...Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave. No one was saved

My dad is dying.  He has stage 4 lung cancer, it may even be stage 5 by now.  He's at the "make him comfortable with pain medications" stage, whichever one that is.  My mother is in denial (she is the queen, after all), my brother is spending up their money, getting his inheritance now before someone else (aka me) gets it.  It's fucked up.  Like really fucked up.

And I'm conflicted.  Actually, that's about as 80's understatement as it gets.  I'm supposed to be feeling pain, mourning the inevitable loss, holding my mother's hand.  Instead, I've visited twice, I've helped a few times with doctor's appointments and various tests and scans....  I know I should do more to be the "good daughter" but I can't move past my childhood.  I should be the bigger person, but I just can't.  I'm weak.  And I don't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.  I promised myself when I was 16 that I would never ever let them get to me again.  It's like his dying of cancer is his last revenge, his last way to get to me.  I know that's not it, but it feels that way.

When I was a kid, my father was miserable.  He worked for the government and every day, day after week after month after miserable year, with enormous resentment emanating from his core being, he went to work to support his family.  To support me.  Ours is the classic dysfunctional family and I'm "it".  I'm the martyr.  I'm the Jesus, made to suffer for their sins, to absolve them of their own failings.  Everything was, and still is, my fault.

So as I watch my father dying, from a safe distance, I, too, am trudging along through life.  Something I always swore I'd never do, yet here I am.  Day after week after month after miserable year.  And it makes me panic.  I see my father at the end of his life, sitting on the same couch he's been sitting on for the past 20 years, watching the same reruns he's watched since I was a kid...  and all I can think about is, I don't want the end of my life to be like that.  My heart breaks for him and for all the things he never did, because he chose not to do them.  Like hug his daughter.  His loss.

And I'm still conflicted.  I feel sorry for him.  And I feel compassion.  Despite his nasty, grumblings and his name calling and the bitter resentment he has towards me because, I'm sure, his cancer is also my fault...  I see this frail, broken man, who was frail and broken even before I came along, withering away.  Slowly disappearing before my eyes.  I see the panic in my mother's eyes as she loses her partner of 50 years.  I see the selfish, greedy side of my brother growing with intensity as he watches his father dying, and I know it's how he's coping.  It's our family motto...  money solves everything.

I want to be angry, I want to blame, I want to detach and say, "well, old man, you did it to yourself".  And I can't.  The compassion in me is overriding the anger, and I hate it.  I want to be angry, he doesn't deserve my compassion.  They don't deserve my compassion.  Yet something inside me won't let me be any other way.

My father told me one time, in a fleeting moment of very slight bonding, that his favorite song was "Eleanor Rigby" by the Beatles.  I've always been a Beatles fan, and when he said that to me, I got it.  The way he treated me wasn't his fault.  He had been abused.  He wasn't equipped to love his family.  So as a child, even though I was suffering my own misery, I had compassion for him.  I should have been too young to understand, but I still did.  It was probably the only thing he and I had in common.

I know I'll never get an apology.  I'll never have that moment with him, as he's on his death bed clinging to his last life, where he turns to me and says those words.  It's just not going to happen.  And I really am OK with that. He was the adult and I was the child, he could have chosen to be different but he didn't.  And I can't blame him for that.  He did the best he could. 


Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles:

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved

All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all belong?

And if you go no one may follow, That path is for your steps alone.

First, some self-shaming is in order.  It's been two years since I've blogged.  My life has sucked, loved ones have died, another is in the battle for his life, someone close to me betrayed my trust and killed my faith in humankind.  So just the usual.  You know how it is when things get overwhelming and it's just too much to think.  It's easier to retreat to that place that's beyond thought where routine takes over.  

Sometimes, though, thoughts manage to seep into my daily life and sometimes it's not too overwhelming to let them in, so on those rare instances, I'll let them.  And then in an ever increasingly rare moment, I'll write it down.  I'm not sure why today's the day but I'll go with it.

I've had a recurring thought lately, not one that's keeping me awake at night, necessarily, but it's still something that makes me stop and be quiet and listen to my brain for a while.  

When I was younger, in my 20's and 30's, I would amuse myself with the thought of people "having regrets".  There were catch-phrases floating around that were moronically overused, the obvious one in particular that amused me the most was "no regrets".  I thought it was the dumbest thing anyone could say, who would possibly have regrets?  All you have to do is do what you want to do, be happy, live your life.  Duh!  Come on, old people, get your shit together already! 

And then I hit my 40's. 

What I've realized, with wisdom come regrets.

I mean the kind of wisdom that can only come with experience, and the experience that can only come with age.  So, therefore, as one ages, one has regrets.  It's like some magic life algebraic equation.  Well, fuck. 

I don't regret never having jumped out of an airplane (oh HELL NO!), or not climbing the Himalayas (again, nope!).  My regrets are small, haunting little bastards.  Moments missed.  I wish I'd made that phone call to Mary and talked to her one last time before she died.  I wish I'd recorded all of those long, boring stories my grandfather used to tell so I could hear them all again.  I wish I'd let my dog die peacefully in her home instead of rushing her to the emergency vet where she died.  I should have hugged that 3 year old who was having a meltdown instead of getting frustrated.  I should have been nicer, more patient, more generous, more understanding, a better listener, a better friend...  those Himalayas don't seem so tall now....

So I'm not saying that one shouldn't live his or her life to the fullest, you absolutely should.  Dance in the rain, ride the roller coaster, try the extra hot pepper sauce.  Get shit-faced drunk at least once.  Fall in love, fall out of love, then fall in love with someone better.  Take vacations.  Travel the world.  Life will happen and it will hit you hard, no matter how prepared you think you are, and there will be plenty of things to regret.  So don't end up regretting the easy things.



Ripple by the Grateful dead.  Because it's one of the best songs ever written.  

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they're better left unsung.
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.

There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.

Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.

You, who choose to lead, must follow
But if you fall you fall alone.
If you should stand then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.


 

One day I'll saddle up and the two of us will ride away

My friend David passed away a few weeks ago.  My emotions have run the gamut and I'm pretty sure I'm back to where I started:  Feeling guilty that I didn't visit more.  I didn't talk to him more.  I had meant to get his full life's story, write it down, tell the world what he'd been through.  His life was no less than extraordinary, and almost a complete mystery to me. 

His life was so so different from mine, and his experiences were so far from anything I could ever grasp.  Even in concept, it's hard.  He was born in a small agrarian village in what is now Poland.  When he was born, his village was technically in Czechoslovakia, but the river rerouted and then their village was in Poland.  How crazy is that?   He used to tell me wonderful, amazing stories about his favorite horse, who's name I never got, who was, according to David, the most intelligent horse who ever lived.  He was an old, retired plow horse, who's job was to get water for the family from a cistern located down a hill.  David, as a boy, would hook a cart up to the horse, and in the cart were buckets.  He'd say to the horse (in Polish), "Go get the water", and the horse obeyed.  On his own, the horse would pull the cart down the hill and maneuver the cart under the village's cistern.  The cart triggered a latch that opened a release valve and the water would flow from the cistern, filling the buckets.  When the water started spilling over the sides, the horse knew the buckets were full, and he'd carefully maneuver the cart back up the hill, delivering the water to his family. 

Who knows how many times David had told this story, or how many times it had been revised over the years.  Our memories have a way of editing themselves as time passes.  Who knows if this story was even true?  What I do know is the love and the pure joy this horse gave David, and continued to give him through memories, throughout David's 85 years of life.  I'm sure it was this memory that helped David through the most horrific time of his life:  the Holocaust. 

When David was 13, his entire village, including his family, were rounded up and taken from their homes.  Everything was confiscated, including David's beloved horse.  His family ended up in the first concentration camp in Warsaw, known as "The Ghetto".  David was sent to an orphanage along with a girl from his village.  At the age of 14, David "aged out" of the orphanage and was sent to a labor camp in Siberia.  When the war ended and he was rescued from what I'm sure were deplorable conditions, David was sent to a "rehabilitation" camp in France, where he taught himself to speak French (it was to be the fourth of the five languages he'd learn to speak).  He eventually emigrated to Canada, then made his way to Baltimore.  He met and married his wife, they had two daughters, and eventually two grandchildren.

