The smoke lingers

My ambition in life is to someday be the person my dog thinks I am. Emily Maughan

The last few nights have been rough.  Or more correctly, it’s the mornings that stink.  I seem to be harkening back to the early days and my pattern of waking up at 4am to get an early start on worrying.  My mind races with all that has to be done, isn’t being done, should be done.  All the things I keep forgetting.  The clock is ticking on the insurance paperwork and we are barely making any headway.  We do it in fits and starts and between David’s crazy travel schedule, relocating yet again, and general life busyness, it continues to fall to the wayside.  And, we have initiated the exciting (yes) and daunting (certainly) process of rebuilding.   

We need a home.  It is time to turn burgeoning thoughts into reality and break ground.  We need to have a future to live in to.  We have hired an architect and a builder and are beginning to get bids on our plans.  We hope this can be moving forward while we take our break from Colorado for the month of August.  Planning on being vagabonds through July, away for August, counting on cooler living in September and October when we return to Flame.  Then we will pack up again and go who knows where when the snow starts falling for real until our home is complete. 

Having never built a house before, we don’t really know what we are in for.  This reminds me of another faux pas in dealing with us fire people.  Yes, it is an exciting prospect to build a new house, yes we are lucky to get to do so, but don’t point this out to us.  We didn’t choose to do this so it is a mixed bag to say the least.  I harken back to my conversation early on with another fire survivor who declared years after building her “new house” she would still trade it for her old.  And, we are allowing some excitement anyway.  The first major hurdle will be seeing if we can afford our plan which is one of the things that wakes me in the wee hours.  “What if, what then, shit!”.  We are staying small, and relatively simple yet attempting to add features and touches that honor our beloved home.  Lots of tall windows to take in the view, decks across the front, an open vaulted great room, a cozy loft – and possibly an extra bathroom.  Wow.  What would we ever do with two bathrooms?  And, get this, a walk-in closet.  Not that I have clothes to fill it but after years of having to rotate closets as the seasons changed, a decent walk-in sounds lovely. 

Thoughts of this fill my mind.  Will we love it?  Can we afford it?  Will we get too much crap and lose our connection to things as they pile up in corners and in closets gathering dust?  I could argue that once you have more things than you could write down on any piece of paper at any time, you have too much.  I don’t want to accumulate.  I don’t want stacks of dishes, random kitchen implements, drawers full of junk, closets piled with clothes that hardly see the light of day.  I want simple. 

Just what is this new level of darkness that seems to be lying low like the smoke that fills the valley’s below our land?  It feels hard to smile, I am bone tired, and endless worry loops wake me up to tend to them.  Well, let’s see, there is having to move our of our cozy, albeit small, home in Flame; there are wildfires burning all over Colorado and I can’t have any conversation with anyone within 500 miles who isn’t impacted.  It is what is on everyone’s lips and in their minds.  We are no longer talking about “my fire” we are talking about multiple fires.  I can’t politely ask someone to change the subject as the issue has spread like hotcakes.  It's uncomfortable to talk about it and it's weird to not talk about it.  It’s not my issue, it’s the state of Colorado and the West’s issue.  Not that it was really ever just mine, just now it’s everywhere and it's everyones. 

Last night, I did peek at some pictures. I have wanted to stay informed but not overwhelmed so I have steered clear of images that are everywhere I look.  In these images, I glimpsed further into a world I know so well, seeing pained faces, flames coming out of windows, hugs between devastated women, animals fleeing.  I know what’s in the minds of these people.  I remember.  One of my friends exclaimed how awful it must be to discover you are on a list – almost as if I didn’t know.  I know.  I know.  I know.  I f-ing know. 

So yes, I am re-traumatized.  I see that as I type.  I feel the sob that comes up from down deep.  Our fire has faded into the distance as these new fires burn and are splashed all over the news.  But we have not faded.  We are raw and ragged and still here.  I am afraid of the next step. I don’t like being without a home.  I love my dear friends who offer basements but I want my own space.  We chose what seemed good on paper - to put our rental budget into a trailer and reclaim our land but now this seems like an expensive and limiting mistake. 

The couple tears I shed this morning (it was a somewhat stifled sob as I don’t want to startle the lovely 5 year old companion I have at the moment) provided some relief.  I am grieving.  Still.  I keep reminding you of that, but I need to remind myself of that.  That’s what is happening.  It’s grief.

