09 November 2017

Turn the radio up.....

After finding a couple cassette tapes in the old jelly cupboard, knowing exactly what was on at least one of them, I pulled this out of the closet and shed tears when I heard my little voice. I remember making that tape. I remember where I was when I was making it (the front porch of the house I currently live in), what I had on (a pink shirt/short outfit from Dutchmaid), the sound the little tape recorder made when I pushed record. I remember making up those songs. I was probably three years old at the time.
Little me, singing, I pictured my hair in a ponytail on top of my head, which created a waterfall effect, and urged my cousin to give me the same nickname.

My cousin mostly called me PITA. I'm pretty sure I was a PITA much of the time.
She loved me though. And used to stick up for me when I would get in trouble. Long past the time anyone should have been.
My mom, my cousin, and I, made a tape one New Years Eve of the Top 100 Countdown on one of our favorite local radio stations. I spent many Sundays listening to the countdown, waiting for the songs I missed the week before, or the ones that just came out since then. I remember how annoying it would be when the tape would run out before the song was over, and I'd only have half of it, and would have to try to catch it again on the other side. Picking my favorite pen to write them all pretty and neat in the little bit of space on the insert. Trying to think of a creative and fun name for the whole tape.
I also remember how my mothers fingernails felt on my head when she washed it. I washed one of my kids hair the other day, as he was stuck with a splint on his arm. He doesn't remember what grandmas fingers felt like.
I haven't had my hair cut in nearly a year. I don't want anyone else to cut it.
I think this is what Joan Didion means by the "vortex effect" in The Year of Magical Thinking.
It's going to be a really long year.

25 October 2017

Rambling Thoughts, Part One.

I have a dream.

This dream does not involve expensive, fancy cars.  It does not involve a house full of innovative, life-altering gadgets and appliances.  It does not involve a corporate career which brings a six-figure income.  I really don't care about a six-figure income.  But let's be honest here...without a college degree (of which I also don't have a dream of obtaining), and the motivation to plant my ass in a chair, surrounded by dreary, grey cubicle walls all day, shuffling the remains of dead trees around, there will be no six-figure income in any decade of my life.  Unless I actually finish one of my books and it becomes a best-seller and someone decides to make a movie about it.  I was a stand-in for Elizabeth Moss once, maybe she could play me?  Though Kristen Bell a la Veronica Mars is more my thought (Kristen, if you're reading this, keep your calendar open in five or ten years).

As usual, I digress.  Back to that dream.

I don't know that it's a dream, or more along the lines of my truth calling for me, while I continue to push it aside; a cog in this ever-growing machine that we, as a culture, have created since the day we stole this beautiful land from the people who were living in synchronicity with it.  Further proof of how I don't fit in with it all, I don't really agree that things were so much harder back then.  The only way things were harder was in the physical work that people actually had to do.  And it probably wasn't nearly as hard for people then because they just did it.  They had to do it or they would starve, and it's proven and documented and researched thoroughly that physical activity is actually good for you.  What?  Yeah, really.  

Not just physical activity, but more continual movement, with accomplishments.  Like growing food and plant medicine, the things that sustain and nourish, without having to walk into a store for it.  Creating life.  How beautiful is that and why don't more people want to do these things?  I have a hard time understanding why we have chosen to become a society of paper-pushing drones, slaving away for other people as we come home exhausted unable to sleep well, never getting enough time with our families. All so we can make enough money to pay others to cook our meals, clean our houses, raise our kids, deliver our groceries, mow our lawns, and the list goes on.  

I love mowing my lawn.  For real.  And I have about six acres total to mow.  Around trees, bushes, up and down hills.  But I also love doing dishes, by hand (yes, I could totally hear you gasp!).  And I just hung another load of laundry to dry.  I've not even owned an electric clothes dryer for about five years. Even with two very active boys, I survive, and can't even complain about that.  There are plenty of other things I could complain about, but hanging my clothes to dry or doing dishes by hand are not among those things.  They have, conversely, become meditative processes for me.

Every day I ask myself why I don't just step away from this soul-sucking grid already?  And every time I lose another person I love to some stupid fucking tragedy it becomes more apparent how much of my time I'm wasting keeping the machine greased and rolling.  Is this what I'm meant to do in life?  Pay taxes and die?  Buy all the things?  Be a good little consumer?  Feed the greedy fucking monster? 


I struggle having these discussions with my children.  I want them to be successful in life, but I also want them to live lives that have meaning.  I want them to be able to support themselves and their (eventual) families while doing something that truly makes a difference in this world.  To do something that matters.  Something that brings them joy and a sense of accomplishment.  I want my children to find a life purpose that they will never want to retire from.  Rather than just finding the career that they can make a decent living with, I want them to choose what they want to do and make THAT work for them.

This is where I try not to wish I hadn't drank the majority of my twenties away thinking of all the other things I could have been doing with that time, like traveling and writing.  And where would I be now if I had taken a different path?  Oh I know, this is a rabbit hole I'm not going to go down for this post.  Another time, perhaps.

But every day I find myself trying to fit myself into this box when I would have to remove entire pieces of myself to do so.  There is always the "well, it's just the way it is, you have to play the game.  It's just how society has become and we don't really  have a choice. We have to make money." But no, there is always a choice.

What do I really want?  I want to walk the earth (and write about it).  I want to memorize the landscapes and feel the thousands of miles of wooded forests and sandy deserts beneath my feet (and write about it).  I want to become intimate with her hills and valleys, feeling her energy rush into my body through my feet bare on its' surface (and write about it). To swim in the oceans and bathe in the rivers, and truly be a part of that which sustains me (and write about it).  I want to plant my own food, and make my own medicinals, to feed myself from the life that is all around me (and write about it).  I want to live with purpose and meaning, and write about it so that others are encouraged to find their own purpose and meaning. I want a life that flows with the seasons and the phases of the moon, filling my land with the life that is meant to sustain us, because that is what my soul wants to do.  I'm fairly confident that my soul was not put in this body to suffocate under the blacktop of society and waste away in an office chair.

God doesn't want me to hold up a machine that rapes the Earth and fills it with filth and pollution.

We are so far removed from ourselves.  And try as I might, I'm not finding a way for there to be a balance.  If I'm part of the machine, if I contribute to all the things I don't believe in, I'm living a lie.

Anyone know when the train to Walnut Grove leaves?

