Sanctuary

“Remember the entrance to the sanctuary is inside you.” – Rumi

I don’t like that I’ve stepped away from this for so long, but such is life. And life makes it hard for me to dedicate myself to anything entirely. At least, it feels that way with the hours I’ve had to keep. I am making some changes in the near and foreseeable future, and am hoping it brings in the results I’d like to see.

And it wasn’t just life, it was the unnerving that came with knowing that two people in particular were paying such close attention to my life. A woman where I work – the self-proclaimed dirty fairy creature congratulated me when I announced I was pregnant. I hadn’t said a word to anyone at work. And if you’re reading now, Fairy Creature, there was never a doubt in my mind that it was you who trolled my blog. And then some guy I briefly dated kept looking at one of my online profiles not long after I announced I was engaged. It was creepy. I contacted him on Facebook, letting him know that it was creepy and that I literally got a notification every time he did that. His response was to go in incognito mode or whatever it is that LinkedIn offers and block me on Facebook. I just have one question for you both:

I have another announcement: I am pregnant. Six months. It’s a girl. I found out in January. Apparently the day I took the test was the very day it could have a positive reading. She’s been hitting the marks on the timeline quite nicely and I’m looking forward to meeting the little one face to face. A friend dubbed her ‘Belly Being’. I like it and that’s how I refer to her when I write my ridiculous weekly updates on pregnant life. It’s definitely a joyous experience, but it’s also a hilariously uncomfortable one, too. I hope to make her a book on all of this someday.

Belly Being's very first gift was an awesome girl power book and a Wonder Woman teether. Compliments of a lovely co-worker. 

I feel like nearly every inch of me as widened, including my feet. I’m hoping it’s not permanent because I hear some women never go back to their original size and  . . . . Dancing. I need to fit into my dancing shoes! I have stretch marks. I have gas. I have a constant halo of grease on my face from the hormones. But hey! It gives me that glowing look that everyone says is so lovely. And I can’t say that this has been an entirely joyful experience, either. I’ve heard that before about women who have had a miscarriage. It’s really messed with my head, making me nearly afraid to be happy about it. Yet here we are and she’ll be here in just a few months. It’s not that I didn’t want to be happy, I was just afraid. And as we’ve progressed further along I’ve taken a small sigh of relief. And now I can feel her kicking every now and then and it reassures me that everything is okay.

This perfect tiny little being. I loved her from the moment I saw her as a tiny cluster of beating cells. 

She's been a positive influence on my life already. I was ready to walk away from a familial relationship entirely - and then I learned I was pregnant and knew that it wasn't a choice that I could make for someone else. So Belly Being has actually improved my relationship with my adopted mom. We still keep in contact, but I keep it at my own terms and that's made this whole dynamic run much more smoothly. 

The thing that amazes me most about this entire experience is the calmness that pregnancy has brought on me. I have felt small instances of anxiety, but nothing lasting. I have lived with PTSD and depression for so long I’d literally forgotten what it was like to not feel those awful things.  I don’t know that this will last after pregnancy, but it would be beyond wonderful if it does. And don’t get me wrong, I have plenty to be losing my sh*t about; it’s just not phasing me as it would have prior to pregnancy.

I’ll be changing jobs. It’s a step down and a cut in pay, but I am so done with the surgical department at my hospital. Bonus points because it shaves a little from my commute. And then Micheal decided that it was time to look for a house after we learned I was pregnant (insert overwhelmed and nervous laughter here). The housing market in the pacific northwest is beyond f*cking ridiculous. We qualify for a $200, 000 loan . . . . which can pretty much get us a frame of a house that’s been burned down from a meth lab gone wrong and is now housing ants. Anything that seems attainable is always going to go to a higher bidder who has cash on hand. Who are these assholes that have this kind of money? I confess, even looking at manufactured homes has been a challenge. Granted, it makes us feel like we have a fighting chance, but its’s still vicious.

We even got close once. The offer was accepted. Everything fell through last minute because the HOA didn't follow through with a letter for the lender and that was it. Then the seller took a cash offer and we were left with nothing but frustration. 

Maybe I should be grateful? I've never been fond of Portland or the Pacific NW in general. 