That's the censored version of his life.  That's the story he told, or, more specifically, that's the story he was able to tell.  The truth, which I learned from our mutual friend, was that his entire village was murdered.  His last memories of his entire family were watching them being taken away.  He and the little girl who were sent to the orphanage were the only survivors of his village.  I can't even imagine what that was like for David, the child, and David the 85 year old.  I'm sure those are memories, and emotions, that one can never reconcile. 

When I met David, my horse, Hallie, had just had surgery and needed a place to retire.  I was looking for a quiet home with plenty of green grass and other horse companions.  My friend Dawn recommended to David that he let me bring Hallie to his farm.  He was reluctant but he agreed to meet Hallie first, before deciding.  He visited Hallie a few weeks after she'd had her surgery, she was stitched and swollen and partially bandaged, I'm sure she looked the worse for wear.  David immediately agreed.  He said, to Dawn, "This horse needs to live on my farm."  And so she did.  He took her in and he loved her and he spoiled her, and I loved him for that.

I only knew David for 5 years, and I can't say that I knew him well.  I knew what he allowed me to know and given the circumstances, I'm sure even that was difficult for him.  He was a closed man, he didn't talk much about himself.  If I asked how he was doing, he'd respond with, "oh, you know..." and then he'd change the subject.  I've heard he was tough on his employees, he was demanding, and he expected perfection from his children.  He would accept no excuses.  I, though, had the honor and the pleasure of knowing him not as an employee, or as his child, but as his friend.  To me, he was honest, he was sincere, and he was so, so compassionate.  When he told me the story of his childhood horse, he cried.  That horse represented, for him, everything in his life that was taken.  His home.  His family.  His childhood and his innocence.  But, I'll add, they did not take his compassion.  For all the unimaginable, tragic and absolutely horrific things he experienced, he never, ever lost his compassion. 

The night that David passed away, our friend Dawn was with him.  She had stopped in to have dinner with him.  She said David seemed sullen, it was as if David knew it was his last evening on Earth.  He didn't eat much dinner, and he asked to be helped into his chair by the window.  He told Dawn he just needed to see his horses.  He sat there for a while, watching the horses, then he asked Dawn to help him into his bed.  She helped him upstairs and got him settled in bed, and David quietly, peacefully passed away. 

Even in his last hours, "his" horses meant the world to him.  I have no doubt as he was watching Jane, Lily, Bravo, Huey and Hallie, with Ringo the cat on his lap and Bridget the dog at his side, he was remembering his childhood, with nothing but compassion in his heart. 

I'll miss you, David. 

Your time has come to shine, all your dreams are on their way

Wow.  Just wow.  It's so crazy how the farthest memories can be triggered by the smallest little things.  A smell.  A photo.  A song.

I was watching Maryland Public Television this evening and it was a pledge drive.  Of course it was.  It's always a pledge drive!  They were showing, chronologically, American Folk Music.  My grandfather was a musician, he played most reed instruments and he loved music.  All music.  He preferred jazz, he had worked his way through St. John's College by working nights as a jazz musician, but he'd listen to just about anything.  I didn't realize until I was watching this show how much of an influence he had on me, I knew well so many of these songs!  When I would visit my grandparents, I'd bring my guitar and my Pop-pop and I would spend the weekend playing our music.  It was wonderful, and I had no idea at the time how progressive my Pop-pop was.  He was such an amazing man, in so many ways.

While I was watching this MPT show, the Simon and Garfunkel song, "Bridge Over Troubled Water" came on, and they showed a video of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr.  I flashed back to another childhood memory, this one not quite as warm and fuzzy as the memory of my Pop-pop, but it was such an incredible and pivotal point of my life that hugely influenced who I am now.  I flashed to the race riots that took place in Washington DC in 1968.  I was so so young then, only 2 years old, but I remember it.  I remember my mother crying, my father had gone to work in DC and was stranded.  I remember my father coming home very late.  I remember my father walking into the house, he hugged my mother, and they cried.  I was too young to understand it at the time, but some years later my father told me the full story when I was old enough to understand.

My father worked on K street in Downtown DC.  The K street of then was not the K street it is now, it was a time of transition for the city.  Old buildings were being raised to make room for new, "modern" buildings (that have since been raised to make room for even more modern buildings).  My father was a social worker for the Federal Government, he worked in one of the old, drab buildings in a not so great area.  To get to work, he took a series of buses then walked the rest of the way.  On the day of the riots, my father was in DC, blocks from the Mall, right smack in the middle of the riots.  He was stuck.  Apparently they had been given warning and most of his coworkers had gotten the heck outta dodge, but for some reason my father stayed.  The next thing he knew, he was the only white man in the middle of some very angry, rioting black people.  In the 1960's, our country was fractured, much like it is now, but then it was racial.  My father was a progressive white guy for the time, he marched for equal rights for blacks, equal rights for women.  Equal rights, period.  On this day, he feared that his "resume" wasn't going to get him very far, he was just a small in stature white guy in the middle of a race riot.

He and the only other remaining coworker, who was a black man, decided it was time to leave.  The streets were dangerous with rioting angry mobs breaking windows and burning buildings.  My dad and his coworker ran several blocks through the mobs to where his coworker's car was parked, they were going to try to drive out of DC. and they were terrified.  The coworker had my father climb into the back seat of his car, he covered my dad with his coat, and he drove them through the riots.  I don't know if it's fair to say he saved my dad's life, although my dad, to this day, says he did.

So as I was watching this Simon and Garfunkel video of the Kennedys and King Jr, and as I was remembering the race riots, something really big came to my mind.  It's not the first time I've thought this, but this time, I really REALLY get it.  We, the United States, have a black president.  These race riots took place when I was 2 years old.  In my lifetime, I have experienced the progress of my country to this amazing point in history.  Holy hell, I get it. 

Now.... if we can only keep our country from regressing.

Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water"

When you're weary
Feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all

I'm on your side
When times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you

I'll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

Sail on Silver Girl,
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way

See how they shine
If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind

<3

For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool

Yesterday, the song, "Hey Jude" was playing on the radio on my way home from spending the day with some great friends.  I was smiling, for the first time in weeks, and I was happy.  It was a Beatles song, which, in and of itself is a big deal for me, and it was Hey Jude, a song that get's me every time.  Yesterday, though, I had a big, fat Aha! moment.  Thanks for that, Universe, I love it when that happens!

My life has really sucked lately.  A very low point, wanting to quit my job and run away from home, extra sucky sucked.  The details aren't important, but they were traumatic (no one died), they hurt (I'm very sensitive) and it's taken me a while to move beyond them (I tend to hold grudges).  In the midst of all of this drama, I had a doctor's appointment (didn't go well) and now I need to make some big life changes.  So, my world has basically...say it with me...sucked.  Ugh.

Those who have read my previous blogs already know this about me, but I'm somewhat a spiritual person.  I look for signs.  I look for the meaning in every little thing that happens to me.  What lessons am I supposed to be learning from this?  I believe that we're not all floating out here alone, that there's something that ties it all together.  Some may call it God, I hesitate to call my beliefs God, just because the word "God" conjures up ideas of an old man with a beard in the sky, manipulating our lives.  I'm not making fun of others' beliefs, that's just not my image of whatever it is that's out there that's trying to make me learn my life's lessons.  I like to refer to it as the Universe, just because for me, I find that word comforting.

This Universe and I, we're pretty tight.  She (I like to think she's a she) knows me pretty well.  There's no lying to Her, and if I lie to myself, it only makes things worse.  The same life lessons keep hitting me and hitting me until I stop lying to myself and I learn the damn lesson already.  I also like to think that She has a good sense of humor.  :-)

Lately I've been sad and I've been angry.  And I've been withdrawn and I haven't told anyone what's been going on, only those who are involved know about it (well, except for those who know through the rumor mill, but you know how that goes!).  In other words, I once again bottled everything up and tried to put on the happy face until I couldn't even fake being happy anymore.

Long story short...  I finally mustered up the chutzpah to talk with the person with whom I had the biggest issue, and I sent him an email (OK, maybe chutzpa isn't the right word since I still didn't have the courage to talk to him face-to-face!) about how I felt.  To my surprise, he responded back, favorably.  He thanked me for my words, and he essentially said he felt the same way I did about the situation.  It helped so much to hear him say that, and I have a feeling my words helped him too.  We'd both been having a bad time lately.  So, first lesson learned: don't fear the truth, but do be sure to act appropriately.  I had made assumptions about him that just weren't true.  Shame on me!