24 October 2017

Ticking away

Time is such a fickle thing.  Determined by a multitude of circumstance. Malleable, conforming to presence based on where one is from moment to moment.  There is never enough of it for the ways I wish to be able to utilize it in.  Yet there is so much more of it than I ever truly realize.

When I was younger, I would often spend so much time sitting, waiting for whatever was coming.  The event that was days away seemed to be so far off, yet it would arrive and be gone in a flash. The hour between the time that I was ready to be picked up by a friend and the moment that they actually arrived seemed to drag on for days.  The moments of boredom that came when I played with everything and it was only mid afternoon and it was so long until bedtime and what would I ever do with all those hours?

Oh how I would use that idle time now if only I knew how valuable it was then.

11 October 2017

Before and After Socks

Every project has a story behind it.  Some have multiple stories.  The Solaris Shawl that I knit last year had a bit of baseball in it, as well as an entire train ride across the country and back, weaving pieces of home and away, as well as the past and the present with the future.  It took me months to complete with all the involved stitches, short rows, counting and counting, backing out, starting over.  In the end I gifted it, and sent all the pieces of me that went into it along with it.

Socks are fairly easy for me these days and if I'm able to work consistently I can finish a pair within two weeks.  And I use the same pattern for every new pair, so the only time I really need to read the pattern is when I turn the heel.  Even then I'm getting closer to having that part memorized.

This pair was different.  I started these in July and just finished them ten minutes ago.  October 11th.  Four months.  I've not really knit otherwise in that time.  An easy, basic scarf and one cowl that took me two nights to finish, using a local, handspun yarn, was an easy and quick knit.  A good distraction from these socks, as they have been the least enjoyable and hardest thing I've ever knit, including my first sweater and the Solaris Shawl.

The yarn was gifted to me, and I loved the colorway.  I'm a blue person after all (and no, that metaphor isn't lost on me either). As I started to knit these, I was reminded of Van Gogh's Starry Night.  It was like the socks twinkled.  Weaving the dark pink tones of a setting sun into the deep violet-cerulean sky.  I fall in love with the sky every time I look at it.  Even on overcast days where the air hangs so ominously, I can still find an appreciation for what I know is there.

The night my mother was rushed to the hospital, I took my knitting with me, which I do often.  I don't typically go anywhere that I may have to spend time sitting without having a project with me.  I barely touched it.  And during the next 12 days I spent with her, I knit barely a dozen rows.  Something that could take me five minutes to do in a normal place, I couldn't even touch.

At the end of those 12 days, and subsequently, her life, I wanted to name these socks "Death Socks". I didn't want to touch them again and I had no desire to ever finish them and put them on my feet. I wanted to rip them out. I wanted to throw them in the trash. I wanted to finish them and then burn them.  I still kind of want to destroy them, in a therapeutic way.

I'm not sure if it's noticeable to anyone elses eyes, but one sock is different than the other.  The tones are just slightly off.  Like something is missing.  Like something that was there when I crafted the first one was completely gone for the second.  And that is the story that these socks will always hold.

03 October 2017

The Weight of it All

Early in the spring, the blossoms of an apple tree bring the beginning of a cycle, as they fill every inch of its' branches, creating a brilliant display against the blue skies and greening grasses.  The limbs reach up, seeming to open to the warming sun, and it's usually a welcomed reminder of beauty after the darkness of winter.

As summer rolls around, the trees pull strength from the sustenance provided by all that is given them during this season, to create the life that they will eventually provide to us when the time comes to harvest.

And as the time to harvest comes, you can see the progression that the tree has made from those first days of spring.  The fruit is abundant, and the weight of what it bears pulling its' limbs towards the ground. It's quite a different sight and evokes such a contrasting energy than that of spring.

In my own season of grief, I look upon these apple trees, realizing how closely they mimic my own feeling of overwhelm.  I feel the heaviness of it all, as every thing-that-needs-taken-care-of hangs on me, weighing me down, begging to actually BE taken care of, to be plucked off so that I, too, can rest in the cocoon of the impending winter, rebuilding the reserves that have been withered away by the process of production.

Nature provides these reminders that there are inherent cycles within us.  Cycles that we ignore in the hustle and bustle of the just-keep-going culture that we have created in our current society.  Every day we take on more and more while the season of rest continues to be pushed off yet another day. We think there will be time to care for ourselves tomorrow, or next week, or after whatever thing-must-be-done-now is finally done.

But we forget that there also is importance in the processes that we ignore and put off, and that they are most beneficial when they are done at the proper times of the cycle.  Mother Nature provides us with these cycles to look upon as guidance for our own lives. Like the waxing and waning of the moon, we fill and release; like the ebb and tide of the oceans, we go forth and we retreat.

And as with the trees, we grow, we provide, we take, and we discard.

The pruning of dead and overgrown branches is necessary throughout the life of a tree, and is a metaphor of the pruning we must do in our own lives. If we keep stretching ourselves out further, we lose support, become weighed down, and our branches break. We have this idea that growth must always continue, but we forget that growth happens closest to the source and when we are well cared for during the process.

Like the leaves that are shed during the fall season, we shed parts of ourselves that we have outgrown or have been used up.  This also brings wisdom in the natural process of death.  The tree releases its' leaves to the ground, much like we release our attachments. While the leaves themselves wilt and die, they also nourish the ground beneath them, which in turn continues to feed the source that provides a home to the roots.  We feed our own sources when we acknowledge and hold space for, and the true growth occurs when we are able to release and rest, gaining strength to begin the cycle again.

Everything is connected.  One process leads into another, which can not be walked through without the completion of the previous.  In order to be nourished, we must allow. In order to receive, we must open. In order to progress, we must release. And so goes the cycle.

We give, we take, and we release to make space to receive that which we will give again.

Give love, instead of hate. Fairness, compassion, and understanding instead of judgment.

Take less, and share with those around you, instead of taking so much that there isn't anything left for anyone else.

Release, instead of holding on.

21 September 2017


"bury or drown beneath a huge mass"

"defeat completely"

"give too much of a thing to (someone); inundate"

"have a strong emotional effect on"

"be too strong for; overpower"

It's that moment when you say you have a million things going on, and a million is not an exaggeration.

It's looking at the room full of things that you know you have to sort through, piece by piece, and make decisions on the dozens of options for where they will go.  And it's the knowing there is more than just one room.

It's when you sit down to try to work, knowing that it is a good distraction from all the million things going on, but you are unable to fully immerse yourself in it because the million things do not go away just because you are able to set them on a back burner for a moment.