And despite how impossible this has felt and proven to be, it still seems like a good idea because we really need the room. Currently we live in a modest 2 bedroom apartment with 2 dogs. Technically we have an extra room, because it’s only used 3 months out of the year at most if the step son comes to visit, but it’s off limits. I didn’t feel even remotely panicky until I realized we don’t even have room for a rocking chair. And then I feel Belly Being move and realize there’s an actual tiny person living inside of me. Oh. Em. Gee. So I have a few moments of worry and then I’m done with it. Prior to pregnancy all of these things: job change, change in pay, looking for home to buy, insanely dumb commute, etc. All of those things would have resulted in me setting something on fire.

We’re taking all of these birth prep courses, too. And for these ice breaker exercises they had couples ask one another what they’re doing to prep for their nursery. LMAO!!! I’m not sure I’d have time to work on it even if we had one. Up until a few weeks ago I was still working 2 jobs. So these women with their unswollen feet with husbands who supported them fully wanted to know what I was doing to get ready for baby. I joked that I mostly just cried in the corner about it. That’s a half truth, I guess because sometimes I certainly feel that way.

I'm not at this phase yet, but I pray for Grace for those who are near me when this starts. 

Honestly I can’t complain much. Compared to what I’ve heard from other women, my pregnancy has been relatively easy. I haven’t had too much intense cravings, either; that’s also a benefit for Micheal because I’m not driving him too crazy.

I envy this little girl already because she has an amazing dad who is just as happy about her as I am.

Loss and Love

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” – Maya Angelou

It is with deep and mixed emotions that I write these words. I didn’t know if I ever would share, but I can’t deny that I write to process things. And I hope that any woman with this experience will find some comfort in my words – if only to know that she’s not alone in her grief.

2 weeks after finding out we were having a baby I started bleeding. I had been out running errands, came back home and saw that my cotton pants were soaked.  Naturally I was freaking out. I called The One in hysteria. While he was on his way to see me I called the local hospital (and also where I work) in hysteria. We spent the next couple of days in and out of doctor’s appointments and diagnostics. The end result was that it was too soon to tell anything and we’d have to wait and see.

The doctor did observe the interactions between The One and I. He said we were obviously very supportive of one another and to take some comfort in that because he rarely sees couples on our level. Looking back on this experience, I still take comfort in this.

I waited. I was worried, anxious, and even neurotic at times. There were more visits, more diagnostics; even more blood drawn. My HCG levels had not gone up as they should have. It was not a viable pregnancy and I had experienced an incomplete miscarriage. I had to be scheduled for a D&C and wait another week before the procedure would be done. I guess my body was trying to hold on because psychologically I wasn’t ready to let go.  

I give him as much credit as I could possibly give another human being. The One was as supportive as he knew how to be. He acknowledged that he couldn’t quite relate to how I felt. It’s true . . . one can only really relate if one has experienced it – the slight changes my body was making: the mood swings, the increased heart beat due to a vascular system working even harder to pump blood down to a growing cluster of cells, the random cravings and the tiny little things that were uncomfortable and inconvenient – yet still brought a smile to my face because I knew it was all for one tiny growing baby bean sprout. Sure, it was just a cluster of cells; but it was my tiny little cluster. Sure, it’s a common experience for women; but that doesn’t make it any easier.

The One didn’t question me when I’d sob uncontrollably before drifting off to sleep. I never had to explain myself. Part of it was hormones and part of it was grief and sadness.

I had missed a considerable amount of work. I knew that life would carry on and I would need to carry on with it. When I’d start crying I looked at the clock on more than one occasion and told myself I had 5 more minutes to be sad. Five more minutes to allow myself to cry. Five more minutes to grieve and feel sorry for myself. It took a couple of weeks and an unnecessary amount of retail therapy before I stopped needing 5 more minutes.

It’s a form of sadness that has been genuinely difficult to describe. It’s a loss of the feeling of life and a loss of the excitement over what could have been. It’s a form of sadness that is understood only by other women who have experienced the same kind of loss. It was through this experience that I felt a sense of sisterhood I had not yet found among women. In fact, I had doubted that type of bond even existed. And it was this grief that somehow served as a conduit.

“And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow, let it be.” – The Beatles.

It was on my last memorable night of grief that I finally finished Women Who Run With the Wolves. For the public record, I’m reading the footnotes . . . and then I’ll probably start the whole thing over again from the beginning. Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote a footnote on the 2^nd or 3^rd chapter about a figure in Mexican folklore that is known for collecting the souls of miscarried babies and planting their seeds in another womb. So the little one never really goes away, it’s just given a new home. It’s a nice thought. And maybe Baby Bean Sprout just wasn’t ready to join our world yet. I’m ready when you are, Little One.

