WITCHERY

Thursday night, I dreamt of snow. There was a bunch of other things in that dream that I only remember in a hazy way, but the snowing part I remember clearly. Some time early last week, someone said something about living in Kansas City for at least ten years now and not remembering that it snows in October sometimes. I told that person that it does because I have pictures of my Halloween decorations covered in snow. Yesterday Facebook wanted to share a memory of four years ago where I took a short video of snow falling from the sky. Sometimes it snows in October. I dreamt of snow on Thursday and it snowed on Sunday.

Clearly, I am a witch.

I was thinking of witches and spells while I was in Cape Cod. It’s hard not to considering all the history surrounding that area and witch hunts where in one year fourteen women were hanged for witchcraft. Could you imagine giving someone the death penalty for witch craft today? Can you imagine how completely ridiculous that sounds? Part of me believes the human race has evolved beyond that, but while I was taking pictures of the Founding Fathers National Monument, a woman popped up out of nowhere talking about the need to take this country back to the government of our Founding Fathers, back to a time when she didn’t have the right to vote or have her own bank account.

We are prone to believing ridiculous things.

I was reading some thing recently, it was probably a random meme, about how you shouldn’t dismiss your woo. “Woo” referred to the mystical lala crap that I not only dismiss, but completely ignore. I have many friends who thoroughly embrace woo. They follow the complicated version of star signs where you don’t just know your astrological sign for the month you were born, but the moon phase at the time of their births. Some of them not only know this about themselves, but they know it about others and how to use all of this to understand their relationships. I cannot hold any of that information in my brain. I seriously have to look up my star sign whenever I think to ironically read my horoscope. Even that feels complicated because I’m some sort of Acquires Capricorn blend because January 20th is more than an Inauguration Day. I’m more woo adjacent. Like I’m the one you text when you’re worried about mercury poisoning from your pot because I can tell you if mercury forms a bond with the THC compound. It can because THC is a thiol compound which is also why it smells very much like a skunk. Skunk stink is also a thiol compound.

Organic chemistry is my witchcraft.

I’m just the type of personality that believes there is a scientific explanation for everything. Once someone asked me if ghosts were real. The person didn’t ask me if I thought ghosts were real. They wanted to know if ghosts were real, which felt like a loaded question. Like the person was testing my scientific credibility. I told this person what I tell everybody who asks me about souls and spirits. The Law of Conservation of Energy states that energy can neither be created or destroyed, only converted to another form of energy. Humans contain energy. Sometimes that energy stays close and does weird shit like make the lights flicker and sometimes it goes back into the planet, helping trees grow tall and strong. It goes somewhere and scientists are still working on figuring out the wheres and whys. It is of yet to be explained.

Sort of like this rambling post.

Years ago, while on a trip to Boston, Michael and I took a day trip up to Salem. Salem is pretty much what you’d expect it be. There’s historic witch houses and people walking around in costumes depicting the 1600s. Every other shop is a spells and crystals shop. It feels more like Silver Dollar City without the rides than it does historic despite it being an early European settlement. Any way, we spent the hottest day of a Massachusetts summer there, exploring the town on Bird scooters. I found a lovely journal in one of the shops that reads “Book of Spells” on the cover. I bought it thinking that I would write down ridiculous spell components, but I only wrote one or two before the journal was abandoned along with a stack of other abandoned journals. That’s a Chris thing, to have stacks of journals with only a few pages of written things in them. Another bit of energy I must have absorbed because now I have a similar stack. My book of spells was abandoned because I couldn’t really think of any spells I’d like to cast. I mean really. How many spells does one need to live a happy life? Maybe I should start writing spells for living a content life. Or maybe I should just devote this journal to revisiting organic compounds. As of right now though, that journal’s fate is still yet to be determined or explained.

Like ghosts.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

There have been two different incidences this month where a male driver has physically attacked me with his vehicle. Now while “physically attacked” feels a bit dramatic to say, when I think about what happened that’s exactly what it was. The first incident happened when I got over in front of a minivan and then the light changed and we all had to stop. He was more than car length away when I moved into the lane but the man driving the car was angry. He laid on his horn and then pressed the front of his van into the back of the basket that is attached to the scooter. He then proceeded to nudge my out into the intersection. It was getting really scary and I finally turned around and yelled “Please stop!”. Luckily the light changed and I was able to ditch him, but it did leave me slightly shaken.

The second incident happened this week while Josephine and I were on our way home from our walk. We were waiting for the crosswalk because even at 6:00 in the morning, Troost can be a little crazy. Plus I can’t see well enough over the hill to risk it. The light changed, my crosswalk light came on and there was a truck turning left onto Troost (moving towards us). Josephine and I stepped into the crosswalk and the truck moved into the intersection. He slowed, but then he sped up so that I had to physically jump out of the way, with him narrowly missing me. One of our neighbors who is there every morning because he rides the bus was on the other side of the street watching the whole thing in horror. I yelled at the truck and then made it across the street. My neighbor looked at me and asked if I was okay. I shakily said yeah, but then we hugged each other and started laughing. He said “OH! Thank the Lord, you’re al-right!” We then told each other to have a nice day and went on our merry ways.

I had almost forgotten about the first incident when this second one occurred, but then it dawned on me that both of these events happened in the same month. They bookend the month of October and has me questioning if this month was trying to kill me or if the universe is trying to tell me something. I am prone to move through this world oblivious to actual dangers. I am not spooked by walking down dark alleys because I can’t imagine what’s dangerous in a dark alley. A rat might scurry by? A hissing stray cat? Not really threats. I’ve always approached everything in the same way I’d approach a wasp. Leave the wasp alone and the wasp leaves you alone. It is naive. I know that, but I’ve never seen myself as the person that someone looks at and thinks “there’s my victim.” Not because I look tough or like a loud screamer, but because I believe that I am invisible.

Not for one minute do I believe that the above events are messages from the universe saying that I need to be more fearful. I am a firm believer that one of the biggest problems in today’s society is how we have and are continuing to be conditioned to be fearful of one another. Case in point: the (telephone game) story that went around about Hamas decapitating babies. Not a true story, but a nice one to spread around to make you fear and hate Hamas and thus all Palestinians. Decapitated babies is the horrible thing that remains stuck in your head and you will never grasp the idea that not all Palestinians are Hamas. It’s the same trap America fell for when we went after the Taliban. Religious fanatics only see other religious fanatics. But any way, before I fall into a rabbit hole of what Israel is doing is wrong trope, I’ll just say that we are taught to fear each other (fear leads to hate - Yoda). I refuse to listen to the universe if it’s trying to tell me to be more fearful.

Proceeding with some caution seems like more reasonable advice for me.

Maybe I needed a little rattling to open my eyes to possible dangers and some proof that I am not invisible. That neighbor? I hardly know him. I know that he and his wife and two kids live two houses east of us. Michael and I had one conversation with them late one evening when we were all standing in the street watching emergency responders clean up an accident. I know from that conversation that they used to have chickens and we swapped chicken husbandry stories. I say good morning to him every morning when I pass him at the bus stop. That’s it, but I don’t know what he or his wife do for a living. I’m not even sure I know their names but now I know he gives the greatest hugs.

