that i would be good

the image of the beloved

2012-01-28T17:12:00.002-05:00

"We become what we love and who we love shapes what we become. If we love things, we become a thing. If we love nothing, we become nothing. Imitation is not a literal mimicking of Christ, rather it means becoming the image of the beloved, an image disclosed through transformation. This means we are to become vessels of... God´s compassionate love for others. " ~ St. Clare of Assisi

I saved this quotation several months ago...maybe even a year or more ago. I figured at the time that I would use it as inspiration to write about my chosen career, which I view as a true calling, something that comes from a personal passion, and something that somewhat defined me. Now, for the first time in almost 5 years, I am not working, and this quotation means something completely different to me.

Earlier this week, I watched as a blur of humanity packed and loaded nearly all of my Earthly belongings into a moving truck. I watched as Mitchell signed the papers which somehow were meant to assure us that we would be getting everything back one week and 1,500 miles later. Had this been my first such experience, I might have been more worried, but I actually felt lighter. I care very much about the things that I have collected through my lifetime, and many have a story and a heart of their own, yet they were no longer on my mind after that moving truck pulled away from the house. Two hours down the road, the only things on my mind were the beings inside my car and those inside Mitchell's car.

I have fretted for more than a year over the sale of our house and the financial loss that would accompany it. I have spent time, energy, and money to do anything humanly possible to sell the house, all the while not really sure what I would encounter on the next steps of my journey. I have cleaned, planned, dreamed, hoped, and (yes) even prayed. I now realize that I was preoccupied with details, minutiae, items of little import. None of it really matters in the end, does it? As it's been said, "You can't take it with you."

Our house was officially purchased yesterday, leaving us technically homeless. Again, I felt lighter and less burdened. Yes, I will be closing on another house in two days, and I am excited about that, but this time between houses helps me to appreciate what really matters to me. When all else goes away....the money, the things, the houses, the cars, the job, the professional identity....what really matters is that you still have those that you love. They are truly the only things that cannot be replaced. And, love is the only priceless possession you will ever own.

The next several weeks (and probably months) will be consumed with the unpacking and arranging of things. I will be focused on creating a new life in a new place--finding a job, applying to schools, figuring out where and how to get the busywork of life accomplished, with a new bank, grocery store, post office, pet store, veterinarian, gas station, etc. It will become easy to lose myself in all that needs to be done, easy to forget what really matters, easy to once again succumb to worry. I hope that in my quite moments I will take the time to remember what matters, to be grateful for the love that surrounds me, and to enjoy the too-little time we are allotted to travel through this existence.

I hope that I will not lose sight of who I am, of what shapes me, and of what feeds my soul.

in no particular order

2011-11-25T16:01:00.001-05:00

Po-boys, crawfish, Cajuns, rivers, plantations, strawberries, catfish, Zydeco, the Saints, my sister, Bert, Lexi, Lucy, satsumas, King cake, Doberge, alligators, sugar cane, old friends, new friends, closer friends, bridges, kudzu, Mardi Gras, City Park, Camellia Grill, gumbo, magnolias, snowballs, streetcars, Mr. Bingle, the Moonwalk, St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, Lee Circle, the Audubon Zoo, the neutral ground, beads tangled in tree limbs, pine needles, oyster dressing, Oktoberfest, shrimp, shrimp, and extra shrimp, levees, lagniappe, beignets, cafe au lait, Acadians, Lake Pontchartrain, the Causeway, Abita, bonfires, festivals, Zulu coconuts, Voodoo, Spanish moss, live oaks, bayous, outdoor kitchens, pecans, big copper kettles, Blue Dog, Brees, St. Charles Avenue, parading zombies, ghosts, hot air balloons, horses, returning to roots, new beginnings.

cyberstalker or just the natural result of 10 days without television?

2011-11-08T17:32:00.000-05:00

I cyberstalked you today. OK, well, not you, but several other people. People from my past to be more exact.

I don't know why I do it, but today definitely wasn't the first time and most decidedly will not be the last. It almost always starts out the same way....looking for a former friend. This friend, whom I will call Rachel, and I were very close once upon a time. We even lived together for a short, ill-fated period, which makes her the only roommate that I ever had outside of school, live-in boyfriends, and my sister when we were kids. Rachel and I had a very abrupt, very public, and very contentious break up. I would have to say that it rivaled my divorce and may have, in fact, been worse. We haven't spoken in over 10 years. Yet, every so often, I try to find her on the Internet.

I'm not really sure what I want to know about her. Where does she live? Did she ever get married? Have kids? What is her career? Maybe. I think, though, what I really want to know is why. Why? And how? And have you done it to others? I want to see how someone can be so mean and evil, yet still carry on. Actually, that's not really true, either. I don't think she's evil. I do think that she treated me meanly and acted cruelly towards me. But, I don't think she's evil. I've been advised that others do and that I should, but I don't. After all, she was my best friend for many years. If she were evil, what would that say about me?

So, I look for her. And I've found hints of her around the Web. Something on MyLife. A maybe on Zabasearch. I think I even found a Facebook page once, but it has since been blocked or deleted. I would never contact her....but still I look.

Looking for Rachel often evolves into looking for other people. Usually my ex-boyfriends are next on the list. I find them on Facebook or in the Whitepages. Facebook is best, because a lot of people don't lock down their sites like they should. I look at their walls, see who they're friends with. I look at their pictures, and I imagine the lives they've gone on to live since knowing me. I gauge whether their wives are prettier than me and if their kids look more like him or like her. The kids are the weirdest part, really. First, as a childless person, I think it's odd that people with children post so many pictures of them. The ratio of child to self represented in photograph form for these people is like 20:1. I know I post a lot of pictures of my pets, for instance, but I still post pictures of myself. My identity outside of my pets is still intact. I wonder about these parents when it comes to that. Plus, doesn't anyone think about their children's online safety??? OK, on a tangent. What really is weird about the kids is this--if this guy and I hadn't broken up, if he hadn't then gone on to meet his wife, those kids wouldn't exist. That is kind of creepy to think about. Of course, you could say that looking up your ex-boyfriends on Facebook is creepy. I know. I know.

There's really no rhyme or reason to the people I look up. Sometimes, someone just pops into my mind and I wonder what they're up to. The main thread that they commonly hold is that they probably don't want to hear from me. In a few cases that may not be accurate, but in those few, I have decided that it is in the best interest of all that they don't hear from me. Maybe it is the fact the these people have scorned me, have left me behind and still somehow prospered that bothers me. Maybe I do want to see them wallowing in regret and begging to have me back in their lives. Maybe I just wonder what it is that these people saw that made them decide that I was bad news. And, maybe I'm afraid that everyone else will eventually see the same thing.

There have been a few searches of people with whom my bridges had not yet been burned. I have found some former friends and co-workers and reached out to them. I am Facebook friends with my first serious boyfriend, as well as with one of my last. I'm not all the bad to all that many people. Some searches turn out good, some turn up nothing, and some do not have happy endings.

Once, I found an old jar of homemade, home canned spaghetti sauce that an ex of mine had made. I actually thought, "I should find him and ask him how long this stuff is good for." So, I started searching. He was never one to be on Facebook or to use email, so I figured I would be lucky to find an old phone number for him. I found him. And pretty quickly. Unfortunately, it was in the obituaries. My old friend, it turned out, had been murdered a few years earlier. Even though it had been many years since we spoke, I cried like a baby. I was angry, and I felt cheated. He was a good man, and he didn't deserve to die the way that he did. He had been one of the few men in my life who didn't use me and who would have done anything to help me. He was the last man I spent time with before moving away from Indiana, and he had encouraged me to spread my wings and to find myself, even though it meant him losing me.

Forget-me-not

I just took a break from writing this and searched for Rachel again. (I am truly sick! Send help!) This time, I found her mother's obituary. I had always contemplated contacting her mother, with whom I had a good relationship, to tell her my side of our break up. I never did, and now it's too late. Maybe, I was giving Rachel some leeway and not putting her mother in a spot where she didn't have to say anything bad about her. Her mother had actually warned against us moving in together. Rachel, she argued, doesn't get along with roommates, and if we wanted to remain friends, we should never live together. How right she was! I just always wondered what she would have said after the fact. I didn't go there. I decided that that was the better thing to do.

But, now I'm sad that I never got a chance to tell her what I wish I had. I would have said, "Thank you" for all the times she filled in as a mother to me, including me in family Christmases and Thanksgivings. I would have told her that I was sorry if what had happened between me and Rachel hurt her in any way. I would have said that she was right, that I should have heeded her advice, and that I did all that I could to keep our friendship in tact, but that I couldn't take the way that Rachel treated me towards the end. I would tell her that I'm happy today. That I married the man that Rachel got jealous over, said mean things about, and never liked, simply because he liked me. That she was a good mom. That she wasn't to blame for Rachel's behaviors as an adult. That it had nothing to do with her divorce from Rachel's father, or the fact that Rachel was adopted. These were all beliefs that I knew Rachel harbored and held over her mother's head. Her mother had been a victim of Rachel's meanness before I had. Maybe that was why she had warned me.

I guess I'm done cyberstalking today. Finding an obituary usually does that to me. It feels so final, at least as far as the searching goes. It reminds me that if I ever do decide that I want to contact Rachel, my time to do so could always be cut short. I still don't think that I'm ready to open that can of worms, but I will probably keep peeking around the corner at it.

So, there it is. My deep, dark secret. My big confession. I'm a cyberstalker. I know I'm not the only one who does it, though. I may be the only one here admitting to it, but that's OK. I'll wear the badge of shame for the rest of you. I will come out of the shadowy corner of the Internet to say that I peep into the online windows of my former friends and lovers. I do. And, I would imagine that someone has done the same thing to me...maybe even one of my own subjects. It's human nature to wonder. It's only natural to want to repair broken connections, especially when they, at one time, were the most important ones in your life. There are far worse things I could do and far worse attributes I could have. My motivation, at its core, is really just a desire to be liked, to be accepted, and to be a part of someone else's life. What doesn't feel normal is the sting of rejection, the pain of reproof, and the loneliness of isolation. That's what's weird, not me.

my birthday wish

2011-11-07T19:20:00.000-05:00

NOT my birthday cake!

I turned 40 almost 365 days ago. It was 358 days ago, in fact. And, while in some ways much has happened this year, most of the past year was dedicated to one thing...one still unaccomplished, unresolved, ever-stressful, increasingly painful thing....selling my house. It was just a week before that 40th birthday when we were given the news that we would be transferred. And it was on that 40th birthday that, with paint-flecked hands, I ate takeout Chinese and allowed myself to dream about the new life we would soon be embarking upon....the new house, the new job, the graduate school possibilities, the new friends and renewed friendships, the new adventures, and the new me.

So, now, as 41 quickly approaches, I can't help but lament the last year lost. I am nowhere near as hopeful as I was a year ago. Already facing a loss of around $50,000 on our house, I can't see how we can afford to sell it in this market. I'm worried about finding a new job. I don't know how we will afford the graduate school program. I'm no longer confident about finding our dream home and being approved for a mortgage now that we likely will be coming without the down payment we had counted on. I even begin to question my ability to settle into a new place again and to make new friendships. I've actually been in Connecticut now for slightly longer than I was in Chattanooga, yet I don't feel like I've developed friendships here that come anywhere close to the friendships I have from my time in Tennessee.

Like New Year's resolutions, though, we get a new birthday wish every year. I'm making mine early. I think I'll make it every day until it comes true. (I'm nothing if not persistent!) I'll wish, and I'll hope. I'll even once again start dreaming of all of the new things to come....both internally and externally. And, they will come. I am sure of this. I must be. There is no other option.

They may not come packaged in the way that I once expected, but they will still be the gifts that I most need. Even if I don't find the job of my dreams right away, I will find something that teaches me and helps me to develop new skills. Or I will have the opportunity to work for myself. Even if I can't afford school right away, I will research grants and loans and take advantage of the extra time to put money away in savings. Even if we can't afford the dream home, we can still find a great home where we can make our dreams manifest through our own hard work and at our own pace. And, even if I don't make new friends right away, I will still be within driving distance of my sister and many of my dearest friends for the first time. I can't wait to be able to see these friends more regularly.

The most exciting prospect still remains the chance to reinvent myself in a way, to become the next incarnation of myself. No delay in time will prevent that from taking place. There is no expiration date on that opportunity. With every move I have made, I have gained new perspective, new insights, and new inspiration on the world outside my front door and on the world under my own skin. Within my changed environment, I am able to experience a metamorphosis of my psyche. This is the event I look forward to most. Having to wait for this, my gratification delayed, is the probably what bothers me most about this past year.

Perhaps I wasn't ready yet? Maybe there was something I needed from this year that will benefit me in the next? Of course, identifying it may be difficult, but who says that I have to? I'm sure that I'm learning patience. I know that I've learned to appreciate abundance. I've also experienced gratitude for the support that I do have in friends here. I've also realized how important it is to listen to my gut and to stand up for myself. I've gone out of my comfort zone in many ways, and I've actually been impressed with my ability to adapt and to persevere. I didn't always have the skills that I've seen myself using. I will be better prepared for my next step because of them.

Helping Nanny blow out her birthday candles.

So, here I go. From now until it comes true, I will be closing my eyes, making my wish, and blowing out the candles.

sparklers & squeaky toys

2011-07-03T07:26:00.012-04:00

Another Patriotic holiday has come, which, naturally, means that every proud citizen is required to buy explosives and set them off in their yards. I don't know why or how this tradition began, but I do know that for many years it created stress and worry in my household. D.J., my otherwise well-adjusted, confident hound/shepherd mix, was terrified of fireworks. She would shake, quiver, try to burrow under furniture, and couldn't be left alone. She had to be close to me, preferably touching me. If I happened to be in bed, this meant that I had to hang my hand over the side of the bed so that she would could nuzzle it from her hiding place under the bed. The comical aspect of this disturbing and upsetting scene is that D.J. was not a small dog, so she pretty much had to cram herself into the space under the bed, so when she shook, she actually made the entire bed shake like one of those old vibrating beds. That was often my first warning that a thunderstorm might be coming on in the middle of the night. It could be annoying, because no amount of comforting, conversation, or coercion could convince D.J. that the fireworks (or thunder) were not going to come into our house and harm her. But, really, how can you be mad when your bed is shimmying?

I lived with D.J.'s phobias for so long that they became my own. I adjusted my life in expectation of her reactions. I changed my behaviors to minimize her trauma. I would never dream of leaving her alone during any 4th of July celebrations, Labor Day weekend, Memorial Day weekend, or Halloween, when the possibility of a repeatedly ringing doorbell would send her into fits of barking, panting, and pacing. In fact, it became my regular practice to leave work early on any Halloween that fell on a workday, just in case the neighborhood kids started celebrating early. I did my best to turn every situation that frightened her into something positive. I had no luck with the fireworks or thunderstorms, but was so successful with Halloween that before I knew it, it had become my favorite holiday and one that all of the dogs looked forward to.

