Things About Growing Up

I have two real regrets in my life. I've worked very hard to make sure that bad decisions in my past can be easily rendered into lessons about life that were much needed, therefore not having to classify said mistakes as regrets, only "part of the process". It's been a good process. A hard one at times. But good. The two regrets that I do have (and no, they aren't any of my children) involve me inflicting a great deal of pain on someone that I loved very deeply. Twice now I've done it. Someday when my body has outlived my foolish pride, I will tell you about them in glorious and gritty detail, because they are stories worth hearing, if only to prevent the Rest Of You from doing what I did. But for now, I'm still too prideful to put words and names and shameful actions out there for the scrutiny of the masses, because I can't handle the inaudible gasps that I guarantee my mishaps would garnish from your lips. 

Grand mistakes, regrets, or valuable learning curves, on the winding path of this ever-evolving life, I find myself once again at an intersection of faith and reality and fantasy and hope. And I'm not sure which is which. But I can look backwards, at what is quite obviously reality, and move ahead accordingly. 

MacKenzie turned 17 yesterday. And it made me think of when I was 17 and I hadn't "ruined" my eyebrows (thanks Hannah) by plucking them yet. I was "in love" with a man I didn't even know. But from afar, in my lavender walled castle tower, I imagined him to be a bohemian gypsy knight sent to save me from mundanity. And truth be told, he did. I thought about what advice I could give to a 17 year old clone of my very passionate self, or what I would have tried to shake into my own head at the time, and for all I have learned, it was surprisingly difficult to think of words that would have any weight on my flighty soul. This is all I could come up with:

Dear 17 Year Old Me (or carbon copy thereof [ahem, Kizzie?]):

Remember these things in every decision you make:

1) Your gut is usually right. Not your pitter-patter heart or your analytical mind. No. Your instinct. The first impression that flashes through your body. Like a chill or a snap or a warm sensation of Knowing.  Do what you know is right, even when it hurts like hell. Be the person you would want to have for a friend. Go with your gut. 

2) You will mess up. Thank goodness. It's ok. Enjoy your messes. Don't ever, ever, ever deny them, blame them on someone else, or leave someone else to deal with them. Messes make us human. They seperate us from Cylons. They make us beautiful. Like Starbuck. She was so much cooler because she WASN'T PERFECT. And in the end, wasn't SHE the real angel? Enjoy life. Enjoy your humanness, Your imperfection and that of other people. There will be consequences and sometimes they will seem unbearable, but for people like me and you, the consequences seem more worthwhile than the Not Knowing, Not Doing. Seek joy in everything. Seek to bring joy to everything. Be imperfect. And clean up your messes. 

3) You will love many, many, many times. You may experience a love once that is deeper and stronger than any you have ever or will ever know. It will become the standard by which all love is measured for you, and that's ok. My greatest hope for you is that you land inside of that love and live there forever. But if you don't, be grateful you tasted it and that you know it exists. But don't discount the other loves. They are real. They have their places and reasons and meanings and they teach you. Enjoy them. Don't despise them. Don't regret them. 

4) Never Ever Settle. Maybe that last one sounded like it's ok to settle for a less than perfect love. But really, there is no perfect love. Even the best love is imperfect. But do not settle for infatuation. Do not settle for lust. Don't settle for conditional relationships. Do not settle for practicality and convenience or for social acceptability. And never, ever settle for unkindness, for cruelty, for manipulation, for control. Never settle for anything that makes you feel like less than you know you are, even with all of your messes and flaws. 

5) Chase what you love. Chase it hard. Relentlessly. Go after it. Work hard. Sweat. Cry. Fight to make it BE. Life is so short, and yet it goes on and on and on furiously without letting you take a break to get oriented to your own destiny.  But you must take risks to make it worthwhile. Do the things you have to do, but find a way to make the things you HAVE to do the same as the things you WANT to do. There is a way. Fight for it. See #1 & #4

Most of all, LOVE COURAGEOUSLY. 

Things About Being Stuck In Camp

For some reason (or many reasons) I have spent most of this week in the medical unit at the Incident Command Post, which is a fancy name for fire camp. Ironically, our med unit is set up in a Special Ed annex at the Entiat School, which is equipped with all of the comforts of home for me and my buddy Christy, who is here as a medical unit manager trainee. The SPED room here in Entiat has been entirely taken over by fire maps and radios and stockpiles of medical supplies, gold bond, cough drops and oxygen kits. It's an odd mix of both mine and Christy's professional worlds, life skills picture flash cards and counting charts and division medical assignments all mashed up in a confusing vortex of color and detail that would make any preschool teacher have a seizure. The students have a little garden bed in front of their classroom, and right now there are towering sunflowers just beginning to bloom - kind of like the ones I planted with Eddie would be, if I hadn't killed them of dehydration. My boss Steve is insistent that all the flowers must be named and labeled and monitored for adequate flourishing, since apparently we are lacking human patients (this is a good thing, no?).

They're saying this might be the last day I am bouncing off the walls of this room, which is good, since I am kind of running out of ways to cure my boredom (again, a good thing?) and the willpower to avoid the 3000 delicious cookies that my Aunt Lynn sent for us to gorge on. I need a hike. I am entirely lucky to be working with one of my besties (Christy) and my husband, and other Concerned Individuals who are aware of the back issues that I am having (oh, BTW, my MRI last week identified advanced degeneration, particularly in the L5/S1 area, as well as Stenosis [narrowing of the space between vertebrae] and nerve displacement, which as far as I can tell, is due to the stenosis.), and are handling me with kid gloves, which is really awesome for my body but somewhat damaging to my pride. Again, I need a hike. And probably another snicker doodle.