I don’t want to build a new house.  I don’t want to live in a trailer.  I don’t want to live in a basement.  I want my house back. 

And, the truth that coexists is that I want this richer, rawer, edgier part of me that is claiming her place in my soul to live on as well.  And, I can’t have one without the other.  I will take my joys as they come and feel the deep pangs of grief too. As this 5-year-old angel peeks over my hands as I write not comprehending the words I type and god forbid, for a while at least, not comprehending the pain I feel or the darkness that exists in the world.  I will wash my heart for a moment as I listen to her running commentary on all things great and small.  “Did you know dogs can paint…. I met a dog named captain… How old are you…”   She tucks Tigger in a blanket as he lies on my feet and kisses his head exclaiming, “you have the best puppies ever”. 

Then I can say, yes, that is true.  At least, I have the best puppies ever.

An Ode to the Fathers

Life can change in an instant.  We know this.  And, yet when it happens and we lose someone we love, we know it deeply.  Lately, I have watched many people lose their loved ones.  I hear their words, read their tales and feel their tears mixed with my own.   When we lose a loved one, we never wish we had said I love you less.  We always wish we had said more, listened more, and loved bigger.  This Father’s day, let’s acknowledge the dad’s we know – whether they are ours or simply those we observe.  Today, go find a dad to love.  They are everywhere.  Grab one if you have to.  Tell him what he needs to hear.  Appreciate the heck out of him.  And, of course, love your own if you are willing.  

Some of us are lucky and have the best fathers in the world.  Others may not consider themselves so lucky.  How about for this Father’s day, we celebrate the perfect – as well as the imperfect fathers.  Let’s celebrate those that strive to do better as well as those who believe they can never measure up.  And, let’s cheer the spirit of what it means to be a father.  At it’s core, and whether or not it is “done well”, fatherhood is a miraculous mission. 

To the fathers out there,

As the first male figure to turn your attention to us, we bathe in the light of your love.  We hope to follow in your footsteps as we march in your shoes around the house.  We linger in the smell of aftershave that you leave on our cheeks as you kiss us goodbye.  We rub your whiskered face and have questions about the world.  We hear the base tones in your voice as they etch permanent music in our hearts.  You show us what it means to be strong.  You demonstrate bravery, courage and chivalry.  We learn how to relate to other men as we grow under your tutelage.  We form our views of the world based on your teachings.  We learn about the masculinity of love. 

I have been blessed to know many great fathers.  Starting with my dad who brings wit, intelligence and the ability to see the richness and depth of the world.  Who allows the troubles that exist to break his heart and form his soul.  Who is able to love deeply and still be strong.  Who is funny and warm to all of those he meets.  My stepfather who loves us like the children he never had, who calls me out of the blue to offer a solution (or two) about something that is troubling me.  Who loves my mom the way she has always wanted to be loved.  Who is smart and funny – and has a twinkly rebellious streak too.  My brother who is big, brawny and brave yet let’s his heart crack open cavernously with his two beloved boys.  He tosses them in the air and hopes they will find their wings to fly in the future.  He knows the struggles he has faced in his life and wishes those boys could be spared any pain.  He constantly strives to be a better dad – yet in the wanting, already is. 

And, then I watch the husbands of my best friends’ father their pairs of girls.  I see heartbreaking love so great and patience so vast it catches my breath.  I observe private moments, the brushing of fine hair into pig tales, grappling with a homework quandary, or tucking these precious souls in bed for the night with vows to protect them from anything ever that might come to harm them. I watch them both weep with concern as they watch their girls fall and laugh uproariously at their spicy antics. 

And, last but not least, to my father-in-law who brought me the best husband I could ever hope to have.  Thank you for giving my man a love of the open water, a talent for figuring things out and a heart as big as the woods of Tennessee. 

Fatherhood. It’s ALL of it. These fathers won’t do it perfectly, yet they are perfect becausethey do it.

Today, I invite you to write a letter to your dad telling him all the things you love about him.  If you have to dig deep to find words, do it anyway.  If you are estranged for any reason, consider being willing to write to him.  Even if your father is the worst in the world, consider sending it anyway.   

Life is unpredictable.  You may not get another chance.   Today, of all days, let’s give thanks for ALL the Fathers.  

Note: I was asked to write this as a guest blogger on the site http://memoiryjournal.com a lovely site that I hope you will visit.  I thank them for the opportunity. 