I lived with D.J.'s idiosyncrasies for so long that it wasn't until last night, well into the evening's pyrotechnics, that I realized how quiet the dogs were. None of them, it seems, are afraid of fireworks. Though my insides were twisted in stress and worry, Iko, Bennie, Gator, and Brandi slept or laid quietly around the living room, oblivious to the dangerous projectiles soaring through the skies over our house. They had no idea of the impending doom just outside our windows, but I expected them to be in duress. D.J. has been gone since December 26, 2004, and I still anticipate how every bang and boom will affect her. It was clearly she who trained me, and not the other way around. And, with my luck, by the time I unlearn this behavior, I will probably once again be living with a scaredy dog.

Now, lest I leave you with the idea that knowing and loving D.J. left me traumatized and scarred, let me point out that I wrote about her lasting positive influence on my life in another entry a year ago. D.J. truly did save my life in many ways--giving me hope when I was hopeless, teaching me about the power of unconditional love, leading me into a life of service and volunteerism, and proving to me that no matter how dark and scary the storm might be, the sun always rises the next morning. She had a can-do spirit and never let her physical limitations slow her down. Despite her spinal problems that the vets told me had to cause great pain and constant discomfort, she always had a smile on her face and she often managed to span great distances while my head was turned. She left me way too early, but she left me with a lifetime of positive memories.

It's funny how dogs change us. My sister and my mother-in-law both recently decided to welcome a puppy into their households. They are both people who haven't owned a dog for a few years and have said that they didn't really want another dog. In fact, they are two of the last people I would have ever dreamed would be adopting dogs right now, especially puppies! My sister has a full plate with a full-time job and four kids in the house. She's got 2 older cats who she adores, but who are very low maintenance creatures. My mother-in-law is at that point in life where she enjoys her quiet time in the garden and the ability to travel when she wants. She also has a resident cat who makes the rules and does as he pleases. I can only imagine how their lives will be turned upside down by these little furry additions!

I can't wait to hear about the frustrations of housebreaking, the wonders of weird behaviors, and the discoveries of destroyed shoes, paperbacks, pillows, and other seemingly uninteresting household items that somehow prove irresistible to a teething canine. I can't wait to see the pictures that document the changes from puppy-faced cuteness, through their awkward adolescence, into adulthood and the senior years. I can't wait for the way that living with a dog will change them. I hope that they will experience the joy, the fun, and the laughter that accompany life with a dog in it. I hope that they will wonder if their hearts are going to burst from sheer love for this four-legged baby. I know that someday they will feel the pain of loss, but I hope that that day is long and far into the future, and that their happy memories will make it all worthwhile.

So, tonight, as the stillness of the summer evening is disturbed by bottle rockets, M-60's, Black Cats, Roman candles, cherry bombs, repeaters, and various other exploding devices, I will practice no longer being tense or worried. Instead, I will think about how happy D.J. was on all the days of the year not punctuated by fireworks. I will think about how happy my sister's puppy will be in his new life, getting to know his kitty sisters and being loved on by a houseful of kids. I will think about how happy my mother-in-law's puppy will be in her new life, getting to know her kitty brother, chasing squirrels out of the garden, exploring the ruins of Civilian Conservation Corps' campsites, and romping among the ghosts of the Civil War who inhabit the side of Lookout Mountain. And, I will think about how happy D.J. would know that my life has gone on and that two dogs in need have found forever families. Sounds like a good enough reason for fireworks to me!

all things wise and wonderful

2011-06-28T22:41:00.006-04:00

"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us." -E.M. Forster

This morning, on my way to my personal growth group, I found myself driving behind a large animal veterinarian. It felt like an out-of-body experience of sorts where the present me was peeking in on the once-possible me. I imagined where the vet was heading and what kind of patient he was going to see. Was it a routine visit or an emergency call? Since I was driving through the horse country of Granby, CT, I eventually settled on the idea that the vet was going to check in on a foal who was born in the last few weeks. An inexplicable twinge of jealously came over me as I imagined the foal kicking up her heels and playing chase with another late Spring foal.

I can't remember ever wanting to be anything other than a veterinarian when I was a kid. I read every James Herriot book I could get my hands on and watched the BBC's "All Creatures Great and Small" whenever I could find it on PBS. I started researching vet schools and planned out my undergraduate studies before I even started high school. Every class I took from 8th grade on was a purposeful part of a bigger picture. I started working with the horses and ponies at the zoo every summer at the age of 12. I shadowed a vet on weekends during my senior year. I knew exactly what I wanted and how I was going to get it.

I won't get into how, when or why my plan eroded (at least not now), but I can say with certainty that I not only accept the course that my life followed, but that I am grateful for its twists and turns. I am so passionate about the work that I do with and for victims that I couldn't imagine doing anything else. The friends that I've made through my own healing process and my work as a survivor are some of the dearest people in my life. They've impacted me in ways they will probably never know, and I feel a comfort and an intimacy with them that's organic. I am more confident in my abilities and my talents than I have ever been, and I look forward to the challenges of proving them to new people in yet another state.

I was almost at the Massachusetts state line when I saw the flashing yellow lights of the intersection where I would turn off. I slowed, a little sad that the truck in front of me was continuing on straight ahead and that I would never know where the vet was going or who he was going to see. But, as quickly as the sadness had come, it left and was replaced with a deep contentment. I knew that I was where I belonged, doing what I was meant to do. I knew that I was following the right path. I knew that it didn't matter where the vet was going without me. I had adventures and challenges of my own to meet. I took a right turn and went forward in my day. My life was waiting for me.

a rose by any other name

2011-06-15T16:39:00.006-04:00

When I got married in March, the idea of changing my last name never really crossed my mind. Since then, however, I have occasionally considered it. I struggle between not wanting to be traditional by taking my husband's name and a desire to make a public declaration of allegiance and a new sense of family. I also toy with the idea of a new last name altogether.

I remember meeting a new girl on the school bus during 4th or 5th grade whose last name was Morgan. I loved the way that name sounded, and I really liked the way it sounded with my first name. I went home and started writing my name as Shannon Morgan. I said it over and over. I practiced putting other first names with Morgan and decided that it must be the perfect name, because it sounded great with every name I could think of. I mean, listen: Shannon Morgan, Mary Morgan, Susan Morgan, Brandy Morgan, Brittany Morgan, Sonia Morgan, Stephanie Morgan, Jennifer Morgan, Yolanda Morgan.... They all sound good. Morgan is the best last name.

But, I also think it would be cool to have a last name that matched up better with my first name in terms of its country of origin. Shannon Murphy. Shannon O'Brien. Shannon McCarthy. Shannon O'Reilly. Shannon O'Connell. Shannon Kelly. Smith is the most common name in the U.S., and Murphy is the most common name in Ireland. I lived in Murphy, NC and loved it there. Murphy seems the most logical choice.

I also considered the meanings of names and finding one with meshed well with me as a person. Shannon means "old, wise one." Of course, this resonates deeply with me. Murphy means "sea warrior" in ancient Irish and "strong, superior" in Gaelic. Nice. Morgan means "born of the sea" in Welsh. Interesting. I sense a theme here. Unfortunately, it doesn't help me in deciding between my favorites.

I love my first name and would never dream of changing it. It's really the name that I identify with. Too bad I can't just go with it as a singular name, like Cher. And that hussy actress Shannon Elizabeth already used my first and middle names as her name. (I don't know and/or believe that Shannon Elizabeth is a hussy. I just say that, because she stole my name.)

I'm not as attached to my last name. Maybe it's the fact that it's so common and that I am sick of hearing the smartass remarks about it being a made-up alias. Maybe it's the fact that the name isn't rooted in a long tradition. My paternal grandfather was orphaned and adopted by an aunt whose married name was Smith, so his name was changed to Smith at that time. He was the first Smith in our line, and my brother and I are the last.

I have a dear friend who changed her name entirely. She found a new family and made a new life as an adult. Her name fits her beautifully, and I can't imagine her with any other name. It's funny what a difference a name can really make.

So, for now, I will make believe and try on different personae. Shannon Smith. Shannon Pearson. Shannon Morgan. Shannon Murphy. Maybe I will spend a day each week as each girl and see how it feels.

a love letter

2011-05-10T11:13:00.008-04:00

"Home is a shelter from storms, all sorts of storms."
-William J. Bennett

You were my first love here, in this new place where I didn't know anyone and where everything seemed so foreign. You held me close, yet allowed me to branch out and to find my way. You sheltered me during the storms that waged outside and always provided me with a warm place to return. When I was alone at night, you helped me to feel safe and secure, and you greeted me each morning with the shining welcome of the rising sun.

You have protected those closest to me and have given them a place to live, play, grow, learn, and explore. You've been there as Iko navigated the difference between chew toys and Mom's slippers, as Brandi sailed down the stairs, as Bennie discovered quiet napping spots, as Alla chased balls and squeaky mice across the floor, and as Gator lounged on the deck. You were there to welcome the newcomers into what was likely their first loving home and family, and you beckoned Eli back home at the end of every day full of outdoor surveillance. And, when time and fate caught up with one of my pets, you gave me the space and the privacy to care for each as I needed to and to say good-bye when all other options were gone.

You've supported me through my own evolution. Since we've met, I took on a job working with sex offenders, something I never would have considered before, and I've learned volumes about myself and about others. I've finished my undergraduate degree and have determined the future educational path I'd like to follow. I've forged closer relationships with several friends and family members, while watching other relationships end or suffer from great strain, and you've been there through it all. Perhaps your steadfastness even played a part in my decision to marry my life partner after 10 years together. In any case, you sent me off with your blessing and welcomed me back with your congratulations.

And, now I prepare in my heart and mind to leave you behind. I don't love you any less today than at any point in our nearly 4 1/2 year relationship. In fact, as the deep snow and thick ice of this winter melted away and the grasses, trees, and flowers of spring came into bloom all around you, I felt myself loving you more. I love you so much that I would bring you with me if it was an option. I love you so much that I want nothing more than to find someone new to love you before I go. I dream of someone loving you so much that they give you things that will make you more beautiful. I hope that they will care for you lovingly as you age and that they will appreciate your imperfections as marks of character, instead of flaws. And, I hope that they will feel as happy to love you as I have felt all this time.

Though we do not know how much time we have left together, I will wake each morning and go to sleep each night loving you. I will reserve my good-byes until the time is imminent, but I want you to know how I feel today and what my thoughts about our future are. I want to cast away any doubts that might linger amid my frustration over forces beyond my control. Yes, I want very much to move on to another place, but this has nothing to do with how I feel about you. I'm grateful that we met and glad that I chose you as my own. And when I leave, I will remember you fondly, even as the years pass and I am unable to spend time in your presence.

It has been said that home is where the heart is, but I believe that you are a house with a lot of heart of your own. I know that all who have stayed here with us have felt that heart, and I pray that the next place I call home will share that attribute. I thank you for all you have done for me, for all that you have represented to me, and for all that you continue to do for me during this time of uncertainty. Thanks for being my home.

faith, hope, and brandi

2011-01-17T17:32:00.012-05:00

"Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase." --The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Brandi had a seizure last week. It was late afternoon, following a day of record snowfall for the region. I accompanied the dogs on what seemed to be a regular potty trip outside and videotaped as Iko and Brandi wrestled and played in the nearly two feet of snow. I followed Iko as she romped to the deck and then back to Brandi under the tree. It was then that I noticed Brandi on her side in the snow and struggling to get up. I ran immediately to her and found her motionless and face-down in the snow, completely limp and unresponsive. I feared the worst as I scooped her body up into my arms and ran with her to the house. Never before in the more than 12 years I have known Brandi have I ever touched her and not felt her tense her powerful muscles, even while she was sleeping. She was as soft and pliable as a rag doll and felt just as weightless. Save her deep, guttural breathing, she appeared to be lifeless. By the time we reached the deck, though, her head began to move, and she turned to look into my face. She quickly regained her footing as I gently put her down in the breezeway, then gingerly entered the house, laid down and slept deeply and soundly as I watched her like a hawk.

In the days since, I've kept a close watch over Brandi, and I've tried to keep Iko from jumping all over her obviously older and more feeble sister. I worry about her when she goes out into the snow, and I have definitely spoiled her when it comes to treats and the usually forbidden ingestion of "people food." Brandi, meanwhile, goes on being Brandi. She isn't afraid of the snow, and she still greets Iko's enthusiasm with her own form of reciprocated play. She gets excited about trips in the car and equally as excited about trips that merely end at the car. Less than two days after her near-death experience, she even successfully descended the stairs from the bedroom to the living room in the pitch black darkness of the pre-dawn. To appreciate this feat, you must be familiar with her normal state of functioning. With her worsening eyesight and increasingly poor coordination, Brandi frequently falls down the staircase, sometimes even leaping from the fifth or sixth stair up over the shadows cast by the wall and landing in a heap against the front door, flat on her belly with all four limbs jumbled up under her or splayed out in each direction, much like a fawn struggling on an icy pond.

We had left the bedroom door open a crack to allow the cats to leave during the night so that I wouldn't have to wake up at their 2:00 am meows to let them out. This change in procedure must have appeared to Brandi as the perfect opportunity to exercise her independence. I heard her toenails clicking on the wood floor, but I assumed that she would lie back down as she always does. Instead, I then heard the clicking of her nails retreat to the hall and then down the stairs. I braced for the inevitable crash, but heard only the rhythmic and regular cadence of her steps. My surprise at her success prompted me up and out of the bed even more quickly than a fall might have. I ran down after her and found her nonchalantly walking to the basement door to retrieve the other dogs. Business as usual.

Dogs have such an amazing ability to live life in the present. They are blessed with either a very short memory or a very forgiving attitude--or maybe a wonderful combination of the two. Brandi didn't know that she was "supposed to be" weak or unsteady. She didn't comprehend that having a seizure on Wednesday would make walking down the stairs alone and in the dark on Friday morning a risky maneuver. She doesn't realize that she's old, possibly unhealthy, or definitely compromised. All that she knows is that when she wants to go out, she wants to go out. She enjoys a good scratch on the rump any time, and her favorite treats are the marrow bone-type that we get in bulk at the pet store. She likes to be close to people, even if she doesn't like to be hugged or handled. She tolerates having her toenails clipped and insists on visible proof of the need for ear cleaning (I actually have to show her the wax on the Q-tip!). Brandi isn't afraid of anything or anyone. She doesn't carry a grudge, and she doesn't discriminate. She approaches life just as she does a flight of stairs. She simply puts one foot in front of the other and hopes for the best.