So, to try to make sense of this blog...  I spent yesterday, Memorial Day, with some great friends.  I spent the morning cheering on friends who were participating in a horse show, and we all had a blast.  Then, I met up with one of my oldest and dearest friends, and her amazing and beautiful partner whom I also love and adore, and we had lunch.  It was as simple as that, we ate lunch.  But just being around people who honestly love me for who I am, and accept me, and I, them, there was no need to fake happy.  I was happy.  I am happy.  And I know that if I weren't feeling happy yesterday, that would have been OK, too.  We would have ordered drinks and I could have cried until we were crying from laughter.  I love those ladies!

So, the big lesson, the conk on the head...  I need to stop keeping the people who love me at arm's length.  If I'm sad, be sad. And if I'm feeling overwhelmed or lonely because of it, that's my own damn fault. 

"Hey Jude", by The Beatles:

 Hey Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better

Hey Jude, don't be afraid
You were made to go out and get her
The minute you let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder


Hey Jude, don't let me down
You have found her, now go and get her
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better

So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin
You're waiting for someone to perform with
And don't you know that it's just you? Hey Jude, you'll do
The movement you need is on your shoulder


Hey Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better
Better, better, better, better, better, oh!

Na na na, na-na na na
Na-na na na, hey Jude....

<3

Time it was, and what a time it was

I was laying in bed last night, struggling to read my book (John Irving's new novel), and despite the amazing writing, it just didn't hold my attention.  It wasn't the book's fault, my mind was just elsewhere. 

I kept flashing to my grandparent's basement.  It always had that certain smell, and it was cool and dark and it was filled with junk.  And I never, ever, understood it.  By that, I mean, I never figured out what room upstairs was over which part of the basement.  It never made sense to me.  So I lay there, in my mind, trying to remember it all.  Every last detail.  Including the smell, and the feel, and the stuff...  remembering it all became so insignificantly important to me. 

As I was trying to "map it out" in my mind, half tempted to get up, grab a piece of paper, and draw the darn basement, once and for all...  my mind wandered from it's wanderings.  The thought of that, in and of itself, amused me for a minute, which became a third wandering!  But what I started thinking about were all of the pictures that my Pop-pop had taken when I was little.  He was one of those in-your-face-documenting-everything type of photographers.  At one time, he even had a dark room in the basement (insert irony here!).  I didn't realize until that very moment last night how precious each and every one of those photographs really are.

So, my mind wandered to a specific photograph that my Pop-pop had taken of me when I was maybe 3 years old.  I was wearing an itchy dress and itchy tights that my mother had dressed me in.  I was sitting on the tile in front of the fireplace because it was always hot as hell in my grandparent's house and the tile felt cool, and I was playing with a stripped ball.  I was so young, but I remember when my Pop-pop took the picture.  He climbed down on one knee, then the other, then he lowered himself forward onto his elbows, getting all the way down to my 3 year old level.  I gave him a little wave and a big cheesy smile, being more annoyed by it all than amused, and he took the picture. 

The 3 year old me had no idea that 43 years later (well, almost 43!), that photograph would be so important to me.  It's a picture of me, but that's not really the part I cherish, it's the memory of my Pop-pop taking that picture that's so absolutely precious.  I had to sit there, patiently, waiting for him to lower himself to the floor, then I had to wait for him to focus, get everything just right.  It was so important to him that this photograph be perfect.  It was an old Argus camera, I believe it was a 35mm, film was expensive, developing fluids and paper, it was all expensive.  He went to great lengths to make it perfect, because having a perfect picture of his one and only granddaughter was priceless to him. 

The photo of me with that cheesy smile in that itchy dress with those itchy tights, that is how my Pop-pop saw me.  That photo is of me, from his vantage.  That picture doesn't only capture me, at 3 years old, in my grandparents house with their ugly sofa in the background, it captures my grandfather too.  His pure love and adoration for his grand daughter.  I need to buy a frame for that photo, I just realized how absolutely priceless it is.

So, I never finished reading my book.  I still haven't taken out a piece of paper to map out, "once and for all", the layout of my grandparent's basement and their house.  It's still something that will bug me, being a wee OCD and all, but maybe I'll just leave it like that.  Now, every time I start to think about it, it'll bring me back to the memory of my Pop-pop taking that photograph, which isn't such a bad place to be.  <3

Simon and Garfunkel's "Bookends":

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you

I am [s]he as you are [s]he as you are me and we are all together

Sometimes some things just need to be said.

A few days ago I was baited into a conversation from someone who has differing political views than I.  He calls himself a Tea Party member, I call myself a Liberal.  I was at once corrected by a friend of this friend, someone whom I've never met, that I'm not a Liberal.  "They are communists", he said.  "You are Libertarian." Oh.  OK.  Hmmm....?

It really bothered me when he said that.  First, it caught me off guard that I really don't have a clue what being a Libertarian means.  So, I did what any red-blooded American with "freedoms" did, I googled it.  Then, just to be on the safe side, I asked an expert.  Second, it disturbs me that it makes a difference in our society with which group I'm aligned.  My value, the weight of my opinions, the "Truth" I speak, is all judged by the label I'm given.  I consider myself anti-political, for lack of a better term, so why should I have to declare myself affiliated with anyone?  I am me.  That should be all that matters.

So, that being said...

I believe that a woman should always have the right to chose.  I believe in Planned Parenthood.  I believe that beyond the healthcare it provides, it's a great educational resource and it should receive Federal funding.  I believe that healthcare is a National issue, therefore, it should be a National program.  I believe that everyone in this country should have access to the same healthcare to which I have access.  No one in our country should be without healthcare.  NO ONE.

I believe that all Americans should have the same rights.  Period.  Gays and lesbians should be allowed to marry, and their marriages should be treated with the same respect as heterosexual marriages. I believe that our borders should be open to immigration, and I believe that people who live in America, regardless of their countries of origin, should be required to follow the same rules as everyone else.  If you're here, you obey our laws and you pay taxes.

I believe in paying taxes.  I believe that everyone in our country has a responsibility to our country, and that includes financial support.  I pay taxes, so should everyone else. I believe that it shouldn't be a source of contention in our Government.  Democrats should pay.  Republicans should pay.  Rich, poor, conservative, liberal, big corporations, small businesses, everyone should pay taxes.  I believe if you live here, if you do business here, you pay taxes.   It's that simple. 

I believe in art.  I believe in music.  I believe in dancing, and singing, and acting in plays and playing instruments, and I believe that we owe it to our children to teach them these things.  I believe that every child in our country should be given the same opportunity for a well rounded education.  Every child. 

I believe in a god.  I believe every living thing on this planet is connected by the air we respire, the nutrients we consume, and we're as connected in death as we are in life.  I believe that Christians and Jews and Muslims are all blinded by hate and are condemning each other for praying to the "wrong god".  I believe they're all praying to the same god, it's the WAY they pray that's different.  I believe that Jesus Christ was a nice guy who lived, and died, and preached nice things while he was here.  I believe that this is America, it was founded for religious freedom.  Worship how you want, where you want, and to whom you want, and judge not those who's beliefs are different from yours.  You're not as different as you think.

I believe in social security.  I believe in welfare.  I also believe that there are people in our country who take advantage.  I believe our social programs are there for the good of the order, and we shouldn't judge, or chastise, or condemn those who use it because of a few bad apples.  I believe there are good people in our country who are in bad situations, and I believe that we need to help them.  I believe in charity.  I believe in helping where help is needed.  If everyone helped, there would be no one left in need of help. 


I believe that global warming is real.  I believe we've screwed up our planet and it's going to take years, generations, to put things right.  I also believe that in my lifetime I will see our planet begin to heal.  I'll work my hardest for my belief that I can make a difference and our world will be a better place for future generations.  I believe some people don't want to see the truth and refuse to do the right thing by our planet, and it makes me sad.  I like Earth.  It's pretty here. 

I believe in giving thanks for the sunsets, the rainbows, and all of Nature's gifts because they remind me that I'm alive.  I believe in kindness and honesty, turning the other cheek and standing up for myself when it's called for.  I believe in miracles.  I believe anyone can do anything if they're willing to work for it.  I believe in movie night, reading a good book, and honking my horn at the kids in the car in front of me when they make that honking motion with their arms. 