I lit a candle for you. Until we meet again, Little One.

And it was through this experience that The One showed me just how many forms love can take. Love is when he held me because he knew why I was crying. Love is when he held me and had no idea why I was crying. Love is understanding my need for writing, biking and retail therapy. Love is accepting a cantankerous old hound because he knows how much I love that hound. Love is his amusement when I offer him a key to my bike lock instead of my car because I’m not paying attention. Love is picking me up on a rainy night because I managed to get lost on my bike. Love is finding the best possible attributes for my worst idiosyncrasies.

Love was dealing with my hormonal mood swings of tears and bouts of anger. Love was telling me I’m beautiful even though my breasts were tender and overly engorged. Love was (and is) checking me out when I’m cringing in the mirror at my stretch marks. Love is joking about how when we were young and cute and thought we’d stay that way forever.

Love is choosing to see me in the best possible light and this is a choice he makes every day. Rather than chalking my forgetfulness to an air-headed person, he tells me I’m forgetful because I’m a writer and I’m too busy remembering the very important details that most others won’t notice. And obviously there’s only so much memory one person can hold. 

"The best love is that kind that awakens the soul; that makes us reach for more, that plants the fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds. That's what I hope to give you forever."  - Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

They're Only Memories

“Courage doesn’t always roar, sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day whispering, ‘I will try again tomorrow’.” ~ May Anne Radmacher

My memoriam to the people that gave me the will to keep going is still in the works. I’ve uncovered a minefield recently as a result of constantly peering into the past. This is a section of my life I realized has been a secret I’ve carried most of my life. I never spoke a word of it to anyone. So, I’m facing these things. It’s emotionally draining and feels like a heavy anchor pulling me down a sinkhole. There are times I’ve wanted to walk away from it entirely – but I hear a small voice in my mind that tells me to keep going and finish what I started. I have to remind myself why I began in the first place because I’ve felt like giving up more than once.

This has been a very lonely process, too. I don't think I've ever felt more isolated than I do right now.

I have to remind myself that this is the only way I’ll get better. Yes, it hurts. It hurts a lot. Sometimes the emotion that broke your heart in the first place is the one that heals it. I also have to remind myself that I’m not a vulnerable child not in control of her own life anymore. They can’t touch me now – they are only memories. They are only memories. They are only memories.

Eventually I'll stop running. I'll stop fighting. I'll stop hiding. I'll learn to embrace the things I'm working so hard to only make eye contact with right now.

When I first stumbled upon it, my minefield certainly didn’t feel like distant memories. More so because I was sick and had nothing to do but lie in bed. During my conscious moments I remembered and in my dreams the memories haunted me. That week, in particular was a little rough. I just tell myself to keep going, keep writing, and keep sharing the secrets I have to share. What it all boils down to in the end is that I’m simply afraid of emotional suffering. That’s what I dread most.

Guess who still puts on her happy face anyway?

You know what else is a little rough? Getting back on my bike after being down for the count for about two weeks. I feel like I’m starting all over because the bastard virus attacked my respiratory system. For this situation in life, I’m telling myself that I’ll be Iron Man eventually.

Just kidding! That is not an appealing ambition for me. I’ve actually returned to listening to music again just so I don’t have to hear my own suffering of major breath exertion while going uphill. It’s a psychological thing. I feel like it’s not quite so hard when I don’t have to hear how hard I’m working.

One thing I have to start making more of an effort to practice is dancing. Friends keep pointing out that it was something that made me happy. It did. I just have to start moving. I know that’s all it will take. I happen to have a nicely sized patio which I’ve been cleaning little by little. I think I’ll start belly dance again. I’m not entirely sure I want to go back to tango. I think about it from time to time . . . and I’m just not sure. Either way, dancing is something I enjoy and I should get back to it – particularly in times like this when I’m staring my demons in the face and unsure that I can handle anything in my present life.

Maybe someone just needs to give me a kick in the arse.

I feel as though my creative energy has been entirely tapped out. I can’t pinpoint the reason, if one exists at all. I’ve made every effort to cut unnecessary people out of my life who gladly take my warmth, but offer none in return. Despite my efforts to focus more on me, I feel like something major is missing and it’s affecting my capacity to creative, worship, dance, etc.