It's getting one minor, simple task completed, feeling like you just climbed a thousand steps.

It's falling asleep in your car while your kids are at football practice instead of knitting or reading because you really are just that exhausted at 5:30pm.

It's having time to work on the million things but not being able to begin any of them because the noise in your head is so overwhelming that you can't shut it all off long enough to pick a place to start.

It's the noise.  Any noise, really.  If two people talk at once it's too much.  If music is playing and someone starts talking over it, it's too much.  If a loud motorcycle goes racing past your house while you are hanging laundry, it's too much.

It's all just too much.

I'm aware that it won't always be.  But for now, it is.

12 September 2017

The Anger Phase of Grief. Alternate Title: My apologies to Mike M.

Mike: Hi this is Mike. Can I help you?
Me: Hi Mike, I'm responding to a text that you sent me in regards to my probate filing.  I see that you're interested in some property.
Mike: Yes, I am, thanks for getting back to me.  What can you tell me about the property that you are selling?
Me: How's your mom doing, Mike?
Mike: Um, my mom's doing fine....
Me: That's great Mike.  My mom's dead.  She suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage, and a subdural hematoma.  Are you familiar with those?
Mike: Is that an aneurysm?
Me: Yes, Mike. You're right! Kind of.  It's actually when the aneurysm ruptures.  Do you know this happened when we were preparing for my kids 13th birthday party?
Mike: That's terrible, I'm sorry to hear that.
Me: Thanks, Mike.  I really appreciate your condolences.  I sincerely hope that you don't ever have to deal with something like that.  You know, I spent the next 13 days with her, at the hospital, holding her hand, begging her to wake up?  She never woke up.  In fact, I had to watch her die.
Mike: I'm sorry....
Me: I'm sorry too. It's been really hard for me.  I miss her a lot.  She was my best friend you know.  My kids miss her a lot too.  Her friends miss her.  There is a huge, gaping hole in all of our lives right now and it's been pretty tough to continue to take care of all the things that need taken care of, you know.  Are you familiar with all the things that need taken care of when someone you love dies.
Mike: I know it's a hard process....
Me: (again, cutting Mike off) You know, Mike, the hardest part is when I wake up in the morning and look out my door, up to her house....I live right next to her, you know.  In my grandmothers house, the house she grew up in, and my kids are actually the seventh generation to live here.
Mike: silence
Me: My mom kept a lot of stuff.  I'm sure there are things that I could find that you might be interested in....
Mike:  I would love to help.  What can you tell me about the property?
Me: You know, my house still has a dirt basement, and a root cellar!  When I was little, I remember my grandmother sending me down to bring potatoes up for the dinner she would prepare for us.  We were all very close.  We had dinner here a lot.  And there used to be a trail between the houses from all the walking we did between them.  My walking down the hill to get on the school bus every day.  And my dog, Buster was his name, he would come down every day to sit on my grandparents porch and wait for me to get off the bus.  He was an awesome, faithful dog.  And my senior year of high school, my bus driver ran over him.  You know, I was on the bus when she ran over him.  I could feel the wheels going over him.
Mike: wow, I'm sorry.
Me: Yeah, it was pretty tragic.  You know what else is tragic?  My grandmother was actually murdered in this house, the one I live in.  Beaten to death in her own bed one night.  That was pretty tragic too.  And three months later, my father died from sepsis.  He had cancer, and it was almost cleared up, actually. But the chemo fucking killed him.  Although I think it was more a broken heart that he succuumed to, because he was the one that found my grandmother.  He saw her face. It hurt him pretty bad.
Mike: :clearly regretting sending me that text by now:
Me: So, Mike. You said your mom is doing well?  That's great.  So, when she dies, can I send you a text harassing you about what you want to do with the property?  I mean, I'll at least wait til you bury her.  Maybe I'll wait a month.  Does that seem like a good amount of time to give you?  I might be interested in relocating by that time.  I mean, I have so many people that I don't even know reaching out to me trying to take all of this HUMUNGOUS LOAD off my hands.  I mean, the physical load, the things that can make YOU money.  Oh, and thank you so much for offering your condolences in the beginning of that text, before you jumped right in to ask me what I want to do with all the property that I now own, and how you are a real estate investor.  That must be a great job!  You must be really proud of yourself, spending your day randomly searching the newspaper for grieving family members who have inherited property and must be so preoccupied with their grief that you will happily jump in and take the stress off their hands.  How nice of you to reach out to people in their time of grief to fucking take advantage of their loss.  When your mother dies, I can also put you in touch with a tombstone company who barely waited til she was in the ground for a week to send me a letter telling me how much they would like to profit from my loss.

Fuck you.

By the way, if you're still interested in property, I found a chewed up popsicle eraser in the desk drawer in the spare room that I'll sell you for the amazing price of.....

Fuck you again.


No, I'm not selling, and if I do, it certainly would not be to you.  And also, I would love to know how you got my unlisted, private, phone number.

DISCLAIMER: I sincerely apologize for the use of the word fuck.

ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER:  I did not actually call him, and this conversation didn't actually happen. Wait, I did actually call him, but he didn't answer.  Just got a voice mail.  Probably a good thing.

27 August 2017

First Game of the Season Grief

I've not been a fan of football for quite some time.  As a child, I remember watching the Steelers play with my grandfather.  The game was always on during Thanksgiving dinner at my grandparents house.  My dad and my uncle would usually fall asleep on the floor, a result of a good, filling meal. I never usually paid much attention to it, but the sounds are imbedded in my memories deeply.  My grandfathers voice responding to a bad play, muffling the sound of the dishes clinking in the sink as my mom and grandmother would clean up.

In high school I got into it a little.  The boy I was dating and some of our friends at the time were pretty into it.  I remember a couple we spent time with; one was a serious 49er fan and her boyfriend was a die-hard Cowboys fan.  The year I graduated, the Cowboys defeated the Bills, and I remember watching it at their house, and falling asleep before it was over. I have a photo of me asleep against the edge of the couch.  I was wearing a pair of black jeans and a grey shirt that came with shoulder pads that I ripped out because I hated shoulder pads, but I loved the shirt.  I'm pretty sure the shirt is probably still in my mothers closet.