The beauty of being stuck in camp is A)air conditioning B)wireless internet C)proximity to a flushing toilet, all things at which one simply CANNOT turn up ones nose after trying to find someplace to cop a squat in a treeless, dusty wasteland in front of 347 men of questionable moral integrity (mostly referring to my paramedic partners)(you know who you are). Also, I have all day to take a shower - which sometimes doesn't happen for days on end when I am stuck on the line. All in all, it's a pretty good gig.

Things That I Learn

When Josh and I got married, one of his best, oldest friends, a girl I like a lot, said to me "Hey. Everybody's got baggage. The important thing is whether or not your baggage matches." It resonated with me, and kind of stuck with me for almost three years - in fact, I even made a meme about it and put it in a blog about Things That I Have Decided.  But then I started to feel like maybe our baggage wasn't matching anymore - and that maybe baggage evolves, or we change it out periodically for more fashionable baggage. Either way, the resonation that made it seem like getting married to someone with as much glorious retro baggage as I had was a good idea, no longer resounded. And then today, a friend of mine sent me a different meme on Facebook that I thought for a second was the same sentiment but it finished differently. More like this:

In an instant, when I was riding in the back of a rental car on my way from a fire camp in Entiat to Wenatchee to get more rental cars and cookies from the Best Aunt Ever, I had a complete paradigm shift. It isn't about matching our baggage. It's about unloading it. Unpacking. Settling in. Coming home to stay and not holding on to the temporariness of lugging around, well, vintage luggage. Because no matter how whimsical and quirky it looks, that crap gets heavy.

So I sat there and I stewed. Almost literally since it was like 137º outside and the guy up front seemed to have difficulty running the AC with pictures on the buttons, but mostly I stewed theoretically about how successful (or not) I have been in helping Josh unpack his baggage, or him mine. Or has that even been our goal? Maybe we have been comparing baggage so much to make SURE it matches that it has turned into a competition instead. Who has the worse sob story. The most drama. The biggest justification to be a poop head. Unfortunately, on all of those fronts, we both win. But instead of unpacking that junk and airing it out and folding it up and filing it where it can be useful, we drag it around and beat each other over the head with it like a couple of dumb apes. Or the three stooges. But only two of us. Dude. WE'RE DOING IT WRONG.

The problem is, unpacking it takes some things that we are both a little short on. Maybe because that damn baggage has been so heavy for so long. We're low on things like patience, because we're all on edge and crabby from sore shoulders and backs. And humility, because look how buff we are with our big old steamer trunks of bad luck. And empathy, because nobody took our baggage for us - so grab yer own bootstraps and suck it up! And gentleness, because we're just gol-darn tired. How do you help somebody unpack their baggage when your hands are jam packed with your own? How do you learn to set aside all of your aches and pains and help to take off all of someone else's? It takes a lot more strength to do that then to just cling to your own baggage and trudge along bitterly. For a minute there, you might be stuck balancing ALL OF THE BAGGAGE, while he catches his breath and realizes that he'll be ok without it. And that is terrifying. Because we all know that I am buff - but that buff?????

All I know is that is was a good day for Aunt Lynn to make 37 dozen cookies for me to bring to fire camp. Because cookies make most things better, especially Mulling Over Large Thoughts,  And snickerdoodles fix EVERYTHING. And with all of this baggage flying around -  and I know Aunt Lynn and some of my very special cousins can relate to some of this, but with all of this flying baggage, there's nothing more important than family. The kind you are born into and that love you unconditionally and inconsistently, and the kind you chose and sometimes almost wish you hadn't. There is no way to balance the load of ALL OF THE BAGGAGE if you don't have those people saying "sure you can. YOU'RE BUFF. it's only for a second. it will be worth it." There is no way to find the humility and patience and empathy and trust and hope to start unpacking. Without the life preserver of Somebody Who Loves you. No Matter What. All of The Time. For this I am eternally thankful. Because of this I am mostly hopeful. And with this I believe that I can suck it in and take on a few extra bags of STUFF, so that we can move in and be home. And all those outdated suitcases and trunks become nothing more than nostalgic decoration to remind us of where we have been and who we are.

Things That Are Happening

It's fire season. And my computer is fixed. (Thank GOD). This means several things: you can begin to prepare yourself emotionally for my annual review of books, which is shaping up to be QUITE eclectic and... practical, this year. Also, it's time for happiness. It's time for working my buns off to be better. To be whole. To be me. The one that my kids need and my family needs and my friends need. So, I changed my blog layout. To be happy. To be loud and tottering right on the brink of obnoxious.

All those Facebook quizzes can't lie. When they say that I am 51% good and I am Destined to Be a World Changer. And that I am supposed to be blonde, and we all know that blondes have more fun. And the fact that TWO (2) little girls in the elementary school wrote tributes to me as a Person Of Positive Influence in their lives has to mean something, right? It's hard to speak self worth to four gorgeous, intelligent, hilarious daughters when I am continuously questioning my own. I have so very much to be thankful for, and, in all humility, a lot to be proud of. Nothing that I have done on my own, without the immense support of an amazing, if quirky, family, a supportive husband and crazy awesome friends. At this moment in time I am under the strong impression that for my own sanity and that of my kids, it is time to regroup and reclaim our awesomeness. Even in the moments that we don't feel like it. Or want to try. We must. Remember the awesomeness that doesn't require money, or the absolute assurance of success in every endeavor. Just the confidence that we CAN DO IT. Because we have.