So, while I invest some time into regaining my physical and spiritual energy, I’ll be reflecting . . .  I’m always reflecting these days as a result of my therapeutic project. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really therapeutic or just plain torture. There have been a few times since I’ve started that I’ve wished my very existence would evaporate entirely. When I’m feeling that down I tell myself there would be no one left to talk about my father, grandmother, and others. Thinking along those lines and comparing the outcomes, I feel it would be far worse to let their memories be forgotten. That’s the main reason I’m still keeping at it even though it hurts.

“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.” – Paul Coelho, Alchemist

Puzzle Pieces

“The Troll was well over seven feet tall, and smelled of body odour and Germolene.” – Andrew Barrett, A Splendid Salmagundi

You must pay the toll!

It looks like I’ve made a new friend. There was an anonymous comment left on this blog entry. I inadvertently deleted it. However, look what I found in my e-mail: “’He had our HR person handle the situation. I’m furious . . .’ you are not just furious, you are bat shit crazy. Of course he had HR deal with you. Nobody ever wins an argument with a crazy lady!”

In my attempt to respond to the comment, it was deleted. Then another comment was left. I’m flattered, really. Someone invested that much energy in leaving an anonymous comment and then going back to my blog to see what their handiwork had accomplished.  

That’s as much of a platform I’m willing to give. Anonymous comments have been disabled – so if someone wishes to tell me I’m awful it must be done publicly. I’m sorry.

Just kidding! I’m not. This is my space.

I have a busy month ahead of me. I’m officiating a wedding for a friend, hosting his rehearsal and also mc-ing for the groom and bride. I’m not sure how the bride is fairing, but I can say that I feel like pulling my hair out every now and then. I’m honored they’ve asked me to do this for them, which is why I want everything to go smoothly.

Guess who gets to go back to biking next week?! This gal. My knee is finally healed from my stupid crash. I’ve felt like running in circles a little bit because I haven’t had an outlet for stress due to my knee being busted. I’m looking forward to getting back out there – and also intend to try riding up the hill to work someday. I’ll flaunt my victory when it’s done (it’s a heavy bike!). The next time I see someone with their fancy bike and gear I’d love nothing more than to lean over and whisper I’m better than you.

For the record, I wouldn’t really do that; these are the kinds of thoughts that cross my mind.

I'd say this is a pretty adequate representation of me right now.

Because I wasn’t biking while my knee was healing, I rode a different bus route to work that gave me an extra 20 minutes before I had to leave. I met a man on the bus. I think he has mistaken my friendliness as flirtation and has sent me a couple of email messages (he works for the same organization as me – and it’s a huge place). I’m just not interested and sounded very much like a petulant teenager when I was telling someone about my interaction with this man and exclaimed, I don’t want to!

Any person with common sense would simply say no. I am one of those idiots who has a really hard time doing that – which is why I’m scattered in 8 different directions more often than not. For now, however, I’m just avoiding the issue altogether.

If I can't see you I can't hear you. 

The last few weeks have been fairly intense. I’m in my new position. I love it immensely and I’m scrambling to learn everything as quickly as possible. It’s been an interesting transition. I work with a great and highly organized group of people with a high standard. When they reached out to me about the opening in their division I took that as high praise. I’m a lucky lady.

In other news, the hound and I may be volunteering for a weekend this summer at a camp for children with arthritis. A patient told me about it. I was floored; I thought arthritis was something that only comes with age. I can’t imagine experiencing that kind of pain. The organizer of the events seems happy to have the hound and me onboard. Merlin is going to be thrilled. Basset hounds are social by nature. Merlin has that trait magnified 10 times over. That’s one of the things that makes him so wonderful.

The cuteness! It kills me. Merlin does enjoy a good belly rub. Disclaimer: This is not Merlin.

As anticipated, memories have surfaced as I’ve been working on my blogumentary. It’s unpleasant but not impossible. It’s frustrating, but not overbearing. I’ll speak frankly, because this is my space and there’s something to telling secrets rather than trying to bury them. Clarissa Pinkola Estes touches on this in Women Who Run With the Wolves, “The keeping of secrets cuts a woman off from those who would give her love, succor, and protection. It causes her to carry the burden of grief and fear all by herself, and sometimes for an entire group, whether family or culture. Further, as Jung said, keeping secrets cuts us off from the unconscious.”

Her words are a source of strength while I keep digging. 