My mother kept everything.  We started going through her attic, and spent multiple occasions over the past couple years sorting through boxes that contained her history, mine, my cousins, my fathers, some of my uncles stuff, and so on and so on.  We would sit there reminiscing over the zip-up body suit she wore in her senior picture, the polyester pant suits that she and my dad wore during the 70's, the hand-made dress that she wore in her friends wedding, the outfit that I wore when she and my father brought me home from the hospital. The list goes on and on and is full of random things in addition to clothing.  Things that most people would never keep, but that I know I will laugh, or smirk, or cry upon retrieving when I go through it all again.

The empty spaces that exist in my life are many and take up the majority of my day.  The phone call I would receive every morning when she woke up, or the one that I would make to her if I didn't hear from her soon enough. There were a million phone calls throughout the day.  Ever since the tragedy with my grandmother, my mom and I would call each other all the time.  Living next to each other meant that there was worry if we didn't know where the other was, so I usually called her when I was heading home from work, or heading to craft night, and home from craft night, or home from a friends house, or taking the boys for ice cream, or running to the store for something.  I called her so often.  To bitch about someone that annoyed me.  Today, sitting at the first game of the season, I would have called her to tell her how they were winning 28-0 at half-time.  And then I would have called her after I left to tell her I was on my way home.

And now I sit here, listening to the karaoke going up at her house, waiting for her to sing.  Sean was riding his bike around earlier, as we were getting ready to leave, and he said to me he swore he heard grandmas voice up there, singing, and he rode up the hill, even though he knew she wouldn't be there. She always sang The End of the World, by Skeeter Davis, and I haven't been able to listen to it since she's been gone.  And probably never will without breaking down again.

I'm pretty sure that as much as I've loathed football and the wasteful consumerism involved in it for quite a while now, it's going to be something that helps to fill the emptiness and helps me to find something new to take the place of something that will never be again.  Because things change, and I am always the one who points that out.  I've sat on her porch with her many nights looking down across the road at the monstrous garage that was built by the people who moved into the trailer that Jeff, Joyce, and Jenny put in when I was just a kid. We talked about how much has changed around here. How much change my grandmother saw in her entire life here and how it must have felt to her, and I know how it felt to my mother, not being able to see the sunrise in the same way that she and my father built the house exactly in that spot for.

Change is hard, but it's inevitable, and I know I have to be like the river.

But it's fucking hard.  And I know that eventually it will be less hard.  But for now, it's fucking hard.

15 August 2017

Weaving Through The Grief

My mother was in the Neuro ICU for more than a week.  She was not conscious at all for any of it. Or at least not that I felt.  I spent the majority of twelve days with her.  A few of those days I left for a couple hours while my cousin stayed with her.  Two of those nights I went home and slept in my bed, but immediately went back to sleeping by her side the minute I knew my time with her physical presence was limited.

I always have at least one knitting project with me.  During the hospital stay I had two or three in my bag, but I probably only worked on a pair of socks for a total of half an hour in all over the course of those twelve days.  Somehow, every single minute that passed, I was unable to focus on anything other than just sitting there, with my mother, holding her hand, being in her presence.  Walking with her as we both navigated the process of her death.

I've found it hard to pick up any knitting lately.  I usually do go through a period during this time of year where my fiber arts take a back seat to other things mostly outdoor related, but this time it feels different.  I am having a hard time writing too.  I am doing very little of anything other than just merely functioning.  I spend a lot of time sitting, staring off into space as my thoughts run around in circles.

Last night I pulled out my scarf.  It's a simple garter stitch.  The same project I first knit many years ago when I was learning the craft.  I'm still finding it hard to focus, but it's easy enough that I can just concentrate on the pushing through.  I can just knit one more stitch, and one more, and one more, until I've finished a row, and I can count that as progress.

Pushing through anything can be hard. Even if it's the easiest thing you could possibly do at the moment, just adding the layer of grief to it makes it the biggest accomplishment.

I don't feel like knitting but the more I do it, the better I feel about it.

12 August 2017

It is okay to say (random thoughts from the currently grieving)

"I'm sorry."
"I don't know what to say."
"There really aren't any words."
"It must be really hard."
"I can't imagine."
"I wish I knew what to say."
"What can I do to help?"
"I'm here if you need anything."

Some people have a hard time with these things, but I don't, so it's totally okay to say them to me.
"She's in a better place."
"She is no longer suffering."
"She is still here with you."
"She will always be here with you."

She will always be a part of me, for sure.
And I also find myself in the same place of not really knowing what to say
when others go through this too.

It is always okay to hug me.
And hug me again.
And call me.
And text me.
A million times.
Every day.

It's also okay to not say anything.
It's totally okay to break down in tears.
It's okay to look at me with hurt in your eyes.
It's okay to look down and say "it sucks"

I'm also learning for myself that it's okay for me to
not always respond to you when you reach out because I know you won't be offended,
because sometimes responding is overwhelming.
I am learning that it's okay for me to take time to crawl in a hole and just sit there.
I am totally okay with breaking down in a pile of tears in public places
while complete strangers look upon me with confusion.
I'm okay sitting in my car, at a traffic light, bawling, as people in their cars look on in wonder.

I've had a few people tell me that feeling deeply is my superpower.  Throughout this I have been reminded of how much of a good thing that is, not only for me but for what I am modeling for my children.

Grief sucks, but I've really gotten good at it.
And as much as it can hurt, and make it feel like my heart is being ripped apart inside of me,
it brings a transformation and release more profound than anything I have ever experienced.
Deep, tragic, painful grief makes you feel alive in ways that life itself can not.

It is also okay to be grateful for the lessons and wisdom you gain from a process that you wish you didn't have to go through, but in the end you know that you need to go through it in order to continue to evolve.

The things that tear you apart end up putting you back together in ways that could not happen without.

30 July 2017

Died Peacefully at Home Surrounded by their Loving Family

I am certain that this is something that does happen, as I read it occasionally in the obituaries.  I am also aware that death in and of itself isn't something that usually holds an easily reached peace in most circumstances.  But as I sit here next to my mother, who is on her second day under hospice care and her 11th day fighting death, I realize that I can't remember a time that my family has been afforded the experience of the title of this blog post.

My maternal grandfather died at the hospital, of congestive heart failure.  They had just called to tell us he was going to be released to come home.  Granted we knew he wasn't going to live very long, but he wanted to be at home and they were making that happen.  Shortly after hanging up the phone, he died there, alone, without family, in his hospital room.

My paternal grandfather died in an ambulance on the way to the hospital after suffering a stroke as he waited outside the grocery store for my grandmother to return.  My paternal grandmother died in a nursing home after a much too long battle with alzheimer's.