The Wisdom of Dr. Suess

And when you're in a Slump,

you're not in for much fun.

Un-slumping yourself

is not easily done.

And will you succeed?

Yes! You will, indeed!

(98% and 1/4 guaranteed.)

From Oh, the Places You'll Go

Ahhhhhh.  The timeless wisdom of Dr. Suess.  He continually reminds us – in the most friendly of ways – of the ups and downs of life.  We silly humans promptly forget and wonder why it isn’t roses all of the time.  What happened to the roses?  Weren’t we guaranteed roses?  Where are those stinkin’ roses!  We want our money back!!! 

Life is what it is, and for sure, it ain’t always roses. 

Early on in this newest adventure in my already adventure-filled life, I was warned by a veteran fire-survivor of all the silly things that people would say in response to our tragedy.  At the top of her list was any sentence beginning with the words, “At least you… (fill in the blank)”.  I could comprehend then – and now I understand completely how this is absolutely not a good way to begin a sentence with anyone who has gone through a recent trauma.  It lands as an insistence that we “should” be grateful at a time where either a) we know that already, or b) we definitely are not ready to hear that, or c) we want you shut your pie hole (and you know I mean that in the most loving of ways…).

I quickly learned to brace for the relatively frequent barrage of “at least you _____” statements.  I smile and nod, or I say nothing, or I change the subject… quickly.  My closest and dearest have transformed this overused retort into something funny.  "Well, at least you are hot.  Or at least you don’t have to worry about anybody reading any of your childhood journals.  At least you don’t have to worry about who will clean out your stuff when you die…”   

In my debut as a stand-up comic last week (yes, you may laugh now at the mere thought), I riffed on the ripe material that emanates from the well-meaning yet clueless folks who utter these words.  Then to my surprise, yesterday I received an “at least” statement with an open heart as it came form the lovely man who, with his crew of two, spent 3 backbreaking days constructing a beautiful flagstone patio for us.  Javier is the epitome of hardworking.  Over the time we had together, we learned a little about his life.  Moving from Mexico to Colorado as a small child, his family owned a large ranch in the Southern part of the state for many years.  Married twice and supporting a family, Javier works by day at a landscaping supply yard and by night (and all weekend too), at his own business of installing patios as well as remodeling and finish work on houses.  Busy doesn’t begin to describe it.  Early mornings, late evenings, non-stop work, who knows when this man sleeps.  Vacation is probably not in his vocabulary.

On Saturday, after finishing most of the patio, Javier and his crew posed for pictures in our driveway capturing the vast vista behind them.  He returned for a brief stop yesterday morning as he had run out of “Breeze” which fills in the crevices between the stones and our patio seemed to grow larger than originally planned.  Driving all the way up here for a 15-minute job, he didn’t miss a beat and generously brought a chainsaw, as he knew that David wanted to take down a small tree that was shading our solar panels.  At one point, I asked his age and he said, “44”.  A bit surprised due to his gray hair and weathered face, I said, “Oh, we are older than you are.”  He, without spite, responded, “yes, but you don’t do the kind of work I do.”  I heartily agreed. 

As he was preparing to depart, he took one last gaze at our panoramic view, the burn not registering as a detraction in any way, and these words came out of his mouth, “At least you…”  I, in turn, watched my heart open to this man as he finished, “… have this land and this view.”  I, again, heartily agreed with Javier. 

Yes, at least we do have this land and this view.  We are quite fortunate.  We have freedoms that many don’t.  We live in a beautiful and serene place even with its most recent scars and destruction.  Herein lies the rich fabric of life that Dr. Suess points to.  I can realize my blessings and still have my slumps.  I can be grateful for how relatively “easy” we have it compared to so many others and I can let go of needing to experience that gratitude at every moment.  

Yesterday at my 12-step meeting the topic was “letting go”, a common theme of conversation around the rooms.  It’s always interesting to hear the many different perspectives on this topic.  Some are short and sweet, others are a tall order.  Many parables were shared to illustrate the simplicity of letting go coupled with our innate ability to complicate and resist anything simple.  Letting go really does sound easy.  And most of us know that it’s not.  It is simple; it is not easy.  We can let go – and then a few minutes (or seconds) later, pick it right back up again.  For many of us, like a ravenous dog with a bone, we gnaw away until our teeth chip and our gums bleed. 

