Hold My Hand...We'll Get Through This Together.

He told me to hold his hand. "Just hold onto my hand, and relax. Just hold on and breathe and let it pass. This will pass. And you will make it through. Just hold onto my hand." It was the same comforting message that he gave me when I was in the midst of an anxiety attack. When my emotions would well up inside of me and become uncontrollable staccato. Jerky breathing and movements. Unable to get a good gulp of fresh air. I would pinch my eyes shut as tightly as possible and feel his hand in mine and breathe.

It's no wonder that I'm having these feelings so much right now. I am at a precipice in my life. And beyond this point is the unknown of my life. Nothing will ever be the same again. But I'm glad to have someone kind and gentle to remind me that if I just hold on, that this will pass, and I will make it through...and he will hold my hand the whole way. Thank you. I needed that. 

Even Neighborhoods Die and Are Reborn

        The smell of the Mimosa Tree filled the air. On hot dry days walking home, I would come around the last bend, and step onto my block. Even in the dark, I knew this spot. But on hot dry days, this spot was an oasis. The shade from the tree's thick canopy was like a welcoming gesture. As if the tree it's self was saying "Now you get on home little Missy. Your mama will be worryin' about you." Like the tree was greeting me, embracing me with it's cool shade and thick heady scent, and then swiftly sending me on my way home to Victor Drive. I will miss this tree. I will miss walking under it.

Like I miss the little girls who used to live behind my house in the old farmhouse on Elliott which was torn down by the JC to make room for a vacant lot for their building supplies and forklifts. I don't remember those girls names. But I do remember how they would set up a little card table there on the corner, catching the traffic of students coming and going to class. Selling them ice cold glasses of sweet pink lemonade. I will miss those girls, that house, this tree, and this corner. But most of all, I will miss home.

It's time to move on though. The neighborhood's changing. Even if I could stay, I'm not sure I'd want to at this point. Millie's gone and now all that's left across the street is her creepy son who stares at me from behind her lacy old lady curtains. I'm glad he's stopped trying to talk with me.

Hugh next door passed away. And it's hard to get used to these changes. I'm used to seeing him outside, casting his fly fishing lines. Practicing in the street. Or even feeding those damn pigeons! We had so many pigeons in our neighborhood. He lured them in by feeding them. But it made him happy, and that made me happy to see; so in that way, it made this world -and more specifically, my neighborhood a better place to be. He's gone now.

When I look out my back window, across the deck and into the garden, I see the roses that we planted together. But the tall ancient mission olive tree is gone. It's feathery silver branches would dance in the wind and hypnotize me at night. The glow from the moon light suited it. And the big old fig tree, with the canopy as big as any I'd ever seen, was gone too.

The Kawase's on the corner were the last ones to have a cedar shingled roof. We were the 2nd to last. On mornings after a big storm, people wouldn't know weather to return the shingle tiles to them or to us because nobody knew who's roof it had fallen off of. But people cared. They cared enough to at least *try* to return the wayward shingle to it's rightful owner.

I would say Hugh's widow Dora, and her daughter and grandchildren...and the Kawase's on the corner, and the Saneholtz's across the way that bought old Mrs. Rheinie's house are all that's left of this old dying neighborhood. Well...them and me. But I'm leaving soon. And when I go, this neighborhood will die just a little bit more.

It's changing. I'm not sure what it's turning into. But it's not the same place. There's no friendly Irish pub within walking distance, where you can go for Shepard's Pie and a berry Trifle desert. No more ice-cold rootbeer floats from the old A&W or the hot and slimy chili cheese fries that we would munch on. I don't see people as much. There's no more connection between the neighbors. More and more, we're distant, and fundamentally strangers to one another; and that's not the way it used to be. No.

Taking it's place is the ever growing noise. The noise pollution from the freeway that seems to actually grow every year, as more and more people move to this area, or drive instead of walk or ride their bikes. The obnoxious "Beep Beep Beep" of the trucks and forklifts that come into the empty lot behind my house, flashing their orange rotating lights like a cop car's into my bedroom window and waking me up, not with the sounds of nature, not with the mockingbird's song, or even the crow's harsh call, but with the sounds of construction and moving and banging and dropping and of course that beeping that says "Hey...I'm backing this little piece of shit forklift up, I thought you'd want to know that, since it's 5 O'clock in the morning and all..." Yeah. I won't miss that.