So am I a Liberal?  A Libertarian?  I think it's clear I'm not conservative, by other people's definitions, but does it really matter?  The truth is, I'm the person you want to have as a friend, a neighbor, an advocate for your children and a bureaucrat in your Government.  I work hard, I love deeply, and I'll help you when you're in need.  Even if you are a Republican.

.

Maybe I don't know that much, but I know this much is true, I was blessed because I was loved by you.

My best friend died today.

Three years ago today, my very dearest friend Mary, died.  It was on November first, early in the morning. She woke up and wasn't feeling "right", she had her husband call 911.  An ambulance came, Mary was cognizant, alert, but still not feeling "right".  Her husband, not taking it very seriously, kissed her good-bye and said he'd meet her at the hospital.  On the three block ambulance ride to the hospital, Mary suffered a major heart attack.  They revived her.  She then had a second heart attack.  They revived her again.  She had a third, and then a fourth heart attack.  Each time, it became increasingly more and more difficult to revive her.  By the time her husband arrived at the hospital, only about 20 minutes later, Mary was gone.  Her three children were still at home, asleep in their beds. Mary didn't wake them up before the ambulance came, she didn't want them to worry. 

Mary had spent the previous evening with her daughter, Clara, the youngest of her three kids.  Clara was turning ten on November second that year, and Mary was trying to spend as much time with her as she could before Clara decided that mom's aren't cool.  So, unaware, Mary and Clara went out trick-or-treating one last time, the evening before Mary died.


The week before Mary died, I was on travel for work to Seattle, Washington.  Mary had just been to Seattle a few months before, she told me all the good places to see.  I spent my days in a conference and my evenings sight-seeing.  I loved Seattle, she knew I would, and I couldn't wait to talk to her about it!  I arrived home on a Thursday night and I worked from home that Friday, which was Halloween.  All day that Friday I kept thing that I needed to call Mary and talk to her, but then I'd tell myself that she was busy and we'd just talk on Monday.  She died the next morning. 

The morning that Mary died, I woke up and I still had the feeling that I should call and talk to her.  Again, I dismissed it, I knew she was busy preparing for her daughter's tenth birthday party.   Mary was an early riser, so I knew she was awake, but I didn't want to bother her.  I went about my usual morning routine, but I kept thinking about Mary for some reason.  I was thinking mundane things, I didn't have a sense of dread.  I even made a mental note to ask her on Monday about the house cleaning service she used.  It was just a normal Saturday, it was a little chilly out, but the trees were beautifully orange and brown, Mary's favorite colors, and it was a lovely, sunny day.  I thought to myself, "What a beautiful morning!"  John and I had made plans to meet up with a friend in the morning, and then we had usual Saturday things to do.  Running errands, shopping...  it was just a typical day. 

At 10:30, I got the call that Mary was dead.  I didn't believe it, I thought it was a bad joke.  I didn't understand why our friend would call me and tell me that, I didn't think it was funny at all.  It took hours for it to really hit me.  Mary was gone. She was gone.  Gone.  Wow. 

At work, her cube only sat empty for a a little over a week.  She had a coveted window cube, so it didn't take long before her supervisor packed up her belongings and moved them aside, and one of our co-workers moved into her cube.  Her sister came in one Saturday and took the boxes.  It all happened so quickly, I wasn't ready for it.

Mary's funeral was just weird.  She was agnostic, bordering on atheist.  Mary was also a planner, an organizer.  Her funeral was some bizarre religious service, very fire and brimstone, and the reception that followed was the most disorganized I've ever been to.  It was obvious that Mary hadn't planned it, and if she had been there, she would have taken control.  But she wasn't.  And it showed.

Our Director was invited to speak at her funeral and he asked me for some words to say.  I spent hours agonizing over the usual, "Mary was a good person"  and "Mary loved her family".  They were true, but they just didn't do it.  It finally came to me, what I should say, and this is what our Director said about Mary at her funeral, on my behalf:

"I've been wracking my brain trying to think of one or two special memories I have of Mary, and I realized that every memory I have of Mary is special.  In 8 years of friendship, Mary gave me a lifetime of memories that I will cherish.

Mary taught me how to be a good person, she lead by example.  From her, I've learned integrity, compassion, flexibility and forgiveness.  She encouraged me to live my life, have a great time doing it, and always come home with a lifetime of experiences.

Mary was my colleague and my big sister.  She was my voice of reason and my partner in crime.  Mary was my mentor, my confidante, and, most importantly, Mary was my friend.  I'm honored to have known her, and I'm better for having known her.

To know Mary for five minutes was to know her for a lifetime."

Good bye, my friend.  You've been gone for three years now but I'll never forget you and I'll never stop loving you.  You were, and always will be, my friend.

We all need someone we can lean on

My poor little cat woke me up the other night, his leg was swollen and he was in pain.  He leaned up against me, I snuggled him, and he fell asleep in my arms.  He didn't purr once, which was not like him at all.  There was nothing I could do for him except give him some comfort, and that seemed to be enough.  He just needed a little sympathy, but then sometimes don't we all?

The next morning I decided he needed to see the vet, so I called to make an appointment.  They opened at 9am, so I called at 9:05.  I wanted to get my kitty in as soon as possible.  They had a 10:40 appointment available.  Perfect.  She asked me if they'd seen this cat before and I said no.  She huffed, then grumbled that they didn't have time to see new clients.  I explained that I wasn't a new client, I've been taking my other pets there for years.  She was agitated, she abruptly said I could bring my cat in and the vet would see him when he could squeeze us in.  So, I asked the obvious question, "Why can't I just make an appointment for 10:40?"  The receptionist snapped, "You can bring him in and drop him off, or you can wait, but we'll see him when we can squeeze him in!".  Um.  OK.  So, I put my injured pet in his carrier and carted him off to the vet.

We walked in the door of the vet about twenty minutes later.  I was greeted by a vet tech who asked my name, I told him, and he said "Follow me".  He showed us to an exam room where the tech checked my cat's vitals, and did an initial triage.  I sarcastically thought, "well, I guess they're able to squeeze us in after all."  I still didn't understand, but I wasn't about to rock the boat and risk getting yelled at again by that nasty receptionist!

So, the vet came in and examined my poor, hobbled cat.  He said he thought it was probably a sprain but wanted to take x-rays, just to be sure.  He then said that they were booked, he had other clients to see, but he would squeeze us in when he could.  He seemed almost apologetic when he said it, but then immediately changed his tone and asked, "Do you want to wait?".  I decided that we were already there, so may as well wait.  He said I could go back to the receptionist's area, he'd let me know when he had time.  I was growing grouchier by the minute, especially since I had TRIED to make an appointment.  Again, I didn't want to ruffle anyone's feathers, so I sheepishly sneaked past the receptionist into the waiting room.  And I waited.

While I was sitting there, I people watched.  There were no other patients there yet (WTF??!!) so the only entertainment I had were the employees.  I watched the receptionist snap at one of the kids working there.  I watched her snap at the vet.  Little by little, those who could leave the waiting room, did.  It was a ghost town, just her....  and me.   "Wow," I thought, "Someone's having a bad day."  I put my head down and tried to blend with the potted plants, not wanting to piss this woman off any more than I apparently already had.  Her bad day was quickly becoming everyone's bad day.  Yikes!!

It grew busier, and Mary, that was her name, became focused on answering the phones.  She was rude and nasty to everyone calling to schedule appointments.  At one point the vet came back into the waiting room, and Mary exclaimed, "It's going to be one of those days, I can feel it!"  The vet quickly turned around and walked out.  Mary was not a happy camper.

Against my better judgement, I raised my head, I made eye contact, and I asked Mary if everything was OK.  She said again, "It's just going to be one of those days."  I asked her if there was anything I could do to help, and then I offered to run out and get her something.  Would she like a cup of coffee? 

