn’t even know about it until I finally visited an eye doctor six years ago. The spot is in the lower right quadrant of my left eye, not really in my field of vision. The only time I notice it is there is when I have closed my eyes. My eyelids are not blackout curtains. So I see this kaleidoscope of tinted colors of darkness with the exception of one teeny tiny speck of complete dark, black, nothing. It’s like noticing a couple of pixels are out on the TV. That burnt spot on my retina is the best thing about closing my eyes. It becomes a point of focus during meditation. It is the center of my very own everything bagel and the second I close my eyes, I tune into that tiny speck of nothing.

Last Friday, my schedule opened up and made it possible to attend one of Roze’s yoga/meditation hammock classes. I got to class feeling like my brain was hot and staticky from some last minute issues I had to fix at work before leaving for the evening. The whole week had been a mental challenge of dealing with people who acted like they’d never seen a microscope before. I found my hammock and was chatting with Sarah and Leigh. At one point I said “Man, I wish I’d taken this stupid bra off before I came to class.” and Leigh said “Take it off. No one cares. The bathroom is that way.” I said I don’t need a bathroom and then proceeded to take off my bra without taking of my shirt and then I sighed with relief. I spun the bra around the top of my head like a lasso as all the women cheered. We all had a good laugh and then settled into class.

Roze started us off with some gentle movement before getting us comfy for guided meditation. I snuggled down into my hammock and pulled my blanket up over my face. I closed my eyes and focused on my void of nothing spot. Then Roze started playing with a rain stick. When I first heard it, I thought it was a car crashing into the building and I almost yelled out “THERE’S A CAR CRASHING INTO THE BUILDING!” But I didn’t. I told Roze this story a few days later and she responded with concern. I assured her that it was fine. I told her that the second I realized it was the rain stick, I started giggling. I told Roze “I laugh at fear.” which she though was a ‘juicy’ response. I don’t know if it’s juicy or just instinct.

I’m not condoning running out and burning spots on to your retinas. We just were not as concerned about lab safety fifteen years ago or at least where I worked was not that concerned. Robin and I wore flip flops and climbed around on cabinets to reach things on the top shelf. That behavior would be highly frowned upon today, but I file it into the same folder as ‘before seatbelts’ and ‘bicycle helmet?’. I learned to walk on hard brick floors with pointy edges all around me. My car seat was sitting on the armrest between the driver and passenger seat of my mom’s car. Mom’s arm was my seatbelt. Safety gear was not a thing. Many of you reading this can probably relate. We all grew up, flying down a hill while balancing on the handle bars of a sibling’s bicycle. Our childhoods did not have soft padding and it didn’t stop many of us from being the one to volunteer for the handle bar seat.

I have so many scars, so many markings of being broken and healed. Some of these scars are visible, but many like the one on the inside of my lip and the spot on my retina are scars just for me. The secret scars that I don’t have to explain or answer questions about. Good lord, you should see the scars on my heart. Those hidden ones on my heart are my favorite ones. They were earned and received just after great bouts of laughter and joy.When Chris was sick, we were terrified, but still joking about the tortilla chip stuck in his liver. The last time I talked to J, we were joking about Dad’s haircut. The last real visit with Dad, he joked about Michael and I’s living situation. In fact, I am positive if the wounds that led to those scars had not been proceeded by a ridiculous amount of laughter, those scars would barely be visible to even me. The loss of sources of great amounts of laughter and joy leaves the deepest scars.

So I laugh at fear because what difference does another scar make.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Michael is on Spring Break this week and instead of the two of us going on a vacation, I became his driver for his first ever colonoscopy on Monday. This also meant that on Sunday, I could eat what ever I wanted because Michael was on a clear liquid diet. I made the most delicious pot of beans with kale. Michael looked over my shoulder while I stirred in the kale and said “You can have anything you want to eat and this is what you choose?!” He walked away in disgust, but I’m going to tell you that hands down, this was the best batch of beans I’ve ever cooked and because it was beans, I ended up eating it for lunch on two days.

I wasn’t mad about it.

When the nurses called me back to Michael in recovery, he was yelling “Lorraine”. I quickly discovered that Lorraine was his recovery nurse, except Michael didn’t seem to know this. When I told him about it later, he said “Who’s Lorraine?” Then I had to explain to him that Lorraine was his recovery nurse. Michael was slightly more alert when his seventeen year old doctor came in to tell us about the procedure, what they found, what to expect. They removed a few polyps, which was enough to make Michael a bit nervous. So when the pathology report came in on Wednesday with all good news, there was a bit of celebration. My back feels so much better this week, with only an occasional twinge. Michael received a clean bill of health. The cat is on the mend. Josephine, who’s only issue has been inhaling all of her food at once, is now mindfully eating from her new puzzle bowl. The Cabbage seems to be good. Right now, in this very moment, we are all healthy.

Wednesday morning, my friend/coworker Amanda and I walked over to the nature center across the street to collect pond water. Amanda’s built a microscope for taking out into the field. We call it the Planktoscope and we needed to make a video of it working for a presentation our boss is giving next week. It was a damp and foggy walk. The air was chillier than either of us had expected, but the walk was pleasant. We hadn’t made it far before I noticed the first tulip bud and said “we need to stop.” I snapped some photos and then looked at Amanda. “This is the hazard of walking outside with me.” I said. Amanda smiled and said “Strolling is my favorite form of walking.” I stopped us three more times on our little pond water collection adventure. It was enough to shine some light on my inner creative parts that have felt a bit dormant lately.

Today’s gratitude comes in the form of health. Both physical and mental. My yoga practice is slowly returning to normal. I feel like next week will be a good week to get back to the morning dog walks. Michael installed a rack and storage case to my bicycle this week and I’m truly looking forward to riding my bike to work soon. Like, my heart says ‘yes’ to this, which is unusual for me. I won the lottery for Hamilton tickets and we’re going to see Hamilton for $20 next week! The camper dealership made us a really decent offer for our camper and now we don’t have that to fret over. These are little things worth celebrating.

Good things are coming our way.