I also won't miss the jerk with the convertible BMW roadster who bought his house cheap a couple of years ago, just in time to be here for the end of my mom's life, but not in time enough to really get a feel for who she was, or what kind of people *we* are. We are not bad people. And honestly, our roots here go deep. So it surprised me when this relative newcomer to our neighborhood gave my mom these cold alien looks. Tight jawed. Unfriendly. Unwelcoming. As if to say "You are not wanted here." My mom as sweet as she was, was oblivious to him -and for that, I am grateful. She would always wave and smile at him and greet him like a friend. It perplexed her why he never said anything back. "He must not have heard me." she would say. "Yes, he must not have heard you." I'd repeat, all the while feeling tightness in my chest. This pain, that I couldn't possibly let out. She and I would go for slow shuffling walks around the block. We took our time. She was constantly learning to walk again in those days. So we went, one slow step at a time around our small block. In front of his house, we would make our slow progression, taking 5 or 10 minutes just to go across his tiny front yard. I don't know what he thought of us? It was obvious that my mom wasn't well. And from her crazy unkempt hair, and MY crazy unkempt hair, that we probably didn't see the world in quite the same way that he did. I think he may have even thought we were a slow moving parade of vagrants who wandered out from the homeless shelter around the corner at the Armory. He regarded us like that. But our house was not always the dingy shell that it is today. Years of slaving and struggling and trying desperately to make happy the one true treasure and joy in my life...trying to keep her just a little bit longer...and trying to keep everything going all at the same time was hard. So I stopped watering the flowers in the front yard. I didn't care if my trash can was out on Thursday, even though garbage night came and went on Monday. I was tired, and just trying to hold on. But these people didn't know me. Didn't know my mom. Never saw the house in it's glory years when my grandparents called it home. Never knew what a tight ship they ran. Or how friendly and nice we all are. No. To them, I was the scourge. Something to get rid of. When was I finally going to be gone so someone "nice" could move in? And by nice, they meant really more like them. Someone who would fix the place up and landscape it like it was out of a Sunset magazine. I wanted to. I tried when my mom was alive.

We used to have rows of lavender lining our front walkway. And rosemary planted by the curb. The sweet scent of mockorange greeted you at our front door. I dug out the rosemary and lavender after they had grown dry and straggly from several seasons of fending for themselves. I let the two large pine trees that I planted with my Grandpa be all the landscaping we needed in the front. The pine needles carpeted the ground below, and after the rains, thick rings of mushrooms would poke up from under them. "Fairy rings". -That's what my mom called them. And I think that some part of her, may have actually believed in fairies. May have actually thought of this place, our home, as being a special and sacred place for fairies to come and go. To enter into the world of the everyday. My mother was always a small person. Some friends even called her Vivalina. Like Thumbalina. She even had litte elvish points in her ears. I used to kid her and joke, that I knew the truth about her. But that I would keep her secrets safe and protect the magical entrance to her kingdom.

No...these people didn't know who we were. So when they left a big shopping cart filled with clods of dirt and old sod that they had pulled up from their old landscaping (to be replaced with the beautiful wooden walkway and the wabi-sabi landscape) well...when they left that in front of my house kind of like a passive-aggressive "fuck you" how could I get mad at them? They didn't know who I was. Didn't know that inside of my house was a sick woman, who lay dying, and that when they finally left that cart, she had just died. They didn't know that even though to them getting rid of that heavy shopping cart full of dirt would be just a minor nuisance, to me...it became the chore that never got done because I had better things to do. More important things to do than to deal with their crap, or even attempt to try to talk to them after that. They didn't know. I'm sure they're nice people. Under better circumstances, we might have actually been friendly. Maybe not "friends". ...most of my friends don't do things like that, even to people that they think are assholes who deserve it. Well...I tell you...I won't miss them. Not one bit.