My maternal grandmother probably would have been likely to attain a peaceful passing as I'm sure she would have lived to be 100, but instead, while she died at home, it was not surrounded by family, and it was at the hands of someone who beat the life out of her.  And three short months after bearing witness to the aftermath of this unfortunate scene, my father died alone in a hospital bed of a blood infection that was left to him after enduring a ridiculous amount of chemotherapy that may possibly have been shrinking his cancer, but surely left his body unable to fight anything else.

My uncle suffered a heart attack upon waking one morning.  So, he may have been at home, but it was alone and not peaceful.

I could go back further to the great great grandmother who fell down my basement steps during her fourth pregnancy and both she and the baby died.  She may have been at home, with family (including a 6 year old daughter who never forgot asking the doctor if he was going to save her mama) but it sure doesn't sound like it was peaceful for anyone.

There is also my grandmothers uncle Coonie, who was certainly at home surrounded by family as they enjoyed a dinner together, but getting up and going outside to cough up blood from black lung until he died in his wifes arms isn't exactly peaceful either.

As I lay here next to my mother, watching her go through her own passage to death, I can't help but wonder how one experiences a peaceful passing.  Because I made a choice to allow my mother to have that, rather than to be sentenced to a life trapped inside her brain unable to experience any kind of life worth living.  I made the choice to end her ultimate suffering, which would leave her bedridden in a nursing home, where she has told me multiple times that she would never want to be.  And this process has been far from "peaceful", but no matter how painful it is for me, I can at least guarantee that she will have the presence of her loving family with her.

Perhaps another time I will be shown that "peacefully at home surrounded by their family" really does exist.

11 July 2017

Be Your Own Tracker

From the moment I discovered that my phone has an app that keeps track of the steps I take every day, I've been utilizing it. It's helped me in some ways, but I've also noticed that it hinders and frustrates me in others.  Like all technology, it started out as a love affair with something that I imagine is going to make me more productive and focused and help me attain goals.  But it comes with a cost, creating a constant need to have my phone on my person at every moment for fear of not tracking my progress.

I am aware that there are watches out there that you can wear on your wrist which makes having the phone unnecessary, but that's just another piece of technology that I really don't need.  Again, becoming tethered to a "virtual" cloud storing every piece of information about me and my habits is not something that I even want.  Let's just ignore the fact that the watch exists because it's irrelevant as I don't have one, and I won't be getting one.  Or you could, throughout the rest of this post, replace "phone" with "watch" and it would still make the same point.

When I am at home I like to leave my phone on the counter.  There are plenty of studies that have indicated that having your phone on your body all the time can increase your chances of :inserthorriblediseasehere:. Even if it were a watch, the technology is the same and that watch is against your skin, accessing whatever "waves" it works on.  Even if it isn't true, I still feel like a bit of a robot at the thought of having this mini computer wirelessly accessing information from my body and uploading it through some tower that "connects" me to the "machine".  So I like to be "untethered" as often as I can.  I like to move around freely without having a piece of machinery attached to my body.  But when I do that, all those precious steps are unaccounted for.

Which begs the question......if my phone doesn't track it, did I really walk it?

Sometimes I will get home at the end of the day and put the phone on the counter to charge it, but then I decide to do laundry and before heading up the stairs I grab my phone and put it back in my pocket because I couldn't bear to lose those steps.  If I do, my daily tally of movement becomes inaccurate, or God forbid I just count them on my own and add them in.  I mean, I would have to do it right away or remember them and do it later, which we know wouldn't happen.

This morning I realized I forgot to hang my jeans up to dry last night and had to choose another pair of pants to wear, and they have ZERO POCKETS! Cue anxiety. When I take my walk breaks, I could just hold the phone in my hand, right?

Again, if my phone doesn't track it, am I really doing it?

Answer?  The phone is hindering my ability to track my life on my own.  It's taking away my ability to know when I have worked my body and instead forcing me to rely on something that is not a true part of me. I really don't need an app to know that I have worked my ass after hiking up Pole Steeple, because the tingles of muscle moving are enough to tell me that I'm working.  Those tingles all the way down my legs to my feet are all I need to know that I have worked my body in the way it needs.

I know that if I sit at my desk for four hours straight without getting up to stretch and walk for a bit, I am going to feel stiff.  I don't need a phone to remind me to get up.  I don't need an app to tell me that I took enough steps and have given my body the appropriate amount of movement.

Over the weekend, my kids and I went to the lake and swam for about half an hour.  I actually left my phone at home, and for a moment I wondered how one tracks the "steps" in the water.  I'm sure there's an app that I can input the information, but it frustrated me that I was even thinking that I had to find a way to computerize my movement in order to make it count.

How did we become so removed from the physical body we live in that we need a tiny little computer to tell us that we're doing enough?

To be continued.

06 July 2017

Natural Magic

I have always felt connected to the natural world and have always enjoyed time hiking, swimming, and basking in the beauty of the landscapes around me.  For a few years now I've been spending more time working towards being truly connected to the Earth.  Learning and paying close attention to how I react to the changing of the seasons, the moon in her phases of filling and releasing, and the energies brought by the position of the stars and planets in the sky and their relationships with each other.  I've spent time learning about the placement of it all when I was born and have discovered more that contributes to what makes me tick other than just the mere astrological sun sign I was brought Earthside under.

I've learned to trust my own body and soul when it tells me things.
My intuition has gotten stronger as I allow myself to become attuned to nature and the life around me that lives and breathes along with me.
The ground beneath my feet is alive and provides a sense of security when I stand upon it and allow myself to upload all the positive energy she wants to give me.
The wind comes to not only teach me to stand firm and allow my roots to stretch longer and become stronger in their holdings, but if I stand firm enough, I will allow it to carry away the things that have been clinging like dust that I haven't let myself shake off.
The rain washes over me, rinsing me clean of the despondent energies that sometimes attach themselves to me unasked.
The snow blankets all around me, offering security and safety underneath its' cover of calm, providing for rest and rejuvenation.
And every form of life that I pass by provides me with a lesson that I am able to see as an outside observer, mirroring things that I can't always see from inside my own self.

This has all come from stillness; from allowing myself to be awake, aware, and observe without preconceived ideas or expectations.  By detaching myself from the rush, the hurry, and the material obsession of the developed world around me, I am learning how to truly be a part of this very rewarding and simple existence rather than just functioning as a part of the complicated and suffocating system that has been created outside of it.