Things That Feel Unbearable

I have had several thoughts rolling around in my head like snowballs, gaining momentum and growing in size and cohesion until my brain overheats and the whole thing melts down into an unidentifiable puddle of mismatched ideas, nothing to paint a page with, even though they are all things that must be expressed somehow. How do you come up with words to describe something so awful. Words that don't become narcissistic or gossipy? How do you speak words of love and sympathy and grief without sounding like a hallmark card or a church of christ preacher? I don't like writing in questions, but some circumstances are so answerless that they call for it.

Last week our little town took a blow that it will not soon recover from. When you live in a population of 280 and you lose one, even a transient one, it's noticeable, especially when that one is young, and vibrant, and his loss is unexpected. Today is Junha's memorial. And I am not able to be there. It breaks my heart a little - and I hope that my love for all of them is felt from where I sit under this smoke and heat in the middle of the state.

How can you wrap your mind around the death of a young, healthy person? Especially when you have watched helplessly as his life slipped suddenly, haphazardly, and quite literally out of your hands. If I, as an adult, an EMT, struggle with the thought that even 20 minutes later that I could have, should have dived in to the cold, black water and hunted frantically for him, that maybe with the temperature of the water, maybe there was something I could have done... How can a 16 year old, 17 year old, 11 year old, cope with the reality that Junha is just gone, and there was nothing more they could have done.

It's been a week now since I got a scratchy phone call from another responder - painfully, also the host parent for Junha, that there had been a possible drowning at the boat launch in Northport. I was on my way home from Colville after Irish dance practice and an MRI and seven billion errands. I turned on my flashers and I drove fast. My mind was sorting through the possibilities. I had been down at the boat launch several days over the last week, with kids and dogs, and without fail, there was always a handful of highschoolers there, hanging out on the dock. It's tradition. They all do it. Every summer. For some reason on this day, the water was a little higher, or Junha was a little out of his element, or who knows what fatal combination of factors came in to play, but he went under, and he didn't come back up. He went under fighting. Fighting against the panic of being overwhelmed by cold, dark water with no tangible bottom. Fighting against his peers that struggled to pull him in to safety. His own panic ultimately overcame all of them. Three strong, healthy teenagers, who swallowed and tried to breathe water as they refused to give up until they were spent to their last. Knowledgeable adults who knew exactly what-to-to. But the what-to-do didn't work. And sometimes, even if it's exactly right, it doesn't work. I arrived 20 minutes after he had gone under. Already a boat was circling the area. The kids who had gone in with him were still shivering and dripping. The kids watching from the shore were huddled with their mother, who's lifeguard experience wasn't a match for the opaque and frigid water. The other responder gave me a name. One of the names that had flashed through my head on the drive up. A name that was the most impossible. Because he was only here visiting. From so far away. He'd been with our community since January. He played Peter Pan's shadow in the production we had done this spring. I coached him on his mirroring and how to disappear into a stage floor. He took Washington State history with me and two of the my girls. He played soccer. He came to my house to play Just Dance and eat birthday cake more than once. He was smart. And funny. And inquisitive. How could he have just disappeared into the giant peaceful river? Like a camouflaged monster that awoke and swallowed him whole. It was just impossible. 20 minutes ago. The water was cold. If I just dove in, right there. straight down. Maybe I would have found him. Maybe we could have done something. Maybe... Maybe... Maybe his parents, thousands of miles away would not have gotten that phone call from the consulate. Maybe half of the high school wouldn't be standing on the bank of the river, staring into the blackness, weeping. Maybe this would be a nightmare that we would all wake up from. I waded up the side of the river and back down, up to my waist. What if he just floated downstream a little and crawled out into the brush, exhausted? Maybe he was fine. I tore through chest high shrubs just out of the water, back and forth from the parking lot. Maybe he pulled himself out. Maybe. Maybe they missed something, and he was just fine, over on the other side of the bay. Everyone came. Everyone. To help. To snorkel the edges of the inlet. To kayak furiously down the river. They came roaring in with jet boats and motor boats. Fisherman and neighbors. To hug the kids on the riverbank. To just BE THERE. All staring intently into the water while the sun fried the backs of their necks and the tops of their heads. They brought food for the officers and divers and everybody who was looking. They brought water and ice and sunscreen and offers of everything and anything. Everybody came. Everybody hugged and prayed. Everybody stared at that black spot of water. The same black spot where Junha still sat serenely, quietly waiting to be found. The same spot that most of the town of Northport will never look at the same way again. So close to shore. So impossibly reachable. How could it have happened? What could we have done? Why?

Junha was a gift to our community. As imperfect as he might have been, he was a joy, and he taught us so many things. About our love for each other, even visitors. Even our "temporary" kids. About our community as a whole, and what we will do for each person in it. As the days go on, we learn about the weight that we can bear as a whole community, like we did ten years ago when little Allison died. That we can see each other around town and say: "how are you?" and there's no doubt in all of our minds what we're talking about. To say thank you to the responders from around the county seems trite and inadequate. Thank you for coming, and for looking, and for doing what you do, because even if it didn't fix it, you made us feel better. Like we did everything we could. Exhausted every resource. We tried. Hard.