This neighborhood has a life force. And whatever it was from my childhood is dying all around me. And the weeds that are popping up are people like the Sunset garden home two doors down. So it's time to let the wind blow through me, and clear this whole place out. Most of the things that I will miss about this place, are already gone.

The Last Sunday Brunch In Winter

I went out to the last Sunday brunch that I will be having for a while. And it waaaaas good! The Cute Boy and I ventured out in the rain, this wet Sunday morning, to one of my favorite spots in Graton: The Willowood Market Cafe. Upon being seated in the back, in one of their cozy little tables for two, our waitress brought us two cups of coffee and asked us "What'll it be?" We looked at her and smiled. I think my smile was more like an elated child's Cheshire grin. My eyes seemed to say "You're in for a laugh, here we go..." And then, I hit her with it. I told her I was going to be ordering three breakfasts. I placed my order swiftly and decisively. I knew what I wanted before I even got there. "I'll have the Eggs Benedict, the Monte Cristo, and the Huevos Rancheros." I handed her the menus and smiled up at her sweetly.

"OK" she said with a laugh. "And what would you like?" she said looking down at The Cute Boy. ...Now I feel it's important to stress here...The Cute Boy is one beefy hunk'O man. He looks like the kind of corn-fed, good, solid stock that he is. Kinda like he played football in his High School glory days and will forever more carry that solid broad-shouldered manly physique with him. He didn't actually play High School football, but he looks like it. So when he looked up at her with his sweet baby blues and ordered *just* the Eggs Benedict, I think it threw our waitress a little. She had to repeat the order to us and even come back one more time to make sure she got it straight. I imagined her saying "The little lady at table 4 would like three breakfast's and her beefcake boyfriend will be having one. OK. Check. Got it. ???"

I'm not pregnant. But there is a very good reason that I am eating like it is going out of style. ....Oh...and one more thing...before we left, I ordered a crème brûlée too! Some part of me felt horrible just doing it. I thought about people who had little or no food, and about saving money. But ultimately, I went ahead with my plan anyway. It's not like I do this every day. And honestly, this is one of the cool parts about being an adult and paying for everything yourself: you can get, whatever you want. You can order two or more different things if you want to. Obviously, I didn't eat it all. I just munched away at the parts that I wanted and liked, split my Eggs Benedict with my boyfriend, and then went home with two large containers full of food. (I'll be eating breakfast food for dinner tonight...as well as breakfast tomorrow!)

The reason that I was indulging in all of these delicious salty, savory, and fatty foods, was because on Tuesday, my juicer arrives. Yes...you read that correctly...my *juicer*!

Some time last year, my friends Laurelin and David watched this documentary called "Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead". (If you want you can click on that title and watch it for free on Hulu.) It's about this guy from Australia who went on a juice fast in order to regain his health. This not only improved his life tremendously, but inspired him to then try to get out the word to the average person as to what the potential health benefits are to eating (drinking really) a diet that is rich in phytonutrients.

For the past couple of years, I've been having some pretty bad gastrointestinal issues, primarily due to stress. I'll say it, I'm a stress puker. When things get stressful for me, I toss my cookies. Or...even worse...I get horrible diarrhea. -Sometimes BOTH! :p It got so bad that my stomach was going into overdrive with the acid production, and I even got an ulcer. I've tried the traditional Western medicine approach -and I'll continue to do that as well. But I'm now more open to trying this whole juice fasting thing. I'm hoping that it will reset my G.I. tract to a healthy normal state, help me feel better in general, lose weight, and have more energy. We'll see. But I'm willing to give it a go. A serious go.

My friends who have tried it, said that they could really feel the difference in their bodies from the days that they didn't juice. Laurelin said that it just felt good. Like she felt cleaner from the inside. Healthier. More energy. And I have to say, all of that sounded very nice to me. I want to feel "clean from the inside". My trainer really wanted me to focus on eating more fresh raw fruits and vegetables. And when my Aunt, who is recovering from cancer, and also happens to be a good level headed health professional said that she was going to be juicing as well, and made the whole family sit down and watch the "Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead" documentary over Christmas, I knew it was something that I wanted to try.