This writing was prompted as a full moon is coming again and I feel massive amounts of build up ready to be let loose. Writing is a release, after all.  Especially as I've already been in a process of shedding both physically and mentally. Surely as pounds have dropped off, unwanted energies have left along with them, just like it feels when you declutter a space in your house and all of the sudden you can feel the air move more freely.

Cancer is also a water sign and I have been feeling drawn to immersing myself in water.  Sounds like a pretty good time to find some and bathe under the light of the moon.

03 July 2017

The Good Kind of Progress

There is no end to the amount of wisdom you can find in nature.  Every moment I spend in the company of birds and trees, with my feet on the ground beneath me, is a moment that brings me more wisdom that can not be found in a book or on any website in the cyber world.

I have probably spent more time on this trail so far this year than any year in my life.  I don't always go the whole way to the top, and most of the time I take the "less steep" part of the trail that comes around the back of the rock face since it's easier for my dog, but regardless, I feel accomplished every single time.  My body thanks me every single time.  My mind thanks me every single time.

Because the reward is in the doing. It's in the getting out there on the trail even when it's 90 degrees outside.  It's pushing myself when it would be just as easy to say "oh it's been a long day, I'll just take a break today and get back out tomorrow." It's getting out there on the trail when you only have 20 minutes before the sun begins its' descent and the park closes because it was a terribly long and tough day and those 20 minutes are exactly what you need to find calm.

Because if you don't get out there today, you will be less likely to get out there tomorrow too.  And that's not progress.

Tonight, when I closed in on the switchbacks on the less steep part, I realized that I didn't stop even once to sit down and rest.  I continued on the rest of the way, to the top of the rocks, without stopping to rest at all, and then proceeded down without sitting to rest.  Just a few short weeks ago I was still frustrated over a lack of energy and shin splints that seemed to continue to discourage me even though I was incorporating more movement into every day.  I wondered when the fuck I was going to start seeing some real results.  It had been a month; certainly I should have felt more energy by then.

Tonight, the Universe rewarded me with proof of real progress, and for that I am even more motivated and thankful.

13 June 2017

Calling All Ingalls.....and Waltons

I spend a lot of my time feeling like I belong somewhere like Walnut Grove, co-habitating with my Charles Ingalls, spending my time in the fields, carrying my eggs to the Olsons and picking out some pretty new fabric to make some new clothes for my family. Except my Mrs. Olson is a total sweetheart and not at all that pretentious lady depicted in the series.
My ancestors lived somewhere between the Ingalls and the Waltons, not only living off the land and sustaining themselves with their own gardens and fruit trees, but also taking care of all their elders who also lived with them, and the others in the community who needed it (my Great Grandmother, a midwife, delivered all the babies in our part of Cumberland & Adams County "but her own"). A much simpler time for sure. One that, again, I often wish to be a part of.
But I digress. Right now I have a few breakers turned off (two weeks now since I can't seem to get a second or third estimate because out of a literal dozen different electric contractors, I either can't get a call back, they're busy, or Camp Hill is just too far for them to drive from - HA! those pansies would never have survived my Gardners to Harrisburg commute for TWENTY YEARS).
I digress again.
It's fine because I really don't need light in my bedroom at the moment because by the time it's dark I'm ready to sleep any way. And I don't usually bring electronics into my room. We're done in the kitchen by the time the light is down so I don't really need that light either. I have too much stuff to do outside in my yard and by the time I'm done with everything (including dinner and the dishes) I don't have time to sit in my living room and knit or read, so I don't need that either. I don't have a dryer and have hung my clothes to dry for about three years now so no big deal there either. Washer is still good. Fridge still hooked up. I do still have access to showering, so at least we're clean.
And now, they've torn up the road, and it's totally like Walnut Grove coming in and out. It's caused me to slow down on my lead foot and truly take my time on the drive today. I guess it'll be like this all week.
The point of all this? I keep saying I'm ready to get off the grid. The universe is certainly listening to my messages.

22 May 2017

Monday Morning Musings

I wonder how we would view ourselves if we were to actually see, in some tangible form, the things that we expend our energy on.  I imagine my day as a jar and at the end of the day it is full of all the things that I have spent my time on, and images of people I have spent my time with during the day.  Does my jar sparkle?  Does light emit from it like a firefly?  Or is it grey and mucky while the bright points are hidden inside beneath a cloud of fog?

What's in your jar?

19 May 2017

More Open

It's always there, you just have to look for it.  The opportunity to take a breath, to notice, to calm, to literally just *be*.

This moment is one that brings me calm every day.  It's a routine that we've become accustomed to.  Every time we drive past this spot, we stop and take a moment to say hello to our friends.  Occasionally they are on the other side of the field, and if we stop they will usually come right over.  There is a cow too, and he's become curious lately, but still a little apprehensive.

We allow the peace to enter.

We allow ourselves to slow down.

We allow the present moment in.

I've noticed how this moment makes me feel.  Most of the time we stop and at least one of the boys gets out to truly share space with them, but even when it's nothing more than a drive-by hello of sorts where we slow to a crawl and yell "Hello Friends!" or "Doooooonnkey!" out the window, this moment has been teaching me presence all along.  It's been probably two years that we have been doing this, but I make the time for it nearly every day now, and I feel the peace it brings me.

This is where the magic happens.  This is life.  This is the medicine that truly helps to heal me.

17 May 2017


Nature is a bounty for life lessons, providing us with metaphors everywhere, if we are awake enough to see them.  The changing seasons each bring us "classes" of their own, that teach us patience, perseverance, strength, and vulnerability as we are continually given challenges in life that test what we learn.

I've never witnessed the poppy in this seemingly suspended state.  I've watched these beauties bloom every year for as long as I can remember, yet I seem to have only captured them in every other state. First, being completely held tight inside the safety of their pod; second, in full glorious bloom; or after, as they shed the paper-thin petals to the ground around them.

I've been thinking about boundaries and openness lately, and have been looking not only at how both are present in my own life, but also in where they could be improved upon.  In the past few years I have certainly become much more present in my world.  I pay much closer attention to how I react, the things that I make time for, the things I don't make time for, where I expend my energy to.  As a Libra it's always been a constant striving for balance, but after 40 years on this earth I'm finally coming to realize that there is no such thing as balance.  Balance doesn't exist because there will always be something taking the back burner while you focus your attention to something else.  And one thing will always get more time and attention than another.