After one particularly moving share, I reconfirmed my knowledge that I will ultimately let go.  I will do it, it will happen, this too shall pass and yadda yadda.  This is the big picture view.  In the small picture view, where most of us live, I need to be where I am.  It goes like this:

Let go, pick it back up, let go again…. Ahhhh space and freedom.  Trigger trigger trigger.  Shit!!!!!!!!!  Breathe.  Let go.  Ok, got it.  I am letting go.  Peace.  Wait a minute – what did you say?  Spiral spiral spiral.  Oh, you didn’t mean “that”?   You really love me?  Ok, I understand.  I feel happy!  We really are ok.  What, the septic is leaking?  Again?  Fuck it all.  God does hate me.  What’s wrong with world?  Why is there so much suffering???  Wow, that’s a beautiful flower.  Ooooh, did you see that baby deer.  Boy, I love my dogs.  Oh no, I have a sore throat, maybe I am getting sick.  Shit.  God does hate me.   There isn’t even a God anyway.  Nothing makes sense.  I am sleepy.  I love my cozy bed in Flame.  So glad to have my feather pillow.  Ahhhh.  Life is good.   Right now.  In this moment.  I hope nothing happens today…

The monkey mind is our constant companion.  Some have an easier time keeping it in its cage and remembering that it tells us a pack of lies.  Others have what we call in 12-step rooms, a “built in forgetter”.  In 1989, I learned this simplest of explanations for the insanity.  I simply forget.  I forget over and over and over and over again.  And, then I remember, when I remember.  Sometimes, I remember more quickly, sometimes it takes me a while.  With a long-term dedication to a path of personal growth comes the experience of having walked through many fires in our lives.  Once we walk through enough fires, we begin to know on some higher level that one day, we will be ok again.  And one day, we will see the gifts.  And one day, the event will recede into the distance becoming part of our history but not informing everything we think, say or do. 

One of the most important things I am letting go of today is how letting go should look.  For this human, letting go is a process not a one-time event.  I am like the weather – sometimes sunny, sometimes cloudy.  Sometimes blowing stink, sometimes pitter-pattering cool drops of rain.  I will open my heart to those like Javier and allow myself to view my world through his kind eyes.  And, sometimes I will wake up grumpy and argue with my husband for no apparent reason.  I will then back up and remember that he is my favorite person in the whole wide world and all I really want is for him to be happy.  And, I will pat his head, offer more coffee and make my amends.  Later, I may moan and groan on hold at customer service.  I will pat my dogs and be elatedly grateful for their presence.  I will celebrate the small amount of “old” things I carried out of my house like my wool turtle neck sweater and hand woven blanket. 

I will forget, then I will remember, then I will forget again.  And, one day, I will remember longer. 

Just don’t push your luck by beginning any sentence with “at least”.  At least for the time being, unless your name happens to be Javier, k?  

Standing inside the fire sometimes gets hot...

Is that a dead mouse?  Is it the septic?  Is it a dog fart?  Is it a gas leak?  Whhhhhaaaaatttt is it?  These thought occupy my early waking mind.  Not a pleasant way to return to consciousness.  Life in a trailer – even as sweet a trailer as Flame is not without its challenges.  Upon early morning investigation, we still don’t know.  We have eliminated dog fart and gas leak.  The dogs did fart but now they are outside and the smell remains.  The holding tank shouldn’t be full – yet seems to be burping.  A dead mouse, well that’s instant karma in our war against rodents.  Did we wound one with our modern trap that took revenge by limping away and dying in some crevice?  We don’t know.

A little chilly still to sit outside and write, so I breathe through my mouth as I type and hope my essential oil diffuser will pour enough lavender into the air supply to save my soul.  You know how odor sneaks in anyway?  It’s doing that now.  It occurs as a small threat to our peace of mind.  David has removed himself by taking the garbage and recycling to the “curb” and I attempt to hold my breath.  Could be a rough day in Flame.  Have I mentioned that life is not dull?  It’s not.  Really, it never has been, but it certainly isn’t lately.  Regardless of the stank, mornings are still my best time.  Later in the day, my fatigue sets in and my mood is often erratic.  Yesterday I likened it to a chronic and very bad case of PMS.  David now says he understands what PMS feels like, and ladies, I believe he does.  Thin-skinned, thrown by the slightest curve ball, excessively sensitive, unpredictably dark – and very very tired, these are my constant companions.  After our systems being on high-rev for so long, it’s no wonder we are feeling the stress hangover.  I pray for physical resilience and for that which makes us stronger not to kill us later. 