Its a pretty intense way for the universe to point out the importance of making connections with the people in your community, but I’m really grateful he was there to celebrate my survival with me.

CAUGHT

The last two months have been overwhelmingly filled up with social functions and moments that have acquired me to be ‘on’, smiling and engaging, pleasant and appeasing. During the weeks, I take care of the household chores so that I can say yes to things asked of me on the weekends, even if I don’t feel that yes in my heart. Sometimes it is just easier to say yes and go along because I’m too tired to advocate for my own time. Advocating leads to arguing and disappointment and it just takes up too much energy. So for the last two months, I’ve been on the go, actively listening, trying to participate in the conversations, making too many decisions for others and sleeping for maybe five hours a night.

What happens when you drop someone like this off in a place of isolation?

Well…at first there’s a little bit of panic. I got into my rental car and had to navigate through Boston traffic all alone. My route included driving over the Sagamore bridge which had me clenching all of the muscles. All. Of. Them. I made it to Woods Hole, checked into my room and once I was standing in that room, I kept looking around to see who else might be there. Was I sharing this space with someone? I was not. I was alone in a dorm room with a bathroom all to myself. I looked at the two twin sized beds, took the pillow from one and placed in on the one I would sleep in and unpacked my things. Then I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself. I was too brain dead to start work, but it was too early to go to bed. I hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning and it was close to dinner time. I ventured out in search of food and waited around until it was close to sunset. Then went on a walk with my rented lense. I walked to Stoney Beach, but was disappointed with the view. Too many houses blocking my view of the sunset. I walked away from the beach and over to a public dock. I looked at the sky and gasped. Then I ran to the end of that dock to start taking pictures. This is the moment I felt something break open inside me and I thought I was going to weep with relief as the weights I’ve been carrying lifted. The truth is, I didn’t realize until that very moment just how worn thin I’d become.

I spent the next day working in the lab, taking a break for lunch and eating in solitude. By lunch time on Thursday, I’d finished up all that I needed to do in the lab and decided to drive over to Chatham. I saw so many wild turkeys. There were times I’d have to stop because there would be a group of them in the road. I laughed to myself as I thought about all the depictions of the first Thanksgiving I’d seen that always included a turkey. I drove down a country highway with colorful trees on my left and an ocean on my right. The sun was bright and sparkled through the gold and red leaves. It reflected off the water. Every where I looked, I was struck with ridiculous beauty and tears would just roll down my cheeks without me even realizing it. Once I made it to Chatham, I found a place for lunch and was seated next to two women who were traveling around the Cape together. While I waited for someone to bring me a menu, they asked me if I was traveling alone. When I told them that I was indeed traveling alone, they both exclaimed “Good for you! You’re so brave!” I just smiled.

Was I brave?

I think I can remember a time when I was brave, but lately…even while doing brave things I have felt cowardly. But yeah, there was a time when I had no choice but to be brave. Maybe I fell out of the habit of bravery? Maybe ‘brave’ isn’t the correct word. I’d run out energy to advocate for myself. Maybe this just made me feel cowardly. The whole time I was on this trip, I kept a list of thoughts. I made an effort to write down my wants and needs. I wrote down snippets of things that would would pop up into my head amidst all this silence and alone time. I created a road map for better communication and how to advocate for my needs. I made a pros and cons list for the rented lens, which wasn’t hard. There’s only one thing on the con side of that list. I even allowed myself to think about the next art showing.

While I was still Chatham, I wandered into a little boutique with the charming name of The Fisherman’s Daughter. I browsed around, caressing the hand knit sweaters and thinking about a hat. Then I stumbled onto a jewelry case and found a sterling silver bracelet with a fish hook latch. There was something about its simplicity that made me purchase it. I told myself it was a treat for me, something I had earned for doing the hard things. Hooks are meant to catch things and I’d just spent a week catching ideas and releasing some mental garbage that is not serving me. Now I look down at the bracelet encircling my wrist and see that I have caught myself.

I went to the land of witches and hooked myself.

THE LAND OF THE WITCHES

Saturday evening, Michael and I sat by ourselves at a table in the corner of a reception hall and watched as our friends Jenn and Wade made their way through the crowd, thanking people for coming to their wedding. I looked at the people in the crowd and realized that I hardly knew anyone there. There were less than a handful of people that I knew. I did not care about this because I was really only there to celebrate the union of Jenn and Wade. Also, Jenn had asked me to take some pictures of her during a private moment between Jenn and Wade when they would see each other for the first time before the ceremony. So Michael and I sat at our table, filling out the wedding games that had been left on the table and eating charcuterie. I said to Michael “I don’t get it. Why has Jenn latched onto me? Of all the people we’ve met through camp, what is it about me?” Look, I’m not saying that there’s something unlikable about me. It’s just that Jenn is cool, like Pink Lady Rizzo cool and while I’m not as prude as Sandy, I am probably as dorky and unhip as Sandy.

Michael said “Well, look at who Jenn’s just married. Wade is just a really good person and Jenn’s a really good judge of character. She recognizes good people when she sees them.” He’s not wrong about Wade. Wade is the nicest, most generous human. He’s interested in whatever you have to say no matter what you’re talking about. He’s a total nerd like me and he gives excellent hugs. Plus, when he looks at Jenn, his face says it all. She’s his one. Finding the one and having the opportunity to share your life with that person is a very special gift. The next morning, Jenn sent me a text thanking me for being there and taking pictures. I was in the middle of editing those pictures when she texted. I responded to her with a similar question I’d presented to Michael and told her that I was editing those photos for her now.

Honey just you being you. You are a beautiful genuine soul who is always willing to dive deep and talk about REAL shit. Idk. I just love you. You’re stuck with me.

Jenn’s a pretty amazing human to be stuck with, but I am still awed by how it is possible to continue to make these important friend connections as we grow older. Making new adult friends is hard. We are all ruled by ridiculous color coded calendars. Life is busy. I am lucky.

Jenn’s text surprised me, not because of the nice things she said, but by how she sees me as someone who is willing and easily talks about the hard things. It’s one of those comments that made me tilt my head to the side like a curious puppy and ask “is that true?” I think she might be a little right. Like for instance, I write about a lot of difficult things in this space. I pour my heart out here, but there’s some environments where this is not true. I have a grievance that I have been holding onto because I cannot seem to find a way to broach the subject without encountering defensive maneuvering. This is with a person that I have struggled to communicate with for years and a grievance that comes and goes. Recently though, it has become intolerable. I’m noticing that the longer I go without saying anything, the more likely I am to say something mean or snappish. I have done a lot of biting of my own tongue. This person does not create the kind of environment where I feel comfortable with talking about real shit. At least not in the way that Jenn does or some other people in my life.

Tomorrow, I fly to Boston where I will then take a two hour drive by myself down to Woods Hole and the Marine Biology. I will stay in a room by myself. Take meals by myself. There will be a few solo adventures in between doing an inventory of our lab space and closing it down for the winter. I predict there will be hours and hours of nothing but the voices in my own head and that this will be a good opportunity to organize and write down my thoughts. Watching Jenn and Wade make promises to each other, made me think about what I want in my own life. My want is going to require me to create a comfortable environment where I can dive deep into talking about the real shit. This means that I will need to be able to present my grievance in a clear and constructive manner. Basically, I’m going to spend a week not talking while trying to find a way to talk.