So I ordered my juicer from Amazon. And when it arrives on Tuesday, I'm going to be doing it. Vegetables, fruits, nuts, and beans. I remember when I was a McDougall vegetarian, I never really had to limit my portions. It was literally impossible for me to eat so much fresh fruits, vegetables, brown rice, and beans that I got fat. And believe me...I tried! ...Well...I didn't really *try*. But I guess what I'm saying is that I chowed down. I ate as much as I wanted, and I exercised, and I remember just feeling good. I had energy. I felt clean from the inside.

SO I'm resetting my body. This seems like the perfect time to do it too. I'm just now, recovering from a mild case of Walking Pneumonia. I've been sick since Christmas. And my lungs are not back to normal yet. It's way better though. But I realized that this is a perfect time to try this juice fast. My reasoning is, that I've actually eaten a lot less this last month because of my cold. There were a good two weeks where I barely ate. So I think it will be a nice segue into juice. Last night, The Cute Boy and I ate a pizza dinner at his sister's house. It was so good! But we didn't even make it out of her neighborhood, before I had to pull the car over and puke. -I threw up six times last night. Violently. In all likelihood, I will probably get sick from what I ate earlier today. But I'm really hoping that this new diet will help relieve this. I have nothing to lose, and a whole lot to gain. Wish me luck!

One Year Anniversary

Today is officially our one year anniversary!

After my mother died, (as I'm sure you all know), I was besieged by so much grief, it was hard to even breathe on some days. And then came the calm. The melancholy. The quiet days of just being. Learning to breathe again. Noticing the sun outside and the squirmy little puppy that was mine, and the elegant sleek racing dog that was always there. -These were my new family. This was the new pack, sadly, without my mother.

This was where I was, when love found me. Who in the world would have thought it possible? The state that I was in was pretty much as unattractive as I could imagine myself. -But I guess that's how you know when it's real; love that is.

In this year, there have been so many things to be grateful for. I have completely fallen apart. And I found someone who loves me, even in that state. It all started with friendship and a crush, many years ago. When we reunited, I think we both liked each other almost immediately. By the end of the first day together, we both felt something good. Was it love? -Not yet. Whatever it was, it felt nice.

Early on, I had to have a tooth extracted that was growing up into my sinus cavity. I remember being so surprised when The Cute Boy showed up at my door unannounced, with a basket of flowers and a card (one of the few that he's given me -'cause he's not that into cards). It said "I hope you feel better". It was a day *before* my surgery, and he was already wishing me well. I remember standing there at my front door, perfectly healthy and smiling at him. It was one of the sweetest things that a guy had ever done for me. -a preemptive get well wish. He offered to take me the Doctors and take care of me afterward, but I declined. I had already made plans for another friend to drive me. In the end though, The Cute Boy did help out when I needed my prescription but still couldn't drive because of the sedative. He went and got it. It was funny, because although I had gotten my mother's prescriptions many times, I had never actually had a friend go pick up mine for me. I was worried that they wouldn't fill it for him or that there would be a problem and I would have to go down to do it myself. (Ye of little faith!). He didn't have any problems. That shifting, from being the caretaker, to being the cared for, was a strange one for me. I didn't trust it at first. But there would be many more opportunities for The Cute Boy to prove to me his trustworthiness. His tenderness. And most of all, that I was safe. Isn't that funny? Safe!? Why on earth would I *not* feel safe??? But looking back on it, it all makes sense. I had spent so many years, taking care of my mother, always being the one to protect and shelter her. To love her. To care for her when she was sick. To handle everything and try to hold it together while my whole world fell apart. I can't tell you how hard it is to watch someone that you dearly love deteriorate. To witness their body betray them and rapidly wither and change in sickness. The most painful memories I have are of this, and of being completely helpless to stop it. During this all, I was the guardian. I stood watch over her, protecting her. But who was there to protect me? I hadn't even realized that there was anything missing there, or that I had such a deep need, until I got sick around Christmas this year, and The Cute Boy took me over to his house and set me up on the couch. I could see the beautiful twinkling lights from our Christmas tree. And he gave me full command of the television. It was a little overwhelming to be perfectly honest. The last time I watched TV, we had basic cable, and pretty much just got 12 channels. The rest were all Home Shopping Network or rotating public announcements or broadcasts of city council meetings made at our local community cable station. Not only was his television enormous, but there were over a thousand channels. A thousand channels! I didn't even know how people could watch so much TV. Where did they find the time? And how did they navigate it all? I stuck mainly to the special cable stations, like HBO or Showtime. But even then, there were all of these extra versions. The only channel that he didn't have, that I wanted to watch was MTV Arabia. -I was curious. Anyhoo...Set up on his couch, nestled under a comforter, it felt nice to be there with The Cute Boy and his roommates. They were actually really surprised at how I could seemingly sleep through anything. Their raucous laughter and chiding. What he didn't know, was that this felt good to me. To be sick, to be weak, and to be able to close my eyes and rest, knowing that there was a house full of people who loved me and would never let any harm come to me. It reminded me of home and family. Of being a child, and feeling safe and protected. Of being tenderly loved.