So, it is to Brandi that I now look for inspiration as my life's path is changing direction. I stand at the top of the staircase, where I can see only the two steps in front of me, knowing that turning back is not an option. I must walk on in confidence and with faith that the next step will be there, even when I can't see it. If I look over my shoulder, I may lose my balance and fall. If the steps are obscured by the shadows of uncertainty, I can decide to leap into the dark unknown. In any case, I will end up at the bottom of the stairs, whether on my two feet or on my knees, I will arrive there--exactly where I am supposed to be.

the year in review

2010-12-07T22:06:00.016-05:00

The first snow-related school delays were announced Monday morning, I've had to turn on the heat in the house, and the Charlie Brown Christmas special came on tonight. The end of the year is quickly approaching, with the promise of new beginnings just around the corner, and I can't help but to reflect upon all that's happened this year. It's been a year of highs and lows, loss and gain, trying new things and returning to some old activities--overall, a year of some really hard lessons learned. I've made friends, lost friends, and found out a whole lot about myself along the way.

I entered the year as a college graduate, having finally graduated over 21 years since I entered college for the first time. It seems ridiculous now that it took me that long to do it, but I know all of the reasons why, even if no one else does, and I refuse to judge myself harshly for what I've been through or for the choices I have made. I'm right where I want to be right now, and I have a drive and a passion going forward, and that's all that matters.

If my finishing my degree didn't seem unlikely or impossible enough, this year saw a truly incredible event when the New Orleans Saints not only made it into the Super Bowl for the first time, but also won the game. I was lucky enough to be in New Orleans for the weekend, where I got to go to Mardi Gras parades for the first time since my family moved away from the city when I was 12. I also got to see a childhood friend whom I hadn't seen in as long. I realized that no matter how much time has passed, New Orleans still feels like home.

I have family members who decided not to speak with me this year. I also had a friend decide that she no longer wanted me in her life. On the surface, it sounds like I must be a horrible person, but I don't feel bad at all about their decisions. I have chosen, quite consciously, to live an honest life and to strive toward sincere relationships with others. My choice has made some others uncomfortable. I'm sorry for their discomfort, because I know how that feels, but I will not change who I am or what I will allow into my life to make them feel better.

My animal family experienced a lot of changes this year. The New Year started with a newly adopted Alla reminding us all what it was like to have a kitten in the house, and in May, we welcomed a full-size puppy into the mix when Iko came to live with us. I saw her shelter picture on Facebook on an early Wednesday morning, and a week later I was in North Carolina picking her up from her foster mom. It was love at first sight for me, but my happiness was short-lived when just a month later a fatal illness was showing itself in Alla, and my once playful kitty was on a quick downward decline. I said goodbye to her in August, before she ever had a chance to grow to adulthood. My heart was broken, but still open, and I soon found another young cat in need of rescue. Hazel traveled from a shelter in Georgia and landed firmly on my lap. Brandi, Eli, and Bennie are all elderly now and are experiencing their own infirmities and limitations, but I am grateful for each and every day I have with them, and I am committed to doing all I can to keep them happy and healthy for as long as possible.

I haven't had a chance to travel as much as I would have liked to this year. A trip to Indiana was scrapped in May, and a trip to Tennessee was canceled in November. I did, however, get to spend some time in Florida in April for what I hope will be my annual skydiving trip. I got much closer to a few friends and found out that another relationship had changed. I floated in the Gulf of Mexico, dug my toes into the sand, ate too much, drank a little, got a tattoo, played video games, and jumped out of a plane. It was a great trip!

Staying home more meant doing some travel around New England and crossing off the last remaining things on my "To See & Do List" for the region. I finally got to Salem, Massachusetts, one of the few places in the area that I had wanted to see even before moving here. We managed to create the perfect mix of history and haunting, and I learned about American chop suey. October was dedicated to pumpkins, and we went to Maine, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island to see them. We saw giant pumpkins, painted pumpkins, carved pumpkins, and lit pumpkins. We watched pumpkinboat races, pumpkin pie eating contests, and pumpkin chunking done by catapult and by air cannon. And the pumpkin whoopie pie I had was amazing!

I turned 40 in November, which seems really weird to me. I really wanted to do something fun for my birthday, but we found out a week prior that we were being relocated to Louisiana in a few months, so I decided to be practical and to spend the week painting, packing, and staging our house in preparation for its sale. The week has grown into three now, since we obviously underestimated the sheer volume of "stuff" that we own and the time needed to prep and paint walls, trim, cabinets, doors, and fixtures, but if the hard work pays off with a quick sale it will be worth it. Our Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations have also fallen victim to practical needs, but I am looking forward to many years and many celebrations in our new home.

As this year ends, I am happy about what lies ahead in the next. I am looking forward to living in Louisiana again and to being closer to family and friends. I am excited about exploring a new area and about having new adventures. I have personal and professional goals that I am anxious to start working towards. More than anything, I am pleased with an opportunity to lay down roots, to establish myself in an area, and to create a sense of home. I have felt like a gypsy for a while now, moving every few years, and never quite feeling settled. I am grateful for the perspective that I have gained from living in the Midwest, the Northeast, the Tennessee Valley, the Blue Ridge mountains, and New England. I am proud that I've been able to adapt to a variety of settings and that I've been able to work with people from different backgrounds. I know that the future will bring great things, but mostly I feel that the future will bring me full circle into myself.

This blog was born from the ending of another blog, and it has been an affirming experience for me. My first entry was inspired by a trail of footprints in the snow, and I can now see more clearly where those footprints lead. I know that the path will not always be smooth or clear, but I trust that it is heading always in the right direction. I know, too, who I want with me as a travel the path, and I know that together we can face whatever lies ahead. I hope that I will remember to enjoy the view along the path, realizing that it's often not about what lies ahead (or even behind), but more about what surrounds us, what is unseen, and what waits down this fork or that. I hope that those whom I have met and will meet along the way will be better for the experience, even when our interaction is less than positive. I even hope that the owner of the dead blog will someday learn the lessons that she needs to in order to live an authentically happy life, because that really is what it's all about....really.

ode on a big apple

2010-11-09T12:54:00.007-05:00

"It couldn't have happened anywhere but in little old New York." --O. Henry

A few weeks ago, I spent a day in New York City, walking around a large portion of lower Manhattan, eating pizza in Little Italy, entering the bizarre underground world of designer handbag sales in Chinatown (knock-off or stolen, I don't know), exploring local neighborhoods of NoHo, SoHo and NoLita--the streets lined with merchants' booths and the air filled with the aroma of meats smoking on grills, having dinner and drinks in the Flatiron District, and even shopping at a church rummage sale. It was a long, rich, and rewarding day, and I went home exhausted, my love of the City firmly in place.

Oddly, some of my most amazing memories and experiences have taken place in New York. At 18, I drove there from Cornell with a car-full of close friends, saw the City for the first time, and fell in love. I spent my 30th birthday there, which marked a turning point in my life, causing me to question all that I had known to that point and setting my future off on a distinctly different path. Mitchell and I spent a couple of days there about a year after we moved to Connecticut, and I was finally able to wake up in the "city that never sleeps." And now, on this trip, New York played the perfect host to a reunion 28 years in the making.

My oldest and dearest childhood friend had told me that she would be coming to New York from Houston in the fall of this year. We hadn't seen each other since my family had left New Orleans in 1982, except for a brief visit some time during our early high school years that neither of us could remember much about. We had stayed in touch over the years mostly thanks to her persistence through annual Christmas cards and family photos. (My terrible history with correspondence should be explored in a future entry.) I was extremely excited to see her after so many years apart. I had "penciled it in" a few months in advance and wondered how our meeting would go--would we know each other, what would we talk about, would it be awkward?

As the weeks ticked by and her visit neared, I began to feel nervous about the reunion. Since I had a medical procedure done in June, I had been dealing with physical symptoms that made it difficult to exercise, or had at least given me an excuse not to. I think the real problem was a depression that I had sunk into when I learned about Alla's fatal illness in July. I hadn't felt much like doing anything since then, and I had gained back a lot of the weight that I lost last year. How could I let her see me like this? I had been a tall and skinny kid. Now I was tall and very far from skinny. I was nervous about being judged, uncomfortable in my own skin, and afraid of "messing up" the whole get-together with my negative mood. I almost hoped for something to come up that would make it impossible to meet up.

The day that my friend arrived in New York, she called me. She had already been to the top of the Empire State Building, and her excitement was audible. When she asked about me coming to the City to see her, I began my reply with something like, "We're gonna try." She snapped back at me, "Try?!" I instantly remembered her incredible tenacity and knew that I would be seeing her come Hell or high water. I also knew that it didn't matter what I looked like or how much I weighed. Something in her voice relaxed and reassured me. I was once again excited about spending time with an old friend.

The day in New York taught me something that I had forgotten, a lesson I had taken for granted in all of my years spent wondering where I fit in, where home was, where I belonged...a symptom, I believe, of moving too many times. I realized that there is a purity about friendships formed when you are very young...before you know what it means to be cool, before the cruel judgments of the outside world tell you who you should be and how you should act, and certainly before it matters how much money you have, how thin your are, or what you do for a living. She had known me during the years that I was most authentically myself, so she knew me on a level that others who had only known me as an adult may never know me. She already knew that I was a good person, goofy-yes, but sincere. And, she carried with her the ultimate token of our enduring friendship in the form of the handmade construction paper card that I made for her just before my family moved away. (Seriously! It was the funniest thing I'd ever seen!)

I had at one point thought about spending my 40th birthday in New York. I now realize that she's already given me a gift that I can carry into the next year of my life. I've made a conscious decision to end the depression that I've been in. I've begun exercising and following my diet again. I'm looking forward to redefining the word "home" and to continuing to create a home for myself with those who mean the most to me, regardless of geography. I remember who I was as a child and no longer feel alien from her. I am still that little girl. I will always be that little girl.

Thanks, New York. I owe you one!

Nine lives? Please.

2010-09-25T20:43:00.008-04:00

Just three weeks after Alla's death, I started looking in earnest for a cat to adopt. I didn't know if I was ready, but I couldn't get the thought out of my head, so I pressed on. I looked at picture after picture and struggled with all the unknowns, like whether the cat would get along with the dogs, how Eli would adjust to a new companion, what type of hair the cat would have and whether it would affect Mitchell's allergies, and, of course, the huge paranoia that comes from having lost a cat to the dreaded disease FIP. After several days of searching and thanks to an online rescue friend, I found a beautiful, long-haired Siamese (otherwise known as a Balinese) in the Savannah, GA animal control shelter. By that weekend, Hazel was in Connecticut, making herself comfortable with the dogs and trying to decide what to think about Eli, since on the outside he looked a lot like a cat and she far prefers dogs to cats. It's been three weeks now, and it feels like Hazel has always been a part of our family.

I constantly wonder, though, how Eli feels about the stream of cats he has seen come and go in his 14 years with me. He was always "the baby" of the house, since he grew up with his older brothers BoBo and Otis. They were my kitty crew for a full 10 years--BoBo as the patriarch and my lap warmer and the other two a silly Mutt & Jeff sort of pair. I don't think that I realized how much the group had aged until BoBo succumbed to the mounting effects of his failing kidneys at the age of 16. Otis was 11 already and Eli 10. It seemed fitting, then, when 8-year old Manny came to live with us five months later. Little did I know then that Otis would become sick just a year after we lost BoBo and gone in under 3 months. Twelve-years old seemed too young and intestinal cancer so random, but just 2 1/2 years later, Manny fell victim to the same tormentor at the age of 11. And, then, of course, Alla was taken a year later, a mere 7 months after we adopted her and at the tender young age of 14 months.

In case you've lost track, since January 2006, Eli has experienced the loss of four of his feline friends. And, now, my "baby" suddenly seems old and tired, jaded and suspicious, aloof and cautious, maybe even sad and worried. And his emotions are rubbing off on me. I worry about him day and night. His meow is off. Could he have a tumor in his throat? He's lost weight. Could it be intestinal cancer yet again? He seems a bit dehydrated. Is it his kidneys? He isn't eating a lot. It could be any number of things. I'm trying not be too doom and gloomy. I am struggling with the decision to take him to the vet to do bloodwork or to just watch and see. I am wondering if this is just a natural slowdown for a nearly 15-year old cat. In any case, I am still not OK seeing Eli as anything other than the strong, independent, wise, young cat that he has always been. To this point, he has been ageless, and I don't know how to (or want to) treat him like an elderly pet. He's not the type to submit to medical treatments without much complaining. He would much rather be outside enjoying the fresh air and rolling in the dirt than to be babied or tended to. He has a routine, and he has trained us all to follow his schedule and to meet his demands. I can't imagine him approving any changes or amendments. He's the boss. He will always be the boss. As long as I keep things on his terms, I am sure I will be making the right choice. I just don't want to have to make any choices...not for a long, long time. Please.

getting outside myself

2010-08-31T17:30:00.005-04:00

A good friend gave me some great advice yesterday. Knowing that I was trying to come up with the answers to some difficult questions, she told me to take the afternoon off and just go be with nature. Though I couldn't take the time yesterday, I did get outside a bit today. First, I took three of the dogs to the dog park. I don't usually take Bennie since she's older and doesn't really like playing rough like they do there, but she wanted to go for a ride, so I figured the ride would compensate for the destination. Anyway, the dog park was the perfect destination for me. It's a great park, the best one I've ever been to, with lots of big shade trees, park benches, and picnic tables. It backs up to a brook with a small, dammed off section which creates a pool perfect for dogs to swim in. Since none of mine are swimmers, though Labrador blood runs through half of them, we didn't visit the water today, but some of the other dogs there did and they happily shared the water left on their coats and feet with the rest of us.

The dog park is a great place to just get dirty and have fun. I mean, the dogs have no pretenses about their objectives, so why not drop your defenses and do the same? I, for one, can think of nothing better than being kissed by a 100-pound pit bull who climbs up onto your lap or having a shy Rhodesian nudge your hand for a clandestine stroke while the rest of the canine crowd is engaged in something akin to a rugby scrum in the far corner of the park. The dog park puts all humans on an even playing field. There are no occupations or titles there. You're Gator's mom or Happy's dad. (Yes, there was a dog named Happy there today!) No one asks you about your political views or where your kids go to school. They talk about how old their dog is and how they came to have a dog. They talk about surgeries for knee injuries, baby teeth, the dog at home who doesn't like the park, and the funny things their dogs do. They smile, they laugh, they live in the moment...just like their dogs. The dog park is kind of like a playground for grown-ups.