Already people are talking about the life preservers that we need to have down there at the park, and how to keep them from being stolen. People are brainstorming about what things should change to never, ever, lose anyone again. People are talking about being more involved. Becoming EMTs, becoming part of the fire department, so that somehow, they could help. There is no answer to why Junha is gone. There is no peace for the ones who couldn't save him. Not yet. But with time, it will come. And with hugs, and with softness and openness and learning. There is no why. But there is a WHAT we do with the grief. What we accomplish and change and become. And we can thank Junha for it. And remember the unthinkable suffering of his parents and his friends and his would-be rescuers. And we can try to rescue them. And love them. And cherish every moment, because life is short, and the unbearable things must be borne.

Junha Lee, overlooking Northport and the river.

Things About Being Mean

One of the earliest things I remember learning (or being taught, at least) from my parents was that it is important to be nice, or to not be MEAN to other people. Specifically my sister. It took me almost thirty years to get that one straight (the sister thing) but I would like to believe I have almost mastered it. I am fairly certain I am still MEAN to other people from time to time, like my kids (just ask them), and that jerk Gabe at the Northtown Buckle Store who wouldn't take a brand new scarf back because it "smelled weird", and of course, my husband. I am meanest of all to him, and sometimes I really get angry at myself because I just. can't. help. it. So, being a wallower, I wallow about this. I ponder and wallow, or wallow in a pond of thoughtfulness and ponderance... and I wonder WHY it is I gotta be SO MEAN. Being a good homeschooler and approaching the subject principally, we all know that the first step of dissecting any problem is to define. So I did. I MEAN, I could spiel off a pretty cool definition of MEAN and have you convinced that Daniel Webster himself wrote my version of what MEAN MEANS. But in case I was missing something obvious, I looked up several definitions of MEAN and took the MEAN average and most applicable one for my MEANING.

MEAN is a weird word. It refers to intent. It refers to Purpose. It represents representation and defines definition. MEAN can MEAN the MEANING of a thing, or it can MEAN small, insignificant,  and lowly. Or, as an adjective, it refers to the behavior that makes somebody feel small and insignificant and lowly. I was mostly concerned with this last intention of the word, and although the other definitions distracted me along the way, and I spent some time mulling over what MEAN MEANT in correlation to the other MEANINGS of MEAN, and it was kind of interesting. But here is the pertinent definition:

mean

2  [meen] 

adjective, mean·er, mean·est.

1.

offensive, selfish, or unaccommodating; nasty; malicious: a mean remark; He gets mean when he doesn'tget his way.

2.

small-minded or ignoble: mean motives. Synonyms: contemptible, despicable.

3.

penurious, stingy, or miserly: a person who is mean about money. Synonyms: niggardly, close, tight,parsimonious, illiberal, ungenerous, selfish.

4.

inferior in grade, quality, or character: no mean reward.

5.

low in status, rank, or dignity: mean servitors. Synonyms: common, humble; undignified, plebeian.

MEAN is bad. It's ugly. Or it's the relegation to ugliness that one human being can put on another. That's the kind of MEAN I wasn't supposed to be to my sister. And probably the one that my husband and I are proficient at dealing out to each other. Shame on us. 

MEAN is the little jabs we throw at each other when our wills our crossed, our pride is compromised, or our spirits are wounded. The words we know just how to say and when to say to inflict the most depreciation to the ones that we "love". Human beings are much less often MEAN to someone that we don't know. We are the MEANEST to the ones we know the best. But really, when you look at the definition of the word, being MEAN really MEANS that our offensiveness reduces us, the inflictors of the MEAN, to low in status and ignoble (great word, BTW). MEAN people are really the small people themselves. Seeking to bring everyone around them (and often successful with those in closest proximity), down to their level. MEANNESS is born out of the same inferiority that it deMEANS others with. And how much of that is rooted in deep hurts that have never been healed. Never been calmed with the salve of kindness, the opposite vital lesson that I was taught simultaneously to the importance of being not-MEAN. 

Kindness is the antidote. It is the only cure for the contagious illness of MEANNESS. It fixes it coming and going. MEANNESS met with MEANNESS just breeds even lower, nastier levels of MEANNESS. MEANNESS met with kindness is stopped dead in it's tracks and reprimanded for it's foolishness and uselessness. Kindness delivered against MEANNESS back fills the swampy, hurting muck of a soul with clean, solid earthy goodness. Gives it something to step up on to. Kindness is the antidote and inoculant and answer for all MEANNESS. Kindness is my goal. And good Lord, do I fail. Miserably. But it's my goal. And every day I bite my tongue and speak kindness in return for MEANNESS. And even if the MEANNESS continues, I haven't gotten down in the muck with it. Except for the times that I do. And then I have to go out of my way to be really super-duper kind at the expense of my pride and my ego and give myself a foothold out of the pit. Thanks to my parents I learned how to do that. Some people's parents just didn't know that teaching your kids to be not-MEAN is the first most important lesson that they can learn to be a bigger person. Kindness makes up the difference. Accommodating, nice, generous, open, high-quality, dignified, GOOD. I'd like to be those things. And I'd sure like to be kinder. 

Things I found.

...and then the lightening flashed, and the wind ripped angrily through the shuddering forest of emotion. 

And my soul stood along, violently twisted around the agony of shattered delusion. 

And the rain poured down over the jagged crevasses and unforgiving caverns that stood gaping in the dark expanse of my desolate heart. 

And then the clouds parted, and a supernatural light stole through the bleak landscape that was my mind. 

It crept over the rough terrain of my heart, discovering every hidden cave and crack of darkness, every shrouded bit of reminiscent hope. 

And then at last the darkness yielded to the light which it could not overcome, and painfully, the twisting kf the storm began to twirl it's way into the wonder filled colors of a rainbow...