I’ve been surrounding myself with childhood things to remember my past. A plethora of things I had buried so far down that I had forgotten about them resurfaced. I was 19 and recently back from Africa. I met a man who asked about volunteering for one of the groups I worked with. I gave him my number because I was trusting and naïve. His name was Rajinder. I simply referred to him as ‘Raja’. He helped distribute food baskets to families in need over the holidays. We grabbed dinner together and I remember him telling me that he was recently released from prison for kidnapping and wanted to be upfront and honest with me. I don’t remember how he diminished that charge with his explanation, only that I didn’t feel threatened by him. I was in his apartment one evening and he started tickling me. He then kissed my neck and said, “It’s either this or tickles.” I have no idea what took place after that because I don’t remember and I’m bothered by that. I do know that I never spoke to him again. I feel as if I left there unscathed. I’ll hold on to that feeling.

Recently, I reached out to someone on facebook because his daughter was struggling with depression and suicidal tendencies. We’ve never met in person, we just know each other from an online group we both belonged to at one point. In his response to me, he referred to me as ‘yummy’ (he was looking at my photos for some reason). I feel nauseous and angry at the same time – not just because I felt objectified by him, but also because he has a wife and a teenage daughter struggling with depression. He’s been blocked and I’ll probably never speak to him again. I feel anger for his words to me and also for what I feel is blatant disregard for the emotional wellbeing of his teenage daughter. That’s not okay in my book.

I, on the other hand, am not a cheeseburger. Don't refer to me as 'yummy', asshole!

Perhaps I overreacted because of the fuzzy memory that resurfaced from when I was 19. I don’t know the answer.

I do know that I'm still putting the pieces of my life puzzle together. I should have been doing this work a long time ago. I am now, I suppose that's what really matters. I'm digging up the secrets I've buried and telling the stories that I never told. 

Something’s gotta stop the flow.

If you don’t recognize that line, it’s from an amazing movie called Ink. If you haven’t seen it I suggest putting it on your list. I’ve always had a hard time explaining it. It’s just that good.

The pathfinder in what is arguably one of the most memorable scenes. 

Now that my knee is better I think I might take up running again. I really need to. I know Merlin would want to join me, but he needs to take it easy. I used to be filled with an immense amount of guilt whenever I left him alone because I leave him alone when I’m at work all day. I’ve just acknowledged recently that I need to take time for myself, too. I doubt Merlin will hold it against me. He’s a happy camper as long as he gets his slow, meandering walks in the morning and evening. 

"I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories . .  water them with your blood and tears and laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom."  - Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

Turning Demons Into Ghosts

“When a woman insists ‘I am a survivor’ over and over again once the time for its usefulness is past, the work ahead is clear. We must loosen the person’s clutch on the survivor archetype. Otherwise nothing else can grow. “-  Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

There were a couple of nights last week when I simply just didn’t feel like sitting around in my tiny apartment, so I hit the pub by my house instead. On one of these nights I brought a copy of Women Who Run With the Wolves. I was specifically looking for a passage I had in mind to bring encouragement to a former co-worker. As I was shifting through the pages, I kept finding words that felt as if they were meant for me. I imagine I brought a tad bit of attention to myself, appearing as a mad woman by the constant change of my facial expressions with joy from one epiphany after another mixed in with the scowling of defeat while flipping through pages and not finding what I originally sought . . . . and every so often sipping my Feckin Ale.

The passage from Pinkola Estes struck a chord with me. At some point I had come to despise the word ‘survivor’, because I began to associate it with ‘victim’ and I really have no desire for any label whatsoever. Then I wondered how long I had felt that way towards that mentality; I couldn’t remember. And then I wondered if the book had planted that idea in my head at some point. Well played Pinkola Estes. Well played.

Can we just agree that I'm awesome and badass in general?

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt at peace with myself and the life I’m living. I wonder if I ever have until now. I’m not the only one who’s noticed. I actually had my adopted brother tell me that this is the first time since he’s met me that I haven’t seemed scattered and emotionally overwhelmed. He’s known me since I was 15. A good friend I’ve known since my early high school years has made the same observation through our online conversations. Since we live so far apart, we write each other notes and give ourselves the space to be honest with each other about what we’re thinking and feeling in life.