So, since it's in the 90's right now, we didn't stay at the park for too long, but after everyone had their nap in the A/C, I felt the need to go back outside again. I haven't felt like doing much in the gardens around the house all year. Truth be told, I haven't felt much passion for gardening since we moved here. Maybe it's because the other houses are so close, and I prefer a more secluded outdoor space. Maybe it's just my lack of joy over living in Connecticut in the first place. But, hostas still need to be trimmed back after their blooms are gone, and I still hadn't done this, so outside I went. Armed with a new pair of shears that I found tucked away in my old, rusty gardening cabinet, I started cutting, and cutting, and cutting.

I soon remembered what I loved about being in the garden, about doing a mundane task like weeding or pruning. It's the quiet that I find inside my head. Gone are the voices of worry and doubt. There is no such thing as gossip or judgment. No deadlines, no bills, no boss, no nothing and nobody. Watched over by my dogs, who somehow protect me from the outside world, I am able to just dig into the task at hand. Today, I reacquainted myself with the daddy longlegs spider and thanked him for the great job he does in my garden. I walked barefoot through the fallen leaves of last autumn that line the beds of the side yard, where our characteristically au naturel approach to gardening is more "naturel" than the front, and I could feel the warmth of decay through my soles. I had dirt under my nails and sweat on my brow, and I felt truly accomplished and peaceful, all at once.

I had cut and cut away at the things that were no longer needed and had thrown them in a heap onto the compost pile. Like pushing aside the nonsense that clutters my mind from time to time, I cleared space for new growth as well as tidying up what's left behind when an something dies. There's still work to do, as I never made it to the hosta bed outside the kitchen window, but I guess I know where my next opportunity lies.

$1.00 Challenge

2010-08-08T13:43:00.001-04:00

24 hours

2010-08-01T10:14:00.005-04:00

We have an appointment tomorrow morning at 10:30...just 24 hours from now. I didn't want to make an appointment. It felt like I would be sealing your fate and giving up on you. I didn't want to plan for your death, but I didn't want you to have to wait when your time had come. I called other vets and made contingency plans if you told me that you were ready and your regular vet couldn't see you right away. I even made arrangements with my boss to take time off without notice when the time came. I did all that I could think to do, all that made sense in a completely insane situation, all that my heart told me was right to do. When I noticed on Saturday that your good moments were growing more infrequent, I called and made the appointment. It made me sad to do it, but I felt like we would be taken care of if that was what we needed come Monday morning.

I was so happy on Saturday when you ate so readily and so often throughout the day, but this morning you are not interested in eating and my mind is beginning to reason with my heart. I've taken a hundred or more pictures of you already this morning. I know you're getting annoyed with me, but please be patient while I try to take in every last minute we have together. I know you don't understand what's going on, that you only know that you don't feel well. I want to explain to you how it's supposed to be, all that I imagined for you, and how angry I am that we are both being robbed by this disease. I want you to understand how much I love you, that I have done all that I can for you, and that I believe with all my soul that we will be together once again. I want you to know how much you were wanted, how we chose you from all the cats we looked at and met, and how we would choose you all over again...even knowing what we know now.

I don't know how long it will take me to be able to walk by the dining room and not look for you. I still sometimes look for Otis to be hiding in the back of Bennie's crate, and he has been gone for three years now. I still glance at the front window as I leave for work in the morning, expecting to see Manny watching me go, and he has been gone for a year. I can't imagine that as long as I live in this house I will be able to look into the dining room and not look for you. I can't even bring myself to clean the floor where your wet paws left little, clay-colored prints after a trip to the litterbox. I don't want to vacuum your hair off the chair where you used to sleep. I will look for you there. I will expect to see you come to the dish every time I walk through the doorway. I will miss seeing you lying on the window sill. The room will be empty and lifeless without you in it.

Today you are here with me. Tomorrow, you probably will not. I don't know how to deal with that. I guess I'll figure it out in 24 hours.

some kinda bad voodoo

2010-07-25T17:08:00.006-04:00

When I lost Manny to cancer on June 21, 2009, I found myself in a single-cat household for the first time in 14 years. Eli, who had been the baby of my original clan, was now 13-years old and alone for the first time in his life. I wondered if he would enjoy some time as the sole kitty or whether he would rather have a feline compatriot. I watched for signs of a change in his behavior or attitude. I listened carefully for whatever message he had for me. We settled into a routine where he spent nearly every night in our bed, sleeping between our pillows with one paw wrapped snugly around my arm and purring loudly in my face.

I eventually realized that Eli would be content with any decision that I made. Eli just loves being Eli, and he loves that we allow him to be himself. As long as he is secure in that, I think that he will accept any addition to our household. It was not Eli who had to make the decision about adopting another cat. It was I who needed to determine if I were ready to open my heart to loving another. I was, and so I decided that I would.

After looking for at least three weeks, we found a beautiful, little, 7-month old kitten named Heather, and we adopted her on December 26, 2009. We hadn't been looking for a kitten. In fact, we had actually thought that we would adopt an adult cat, but we made our decision based on personality (had to get along with dogs) and type of hair (with a highly allergic person in the house, we have learned what kinds of hair are less troublesome), and all signs pointed to her. So, after some negotiation, Heather became Alla (he wanted to name her Marie Laveau, but that seemed unwise to me) and turned our house into a multi-cat home once again.

Now, just seven months later, I am once again facing the very real fact that I will soon be living in a one-cat household once again. Only 14-months old, Alla has been diagnosed as having FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis). A fatal condition, FIP has no cure and no treatment. Theories vary on how effective both traditional and holistic approaches are, but what seems clear to me is that Alla is going to die much, much, much sooner than I ever would have imagined. It is nearly impossible that she will be with us this Christmas, which would have been her first with us. It would be considered quite lucky is she is with us more than a couple of months. Each day, I simply pray that it will not be her last.

I do believe deep down that all things happen for a reason, but I am struggling to find a good enough reason for a cat to be doomed to live only a year and a half--or less. I am equally full of anger and sorrow, and my outward expression of emotion teeters tenuously between the two. I have heard others say that when one encounters a pet with special needs, he has been chosen to be the animal's earthly caretaker not only to provide the love, care, and support needed during the animal's life, but also to have the strength, bravery, and selflessness needed to help the animal during its transition out of this life. I do respect this idea, but I wonder how much I am capable of. I am merely human, after all, and heartbreak takes its toll on a person. I have lost pets before, and each loss is with me daily.

I don't know what the future holds for Alla. I don't know how long she will be here with us. All I know is that I love her. I love her, and I will do all that I can to give her as much quality of life for as long as possible. If there is any lesson for me in this tragedy, I guess it is that life is never guaranteed and that we should make the most of the time that we are given.

So, to you, my reader, I suggest the following: Hug your kids a little longer tonight. Kiss your significant other when it's unexpected. Give your pets more of your attention. Look up at the sky. Watch the clouds. Let the rain touch your skin. Squint at the sun. Sleep in. Indulge a little. Laugh at the little stuff. And when you feel stressed, breathe deeply and fully.

Now, if only I can follow my own advice....

ghosts of girlfriends past

2010-07-12T22:59:00.001-04:00

I started this blog when I inadvertently killed someone else's blog. She had abruptly exited my life after three drama-filled years, then I told her off on her blog and she deleted it. She wasn't a friend, and I know that I (and everyone else involved) am better off without her, yet I still find myself thinking about her several months later. She was featured in a newspaper article a couple months ago, and I've read it more than once. I even found a picture that accompanied the article, and I'm pissed to see that she's lost weight!

And it's not just her! I do the same thing with another female who is no longer in my life. In that case, she was a friend....my best friend, in fact. After a BIG blowout and legal intervention, we went our separate ways over 9 years ago. I am glad not to have the drama and the worry anymore, but still I wonder about her. I feel like an online stalker! I've Googled her, looked for her on Facebook, even researched people who know her. I want to know where she lives, not so that I can contact her or have anything to do with her, but more just to feel informed, prepared, whatever.

What bothers me is that these people who negatively impacted me and my life (including others that I care about) continue to have a hold on me! I'm mad at these people for hurting me, but I'm even more mad at myself for obsessing on them! I hate that I have allowed them to rent space inside my head!

Maybe it's because I rarely have people react so negatively towards me. I mean, I know that not everyone likes me, but usually once people decide that they do, they don't suddenly change their minds. Maybe it's because I like directness and honesty. If you don't like me, I'd rather have you tell me than not. Maybe it's just that I hope that karma exists, and I want to witness her handiwork. Or maybe it's because the situation of being rejected by another female unconsciously triggers feelings of being rejected by my mother. I'm sure that Freud would have a field day with that one!

Anyway, I have nothing eloquent to say. This is just what's on my mind today. Maybe like speaking at an AA meeting or going to confession, writing about this will help me release some it from my mind. In the words of Ashley Holmes, as heard on tonight's episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey, "Love and light, bitch!"

none of the above

2010-06-27T22:03:00.005-04:00

I had a medical procedure done last week that required me to be semi-sedated, so I needed someone to be there with me to drive me home. Although I am unmarried, and this is clearly indicated in my medical records, I was told that I should make sure my husband could be there and was assured that he (my imaginary husband) would be in the room with me during the procedure. Now, I have been in a heterosexual partnership for almost ten years, so I am used to people referring to my partner as my husband, but I still think it's strange that people even assume that I am heterosexual, much less married. And don't even get me started on the reproduction issue! Apparently, it is everyone's business when you decide not to have children, and they will remind you almost constantly with stupid questions like, "Who's going to take care of you when you get old?" and with idiotic statements like, "You'll change your mind someday." Oops, I guess I got started.

Because I am unmarried and have no children, I seem to be less important than many others. While we celebrate the longevity of marriages through anniversaries, there is no such recognition for unmarried couples. Many are quick to point out that without a legal commitment, it is easier for unmarried couples to "just walk away" from the relationship. Perhaps, but if this is true, isn't it more of an accomplishment to stay together for 10 years without a legal bond than with one? And isn't a couple without children more likely to be together because they actually love one another than one with children who are "staying together for the kids?" I won't hold my breath waiting for Hallmark to publish the list of traditional gifts for the anniversaries of unmarrieds, and I really don't need external validation. I just don't want to be demeaned and undervalued.

Our culture even devalues those choices that fall outside the accepted norm through our language. There's not even a word to describe my relationship. Instead of being able to say that I am married to a husband, I must explain that I am in a long-term, committed, co-habitating relationship with a male partner. I like to use the word "partner" when I refer to Mitchell, since it most closely recognizes the role he plays in my life, but this often leads to confusion about my sexuality. The word "boyfriend" doesn't differentiate him from some guy that I'm just dating and is the same word that a seventh grader would use. There's always "fiance," but, of course, that word implies that a wedding is imminent.

While my experiences are annoying, I know that they only scratch the surface of what so many others are subjected to. I have friends who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, polyamorous, asexual, transgendered, transsexual, intersexed, and genderqueer. I also have friends who have no idea what at least half of those words mean. In any case, I know that I am lucky to have the external genitalia, internal organs, and chromosomes to match my internal sexual identity. I guess you could say that I'm lucky to be white, to be straight, and to be in a long-term relationship. I realize that I am not far from the mean on the societal bell curve, but I'm not ignorant enough to believe that everyone else thinks, lives, loves, and votes like I do. I thought this country was founded on individual differences and personal freedoms. (I know it really wasn't, but that IS what they taught us in school, right?) Call me old-fashioned, but I think we risk alienating others when we assume that we know who they are and what they believe or when we force them to identify themselves with a label.

What would it be like to fall outside of society's check-the-box mentality? Imagine having to refer to your spouse as your "roommate." Imagine worrying that someone will ask you about your relationship status and you will feel forced to either "come out" or lie to hide the truth. Imagine being called ugly names like "faggot," "homo," or "he-she." Imagine being afraid of being attacked in a public restroom, because either your "parts" or your outward appearance doesn't match the label on the door. Imagine binding your breasts tightly against your chest. Imagine tucking (maybe even taping) your penis and testicles back toward your buttocks. Imagine being stared at while people try to figure out what gender you are. Imagine waking up everyday and seeing a body that doesn't match how you feel on the inside. Imagine. Open your mind (and your heart) & just imagine.

rescuing me

2010-06-13T16:31:00.002-04:00

For four years, I ran an animal rescue. I named it after my dog, D.J. A rescued dog herself, D.J. came to live with me after my first dog, Trapper, died suddenly after ingesting rat poison. She filled an empty place in my heart and was my rock through some difficult times. D.J. was sweet, funny, and gentle, and she loved playing nanny to the newcomers in the house. She suffered from a degenerative disease which affected the discs in her spine, but she never let it slow her down, particularly when it came to providing leadership and guidance to the animals in the house. At one point, she was paralyzed in her front legs for almost 2 weeks, but even that couldn't dim her spirit. Sadly, though, in the end, her spirit was unable to overcome the limitations of her body, and D.J. died very suddenly at the too young age of 11 to kidney failure.

Though I am no longer actively involved in rescue, I still get a lot of emails and postings about animals in shelters who need rescue and about animals who have been rescued and need transportation. Whenever I can, I send some money to help those in the trenches, and I have driven a bunch of dogs up and down the highways. I've even provided overnight accommodations as needed. But, until very recently, the idea of adopting another pet hasn't been on my mind. I have a full house--3 dogs & 2 cats--oh yeah, and an allergic human partner.

I think about D.J. a lot and even have her picture as the background on my laptop, but for about a week starting in the middle of May, she was heavy on my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about her. It wasn't until Tuesday, May 19th, that I figured out why. She was trying to tell me something--to tell me about a dog that she wanted to save. In the midst of those tons of emails and postings, I had found one dog, a young, female, yellow Labrador retriever, who grabbed my heart and wouldn't let it go. She was in a shelter in North Carolina. I am in Connecticut. It was impractical. It made no sense. It would be difficult, but I still wanted to do it. I wanted to rescue and adopt her.

I woke up before 5:00 am and started sending emails. I made phone calls all morning. I called Mitchell and broke down. He kindly reassured me that he would support my decision. When I said, "But, it's so impractical," he responded with a quick, "So what. Nothing about us is practical." Before I knew it, I was trying to arrange for the dog to be saved. The phone at the shelter was busy. I redialed and redialed. Finally, someone answered. I gave him the dog's ID number. He told me that she had already been adopted. My heart sank. I feared that she had actually been killed. I was disappointed that she wouldn't be with me. I considered adopting another dog, but my heart wasn't in it, so I donated some money to the veterinary care of the many who were saved that day.