We cycle through our PMS symptoms separately then sometimes clash against each other.  Sometimes we are lucky and one is in an up swing when the other is down.  In these times we are able to provide momentary doses of love and patience.  Enough, it seems, to not kill each other in this small space and to continue walking down this path hand and hand.  Last night, we went to Edie’s.  A former and beloved neighbor, a year ago she said sad goodbyes to her dream house which is now in a pile of rubble.  A brilliant architect and a dear friend of the family from whom we bought our house, there couldn’t be a better choice of partner in designing our next rendition of “home”.  On the way over to her place, running late of course, we attempted to talk details of things that might normally be “fun”.  Our plans for our August trip to the Bahamas, the finishing of David’s man-cave.  All roads lead to upset and we pulled in the driveway attempting not to hate each other.  You married or long-time coupled people know the type of hate I am talking about.  In one moment, love is present and the next a vile level of despising that overtakes all senses and makes you want a divorce on the spot.  Fortunately, we know this comes and goes and is heightened under stress so we sat through it, didn’t say anything we couldn’t take back and returned to neutral.  Edie greeted us with love in her eyes and bear hugs and sat us down at her dining room table to a spread of delectable snacks.  The best guacamole ever with large chunks of cilantro, which we ate the healthy way on sliced veggies.  Prosciutto, goat cheese and spicy jam, which we piled on whole grain bread slices.  You would have thought we hadn’t eaten since the fire.  We gulped it down enjoying every morsel while pulling out our computers and beginning the show and tell process of our budding ‘dream home part duex’.  “We want something like this, but smaller.  We want a wall of windows, but in our budget.  We want a gourmet kitchen, but trailer size.  We want…” Encouragingly infused, Edie contributed her well-oiled wisdom.  Pretty soon our frowns turned to grins as we imagined a future.  After 3 hours in her patient presence, we bid adieu and headed back to Flame.  There are many hurdles between these initial notions and a finished product.  There will be compromises to make along the way, potential downsizing from small to smaller, letting go of some finishes in favor of our modest budget – and a team is taking shape. 

David just pulled back in the driveway and it’s time to investigate the stank further especially before our moods darken to match the growing odor.  I harken to the olden days and all the stank they had to live with.  Bodies covered in perfumes to hide the rank, what must have floated through the air on a regular basis from human waste and decay to who knows what.  To them it was normal, to us spoiled modern peeps, it is barbaric.  We will start with the obvious and clear out the storage tank.  Fortunately our fruitful trip to Camping World also fetched some septic deodorizers along with our extra holding tank.  I have my humor at the moment so will bring my husband more coffee, pat his head, feed the dogs and attempt to lighten what could feel dark.  Later, when my mood shifts, I may call you screaming.  I may demand a refund from this wild merry go-round called life.  I certainly may file a complaint.  I may want to sink into the muck and plead Uncle.  I may want to check in to a 5-star hotel and never return.  Or I may take a birdbath, put on my party clothes and head to Boulder, Colorado to see my favorite band sing my favorite songs and bask in the summer air with a thousand other Face fans.  While there, I may pretend for a moment that my life is “normal” as I sit in the crowd with a group of many others who are pretending the same thing.  We will sing together at the top of our lungs and thank God that these 6 men found each other and choose to continue preforming through rain, snow, sleet and hail so while in their presence we can remember what is good about the world. 

I have registered my requests for my favorite songs.  It is almost guaranteed that they will play most of them in the 3-hour concert.  So, to further launch this morning in the right direction, let’s channel the fabulous Forest Kelly as he croons Garth Brook’s ‘Standing Outside the Fire’ an oh-so appropriate ode to the life I am living. 

Sing with me?

We call them cool

Those hearts that have no scars to show

The ones that never do let go

And risk it the tables being turned

We call them fools

Who have to dance within the flame

Who chance the sorrow and the shame

That always come with getting burned

But you got to be tough when consumed by desire

'Cause it's not enough just to stand outside the fire

We call them strong

Those who can face this world alone

Who seem to get by on their own

Those who will never take the fall

We call them weak

Who are unable to resist

The slightest chance love might exist

And for that forsake it all

They're so hell bent on giving, walking a wire

Convinced it's not living if you stand outside the fire

Standing outside the fire

Standing outside the fire

Life is not tried it is merely survived

If you're standing outside the fire

There's this love that is burning

Deep in my soul

Constantly yearning to get out of control

Wanting to fly higher and higher

I can't abide standing outside the fire

For the Love of Dog

Last night one of our dear friends lost his beloved dog.  After hearing the news that she was sick, I could think of not much else.  She was showing symptoms of poisoning, the same reactions a rat would have when we are trying to get rid of it, her organs shutting down, bleeding internally.  Rather than put her down as the first doctor suggested, Frank was determined to do everything he could for her.  Even a blood transfusion couldn’t save her.  She died last night. 