A large portion of my sense of finally having control of my life can be attributed to the project I began after watching Dear Zachary. It was such a sad story and had my mind running in circles over so many different things. Then I remembered what the director of the film said early on: he wanted to document the memories of his dear friend before they were lost forever. I realized I had a treasure trove in my possession: a large package sent to me by a distance relative several years ago that contained old letters my father had written to his grandparents ranging from the age of 10 up until he was 24.

A letter my father wrote around age 10 on the heading of my great-grandfather's business paper. This is too precious for words. 

I had to do something with this.

I started scanning and uploading old photos, letters, and documents. They tell a story. In fact, they tell many stories. I’m still piecing it together. I started what I call a ‘blogumentary’ – a good friend of mine equated it to a time capsule and is fascinated by my project while coming up with brilliant ideas of different directions I can take with it. I think the most important aspect of this project was the letters. It brought a piece of someone dearly missed in my life back to me. I laughed, I cried and I remembered. I remembered so many happy times I have with him. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around how I remember my father so much more over anyone else. I don’t have an answer. Perhaps it has to do with attachment theories and how closely I was bonded to him – perhaps it’s because I was given a great gift. I’ve seen many dark times in my life, and those memories were literally the only thing that kept me going. Knowing that someone loved me so selflessly at least once in my life kept a candle burning in me somewhere.

Reading the letters validates how I remember him - someone genuinely lovely and one of a kind. Of course, he had his flaws as all of us do in some form. I'd like to ask him about certain times in his life. I wish I could sit down and chat with him about all of this and also laugh at him - because he looks ridiculous in the photo of him smoking at 15. He was obviously a late bloomer. 

HA!

Eventually I’ll talk about the others and probably how my life played out in very distinct chapters after their deaths. I’m trying to remember and I’m processing. The entry about my father was emotionally difficult. The difference this time was that I wasn’t drowning in emotion – merely experiencing the sadness of loss. It didn’t feel like a floodgate had opened, causing me to feel so many things at once that I was not only overwhelmed, but in despair. No. I wasn’t the emotion this time. It was merely a small part of me for a moment. As my therapist put it when she noticed such a stark change in my demeanor that I know she’s never seen before: I’m turning my demons into ghosts.

Of course, my blogumentary may not be the only thing that deserves credit for my new aura. I started working for my new division two weeks ago. The division manager and I had been talking about me onboarding with them about a month prior to that. I guess it helped that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The interpersonal atmosphere of my previous job began to get the best of me and I was all but miserable. I knew I needed to get out and I suppose knowing that I wouldn’t didn’t cause me to feel helpless. I heeded the advice of a good friend and kept submitting applications and going to one interview after another. She told me that it would make me feel like I was doing something about it, even if I knew I was ultimately at the mercy of the interviewers. She was right. I felt like I was in control of the situation even though I knew I wasn’t really. The majority of us spend most of our time at work. I think it’s important to be with people that make us happy and give us a sense of value.

Stupidity and meanness in general. How is that kind of attitude ever acceptable? 

Additionally, reconnecting with an old and dear friend who has encouraged me through the tough times has been a blessing in my life as well. When I doubted myself she reminded me of who I was. She reminded me of who I was so long ago – a version of myself I had all but forgotten. She reminded me of who I was. My father, through his letters, the photos and the memories that I’ve held close to me throughout my life – he also reminded me of who I was. I reconnected with that part of myself somehow.

Perhaps everything aligned in the perfect order at the perfect time. I don’t know the answer, really. I just know that I’m grateful.

While emotional pain has been off the dockets, physical pain is something else entirely. I was up late Monday morning with Merlin at the pet hospital. I thought he might have cancer and I was preparing myself for the worst – telling myself that I’d make him as comfortable as possible and give myself, and those who knew him ample time to say goodbye. The end result was arthritis. Arthritis from old age and also from the genetic ailments of being a basset hound. Not the best news in the world, but certainly not the worst, either. He can’t do any more trail hikes, and for the time being we only walk a block or two at a time.

I felt badly about it for a few days because I realized that while I’ve simply thought that he’s just slowed down over the last several months he’s been in a considerable amount of pain. He limps a little still. I hate it because I know he’s hurting and I don’t want that for him. Admittedly, I am a little sad over it – but I knew this would come eventually. Merlin won’t out live me and someday he won’t be with me anymore. To date, he has been the only constant presence in my life throughout my journey of healing and self-discovery. He’s pretty special, and I’m not the only one who sees it.

Just look at him! He's so many levels of awesome in a short legged package. 

