SQUIRRELS IN THE ATTIC

I just bought a beginners embroidery kit because I saw an ad for it in my Insta Reels. I watched the whole ad, mesmerized as I watched a needle and thread travel through fabric to form a perfect little bee and something inside of me said “Cindy…this is a need.” Normally I skip right over those ads without blinking an eye. I don’t know, man. This ad just spoke to something in my soul. I listened to a lot of NPR as I traveled between home and Mom’s. I got the beginning of this episode of Hidden Brain and the episode started with stories from listeners talking about their time during the COVID lock down. Every single story was sad and mostly all centered around the isolation. When the lockdown lifted, the consensus was that people were happy to gather with friends and family. That first get together after months of isolation brought excitement and joy, but over time the same kind of gatherings started to lose that initial sparkle. On my way home, I caught the next part of this story where Tali Sharot, a neuroscientist, explained what was going on inside the brain as we habituate our daily lives and how to find that sparkle of day to day life.

Maybe that embroidery kit is an attempt to reintroduce some sparkle.

While the lockdown introduced a level of anxiety I had not experienced since Chris’s illness inside of me, I’m looking back on some parts of it and feeling a longing for the good old days of isolation. [Side note: Did I mention that moment when lockdown became official and I drove my car over a retaining wall and got stuck? Three large fellas happened to be across the street and they lifted (yes, lifted) my car off the wall, declared that everything looked okay and I drove off. I only told Michael about it months (possibly a year) later when we drove by the now broken retaining wall.] If I set aside those moments where I was panicking about losing my job and trying to climb out of my skin from feeling like a caged animal, the lockdown wasn’t really all that bad. My house was the cleanest it has ever been and I spent at least two hours every day on my yoga mat. We experimented with challenging Bon Appetite recipes and murdered our first two lobsters. I kept a sourdough starter alive, something that I need to restart because suddenly people in my house remember the pizza dough I used to make with it and want pizza.

The summer months are meant to be the time when I do what ever I want and forget about the daily chores. I have not transitioned into this idea very well. To be fair, we did hit the summer running. Between theater camps, kid camp, moose hunt and another theater camp our calendar’s have been full. Earlier this week, I opened my Google calendar on my iPad and it was sitting there open when Michael walked by. He said “Your calendar looks like Donkey Kong.” I think he was referring to all the color coded boxes arranged in each day of the week. I was in the process of re-doing our dry erase calendar for the month of July. Wait. I’m about to confess something that is going to make everyone’s eye twitch. I have my Google Calendar. Then a work calendar through my work email. Then I have a dry-erase calendar for everyone in the house. At one point in time, I had my Google calendar connected to the TV screen on our refrigerator as reference in case I missed something for the dry erase calendar. Our TV did an update and I never reconnected my calendar. Look, just forget the part about my fridge having a TV because TVs in fridges are dumb and unnecessary. Trust me. I see the crazy as I write this.

While my calendar might remind Michael of a video game, I will say that the month of July is the most open, unscheduled month I’ve had in ages. I finally see some space for doing whatever I want. Museum date with Melissa on a Thursday evening? Yes please. Yoga on Saturday mornings? My mat is already in the car. I’m going to turn my focus to the daily feeding of a sourdough starter. I am scraping out more time for yoga and while Michael and the Cabbage take their train trip to Saint Louis, I’m going to clean behind all the furniture. Okay…that’s a chore, but I want to do it and I’m doing whatever I want.

I’m going to poke a needle and thread into bits of fabric, making flower and bee shapes.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

This week, I was contacted by an old friend who wanted to honor Chris in a very specific way. We haven’t spoken or seen each other in years, only keeping up with each other’s lives through social media. We spent some time catching up on his now grown children and my life as a step parent. Then he told me about his plan and asked me if I would be okay with him using Chris's name as an author in something he was writing for academic publication. I gave my permission without hesitation but with the stipulation that I can read it before he submits.

First of all, it was really nice talking with this friend. It has been far too long since our last encounter. He is so gentle and kind and understanding, just a great person to communicate with, but he also tells me nice things. Like how I am the one who is kind and understanding. He told me that Chris and I were still his standard and example of how relationships should be and work as a true partnership. That’s very sweet and equally painful to hear for a number of reasons, but it was good to hear this person’s voice and appraisal.

Chris and I were not an island. I have always known that Chris does not solely belong to me. I am sure the same would be true of Chris if roles were reversed. The two of us have always believed in the collective of humanity. We created a family for ourselves with people who believed in the power of support and community. To have such a family and community requires love and respect, but mostly love. Love is the foundation and we all know what happens to houses built on poor foundations. Our house was made to endure the tests of time and loss. It was built to hold an unimaginable weight of love.

Not just for me.

This week was difficult and my first instinct for today’s post was to write about all the hard stuff and how busy our summer has been so far. I have yet to transition into a do nothing phase of summer. I’m tired and my feet hurt. The brain fog is thick and yesterday I discovered a long black hair sticking out of my chin. Lord knows how long that’s been there, pointing at people. That phone call with an old friend was a balm. I am grateful to have been partnered with someone who inspires others, even years after he is gone, to think of him so fondly. I look forward to reading this academic paper and seeing Chris’s name honored in this way.

THE TIME I COULD HAVE BEEN OUTLANDERED

There’s a hiking trail head on the Gunflint Trail road that leads out to Magnetic Rock. Magnetic Rock is a 60ft natural monolith with magnetic properties. Any thing you read online about the rock suggests that you take a compass with you to hold up to the rock to witness the magnetic properties. The evening we drove the length of the Gunflint Trail, we stopped at this trail head with the intent of making the hike out to the rock. My head started hurting the closer we got to the trail head and by the time Michael parked the truck and we were dousing ourselves with bug spray, my head was throbbing. I said nothing about my discomfort. This was not just about seeing a magnetic rock. This was also an opportunity for a moose sighting. But ten steps into the woods, we quickly realized that this was not the hike for us. The trail path ahead was either slippery with thick mud or underwater. We turned around and hopped back into the truck, taking a cloud of mosquitos with us. We spent the next ten minutes smashing mosquitoes on the windows and the dashboard. I trapped two of them in the sun roof. As Micheal drove us away from the trail head, my headache started to decrease in intensity and was down to a dull ache by the time we reached our cabin.

Michael was not surprised by my headache. I am a walking compass, a super power that makes for a great party trick. Michael likes to joke that there’s a magnet in my brain. Maybe it has something to do with the iron in my blood. A doctor’s never told me that I have too much iron. They usually only say anything if you don’t have enough. It’s most likely genetic. My dad could do the same trick…until things went wrong inside his brain. So, for my future caregivers, if I suddenly can’t point you in the direction of North, you’ll know that there’s something terribly wrong with me. How ever I came about this superpower doesn’t really matter. I don’t know if magnets are a kryptonite. I’ve never tested this by rubbing magnets on my head. I did have a thought that this superpower makes me susceptible to things and that my headache saved me from being Outlandered.

Mom, my sister and sister-in-law and I have all been reading the Outlander series probably since the first book came out. What usually happens is that one of us will buy the book and then just pass it around. The four of us are all pretty vested in this story of a woman who has been transported back in time and the love affair that ensues. Each book contains anywhere from 850 to over 1,000 pages and it is the very reason why I switched over to eReaders. I’m not normally into romance novels (not since my teens), but these books are a less romance and more historical fictional SciFy. Though the sex scenes are decently steamy and it is nice that the leading heroine is open and bold about her sexuality. She is also not the typical romance heroine who sits back and waits for the man to save her. I am curious about the physics of her time travel, like what she can and can’t take with her. Here’s what I was wearing on this hike: hiking boots, overalls, tank, long sleeved shirt, rain jacket and the usual underwear. I had a water bottle in the long pocket of my overalls and my camera looped over my shoulder. I’m pretty sure my wallet was in one pocket and my cell phone in another. I was holding Josephine’s leash. Would all of those things travel with me, including Josephine? Would Josephine survive time travel or would I get to the past holding a leash with an empty harness?