I’m going to the land of witches in in hopes of finding my voice and the courage to use it.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I don’t know how to start this dialogue. I was going to talk about prying open my washing machine to get the clothes out and having to buy a new washer. But I found it difficult to write about my washing machine woes while seeing and hearing about the horrific acts of violence happening in Israel and Gaza.

First of all I support my local Jewish communities and friends. The attacks by Hamas have sparked an extra fierce round of antisemitism in this country with far right agencies praising attacks on Jewish people. This country has never been good at supporting our fellow Americans of races other than white, religions not Christian based, and ethnoreligious groups. While I can’t change the whole country, I can do my part as an American in protecting and supporting these groups. Our Jewish friends need to know we have their backs and will do what we can to protect them form racism.

Secondly reacting to violence with more violence will never fix any situation. The counter attack on Gaza by Israel has left more than 300,000 innocent people homeless, not to mention the deaths of hundreds of thousands of women and children. Their announcement of a total blockade to Gaza is considered to be a humanitarian crime by the UN. Women and children are in the most danger. Israeli missiles have hit schools and places of worship, both of which have been filled with women and children seeking shelter from violence. There is no where for these people to go to be safe.

Here are some ways to send help to the victims of the horrific acts of violence brought on by Israel and Hamas:

• Doctors Without Borders

• International Committee of the Red Cross

• International Rescue Committe

Feel free to share other resources in the comments.

DOING THE THING

All the inspirational memes I’ve seen have been about not being afraid to do the thing. There are workshops and motivational talks on getting one’s self together and doing the thing. When I say ‘the thing’ I’m referring to that life goal that you might have set on a shelf because you don’t have enough time, or don’t feel like you’re prepared, or you don’t know how to get started, but you know some day you want to do it. It’s the activity you want to do but have a million excuses for not doing. There are loads of advice out there on how to move past those excuses. But what happens when you finally get past your own excuses and do the thing?

A thousand years ago, I sat down to write up a Life List of one hundred things I’d like to do. The list was not necessarily a ‘bucket list’, but more of list for just living. It was not meant to be stagnant. If you did something on the list, you crossed it off and maybe added something new. I struggled with separating the things I wanted to do from the things I should do. I’d always end up writing something about getting organized on the list, which is stupid. Sure, there are parts of my life not organized (photos and albums), but most of my daily life is organized. I know where all the things are. My calendar is up to date and color coded. There is no need to have anything about organizing on a Life List. Still, I struggled and it took weeks to finish a list of one hundred fun and enjoyable wants.

The Life List was abandoned when Chris died. There have been times when I thought about rewriting it, making a new one that wouldn’t involve him, but I have yet to make some time to do this. One thing I know is that having a showing for my photos would probably not end up on that list. It has turned out to be something that has fallen into a gray area of something I should do and the thing (goal) or want to do. After all this time of taking photos and posting and creating my art, sharing it in a tangibly public way seemed like the next step. So I did it. I did the thing. And now I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’m looking for the motivational memes that would tell me how to process having my first artist reception. It’s a large bag of mixed emotions that I feel needs to be organized and compartmentalized. I am appreciative of all the praise but simultaneously cringe from it. It’s a good feeling to know I am so loved, but also want to put up walls to block some of it out.

Those motivational memes, those workshops on accomplishing goals don’t ever talk about the after you do the thing because getting you to do the thing is easier than suggesting ways to process the mixed bag of feelings you end up with after doing the thing. So here’s my motivational after take. If you are cringing at praise being given to you, it is because you have an inner critic telling you that you do not deserve the praise. Those walls you put up to shield away love are walls built from feeling inadequate to reciprocate that love at the same level as what is being flung at you. If those who came to the art showing were insincere in their praise they would not have spent money on purchasing my art. The last one is a little harder, but I hope my friends and family know how much I love them.

I am not likely to ever add “art showing” to any kind of Life List, but I am not ruling out the possibility of doing another showing some time in the future. I only say this because I can envision what I want for the next showing. I not only know what I’d do differently for the next one, I know how to make those changes. I’ve learned to separate my wants from shoulds.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

In my tweens and teen years, any time I went off to do some 4-H activity, Mom would send a camera with me and instructions to take pictures. At the end of the year all 4-Hrs filled out record books that were judged with awards often being scholarship money. The best record books earned the most money and the best record books not only contained a write up of all the things you did, but pictures proving that you did the things. Inevitably I would come home with zero pictures because I was too focused on doing the actual activity. Or even worse because it cost money to print rolls of film, I’d come home with a camera roll full of pictures of my camp lunches or a neatly made bed.

I wasn’t a camera person.

Then Chris gifted me a tiny sky-blue Sony SureShot and sent me off to New York for BlogHer and time with Talaura. I didn’t go with the intention of taking great pictures. I didn’t go with the intention of taking any pictures, really, but this was the trip that changed me and sent me down the photography path. Chris eventually upgraded my camera and I started reading manuals and attending workshops. I participated in photo challenges and I set photography goals for myself. I’ve researched lenses and I’m even renting one that I’m thinking of buying for a trip I’m taking in a few weeks. This practice has kept me curious not just about learning the technical aspects of photography, but also learning about other photographers. The photography section is usually my first stop when visiting any art museum.

I recently came across this quote from Dorothea Lange, the photographer and photojournalist best known for her portraits like Migrant Mother during the Great Depression:

The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.

I feel this quote in my bones. My camera has taught me to see the world around me but it has also opened me up to the perspective of seeing the world through the eyes of others. No one sees their surroundings in the same way as the person standing next to them sees it. I have been sharing my view of the world for a long time now, but tonight is my first ever artist reception centered around that work and I’m nervous. I keep thinking about all the what ifs that all seemed to be tied together with the not enoughs. Then Terry reminded me that this reception is for me to enjoy. It’s a celebration. The art work has been up for a month. My friends and family have been seeing my work in my online posts for years. The only difference here is that my work is tangible; it’s printed and framed and hanging on some walls.

I am grateful for this practice that has changed the way I see my surroundings. But I am beyond grateful for the love and support for this practice from my family and friends. You are the ones that make me believe that I am enough.

NATURAL DISASTER

In this dream, I am the one everyone believed was dead. Chris was alive and well. He was the one who had moved on with a new partner. I was the one that came back from where ever, back from being missing in action. Chris was overjoyed to see me. We kissed, hastily had sex and then it was Chris with the dilemma. He kind of in a blurred way had just cheated on the woman he was partnered to with the wife he had thought was dead. While he figured things out, I went on roadtrip and found myself driving through a torrential downpour. Water rushed down the side of the road in a flash flood. Cows floated by and the road flooded. I made my way to the top of a steep embankment, ditching my vehicle. The rain changed to ice and snow and I had to abandon the car. I ended up sliding down the embankment, the cold and ice burning and tearing the skin on my hands I went. When I reached the bottom, I looked up to a perfect Fall scene, a landscape of tree covered mountains with colors of green, gold and red.