So, after being at the pet hospital for nearly 5 hours and getting home quite late – I decide to bike to work the next day. I distinctly remember having some form of a subliminal message telling me that, for that morning in particular, it wasn’t a good idea. I’m sure it was because I knew I was tired from the late night. It had been a very long day overall. The ride was fine until I got to the tram that transports us bottom dwellers to the top of the hill. It was then that I rode my bike just a tad bit farther in than usual before dismounting and walking the rest of the way. That tiny bit of extra distance was enough for me to get my front wheel caught in the street car tracks and flip over with my bike. I think the adrenaline prevented me from knowing the extent of my injuries until a couple of days later. OMG! It hurts!

Yeah . . . . that really happened. I'm never riding near those things again.

I’ve been limping around like an arthritic drunkard. I took a huge chunk of flesh out of my knee. It’s growing back and that process is unpleasant – it’s a sharp, stinging pain followed by a constant, dull aching. I impacted both of my wrists and somehow managed to jar one of my shoulders. I’m finally able to lift my right arm upwards to full extension, but not for long because the pain kicks in. Merlin and I are quite the pair these days. We both limp around the neighborhood on short walks.

This isn't my knee, but from the looks of it, a fairly similar grappling match with the concrete. 

Seeing that it was only the second week of me biking to and from work – I’m slightly disappointed. My landlord was kind enough to agree to look at my bike to make sure it’s safe to ride and even offered me the use of his mountain bike in the meantime. A kind offer, but I have a feeling my knee would split open and then I’d fall of the side of the road, land in a ditch somewhere and barely manage to crawl myself out only to be hit by oncoming traffic. I decided I wasn’t biking for at least the rest of the week. If my knee is still recovering, possibly not next week, either. I just want to throw a bandaid on the stupid thing and be done with it. I was proud of myself for biking that hilly road home using a heavy framed 3 speed bike when everyone else has fancy lightweight bikes with pedal assist. Biking made me feel efficiently tough for a few days and then I tipped over and realized I’m not. Fine.

That's a potentially real scenario. This photo proves it. Sort of. 

Two of my favorite people took me to dinner last night. Considering that this week has been draining in general, it was a treat to be around two folks who are so uplifting. I admitted that I thought that waiter was cute and could barely manage eye contact with him. It’s pathetic, really. Then again, I don’t care. Having a shyness about me doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m quite content with where I am. Granted, I have had some moments which cause me to stop and think to myself, What on earth has come over me? I don’t know how it works. Maybe I’ll learn to tap into that boldness energy as well.

Someday I won't cling to the wall avoiding what's in front of me nearly every single time. 

I realized I haven’t been dancing in over a year now. I’m okay with that. For some time I missed it a good deal. I have too many other things going on right now. I’ve gone back to writing and that’s an art form that genuinely makes me happy. I’m focusing on my new job. Also, I’m focusing on the hound. I don’t want him to leave this world and have regrets about time I could have spent with him and things I could have done for him and with him. I suppose there’s always room for more, but I give him as much as I can. For someone who has given so much to me and supported me through times when my mind got the best of me, he deserves every good thing I can give him. 

Merlin's smug look of self fulfillment after walking into my doctor's office and barking at him.

When walking with Merlin I'm now in the habit of automatically saying, "Excuse me! Will you let my dog say hello?" He's a love. A big, gigantic, wonderful love. 

Rebirth of the Heart's Desire

“The world has tilted far from the sun, from colour and juice . . .  I am waiting for a birth that will change everything.” – Hilary Llewellyn-Williams, The Tree Calendar

I welcomed the coming of the Solstice because it brought with it the rebirth of light.

How many times since childhood have we pondered our heart’s desire? I barely grasped the notion of giving and granting when I was a young girl, listening to the tales of folk and fairies that were told to me by a mother figure (one of a few). My early experiences caused me to deny, struggle against, and doubt the desires of my own heart. As a woman, I rarely reflect upon it. The heart’s desire is whimsical or desperate ambition if we can suspend our adult disbelief. The true heart’s desire is an essential potentiality, a destiny sewn in our name, waiting to bloom and grow. What prevents us from achieving it? Our lives may be littered with unresolved and undeveloped hopes, all blocking the way to our true heart’s desire. If we are to achieve the core of our wish, we must first dismantle and rescind our immature wishes. We cancel those immature wants by calling them back and revoking them, along with any other idle wishes we may have uttered and since forgotten. Then the way stands clear. If we commune deeply with your true heart’s desire, rather than upon our fantasies, if we can envision it with every cell of our body and call to it, then we send a true song to make the pathway between ourselves and our heart’s desire.