I don’t think I want to know the answer to that last one.

While I find the stories entertaining, the very idea of being whisked back in time to before women’s right to just about anything does not sound remotely appealing or attractive. Life in general was pretty difficult and filthy in the 1700s but life for a woman in the 1700s feels more than difficult. It was fucking dangerous. I am sure that within my first two hours of being transported to that time, I would indeed be burned on a stake. I would probably beg for it because I would have no idea how to proceed in that timeline. Can I build a fire? Sure, if I have matches and newspapers and oil soaked dryer lint. I might be able to prop some sticks and limbs up against a tree to make some sort of structure for sleeping. I could forage some. I know what a wild onion looks like and dandelions are edible. I wouldn’t poison myself, but I am not ashamed to say that I am material girl, living in a material world. I should rephrase that. I am a modern girl, living in a modern world. Maybe I could endure the never ending labor of day to day living in the wilderness and the immediate danger of rape and or murder if there were was hot and cold running water and I could be clean.

That’s really the only difference between now and then, right?

THE ELUSIVE MOOSE

I had this idea that I would be posting a picture of my hand holding a fifty cent piece. I could clearly see it and the words that I would write as a caption. It would say something sweet and a bit sappy, a tribute to Dad. As we prepared for our trip, Michael and I confessed to squirreling away a fifty cent piece. He said he had called all the banks looking for one, but finally ended up digging through an old change jar to find one. I told him that mine came from the stash I’d saved from the tooth fairy. We were ready. I was ready.

But we never saw a moose.

Our first day in Grand Marais, we were out the door by 6:00 AM and traveling along the Gunflint Trail. This is the road we were told to take. We didn’t take the road to the end, but instead turned off onto a gravel loop section of the trail. The map kept throwing out warnings of possible flooding and washed out roads. We had arrived in Grand Marais during a torrential downpour. It was still sprinkling that morning. At least two vehicles passed us going in the opposite direction and after stopping to drag a tree out of the road, we understood why. I ended up dragging two trees out of our path that day. We stopped by a pond to watch and eat our breakfast sandwiches, expecting a moose to step out into the waters at any moment. We moved on after finishing our breakfast, continuing our trek and spotting a black bear.

But never a moose.

We eventually made the loop on around to the main road back to town. We parked at our cabin and then walked into town and out to the Grand Marais lighthouse. We visited the Welcome Center where we were handed various maps and advice on moose spotting. We ate lunch in town before walking back to the cabin for naps where we both slept for hours. Then we made ourselves dinner. We had purchased groceries once we made it to town the night before, planning our meals but not our flavors. The two of us discussed what flavors to put on our lake trout fillets. We had candied pecans and half a bag of Michael’s spicy nacho Funyans. We chose the Funyans and it wasn’t a bad choice.

After our dinner, we headed back out to the Gunflint Trail. This time we stayed on the trail, driving it all the way to it’s end up in the Boundary Waters. I didn’t know about the Boundary Waters until the day before. We had stopped in for a stamp at the Superior National Forest station. There we were greeted by a sullen twenty something year old who told us about the Boundary Waters and basically told us that our moose hunt might as well be a hunt for unicorns. The Boundary Waters are 1.1 million acres of wilderness accessible mostly by canoe with some foot trails. It is wet, boggy and wild. You must have a permit to enter and the trails are not marked. This is of course a prime moose environment. We were not prepared to go into the Boundary Waters. So we drove as far as we could into the wilderness, constantly scanning the landscape in search of moose.

But we did not see a moose.

We saw a fox and deer. We saw a lone turtle attempting to cross the road and falcon soaring across the cloudy skies. We did not see a moose. It seemed that sullen twenty something year old was correct and then we made a decision. We were not going to let a moose hunt define our trip north. The next morning, we rose at a reasonable hour and lingered over breakfast. Then we loaded up the truck and drove north to the Canadian boarder. We hiked out to see Pigeon Falls, the tallest falls in Minnesota. We stopped for pie before making our way back south and to the Devil’s Kettle Falls. The hike to the falls was more than we expected. The trail had us climbing up rugged steps, down 193 steps and through mud just to get to the falls. I left Chris there and then we had to make our way out. I was sure we’d have to carry Josephine up those 193 steps, but she practically ran up them. Once we made it out, I made Michael stop in the campground there so I could rinse the mud out of Josephine’s paws. After stopping for lunch, we collapsed in our cabin pleased with how we’d spent our last day in Grand Marais.

So, we didn’t see a moose.

We saw beautiful falls and wilderness. The wildflowers were breathtaking, every road lined with colorful blooms. We spent days without radio signal or internet. We saw a black bear! Which apparently is more rare of a sighting than moose. We soaked up the chilly weather knowing that Kansas City was sweltering in summer temps. We fought off swarms of mosquitoes, swarms like we’d never seen before. We saw Canada. Passport snafus kept us from going into Canada, but we saw it from a distance. It’s surprising how close we are to the Canadian boarder. We learned a lot about looking for moose and boundary waters. We discovered the charm of Duluth and Minneapolis and made plans to visit again. Friday morning, we packed up and headed south. We left the Superior National Forest and we were finally able to pick up some radio stations. U2’s I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For started playing through the truck speakers. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I chose to laugh.

Then I pulled out my phone and started planning our next moose hunt.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

The weekend before last, Michael and I spent almost the whole day on our bicycles. We cycled up to Brookside to our favorite nail salon for pedis. Then we walked the bikes across the street (so we wouldn’t mess up our new toe paint) to a sushi place that we always forget about until summer time because they have nice patio and reasonably priced lunch bento boxes. After lunch, we rode over to an art festival that was happening in Prairie Village where I convinced myself I wanted a new driveway more than I wanted a new piece of art for the walls. We got ice cream and bought some weird canned fish meats from the cheese shop. Then we rode the bicycles to the grocery store to pick up some salad fixings for our dinner, before finally making our way back to the house.

There was a moment during our bicycle ride when we were leisurely riding down a neighborhood street lined with tall trees. The weather was perfect. We were not baking in the hot sun and I wasn’t struggling up a hill. I said loud enough for Michael to hear me “I really like riding my bike!” Which is the truth. At first I felt a little bit of shame because it is an electric bike, but I’m way over that. It’s about intention and I was never one of those hardcore bicyclists. I don’t care about the exercise. Well…I kind of care about the exercise. I don’t care about that sort of Pelaton style of bicycle exercise. I just like riding a bicycle for the joy of riding a bicycle. My electric bike makes it easier for me to do that. I’m still moving my legs. I’m still feeling the burn. I’m just not giving up halfway up a hill and wanting to die and then hating myself for not being fit enough to get up the hill.

I want to be the kind of person that rides their bicycle regularly to work. There are a few things working against me in this venture. One is uncontrollable and that’s the weather. It’s been risky to ride the scooter lately with all the storms and popup showers. I am not fast enough on the bicycles to ride between raindrops like I can on Valerie. Morning temps have been chilly. There is no joy in having to bundle up to ride my bicycle only to end up sweating inside a coat because I’ve built up some heat through peddling. The other thing keeping me from eagerly riding my bicycle is totally controllable and that is my brain. My brain starts to worry about time and if I have enough of it. This creates anxiety and when it is time to open the garage and get a two wheeled vehicle out, I hesitate.

On Monday, I fought through that anxiety and rode my bicycle and I learned that time was not the only thing contributing to my anxiety.

Going to work on the bicycle is great. It is an easy carefree ride. There is little to no traffic at that time of the morning and I take the recommended bike route which means I should have a bicycle lane. Unfortunately the section of the Paseo I use does not have a designated lane, but the right lane is wide enough for both a car and bike. Unless someone is parked on the street. Which happens all the time. Still, at seven fifteen in the morning, this is not a problem for me because I’m the only one on the street. Coming home is a different story. There’s a lot more people on the rode at 5:00PM and they are all very anxious to be home from a long day of work. Many do not care that you are a bicycle on a designated bicycle route. It doesn’t feel safe and this stresses me out.