I woke up, but every time I went back to sleep I went back to being the one who had died. I’ve had this dream so many times, but in reverse. Chris is the one who’s been missing in action and I am the one to make the choice, that is really no choice at all. We both know the choice is always him. Then I’m left with the consequences of that choice and cleaning up the mess it forces to me make. It was so strange to be on the other side of this, to see him having to choose and deal with consequences of choices. Now we both have a life littered with broken hearts and hurt feelings. This feels validating some how, like Chris now knows what it feels like to navigate the complexity of relationships, how we build a maze around our losses.

One day, this body will be a corpse.

I used to think of my heart as a broken vessel, hastily patched together with pieces missing. Now I know that if you open my heart, you will see an intricate labyrinth with new paths looping around the old dead-end ones. In a way, I was the one who died or at least a version of me died with Chris. While his illness and death were quick, mine was slow and painful. I’ve had to let go of how I identified myself. I’ve had to let go of a way of life. My rebirth into this new version of myself has been equally slow and painful. The building of new paths has been like sliding down that snow and ice covered hill, bruising, burning and scrapping skin as I go. Is this new version of myself fully formed? For now. I have entered a new season of life at least. See above where I’ve entered into a season of color.

People recover from natural disasters. There will always be memories and trauma from the time the tornado took the house or the car was washed away in a flash flood, but there will be new homes, new cars. That kind of trauma is the reason why I continue to dream of a dead man. It’s the brain playing tricks on me or just reminding me that my house or car was different then. The labyrinth in my heart has new twists and turns. The landscape changes, but supports new growth. That ancient banyan tree in Maui has new green leaves sprouting up through the chard bark, proof that we can survive disasters.

We are resilient and ever changing.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

The other day, Michael and I stopped by one of our favorite local grocery stores that happened to have large bins of pumpkins out front, all claiming to be from a local farm. We call the store the Fancy Hen House because it’s on the ritzy side of Kansas and is nicer that other Hen House’s. We usually end up here when we’re scrounging up Saturday night’s dinner fixings because it’s fancy, but not fancy/pricey like Whole Foods. I said out loud as I was walking by the first bin of pumpkins “It’s too early to buy a pumpkin.” Then I picked out three small white pumpkins because I wanted ghosts. There were a few very very large pumpkins right by the entrance. I looked down at one and realized that they were pretty cheap for that size of a pumpkin. I looked up at Michael and described an idea of using one of these giant pumpkins as a head for a skeleton body. Michael said that I did not have the right skeleton pieces to do this. So then we argued for a few minutes about what skeleton I needed. I thought I had convinced him that we needed to buy that pumpkin, but then he said “If you can pick it up, you can buy it.”

I did not buy that pumpkin.

Yet.

A few weeks ago, I was thinking about October and how maybe I just wouldn’t decorate this year. I’m busy. If I put it all out, I have to take it all down and that thought made me tired. Micheal and I were out running errands while I was thinking these things and one errand was to stop at Lowes for an air filter. As we walked up to the front doors, Michael asked me where could I go inside that would be the most distracting. I told him “Halloween!” and then he left me there while he hunted down the right filter. When he found me, I’d left Halloween and was wandering the garden section holding a mum. He said “What happened?” I shrugged and said “There’s not much over there to inspire me.” So I thought I’d just leave it this year.

I have been in robot mode since the beginning of September. My head is down and focused on the tasks at hand, getting one task completed and moving on to the next. I’ve taken little time to look up and around. You may have noticed this some with the lack luster photos I’ve been posting lately. One morning this week, the sunrise with the clouds was spectacular. I zipped past my friend Erica on my way to work and she texted me to ask if I’d taken pictures of the sky that morning. She’d been out trying to find a good shot of the sky when I’d passed by on Valerie. I had to tell her that I didn’t stop to take any pictures and I felt disappointed in myself. People keep asking me how the art showing is going and I just shrug and say “okay.” Because nothing is really happening. Pictures are up, but I’m not standing around the Starbucks watching and listening to peoples’ comments or reactions to the work. Instead of being excited about the reception next week, I’m fretting about all the little details I need to take care of before then. I’m leaving little space for feelings other than numbness.

Seeing all of those pumpkin bins at the grocery store created a shift. Then I remembered that I’d spent hours last year glueing googly eyes all over my Halloween wreath and I felt a little bit of joy as I thought about that wreath. I have to put that out at least. Oh! There’s also Suzanne. She’s got to come out of her box in the basement. Michael hates Suzanne, which makes me cackle. Tuesday evening, I drew faces on my little white pumpkins while Michael told me about his day. Wednesday evening, Michael came home with a life size posable skeleton that he presented to me as a gift. I named her Jane and spent the rest of the evening posing her. She sat on the couch and played a game of Two Dots before moving to the desk to start on a writing project. Yesterday, she waited in Michael’s closet for him to come home from work. “What the fuck, lady! What the fuck!?!” was his hello for Jane and then he started having regrets about bringing her home. I think we’re going to be the best of friends.

It feels nice to be reminded to leave some space for a bit of playfulness. It feels nice to just lift my head up and expand my view beyond my current tunnel. And it’s not hard to carve out space for any of that, but it is easy to forget to do so. If I get home before Michael today, I’m putting Jane in the washing machine and making him start the first load of laundry.

SPIRITUAL RETREATING

Here’s what I thought would happen. I thought I’d spend Sunday, sipping mushroom broth and apple juice and being hungry. I thought I’d sit on my yoga mat and meditate and then journal about my hunger before starting to drink the medicine that would clean out my guts. I imaged that the clean out part would be like the beginning of one of those spiritual retreats where everyone drinks a psychedelic mushroom tea that makes them vomit profusely before seeing visions of the person they can or want to be. Except instead of vomiting profusely it all comes out the other end. The next day, I would euphorically walk into the GI Diagnostic Center ready for my first colonoscopy.

That’s not what happened. Well some of that happened. I drank mushroom broth and apple juice. There was no yoga or meditation. No journaling and certainly no vision quest. I drowsily walked into the GI Diagnostic Center, not euphorically. When I walked up to the receptionist, she called me Penelope and I said “yes!” At least two more times before the procedure, I was addressed by the wrong name. Then my nurse couldn’t find a vein for the IV, which is not surprising. Nurses have struggled with the veins in my arms on good days. IV in, a run down of what was going to happen next confirmed and they wheeled me to another room for the colonoscopy. The anesthesiologist explained that he was putting something into my IV line and that it might burn. I said “Ouch.” and then I woke up in another room with a different nurse asking me if I wanted to wake up now.

I almost told her “no.”

Ten minutes later, I was walking out the door and Michael and I went to brunch. Michael dropped me off at the restaurant door with instructions to put our names on the wait list while he parked the car and then remembered that I was still high and groggy. So he added “Just don’t do anything crazy." to his instruction list. I must have put a recognizable name on the list because eventually we were seated and I rested my head on the table while we waited for food. My plans for the rest of the day was to eat and then go back to bed and sleep for four hours, but I only ended up eating. When we got home, I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. Instead I listened to Rosie (robot vacuum) bang around the house. She never gets to do my room because I shut Josephine up in there during the day. This time, since I didn’t close the door all the way, she managed to break into my room. While she clumsily moved around my floor, I thought about the time I was under anesthesia. The thing is, I don’t remember even closing my eyes. I didn’t see colors flashing behind my eyelids. I didn’t dream. Seriously no concept of time because when the nurse asked me if I wanted to wake up, all I could think was I just closed my eyes. All I could tell you about the mere seconds I was under is that it was if I was wrapped in a weighted blanket and placed in a room devoid of light and sound.