The amount of time that this poppy spends giving us something beautiful to look at and admire is so short in the span of an entire year.  And at this moment she seems to hold steady, trying to muster all her strength to open up and be completely seen.  It's such a short moment, and you never see her turn back.  She doesn't open halfway up and then decide "Nah, I'm going back in my pod."  Nature always completes its' process.

Perhaps that's where feelings of being "stuck" come from.  Having things undone.
The things that are never said.  The things that are begun but never finished.  The things that finish before they even start.  The things that unravel and are left in the corner of the closet until we have the time (or energy) to pick it up again.  The things that we never open up enough to give our energy to.  Being open is being vulnerable.  And even though everything that blooms dies in the end, it still blooms. Even if it doesn't bloom quite perfectly, it still blooms.

Where can you bloom?

07 May 2017

In Bloom

This time of year is one that finds me taking random walks around my property multiple times a day.  Some mornings I walk outside with my dog and stare around in amazement at how my yard can seem to have transformed overnight.  My crocus were quite early this year, putting on their show in March and closing the curtain practically before April even came.  The daffodils lasted most of April and gave way to the lilacs that produced profusely this year.

My lilacs are my most beloved as they hold many memories from my entire lifetime here on this property.  One bush in particular I spent more than 15 hours freeing from debris and dead branches, while also very carefully pruning it where it asked me to. It has been there as long as I can remember and last year it was practically suffocated by poison ivy, which I'm horribly allergic to.  But I persisted, very carefully, and it rewarded my care by providing me with a bush full of beautiful, full, magenta blooms that graced me with their presence for a couple weeks. I was very careful not to over clip as there is a reciprocity in also enjoying the blooms where they blossom and not taking more than what nature permits.  My kitchen smelled lovely for a couple weeks while a selection from four blossoming bushes graced my table.

As the lilacs have mostly dropped the curtain on their act, the play is far from over as the peonies are holding tight inside their buds in wait of their turn to take stage.  I spent some time clearing this area out this year too and it's looking to be grateful as well.  These always look and smell so amazing and are one of the plants that I usually only bring one or two blossoms inside from.  Somehow I look upon them in all their blossoming beauty and feel guilty for taking away from their show.

There is an area covered with poppies that will pop out of their fuzzy little pods and take on their orange, tissue papery brilliance most likely by the end of the week.  My children seem to love these the most.  

The last that I noticed on my walk around this evening was the All-Spice, which I wasn't really sure what it was until today, only that it smelled amazing and also required a ton of time as some pretty heavily creeping mile-a-minute tried to suffocate it last year.  It's also in the middle of its' bloom.

In a week or two I will have the Mock-Orange bushes which are right outside of my kitchen window. They make washing dishes a total joy when they're blooming.

I've been here for 8 years now and can't believe how fast this time has gone by.  Conversely, it's sometimes embarrassing that it's taken me this long to finally start caring for it like my grandmother and father did.  Granted, I have a fairly busy life, but one always has choices in what keeps them busy.  And tending to the earth will give you lessons in many things if you allow it.

01 May 2017


Clearly my wisteria isn't very good with boundaries, but she sure has a lovely way of being untamed. I guess once the curtain closes on her springtime act, I'll at least pull her out of the areas that she really shouldn't be, but for now I'm enjoying the show.

I've found that nature has a way of showing me what I need to work on in my own life.  The metaphors are there on a daily basis, and it sometimes takes a while for me to get the message.  In terms of this lovely plant, the lessons it has been teaching me are endless, but at the moment it's heavy on the boundaries and taming the part of me that ignores the ones that I consistently attempt to put up for myself.

Perhaps I need to work harder at not looking at my boundaries as something that I need to make out of an impenetrable material, but more so a material that is flexible in its' firmness.  Something that can bend on occasion.  Something that can allow things in while blocking others.

Much like the wisteria which can be an absolutely gorgeous and perfectly tamed creature if you give it the proper attention in the proper areas.  On the contrary, if you don't, she will eat your house.

Much like life.

13 April 2017

What's Stopping You

I recently saw a photo of a seemingly empty storefront with the following statement lettered on the sign above it:

What do you do?
What could you do?
What's stopping you?

These are questions I started asking myself daily.  Most often they come out when I'm faced with a challenge.  And it could be any manner of challenge from garden planning, or a knitting project I want to take on to the book I've been writing for longer than I'm willing to admit now.  Answering those questions is a much deeper challenge than actually moving forward with the act of taking on the projects however, for the act of *doing* requires much less energy than the countless hours spent analyzing the questions.  But let's look at the questions, at least for a moment.

What do I do?  I sit here staring at this pattern, thinking about how many new-to-me stitches there are in it and I wonder whether I will struggle with learning or figuring them out.  I wonder whether I will have to ask someone more experienced than me for help, or search for a video that will assist me.  I wonder whether I will screw up and have to start over.  Or worse; what if I screw up and it's so far into the project that backing out a row or two (or three *gasp*!) is a better option than starting over (because all knitters know how much fun backing out is). And then there's the wondering if I will feel like a failure and hate myself for not being able to do it.

What could I do?  I could read through the pattern, gather the materials needed and just begin the project.  I could tackle each part of it as it comes.  If I run into a stitch I have never done before, I can search the vast amount of assistance available on the web and in the more experienced friends and community I have.  I could remind myself of the projects I've tackled up to this point, the challenges that I've surpassed, and the skills and experienced I've gained by completing each one.  Or the shorter version: I could just figure out what needs to be done and do it.

What's stopping me?  Fear.  Always fear.  But I always find if I ignore the fear, push past it and just skip to the second question, it's always much simpler a task than I ever feared it would be during the process of asking the questions.  And the payoff is better. Certainly easier with creative projects than matters of the heart, but the end result is usually the same.

I've found that these lessons learned in knitting often become quite handy in real life situations.  We so often cause ourselves more frustration by agonizing over the what if's than we would if we just move forward in some way.  The challenges will come and be dealt with and moved on from. And they will leave behind them gained wisdom. The more time spent thinking that we aren't capable of something, the more chance we have of convincing ourselves we aren't capable.  Sometimes it's better just to trust that we are, indeed capable.

This doesn't mean that we should make decisions without thinking, or weighing the options, but if we start asking ourselves these three simple questions, perhaps we'll find there is much more we can do.