Mary walked around from behind her desk, sat down in the chair next to me, and said, "I have cancer."  WOW!  Not what I was expecting to happen. She said she had just had surgery to remove a melanoma, she had two lymph nodes removed, she was swollen, she was uncomfortable, and she was scared.  For fifteen minutes, Mary talked, and I listened.  I nodded.  I patted her hand.  I sympathized (as best I could), while Mary cried.  She told me about her fears for her two teenaged daughters, what would they do without a mom?  How would her husband cope?  What about her dogs?  She was overwhelmed.  She asked so many questions, none that I could answer, and I don't think she expected me to.  I felt horrible.  Poor Mary just needed someone to be kind to her, to listen to her, and to show her some sympathy.  She wasn't a bitch, she was in pain. 

The phone rang and Mary went to her desk to answer it.  She was solemn, resigned, but no longer angry.  She wiped her tears, blew her nose, and when a client walked in the door, Mary smiled.


There are unreasonable people in the world, people who are hell bent on ruining the days of as many other people as they can.  Sometimes, though, what may appear to be an unreasonable person is really just another living being in pain, who is in need of some compassion.  Some sympathy. 

Wings a mile long just carried the bird away

I had an amazing experience a few weeks ago.  I witnessed a family of robins lay their eggs, raise their young, and move along to live their lives.  All in only two weeks.  It was breathtaking.  It was inspiring.  It was beautiful, and sad, and left me feeling absolutely humbled that these creatures allowed me to observe their lives.  I miss them, and now every time I see a robin I wonder if it's someone I once knew.

Taking pictures of these baby birds and sharing them with my friends was such an absolutely fabulous experience.  Not only did the birds bring me pleasure, it brought me so much joy to share the photos with my friends.  It was a crazy amazing experience, which, once I thought about it, is actually pretty typical for my life.  My time here seems to be a collection of crazy amazing experiences.  I don't understand if my life is this way because I'm somehow being given fantastic gifts, or if it's just that I'm super sensitive and I notice the little things.  Or both.  Either way, these things happen to me.  All the time.


Sharing my life on-line is not something that comes easily to me.  I have a growing collection of poems and short stories I've written over the years, and yet I've only shared a few.   As I get older, though, I'm realizing the importance of sharing myself with the world.  Leaving my mark, my proof that I was here and I witnessed these amazing things that this world shows me.  Through my writing, not only am I leaving my own legacy, but I'm also leaving the legacy of all of these experiences that have been given to me.  I existed, and so did these birds, these horses, these people... all of the wonderful beings who's paths I've crossed.

I'm a believer that there are lessons to be learned every day.  Most of the time I don't have a clue what the lesson actually is.  Sometimes I think I get it, and then I write about it.  So, welcome to today's blog.  This fleeting moment of lucidity, or possibly insanity, in which I record my thoughts for this instant.  Not unlike those photographs I took of the baby birds, capturing those brief moments in their lives and then sharing them with the world.  They have lived, and so have I.   

Here's a link to my baby robin photos.  Hopefully everyone can see them. Enjoy!
Baby Robins

Someday we'll live like horses, free rein from your old iron fences

So, as promised (many moons ago), here's the blog about how my 28 year old horse lost her eye.

I've owned Hallie since she was 19, but I've been riding her since she was about 14 or 15.  I used to show Hallie, she was always my absolute first choice for horses to show.  Hallie made sure we won.  She's a tiny little horse (14.2 hands, just on the border of pony/horse), she has short little legs, a long neck, a long back.  In the show world, she is not a horse that would be described as "a pretty mover".  But she has heart.  TONS of heart.  She always seemed to know when she was in a show, and she would turn it on in a big way.  She never ever came home without a ribbon.  Ever.

When I decided I was ready to buy my own horse, I looked and looked but none compared to Hallie.  Other horses may have been taller, or "prettier", but none had her joie de vivre.  Her owner heard that I was looking and she reluctantly offered to sell me Hallie.  I had asked over the years, I guess it was finally in the cards.  There were so many reasons why I shouldn't have bought her, she was older, getting arthritic, but I couldn't not buy her.  Hallie had done right by me for so many years, it was my turn to do right by her.  Not that her previous owners were bad to her, they were fantastic, but this was the only way I could make sure Hallie would have the golden years she deserved.  Older horses end up in bad places.  I didn't want that to happen to her.  So... I bought my first horse.

Long story short, about three and a half years ago Hallie's left eye started to tear.  Then it started to tear a lot.  I didn't think much of it, everything looked fine.  After a few months her eye became a little bulbous, then it became very distended.  Her behavior had also changed, she was spooky and she didn't want to be handled.  She would run away from people, or sometimes she'd kick out or try to bite.  The vet came out and did a sonogram, which revealed that she had a tumor behind here eye.  It was fairly large and it was pushing on her eye.  My poor wonderful girl was in pain.  I was going to have to make a decision, soon.

The obvious option was to put her down.  Hallie was an otherwise healthy horse, she was otherwise happy, so I had a really hard time accepting that as an option.  She just didn't seem ready to go.  The second option the vet gave me was to trailer her to the New Bolton Center, which is part of the University of Pennsylvania.  There was an equine ophthalmologist  there who could help my old girl.  I really didn't know what to do, it was agonizing.

I talked to several of my well meaning horse friends, who told me that the surgery would be incredibly expensive, and that Hallie may not even survive the trip.  There was also some concern that she would spook and hurt herself, or hurt a person.  At that point I had pretty much made the decision that I would have to put her down, but I would wait for her to tell me when she was ready to go.  She always greeted me with a happy whinny, she would trot over and nudge me for treats.  I spent hours talking to her, telling her what was going on, I begged her to tell me when it was time.  She never did.  I was very conflicted.

A few months went by and it came time for Hallie's annual vaccines, so made an appointment with her vet.  He had an emergency that day so he sent out his new associate, someone who had never met Hallie before.  I was worried, Hallie had become shy of strangers so I didn't know how she would deal with this new vet, Liz.  I told Liz about Hallie's nervousness, and Liz laughed.  She said to me, "Cindy, this is not a nervous horse!"  To my amazement, she walked into Hallie's stall and Hallie was perfect.  PERFECT!  She didn't spin or try to kick, she stood perfectly still while Liz gave her the vaccines.  Hallie liked Liz, she even nudged her for candy!

Liz was kind, and gentle, and she showed me that Hallie was not this hot, out of control horse I thought she had become.  We talked for a long time about Hallie.  Liz asked me why I had decided against the surgery and I told her my concerns.  Well, thank God for sending Liz that day.  She had done her residency at New Bolton.  She knew the vets, she knew a professional horse transporter, she knew someone who could do the after surgery care, she even knew how much it would cost.  Liz completely put my mind at ease, and I had all the information I needed.  I decided then and there to let Hallie have the surgery.  Liz saved Hallie's life.

So the rest of the story is blissfully uneventful.  Hallie's regular vet called and scheduled the surgery at New Bolton.  Hallie was trailered, uneventfully, had her surgery, uneventfully, and came home without the tumor and without her left eye.  They could have saved her eye but it would have been a more involved, and more painful surgery.  I opted for the easier, less painful surgery, remove her eye and pop out the tumor.  Done and done.  When the surgery was over and I went to New Bolton to bring my old girl home, I was told that she was the best patient they had ever had.   I was not at all surprised.

Hallie had her surgery three years ago this month.  She is now living on a retirement farm that is managed by the wonderful woman who did Hallie's after surgery care.  She loves Hallie and Hallie loves her.  My old girl is happy and healthy, despite missing her left eye.  Three years ago Hallie told me she wanted to live, and I'm so glad I listened.

Hallie may live many years longer, she may not.  One thing I have no doubt about, though, is that it will be on Hallie's terms. 

Every day is a winding road

This past weekend was Beltane.  We had a friend over, they had hamburgers, I had a veggie burger, we hung out, talked, had a fire in the pit, and enjoyed the company until well into the early morning.  It could not have been a nicer evening.

We had the iPod going, set to shuffle, and Sheryl Crow's "Every day is a winding road" came on.  There was a roaring fire going, we were tossing into the fire wheat shafts from yardwork done earlier in the day, so the flames were large.   Embers were floating maybe 10 feet into the air, they danced as they traveled upwards.  I was sitting in a chair, my head was tilted back, and I sat quietly listening to the music while watching these embers dance.  The sky was perfectly clear, I could see every star.  As the embers traveled upward, they faded, then disappeared, and it became difficult for me to tell which were dying embers and which were stars.  They all blended together.  Stars became embers, embers stars, the unity of it all was astounding.