And I want to go back to that room.

I want to spend more time in that space. The nothingness of that space was soothing. This part of all the above was the only thing that matched my idea of spiritual retreating, not because of profound visions, but because of the lack of visions. In those seconds of time I was nothing and even though I felt heavy, the idea of being nothing for a little while was freeing. I wasn’t a caregiver. I wasn’t a career woman. I wasn’t a yoga teacher. I wasn’t a photographer or writer. I wasn’t a daughter. I wasn’t living up to other’s expectations of who I should be. I wasn’t living up to expectations of who I think I should be. I don’t need visions of the person I want to be or can be. I need to be nothing. Now, I’m not saying that I could have stayed there forever, but what a relief it was to be nothing for that short amount of time.

I never ended up going to sleep. Michael came in to check on me later in the afternoon and I was watching garbage TV. He asked if I’d slept at all and I shook my head no. “Not at all?!?” he asked. “Not at all.” I replied. Anyway…cancer screens have all been completed. Colon is fine. The dermatologist this morning said that my skin looks fine. The consensus for everything is three years. In three years, I get to repeat all of the tests and scans.

In three years, I get to experience nothingness.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

After today, there will be only one week left in this month and I’m feeling a little bit of panic. Whoa, Nelly. Hold your horses. The days are speeding by too fast. Did I mention that we now have a teenager? Yeah…the Cabbage turned thirteen this month and her parents look at them and want to smoosh their cheeks while saying “remember when you were our wittle baby?!?!?!” Not really. Well, maybe. Michael’s not that type, but who knows what happens at their mom’s.

I’m positive they have grandparents that do that.

Yesterday, I took a dance break for Earth Wind And Fire’s September because… tradition and then Misti pointed out in Instagram that it was also World Gratitude Day. So while I jived along, remembering the twenty first day, I thought about what I should write here for Thankful Friday. What am I grateful for right now in this moment? I am schedule for my very first colonoscopy on Monday, my first appointment with a dermatologist on Tuesday, and flu shot on Wednesday. That should wrap up all the doctor wellness stuff for the year with the exception of the COVID vaccine. I’m waiting until I return from a quick trip to Woods Hole in October because I have to schedule time for the vaccine and time for me to feel like a poopsicle after the vaccine. Every one of the boosters, starting with the second dose, have flattened me. Any way…next week will finish up most everything for the year and then next Saturday I’m going to go celebrate the up coming wedding of my friend Jenn by learning to dance on a stripper pole. Imagine Lucille Ball attempting to dance on a stripper pole. After next Saturday, some people will no longer have to image it.

In spite of a full calendar, I feel like I am accomplishing a lot of things. My yoga practice has been solid and consistent, more so this week than it has in ages. I’m making time for mindful eating and daily walks. I’m making time to for my health but also making time for rest.

Amani came through her hip replacement surgery on Monday like a professional and I got to facetime with her while she was super high. We giggled far too long over poop bridges. She’s home and already feeling amazingly better. Josephine got one of those gross cyst things that flared up overnight. The thing had ruptured and mostly drained before I could get her to the vet, so I just put vet approved antimicrobial gunk on her. She’s now mostly healed with only a tiny scab and no giant vet bill. Weeks ago I thought I’d fixed Valerie by replacing the spark plug, but then I rode her to work and she coughed and died at two different intersections. So I waited two weeks for our scooter guy to come by and take a look. In the meantime,I got impatient and did some more reading and investigating. I then fixed Valeria for real this time and I did it all by myself.

I tend to write a number of Thankful Friday posts about health. My health. Other’s health. Maybe all of those posts are the result of leftover trauma from when Chris was sick or I can’t go a year without hearing that so-and-so has cancer. Physical health has a fragile appearance. I have a friend from high school who’s job is basically to work out and be fit and even she posts about doctor visits for aches and pains. It just seems like feeling good is kind of a miracle these days. So yeah. I’m going to honor and be grateful for moments of good health as often as I can.

Sick things were healed this week. This makes me grateful.

THE CONDITIONING

I’m attending a wedding next month where the dress code is ‘cocktail attire’. My closet is void of fancy dresses. I don’t think I’ve dressed up since that time I was the Bearded Lady for the AIDS Walk Open four years ago. So I have been on a grueling hunt to find something fancy to put on this current version of my body. I pulled ten dressed from a sales rack in Nordstroms and finally when I got to the last one, I thought “Oh…I like this.” The material felt nice. The style was versatile in that I could dress it up or down. I was sure that it was the one. Then I took it off and saw the price tag that read $445.00 and it wasn’t on sale.

So the hunt continued.

While I was skimming through dresses at Nordstroms Rack, I overheard a young woman say “Oh! I really like this one!” I looked over to see her holding a formal up to her body and I remembered that it is homecoming season. Young women were out looking for dresses for the first high school dance of the season, which feels very Jane Austen. Then I heard her mother respond to her daughter “It looks way too small for you.” and I cringed for the girl. I saw the girl look at the tag and say “It says it’s my size.”, her voice wavering slightly. This did not soften her mother who then said “Well it looks too small.” And there I was, swirling in a pool of comments centered around my own weight, every hand slap as I reached for a second dinner roll, and the reasons why I’ve consistently worn oversized clothing all through life. I wanted to tell that girl not to listen to her mother, try the dress on, make your own choices about your own body. Tag sizes are meaningless. I’d just spent weeks trying on dresses “in my size” and each one was too tight here and too big there.

So, fuck corporate fashion sizing and their non-standards.

If I was braver, I would have told that girl to not cultivate that seed of doubt her mother had just planted. I would have said to her to not even let it take root. Spit it out now or end up with an overgrown garden of poisonous plants. You will waste so much time and money trying to remove the poisonous plants so that you can cultivate a beautiful garden of wild flowers and sundrops where you can feel good about how your body looks. You will forever be pulling weeds. Then I thought about that mother and how she’d been conditioned to plant seeds of doubt and how each woman in that family was probably nothing but poison gardens. Shedding those seeds onto other woman is the only way of life they know.

Is this the reason I chose not to have children? Did I think I would be like these women and be unable to see my child without criticism? When asked about my choice to be childless, I’ve always said that I didn’t think I had it in me to raise a good human being. Now I know better. The answer is that I didn’t/don’t want the responsibility of raising a good human being because what if I was the one with the critical eyes, shedding poisonous seeds of self loathing. Though I know that’s not true because of the visceral reaction to this mother/daughter interaction and my desire to protect that daughter. I have spent a lot of mental space, reimagining that scene and how I should have just blurted out “size guides are stupid. Let the girl try it on before you make her feel like a poopsicle.”