I went through the rest of the day with an empty feeling. I had already fallen in love with this dog, and now I would never know her. I assumed that that was the end of the story until I got home and found a posting by the group who had rescued "my" dog. Apparently, a group of people who loves Labs had rallied around her and, through their online community, arranged to have her pulled from the shelter, checked by a veterinarian, and fostered until transport could be arranged. Multiple people donated money for her care, and a woman in Maine committed to take her. I posted a comment about how I had attempted to adopt her and was happy to know that she was safe. I sent in some money for her care. Once again, I assumed that was the end of it.

Later that evening, I received a message from the adoption sponsor in Maine. She wanted to know if I was still interested in adopting the dog. What?!?! Of course, I was! She said that there were others interested in adopting her, but that she felt that I might be the right choice. My hopes soared once more. I couldn't sleep that night. I looked at pictures and videos of her posted by her rescuer. I imagined what it would be like to have her join my family. I couldn't focus on much else. I was scheduled to leave in just a day and a half for a week-long trip to Indiana for a friend's wedding and visiting my sister and my friends, but I hadn't even started to pack. Instead of mapping my route and planning my lunch dates with friends, I was trying to figure out how to get the dog from eastern NC, where she was being fostered, to the western part of the state, where Mitchell would be attending his annual business meeting the next week.

After another long day of worrying and wondering, I got the call I had been hoping for. The dog was mine! I was so excited! Right away, my trip to Indiana was canceled, and I started planning how I would get the dog from her foster mom and brainstorming names for my new addition. I eventually settled on "Iko," a name that I had wanted to use for a while, but hadn't yet met the right dog for. And, as luck (or fate) would have it, I was able to coordinate with her foster mom to meet up for her exchange. Our long drive to North Carolina was made a little easier knowing that I would soon be meeting Iko for the first time. The hardest part was waiting out the next day and a half in a hotel room in Wilkesboro, NC, and even the series finale of "Lost" couldn't hold my interest or attention for long.

Iko was rescued from the Robeson County Animal Shelter in St. Pauls, NC on May 19, 2010, and I saw her for the first time in a McDonald's parking lot in Zebulon, NC on May 25, 2010. Since, then she's secured her place in my home, my family, and my heart. She is goofy, smart, loving, playful, and pretty.

But, once again, the story doesn't end there. As much as Iko's adoption came as a bit of a surprise, I have also been pleasantly surprised to have many of the people involved in her rescue become dear friends of mine. Though we've never met in person (except one), I feel as if I've known them forever. They get me in the same way my best friends do, fulfilling my first and most important criteria for friendship. I respect their passion and am in awe of their ability to achieve tasks which would seem impossible to most. I believe that there was something very special about the way that I was led to Iko and the series of events which unfolded to make her adoption possible. I believe that this something special has also brought these new friends into my life. They've reminded me of the need for boundaries and of the value in humor. They love dogs, and they dislike drama. They're "good people," as the old saying goes, and I have no doubt that D.J. would approve!

do they make a hallmark card for this?

2010-05-10T20:01:00.009-04:00

Warning: This blog entry contains adult language, immaturity & brutal honesty. :)

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I did not call my mother. I didn't send flowers or a card, not even an e-card. I haven't spoken to my mother in months. I am the latest recipient of her "silent treatment." I spoke honestly to her (you can't really speak honestly WITH her) in November and have been on the shit list ever since. The truth is that I don't really care. I'm kind of enjoying the peace and quiet. I don't miss the phone calls filled with small talk. I don't mind not hearing any gossip. I really am fine with it.

What bothers me is that when Mitchell stood up for me (and for the truth), he became a target of her ugliness. What was worst was that she didn't even do her own dirty work; she recruited my father to do it. Mitchell says that it doesn't bother him, and I'm sure that it doesn't, but I was deeply embarrassed by my parents' behavior. I guess I was used to the things they (mostly she) would say to and about me. I didn't expect that to extend to him. Keeping up appearances to "outsiders" has always been so important that a certain level of decorum was always in play.

My lack of a college degree was arguably the most frequent criticism of my mother, and it played a prominent role in the truth-telling session in November. In a funny (I have a sick sense of humor) turn of events, I completed my degree in December. I had planned to drop that piece of information like a bomb the next time she said something like, "I don't know why you can't just finish college." I envisioned how it would quickly shut her down and wondered what the next complaint would be. Her childish behavior has robbed me of this one, little childish fantasy of my own. Oh well. Maybe I'll take a picture of myself with my diploma & text it to her.

(artwork courtesy of Bluntcard.com)

who am i not to be?

2010-05-04T22:31:00.013-04:00

I made my now annual trek to Florida over the last weekend of April to participate in Operation Freefall and to spend time with some of my closest & dearest friends, including a friend who drove from Chattanooga to watch me skydive and spent the entire day at the drop zone. I had an amazing time and wish we had more time together. We stayed up late talking and drinking wine. We ate Jamaican food and sinfully delicious garlic butter rolls. We spent the afternoon at the beach, floating in the gentle waves of the Gulf and digging our toes into the warm, white sand. We danced in an elevator, set high scores on a video game, skydived, and got tattoos (or a piercing). We laughed, hugged, and attempted to literally breathe in every moment that we had together, knowing that our memories would have to carry us until we could be together again.

During the weekend, despite all the good times and good vibes, I had the opportunity to confront several of my insecurities. Happily, though, what would have limited my ability to socialize and to enjoy myself in the past was mostly just an annoyance that I was able to quickly brush off. I have never felt as pretty as other girls/women, and, even when I was thin, I have always been self-conscious about my body. Most of my friends on this weekend are significantly younger that me, and they are all much prettier (in my opinion). My old, familiar, self-deprecating thoughts came to visit a time or two. "She's so beautiful. You look really ugly compared to her." "She has such a great figure. You look so fat next to her." Like buzzing pests, though, I noticed them, but them shooed them away. I put on a bathing suit and went to the beach! Hell, it was a big deal that I even packed the bathing suit and the outfit I wore as a cover-up. The whole look was way out of my comfort zone, but I actually felt good in it. And when one of my friends said that I looked like a tennis player, I felt complimented. I mean, when was the last time you saw a fat, ugly tennis player? Even if she meant it as a crack, I decided to accept it as something positive.

My negative thoughts and feelings about myself sometimes run very deep. A recurring sentiment is that for whatever reason people don't really like me--they're just putting up with me. I once heard someone say that every group of friends has that one girl that no one really likes, but they just deal with it, because it would be too hard to "break up" with her. She then said that if you don't know who that person is in your group of friends, then it's probably you. I am often convinced that I am that person, and that thought entered my mind once during the weekend. I mean, all of my friends are so interesting, dynamic, funny, intelligent, and attractive. Clearly, I am the wannabe of the group, right? No! I decided not to let my suspicions and self-doubt carry more weight than what my friends said about me. If they said that I was funny, that I looked younger than my age, that they wished they could see me more, that they loved me, then why couldn't those things be true?

I used to attend a women's personal growth group. I really credit that group, its members, and its facilitator, Lynne Forrest, with helping me to recognize and to challenge my core beliefs, particularly those which were hindering my growth and limiting my experiences. One of the group members once gave everyone a small, plastic card with a quotation on it. It took a while for the real meaning of the words to impact me, but they now resonate with me. They help me to realize that when I am doubting myself, my looks, my abilities, my worthiness, when I am comparing myself to others, when I am projecting judgmental attitudes onto others, that I am assigning myself the label of "victim." I might as well be throwing myself a pity party, wallowing in a self-proscribed state of powerlessness, woundedness, and incompetency. No thanks! Been there, done that!

I keep the card on a mirror above the table where I get ready everyday. The quotation is from Marianne Williamson, and it reads:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are born to manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

Thank you to all of my friends, who remind me of my shining light and so beautifully shine themselves.

dying to live

2010-04-20T23:12:00.003-04:00

“How does one become a butterfly?” she asked pensively.

“You must want to fly so much you are willing to give up being a caterpillar.”

“You mean die?”

“Yes and no,” he answered. “What looks like you will die, but what’s really you will still live”

–from Hope For The Flower

I will jump out of an airplane for the fifth time this Saturday. Just over five years ago, I never would have imagined that I could (or would) ever skydive, much less that I would do it again and again. I have several friends who also take part in Operation Freefall each year. Some of them dedicate their jump to someone or something each time. I've never done this. I've never felt the need. Oddly enough, I've never even taken much time to consider why I am skydiving year after year or what it means to me. I didn't even really enjoy skydiving until my third jump. Reading something that a friend wrote in regards to her upcoming jump, though, I started to wonder about my own.

Why do I skydive? At first, I did it to face one of my biggest and most powerful fears--the fear of heights. Then, it was more about facing fear in general. I was raised by a mother who had (and still has) many fears. In turn, she instilled fear in us kids. I allowed fear to keep me from trying a lot of activities that I may have wanted to try. I was afraid of getting hurt, of looking stupid, of failing, of ridicule, of everything. I made lots of excuses, but the truth was that I was afraid.

With my first skydive, I made a conscious decision to start dealing with my fears directly and honestly. My third skydive reaffirmed this decision. During my second jump, I experienced what is known as a hard parachute opening. I was jerked very hard by the chute and was in a great deal of pain all the way to the ground. In retrospect, I realize how lucky I was not to be hurt more than I was. I took a year off at the advice of my chiropractor, but felt compelled to "get back on the horse" the following year, when I finally had fun jumping. I credit my tandem instructor, Mike Hennesy for being gentle, kind, and funny and myself for asking for what I needed.

Last year, I decided to once again have fun. I vowed to smile all day. I promised not to let fear enter my mind or my heart. I knew what I was doing, this was nothing new, and I wanted to make it the best jump yet. I did. Fear was no longer the target of my attention and my action. To borrow terminology from behavioral psychology, I was switching from an avoidance goal (avoiding fear) to an approach goal (approaching fun). I was amazed at how a simple change could have such a huge impact. After completing my skydive last year, I felt joy--pure, uncomplicated, unfettered joy--for the first time in my life. I felt a happiness that I never knew was possible for me, a person who has suffered from dysthymia for most of my life. When I see pictures and video of myself from that day, I see a lightness in my face, an easing of tension, a genuine peace.

So, again, why do I skydive? Simply said, I skydive to feel alive. Before skydiving, I could easily access painful and negative emotions, but I wasn't able to reach and hold onto the positive ones. Now, I can feel joy and wonder and love and amazement and bliss--and not just when I skydive, but even in the midst of the mundane and in the simple, everyday happenings of life. Sometimes, I feel like a kid experiencing things for the first time. I can laugh at the most inappropriate times, and I can entertain myself for hours with just my thoughts. I can watch my cat chase a bottle cap around the house and think it's the cutest thing in the world or get down on all fours on the floor with my dog and growl and play with her like I'm a dog.

I skydive to experience my strength and my vulnerability at once. To trust someone else with my life requires both bravery and the ability to let go of control. One could argue that it also requires stupidity, but I would say that it's hardly stupid to want to squeeze every bit of living out of your life. I skydive to prove that I am capable of doing something that most other people won't ever try. I skydive to prove to myself that there are people who won't hurt me, who will protect me, and who will support me. I skydive to remind myself that I can let them.

I skydive for me! Though I do it as a fundraiser and an opportunity to raise awareness of sexual violence, it could be one of the most selfish things that I allow myself to do. My skydive has become a time when I take time off from work, I travel to a sunny spot, and I spend a few days with friends from all over the country (and the world). It's a strange sort of girls' weekend, but that's exactly what it is. Of course, we're a strange bunch of girls, so it's quite fitting. I could say that I can't afford to go, that I shouldn't take the time off from work, that my pets need me at home, that I should just skydive closer to home. It's illogical, impractical, and totally unnecessary. But, I want to do it, so I do. Skydiving gives me an excuse to indulge my desires, to forget (even if only for a little while) what I should, ought, and must do.

I skydive so that I can live.

grateful for the path

2010-04-17T17:02:00.007-04:00

"I'm grateful that the path I have traveled, however twisted it may have seemed, brought me to where I am: right here, right now."

The above quotation was borrowed from a Facebook status posted by The Attitude of Gratitude Project some time back. I absolutely love the status messages that the page's creator posts. They remind me of the many things that I have to be grateful for, even (and especially) the little, seemingly unimportant things.

As a Reiki Master, I recite the Reiki Gokai, or principles, daily:

Just for today, I will live the attitude of gratitude.
Just for today, I will not worry.
Just for today, I will not anger.
Just for today, I will do my work honestly.
Just for today, I will show love and respect for every living being.

My practice keeps me grounded and in the moment. It allows me to approach each day as a new opportunity to do my best, regardless of the past day's happenings or what lies in the future. It helps me to remember that I can only control what is at hand and that it is, therefore, unproductive to get upset or angry about what I cannot control. And it aids me in my seemingly constant struggle against worry and fear.

Back to gratitude, now. It's not always easy to be grateful, especially for things that are unpleasant, sad, or painful. In my life, though, these are the very things that teach the most poignant lessons, bring the most fulfilling experiences, and supply the contrast needed to feel the positive emotions. Without them, the ups wouldn't be as high, I wouldn't know my true strength, and my friendships would be more shallow. Because of them, I am who I am and I am where I am.

I will be going to Florida at the end of this week for my Operation Freefall skydive and my now annual reunion with as many as my SOAR friends as possible. In preparation for the trip, I've spent hours on the phone and online with several of them, trying to figure out where we will be staying and what we will be doing. These friends are friends who know, accept, and love me in a special way. I feel alive when we are together. We don't speak enough. (Who really does?) I wish we lived closer. I wish we had more time together. I am truly grateful for these friends, and I realize that I wouldn't know them if it weren't for each of our negative past experiences.

It's a strange thing for some people to hear me say that I am grateful for the experience of being a sexual assault survivor. But, I am. The healing process was a difficult one, with many dark and scary times along the way. I didn't always think that I would make it through the darkness to the other side. In fact, I usually didn't. I wasn't even sure that I deserved to. I wallowed for a long time in self-abuse and neglect. I existed from day to day, seeing each not as an opportunity, but as an obstacle. I felt excruciating alone. I had no idea that this very "alone-ness" would someday be replaced by an equally intense feeling of belonging.

Because of what I survived, I now have a career that I am passionate about. I advocate for victims of sexual violence. I am their voice in the treatment and supervision of their offenders. I answer their questions and make sure that their concerns are addressed. I will not allow them to be forgotten, ignored, or dismissed. I understand their feelings and know their struggles. I accept their anger and disappointment without judgment. I believe in their potential and encourage their growth. I learn from them everyday.

Because of what I survived, I have exercised a lot of self-reflection. I have had therapy. I have participated in groups. I have attended healing retreats. I know more about myself and what makes me tick than I ever would have otherwise. I'm more self-aware than the average person and, arguably, more intuitive. I can read other people well, and I have a deep capacity for empathy. My knowledge and skills have helped me in my work and personal life.