I am stunned by the level of tragedy in our small community.  Yes, I realize, it is happening everywhere, all the time.  There have been times before where it seems devastating things are occuring all over our close circles.  I have had mine, you have had yours.  But these early months of 2012 have been exceptionally full.  I read callous comments after the fire, that we mountain people should expect such things.  Blah blah blah.  I wrote about that already.  Yes, we all know that to love is to risk having our heart broken in so many pieces that we may never pick them all up.  Right now, for Frank, I would imagine there are no words that will actually help.  What I can offer is to be there in the pain and with the pain.  We will tell him we aren’t going anywhere.  We love him.  It beyond sucks.  Life isn’t fair.  In walking through our fire, knowing that people can be in the shadows with us has made the biggest difference. 

I have been holding my dogs tighter since the news.  Not that I ever hold them that loosely.  I have written much about Tigger and my absolute adoration of every hair on his furry body.  After Jaxson, Tigger is the closest I may come to having my own offspring – the bond that deep.  He can do no wrong.  Chewing up my favorite baseball hat, coating my furniture in dirt and red hair, refusing to eat his dinner which sometimes leads me to hand feed him.  I will take it all.  Honeybee was Frank’s beloved.  She went everywhere with him.  I never knew Frank without her.  How do we go on after such a loss? 

Animals will crack our hearts and leave us bleeding.  Only a few days ago, Susan and Dan lost Chloe, suddenly too.  Of course these thoughts occupied my sleep.  David was at a concert finally having some real fun.  When I turned out the lights, I still hadn’t heard the news from Frank so was continuing to pray my ass off as promised.  At midnight, when I heard David at the door, I checked my phone.  A text from Dusty said, “she is gone.”  I told David the sad news, we talked about it for a bit, I don’t know if he slept right away but I tossed and turned with thoughts of Frank and his lovely fiancé Jennifer.  We had just celebrated Frank’s birthday the night Honeybee got sick.  A gaggle of friends hanging outside in the beauty of Colorado eating the best cake in the world made by Jennifer.  We laughed and honored Frank, Honeybee wandered between us hoping for scraps.  She a part of the group as much as any of us. 

Now she is gone.  The space she filled will call out for a while.  There will be dog beds, leashes, toys, food – and lots of that glorious long hair she sported.  All will be reminders of her absence.  It will take a while for the reality to set in.  Noises will remind them of her – and have them hope she is there.  For a moment she might be,   until the shattering truth comes crashing back.  Our brain stores these things as favors that end up haunting us.  Today, I don’t want to be too far from Tigger.  As I tossed and turned I worried about ever leaving him.  Cancel all vacations, never let him out of my sight, and don’t let him wander.  Life is full enough of dangers – but poison?  What a horrible thing.  Frank and Jennifer didn’t have poison in their house.  There will be so many questions – the bargaining, the wondering, maybe never knowing.  Rob and Patricia lost their dog Zeke to poison too.  They aren’t sure what he ate but they can only assume there was some poisoned meat along a trail where they hiked earlier that day.  Later in the afternoon, they left the house for a short time, and upon their return found Zeke dead.  Horrific. 

Yes, we know they will die one day.  We don’t want it to happen.  We would do anything to stop it from happening.  When it does, we mourn deeply.  But the swift shift of life is almost too much to bear.  My heart is with Frank and Jennifer today.  It’s with all the lovers of pets whose hearts will fracture seemingly into millions of pieces never to be reassembled in the same way.  Tigger is only 2 ½ but can I keep him safe from the dangers of the world?  Yes, I realize this is the question parents have to face every day.  Us childless pet people only know this angst through soft puppy (or kitty) eyes.  Animals trust us.  Yes, their ancestors survived in the wild for eons before but domesticated animals have been ‘’dumbed” down.  They eat what they find and sometimes it isn’t good.  My dogs wander too far and could end up lost to fend for themselves.  We have promised to care for them and keep them protected.  They protect us in return – and promise to squash our hearts in the process.  Would I not experience this love?  No.  I am a dog person.  Always have been, always will be.  I am sure Frank is too.  He will love again, and I hope he will love big again, just like that deep eternal love I found with Tigger.  They are all beloved.  Yet some are our soul mates.  We can’t help it.  It may be predetermined.  It feels that way.  Choiceless, at the mercy – and unexpected.  I swore I would never love an animal like I did Jaxson and then Tigger came along poking his wet nose in my face and daring me not to adore him. 