I did manage to finally get a dress, though I went about it in an unconventional way. I found a shimmery shear kaftan on the Anthropologie sale’s rack and a slip dress with lace trimming in a matching color at Nordstroms Rack to go under the kaftan. I plan to match it all with strappy heals and subtle jewelry. I purchased new mascara and lipstick. The outfit is appropriately uncomfortable and fancy. I’m sure I will look appropriately uncomfortable and fancy as well. But while I’m all dressed up, I will be thinking of that young woman wondering if she was able to shut out her mother’s voice in order to find a dress that makes her feel beautiful and good about herself.

FARE THEE WELL

During the evenings of the last two Fridays, I have managed to clean out a bookcase, removed unused/untouched things from the house, break down empty boxes, throw away garage garbage and sweep the garage. I have come home from work, exhausted from the whole week, but have forced myself to stay with this momentum. I have never had a hard time tossing out things. It’s just that sometimes I do not have the energy to toss. I need rewards. The reward is doing nothing on Sunday. This often is my mantra: If I do this now, I won’t have to do it Sunday. It also turns out that I don’t Spring clean. I Fall clean.

Months ago, I received notice that my domain for elephantsoap.com was set to auto renew. I sat on this information for a month before hacking my way into my account and changing the setting to not renew. I may have written here a long time ago that I was letting go of that domain. I lied. When it came time to actually do it, I froze. Elephantsoap was my identity for so long that when it came time to not renew, I just couldn’t do it. I choked. There’s a lot of emotional energy tied into that domain, but I haven’t been Elephantsoap in a really long time in more ways than one.

Remove unused/untouched things.

Then on Monday, I received a noticed that elephantsoap.com had been renewed and my credit card had been billed $300. Yes, that’s how much I’ve been paying to hold onto a name that no longer represents me. So I spent forever chatting with customer service about getting a refund and at one point, was so frustrated with how long it was taking that I almost said “Forget it. I’ll just keep the damn thing.” I had to remind myself that this thing no longer served a purpose and that I am wasting $300. That’s $300 I can put towards the camera lens that I’ve been eyeing. Again, evidence that I am not the woman I used to be. So I stuck in there, I got my refund and said “Good bye!” to elephantsoap.com.

And I was a little sad about it.

I gave myself a few moments to grieve, taking time to remember all the business cards I have made over the years with that domain to hand out at BlogHer. I remember how proud of myself I was whenever I figured out the correct code for inserting a picture. I may have shed a few tears when I thought about how elephantsoap would not have existed with out Chris. There is a lot about the person I was and the person I am that would not exist without Chris. There comes a time when holding onto something because of an emotional attachment is just holding onto pain and the constant reminder of what is lost. Sometimes you have to trust yourself to recognize when it’s time to let go of that particular attachment, that particular ache.

Elephantsoap was a place to learn. I’ve graduated and I’m pretty proud of this space I’ve built on my own. I trust myself to know that it’s time to let go of this particular attachment.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Karen Walrond’s soon to be released Radiant Rebellion has got me thinking about the language we use in regards to aging and I haven’t even read it yet. She’s been promoting the book for a while now on social media and put out a call recently to sign up to be a part of her launch team, but even though I will drink whatever kool aid Karen is serving, I did not sign up. I have too much going on right now to give it the proper attention it deserves. Today is my exception because all the little quotes and podcast clips she has been posting recently feels like something to be shared in a gratitude posting.

One of the topics that Karen has addressed in a recent podcast is the business of anti-aging. The anti-aging market is estimated to be an over 200 million dollar industry with a target group of women in their twenties and thirties. That target age group is really interesting if you consider that the average life expectancy of ancient Greeks was 20-35 years. Of course now, people live well past twice that age. (Insert spooky ghost voice) Beware…you are going to live past the age of 35….You don’t want to look as if you have. The industry is conditioning us early to maximize the number of years you’re going to throw money in their direction. Every single time I open Instagram or Facebook, I will see as many ads for ‘looking younger’ or ‘losing weight’ as I do of the content that I intentionally follow. Face exercises. Miracle weight loss supplements. Diet plans. Wrinkle serums. Anything that will “make you feel and look years younger.” This industry has done a stand-up job of turning the word ‘old’ into something to be feared and despised. The very act of aging is generally frowned upon and has turned ‘old’ into a negative descriptor.

This has really shined a spotlight on my own language around using the word ‘old’.

I’ve always been a believer that age is relative, but like a sponge I had started adopting old to describe how I am feeling both physically and mentally. In the last few weeks, I have made a conscious effort to change that. Instead of whining that I feel old, I say that I feel tired or my knee aches. Instead of lamenting that I look old, I say my face looks puffy. What I have discovered by changing my language around old is that it is making me honest. I’m just telling the truth and in telling that truth, I am presenting a problem that I can then find a solution to. Make time for rest. Take an aspirin for my achy knee. Use my neti pot and take some allergy medicine for my puffy face.

I don’t know how many times I have seen or heard a story of someone reaching the age of 100, recounting the things they have witnessed and the joy they feel to be alive. Each time I am awed by their tales and can only imagine what a spectacular life they have lived. Am I so different at the age of forty seven? Maybe it hasn’t been spectacular by some standards, but oh, the things I have been a witness too. Sure, I’ve witnessed some tragedies. I’ve seen two space shuttle explosions, the Murrah bombing, 9-11, not to mention personal tragedies. But I have also been a witness to some pretty great things in history like the fall of the Berlin Wall, the start of the Internet, amazing breakthroughs in science that have led to better and more effective treatment for diseases like cancer and HIV. This list could go on and on. I mean, electric cars and robot vacuums?!? We’re practically living a cartoon life. And I’m only forty seven! There is so much more to come.

Old is something to be celebrated.

I know this gratitude post kind of sounds like a birthday posting, but maybe everyday we get out of bed and live our lives is worth celebrating like a birthday. I can’t wait to read Karen’s new book and to be inspired in finding the various ways to celebrate aging. If you haven’t pre-ordered the book and would like to be part of the rebellion, just click on the words Radiant Rebellion in the first paragraph. This will take you straight to Karen Walrond’s book page.

RAISINS

I cannot remember what the Fortune Cookie journal prompt was on Saturday, but it had something to do with baking. It led me to write a story of Chris and I in my own bakeshop that specialized in cookies. The story began with Chris asking me what’s the worst thing you can put in a cookie and my response was immediate and swift. Raisins. This prompted Chris to start throwing out ideas for terrible cookies. With each idea, I argued that his ideas could actually work. Brussel sprouts could be caramelized with honey or shaved and treated like a carrot for carrot cake style cookie. Sauerkraut could be the ‘salt’ in sea salt caramel style cookie. Black licorice could be mixed with orange. I kept a notebook of cookie ideas and I paused our discussion to write down of these ideas. We laughed at his failed attempt to convince me that there was something worse than raisins.