Because of what I survived, I have an appreciation for what makes a man a "real" man. I know that "macho" has no value, that the traditionally "feminine" qualities take on a deeply attractive nature when displayed by a man, that love is more about mutual respect than about sexual tension, and that a healthy relationship isn't all that much work. I dated my fair share of "bad boys" and jerks. I tried to be married to a "nice guy." I had given up hope of finding "the one" when I left Ft. Wayne and moved to Chattanooga. Life once again surprised me when that very move brought me exactly what I thought was impossible. He had to patiently wade through the flotsam and jetsam of my past, but he must have seem something that I didn't even know existed. I am inexplicably grateful that he did.

spring awakening

2010-03-30T15:33:00.008-04:00

I am certain that people and events come into our lives for a reason, but it never ceases to amaze me when someone manages to say just the thing that I need to hear at the moment that I need to hear it. That happened yesterday. Feedback from some friends on Facebook and a silly Snoopy calendar gave me the insight and the inspiration that I have needed for a while now.

You see, I've been beating myself up a bit lately, because I've been in a depressive state for most of the last three months. I've been sick, sluggish, and stagnant. I've been avoidant, isolating, and reclusive. I haven't been eating right, sleeping well, or exercising regularly. I've just been down on myself in general. It's partially a seasonal thing--both the lack of sun during the winter months and the anniversary of difficult events--and partially my chronic depression rearing its ugly head. I don't know why I get so judgmental about it, but I do. I think that I'm so afraid of it progressing to a clinical point that I treat it with disdain, instead of allowing myself to explore whatever it might be telling me.

Of course, I didn't even consider that there was a message to hear or a lesson to learn until yesterday when I posted on my Facebook page that I was contemplating the difference between daydreaming and dissociation. Both are symptoms of my depression, though true, maladaptive dissociation is less frequent than mere daydreaming. As you can probably tell by my rambling words, I've been having problems focusing and staying present lately. I even dissociated while driving last week and was literally jolted back into reality when I saw a police car quickly make a U-turn as I drove past. (Luckily, he was just exiting the highway, but it certainly scared me!) My lack of focus and occasional incidents of dissociation had bothered me, but I hadn't considered their cause. I had somehow not seen the obvious--that they were connected to and indicative of my depression. They were like a warning signal, an alarm, a red flag.

Many of my friends responded to my question about dissociation with very thoughtful and empathetic responses. (I'm fortunate and grateful to have a lot of friends who understand me and can relate to me on many levels.) One friend in particular pointed out that daydreaming can be simply caused by boredom or fatigue and can be assuaged by either finding a more stimulating activity or by getting some good rest. Dissociation, she pointed out, required a deeper form of relaxation, a more intense period of recovery.

I swear that as I read her words, a light bulb literally went off in my head. I suddenly connected all the dots. I saw my depression, my dissociation, my inactivity, my daydreaming, my isolation as a means to an end. I realized that I had needed that period of time to rebuild, recharge, refocus, and redefine myself. All of the judgment and criticism that I had been bestowing upon myself were gone. I knew that there was something that I could learn from my depression. I felt so much lighter, so much more hopeful. And, at that very moment, I looked at my desk calendar and read the following words:

"If I have inside me the stuff to make a cocoon, maybe the stuff of butterflies is there, too." -Trina Paulus

I can't put into words how stunned I was. I felt as though I had been struck by lightning. Every cell in my body seemed to be teeming with energy. I was humming at a higher vibrational level. I was alive and awake for the first time in months. This was a moment of clarity after a journey through a dark tunnel. It was truly and absolutely amazing.

I had been cocooning myself up since January. I had been drawing back into myself, wrapping myself up in layers, lying dormant. I had done a great job of it. I had eaten junk, put on weight, and conserved plenty of energy. I had done it, and I could get myself through it to emerge as something, and someone, else on the other side. As the quotation pointed out, I had used the tools that I had at my disposal to build my cocoon. From within that cocoon, I could draw out of myself the traits that I would like to see emerge from the darkness. I could choose how I would redefine myself. I could control how I would rebuild myself. I could focus my intention wherever I wanted to. It was all in my hands. I had already made a conscious decision to pull myself out of my inactivity. I had already rededicated myself to eating well, to exercising, and to taking care of myself. These messages were the reinforcement that I needed to know that I was on the right track. They were the voices of encouragement that I would listen to when things got tough. They were the light pointing me toward the end of the tunnel.

So, it's only been two days, but I feel like I have no choice but to do well. I must take advantage of this new found clarity and insight. I have to see the gifts that depression presents to me--the time for recovery, the safety for regrowth, the space for renewal, and the chance for rebirth. Even though it's scary and lonely and dark and cold, my cocoon protects me when I am weak and vulnerable. It shields me from the harshness of the outside world. It holds me in a sacred place, where my soul can grow and change, where I can be stripped down and taken apart before emerging again, where I can take care of myself. Just as the caterpillar needs the cocoon in order to transform into the butterfly (or moth, which is equally as beautiful in my eyes!), I need my seasons of depression to transform myself. They're nothing to be ashamed of or to punish myself over. Depression doesn't mean that I'm weak or dysfunctional. It isn't a character flaw. Depression is a coping mechanism for me. It's a tool, an opportunity, a gift, a prize!

Thank you, real life and Facebook friends. Thank you, Snoopy. Thank you, caterpillars, moths, and butterflies. Thank you, daydreams and dissociative episodes. Thank you, depression. Hell, thank you, anxiety, because I'm sure you're helping me, too! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll see you all when I bust out of this cocoon!

donations needed for a rescued pregnant Rottweiler

2010-03-23T21:04:00.000-04:00

Ariel, a pregnant Rottweiler, was rescued from a high-kill shelter in Georgia. She was transported to Connecticut and was hospitalized with pneumonia as she waited for the birth of her 9 puppies. She gave birth to 11 puppies, 8 of which had initially survived. Sadly, having been born to a sick & neglected momma, all of the puppies had an uphill battle from birth and only 5 have survived. They are currently being treated for pneumonia.

Ariel is still trying to get well enough to have her serious heartworm infestation treated. The treatment can be fatal, so she needs to be as strong as possible before facing it. (My beagle, Bennie, was treated for heartworms after I rescued her and nearly died from the treatment even after waiting several months for her to be strong enough for the treatment.)

Ariel's total vet bills to date are $4,685.45. The volunteer-run rescue group has raised $620 from donations so far, but needs help in raising the remaining funds.

Please consider helping if you can. This momma and her babies were rescued from sure death. They all deserve the best shot at a long, happy, healthy life. Please give if you can!

Read more about Ariel & track the fundraising progress at http://www.tailsofcourage.org.

You can also read the news coverage of Ariel's story here: Animal groups come to aid of pregnant Rottweiler

the potter and his clay

2010-03-21T14:17:00.000-04:00

"The circumstances of our pasts needn't dictate the quality of our present or the promise of our future. We're not products; we're creations!" --Jeri Elster

My friend in recovery and survival, Jeri Elster, posted the above on her Facebook page a month or so ago. I told her how much I loved it and warned her that I would be stealing it. I wasn't sure what I would be inspired to write about it until today. People and situations pop into my head at weird times, and this morning while cleaning the litterbox, I thought about a friend whose relationship had ended fairly recently. I'll avoid the obvious insult that the kitty litter somehow reminded me of his ex and instead choose to believe that I become meditative while performing mundane tasks, leaving me open to receive inspiration.

So, while scooping away, I remembered this friend once telling me about how unhappy he had been in relationships with women and about how he believed that if only he could have another chance with an ex-girlfriend, he could finally be content. I understood his feelings, having once believed that an ex-boyfriend had been "the one who got away" and being caught up in the myth of him for a long time. Knowing how things had turned out in my fantasy and having some knowledge of his past relationship, I was skeptical, but I truly wished for him that he could find happiness.

I remembered also the night that he called me to tell me that his ex-girlfriend was coming back into his life. He told me that they had been talking for a while, that she was moving back to the area, and that they were going to give the relationship another try. I was happy for him, but still felt some doubt since the circumstances of their reunion and her recent past remained shrouded in mystery.

Long story short, they dated for about 3 1/2 years before breaking up abruptly, amidst quite a bit of drama. The girlfriend and I never really got along. She started off on the wrong foot with me and never overcame that negative first impression. In fact, she never even attempted to. I tried to get to know her, but she always had a wall up with me. She never asked me one thing about myself and didn't seem to be at all interested in me as a person. I wanted desperately for us to get along, but always felt that she viewed me as competition.

In any case, now that they've broken up, I'm worried that my friend is having a hard time moving past the relationship, past his belief that she was "the one" for him, past the way he had defined himself in relation to her, past what he had hoped would be, and past how he judges his ability to trust another person. He is a tremendously talented guy, with an artistic, creative, and unique personality, but I don't know if he's able to see in himself all of his wonderful traits. I worry that for so many years he saw her as the path to his happiness and that now he isn't able to recognize that he can create that path for himself. I know that he's been hurt by at least the last two women that he's dated, and I wonder whether he is willing to open himself up to a woman enough to have an honest and intimate relationship.

I sense that my friend feels stuck right now, that he feels that he has failed somehow. I know what depression feels like, and I know how lonely it can be. I also know that it is temporary. I know that it's possible to move through the darkness, and I know that even greater light exists on the other side. I hope that he will trust in himself and others enough to find the lessons that he can in his present pain that will help him attain happiness, contentment, love, acceptance, and fulfillment in his future. I want him to know how much I care about him, how scared I have been for him, and how deeply I believe in him. I also wish that I could tell him that that sometimes you have to shatter all of your preconceived notions about what you thought you knew, who are were, and what you wanted in order to truly find yourself.

the price of beauty

2010-03-18T21:13:00.008-04:00

After making a decision to stop coloring my gray hairs, undergoing the primping process for filming in high def twice in 5 weeks, and reading a friend's blog on her decision not to color her hair, I have been thinking about my own relationship with the world of beauty. I've always kind of marched to the beat of my own drummer when it comes to my appearance, but I've still suffered from insecurities about both my appearance and my inability to "fit in" with other women. I've wavered between being comfortable just being me and wishing that I could look more like .... (fill in the blank). I'm alternately repulsed by the extremes to which so many will go to achieve a certain look and jealous that I don't belong to their secret society. I have recently found an unexpected ally in my journey--Jessica Simpson.

Jessica Simpson has a new TV venture, a reality show airing on VH1 called "The Price of Beauty." The premise behind the show is that she, along with her friends CaCee Cobb and Ken Paves (celebrity hairstylist), travels the world to examine how various cultures perceive beauty and what the women of that culture undergo in the pursuit of ideal beauty. Apparently, Jessica became interested in the subject after her well-publicized and greatly exaggerated weight gain over the past year. While Jessica says that she is currently a size 6/8 (up from her previous size 4), she has been called "fat," "tubby," and "disgusting." She has been nicknamed "Chestica" and has been the target of repeated barbs after performing in what many described as "Mom jeans," a simultaneous insult to Jessica's fashion sense and a slap in the face to mothers (an all women over a certain age) worldwide. An undeniably beautiful woman at any weight, Jessica has been quoted as saying that she felt like a "public embarrassment" when her weight became the subject of ridicule and scrutiny. “I had to get up on stage every night and know people were looking to see whether I was fat,” she told the UK's Daily Star.

So, I saw the first episode last week. Jessica et al. traveled to Thailand where Jessica insisted on wearing the most impractical platform heels everywhere she went. (I guess she's insecure about her height or attempting to look thinner by way of looking taller.) While in Bangkok, the crew learned that the Thai standard of beauty favors light skin over dark skin. They met a woman named Panya whose use of bleaching cremes had led to a permanent blotchy, disfiguring appearance to the skin on her face and neck. She described how her husband left her due to her appearance and how she could no longer participate in social activities, like singing, because of her embarrassment, shame, and self-loathing. Later, they visit the Karen Hill tribe, where girls begin wrapping their necks with coils of brass as early as 4 or 5 year old, increasing the length of the brass over time, weighing their shoulders down and giving their necks an elongated appearance. Each visitor tries on a mock set of neck rings to experience the weight and feel of the metal on their necks and shoulders.

Future episodes have Jessica and friends learning about the fashionable world of Paris and the pursuit of extreme thinness by models as well as the fattening huts of Uganda, where young women spend weeks putting on weight prior to their weddings in order to be a more beautiful (and, yes, more fat) bride. Of course, the show glosses over each lesson pretty quickly and intersperses scenes of Jessica acting goofy (this is the "is this chicken or fish?" Jessica, after all), but at least it exposes the VH1 viewer to something a bit more though-provoking than the exploits of "The Entertainer" or "New York."

I hope that the show is successful in finding an audience, and that it sparks conversation about the cultural pressure on women to look (and act) a certain way in order to be accepted, loved, hired, promoted, etc. I hope it will make others question why they are waxing, dyeing, bleaching, injecting, scrubbing, slathering, douching, powdering, perfuming, plucking, polishing, and primping themselves away from their natural beauty and into a false standard of beauty as it's currently defined by a society that values women less for their internal qualities than for their looks. I hope that it will cause people to pause before insulting someone who isn't as pretty, or thin, or tall, or fashionable as they. I hope that it will expand people's ideas of what is beautiful and what is "normal." I hope that it will remind us all that true beauty comes from within and that we are all more alike than we are different. And, lastly, I hope that it helps Jessica Simpson feel secure in her beauty--no matter what her weight, her age, or her hair color--and even when she wears "Mom jeans."

diving into the deep end

2010-03-14T17:09:00.005-04:00

I'm hardly known as particularly outdoorsy or athletic, but deep in my heart I dream of a life full of nature and adventure. I imagine myself being skilled at rock climbing, mountain biking, kayaking, hiking, fly fishing, canoeing, snow shoeing, camping, and other such activities. I fantasize about being one of those women who can pull her hair back into a loose ponytail, throw on a tank top, river pants, and a pair of sandals, and look beautiful and confident in her own skin. I want the freckles and tiny lines that come from summers spent playing in the sun and water. I long to experience the wonders of the earth, the sea, and the sky. I dream of traveling to exotic and remote locales where I can commune with nature and the locals. In short, I want to live my life more fully, with less fear and doubt and with more of a sense of wonderment and awe.

To this end, I have decided to challenge myself to experience more, to face my fears, and to expand my ideas of what I can do. In August, I am hoping to attend a women's wilderness retreat in Colorado. If my financial situation will allow, I will spend four days in the outdoors, connecting with others, hiking, journaling, climbing and rappelling, taking in the vistas and enjoying a little quiet introspection. I may even decide to spend a night alone in the wilderness to assure myself that I can stand on my own when needed.