16 February 2017

Balancing Calm

A short few moments ago I was taking some time to quiet my mind.  I had just finished reading this blog post and was thinking about how much I could relate to the talk of learning to be calm.  I was thinking about how I am still learning how to act, rationally, with sincere and deep thought, rather than reacting through emotions.  And as the Universe seems to always do, it decided to test me in what it was just trying to teach me.

It's moments like this that I am the most thankful for.  At 40 years in, I am constantly aware.  I have never felt so aware in life as I am at this point.  All the situations I find myself faced with, whether they be simple, tough, passing or constant, I am conscious and aware.

I see the mirrors placed in front of me daily and I see my own self reflected back at me.  I take that wisdom and I thank the Creator for continuing to remind me of my own humanness.

I see the places where I could turn those mirrors around and I have been working rather hard at not doing it.  For it is not my place to point fingers and as I have learned, the Universe has a way of showing people what they need to see.  Repeatedly.  Over and over until they learn.  It's not my responsibility to do so, and if there is any lesson I am most grateful to be still learning, it is that one.

I am responsible for myself.

I am not responsible to show everyone where they fuck up.  And I can much more easily lend my compassion in those places than lend my judgment.

Judgment is not mine to give to anyone other than myself.

The following quote is from the blog post I linked to above:

"When everything falls to pieces or when someone treats me terribly or when I don’t get my way in life or when I suffer total failure…I want to remain calm.  Beyond practicing calmness, I want to find myself in the habit of immediately moving into a problem solving state of mind — I want to find myself recognizing the disaster and instead of reacting emotionally, I want to fluidly engage my ability to critically think and logically process my way through a dilemma."

This is Grace. Grace is my ultimate goal in most areas of my life.  Grace is how I would like to choose to always present myself to whatever comes in my path.  Grace is how we should all be responding to each other.

There is a very fine line in finding the balance between having that Grace and ensuring that you are appropriately heard.

11 January 2017

Writing Is Easy......

There are multiple versions of this quote, but it seems that the most widely accepted seems to be this one from Hemingway. "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."

I've also found this one, from Gene Fowler, "Writing is easy: All you do it sit staring at blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead."

There are also multiple references to 'popping open a vein' and bleeding.  Regardless, they are all true.  Sometimes I bring about terrible cases of anxiety just by attempting to write.

"WHY WHY WHY won't the words just fucking form at the end of this pen (or pencil, or marker, or fingertips) as I type?  I want to write so badly.  Just a moment ago I had a head full of things that were waiting to be written.  Now I'm sitting here staring at this paper/screen and nothing is coming.  Why is nothing coming out?  Where did the words all go?  I'm wasting my time.  I should just do laundry. Or dishes. Or knit. At least that's more productive than sitting here waiting for something that's not going to happen.  But what if I put away the paper and start the dishes and then it hits me again?"

Other times it goes all the way to self-loathing.

"You really suck.  Why do you even try?  You know that your brain isn't shutting off enough to do this so you might as well just pick up your knitting and watch something on Netflix that will distract you from all the things you really want to do.  You know, let someone else entertain you so that you don't have to work through this block. Just fucking give it up already.  No one is reading your blog, no one is going to want to read your stupid book.  Although there is a heinous murder involved, so of course people love that kind of drama.  No just give up."

And round and round it goes.

There are moments, however, that the proverbial vein does pop wide open.  And it bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds, and before long there are pages and pages and the anxiety and self-loathing are suffocated and drowning in all the blood, and there are guts all over the paper.  As if months of thoughts and ideas come swimming to the surface and is let out like a teenager who has been grounded for months is finally free from their restriction.

Both feelings are intense.  Which makes writing not easy at all.  Even when it is.  It feels good when the flow comes, but when you are writing about things you experienced that weren't really pleasant, you have to go back to those places and feel those things all again.  And even though it feels good to let them out, there's an enormous crash afterwards.

Writing is fucking hard.

03 January 2017


As I work to live more intentionally, one way in which I can always improve is by writing more.  Not only in terms of intentional writing (i.e. the majority of blog posts that include specific topics, or the book(s) that I'm writing) but also in terms of freewriting.  I am working at creating more space to share my views of the world around me, my own direct world, and the thoughts that swirl around in my head at any given moment.  I could carry around a journal and spend more time jotting things down in it than most people spend checking their social media status's.

Speaking of.  I'm on my second day without facebook.  I deactivated my account upon hitting my pillow the night of New Years Day.  Yesterday there was an immediate difference in how I navigated my day and it's not much different than getting off sugar.

I woke up to my alarm and took my dog out (and didn't post about it on facebook).  I then went back to sleep and thought how nice it was to be able to just lay back down and relax, with just my thoughts, not looking at anything on my phone.  I didn't post or write about that anywhere either.  I just enjoyed the moments.

When I did wake up, I worked at making my breakfast.  Eggs, with some chopped onions and tatsoi left over from my last CSA pick up and rosemary that I grew over the summer right outside my door.  I shredded some cheese on top and sat down at my kitchen table to enjoy it.  I did snap a photo but then put the phone back down and ate.  Just me, the food, and my head.

As I ate, I thought about getting chickens so I could gather my own eggs and where on the property I could easily put them, and how many I would need to feed my immediate family unit. I thought about what is going to be in the next share from my CSA and whether I could start another batch of rosemary on my kitchen windowsill.  I thought about how much I love cheese and wondered what other types would taste good on an omelette. Quite enjoyable to sit in calmness, with those thoughts, but overwhelming when you watch a couple hundred people tell you about it all at once.  And, it's nice to just enjoy it myself, without feeling like those same couple hundred people care to know what I'm thinking as I enjoy my breakfast.  I like to take note of my observations and thoughts, but if others wish to read them, they can certainly find them here, intentionally, on their own.

I'm also wondering if that is a part of what makes an interaction or conversation more enjoyable.  If one intentionally seeks out another opinion on a subject, are they more likely to engage than if a topic just appears in front of them.  Certainly if we have the time to engage, we would be more likely to seek to hold more intentional conversations.  And by not trying to keep up with the minute details of hundreds of peoples every day lives on multiple modes of media, we can more readily enjoy those conversations and topics that truly spark our passions.

The more time I spend with just me and my head, the more I realize it really isn't a bad place.  And with less outside opinion and thought coming at me by the dozens, it's a much calmer place too.

I think I'm going to enjoy this.  Now, time to head home for lunch.

About Me

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40. mother. earth lover. mover. creater.