The first thing that Michael asked me when I got home on Monday was “how was your bicycle ride?” So I told him about the good parts. Then I told him about riding home on Paseo and how it stresses me out. His advice was for me to just take the Trolley Trail home. Remember that whole brain-time anxiety thing? That’s why I don’t normally use the trail. The Trolley Trail is out of my way. I have to go about one mile west to connect to the trail. Then when I exit the trail, I have to go almost two miles east to get home, whereas the Paseo is a straight shot. I live a block west of that street. Here’s the thing, and I just looked at the map, it truly is not all that far out of my way, but for some reason my brain has decided differently. So when Michael suggests I just ride the trail home, I get whiney and roll my eyes over how much longer it is going to take me to get home.

Wednesday, I rode my bike to work and at the end of my work day, I got on my bike. Instead of turning left to get on Paseo, I took a left and cut through the UMKC campus to the Trolley Trail. Then I proceeded to have the most delightful ride home from work. I stopped to wait for stoplight at an intersection with a family of three also on bicycles. The child was young, maybe six or seven, and the mom was explaining the stoplight and the crosswalk rules for when the light changes. When the light for the opposing traffic turned to yellow, I heard the mom say “Okay, the lights are about to change. Get your body ready. Get your bike ready.” I took off ahead of them, but I thought about that mom’s lesson to the child. It’s a pretty good lesson, but might need one more thing.

Get your MIND ready. Get your body ready. Get your bike ready.

This should be the first thing I tell myself when I get out bed each morning, no matter what vehicle I end up driving that day, especially if it is my own brain keeping me from doing the thing(s) I want to do. So there’s a few points of gratitude here. I am grateful for Michael’s suggestion to use the trail for my bicycle rides home from work. If I had ignored his advice, I would not have had the opportunity to hear that mom giving her kid the lesson of being prepared to cross the street. I am grateful to have overheard that exchange of words. Finally, I am grateful for joyful bicycle riding experiences.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I started working on a writing project in October of last year. It has become one of my UFPs (unfinished projects) sitting in my Google docs, but I tend to visit this one more often than any of the others. It is a writing project that will not be able to see the light of day for (hopefully) a few years and maybe this is why it has become so easy for me to sporadically add to the story. I’ve tried writing a story centered around Chris and being a widow and I probably have five different UFP versions of this story blinking at me whenever I open Google docs. I just get to a spot where there’s nothing to write. I don’t know how to end it or it just feels emotionally better to leave it as it is. Sort of like vague plans or booking the hotel reservation but not doing any research on what you should see and do in that area. This thing I’ve been working on off and on since October feels like something I’ll eventually finish, like I know how to end it when the time comes.

That being said, my writing style is very undisciplined. It seems that I can commit to coming up with content for this space at least twice a week, but any thing with multiple pages and chapters is a really big commitment. I am an ebb and flow kind of artist. When I’m really inspired to be out and about with my camera and working on photography projects, I have little inspiration for writing. The writing flows in when I’m in a photography lull. I thought maybe the practice of combining the two things would lead to more finished projects, but that hasn’t happened. Right now, I am writing. That’s where I am in this ebb and flow. I wrote about a particular time and some events and as I wrote it all down, I found myself crying at my desk. I was surprised because I thought I had worked through my feelings about those events. I thought I had already done the work to release that pain and that there would be nothing to bring up in the writing of this story. But apparently I still had some feelings tucked away that needed to be addressed.

There was a brief section of time when I was seeing a therapist. I didn’t do too much to seek out this therapist, no interview process. I just went with someone my insurance would accept and walked in not really knowing what to expect. Once a week I’d sit in a cushy chair in an office with my therapist and I would just talk. I needed very little prompting and received no more prompting than “how are we feeling today?”, but this was all I needed to spill the bean can of complaints I had filled up since my last visit. At the end of each session, my therapist would say something along the lines of ‘thank you for sharing’ and that would be it until the next week. After about year of this I felt like I had talked all of my complaints out of my system and didn’t feel like I had anything else to contribute to my therapist. And that was it. I never received homework or any kind of “what if you tried…” My therapist was just a listener. I stopped going to therapy and never made an effort to find a new therapist.

The truth is, my writing practice has been the most helpful tool for sorting and dealing with my emotions.

I am by no means discounting therapy. My one time therapist expedition is not a remotely fair measure of the benefits of therapy. I benefited from time with my therapist. I had overachieved in the no complaining department, not speaking up when things annoyed or bothered me. Even on the blog, I avoided complaints. So for a year, I spilled them all out in a safe space to someone who was basically a stranger. I learned to find ways to communicate about the things that annoyed me without whining. I’ve just had a better experience moving through the really hard deeper emotions by writing about them. This makes me very grateful for my writing practice even when there are times I’m not doing much of it. My creative endeavors are part of my therapy and while I have invested money and time into one creative endeavor like new a new camera and a new lens, I realized that I haven’t invested in my writing. So this week I purchased a gratitude gift for myself, a book on writing titled 1,000 Words: A Writer’s Guide to Staying Creative, Focused, and Productive All Year Round.

I don’t know if this means I will be writing a thousand words every day. Maybe this is one way to replace my Fortune Cookie Journal. Who knows? But also, maybe instead of asking the question “will I ever write a book?” I can start asking the question “will my book get published?”

EVENTS

It started with a series of events. First, my dad’s sister passed away. Then my dad’s dog, Annie passed away and when that happened, Dad’s health took a fast and sloping decline. For years, Dad had been telling us the same old stories over and over. That was Dad. There was nothing that didn’t feel normal about this. But when Annie died, Dad lost his sense of direction. That was not normal and things progressed very quickly after that. Sudden. My dad’s death drug out over a year, but still felt sudden at the ending of it all. I knew it was coming and told myself I was prepared for it.

I’m a terrible liar.

I awoke to a text from my sister: “Button passed away in the night.” Button is my mother’s cat. Mom has always been a cat person. She’s the reason we always had at least one cat roaming around the house. I think about this now and realize my parents had their own familiars, Dad with his dog and Mom with her cat. Button has been around since before we moved Mom into the house she lives in now. When I called Mom with my condolences, my mother broke down into tears and said “She was my constant and only companion.” It was, and now is, my turn to be the comforter. While my mother has comforted me often, most of my tears were from scraped knees and broken bones. Mom being (hopefully) past those stages of scraped knees, I am left to comfort broken hearts.

Her job was easier.

Sometime last year, my mom started telling me “This or next year is probably my last.” She’d say these things whenever I called her to check in. I have never protested her declaration, but instead replying with a simple “Well…okay.” I have learned in the years since my dad passed to not object or try to correct my mother in the things she says. I’ve gotten good at redirecting her stories of ‘whoa is me’ to something from happier times. I’ve slipped up once and lost my patience with her and that was when she said no one would miss her when she’s gone. I realize now that it was a bait, one I fell for. I’ve been asked “Doesn’t it bother you or make you mad when she says she only has a couple of years left?” That doesn’t bother me. We should all get to chose our time, but the idea of not missing her….that was a terrible and hateful thing for her to say. I miss her while she is still living. I miss the mother she was in my toddler memories and in all the times it was just her and me. I miss the mother she was before J died. I miss the mother I took to Ireland and pointed at a large penis someone had drawn into the sand on the beach and asked if it was a picture of a cow.

And when I redirect her from her stories that come from someplace negative, that version of her is still there, but barely.

My mother’s brother passed away a couple of years ago and now her cat. I can’t help but think about Dad and the events leading to his decline. I’m worried that I will disappoint my mother and not spend enough time with her. I’m worried about the mistakes I will inevitably make. I’ve notice that I have a tendency to shut off emotions during a given time frame and proceed as if everything is okay. I wait until I’m completely alone to break down and let the masks fall. I am well aware that from the outside it will look like I’m not even sad for her to go. Even though I have been warned, I will still be surprised by the suddenness of her departure. I’ve heard people say that part of the joys of parenthood is watching your children age into grownups, but not much is said about grownups watching their parents age into decline.