Adore him I do.  And, yes you Roscoe lovers, I love him as well.  Roscoe is a sweet, kind, patient soul.  Yet, I cannot help how I feel about Tigger.  Call it unfair or wrong or whatever you want to call it.  He is my flesh and blood.  He makes a lump appear in my throat out of the blue.  Tears sting my eyes at the thought of life without him.  Oh Frank, I feel your pain.  I am so very sorry for your loss.  I am sorry your heart is in a million pieces.  They say time will heal, and it does.  It heals but never returns completely.  You will always miss and mourn that sweet Honeybee.  I still miss Jaxson.  I cry at his loss – just not all the time.  Just don’t test me with Tigger.

Update from Jennifer:

So here's the scoop: After a sweet birthday party for Frank on Monday (the day before his actual birthday) and Bee being her usual sweet party-dog self, she got sick in the night. Frank took her to her Vet as soon as they opened in the morning. She was losing blood internally and her condition declined. It got to the point that the vet recommended taking her to the Wheat Ridge Animal Hospital to potentially get a blood transfusion. At WRAH they were able to do ultra sounds, and a bunch of tests in house to see what they could find. What they found was that it was 99.9% Not HGI - which would have been the one 'curable' thing. She was dealing with and ulcerated intestine which was bleeding heavily into her intestines. The most likely causes of that, after ruling out several other things, were that it was some sort of cancer, or possibly poisoning. There is no evidence of poisoning and I don't in my heart believe that was the cause. NOTE: Keep all your antiInflammatory medicines - Advil, Aleve, etc out of any possible reach of your pets!

Most likely, they said, even if we did all the stuff- it would have just ended up being a 'making her comfortable' thing. Yuck - not for our Bee. Se was such a brave sweet soul. No yelping, complaining. She just wanted to be a good sweet dog - always. What a gift for my beloved Frank , giving him unconditional love that is beyond human capability in the worse and best of times. Please hold my Frank in your hearts - he needs our love most now. I love you Bee, I love you in my falible human way Frank... I hold you both so gently in my heart...

Waxing poetic as I plummet

Mornings are my favorite.  When I write, that is.  What began as my first blog entry on April 5^th has now become my most reliable practice of self-soothing.  Mind you, I don’t always feel soothed to write some of the angsty things I have shared but getting it out of the old squirrel cage and onto “paper” is definitely therapeutic.  Some of my overall darkest days have been those when I haven’t written.  Hmmmm.  Doctor, do we see a pattern here?  Typically entire days don’t occur as dark.  As I shared, Monday wasn’t so bright.  Mostly I am “good” in the morning.  I like hearing the birds, I love sitting on my bed in Flame with my Mac serving as a portable heater warming my lap in the brisk morning air.  The dogs are outside playing.  We still have this dirt thing but in the morning I am not so daunted.  It’s just what is so.  We have acres and acres of dirt and soot and the dogs will get coated with it and we will have piles of towels to wash with no laundry facility in site.  Just don’t ask me about the dirt at the end of the day…

Mostly, mid-day’s are good too.  The sun shines, or it rains or the wind blows – which I must say is still a bit disturbing and these delicate plexiglass windows in Flame don’t seem like they can stand too much in the way of excessive stress and strain so I batten down the hatches and ride it out.  But days are good.  It’s when I start getting tired at the end of the day or whenever my mind says is the end of the day.  I began getting hoarse around 5:30pm last evening and still had two groups of fabulous authors to support.  I could hear the flatness in my voice, feel the fatigue in my system and just wanted to go to bed.  My peeps inspired me by their perseverance and commitment to their own writing so I had just enough gas to be with them on the calls.  Coaching authors is like the proverbial “you can lead a horse to water…” I can’t make them write.  Yet, write, they are.  They are engaged, finding their own voices and expressions – and they are sticking with the process.  It is remarkable.  They are remarkable. 