(Written 7/29/1998 at Marble) 

Things That Break

I'm broken. I think it's my soul. But I'm not sure. Nothing seems to be functioning correctly. It's been a pretty monumental spring, if we are building monuments to Shocking Revelations and Major Aging Landmarks. Halle graduated from high school. With honors even. And if that doesn't make you feel ancient, I turned 37. Maybe it's just that 37 is the year that broke that dang camel's back on top of a rough couple of years, but either way, something in me broke down and won't get fixed. My mom has always told me that I just needed to learn how to be content. Now I hear it from my husband a lot. I'm just Really Bad at that. Along with most other Adult Things. 

Things have been rocky at home in a houseful of girls and one Very Expressive Male. That's what you'd expect from teenagers in general, so it's no shock. And even though, truth be told, I have Really Good Kids, and I mean that. For all of their faults and flaws they're amazing little women. All four of them. But even amazing little women squabble and bicker - especially when it's modeled for them. But at some point, you just have to blow the whistle and call a truce. I made a new rule for the house. It resulted in the prompt relocation of every member of my family. Josh claims to be "at work for only two out of every seven" days, but so far from my count he's got his numbers backwards. I think he should be glad I feel that way, because obviously I miss him. And sometimes, FYI, absence does NOT make the heart grow fonder. Just sadder. And sadder. And I'm not the kind of girl who ever planned on being content in a long distance anything. But I'm adaptable. Right? He's happy, so that's important. The kids, on the other hand, basically just ran away to their dad's house where they don't have this rule, apparently. It's way more fun to just duke it out in the living room floor when you get ticked off. 

I think it's a good rule though, because it's all about kindness. And even though it meant all of the dogs had to go live outside because none of them are kind to my already disgusting floors, and beyond disgusting furniture, I'm hell-bent on upholding it at all cost. Josh is a little bit confused because he misunderstood "be kind" as meaning "don't disagree with him about anything", which clearly it doesn't since he is so often wrong, but we're sorting it out. Or I am helping him sort it out. Kindly. 

My computer broke. Last week sometime. Long enough ago that now when Halle comes downstairs from her Halle cave (where the kindness rule still applies but no one ever goes because it is THAT SCARY) to ask if she can borrow my computer to watch anime shows and Skype Melanie, I burst into tears at the memory of a working computer. Where I could sit and write. Or stalk people on Facebook. Or get great ideas to never try on Pinterest. Or fill out my online portfolio for Casting360 so I can be an extra in a zombie movie they're making in Spokane. I'm crippled. Handicapped. On top of a broken soul, an old body, and no voluntary kindness, I have no computer. 

Also, as a side note, my hammock collapsed. So I can't even have a pity party in my hammock. 

Today I woke up, promptly despised the day, renamed it from Monday to Eeeyore (because it's boring and lonely), with the help of a brother, and volunteered to help distract my sister from her list of  Imperative Things To Accomplish. Guilt for this undertaking set in around 1130 AM, so I went back home in my pajamas, cleaned up three puddles of pee that the unkind dogs left, did laundry, shoveled poop out of the yard until I threw up (literally, which is amazing since I hadn't eaten since my friend's wedding yesterday afternoon), painted a chair, sold some Scentsy crap, made a date to look at a trailer, canceled the unwelcome trailer date when josh found out, mopped floors, repotted struggling aloe Vera plants, ran on my elliptical until I threw up again and got angry at the very idea of exercising (those memes on Pinterest about never regretting a workout are total BS, BTW), watered the lawn, took a shower and made a pot of pinto beans. All without a computer. But it was hard. Think of all of that work I could have avoided if only I had a computer. 

Now I'm at the river. I rode my bike down. It's beautiful and peaceful and just comfortably warm. But I still feel broken. And sad. I have more plants to plant at home. And by now more dog puddles. Although I'm seriously considering converting my house into a sacred shrine to dog hair and pee stains. Sometimes you just have to bend with the wind. I guess I'll go home and eat beans. It will give me something to throw up when I go shovel the rest of the dog poop in the yard. 

I have so many big things inside of me that I want to say. Important things. To my girls. But they're all choked up inside of my broken soul and can't find their way out. Some of my "friends" say I'm just too much drama. Someone told me I am not sane, which is the same as crazy, but sounds slightly nicer. I think I'm too much passion. And with no outlet it's choking me to death. I worked hard for so many years to not be domesticated. To be out there doing cool things. Fighting fires and building trails and saving lives. But here I am. Potting plants and cleaning up after Too Many Dogs. Always the reluctant mother. Always discontent. I want to go join the military. Become an astronaut. Do something scary. Not plant flowers. But that's my job. Planting flowers. Keeping them alive. Cooking beans. It's not a bad job. I just feel like I've given up. I feel broken. 

The most important things I would say to Halle, who is now "technically" an adult, and all the other people dragging their grown up feet like me, are these:

My self worth isn't measured by what others do to me. It is measured by what I do to them. 

I can't make anyone else be a good person. I can only try to act like one myself. 

Bad behavior to me doesn't excuse bad behavior from me. 

Be real, or don't be at all. 

Forget to hold grudges. 

Choose your response. 

Everything is out of your control except your attitude and behavior. 

Life only gets easier if you let it. 

Oh yeah and one more:

Just take your damn Prozac. 

Things.