Frankly, it is not a joy for me to witness but it is turning into lessons on patience and kindness, lessons on caring for my own body and how to prepare for my own age into decline.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Gratitude is tricky this week. I got absorbed with the horrors happening in Rafah and I’ve spent extra time contacting representatives and the President and basically anyone who is supposed to be representing my voice in the government to demand a ceasefire and to send aid not weapons. Then this morning, I got trapped in a conversation on Chinese/Taiwanese politics and had to send out a distress text to get out of it. The world is a tight ball of tension. It is really difficult sometimes to step out of the tension and take notice of the good things I am grateful for.

But I know that if I try real hard, I can come up with something.

I have on a brand new pair of overalls. They are navy blue and covered with daisies and I love them. They have been sitting in my drawer all week because I wanted to wear them today. Today is our Team Building event and instead of doing some activity that half of our group will complain about doing, we are volunteering at Harvester’s, a regional food bank that provides equitable access to nutritious food in the Missouri/Kansas area. I have been so excited about this since the idea was hatched a month ago. I don’t know what I’ll be doing, sorting canned goods or filling boxes, whatever, I’m excited and thrilled to be doing it. I’ve been thinking about it all week and it is the thing that is filling me with joy right now. Which tells me that I should be doing more of this.

So, while I’m at Harvester’s I’m going to talk to whoever I need to talk to about how I can volunteer on a regular basis.

I am grateful for my new overalls and all the pockets on my new overalls. There’s one whole pocket for my water bottle! I’m really grateful for this opportunity to help my community. Sure, this sounds cheesy and Pollyanna-ish. I hear it. I get it. I don’t care. I feed on acts of kindness and good works. I’m doing all of this for purely selfish reasons and that reason is that it makes me feel good. Not in a I’m-better-then-you kind of way or this-makes-me-a-good-person kind of way. It just feels good to do good.

Do good.

THE THINGS I SHOULD DO

I picked Nurse Jenn up on Monday morning and we headed to a yoga class that ended up being canceled. Turns out most of Waldo had power outages. So we switched gears and I drove us over to a local coffee shop for coffee and pastries and chats. We sat outside at a table tucked out of the way. It was perfect even though at one point Jenn gave me her sweatshirt to wear because I was cold. It was very romantic. We sat there and chatted about all the things that were happening or about to happen. I told her about yoga therapy school and she told me about how her youngest is getting ready to move out of the house. We talked about nothing important and then somehow ended up talking about something important: Living Wills.

Y’all…I don’t have a Living Will or a Healthcare Directive.

Yeah, I know. This sounds like something I would have taken care of by now, like something I should have taken care of immediately after J’s death. But seriously, how many people do you know had that kind of shit together in their (very) late twenties? I mean, that feels forgivable, but then even after Chris, I didn’t ever fill anything formal out. I have verbally said what I want, but verbal words are not legally binding. Especially if no one ever actually really listens to you. Jenn pointed out that a Healthcare Directive should be pretty detailed. It’s easy to say I don’t want to be ventilated, but in reality I should say I don’t want to be ventilated unless it’s there to make it easier for me to heal. All treatments should be centered around what sort of quality of life I would expect to have after treatment. We talked about limitations for treatments, like ventilation or life support for a certain number of days. We talked about about what ‘quality of life’ looks like for us both.

It’s a lot to consider.

Then the very next day, I opened up Facebook and Amani had posted a Death Doula PSA about living wills and advanced directives. I thought “How did she hear us all the way over there in Seattle?!?!” but she also shared that EForms was a very good place for creating these documents. So now I have absolutely no reason for not filling out all of this and storing it someplace where others can find it. But wait! There’s more. Amani recommends that you revisit these forms every year to keep them up-to-date. This is not a one and done adult task. This is an adult maintenance task.

Now, I hear some of you sighing and thinking “oh how depressing.” but it doesn’t have to be. If you are like me and want all the control, this is your opportunity to micromanage and control your very life. I find this idea very liberating and comforting. I get to define my idea of ‘quality of life’ and since I’ve been thinking about that, I’ve come to realize that I have high standards. I don’t want to leave a situation where I am left with nothing more than the ability to sit on a couch, watching TV all day. I don’t want to need a round the clock caregiver. If I need to be ventilated for treatments that are meant to save my quality of life, that’s fine, but after ten days, turn that shit off. Pull the plugs! I have a pretty high pain tolerance. So if I say that I’m in pain and want it all to end, then I’m serious.

Give me all the pills.

Micheal likes to joke about how I’m going to out live everyone. That’s possible except death is unpredictable, but if that’s true there’s not going to be anyone around to remember that I wrote this blog post, let alone verbally declared an end of life directive. This is all paperwork I need to have available for my future doctors so some Doogie Howser doesn’t try to play God with my tired, dying old lady body. Since it is officially summer, most of my chore list has been handed off to Michael and The Cabbage (band name). I’ve purchased a yoga class pass and I’ve made plans to meet a yoga friend for breakfast one morning. I might be interviewing for yoga teaching job for a studio in Lees Summit. Other than yoga, vacation, and another trip out to MBL, I don’t really have all that much on my to-do list.

Creating a Living Will sounds like a great summer project!

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Michael and I had the discussion on Monday evening about the possibility of Tuesday being a scooter day. His weather app had declared Monday to not be a scooter day when in fact it would have been a fine day for scooter riding. So he looked at the weather app Monday evening and declared that it would most definitely not be a scooter day on Tuesday. His app showed lightening bolts and clouds. He said “No. You will not be riding your scooter tomorrow.” and I sighed and said ‘okay’. But the next morning, I got up and walked Josephine. It was so nice outside. The sky did not have any hints of menace. When I got home from our walk, I checked my weather app and it looked clear except for a sharp peak of activity around 3:00PM that lasted an hour or so. I looked down at Josephine and said “I’m riding my scooter.”

The weather here has been unpredictable and messy. I feel like this time last year, I was riding my bicycle to work every other day and my scooter on the other days. Cold morning temps and rain showers have made two wheeled rides impossible. The most frustrating part is believing the weather report of rain and driving the car to work only to have a clear beautiful day. I was fed up and reminded myself of my rule of two wheels that I used to follow religiously.

The Rule of Two Wheels: If the temps are 40 or above and the sky is clear, I ride two wheels. If there is a possibility of rain, the two wheel vehicle is the scooter. No rain means bicycle. I only have to get to work dry.

So I rode my scooter on a day where there was one sharp peak of activity. What I didn’t plan for was that the sharp peak of activity was possible tornado weather and when I got to work, I got a little nervous. I sent a text to Michael to warn him that I had made a choice and that it might not have been the smartest choice, but I was prepared mentally for the consequences. Not physically. When I’d opened up my scooter seat that morning to put my lunch in the storage compartment, my rain coat that I sometimes keep in there wasn’t there. I shrugged, put my helmet on and scooted on to work without it. The storm rolled in at 3:00. Michael was trying to decide if he should bring my car up and ride my scooter home or go shelter in the basement and by the time he had made a decision the storm had moved past us. When I left work just after 6:00, the sky was completely clear. The temperatures were perfect with only a slight occasional breeze.

Perfect scooter riding conditions.

When I got home, Micheal had the garage door open for me. I walked into the house and he just shook his head and said something about how I managed yet again to ride between raindrops. Maybe this is one of my superpowers. But I must say, that taking the risk and surviving the risk was exhilarating. Sure, I’m grateful for making it to work and back home safe and dry. That’s an easy gratitude grasp. I don’t usually see myself as a risk taker. I’m sure there are many who would disagree with that statement, but I feel like most of my previous risky behaviors have happened out naivety. I don’t recognize a situation as a risk until I’m in the middle of it and then I might pause and say to myself “this might be dangerous.” But by the time I recognize it, it’s too late. I’m in it. I’m doing the thing. It’s sort of like the thought concept of how you could walk on water if you didn’t know you couldn’t walk on water. Technically I am of an age where people would say that I should know better. Gratefully, I have made it to this age without losing that naivity and that I still think I can do the thing even if it might be risky or a little dangerous.