There are so many things to be grateful for, and these are only a few of them. 

Oozing Snot But Still Having a Good Time...So this is what it feels like to be a garden snail?

When I was a teenager, one of my closest friends had a belief (passed down from her mother) that "Whatever you are doing on New Year's Eve, is what you will be doing for the rest of the year." -For me, these words were like a curse. They would propel me into a frenzy of activity and worries, trying to make those few precious hours really count, and somehow be "the best hours of my life" up until that point. Consequently, many NYE's were filled with so much pressure, that it detracted from the fun that I could have been having, had I not felt *obligated* to be having such a good time. Just to be clear, my NYE's weren't that radically different from anyone else's. I would get dressed up, go out, have fun with my friends. We would find fun things to do, sometimes going to parties, sometimes going to big public gatherings of people, or dancing. It was fun. But I still felt the pressure of the curse. I would compare my relatively ordinary life to those of characters in the movies and feel let down. How come, at the stroke of midnight, I wasn't passionately being kissed by the dashing man of my dreams? Where was my Harry (like from "When Harry Met Sally") making his way to wherever I was, crossing the room, just to profess in the most touching way possible his deepest and most ardent affection for me? Compared to that, my life was a let down. I was a 13 year old girl with a lions mane of crimped hair, and slouch socks, eating pizza and staying up late with my girlfriends. When I got older, not much changed, except for the hair and slouch socks. Oh sure the parties changed. Things got a little more grown up. But those cycling feelings of pressure and disappointment followed me into adulthood. 

Sometime around my early twenties is when things finally began to change a little bit. I think it was actually my first laid back NYE since the casting of the curse. I was visiting some friends for Christmas in the Seattle area, and stayed for New Year's. Some time during the visit, a group of us had gone down to the Franklin Covey store to pick up new planners and paper refills for them. I chose the "Seven Habits" planner, modeled after the book. It actually felt luxurious getting that planner. The cover was a nice textured brown leather, something that would wear nicely over time. Somewhere in the paperwork for setting up your planner, was the idea of a mission statement. A personal mission statement to kind of focus and guide your life. Eva and I took our planners down to a local coffee house and sat there, listening to warm, coffeehouse jazz and merrily philosophizing about what we wanted our lives to be like. Who we wanted to be. What we wanted to contribute to the world and how we wanted to connect with others. Then, once our mission statements were done, and our Covey planners were all set up for the upcoming year, we would write out our Buddhist determinations for the upcoming year. -Goals that we were willing to commit to for the next year. For many years after, even when Eva and I were in different states, we would do this tradition. This year, I haven't gotten on it *yet*. But I will. 