Sometimes it amazes me how connected I can feel with the Universe.  Everything clicks, and I become one with the world.  Yea, ok, totally makes me sound like a nature loving hippie freak.  Hey, this is my freak flag and I'm flying it!


Seriously, it's nights like those that reaffirm my beliefs, my faith.  They strengthen my spirituality and validate that little burning ember I carry within me that tells me that this is real.  What I feel is real.  Others don't "get" it not because they can't, but because they won't.  I get it.  And a big shout out to those who know what I'm talking about.  You get it too.  Yay for us! 

So today is national coming out day.  That's national Pagan coming out day.  I may come out.  I may not.  I may post this secretly, hoping that only some see it.  Again, I may not.  I now know what my best childhood friend went through when she came out to me that she is a lesbian.  It sucks to be judged.  A lot. 

OK, so here goes...  my blog for today....  Every day is a winding road, and I get a little big closer to feeling fine.  Blessed be!

Wild horses couldn't drag me away

Those who know me, or have been following my rantings, know by now that I'm pretty much obsessed with horses.  Always have been and I pray I always will be.  Some of my earliest memories are of going to the public library with my mother and little brother and picking out the books we wanted to take home with us for the week.  Tommy, by brother, always picked Curious George, and I always picked something to do with horses.  I was somewhat precocious and a voracious reader, so I usually varied my choices between fiction novels and non-fiction books about horses, breeds, care and feeding.  You name it, I would read it.  I even brought home Gray's Anatomy once, hoping it would have information on the anatomy of horses.  Imagine my disappointment when I realized it didn't!

Flash forward to the year 1997.  I had just finished the last bits of my Master's Degree and was enjoying the lull between the end of classes and the actual graduation ceremony.  John, then my boyfriend, and I were driving through horse country in Hunt Valley, Maryland, on a gorgeous late spring morning.  We passed a lush, green field where the horses had just been turned out, they were galloping full speed towards the far end of the field.  It was awe inspiring.  I hadn't realized it until John pointed it out, but I was crying as I watched them.  They were so free, so beautiful.  I had ridden off and on when I was a kid but quit to go to college, and I missed it.  A lot. 

So, two weeks later at my graduation party, John handed me a card.  I opened it and out fell a gift certificate for riding lessons at a local horse farm. That's when I knew two things.  First, from that point forward my life would always include horses.  Always.  Second, John knew my soul.  He knew that I missed riding, I missed being near the horses.  It was such a big part of me and I didn't even know it then, but somehow he knew. 

So it's almost fourteen years later and John and I have been married for twelve.  We have two horses and John has never ridden either of them.  And we're both OK with that.  He has his passions, I have mine, and at the end of the day we go home to each other.

Wild horses couldn't drag me away.

I Got Dem Ol' Kozmic Blues Again Mama!

My car pooler drove today, so I was able to just sit back, relax, and enjoy the commute this morning.  He had is iPod going, and on came a song by BB King.  I have no idea which one, but it was good.  But, aren't they all good?!  I really don't think I've ever heard a BAD BB King song, or a bad blues song performed by one of the greats.  They could sing about taking out the trash and it would be amazing, and would more than likely make me cry.  But, as I've said before, I'm a crier.

So, I'm listening to this BB King song and my mind is wandering (as it so often does), and I figured out another one of those little "life lessons" that seem to be happening to me lately.  I was listening to this song but not really paying attention to the lyrics, and I said to my car pooler, "I should have been born an old, black man because I really love this blues music".  My car pooler responded that BB King was once a young black man who is now old, and he's sure paid his dues.  Wow....so true, Kenon, so true....

I started thinking about everything that BB King more than likely experienced in his life.  It's probably safe to say that just about everything that he's been through are things that I'll never know, first hand.  I'll never know what it's like to be born in a one room house to a poor, black, southern family.  I'll never know the racism he experienced, the random anger or hatred white people felt towards him.  I'll never fully understand how absolutely hard he had to fight to get to this point in his life.  The point where his amazing music is playing on a white man's iPod in a white man's pickup truck, as two white middle aged government employees commute to work one morning.  I was blown away by that thought.  I'm sure BB King, or other poor black children growing up in the deep south, never thought things would change.  But they persevered.  And thank God they did, I can't imagine a world without BB King's amazing music.

Well, that got me to thinking about how things are now.  How lazy we are, in general.  How complacent we are, myself included.  There are so many of us in this world who have never experienced those struggles, or any struggles.  Frankly, I know quite a few people whom I would deem lazy, again, myself included.  People of my generation, and especially the younger generations, have no idea.  Most of us grew up in our homogenized neighborhoods, were given what we wanted, went to college, now have careers, houses, cars....and it all happened without a whole lot of struggling.  I know a lot of people who work hard at what they do, but I don't really know that many people who have that character that BB King has.  There really is something to be said for struggling, for paying dues.  It changes people. It turns them into survivors.

I had a lot of struggle in my younger years, at one point I was working three jobs.  I got up early, commuted to college where I stayed until noon, then I went to job #1.  I worked there until 6pm, then I went to job #2.  On the weekends I worked at a private hunt club, which required me to get up at 3am, be at the barn by 3:30, and the horses had to be bathed, groomed, and tacked by 5am when the owners showed up to ride.  I did it to put myself through college, and then grad school.  I worked HARD!  Yet, I don't think I would define myself as having character.


I'd like to know the components for character.  Obviously it's not solely the struggling, or I'd be brimming with character!  There has to be more to it than that.  How does one reach a point in life where he or she is content, where he or she doesn't want to slap the crap out of someone at any given moment in time?  It seems that a large part of it is having forgiveness.  Not harboring anger toward those who caused you the struggle that ultimately gave you the character.  Ironic, isn't it?  It has to be the forgiveness.  Those who fight, who struggle, but forgive, have character.  Those who never move beyond it are just bitter. 

Maybe when I get to be the same ripe old age as BB King, I'll have character too.  I hope so.

Eight cylinders all mine, All right hold on tight, I'm a highway star

Two days in a row!  I'm blogging two days in a row!!  Don't get used to it, totally a fluke. 

Last week the weather warmed up, the snow melted, it was nice and sunny and the air smelled good.  Granted, it's still February so I knew it wouldn't last, but for a day or two, it was glorious!  I wanted so badly to pull the cover off of my little Porsche roadster and take 'er for a spin.  There's something so amazingly fantastic about driving a fast car, top down, wind in my face, scenery whizzing by at embarrassingly fast speeds.  I can't get enough of it!

I can her your eyes rolling!  I know what you're thinking...  "but Cindy, you're a g-i-r-l!".  Yea, I know.  I'm not supposed to love cars.  I'm not supposed to worship the loud roaring engines of those 1960's and 1970's muscle cars with their big block engines.  I'm not supposed to freeze in my tracks when I see an amazingly engineered piece of German metal woosh past.  I'm not supposed to be able to tell, by sight, the make, model, and sometimes, the year, of a car.  But I do.  I'm an enigma, don't try to figure me out.

I was born in the 1960's so I saw first hand the evolution of the American muscle car.  The transformation from the boxy "grocery getters" with their small, unimpressive engines, to the stealthy, growling, kick-ass big block engines with the posi-traction rearends, squealing down the road.  Not to mention, the hunka hunka men driving those cars!  For a teenage girl with raging hormones, nothing was sexier than a guy (ugly, cute, it didn't matter!) driving one of those pieces of amazing machinery!  I was inspired, to say the least.

Ironically, though, it wasn't the guys that caught my eye.  It was the cars!  I wanted to be driving those cars!  I wanted to feel the force of the engine as I stepped on the gas.  Oh, the power!!  So, I bought myself my first car... a Ford Mustang.  Now, before you get all impressed with a girl buying a Mustang for her first car, I have a confession to make.  It was a 1974 Mustang.  That's a Mustang II.  With a four, yes I said f-o-u-r, cylinder engine.  I know, it sooo doesn't count.  But it was red.  And it had shag carpeting.  And it was MINE!  I had my Mustang!  I know I should be hanging my head in shame, who the hell brags about owning a 1974 Ford Mustang II?  Especially one like mine.  I purchased my 1974 'Stang in 1984, it had over 100k miles on it.  It burned oil, it leaked oil....anything that could be done with oil, this car did it.  Damn car.  But it was MY damn car!  And did I mention it was RED?!