Later in the day while running errands, I overheard a young dad trying to wrangle his toddler. “No son, you can’t have that tractor. We need to go find the raisins.” It took all of my restraint to not scoop the little one up and ask him if he was safe and do I need to call child protective services. Clearly he was being tortured…with raisins. Then I wondered if I’d written a short story to conjure raisins because they just kept showing up in random ways, sneaking into my day like my bad memories. The bad memories are those moments of regret that I keep buried in the back. Occasionally that box falls over and spills out, revealing moments when I was unkind and intolerant of Dad or that early time in my life when I was angry about J’s existence. Every fight and argument with Chris (the handful of them) gets rehashed and played over. And don’t think for a minute that this box is only for the dead. Nope pretty much every negative interaction comes up and gets picked apart. How could have I handled that better? I should have said this instead of that. I should have bought those groceries for that woman. I could’ve should’ve.

No matter how many times I try to pick them out like I do with raisins in a cookie, the bad memories never go away. They are also a bit of a surprise because they show up at random times usually when I’m feeling good, safe and secure. That’s my brain yelling out a warrior cry of ‘SABOTAGE!’. I am hard wired for self-sabotage. I will always be picking the raisins out of cookies and granola bars because that one time in high school, I said something mean about another girl in an attempt to fit in with another group of girls and I will need to revisit those actions every five or ten years. There are for sure to be raisins in that slice of carrot cake because of that one time I yelled at Chris for buying a metal desk. [To be fair, I was 100% right about that, but I didn’t need to yell at him. He knew he was wrong.] These bad memories pop up so that I can rehash them over and over again in an attempt to make them good memories or just not so bad ones. But they’re too much like raisins and I hate raisins.

I truly hate raisins.

It’s funny to me that I could take Brussel sprouts and sauerkraut and make them into a fancy cookie, but raisins are still the worst thing you could to do to a cookie. If I have the imagination to dream up a black licorice and orange cookie, than surely I have the imagination to make something good with raisins. I can take the worst thing you could put into a cookie and at the very least, make it interesting. What if you took raisins and apricots and blended them into a paste. Then you used that paste as filling in a vanilla oatmeal sandwich cookie?

That might not be so bad.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Short weeks are the hardest weeks and we are in the thick of it here in this household. Both Michael and I have full schedules with work and after work appointments. My calendar is so confusing and jumbled, I’m not doing a great job of keeping things straight. I thought for sure I had a bachelorette party to attend on Saturday, but I met Jen (the bachelorette) for lunch this week and she reminded me that the party is on the 30th. I blinked like a deer in headlights because now I have a Saturday of no obligations. Michael will be gone for a leadership conference, which leaves me to my own devices for tonight and tomorrow. The very first thing I thought was “I’m going to clean my house!” I’ve thought of nothing since but clearing out some clutter and unused things, pulling furniture out from the walls and cleaning out the dust and cobwebs.

The thoughts make me giddy.

I understand the necessity for keeping a calendar, but sometimes those calendars can be deceiving. My calendar feels cluttered and clutter stresses me out. It is also making it difficult for me to keep track of the appointments I can’t miss. So I end up scheduling something on top of something else. Then I have to figure out how to be in two places at the same time and this leaves me gasping for air. All of this stuff to do crammed onto the day makes it hard to see the space of time that exist between the things that need to be done.

I’m really grateful that I got to have lunch with Jen this week. First, getting a chance to see my super cool, tough as nails, take no bullshit friend during a week day is better than therapy. Her energy is the boost I needed to get me through the week. Secondly, I’d be showing up for stripper pole dancing class tomorrow wondering why I’m the only one there or who all these other women are and how do they know Jen if I hadn’t met her for lunch. Thankfully I was made aware of open blocks of time and that awareness really helped to deflate this panic bubble in my chest that just seems to get bigger every day. I spent some time today decluttering my calendar so I could visually see the blocks of time that exist between obligations. I have things to do, but I am not obligated to do all of the things.

This weekend, I’m only doing the things I want to do.

A NOTE ON STUBBORNNESS

I don’t know what my issue is about having to have a tow service involved but I get mad when I have to do it. And if it involves the scooter? Forget it. There is no reason why I should ever have to have my scooter towed home. I never let my gas gauge fall into dangerous territory. Okay, sure, I can be lackadaisical about my tires but I do make sure they’re not flat before I zip of down the road. The engine is not complicated enough for me to not be able to figure it out. On Monday, Michael suggested we ride the scooters to lunch following up with a trip to an outside mall. I agreed and thought it would be a great ride, but it turned out to be hot with no shade anywhere. The roads and parking lots where just one giant stove top with burners set to high. When we got ready to head home, my scooter started but then immediately died. We stood in the heat staring at the scooter and Michael asked me what I wanted to do. Meaning which of the two of us is calling in road side service?

I was hot and tired and I didn’t want to make a decision. I’d spent the last two days having terrible dress shopping experiences and I was cranky. But I called road side service while Michael took the Cabbage to their mom’s with the promise to come back with his truck. My road side request was picked up by one place with an hour to two hour wait time. Then they cancelled and I had be re-assigned. Then new place had me at a two to three hour wait time. So I sat in the shade of the building and watched YouTube videos. By the time Michael showed up, I was attempting to take the front engine panel off my scooter. The screw was in too tight for me to turn it and I put Michael to work. I pointed and instructed and eventually we pulled out the spark plug, which is what I was looking for. I cleaned it the best I could with an old mask I found in my scooter seat. We put it all back together and Michael said “I doubt this is going to fix it.” But guess what? The scooter started. I canceled my road side service request and rode Valerie home.

I’ll tell you one really good way to throw a log on my anger furnace is to doubt my ability to fix a mechanical issue. Not too long ago, I replaced an objective turret on one of our microscopes instead of waiting on the microscope rep to find time to come and take care of it. I know many of you have no idea what any of that means other than I took apart something complicated and put it back together in working order. That’s the main take-away. When the microscope rep called me to see if he could talk me through the install, I told him I had already taken care of it. He responded with “Oh! Look at you, you go getter!” and if he’d been standing in front my face, I would have punched him in the throat (not really). This was also in the same week I had someone from tech support explain tape to me and where to buy it.

I am a spoiled princess because for the first thirty something odd years of my life, not a soul questioned my abilities as they have been questioned now. No one protested or argued with me when I said “Leave it. I can do this.” Chris, seeing a look on my face, would step back and out of the way unless further instructed. No one looked at me and saw a delicate helpless flower. Because of that, I was not trained to deal with misogynistic ideas of the capabilities of a woman. So hearing others describe me as “Independent” or “a loose cannon” or “a go getter” while using slightly negative tones sends me into a rage. I can’t shake the idea that I am now seen as incapable or in desperate need of help because Chris is no longer here. Is this what happens when a woman loses a husband? Is just the act of having a husband create a protective shroud a woman? Surely not. Stubborn, obstinate, independent. These are words said by someone insecure in their own abilities or fear invalidity. I’m not stubborn. I’m a fighter who doesn’t give up easily and yeah, I’m independent because I am capable.

I have ordered a new spark plug and when it arrives, I will install it. Not because I am stubborn or a real go getter, but because I am capable and I know how to do it.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Thursday evening, Michael helped me hang my photos in the Starbucks at 16th and Main.

The end.