I don't even recognize the sound of her voice anymore. The Wild Woman exists in there somewhere. I just need to hear her sound.

During the darkest time of the year, we are waiting for a rebirth. The rebirth of light – the blessed solstice; it all gets brighter from here.  What is it that waits to be born in us this time of year? It is a glorious, heroic light that blazes forth with the fierce directness of an innocence that we need now. It is a deep renewal in our lives that we crave; it is the rebirth of innate qualities that will not fail or become slothful or deterred by obstacles, that will be responsible and true, honest and enduring, bright and shining.

I feel as though I’ve been fighting to get back to my core, to the essence of who I am. I've been fighting my way towards the light not realizing that the light is actually meeting me where I am. It’s time to stop struggling. It’s time to stop giving and to spend time reflection on what exactly it is that I want and need out of life. I’ve lost sight of it entirely, particularly over this last year. It’s not necessarily that too much happened, just too much at once for me to entirely process at any given time; and the instances of ‘too manies’ were frequent with little breathing room in between. My biggest hope for the coming new year is a long stretch of a boring, mundane life. That would be lovely.

Perhaps my biggest pet peeve in question form is this: What are you looking for?  For the record, this is one of the many reasons I’m banned from online dating because that question makes me want to throw punches as a fly into a rage and shout, “No! What are you looking for, asshole?!” I think the root of my anger is this: I don’t like feeling exposed or vulnerable and I’d wager that no one does if every single person were being blatantly honest. The question of what I’m looking for is vexing because it demands a form of transparency that is rarely reciprocated. I don’t want to feel picked apart anymore, as if I’m under the lens of someone else’s microscope. They can take that 1000X objective lens and shove it up their arse.

I don’t like being read, I don’t like someone constantly reading every single micro expression on my face and trying to interpret those expressions to form some agenda that meets the needs of the other whether it be an attempt to get me in bed or use me as the physical embodiment of every person that’s ever harmed you in some personal way.

If I’m not misinterpreting my interactions with another person in my life, this happened to me recently – both the constant reading of facial expressions and the projection of ‘Her’ and her deeds that had wronged him were my fault. At least that’s how it felt. He badgered me into admitting something I would have never told him. When I expressed my need for space and being upset over feeling so vulnerable, I was met with anger. I think most of that was misdirected. Of course I understand the desire for transparency in others – yet I think boundaries can still stand and not every single thing must be laid bare and forced open. I am transparent about most things, but I often draw a line in the sand when it pertains to my emotions. When I’m ready to share those feelings I’ll gladly do so, but not before I’m ready. Provoking me only causes me to feel hurt and cracked open.

Some things are mine and mine alone - particularly when it comes to my emotions.

While I’d hoped that nothing would change after that encounter, I can’t say that it hasn’t. I have changed. If nothing else, the conversation was one that expedited the process to my own realization that I need space and I need to spend more time fostering the healthier relationships in life rather than the ones that have potential to be the ruin of all parties involved.  While we certainly have similar characteristics and goals, the potential for ruin outweighs all of the former.

Maybe I'm only speaking from my own vulnerability when I say it feels like there's only ashes now.

I find myself facing a recurring theme that’s practically turned into my mantra this year: spend time with myself. Retreat, rejuvenate, and restore the balance so I can feel whole again. When I spend most of my days constantly reassuring others, constantly pouring positivity into them, I eventually feel as though I’m in autopilot and I have no idea who’s at the helm anymore. I can only say with certainty that it’s not me. I want to tap back into what I’ve lost – not just the feeling of happiness, but also the barely-scraping-the-surface kind of knowledge of the collective consciousness. I’ve been empty for so long. It would be lovely if someone would come along right about now and do what I’ve been doing for others for so long. In the end, I acknowledge that I can only rely on myself and I have to learn to achieve it on my own.

It all comes down to this: Know thyself. 

“Pick it up, pick it all up and start again. You’ve got a second chance, you could go home; escape it all. It’s just irrelevant. You could still be what you want to be, what you said you were when I met you. You’ve got a warm heart. You’ve got a beautiful brain. But it’s disintegrating from all the medicine . . . . You could still be what you want to be, what you said you were when you met me.” Daughter, Medicine