Today a 96 year old matriarch in our community turned her sedan in front of a full sized pick up and she didn't come out on top. I held her hand, and held her sweet, bleeding face together and she smiled at me with broken cheeks and a broken nose and what was left of her jaw and told me that her ankle hurt. She joked about her first helicopter ride as we loaded her into the bird, and as she flew to Spokane where several dozen family members where already enroute to seige the hospital hallways for her, I prayed. I prayed that her tiny, broken little body would be healed by her sparkly spirit. That her light green eyes would burn through all of the injuries to hang on to life just a little longer. So that she could leave this earth on Her Terms. I prayed that I could be that woman. Strong. Joyful. Grateful.

This has been a week. A week that words aren't enough for. In my own small family and beyond. Days and events that no length or complexity of language can compress into something that would make any sense. So much wonderment at the pain of truth. So much sadness at the reality of time. So much anger at injustice. At the suffering of people. At the success of others who should not dare look success in the eye. At the failure of the Truly Worthy. At my own lack of control. At the helplessness of us, as mortals, to make anything right that is truly wrong, and the potential of us, as mortals, to make the terribly wrong things bearable. 

This week I am learning grace. I am learning hope. I am learning trust. This week I have discovered that there is not a choice for us other than to fight the evil we see and embrace the beauty we find. I am learning that in the scariest, ugliest, most surprising moments, there is joy. There is hope. There is something for me. For my children. My friends. That life, with all of its horror and frustration, is amazing, that every scar has it's strength and that every day has it's purpose.

Everything is out of my control. And that is exactly how I want it. Let Bigger Hands than mine embrace the suffering. Heal the wounded. 

I saw something that said that helping others + your gifting = purpose. It's so simple. But so very true. Find what you love. What fills your soul. What becomes beautiful in your hands and use it to make this world a better place. There is no better mandate. To be fruitful with the passion you are given. To multiply your talent to the betterment of everyone you touch. This is the Great Commision: Go into the world. Use what you are given. Make it Better. 

I pray that if I am given 96 years that I will have a soul to represent each one of them: to stand as a witness that I gave them a smile. A hand. A dinner. A poem. A beer. A hug. A lecture. A wad of gauze on a bleeding wound. A stinging medicine for a quick recovery. I pray that my giftings, whatever they are, are multiplied by my years, and my fruitfulness is measured not by the number of my offspring, but the imprint that I leave on everyone I touch. I pray that I can smile through a broken face and bring joy where there is none. 

This has been a week. 

Things About Hormones

I went to the doctor today to find out why I just keep getting fatter and fatter and why my body is falling apart even though I had all of the Evil Parts removed.

He told me that my body is still trying to figure out what I did to it, and it might be too soon to tell how my remaining ovary is going to react to being abandoned by all of my other girl parts. I supposed he sees a lot of emotional break downs in his office, but I was surprised by how unmoved he seemed when I tearfully explained that All Of My Clothes were too small and I was constantly sweating, and I wasn't entirely emotionally stable, in case it wasn't evident in my quavering voice. To make myself feel better, I asked him if my sister had cried in her appointment earlier in the day. She's 37 weeks pregnant and at least as hormonal as I am. But she didn't. Then I felt like a real heel. Here I am with only one ovary and I am all melodramatic, and my poor waddling sister didn't even shed a tear. Dr. Shannon made me feel better by explaining that Em's unusual high spirits were due to the fact that she had almost an entire hour without kids when she visited him, and things just seem much better in the universe when there are no kids. I heartily agreed, and insisted I was only crying because Aspen was in the waiting room, finishing off the dark chocolate M&Ms that I had tried in vain to hide from the girls. He did tell me I could double my Prozac dose, in a hushed tone, before he left.

As we were leaving the clinic, I was looking at my post-visit notes, and beneath the long line of awkward looking thing like "Pelvic Varices" and "Hysterectomy With Intact Cervix", it had my last menstrual cycle down as November of 2013. That, in and of itself, made me say a little thankful cheer inside, as I realized how AMAZING it is to only be in SOME back pain, and to be able to donate blood, because HEY YOU GUYS, I'm not anemic!!! I have so much to be grateful for. If I can just stop bawling for a minute.

And I was way better off than the poor guy that Christy and I saw today, who cut into his shin bone with a chain saw. Or the gal who drove her car into a stump and collapsed her diaphragm. I really can't complain. Except the chainsaw guy had an adorable red bone hound named Cooper in the back of his truck that I gave water to and then got slobbery kisses in return. It was by far the highlight of my whole day. And my only complaint is that he wouldn't let me take cooper home. I should have let him bleed to unconsciousness. (JUST KIDDING!!!) I should also admit that I had to wait for Aspen during her Irish Dance Lesson at Northern Ales, and that was Really Hard, because in addition to delicious beer, they had Gyros, which, in case you didn't know, are in my Top Five Favorite Foods Of All Time, and this one was in my Top Five Gyros Of All Time, Ever. And then I had to hold my nieces' new kitten named Cake, who is so "relaxed" (read: semi-catatonic from severe emotional trauma of belonging to a tank like 2 year old) that she lolled around on me with her head upside down and her soft fuzzy little face telling me I WAS AWESOME. Or at least that is my interpretation of her trancelike state.

I came home, sweaty and gross from the hot day. I am pouring a glass of wine since the beer has worn off by now, and I am going to watch my kids and dogs try to kill each other with a softball. It's almost paradise. I think I might have a good cry.

Things About A Very Long Day

Truth be told I volunteered for it. Why, You ask? I'm not sure. I think initially, I was being my usual reckless self. But then, even when I calculated the consequences, which included a very Real Threat to my sanity, and possible my physical health as well, I proceeded to make sure that I couldn't get out of it, no matter how hard I tried.