This year, I was horribly sick on NYE. And not only was *I* sick...but my fabulous boyfriend had it too! Together, we were a coughing, hacking, fever-ridden, wheezing mess. Snot oozed out of us. Whole boxes of tissues were used up and discarded. I barely ate for a week. We stayed in this year and cuddled and watched movies. The little girl in me, who is still somewhat daunted by the words of my childhood friend, thought "Oh great...so what does this mean? I suppose I'm going to be sick a lot this year. And spend a lot of time at home doing nothing, while every one else is out having fun." But then the adult woman in me told that little girl to calm down because I was actually happy. Even being home sick, I was having a good time with The Cute Boy. It felt like we were doing something delicious, even though we were only hanging out, talking, and laughing, and cuddling. It felt good to just be myself, even a really sick and slightly gross version of myself with bedhead because even in that state, I was having a blast with an awesome guy who loved me and was tender with me. He does things. Little things that my family used to do for me. Like rubbing my back and cooing "sana, sana, sana culita rana" to me. And he got me a washcloth and rinsed it under cold water, rung it out, and brought it to me when my fever was so bad that even my eyeballs felt hot. It may not sound like much, but believe me, it is. And we both feel it -the gratitude of finding and loving someone, who loves us in return, and takes good care of us. We learn and we grow. And I'm trying to outgrow my childhood insecurities and enjoy my life more. It's a process, but it's coming along. More and more, I'm realizing that being successful in life isn't about being perfect. It's about being myself and loving myself with all of my imperfections. It's also about enjoying life, even through the challenges. 

The 2nd Thanksgiving

Dear La Suprema,
I love you. And I miss you so much. I don't know how to do this without you. I was listening to a book on tape today "The Art of Racing in the Rain". It's about a guy and his dog. The whole story is told from the perspective of the dog, Enzo. It's a good story. And it seems so familiar. The narrative style, the intimacy and play between the dog and his owner. Enzo is old. He's at the end of his life. In the story, Enzo has an accident, and his owner hoists him up into the tub and cleans him up. Cradling him gently. "I wanted him to see the obvious, that it is OK to let me go...He needs me to free him, to be brilliant. He is so brilliant. He shines. I will miss him, and he will miss me, but I can't let sentimentality cloud my plan." He plans on coming back in his next life as a man, and finding his owner, to shake his hand and congratulate him. He has so much faith and love for this person. And it reminds me so much of you, it hurts. It also makes me think of this whole thing in a different way. Maybe, none of this was meant to hurt? Maybe the subtlety and nuances of human communication and understanding, have clouded the message that I am supposed to embrace. Perhaps this dog has it right? Maybe you had to go, to free me. Because you loved me so much. I would never have left you. I would have spent the rest of my life loving you and taking care of you. God I miss you so much. Mac and I have been having some stupid fights. He asked me how I was feeling about Thanksgiving, and if I wanted to talk about it. Usually, I don't. I don't want to talk about it. But I did this time. Compared to last year and the first Thanksgiving without you, this year was better. This year, everything felt like a let down. Pleasant but numb. Last year was a combination of terrible and beautiful. So I guess numb is an upgrade? But I wanted good. I miss family. I miss making you happy and seeing you smile. I miss hugs. I miss having someone who loves me so much, they just light up every time I see them. God I love you. Wherever you are. I love you.
Vanessa

Just Be Yourself

Here's a tip: 

In reality...real people fuck up. 

All. 

The. 

Time. 

And we all know this. Just from our own experiences living life, we know this. So why are we so worried about it? Why get so freaked out when we drop the ball? Or look a little awkward? Or attempt something and fail? Why try to deny the truth, that sometimes we're wrong and make mistakes? Doesn't it seem better to be a little more open and honest with who you are and what you think? Maybe make the daring risk to be wholly yourself, and hope that maybe, just maybe people will like you for who you really are? And that's not to say that people don't employ this kind of mentality in their personal lives. I think many do. But there seems to be a distinct disconnect and compartmentalization of who we are when we enter the work arena, or the dating arena, and church, and who we are when we're more comfortable and either alone or with our best friends. When the stakes are high and the political climate is uncertain, most people pull back and damp down their inner glow and just try to blend in. -Be like everyone else. And I think this is a mistake. I think first and foremost, we should be striving to think for ourselves. Know who we really are and what we personally think and feel. And then to share that wisdom and inner truth with the world. Just let your light shine! 

In my most recent romantic relationship, one of the things that I love most is getting to know my boyfriend better. I had described my feelings relating to this to a friend of mine. It was early on in the relationship, and we had just reached a hallmark moment. I was on my period, and my boyfriend had offered to go to the store to pick up tampons and ice-cream for me. “He had me at tampons and ice-cream” I told my friend. It was so true. Now bear in mind, I was the kind of girl who used to have to go to the store for maxipads and tampons and feel compelled to buy “something else” just to cover up the fact that I was really just there for period supplies because world, yes...I was on my period and was gushing torrents. It was so embarrassing to me that I would try to cover up the big package of Always with *wings*, with a few carrots. I would put the carrots right on top like teen-girl-period-camouflage. 