Today was not a scooter day. It rained on us during our morning walk, cutting the walk short. But there were three good days of zipping down city streets, beeping hellos to friends as I passed by, and the joy that comes with riding a scooter. The risks are worth it.

DREAM

Chris came back and we had sex. “This is different. You’re different. Were you even enjoying yourself?” he asked me. “Yes…sort of. My head is preoccupied with thoughts. You’re here. And my life is different.” I replied. “Would you rather I didn’t come back?” he asked. “Absolutely no. I’d rather you be here. I just have to figure out what that means and looks like in this current life. You’ve been gone for a while.” I replied with these words still in my mouth as I woke from the dream. I laid there, blinking at the ceiling trying to decipher it. I tend to wake from such dreams with various emotions, mostly sadness..some times anger. This time I am filled with sadness and fear. I think about how maybe if he came back it’s him that wouldn’t want to be here with me.

I’m not the person I was when he was here.

There seems to be a growing trend with friends and acquaintances where sometime between forty five and fifty years of age, the male in the relationship decides he doesn’t want to be married anymore. They have up and left to be alone or (most often) to be with another woman. They’ve left marriages that at least from everyone else’s point of view look like perfectly happy marriages. I know at least two women who never saw it coming. They thought all was fine and then Bam! The spouse tells them they’ve been unhappy for years. Years! So there’s a part of me that wonders if Chris would have grown weary with me. I can’t imagine it, but there’s a lot of situations that I couldn’t have imagined that I am now living. I look across the bedroom at a picture of the two of us when we were in Oregon and the look on Chris’s face tells me that he would never, ever leave on his own accord.

But….

There is no What-If game to play here. There is no possibility of “coming back” for Chris. Yet I still have these dreams that hint of the possibility that one day, he’s going to just walk through the front door with the expectation that everything is as it was when he left eleven years ago. So much is so different. The walls are not even the same colors that they were when he left. His office has been taken over by another to be used as a bedroom. Though it is just as cluttered and messy as when it was his office. The dog is different. There’s a cat now too and two humans. It is no wonder I was preoccupied with thoughts because I would have to figure out how to reorganize all of this, how to tell the other people living in the house. I am sure that this is what I was thinking while dreaming. I’ve learned to live without him. I’d have to relearn how to live with him.

“Would you rather I didn’t come back?”

My answer remains the same because I know that when he asks that Chris is not speaking about the physical real world. He is talking about the worlds that exist behind closed eyelids in that space of deep sleep. If this is all I get, then yes, yes, a thousand times yes, don’t ever stop coming back. If I cannot laugh with you on this plane of existence, let me laugh with you in our dreams. Let me kiss and touch you. Let me argue with you and get frustrated with you. Let me be filled with joy as I see your face. If this is the only way, then this is the only way. Next time I promise to not be preoccupied or hesitant. I promise to be fully present in your visit with a full knowledge that they are short and fleeting.

But hopefully, never ending.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I put Michael and I on a cleansing diet when I got back from Woods Hole. So for the past two weeks there has been no alcohol, gluten, sugar, and no animal products in our meals. Mostly. I haven’t been a food police. I left in caffeine because I only drink one cup of coffee in the mornings and Michael has a thing of tea. Michael usually makes chicken salad to eat on crisp bread for his lunches and he’s kept that routine. I ate a bagel on Wednesday because it was work birthday treats and the bagels came from Meshuggah’s which is the closest to a New York bagel that you will find in the midwest. I don’t hate myself. I ate the bagel, but my food intake with the bagel exception, has stayed within the guidelines.

And it hasn’t been all that hard to do.

The reality is that for the most part, we tend to eat a vegan/vegetarian diet through the weeknights anyway. My lunch is leftover dinner. There’s a night that includes shrimp or fish. Taco nights include soyrizo and cheese. Those things have been easily replaced or left out. I think the idea of a ‘cleansing’ diet makes people focus on the things on the list they cannot have instead of seeing all that they can have. That’s what makes it so daunting, but when you already mostly eat that way it’s not a big deal. I think back to the very first time I put myself on a cleansing diet and how truly awful the experience was. Chris and I were still in Oklahoma, living with his mom. Oklahoma was not a place for vegetarians, let alone vegans and I got really bogged down by the things I couldn’t eat. I read so many labels. Grocery shopping was a full day adventure. I knew so little about food and nutrition then. I am actually surprised by the amount of stuff I didn’t know about the food I was putting into my body. Doing the cleansing diet changed the way I eat and think about nourishment.

I come back to this diet every once in a while as a reset. Michael has been all on board and rather a good sport about it, even suffering through a tofu vegetable stir-fry. He has incentives though for doing this diet with me. The last day of the cleanse is the day he has to have bloodwork done for a checkup and he will be going in with three weeks of clean eating. My take away from this round of a cleansing diet is how we deal with the weekends. When I made up the first week’s meal plan, I got to Saturday and Sunday and Michael said “what about lunches?” More often than not, we eat lunches out on the weekends and we buy rich, fancy ingredients to cook for dinners. There’s also a fair amount of booze. This cleansing diet has placed a spotlight on how our weekends can be so unmindful both nutritionally and financially. While I might be spending a teensy bit more on groceries, we are saving more than that in eating out fees. This is good practice for when we get back from our moose hunting trip because we plan to go on a financial diet and tighten up our spending/budget.

I want a new drive way. They are not cheap.

In the past, I would probably (and have probably) used my Thankful Friday post to be grateful that a cleansing diet is almost over. This time around is different. I don’t feel like I’ve made a great sacrifice or that limiting my meals to a strict vegan/gluten free foods has been a hardship. At the end of week two, I don’t think I can say I’ve lost any weight. There are no drastic physical changes. I’m less puffy maybe. I feel physically the way I should feel, which is good. I know from previous experiences that my body feels better on this kind of diet anyway. My gratitude this week comes from the insights I have gleaned on how we spend our money and the crap we eat on weekends. I am also grateful for how I have treated myself during the past two weeks. I’ve been able to set an intention for clean eating without guilting myself or binding myself. I’ve given myself some grace (see above about a bagel). I’ve treated myself with kindness and this is a big thing because I’m my own worst enemy.

But I will say that our diet ends on the day we have reservations for Le Fou Frog (a famously popular KC French restaurant) and I am very much looking forward to the escargot in herbed butter. Especially the butter.

CHARGED PARTICLES

The northern lights are an atmospheric phenomenon that's regarded as the Holy Grail of skywatching. Stefanie Waldek, Daisy Dobrijevic from Science.com

I’ve never been interested in seeing them.

It’s not that I would not want to see them; I just never thought about going out of my way to see them. The thing is, I’ve never really been all that interested in the night sky. Chris and a gaggle of friends would spend hours out on the oval at night, gazing up at the sky during our time at USAO. I think I tagged along a couple of times, but I found the whole experience to be uncomfortable. Laying on the ground with the night chill and swatting away mosquitoes while trying not to fall asleep was just not something that appealed to me. I’m not good with late night things. The Jenny Lewis concert I attended recently was a rare event and a struggle since she didn’t hit the stage until around 8:45 and my bedtime is 9:00. I’d pay extra for my favorite bands to put on matinees. To truly experience and see the night sky, one must wait until the sky is at its darkest and that happens well after 9:00.