We took a bus full of kids to a construction career day at the fairgrounds in Spokane. I offered to take two of our most challenging special ed students and be their helper for the day. I even contacted both of their parents to make sure I got permission slips signed and logistics all taken care of. And at 7 am this morning, both boys were there, bright eyed and bushy tailed, with more or less NO clue where we here headed. The other 23 students were 8th and 9th graders. I know. I can feel your sympathy flowing already (maybe that's why I volunteer).  In addition to my two special charges, we had four other SPED kids on the bus. But they are mostly behaviorally challenged, so no big deal. #yeahright

The trip down was... Dare I say... Mellow? Maybe the kids were still half asleep. Maybe they saw the warnings flashing in my fake don't-mess-with-me grin. It really wasn't bad. And I had one of my not-sons by my side to help, and one of my daughters was there for me to embarrass. Which always seems to relax me. We arrived and made it through the acquisition of hard hats, safety glasses and ear plugs with no major fallout. Luckily most SPED kids don't care much about whether they look stupid, so they were content to sit there with earplugs (properly) installed and lip read the instructors.

By the time we got outside it was 117 degrees. American. Or at least for my winter-thick blood it felt like it. I learned pretty quickly why safety glasses and hard hats in direct sunlight suck, and why I am glad I am "only an EMT" on the fire line, and I can adhere safely to the engine slug L.C.E.S. (Locate Cooler Establish Shade). One of the two "real" teachers there took one of my charges around to try out all of the heavy equipment, which made me feel secretly relieved and slightly guilty. I took the other one and giggled like a first time mother at a kindergarten talent show as he stacked orange safety cones with a backhoe, proclaiming his resemblance to Bob the Builder, and lower a cement plug onto a target with an  80 foot crane. He also rode way up high in a man lift, all the way to the top of the American flag. Introducing himself to the obliging lineman/guide the whole time.

Then we went inside, where my sidekick became fairly distressed during a game which required donning work boots that didn't fit, other safety apparel, and hula hooping five times successfully. After forty five minutes the guy at the booth gave him a neon slap bracelet and helped him escape from the onslaught of PPE. We had lunch. And then left on the bus. With 27 kids and 63 snap bracelets. Someone's sick idea of handing out snap bracelets to kids on a bus for three hours is just vicious. By the time we got home, I am aware of at least four snap bracelets that were either thrown or accidentally lost  out the windows, welts on several arms from malfunctioning devices, and one attempt at strangulation with a snap bracelet. Happy to report: it was unsuccessful. I have to say that my two SPED kids were the most well behaved on the bus. Even if one wore his lunch on his face all the way home, and the other was semi-catatonic from overstimulation, I was never more convinced of their good manners than when a ninth grader in the back of the bus somehow nailed me RIGHT in the eyeball with a rubberband. My eye stills aches and I will probably be up all night plotting my revenge.  Stupid kids. I gave away my fresh, cold smart water  and sweated my buns off. All in all, it was a good today. I'm fairly certain that  between the ten hours with that crowd, an expedited bike ride to the store when I got home for olives, tomatoes and Jaunitas (yes, I came home and made dinner - please hold your applause til the end), and my new coffee sugar scrub, I'll wake up tomorrow ten pounds lighter. #bringonthedisillusionment

At any rate I'm tired. So I just laid apathetically and listened to the kids fight through their chores, through a kitchen water fight that was not In Good Fun, a broken bulk bottle of ranch dressing that oozed into the bottom of the frig... I just laid here. Ice pack scorching my back. Sunburn scorching my face (darn reflective safety glasses!) ,  1.5 PBRs in, and a weiner dog on my elevated legs. The fan is blowing cool air around the room and in T minus 10 minutes, the children-fighting noises will be isolated to one bedroom upstairs and I can fall asleep, beer in my hand, to some crappy tv show. It's a good life.

Things About Spilling My Guts

I've always been full of words. Over full. Overflowing with words that I've  splashed around wantonly. Careless at times about the damage they do and the repercussions. I can't contain them. They MUST get out. I need to be heard. I wear my words like the latest fashion, gaudy and superficial and then I look back sometimes and think oh.my.god. What was I thinking? Just like those lightening bolt hammer pants in 1990 and the puffed sleeves of my 8th grade graduation nightmare dress that were outdone in poofiness  only by my freshly permed bangs.

But then, much like my fashion sense, I go through dry spells, verbal constipation, when the moisture of life has been sucked out of the words caught up in my soul and they all get jammed together and can't escape. They just sit there at the top of my throat. The tips of my fingers. Drowning me with the passion pushing from behind them. I am choking to death on my own words that are dry and lifeless and do only damage as they tear out of me. They're all RIGHTTHERE. Getting jumbled together. The meaning gets switched and confused and I spew little gasps of harshness while my soul screams at me in protest.

The last couple of weeks has been a perpetual revelation of my recklessness. My whole life has been a series of reckless "leaps of faith" into unknown consequences of sometimes disasterous proportions.  So the question inevitably presents itself: how do I learn? What will help me think before I leap? Before I speak? When do the consequences teach me that the impulses aren't worth it?