“You do not see these tampons and maxipads. These aren't the droids you're looking for.” 

Needless to say, my tampon mind  tricks fooled no one. But I guess it made me feel better at the time and a little less embarrassed. When The Cute Boy offered to “man up” and get my “lady supplies” for me, he instantly won about a million kajillion love-points with me. It was a very simple yet loving gesture on his behalf. I went onto described it to my friend like this: “I loved how it was not a big deal to him...and there are so many moments of connection and intimacy. Open conversation. And that beautiful thing...where we explore the world and ideas together through conversation. To share a part of yourself with another human being. To be. To simply strive to be and to keep being -open. A sincere honesty of the soul. Kind of like 'Here we are...two beings in the universe and this is who I am.'” I went onto say that “ I am being so open and honest with MacArthur in large part because I know how honesty is the key to being known. It's prime for connection. Intimacy. True acceptance. Real love. In order to let someone into your heart you have to be honest with them about who you are. What your faults are. What your dreams and goals are. What you're struggling with. And where you are headed in life. I also have learned that it's simply worth it to make that risk...I've come away from the experience firmly knowing in my heart how important honesty is in a friendship and primary relationship. In so many ways...It's also simply good to be authentic because then I have *the chance* to even be loved. To be seen for who I am. And loved for the unique creature that is me. -There's grace in that. True grace in that feeling...of being known and loved.” Sorry if this is repetitive. But for me, I just kept coming back to the same points and it was like a revelation for me. It felt good. I was in an exciting place in my life, filled with soul baring honesty, and with that came a certain amount of vulnerability. I was trusting those around me to be good to me. I was showing my boyfriend my soft underbelly and trusting that he would be gentle and kind. And he was. And he is. And I count myself lucky to be known and loved the way that I am. It feels so good, that it's leaking over into other parts of my life. 

Three Things That Went Well Today...And Why.

1. I had a really good talk with Sabrina, and got some new strategies for overcoming my obstacles in life. Also reframed some things that had been bothering me. This happened because I was contemplative about how I've been feeling and also had a seeking heart to find better ways of doing things. I opened up my heart and was vulnerable. I spoke authentically. And when you do that, I think it touches people's hearts, and they want to help if they can. Sabrina suggested reading "Flourish" and trying this exercise from the book. So here I am...writing down 3 things that went well today and why. And I plan on doing this for a while.

2. I took several bags of trash out. Practically filled up the trash can. I decided that I would rather have these cluttery things gone from my bedroom immediately, and so I cleaned off the windowsill, and went around my room gathering up things that I knew were trash, and took them out to the cans immediately. It went well because I didn't think too much about it, I just took action and did it ASAP.

3. Made plans to see two of my friends tomorrow in SF. I called them, and FB'ed them, and extended an invite. It went well because I reached out and made a concrete plan.

An Evening In With The Hounds

J-Lo came bounding into my bedroom tonight, proudly carrying the dried tortilla I gave to her this morning, after it fell on the floor while making breakfast. "Come here Pretty Girl." Her brown eyes darted in my direction but she didn't move. Skimper-Scamper came merrily over into the circle between my legs, where I had patted the bed cover and invited Ms. Lo. I crawled down to the foot of the bed and encircled the sleek elegant dog in my arms. She needed love. I hugged her, laying my head on her backside and scruffed up her neck the way she likes. She moaned at me, like she wanted something or was not quite happy with the situation with the puppy, but I just kept on loving on her and telling her what a good dog she was. I leaned down and inspected her tortilla, half-eaten, and quickly becoming brittle and air dried. I broke off a small piece and offered it to her, but she didn't want it. The tortilla had become more of a trophy. Kind of like a shiny red toy fire engine that one kid gets to flaunt in front of the other. When she turned away from the morsel, I offered it to Cecino. He voraciously munched away at it, immediately drawing the attention of the Whippet. She moaned again, as if to tell me how dismayed she was that I gave it to him. I snuggled up again to her and told her it was all right. She could share. Slowly, the puppy came gently creeping up on my right side. At first he just sat there quietly, intently eyeing me and Ms. Lo. Then he crept forward some more gently sniffing her feet while I pet her. Eventually, he got close enough to nose her tummy, and then he did this thing that I had seen him do before, but didn't understand until now. His tongue came out and he gently prodded her nipple, attempting to urge out some milk. She moaned again, this time at him. He stopped. But came back and tried kissing her tummy-tum again. I had seen him do this, but I always thought it was just a gentle sign of affection. I was never close enough to notice that he was lapping at her teat. J-Lo's never had puppies. And her nipples are barely even there. But this puppy was trying to suckle at her belly. I had witnessed him air-suckling in his sleep before. Poor little one. Poor Ms. Lo too! No wonder she gets snappy with him sometimes. Dear dear puppies. How I do love you.