When word went out on Friday that there was a possibility of seeing the Northern Lights in the Kansas City area, I was mildly interested. Then Chad sent me a screen shot of an email from the ham radio weatherman group he follows (of course he does) and it was all about the solar storms that were predicted for Friday and Saturday. So I replied to Chad with “ask the ham nerds about times.” and started to think about digging out my tripod. Friday evening rolled around and Michael and the Cabbage went to a school lock-in for the night. I FaceTimed with Amani and futzed around the house. I stepped out onto our front porch to look at the sky and my view was blocked by trees. I shrugged and went to bed. Then I woke up the next morning and my social media was filled with pictures people had posted of the Northern Lights.

Photographer Cindy experienced some serious JOMO.

Michael and the Cabbage came home from their lock-in and slept most of the day away, leaving me to my own devices and I just kept thinking about the pictures I had seen of the auroras. It was such a rare event to happen this far south, not that I’d consider Kansas City as ‘south’. I was just under the impression that if I were to ever see the Northern Lights, I was going to have to travel to Alaska or Iceland. I knew from Chad’s ham nerds that the solar storm would be even bigger and the auroras even stronger that evening. By the time Michael got up I knew that I wanted to go out and try to photograph the auroras for myself. The latest aurora map predictions said the peak time for seeing the lights would be between 11:30 and midnight. It didn’t take Michael much convincing to drive us an hour north to Smithville Lake. We started to set up in a parking lot, but the view wasn’t great. Also, as soon as I opened the truck door, my weirdo magnetic attracted another lights viewer who made a direct beeline to us with unsolicited advice. We quickly took a short hike to a more isolated area near the water.

Then we waited.

We sat on the ground, eating popcorn and swatting away little bugs while looking at the sky, all the things that are unappealing to me. Every once in a while, I would snap a picture and then look at the image to check my exposure times. It was around 11:10 and we hadn’t seen anything yet. Michael asked me what I wanted to do. I looked at the time and said “I want to wait. It’s still too early.” So we waited. We listened to the tree frogs and the murmurs of conversations happening around us. We watched a flat bottom boat hug the edge of the water on the other side of the lake and complained about the fisherman’s spotlight that he was using. Then I noticed a very faint green light. I pointed it out to Michael and said that it might be something, but most likely a cloud. So I snapped the shutter and we both gasped at the image. The camera captured a streak of green and purple dancing across the sky.

There are many many myths centered around the auroras, not surprisingly related to the afterlife. Japanese folklore spoke of the auroras as messengers from heaven. Native Americans believed the auroras were recently deceased loved ones, carrying torches on their way to heaven. This was a theme in one of the scenes from Almost Maine. In the scene, a woman has traveled to Maine to see the Northern Lights so she can say one final goodbye to her late husband. She’s carrying her broken heart in pieces in a paper bag and she meets a man who ends up taking that bag, dumping the pieces on the ground, and starts to fit those pieces of her heart. When Michael asked me to read this play with him, this was the hardest scene for me to read. Just the act of reading scenes itself brought up the memories of countless of hours of running lines with Chris. Mix those memories with that scene’s story line and it’s surprising I made it through it all alive. The aurora myths are easily believable if you don’t know anything about charged particles.

We were almost home when I said “Hey..remember that time we saw the Northern Lights?” as if it had been an event that happened years ago. I am almost uncertain that it even happened at all. The whole thing feels unreal, unbelievable. We never saw the auroras with our eyes, only through the camera and I had my camera set to a long exposure time. Our eyes just don’t have enough light sensors for seeing them at this latitude, but maybe in June, when we travel north for the moose hunt, we’ll have a better chance of seeing them with our eyes.

Maybe then I will change my mind about seeing ghosts.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Sometime around the beginning of April, I posted a picture of a goose who had decided to set up a nest on the rooftop outside my office. She laid five eggs and then settled in for a month, not moving but to rotate around every once and a while. We saw the goose’s partner only briefly in the beginning. The female goose sat all alone on the rooftop through dropping temperatures and downpours. At one time we even had a camera set up for a live feed of the goose. Then Jeff went to adjust it and accidentally broke the camera. Not just my office, but a number of people became fully vested in the survival of these geese. We worried and fretted over the dangers like our resident hawk and what happens when the eggs hatch.

I was scheduled to be at MBL when the eggs were expected to hatch. So I would check in every once and while to see if any of the eggs had hatched. No babies was always the response. One coworker even went in on Saturday to check. Finally, sometime on Sunday, the eggs hatched and when I got to work Monday morning there were five baby geese poking their little heads out from under their mother’s protective wing. Dad finally reappeared and the family was complete. Then we all started to fret over how these little geese were going to get down from the rooftop. Maintenance installed a ramp, which the geese avoided like it was hot lava. We would stand at the window and watch as they would all get close enough to the ramp to think they might give it ago. Then they’d dart off in the opposite direction. Finally, when the window washers made it to that area, we were able to convince them to toss the babies to the ground. Which they did. Like tossing a beanbag for a game of cornhole. They all landed safely and the family waddled off. We haven’t seen them since.

It does not go unnoticed that these eggs hatched so close to Mother’s Day. For this past month, this mother goose was a daily reminder of the struggles and hardships of motherhood and so many women do this every day alone. They get the kid up and ready for the day. If they’re fortunate, they get this kid fed breakfast before dropping them off at daycare/school. They’re the ones that show up when the school nurse calls. They’re the ones baking cupcakes at midnight for a last minute bake sale. They are the ones most often showing up. My dad did his best to help out with raising me. He volunteered for all the extracurricular activities. He was often in charge my evening meals and Sunday mornings he made mom and I breakfast and served it to us in bed. My dad brought me a tray of breakfast every Sunday morning like I was a gosh dang princess. I think he did pretty well for being raised with patriarchal ideas on gender roles.

Mom also volunteered. She made sure I was up and fed and ready for school each day. She made sure there was a responsible adult around at the end of a school day whether it be a neighbor or instructions to get off the school bus at one of the many church ladies that took turns looking after me. Mom spent countless hours lying on the sewing room floor while I struggled with sewing projects. She listened to me when I said I wanted to play the cello and made that happen by buying me a cello and finding me a teacher. She tolerated my goofiness whenever we were shoe shopping. She was the one who discovered USAO first and told me that this might be the school for me. We visited that school together and the moment we turned into the circle on campus, we both knew she was right. My mom made sure I stayed focused and was prepared for a successful future.

So for today, because it’s Mother’s Day weekend, this Thankful Friday moment of gratitude goes out to all those mothers who diligently sit on those eggs and protect those babies under their wings.

And my mom.

CHANGE

Years ago, my yoga teacher told me that people both fear and crave change. There are a lot of emotions wrapped up in changes, not unlike the memory balls in Inside Out when touched by Joy and Sadness. Then there is the complexity of change itself. It something we can choose or sometimes chosen for us, often without warning. Those without warning changes that are thrust upon us often send a body into fight or flight mode. There’s trauma involved, but the changes we choose for ourselves comes with its own set of anxiety feelings.

Mostly doubt.

I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about mobility, the aging body and how this plays into my yoga teaching practice. As I was putting together some slides of shoulder anatomy for a yoga strap workshop that I want to do, I had to resist turning my strap workshop into an anatomy/physiology class. The more I thought about the shoulder joint and the things we task that joint with, the more my idea of teaching shifted. I feel moved to teach others to move their bodies in a way that supports their joints and overall mobility. This does not include teaching a student how to wrap their foot around their head or other such pretzel poses that most westerners associated with the term ‘yoga’. This thought planted a seed in the back of my brain. What if I got certified in Yoga Therapy, supporting healthy body movement by working with a patients health care provider? What would that entail and how would that change my current career? I’ve been sitting quietly with this planted seed and all of these questions for some time.

Then I asked these questions out loud and that seed sprouted.