This car, MY car, was my link to all things adult.  It was my freedom.  It got me to school and back, it got me to my job.  It got me to parties, and it got me in trouble on more than one occasion.  Mostly, though, it gave me that little piece of my heart, the little piece that, to this day, still loves the shit out of cars! 

God bless those hunks of nuts and bolts!  Can I get an A-Men?!  

Behind our glass we'll sit and look at our ever-open book

Why do I always feel the need to start out every blog with an apology?  Life can be so demanding sometimes that the length between blogs becomes protracted.  Also, why do I always feel like I need to give an excuse?  So, OK, I'm sorry it took so long.  I was busy.  LOL (and I hope you're LOL along with me!)

On Christmas I had blogged about my two little senior citizen mice, Bella and Sweetie.  They were the surviving offspring of my wonderful little mouse friend, Martha, who taught me that each and every little being is as alive as I am.  Well, I'm sorry to report that Bella died.  When she went, her sister, Sweetie, was curled up with her in their nest.  Sweetie knew Bella was not long for the world, she would groom Bella, bring her food, and would cuddle her to keep her warm.  When Bella died, I was afraid that Sweetie would die along with her.  For days, Sweetie wandered around her little habitat, she seemed so lonely.  Sweetie has two next door neighbors, Lily and Daisy, who are bonded sisters.  I had contemplated putting Sweetie in with them, but I was worried that they wouldn't get along.  So Sweetie lives in her big habitat, by herself.

About a week ago, I gave Sweetie a big, fluffy pom-pom.  I thought maybe she'd like to play with it, or tear it up to line her nest.  Well, Sweetie did me one better.  She dragged this mysterious fluff-ball into her nest, covered it with shredded toilet paper, and she snuggles with it every day.  It's her new BFF.  If I move the pom-pom, she moves it back to where it "belongs".  Children have their security blankets or their stuffed dolls, my Sweetie mouse has her pom-pom.  After she "found" this pom-pom, her demeanor changed.  She perked up.  She started taking treats out of my hand again.  She runs on her wheel, she stashes her sunflower seeds for a midnight snack.  She is back to being her little Sweetie self.  I guess everyone needs a companion, and for Sweetie, this pom-pom is hers.

My first mouse, Marty, also had a little "companion".  Marty was a tiny little baby when I found him.  I estimated that he was only about a week old.  I fed him, and he thrived.  He was a contemporary of Martha, they lived in neighboring habitats.  Marty was also a single mouse living alone.  He loved being petted.  When he heard my voice he would come running and I would give him scritches.  His back leg would kick when I scratched the right spots...behind his ears, or in his little armpits.  He was sweet and friendly and particular and greedy... he was a completely unique being.  I loved that little guy.  Well, one day a catalog came in the mail and stapled in the center was a fleece fabric sample.  It was a little red square of fabric about 3".  I pulled the staple out and gave Marty the little mouse-size fleece blanket.  Marty was so happy to "find" this little blanket!  Marty dragged it into his nest and covered himself up.  When it was warm, he'd lay on top of it, if it was cold, he'd burrow underneath.  When I cleaned his cage, I had to take his little blanket out, wash it, and put it back in...where he would drag it back into his new nest.  It was his companion.

Having these pet mice over the years has taught me that all living creatures have needs.  We all need companionship.  We all need to love and be loved.  We all need to feel safe, to feel warm, to be happy.  I hope I'm doing right by these little creatures.  I only take them in if they need my help, I only keep them if they want to be kept.  Ironically, so far they've all wanted to stay.

Rest in peace, Bella.  Tell Martha, Marty, and the rest of the gang I say hi, and thanks for teaching me so much.

There beneath the blue suburban skies, I sit

Today is Imbolc.  In Celtic tradition, it's the mid-point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.  Today is a very important day.  It's the time to clean out the old mental cobwebs and plan for the future.  Spring is the rebirth of the seasons, the awakening of the Earth, it's a time to celebrate and be grateful.  Blessed be!

Last week I had an ultrasound done on my thyroid.  I have an autoimmune disease that's been wreaking havoc on my endocrine system.  Last month, during a routine check-up, my doctor found lumps.  Not good.  I was nervous.  I'm not a good patient, I hate needles, I hate doctors.  With my luck this would not turn out well, and I had pretty much convinced myself that I was doomed.

So, last Monday, I was driving myself to my appointment.  I play a little game with myself....whenever there is anything that may possibly have a bad outcome, I listen for a Beatles song.  If I, by chance, hear one, I know everything's going to be OK.  Playing one on my iPod doesn't count, it has to be random.  I know... weird game.  So far, every time I've been in a stressful situation and I've "needed a sign", I've asked for a Beatles song.  If I hear one, I know everything will be fine.  So driving to my appointment last week, I asked for a song.  Literally ten seconds later, a listener called in to the radio station and requested to hear "Penny Lane".  I teared up.  Was this my sign?  What if I'm deluding myself?  I listened and I sang along, but I wasn't yet convinced.

Next, I was sitting in the doctor's office, waiting.  They were running late, as usual.  An old woman in her 70's struck up a conversation, I think she just needed someone to talk to.  She prattled on, and I listened.  She told me about her life, her alcoholic, diabetic husband who passed away.  She told me about her three adult children, all stricken with diabetes at young ages.  Her oldest daughter, Wendy, was seeing the doctor today, she's in bad shape.  She's 50, she has a heart condition, a pace maker, she's on oxygen, she has cataracts, and today the doctors were checking to see if a new medication was helping the poor circulation in her legs.  If not, she was facing amputation.  The old woman said Wendy is the light of her life, being around her makes her smile.  I sat there listening to the old woman talk about her family, they have real problems.  Not self-induced issues, REAL problems.  Wendy came into the waiting room, dragging an oxygen tank behind her.  She had a big smile on her face, she was just glad to be here.  The old woman asked how it went, Wendy replied. "It's in God's hands".  They got up to leave and the old woman came over and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.  I hugged and kissed her back.  After they left, I sat there by myself in the waiting room, thinking about Wendy.  I really hope I run into them again, I'd like to know how she's doing.

The ultrasound technician came into the waiting room to get me, and I followed her back.  A deep feeling of impending doom settled into my thoughts.  As she was performing the ultrasound, the second one I've had in three years, I just kept thinking that it must be bad, this is taking way too long.  Much longer than the last time.  This is not going to be good news.  She finished, wiped the goo from my neck, and said, very calmly, "The doctor will call you in a week".  The Doctor will call me??  She never calls me.  Yup.  Not good.

I left the doctor's office in a funk.  I even forgot to pay the bill.  Oops!  I made a wrong turn, drove for awhile on on "auto-pilot", and ended up at one of my favorite stores.  So, I may as well shop!  I didn't go in for anything in particular, I just looked around and ended up buying a few things that just stood out to me.  As I was checking out, I had a great conversation with the woman who works there about spirituality, having faith.  She brought up the topic, I mostly listened.  It was cool though, I like hearing people's opinions on their beliefs.  As I've said many times, whatever gets you though the night.  Thanks again for those words, John Lennon!

So, feeling a little better, I started my journey home.  I was driving on a two lane road that leads to the highway, there are woods along the one side of the road.  As I'm motoring along, a Goshawk flies out of the woods, headed straight for me.  It makes a right turn and flies right along next to me, at window level.  I'm looking over at it, and I swear it was staring in the window at me!  I drove, it flew, and we looked at each other.  Then, it sped up, banked up and to it's right, and went back into the woods.  I was numb, I just couldn't believe what I had seen.  Was this my sign?  Was the old woman my sign?  Was talking to the store clerk my sign?  What about hearing Penny Lane??  Do any of these have any meaning, or am I just wishfully thinking??  I was very confused, and still not trusting that any of this had meaning.  It could have been a crazy series of coincidences.  Life is like that.

Flash forward to last night.  I get home and there's a message on the machine, the one I've been waiting for.  It's a nurse, not the Doctor.  Hmm, that's weird.  The nurse says the Doctor told her to call me.  I'm waiting for THOSE WORDS... "you need to call the doctor's office right away".  Instead, what she said floored me.  Everything is fine.  I replayed the message to make sure I heard right.  Nothing abnormal, the nodules are stable, and everything is fine.  They'll be sending me an appointment reminder card in the mail, no need to see her again for a year.  Everything is fine.  I burst into tears.  That's what I do, I'm a crier.