I have been digging out things from my freezer, working my way through the still edible yet mysterious items. Last evening, I boiled up 4 Cornish game hens. I had bought a bunch of them FIVE years ago! My mom and I had our share, but the last 4 were buried deep in the back of my freezer taking up valuable real estate. The hens had been wrapped in that thick industrial shrink wrap that turkeys come in, and then packaged and wrapped again. They didn't have freezer burn, and smelled just fine when I defrosted them. But still, five years is a long time, and I knew that I wasn't going to be willing to eat them. So I boiled them up for the hounds. They know this drill because every once in a while, when I get a good deal on chicken (usually thigh meat), I'll boil up a big stock pot of it for them and then shred the chicken, discarding the skin and bones. Then I'll take the chicken stock and make a big pot of rice for them. Monica taught me how to do this. It's great! And the dogs love it. I mix it in with some of their dry kibble and some cottage cheese. I fed them the feast last night. From the looks of it, they'll be feasting for a while on the two stock pots of home made dog food. 

The Comfortable Feeling of Being Known and Loved

She had a way of making you feel comfortable in your own skin, and just feel good. I remember days, times, being  together, just *being*. Laughing. Being known and loved. And feeling so content and full of joy that it seemed that the both of us just shined. Sunshine just shooting out of us from all angles.

We glowed together. 

I miss her. It's been over a year now, and I still miss her. I feel haunted. I went from not being able to dream of her, and wanting so desperately to be able to, just to be able to hug her and laugh with her, tell her I love her one more time, and to hear it from her; to dreaming of her almost every night. That's something only Mac knows about me. -And now you. I dream of my dead mother every night. In my dreams she comes to me. Sometimes I remember that she's dead in my dreams, and sometimes I don't. But always, we are together, and I feel the love.

Living in her old house, my childhood home, I realize that in some way, my heart has been waiting for her to come home. My family has been in this house so long, I know every sound. I even know the sounds of the cars in front of my house. I remember a younger me, sitting in my room; I would hear the muffled sound of my mothers Volvo come up the street and park in the driveway. Sometimes, she would stay in her car a few minutes longer enjoying the song that was on the radio. And then, I would hear her car door shut, and she would bounce up the front walk and steps, keys jingling, the all too familiar sound of her opening the lock in the door, and then bounding in the house. She'd call out to me and come find me, fresh faced and happy -always happy to see me. She loved coming into my room and sitting on my bed and catching up with me. I loved it too. I would do the same thing to her. When I would come home, I would find her and come sit on her bed. We'd talk about our days. The people in it. The things that frustrated us, or made us feel real good. She worked at the post office in Sonoma, as a window clerk. Sonoma's a small town. And everybody knows everybody else there. I remember times that I would drive the 45 minute commute (one way), just to have the pleasure of her company. We'd leave early in the morning, sometimes as early as 4 O'clock, when the world was still cold, dark and quiet. I would drop her off in the morning, and pick her up at the end of the day. Now that I'm older, and gas prices are obviously much higher, this seems like a strange thing to do. But we loved it. We both really loved each other. And being together, doing nice things for one another, was part of that joy. I hope to find that again. In me, and in other people. I love you Momma, and I still miss you. You were one special lady.