I have found a program (thanks, Shannon!) that offers a Master’s in Yoga Therapy and is taught by MDs, which feels more legit than a lot of programs I have looked at online taught by other yoga teachers. No offense to yoga teachers, but most do not have doctorates in anatomy and physiology. Many 200hr teacher credit courses don’t really even teach anatomy beyond the basics of this is an arm and that is a leg. I have opinions about that, but that’s another ranty post for another time. This program would basically be like going back to graduate school and when I told those around me about this, I was hit with a wave of support. I still have some questions and planning to do. There are things happening at work that may change how I do my job in the future. It’s the reason I’m making a quick return to MBL at the end of June. That change comes with a lot of uncertainty and may or may not even happen. The potential of it happening has me stepping back and slowing down on the return to graduate school idea. I think I’ve waited too late to apply for the Fall anyway, but I think this is good because it gives me time to carefully fill out financial aid forms and the application. I intend to apply for the next Fall enrollment.

I talked to Michael about this and the possible work changes last night and when I had told him every thing, he said “How do you feel?” I sighed and then said “I feel anxious and scared and little bit like I’m going to throw up.” Then he reminded me that I could always say no to the work change. He is supportive of the yoga therapy thing and told me that I am probably the only one he knows who has stuck with the same job/career path for as long as I have. I’ve been a research scientist for twenty four years! Becoming a Yoga Therapist would not change that. It would be something I would do part time that I intend to transition into full time when and if I retire. The other thing would change that and I have yet decided on how this would make me feel. Both of these changes are of my own choosing. Both of these changes are not or will be quick and drastic. These are long game changes. This does not me that I am not feeling a bit buzzy right now. Just keeping up with my calendar right now is making me want to breath into a paper bag. I think I have jury duty this month too…but have forgotten to add that to the calendar. Anyway, I told someone recently that things were going to slow down for me in May. I was wrong.

Things are going to slow down for me in July.

Maybe.

ADDRESS UNKNOWN

I’m going to tell you about the dumb thing I did recently. I ordered a gift through Amazon for my sister-in-law and since I was in a rush and on my iPad, I wasn’t paying close attention to where I was shipping the gift. I have a list of addressed in Amazon of family and friends who I may decide needs a coloring book or nectar rings for feeding hummingbirds. I just selected the address for James R. Graham and placed my order. It was only later after I knew it had been delivered and I never heard from Katrina about it that I started to suspect something. James R Graham is my brother’s name. It’s his son’s name and son’s son’s name. I’m pretty sure if that son and his wife decide to have a baby and it’s a boy, that kid will be a James R Graham. James R Graham was also my dad’s name.

I sent Katrina’s gift to my Dad. In Collinsville OK. To a house that we no longer own because my dad is dead.

After some interweb sleuthing, I tracked down the young man who bought the house when Mom sold it and messaged him through Facebook. He was very kind and had been trying to figure out how to contact the family because he recognized the name. I don’t think he opened the package and I’m pretty sure it’s weird to receive a package delivery for a man who has been dead for almost then years. Mail is not so unusual. I still get mail for Chris all the time. But a large box containing a glass hummingbird feeder is an unusual gift for a dead man. I was able to connect him to Katrina and she was able to retrieve her gift.

My dad had an almost zero online presence. He appeared in pictures that we posted, but he didn’t have a Facebook page or Twitter account. He never sent texts and had the most basic cell phone he could possibly have. Dad was not tech savvy, but also did not require a tech savvy person to ‘fix’ something like a printer connection or run a software update. Because of his lack of online activity, it never really dawned on me that there would be internet things of Dad’s that I would need to clear out or download, like what I had to do with Chris. There’s a whole external hard drive in my file cabinet that contains all the content of Numskullery.com, as well as pictures and word documents of started projects. I weeded out so many domains that he had purchased but never used. I still have Dad’s phone number saved in my phone (as well as Chris’s).

Apparently, I still have his address stored in my gift list.

In my explanations to the young man and Katrina about my shipping snafu, I said “I don't know what happened.” I also called myself a ‘dope’, but to be honest, I’ve had Dad lingering around me ever since I started planning our moose hunting trip. His silly jokes just randomly bubble up out of my own mouth. It is not unlike Whoopie Goldburg’s character in Ghost where she plays a medium for spirits to speak to the living. I keep thinking about how his prize for anything was always a fifty cent piece. Always. Inflation had no effect on this. Sort of like the five dollar bill Grandmother put in my birthday card every year until she died when I was in my twenties. I have a small stash of fifty cent pieces, but they were not won by being the first to spot anything. The Tooth Fairy left those and I have saved them all these years.

And I can’t believe I am just now realizing that the Tooth Fairy was my dad.

I haven’t been back to the house where we lived since Mom sold it. I almost asked Katrina how the old house looked, what had been changed, what was the same. I don’t think I want to know. One of the ways I figured out I had tracked down the right person was through his photos. He had a photo that had the old scary shed in the background. That shed was so full of old tools and crap. I don’t think I ever really went in two steps past the entrance. It smelled of dirt and old oil. There were always wasps. But it was something I could still recognize. I don’t know about the rest of the place and I prefer not knowing. I prefer to think that the front brick entry way looks exactly the same as it did when we all as a family would stand there to pose for Easter pictures, Mom’s irises blooming all around us. That place will be forever in a state of Spring in my memories. Maybe summer too when it would be so hot, tar in the road would bubble up. We’d ride over the bubbles with our bicycles and laugh at the popping sounds.

If I delete the address, do I delete the memories?

That address was one of the first things I was forced to memorize and I’ll remember it always, burned into my brain deeper than any password or anniversary date. So, I will be going in and cleaning out the old address list and at the very least remove those who are no longer with us. Oh, and I’ll warn the guy living at the old place to keep an eye out for a second package.

Yeah… I sent two packages there.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

If I go over to the gym at a specific time, I can use the yoga classroom for my own practice because there are no classes going on at the time. If I miss that timing window, I end up rolling out my mat between the windows and the exercise bikes. The exercise bikes are not the most popular and usually no one is on a bike while I’m moving through suryanamaskara. It’s not a big deal to me to have a possible audience because I have my headphones on and the volume up loud enough to drown out other gym noise. I’ve gotten adept at putting a mental bubble around me and my mat, but getting to use the yoga classroom gives me easy access to the yoga enhancers (props) and a bit of privacy.

That being said, I do not treat the space as my own personal space. I leave the doors open or at least partially open and I leave the sign outside turned to ‘open’. I want others to feel free to use the space even though I’m in there doing my own thing. It just feels selfish of me to claim this whole space for just myself. My schedule has been so wackadoodle that I’m struggling to carve out time for my own yoga practice. So when I do get the opportunity I make my practice really challenging. I’ve added hand weights to my suryanamaskara and mix in some dynamic movement, but I also leave time for a good long savasana (final relaxation). The end part of my practice is truly the most important part because I don’t get a savasana when I’m teaching classes. That’s twice a week where I’m doing and teaching without reaping the full benefits of yoga. My classes are not my practice.

This week, I was in that space doing my thing and I had just settled into final relaxation. I heard some other people in the gym, but quickly tuned them out. There was a singing bowl playlist playing through my headphones loud enough to feel the vibrations without damaging my ears. It was a good final relaxation. I wasn’t fidgety or crying (that happens). I sunk right in and landed in the space between awake and asleep. I was there for a good fifteen minutes and when the timer signaled the end, I peeled myself up to a seated position. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that someone had closed both doors to the yoga classroom. They had even turned the sign around to read “in use”.

My job and my service as a yoga teacher is to protect my students during their savasanas. I am the time keeper and on high alert watching over my student to ensure they are comfortable and feel safe. I take this job very seriously because I feel that savasana is (especially in our current lifestyle/environments) the most important thing a person can do for themselves. Not only does it allow the body to recover and adjust to the physical changes that happen during the moving parts of yoga, but it gives a body time and permission to just rest. I have taught at studios where I have had women tell me that they pay me so they can rest. It is their only guilt free moment and they need the permission to ‘indulge’. I think having to pay someone to give you permission to rest says a lot about what is happening in our society.