I am also going to pursue a SCUBA certification. Three years ago, I won an introductory class in scuba from a silent auction. I never redeemed it. Of course, I intend to find out if the dive center will still honor the certificate, but even if they won't, I am going to take the classes. I have always wanted to scuba, but have allowed my claustrophobia, poor self-image, and doubt to get in the way. A snorkeling excursion in the Bahamas in the mid-1990's reignited my wonder at the world below the water, and my experiences in Tahiti in 1999 solidified it. I've scratched the surface, so to speak, and I'm ready to go deeper.

While scuba diving in a quarry in Connecticut has its draws, I have bigger hopes for myself. I want to dive the wrecks off the coast of the Carolinas. I want to go far below the surface of the Great Lakes. I want to dive in the warm waters of the Florida Keys. I want to swim in the Blue Hole of Belize, visit the Great Barrier Reef off Australia, and explore the waters of Thailand, Fiji, Micronesia, Vanuatu, Indonesia, and the Maldives.

I don't know if I'll ever have the money to experience the world in the way that I want to, but I'm hoping that it won't be too much of an obstacle. For now, though, I've submitted an entry into a contest that would make a trip to one dream diving destination a reality. I'm hoping like hell that I'll be chosen, but even if I'm not, I'll do what I can to visit that destination as soon as possible. Step one on that journey comes without financial cost. It involves simply opening my mind to possibilities and changing my perspective on myself.

From now on, I will allow myself to be the adventurer that I dream of being. I will learn what I need to (what I want to) and I will seek out opportunities to put my learning into practice. I will re-frame how I see myself. I will no longer define myself by what I cannot do. I will not allow fears, excuses, or uncertainty to get in my way of doing what I want to do. I will appreciate the beauty that is around me every day. I will play as much as possible. I will laugh more, smile more, see more, taste more, climb, jump, run, and skip more. I will live my life more.

pink tuxedos and dented quarter panels

2010-02-27T21:37:00.000-05:00

I don't know if it's because of the New Year, the way that Facebook reconnects you with your past, or the fact that I will turn 40 later this year, but I've been thinking a lot lately about how my life may have been different had I made different relationship choices along the way. I used to say that I lived my life with no regrets, that every choice had led me to where I was now and and played a part in making me the person I had become. While I still believe that my past choices and actions have played an important role in me becoming the person I am, I can no longer say that I wouldn't change some of them if I had the chance. I think back on my romantic relationships, and I wonder what (and who) I could have avoided had I made different decisions.

One of my first serious boyfriends went to another high school. He was a nice guy and was older than me. He asked me to his junior prom. I remember shopping for the perfect dress and learning all about strapless bras and full skirts. I was all set to have my first prom experience with this nice guy when I met a "bad boy" who planted the seeds of doubt in my mind and heart. Just one day after the prom, I broke up with the nice guy and started to see the bad boy.

Now, those who knew me during my high school years know exactly who this bad boy was. We dated for nearly two and half years. We had some really good times together, but I would have to say that most were bad. He was controlling, possessive, and jealous. I was insecure and made excuses for his behavior. My friends could see that the relationship was unhealthy, but I was too headstrong (or too helpless) to get out. In college in upstate New York, surrounded by new friends, and excited about my future, I was able to end the relationship weeks into my freshman year. Sadly, I gave him a chance to "just be friends" a couple of years later and paid for that decision with bruises and a vandalized car.

From that point, I seem to have entered into a pattern of dating a good guy, becoming bored, leaving him for a bad boy, getting sick of said bad boy, and going back to dating a good guy. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. The details of each relationship matter little, though I used to analyze the hell out of them, trying to figure out what went wrong, why I couldn't foresee their demise, and wondering when and where I would finally find "the one."

I thought I had found "the one" for a long time. He was the last (and perhaps baddest) of all the bad boys. He was that special mix of bad boy on the outside with the soul of an injured, little boy on the inside. You know the type. He's in all the movies. He's the rebel with a cause, the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, the starving artist, the tortured soul. He's unbelievably good looking, deeply passionate, and even more deeply flawed. You're drawn to him like a moth to a flame, knowing that he will most likely completely consume you, destroy you, kill you, but you can't help yourself.

We met when we were fairly young--21 and 22. And we officially dated twice, though we tried to get something going at least four other times. I knew that things would never work between us, but it was hard to give up on the dream, to let go of the "what if." Though my official answer had something to do with turning 30 and wanting to go back to the South, he was largely to blame for my decision to leave Fort Wayne. We were "talking" again just before I made up my mind to go. I knew that I would have to physically distance myself from him if I ever hoped to emotionally and spiritually separate from him and from what he represented for me.

Of course, you all know that I stepped off the dating merry-go-round over 9 years ago. And, happily, I ended up with a good guy. He was patient and strong enough to wait it out while I healed from the wounds of the past, and he's never once let me down. The boredom that used to play games with my mind is a distant memory. He's my intellectual equal and my best friend. We laugh at the same stupid stuff, and we accept each other as we are. And, yes, while he is "the one" for me, I now realize that the problem with my past relationships wasn't actually who I was dating, but was who I was.

I see now that what changed had a lot less to do with whether a good guy could keep my interest or whether a bad boy could change his ways and a lot more to do with how well I knew myself and what was important to me. Instead of constantly trying to adapt myself to the situation or the guy, I needed to figure out who I was and find someone who actually liked that person. I only wish that I could have figured all this out sooner than I did. Don't get me wrong. I'm happy to have found my current partner and don't wish that I could have found this clarity and made it work with someone from my past. I only wish that fewer people could have been hurt along the well--the good guys who deserved better, the bad boys who had feelings despite their rough exteriors, and me.

And, in case you were wondering. The first guy (my prom date)...he's married, has five kids, and is one of my Facebook friends.

ham & beads

2010-02-12T17:18:00.032-05:00

I was born in New Orleans. My family moved away when I was 11, and I have lived in six different states since then, but I will always consider New Orleans to be my hometown. It's a unique city, unlike any other, anywhere in the world. When I think of New Orleans and what sets it apart, I think of two words--character and flavor. The food, the music, the people, the traditions, the architecture, the accent, the vernacular, even the weather are unique to the region, and they all play a part in making New Orleans what it is.

I was lucky enough to be in New Orleans this past weekend, the first weekend of the Mardi Gras parades and the weekend of the Super Bowl. It was a trip I almost didn't take after learning that my sister (with whom I would be staying in New Orleans) was going to Miami for the game and getting sick just days before my flight would be leaving Connecticut. I knew the trip would be fruitful, however, when I saw local celebrity and former Saints quarterback Bobby Hebert standing in line waiting to board my plane. Bobby ended up directly across the aisle from me! For a lifelong Saints fan, this was a positive omen for the game. (Also on the plane, but much less exciting, was Louisiana State Senator Mary Landrieu.)
This wasn't the end of my celebrity sightings or auspicious signs. I walked off the plane behind Bobby, hoping to stay right behind him through the airport where I could soak in his aura and witness the looks of those he passed. Instead, he was walking too slowly, and I had to use the restroom, so I broke formation. As luck would have it, though, this allowed me just enough time to be present when New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin walked through the concourse with his entourage. Now, I am no fan of Ray Nagin, his politics, or his now infamous ability to say all the wrong things at all the wrong times, but still...he's the mayor of New Orleans! I wanted very badly to say something crazy to him, like "Gimme some chocolate!" or "Hey! It's Willy Nagin!" Instead, visions of bodyguards taking me down flashed through my head, and I opted for a calm and respectful, "Hey, Mr. Nagin" to which I received a suave and somewhat smarmy, "Hey, darlin'." I was pleased with the interaction overall.

I walked on, catching back up to Bobby. (I mentioned that he was walking really slowly, right?) On the other side of the security check-in point, I saw my sister waiting for us. I was brimming with excitement from my multiple celebrity encounters and motioned to her with my head at Bobby. In her hands, she held a sign she had made which read, "The Who Dat Nation welcomes Bloomfield, CT!" She presented us with black and gold beads and gave me a black and gold boa, which I wrapped around my neck...not an uncommon look in New Orleans. A woman walked up to us and said, "I don't know you, but I'm from Bloomfield." Another omen! "Well, the Who Dat Nation welcomes you, too," said my sister.

My first night in town was spent at two Mardi Gras parades, one on the West Bank and one in Metairie. I also got to see a childhood friend whom I had not seen since moving. After 28 years, I recognized her right away. I hadn't been to a Mardi Gras parade since moving away from New Orleans, so it was fun to experience them again. Of course, Mardi Gras is when all of the characters come out of hiding. Men are unashamed to dress in tights or tunics. People beg for beads, plastic cups, doubloons, stuffed animals, spears, hatchets, and coconuts. Anyone with a hint of fame can become a Grand Marshall or even a King. Mardi Gras is an excuse to let your freak flag fly at full mast!Another thing that Mardi Gras brings out is garbage. The streets are lined with discarded beads, broken cups, empty boxes that once contained throws, plastic bags, and a sundry of other objects--both odd and mundane. At one point, I watched as two groups of parade watchers played kickball across the street with an empty beer carton. The game would pause briefly while marching bands and floats passed, resuming again once the opportunity arose. Not long after that, I noticed a stray plastic sandwich bag which had been blown by the wind from its place of origin to my little stake of property. It briefly danced around at my feet before continuing on its way down the street. It was a simple plastic baggie with a simple, three-letter word written on its side, but somehow it represented both every piece of garbage and every weird character on the streets of New Orleans at any given moment and particularly during the Mardi Gras season. Yet another omen? Why not?
Sunday was the Super Bowl. Like an athlete preparing for the big game, I spent the day resting, performing my rituals, praying, and anxiously waiting. After 60 minutes of football, the New Orleans Saints had defeated the Indianapolis Colts, winning the Super Bowl in their first ever appearance. It's now a part of history. The Saints won the Super Bowl! Unless you're a Saints fan, I don't think you can truly appreciate what that means. Being in New Orleans, I got to experience the energy of the city and all of the Saints fans as we witnessed this miracle. I ran out into the street, screaming at the top of my lungs, while my sister's neighborhood erupted with the sounds of fireworks, car alarms, cow bells, and screams. Strangers shared in a magical moment of disbelieve, looking at each other through teary eyes, and hoping that we weren't experiencing some sort of mass hysteria. All over the city, people flooded out of their homes, bars, restaurants, and hotels. The streets of the French Quarter were clogged with people. The bridges and roads were packed with cars. No one wanted to be alone. We needed one another.We celebrated through the night and into the following day. We walked around like zombies, hungover from a night of unprecedented joy. While many retreated into their homes, some of us continued to seek out each other. We ran out early to buy the morning paper by the armful. We cleaned up the garbage of the night before. We replenished ourselves with food and rich chicory coffee. And all over again, we recognized and appreciated the character and the flavor of the city of New Orleans--my hometown and the greatest city on Earth.

catching up

2010-01-31T14:46:00.005-05:00

It's been over two weeks since I've sat with the keyboard to write, and it feels like ages. I've wanted to sit down and write several times, but just didn't have the time or the energy. I've thought about it as I lay down to go to sleep. I've wanted to put down my work and do it. I have felt a pull to write much like an addict has to use. I have no idea now how I survived all of those years without writing. I used to say that I was a writer with a severe, several years-long case of writer's block. I have always thought of myself as a writer, but I feared that after so long away from it, I had lost my ability to write. I'm still waiting for the stories to return, for the characters to inspire me, for their voices to fill my ears and to direct my hands, for the places to grow inside my mind's eye until they are almost tangible to me. I am still waiting for that to happen, but I'm not stressing over it. I believe that it will. So, until then, I will continue to write about what I am doing, thinking, and feeling.

The last couple of weeks have been so busy and so emotional! My workload has picked up this month, so I've been a bit more behind than usual. I don't know why, but I get stressed out whenever I accrue even the slightest bit of a "to do" list. I like to complete tasks and put them away. I don't like to have things waiting, with unanswered questions and lingering actions. Because I work as a part of a team, what I can do is often determined by what others get done. At the present time, the two PO's that I work with have a growing list of clients whose probation may be violated, so all I can do is wait for the go ahead. I will also soon be covering for my supervisor while she is out on a maternity leave. This means that my work from home days will now be devoted to working in another office, with another team of PO's and therapists, learning new probationers names and offenses, and connecting with new victims, complete with a hour plus commute each way.

I'm really feeling the need to whittle down my outstanding workload, because I'll be leaving this Friday for a 4 day trip to New Orleans. That's right! I will be in my hometown, the greatest city on Earth, during this historic weekend. My favorite team of all time, the New Orleans Saints (Who Dat!) won the NFC Championship game last Sunday night. A field goal kick in overtime literally saved me from what I am sure would have been a fatal heart attack and carried the Saints into their first ever Super Bowl. I spent the next couple of days in a haze, waiting to find out that it had all been a hoax, feeling hungover and out of touch with reality, but soon snapped out of it. By Wednesday night I had booked our flight, reserved the dogs' space at the kennel, and confirmed the petsitter for the cats. We will get to experience a little bit of Mardi Gras, taking in Alla, my childhood favorite parade, and we'll be there to breath in the atmosphere of the city at this most amazing time.

After Katrina, the people of New Orleans, those who still live there, those who left after the storm, and those who have been away for years, need something positive. The Saints have been a source of hope and renewal for all of us. They have embodied the spirit of the region and they have provided respite from the reality of destruction and loss. Like the city, rebuilding after the hurricane, the Saints have become a true Cinderella story, the beloved underdog, David facing off against Goliath. And, I (as always) want to be in that number when the Saints come marching in!!!

GEAUX SAINTS!!!!

taking responsibility for myself

2010-01-15T18:58:00.014-05:00

Nearly three years ago I took a job that scared the absolute shit out of me. As a Victim Advocate in a probation office, I would be required to attend the treatment groups of sex offenders. I knew how to work with and for victims, but I had no clue what to expect from working so closely with sex offenders. I imagined a dark room full of seedy, smarmy child molesters and rapists, something akin to an AA meeting in a cramped church basement--big, sweaty men in rickety chairs, an old coffee pot brewing in the corner, and the air thick with cigarette smoke. Of course, the groups are nothing like that. In fact, they're quite sterile, professional, yet relaxed...boring, really. Getting to know the men in these groups, and, in many cases, their family and friends, I was reminded that real monsters are less common than TV and the movies would lead us to believe. We are all human and, thus, all fallible....and, perhaps, all forgivable.

On top of learning to see others in a more holistic way, I have learned in my work with sex offenders that healing and growth cannot begin until one truly takes responsibility for his own actions. The first step in taking responsibility is being honest. Denial can run rampant in the sex offender community, as one might imagine, but we are lucky in that we can utilize polygraphs with deniers. Can you imagine? How cool would it be to be able to use a lie detector test with the people in your personal life? From your significant other to the office gossip, you would be assured that you were being told the truth at all times.