Okay, not the end, but the hanging part is done. Mostly. We had a 16x20 print spontaneously fall off the wall, breaking the frame. Then this morning, while I was in the shower and Michael was getting ready, he said “I’m second guessing those prices because of the frames.” Tonight I’m making new name/price tags and reframing the other print so I can go in early tomorrow morning to hang and swap tags. There is some relief in having the pictures up, but there’s mixed feelings. I’m excited. I’m embarrassed. I feel exposed and a little naked on a stage. I feel I’ve made an accomplishment, but I’m judging myself real hard. All day yesterday, I felt this bubble of emotion sitting in my chest and I wasn’t sure what would happen if and when that bubble popped. I was either going to start screaming, crying or laughing hysterically, probably all three at the same time. Instead, I ended up eating way too much enchilada at dinner and drinking the queso dip straight out of the bowl.

What’s dumb is this, by far, is not the hardest thing I have ever done.

It’s great sharing my writing and photos the way I do now because I know my audience consists of family and friends. A small handful of those friends are people I have met through blogging and social media, but most everyone else in the audience are friends I’ve known forever. For years, this audience has been supportive and encouraging and mostly kind. I’ve felt safe here, maybe too safe. I’m exposing myself to a bigger audience with this showing. My name and my blog are posted on my ‘about the artist’ page and that’s a little scary. I’m doing the thing that scares me just like the inspirational quote that’s plastered on one my journals tells me to do. This is supposed to be good for me. One day this week, I was in the process of creating a wall map so we’d be organized on hanging day. I decided to hold back some pictures that I had previously planned on and my friend Sarah walked in as I made the decision. I said “I’m NOT hanging these pictures, no matter what anyone else thinks I should do.” Sarah looked at me and said “That’s right Cindy. Because this is your show.” Which is something I really needed to hear.

I am writing this story. I am controlling this narrative. This is my show.

Today, I am grateful for Michael’s help in hanging all of the pictures. I am also grateful to this audience for your support and kindness.

DREAM SEASON

Last night I dreamed that we were on a trip and I had climbed up to an old church to take pictures. For some reason, I set my camera down (my super expensive camera) and then walked back down the hill to find Michael. I was half way down when I realized my camera was gone. So I ran back up to the church and searched frantically for my camera. While I was searching, an older man pulled up in his car and rolled down the window. He spoke with an Eastern European accent and held up my camera. “Are you looking for this?” He asked. I said “Oh my god, yes! Thank you!” and reached for the camera. Then I noticed the lens was missing. I said something to him about it and he said that I could have the lens back for $100. I felt ill and embarrassed and I didn’t want Michael to know that any of this was happening. I didn’t have $100 cash on me and asked if I could Venmo him. He told me that he’d wait for me to go to the ATM at the bottom of the hill. Then I said “Shake on it?” and as he reached his hand forward, I reached inside and grabbed the lens. I woke up before I had to tell Michael anything about leaving my camera behind or losing the lens.

I was relieved to wake up for a number of reasons.

It doesn’t take much to unpack that dream and see that it contains a lot. It contains a lot of fears, which is completely normal. So I keep telling myself. But it is not just the showing. I’ve put a lot of things on my personal calendar for the next two months. I have my yearly check up scheduled, a dental check up and a colonoscopy all on the books for September. I am constantly adding to my work calendar and balancing that work around appointments. All of that juggling means that I end up double booking myself. So far this is only working because some people I work with are not on time. Then there’s Michael’s calendar which is a topic I’m not discussing. Keeping track of it all feels like training for fighting villains in the Matrix. By the time these next two months are over, I will be bending space and time.

This week we will be witnesses to a super blue moon, the second full moon we’ve seen this month. This moon also coincides with perigee which means that low tides are going to be extra low and high tides are going to be extra high. Storms reaching landfall during these high tides can produce coastal flooding, beach erosion and rough seas. Hurricane Idalia is predicted to hit Florida on Wednesday. Hurricane Franklin is heading towards the East coast this week and predicted to produce life-threatening rip tides. I’m not into star signs and moon phases, but even I have to admit that rare full moon events and hurricanes feels like a physical manifestation of how I’m feeling these days. It is all going to be a disaster or completely okay. I predict that the dreaming is going to be straight up horrible this week.

Even though there’s a lot going on, I’m still considering signing up for an online course on storytelling in photography. What if I did NANOWRIMO in November but used some of my photography to tell the stories, to inspire the word count? That sounds pretty nice right? Theoretically that does sound pretty good, but I might have a new challenge for November and that would be a twenty minute nap everyday. We’ll call it NANONAPMO. Your reward for committing to your daily nap is being well rested.

I’m a self-care guru.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Sometime back in the Spring, Misti made me download the Red Cross emergency app. Part of it came out of a text conversation we were having where she had texted me to see if we were okay and I was all shrug-your-shoulders and replied with “yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” Apparently there had been a tornado somewhere around me but we were oblivious. In fact we’d slept through the whole storm situation. This is where I confess that I am willfully oblivious to numbers and weather. I don’t pay attention to how much something costs (unless it’s unreasonable) and I don’t pay attention to the weather. My method of determining the weather is to stick my head outside and look up at the sky. If the sky is clear when I do this in the morning, then the weather must be okay for the scooter. You should know that I have been caught in the rain on the scooter more times when consulting Michael and his weather app than I have with my usual method.

I still don’t really know what the temperature or rain percentage is going to be on any given day, but the emergency app does send me an alert when I need to take shelter. I am sure this is a relief to those people who love me and know that I like to live dangerously. Every day this week, I have been alerted multiples times a day of excessive heat. That is because Kansas City has exceeded previous record temperatures with heat indices in the 120s. Summers in Oklahoma are legendary for months of 100 degree temperatures and consecutive days without rain. So for years, I’ve rolled my eyes at the people of Kansas City complaining about the heat. “Its not the heat.” They’d protest. “Its the humidity.” They’d moan.

This is the first summer where I am not rolling my eyes at the complaints. I can’t understand how there can be so much moisture in the air without rain. I drove to work with the windshield wipers on twice this week because there was so much condensation on the window, but there was not any rain. Yes, I drove my car because it is too hot to ride the scooter. TOO HOT TO RIDE THE SCOOTER! Half the doors in our house are swollen and stick. I basically body slammed my way through the front door Wednesday evening. Air handlers at work have been struggling and there was even talk of delaying experiments this week. Josephine and I still do our morning walks, but even at 5:30 in the morning the air is oppressive. Josephine comes in from the walk and belly flops onto the cool floor. The Weatherman I was listening to at the beginning of the week said “If you have activities planned for outside…just don’t.”

Just don’t.

A cold front is moving in this evening that promises to drop our temperatures into the high seventies and low eighties. I predict that all surrounding states will be able to hear the collective sigh of relief from the people here. The woeful question of “why is it sooooooo hoooooottttttttt?!?!” will be replaced with exclamations of gratitude. It reminds me of that time in grad-school when we’d had forty something days without rain. Then one evening it started raining and everyone in our apartment complex opened their doors and we all just stood in our doorways staring at the rain. Occasionally we’d converse back and forth and laugh over this and that, but most of us were just watching the rain. That’s what’s going to happen around 9:00 PM here tonight.

We have such great capacities for gratitude but some times, a little discomfort is required for us to be aware just how great that capacity can be.