I did some investigating and it didn’t take much to find out who closed me up in the yoga room this week. I haven’t had the opportunity to thank them in person yet because they’re on vacation, but I want them to know how very grateful I am for their simple little act. By closing the doors and turning the sign around, this person gave me permission to fully relax in the space. Their actions were very much like having someone watch over and protect me during my own savasana, something I rarely get.

And this is a prime example of how small acts of thoughtful kindness has big impacts.

SAY CHEESE

My theme for my weekend at Heather’s was Cheese. We made a ridiculous recreation of the Milk Bar Bakery’s Cheesy Puffs cake. We ate fancy grilled cheese sandwiches at Cheese Bar and then bought cheese at the store that owns the restaurant. Their pimento and cheese is my mother’s and I ate the last of it when I got home in the same way I’d eat it as a kid, sandwiched between two pieces of Wonder Bread. With the first bite, I started singing “Let’s do the time warp again!” After I left Heather’s, she and a friend attended a cheesecake class and were in the middle of baking as I passed a Sargento cheese truck.

I’m planning a cleansing diet for the month of May.

This trip to Des Moines was my second trip to the city and my first trip on solo with Josephine. Here’s what I learned. It takes no time to get from Kansas City to Des Moines. If you’re lucky, along the way you will spot bald eagles. I saw two! There’s an opportunity to see covered bridges and shop at an Amish store filled with homemade canned goods and crafts. You know you are leaving (or entering) the state of Missouri when you see all the giant firework warehouses next to the highway. I-35 is very much like the section of I-35 that runs through Oklahoma, meaning it needs some work. The cheese shop with the most wonderful cheese is right next to a French bakery that sells all the best flakey pastries and baguettes for the cheese you just bought at the fancy cheese shop.

There will be many trips to Heather’s in the future; one of which will be for the State Fair.

This trip was also a test of how well Josephine will do in the car without being able to sit in my lap for most of the ride. I fixed her bed in the front seat with a towel in the floor. There was a little bit of a dance in the beginning, but she very quickly settled into her bed. Then she split her time between the floor and the bed. She was the perfect copilot. She let me listen to whatever I wanted and didn’t talk while This American Life was playing. We made one stop for potty breaks for both of us and she didn’t request anything from inside the gas station. She never acted nervous or anxious. This is all very important because I have some solo camping adventures I want to do and it feels safe to have Josephine with me for those. She’s a little dog, but she’s got a big bark.

There was a particular song that kept popping up on the radio last year, This Year by Emily King. It’s catchy and felt like a good morning theme song. It’s the song that played in my head when I was writing out my plan/flow chart for 2024. It’s not a self absorption or a ‘you’re so vain’ thing. I don’t listen to the song and think ‘yeah, the world needs to revolve around me!’. I hear that song and see it as a reminder to take care of my own happiness. I have also spent too much time making space for someone else both physically and mentally. In my efforts to make room, I have made myself smaller and a little numb. So all the things I’ve put on my chart for the year have been activities I want to do for myself. I’m becoming less numb and less tolerant of being talked at as opposed to being talked to or with. I’m working at being less small. Making space for myself is involving a number of solo trips this year because planned trips force me to carve out the time for me. If I put it on the calendar and book the room, I’m going and that’s that.

I guess the next adventure will be solo camping. I’ve built the kitchen box and organized my camp gear. All that’s left is to throw a dart at the map and go.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Westside Local posted a picture of my art hanging on their walls, which I in turn shared to my social media places. The prints have been up all through March and I have to make plans to remove them at the end of April. Honestly, with all that is going on, I sort of set this showing out of my mind. I had intended to go into Westside Local for lunch with coworkers, but suddenly it’s April 19th and I don’t understand what happened to time.

Where’d it all go?

I realize there is still time to get there for a lunch or something. April is not over, but coordinating my calendar around everyone else’s calendars is like trying to solve a complicated quantum physics problem. Yesterday, I spent a large part of my morning texting back and forth with Jenn about lunch dates. I finally ended up just sharing my calendar with her. We managed to schedule a lunch day and provided proof to each other that it was a real date because we both put it in our calendars. Everyone is busy with life right now because we are all basically hibernating mammals. Sure, we weren’t sleeping during of the winter months but we were only into minimal effort activities. Now that the sun’s out and the birds are chirping, we’re crawling out from under our layers and setting down our bowls of soup. The salad days are upon us! I mean sort of. I have to cover plants tonight because temps are dropping into the low 30s, but it’s a brief two day cold front and then we’re right back into balmy thunderstorm weather.

Any way. Things are happening and we’re all doing the thing.

I’m super grateful to Westside Local for giving me the opportunity to hang my pictures on their walls. This has been the most chill experience. I didn’t feel rushed to get things prepared. There was zero hassles in hanging photos, which I had to do on my own. I didn’t have to endure another artist reception where I uncomfortably had to talk to people about my art. I haven’t sold anything from this showing, but funny enough I sold a print that is not in this showing, a photo from a recent trip. I do not care that I have not sold anything. Money is not my motivation, though it is a validation. It just feels special to have some of my favorite pictures displayed on walls where complete strangers will see them. Really, that’s all I want to say about it because it still feels super awkward to talk about my art.

With that, I’m off to Des Moines with Josephine as my copilot. We’re going to spend the weekend with Heather where there will be shenanigans, bubbly drinks and beagles. If you are in the Kansas City area and find yourself looking for a nice place for a meal, I suggest you give Westside Local a try. The food is delicious, atmosphere is charming, and the art on the wall isn’t bad.

THINGS I DON'T DO ON THE WEEKENDS

I don’t check my email on the weekends. I have two gmail accounts, one is the original that I got locked out of for a few weeks. I created a new account when that happened and now the old account is mostly spam/ads/trash with the occasional reminders for a bill or a receipt from Google Fiber. My work email used to be attached to my phone but I never had that set up when I swapped phones two phones ago. In order to get to work emails from home, I have to pass through the security gauntlet that is not unlike getting through all the booby traps to get to the hidden treasure. So I just don’t bother. The gmail account I created while I was locked out of the old one was meant to be a cleaner account but this one has started to get a little junky with the spams. Every Monday morning I open up the email accounts, select everything unread in the promotions folder and delete without thinking twice.

And it feels really good.

I also do not even look at the news until Sunday mornings when CBS Sunday Morning does their little snippet of news at the beginning of the show.

I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision to ignore my email accounts on the weekends. I didn’t flash a meme of sitting on the beach with a cold beer and a notice that reads “slams laptop ‘ill Monday” up anywhere. I just stopped checking my email. During the weeks, I am continuously answering to someone in email and/or Teams (stupid Teams). I much prefer face to face conversation and sometimes will ignore a work email and just go find the person who sent it so we can discuss the issue. This continued answering to people doesn’t just apply to work. There are doctor’s notices, Vet visit reminders, bill notices and the countless daily things that must be taken care of to keep the lights on. When I’m not answering to people, I’m keeping my self accountable by staying informed with worldly news and checking to see how my representatives are representing me with bills they are voting (or not voting) on. In my case, it’s about 50/50 on which rep is doing a decent job for this state. (I did just have to send out an email to our Attorney General, defending Planned Parenthood).

A Chookooloonks newsletter was waiting for me in my inbox this morning and in it Karen Walrond wrote of the importance of self compassion. Treating yourself with compassion should be a daily practice, not something you do when you’ve completely depleted yourself. Karen is not talking about spa days. She writes of small, simple actions like dancing or stopping to take pictures of wildflowers and how these actions help sustain us in our activism, particularly when there is so much that needs doing right now (any one see the recycling segment on CBS Sunday Morning this week?). The state of things is overwhelming and reminding myself that change happens in micrometers starting with my own community is my daily mantra, but I never really stopped and thought about the little actions I take daily that gives me the energy to write the letters and make the phone calls.

I often stop to take photos of flowers and it is not uncommon to look over at my cubicle and see me dancing like banshee. The no emails or news on weekends are just two small things I do as self compassion. I just didn’t realize it until now.