Of course, it's impossible to hold those in our lives to complete honesty, so sometimes we have to accept that they won't be honest and, therefore, that they won't take responsibility for their own words or actions. I've come face-to-face with this reality lately. Even when confronted head on, some remain unwilling to tell the truth, which simply triggers what I've named my "bullshit alarm" to sound. I've found that the alarm is particularly sensitive to misplaced blame and the refusal to acknowledge one's own behavior. Is it really that hard to say, "I screwed up," "It was my fault," or "I did it, and I'm sorry?" Is it worth it to keep up the charade? At what cost do you make that decision? And isn't it just plain exhausting?

No matter what choice those around me have made, I have decided to be honest. Don't ask me a question unless you want to hear the truth. My choice has been both a blessing and a curse. It's brought me closer to some and has driven a wedge into some of my relationships. I stand behind my choice, though, and don't see how I can live an authentic life without being authentic. I've attempted to model honesty in my personal and professional interactions, and I have been proud to see some follow my lead and embrace honesty, but I have seen others react with withdrawal, whining, and even venom.

I've struggled since the other day with what to do when someone seems unwilling or unable to own up to his/her role in hurting me. A big part of me feels that I should remain adamant that I am unwilling to forgive and forget without that person taking responsibility for his/her role. Another part of me argues that by holding out for that person to make a move which seems highly unlikely and uncharacteristic only allows him/her to control the situation. If I take responsibility for my own actions, words, and deeds, I need to take responsibility for my reactions to others. By waiting for another person's decision, I am not fully taking responsibility. In fact, if I can forgive, even when it seems unforgivable, if I can move forward, even without closure for the past, if I can remain in control of my own feelings, even when others may not handle them with care, then I am truly living a life of responsibility...responsibility for myself--for my thoughts, my feelings, my actions, my words, and my impact on those around me.

I'm not perfect. I am far from being the person that I would like to be, but I continue to try. I only hope that others will recognize that and will try just as hard.

"The men who try to do something and fail are infinitely better than those who try to do nothing and succeed." ~Lloyd Jones

trust women

2010-01-15T09:57:00.000-05:00

On May 31, 2009, Dr. George Tiller was gunned down while serving as an usher for a Sunday morning service in his Wichita, KS, church. Dr. Tiller operated a women's health clinic, one of only three nationwide that performed abortions after the 21st week of pregnancy, so-called "late-term abortions." Most of Dr. Tiller's patients made their excruciatingly difficult choice after learning later in their pregnancies that their unborn children suffered from severe, and sometimes fatal, birth defects. Some even had to choose between their own lives and the lives of their unborn children. For providing this medical service to his patients in desperate circumstances, Dr. Tiller was granted a death sentence. But, there was no trial. There was no testimony. Dr. Tiller's murderer, Scott Roeder, who will be afforded a trial of his own, served as Dr. Tiller's judge, jury, and executioner. Reports claim that Roeder will argue that his premeditated murder of Dr. Tiller was "justifiable homicide." That hardly sounds pro-life to me.

Dr. Tiller was known to wear a button that stated, simply, "Trust women." So, today, on the 37th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, on the eve of Scott Roeder's trial, and in honor of "Blog for Choice Day 2010," I want to share what those words me to me.

Trust women. Those two small words strike a very powerful chord in me. As a woman myself, I can't say that I always trusted myself, let alone other women. I didn't always know how to connect with other women. My own insecurities caused me to distance myself from them and often made me appear "snobby." I thought that this meant that I formed friendships with men easier, but I know wonder if it actually taught me to use my gender and sexuality as a means of connecting with men. I'm still not a "girly girl," and I can't relate to other women when it comes to topics like shopping, motherhood, or fashion, but I'm more comfortable in my own skin than ever before, and I've learned that our shared experiences as women tie us together in a way that we can never relate to men.

I had a great conversation with a female co-worker yesterday. She was frustrated over the lack of understanding that her male co-workers demonstrated regarding violence against women. She wondered if they could ever truly get it. I said that I didn't think they could. And, I believe that. As females, we grow up experiencing the world as an inherently dangerous place, with strangers and intimates capable of hurting us at any moment. We are taught about personal safety at a young age, and we internalize our responsibility to always be on guard. Walking to our cars, being alone in our homes, sitting at our office desks, even sleeping in our own beds, we are constantly aware, even if unconsciously, of our vulnerability.

Men, on the other hand, are conditioned to believe that the world is theirs to conquer. What we fear, they approach with a sense of entitlement and ownership. Does a man ever think about how he carries his keys as he approaches his car? Does he check the backseat? Does he ever worry that someone will force him/herself upon him? Does he worry about angering his partner for fear that violence could result? For that matter, does he ever struggle with the fear of losing his identity when he marries (and changes his name), with choosing between his career and his children, with trying to live up to the unrealistic standards portrayed by the media and espoused by his culture? Can a man ever really know what it feels like to be a woman?

During our conversation yesterday, my much younger co-worker said, "The sad thing is that they're right. It IS a man's world." I couldn't argue with her. While racism is still actively alive in our culture, I think that the threads of sexism are woven even deeper into our fabric. The citizenry of the U.S. elected the first black man to the presidency before the first woman. The numbers spoke for themselves. A strong, confident woman still must defend herself against the label of "bitch" when she aspires to do what men are doing. God forbid!

I trust myself, as a woman, to know when there is something wrong with my body. When I began experiencing strange symptoms and bodily changes, I searched for many years for a diagnosis. I was told that I had "fork-plate-mouth syndrome" when I started gaining weight at a fast rate. I couldn't control my weight despite medication, exercise, and a controlled diet. I knew it wasn't normal. I knew it wasn't just aging. I kept asking. I kept searching. After several doctors, a spinal tap, ultrasounds, and countless MRI's, I was finally diagnosed with a pituitary tumor. My problems didn't stop there, though, because when I started gaining weight YET AGAIN, I was told, "Yeah. It's hard. We're all on a diet in the office." The pounds kept coming. I searched some more. I asked some more. I was finally told by a renowned specialist that not only could the pituitary tumor affect my metabolism and cause me to gain weight, but that the medications prescribed for the tumor could do the same. Duh! That was what I had been trying to say all along. But, none of my doctors have ever believed that I could be right, that I could know my body better than they could. None of them trusted me!

I trust the women in my life with my deepest, darkest secrets, feelings, and fears. I trust them with my fun, my laughter, and my heart. My trust them with my love, my soul, and even with my life. I have jumped out of airplanes with them. I have cried with them. I have smuggled boycotted coffee with them. I have been pissed off with them. I have marched with them. I have had a blast with them. They are my sisters, some biologically and some spiritually. They are my mothers, not by birth, but by virtue. They are my teachers, my friends, my mentors, my inspiration. I trust these women, and I hope that they trust me.

And, I trust men, like Dr. Tiller, who trust women. I trust men who believe the victims of sexual assault when they report, when they testify, and when they want justice. I trust men who want a woman to be his partner, his equal, his mate. I trust men who speak out about violence, even when it has not affected them personally. I trust men who do their best, despite our biological, emotional, physical, sociological, psychological, and experiential differences, to truly connect with women, to empathize with women, and to support women.

Trust women. Trust yourself.

operation freefall

2010-01-10T13:19:00.007-05:00

On April 24, 2010, I will be making my fifth tandem skydive as a part of Operation Freefall.

Operation Freefall started in 2001 when, on the anniversary of her rape, Speaking Out About Rape, Inc.^® (SOAR^®) founder, Kellie Greene, made her first skydive. When Kellie did this, she took a day of personal tragedy and turned it into a day of triumph. She reclaimed the day that had been taken from her and turned a dreaded annual memorial into a keenly anticipated celebration. Operation Freefall is the only event of its kind to increase awareness of sexual violence. The event is held simultaneously across the country on the last Saturday of each April, and it benefits both SOAR and local community-based anti-sexual violence organizations. In the past nine years, Operation Freefall has raised over $1,000,000 with nearly two-thirds of that going back to local communities.

Kellie Greene is both a mentor and close friend of mine. I know firsthand that the work she does has a positive impact on survivors and their loved ones. She has changed my life!

I hope that you will support me in my fundraising efforts. I have pledged to raise a minimum of $1,000 before March 15, 2010, and I have a long way to go!!!

Check out my fundraising page at http://www.firstgiving.com/shannonsmith2010. You can watch a video of last year's jump, read more about Operation Freefall, and make a secure on-line donation. Thanks for your support!!!

Blue Skies!!!
Shannon

grounded

2010-01-09T21:36:00.009-05:00

We went to see the movie "Up in the Air" today. The movie stars George Clooney as a guy who flies from city to city, contracted by companies to terminate their employees. He grows from someone who is happily unattached, unencumbered, and unemotional into someone who longs for connection. It was a funny, touching, sometimes discouraging commentary on how we choose to relate to others in our increasingly impersonal society.

I was surprised at the feelings that the movie stirred in me and at the different ways that Mitchell and I reacted to the movie. As we walked through the cold, he said, "That was a depressing movie."

"Depressing if you're him, I guess," I said, referring to Clooney's character. "I think it's supposed to make you feel glad that you're not him."

And that's how I feel. I'm grateful for the deep and meaningful friendships that I have. I have everything that I want and need in my home. I have a job that I love, and I stay busy volunteering for organizations and projects that I am passionate about. I am proud of the life that I've built and of the person that I have become. I have a loving family of four-legged children and a partner who makes me laugh, supports my ideas, helps me feel safe, and loves me just the way I am. I feel lucky to have lived in many places, experiencing this country from different perspectives and building relationships along the way. I don't know where the future will take me, but for now I like where I am. I am content.

1 question

2010-01-06T18:49:00.007-05:00

While enjoying one of my favorite pastimes, i.e. randomly surfing the Internet, earlier this week, I came across the website of a self-described "spirit guide artist/clairvoyant." She offers the opportunity to ask one free question of your spirit guide via email. Figuring that I had nothing to lose, I shot off an email. I asked, "How should I proceed with my parents?" (You know there's a story there, but I will save it for later. The tale has yet to completely unfold.)

The response came just 12 minutes later. I guess both the clairvoyant and my spirit guide had pretty open schedules that day. Lucky for me, huh? The answer was simple, if not a bit vague. My spirit guide said, "Love each of them for their own qualities, stay open, let go of the judgment, and stay on a Spiritual Path."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit perturbed by the suggestions. Perhaps I was hoping for something more like, "Screw them! They don't deserve you!" or, "Stick to your guns and wait for them to take responsibility for their roles in the situation." I must have read and re-read the email about six times. I was annoyed that I was being asked to be the "bigger person." The part of me that believes that life should be just, even when it's not fair, was pissed! I had wasted my one free spirit guide question on this??? I wanted a do-over!

Still, I didn't delete it. I decided to think about it and to see what, if anything, it might mean to me later. It had touched a nerve, so I knew that it could have some validity somewhere. I also couldn't shake the feeling that something in its essence reminded me of my grandmother's unwavering plea to me regarding my difficulties with my parents in years past. She used to say, "Just be sweet." Me, sweet? Hardly a word I would use to describe myself, but if Nanny saw it, it must be there...however deeply buried.

I don't know what happened, but while I was washing dishes this evening, I thought about that email. It's not unusual for me to have moments of clarity while performing mundane chores, so I went with it. I thought about how I wasn't exactly ready to follow each piece of advice offered by my free email spirit guide with my parents, but I decided that each was something that I could strive for in my interactions with others in general.

Therefore, I declare that my New Year's resolutions (or intentions) will include:
1. Loving others for their own qualities.
2. Staying open.
3. Letting go of judgment.
4. Staying on a Spiritual Path.

Thanks, free email spirit guide. And, thanks, Nanny.
xoxoxo
Shannon

tracks in the snow

2010-01-05T11:59:00.009-05:00

I came home yesterday to find two packages inside my breezeway. One was part of a Christmas gift for Mitchell which had been delayed in shipping, and the other was a late Christmas gift for me from Mitchell. It was fun to have a mini Christmas on January 4!

Picking up the packages, I could see outside the breezeway windows that the delivery person had left prints in the snow leading up to the door. I instantly felt guilty for not having cleared the path, since that has become mostly my chore since moving here. But then I thought about how it was somehow satisfying to have a record of those who have visited.

I'm no big fan of snow, particularly the cold and icy blanket that covers the ground here in New England for three months straight, but I love finding the tracks left behind by the animals that walk through our yard. Making my trek out to the mailbox the other morning, I saw the evidence of a squirrel chase which started somewhere on the other side of the bushes next to our house, crossed our driveway, and culminated high in the branches of the big tree out front. I had to go out to the edge of the backyard this morning to corral Bennie back into the house. She's been snacking on the remnants of my gingerbread house which was discarded in pieces on the compost pile. As annoyed as I was at her stubbornness and selective hearing (a true Beagle), I somehow noticed the tracks left behind by a bunch of crows who had been in the yard just about an hour before. I could see a few clear, "classic" bird footprints, but most appeared as slight drag marks through the snow....the tangible proof of the birds' ability to exist simultaneously in both the terrestrial and the ethereal plains.

What is it about tracks in the snow that is fascinating me so much today? I guess I'm seeing them as a metaphor for the imprint left behind by the people who have come through my life, leaving me with the gift of memories or the scars of wrongs done. I have recently witnessed and experienced the aftershocks of a person's sudden departure. Even though I believe that the departure is best for all involved, there's no denying that there remains an influence and that everyone involved will need some time to heal from the damage done.

This time of year is full of anniversaries and reminders of loss in my life, but it also reminds me of birth and renewal. I know that death is a necessary and integral part of life. I know that there is a balance to nature. I know that in order to make room for the new, we must often do away with the old. Like footprints in the snow, nothing is forever, so we must enjoy what we see today and keep our eyes open to the possibilities of each next day.

I am hopeful for all of those involved with the aforementioned personal situation that each will be able to leave behind what was, move beyond the illusions of what could have been, and begin life anew....a life ripe with possibilities for self-discovery, independent expression, personal fulfillment, healthy living, and love. The path may be snow-covered and treacherous. It may be necessary to switch directions, to hop over obstacles, to fly above distractions, or to climb back from your stumbles. In any case, there is a journey ahead. Enjoy it when you can!

so it begins

2010-01-05T11:50:00.004-05:00

Inspired by the recent death of another blog and my apparent role in its demise, I have decided to begin writing for myself. Yes, writing for myself, though this may be read by others. Writing has always been an outlook for me, as well as a means of reflection, so this blog will be an opportunity for me to do both. I may talk about the mundane or attempt to delve the profound. You are welcome to read and welcome to comment.