The very definition of recklessness horrifies me. And at no time can I remember being utterly unconcerned about the consequences of everything. They often concern me a great deal. But I guess I somehow determine that the crime is worth the punishment. I have also been called careless, cavalier, and selfish, but that kind of goes without saying, although it is said to me quite often. I know right now I am resentful, and resent makes me an ugly person. I have many things to let go, but when they go unchanged and life just goes on... I have lived the lie of turning the other cheek. Of repetitive forgiveness. Of seventy times seven. But even Jesus didn't mandate infinite forgiveness. Even He had a limit. 490 times. Am I there yet? Because some days I feel like I am. And yet I know I am lumping all of the hurts that I forgave years ago into my forgiveness count, when really, it's only fair that I start from scratch with each new day. New person. New situation. If I were truly reckless, my life would look much different. It would involve a hut on a beach with rice and beans and ocean sunsets and nobody knowing where I am. If I were wholly selfish, I would not have the time to Keep Going. To a job that pays crap or a patchwork family that is full of rips and stains that must be fixed. If I was careless, I would cut my losses and run.

I would agree that I manifest some of the traits in all of the definitions. But I would also maintain that any human who lives in this world can say the same. So how did I strike it rich in the area of self-love and self-concern? What has brought me to this point and how do I fix it. It's taking each step and choosing to make it graceful. Make it KIND. Make it not about ME. Make it about THEM. Give love. Find love to give. Even after it's gone. Serve when you least feel like serving. Find joy in ALL that I am given. Not just the things I choose. Eat up the sunshine and shut out the rain. Believe. Hope. Cling to the high moments in the low ones. Always Be Thankful.

reckless
adjective


utterly unconcerned about the consequences of some action; without caution; careless (usuallyfollowed by of  ): to be reckless of danger.

characterized by or proceeding from such carelessness: reckless extravagance.

cavalieradjective


haughty, disdainful, or supercilious: an arrogant and cavalier attitude toward others.

offhand or unceremonious: The very dignified officials were confused by his cavalier manner.


careless
adjective


not paying enough attention to what one does: a careless typist.not exact, accurate, or thorough: careless work.


done or said heedlessly or negligently; unconsidered: a careless remark.
not caring or troubling; having no care or concern; unconcerned (usually followed by of, about,  or in  ):careless of the rights of others; careless about one's behavior; careless in speech.

possessed or caused without effort or art; unstudied: careless beauty.


selfish
adjective


devoted to or caring only for oneself; concerned primarily with one's own interests, benefits, welfare,etc., regardless of others.

characterized by or manifesting concern or care only for oneself: selfish motives.


(http://dictionary.reference.com)

Things About Things That I Create

So just before Christmas this year, I got all Pinteresty, and I was super proud of myself for making a couple of different flavors of sugar body scrub that was, in a word, miraculous. In fact, it worked so well, that I really ended up keeping most of it for myself. Sorry loved ones. But anyway, this spring, with the advent of an additional 15 pounds, combined with insta-sweat-a-thons, no pants that fit, and Things Like That, I have discovered, for perhaps the first time in my life, that the backs of my legs, and my butt (sorry Mom) look like lumpy bags of nickels, as my Adorable Husband would say. I have cellulite. I am sure I had it last year, but apparently I wasn't looking. Or the year before that. Or I have just lived in Denial for a Really Long Time, because sometimes, it's just better.

Either way, I have come face to face with the (literally) ugly truth, and combined with the gasp* CELLULITE, I have some fancy nerves compressed in my back that are directly related to the outsides of my thighs, which, being larger, are much more inclined to bang them themselves painfully into the corners of couches, and beds, and have small children collide with them, and bruise hideously, which I sometimes tell people is where Josh hits me with the phone book so there are no hand prints... And long story not shortened much at all, my thighs are FUUU-UUUHHH--GGLLLYY this year. And they hurt. And they are all tingly and numb and weird all of the time. It's super annoying. Sometimes I think that my pants are just all too tight because I have, ahem, expanded, but then I come home and wear loose sweatpants and they still feel like they fall asleep as soon as I sit down. It's weird, and I am sure you wanted to know all of that. Probably I am fishing for a miracle cure from someone out there, like dry brushing, or deep tissue massage that feels like what you would pay $60 for but is actually free, or something like....

Coffee Sugar Scrub.

It came to me, like in a dream. Except I was awake and it came more in stages, when I was asking Aunt Tracey to make me some of her awesome soap with coffee (she makes a Turkish Mocha soap, turns out!), and I was wracking my brain thinking of All Of The Ways to make my legs feel better, even if they look like crap. And I remembered my sugar scrub from Christmas, which I just ran out of, and I had an epiphany, like POW! Put coffee grounds in it! I was feeling pretty creative and cocky until I pinterested Coffee Sugar Scrub, and every one and their Aunt Margaret had already thought of it. So much for Denial. But after scanning some of the recipes, and taking mental inventory of my pantry, which was much too far away to walk to for a physical inventory, I just made up my own recipe, so I could be all "what up, Pinterest, I just totally created. Independent from you. so..."

Anyway, I made it. It's awesome. I am thinking of slathering it on really thick and letting it set for  few minutes to see if it works as a bronzer too. I will post pictures of my brown the-dyed skin later. If you're interested in cashing in on the awesome that is my creative power, here is my very own, and clearly far superior to Aunt Margaret's, recipe for coffee sugar scrub:

Coconut Coffee Scrub

2 cups of grape seed oil

(did some research and liked the properties of this oil, I ordered a four pack from amazon that was the best deal I can find, and it's a LOT.)

2 cups of warmed coconut oil

(obviously people like me, concerned with health and stuff, use organic. and also because it's cheap at Costco)

1 cup of coarsely ground coffee

(again, being cool, I used the organic cheap stuff from Costco)

3 cups of brown sugar

(I would rather use the organic raw sugar from Costco, but I was fresh out.)

2 dropper fulls of coconut scent

(this is optional. I also got this on Amazon. you could also use vanilla, or... choose your own ending.)