So today is Imbolc.  A day to move forward, to focus on the future, and to clean out the cobwebs.  My cobwebs?  I need to trust.  I need to believe what I see, all of those little signs that have so much meaning.  I need to....I WILL... pay attention.  I will have faith in this Universe.  These little signs are surrounding me, surrounding us.  I asked for a sign, the Beatles song, and I got it.  I didn't trust, so the Universe gave me another sign, then another, then another.... It takes me a while sometimes, but I get it now.

Merry Imbolc.  Thank you for today.  Everything is fine.  

Baby, I'm amazed

I'm home today, sequestered by the first real snow storm of the season, and of the year.  We've had other, smaller storms, but this one is for real.  Last night was cold and blustery with sideways blowing snow.  Today is calm and sunny and sparkling.  It's always such an amazing, magical time of the year.  Things are quiet and peaceful, and, for me, it's a time of thought and introspection.  Just what I need, more introspection.

So, last night I was holed up in my living room, bundled in my Snuggie, cats on my lap, watching TV.  An ad came on for Disney World.  Parents, a mom and a dad, surprised their kids, a little boy and a little girl, with a Christmas Miracle.  We're going to Disney World!  Is it horrible of me to hate them?  Perfect little kids in their perfect little house with their perfect parents.  Hate. Them.  I steamed as I watched the kids jump with delight, mom crying tears of joy, dad getting it all on video so they can watch it again and again and again.  Yup.  Hate. Them.

But why?  Why does this commercial make me angry?  Because it's not real?  Because no one is that perfect?  Or, is it because there really are families that are that perfect? 

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with reruns of the Brady Bunch.  Again, perfect freakin' family.  In reality, Dad's gay, Greg is having sex with step-sister Marsha, Cindy's on drugs.  But in TV land, life was awesome, and I was so darn jealous!

So, it is jealousy that makes me so angry at those perfect little snotty kids in the Disney commercial?  Probably.  I'm not jealous from the adult's perspective, though, I'm jealous from the kids' perspective.  I want to be that little girl.  I want to be the one jumping up and down, mom crying tears of joy, Dad taping...  I want to be that family, I want to be that kid.  But I'm 44.  Now that's just weird.  Then it hit me...

Adults are just fucked up kids that got old.  We're all bearing our crosses, dragging along our baggage, blaming our parents, resenting our lives.  Adults "fix" their own broken childhoods by giving their kids the things they wanted, being the "best" moms and dads, and giving their children the things they wished they'd had.  It's like kids are generational duct tape, patching holes, putting broken pieces back together.  We fix ourselves by having kids.  Now, I know that most people are good parents, they listen to their kids, they pay attention, and, for the most part, they mean well.  But I don't have kids, so I can only judge others'.  I'm good at judging others. 

But, my epiphany last night....  I don't have kids.  I'm still broken.  I don't have that duct tape that other adults have, so I'm still dragging around that baggage that I've had since my own dysfunctional childhood.  I don't have that next generation that I can dote on, that I can take to Disney, in order to fix my own feelings of "my parents never did that..."  I don't have nieces or nephews, and my oldest and dearest friends don't have kids either.  And Disney won't let me bring my cats.  I'm screwed.

I don't regret my decision to not have kids, I like my life.  I enjoy other people's kids, and then they go home.  I'm living the life of a grandmother!  Sour grapes?  Perhaps. 

I don't know what I'm going to do with this new-found clarity.  At 44, I'm certainly not going to be birthing any babies.  But, the good news....  There's a gorgeous layer of 10 inches of freshly fallen snow to keep me sequestered for another day or two, so I have plenty of time for introspection. 

And the visions that were planted in my brain, still remain

OK, so I'm the worst blogger ever.  EVER!  I'm hanging my head in shame.  I want to blog, I just feel so overwhelmed lately with all of the little bits and pieces of my life that won't let me sleep, finding the time to sit down and prattle on about nothing has become difficult.  I really need to do this more, I owe it to myself.  And I owe it to my thousands of adoring fans!  You know who you are.  :-)

So, I'm crying uncle.  I just can't do it all.  I thought I was able, and maybe I could if I were younger, but, alas, I'm old.  So I'm throwing in the towel.  I can't save them all.  I need to learn how to say no, and I really need to learn how to put myself first.  I'm not Jesus, this ain't no cross...  I need to get out of this martyrdom I've knowingly created, most likely due to a lack of self esteem, and I need to...say it with me...put myself first. 

I've recently received a crazy gift of strength.  I tossed a simple note in the fire asking for it, and, whadya know?  Strength.  I should have asked for something more simple, like winning the lottery.  At least I'd know what to do with that.  Maybe I need to toss in another note asking for wisdom, or clarity.  (Wo)man can not live by strength alone.  Yea, I know, I'm misquoting the Bible, but I've already said I'm not a Christian so stop acting so surprised. 

I apologize to those who are reading this.  I'm very tired, and no, I'm not inebriated.  Although that's not a bad idea.  It makes perfect sense to me, and to those who know me and the pains that surround me, you understand too.  This world is intense.  I'm dealing.  I'm a survivor.  Now I just need to live for me, and, I'm realizing, it's OK to be selfish.  Wow, you have no idea how liberating it is to say that. 

So, in honor of my apparent nonsensical ramblings of the evening, I'm including a poem I wrote.  Again, nonsensical to the layperson, but I understand every word. 

Written October 10, 1993

Such a hard language to decipher
Is that of which I do speak.
For the noises of the drums
That do other noises cover,
Render my shouts silent
And my meanings weak.
And the true intent of those surrounding
Leaves me nothing, other
Than the needing of a
Thought so tender-
In the well is does fall deep.



Sleep tight.  Don't let the little bits keep you awake. 

Today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten

I woke up yesterday morning, December 31, 2010, with the words "It was a labor of love" floating through my head.  Those words resonated with me throughout the day, attached to fabulous memories that flooded my thoughts.  It's always so overwhelming when I have days like that, but I seem to learn a little bit more each time, if I pay attention.  Yesterday I was paying attention. 

When I was 18, I had bought myself an old Ford Mustang.  It was a pile of junk, but I loved it.  It was the car I wanted, so I indulged myself and bought it, despite my parents protests.  I drove this car for about a year until one day the engine seized.  It needed a new engine.  So, I gathered some friends, bought a new engine, and we spent a week disassembling the old engine and dropping in the new one.  When we were finished and had it running, my friend said to me "It was a labor of love".  And it was.  I loved that car.  In retrospect it was nothing but a money pit, but if I had it to do over...I wouldn't change a thing.

As I was driving home from my horseback riding lesson yesterday I was haunted by those words, "It was a labor of love".  I began thinking of my older horse, Hallie, who is soon to be 28 years old.  She is another of my many labors of love.  When she was 23, she was playing in her field and somehow injured herself.  She came in the next morning with a deep laceration to her right hind leg, her tendons were partially severed, her muscle was peeled back exposing the bone.  It was bad.  Everyone said to put her down.  I couldn't.  It took over a year, but my little horse recovered.  I spent exponentially the dollar value of what she was "worth"...but I labored on.  I loved her.  When I bought my old girl I made a promise to her, and I had to keep my word.  I've been tested several more times since then, she's now arthritic and missing an eye (a blog for another day!), but she's healthy and happy.  Owning Hallie has filled this past decade with one labor of love after another, but I wouldn't have done anything differently.  I gave her my word.

Driving home yesterday, it occurred to me that never have other words resonated so strongly with me.  It was a labor of love.  I've spent my life laboring, struggling, fighting, accomplishing....and it has all been a labor of love.  A forty four and a half year long labor of love.  Everything I've done, regardless of the outcomes, have been labors of love.  I've guided my life, or maybe my life has been guided, out of my love, my passions.  Not all have been successful, not all have made sense to others, but to me, this is my life.  These are my labors that have made me who I am and have guided me to where I am now, and I wouldn't have done anything differently.  I pray I can continue this amazing labor of love for a very long time. 

My epitaph: "It was a labor of love".  It sure was!