We all know how hard it is to stick with a goal that is outside the norm.  Writing is like this for most people.  For those that have been writing all your lives, bravo.  Most of my peeps are, like me, late bloomer writers and aspiring authors.  This takes something.  And, we can map it on to any far reaching goal.  My studly (and after seeing recent pictures) super duper smokin’ hot sister-in-law is a marathon runner.  She wasn’t always this way (well, she was always hot, but not quite as studly…).  As a youngster and into adulthood she trained as a dancer.  Modern funky dance.  She always worked out too.  But at one point many many moons ago, I could kick her ass running.  Hah!  Never again could I do that.  I stopped running and she lapped me long ago.  Her first marathon was in 2009 and now she trains in rain, snow, sleet and hail and well below zero temperatures as she lives in the wilds of Wyoming with my brother and two nephews.  Patricia has run marathons on the coast of California and in the woods of the wild West.  She always finishes at the top.  She blew her knee out last year and got back into training the moment she could (and probably a bit before the doctors would have approved…).  Next up for her?  A 100-mile run trail run.  Yes, you read that correctly.  That’s one-hundred-miles of running.  One-hundred-miles in a row.  Eeeeegads.  That, I cannot even imagine.  I will keep my numbers in word count only. 

Yesterday, she emailed some photos recently shot for promotion (and submission to Title 9 Sports) and they are beyond amazing.  Her 6-pack abs dare you to call her regular (ok, you younger generation, that is a reference to a commercial from the olden days…).  Action shots with her jumping for joy on the boys’ trampoline, running or simply hanging out on her deck - all the while glowing gorgeously.  I am quite proud of her.  When that woman sets her mind to something, she does it.  Plain and simple.  No ifs, ands or buts.

So what is that level of dedication all about?  Why do so many have dreams yet never live them?  Why do we die with our music still inside us?  Yes, I am actively in this exploration again...  I resumed work on my re-write yesterday with the help of Ellen Moore, my dear friend and brilliant editor.  First up: the introduction.  I don’t want this book to merely be a new and improved version of Waiting for Jack.  And, to address something here, many people have asked why re-write it at all.  Because, I am ready to really stop waiting for Jack.  Really, really, really this time!  And this means letting go of “Jack” in all sizes, shapes and forms.  Truth be told, I was still waiting – and I was still waiting for Jack.  And, not just the metaphorical Jack but the real one.  Still hoping on some hidden levels (and some not so hidden) that Jack was a ticket to a new level of life… And, don’t get me wrong.  I love the man.  He is truly a wonderful and inspiring human being.  Now, I need to let go of all things Jack and make this break for me.  And, for you too. 

This book will be even more raw and real – and it will have a new sense of urgency. It can’t help that given my recent turn of events.  Also, I was given the opportunity to work with a new publisher on this project – so what is a writer and an author coach to do other than say, “YES”?  Nothing.  We just say, yes.  Yes to opportunity.  Yes to the challenge.  Yes to letting go of the past.  Yes to reinvention.  Yes to the future.  Yes to the unknown.  And, we may feel like puking much of the time.  We may find ourselves doing anything but working on the project.  We may wonder if we are up to the task.  We may question everything.  Again.

And, we bring all of that along for the ride.  I am bringing all of it along for this ride.  It’s so much easier to blog than to work on my book.  And, yes, there is material in this blog that I can use in the book.  But I have to trick myself and not think about that.  So, shhhhh please.  Don’t tell me that.  I need to pretend I am just writing.  Just writing what’s there to write.  Not for anything other than to just write.  Not for publication.  Not for a book that wants to be my most important book yet.  No, we wouldn’t want that kind of pressure on creativity.  We just want to write for the self-expression.  Write for the joy.  Write for the fun.  Cause, really, my morning blogging is all of that.  So what happens when we create a goal and suddenly the fear shows up and the inspiration is nowhere to be found? 

Well, we keep going anyway.  And, yes, I have written a ton on commitment before.  I believe its commitment that keeps us going.  Patricia is committed to her running.  I am committed to my writing.  My clients make commitments to me and to their peers and that keeps them going.  Commitment trumps all excuses.  It doesn’t matter if you don’t “feel” like staying married today if you are committed.  It doesn’t matter if I have to deal with dirty dogs, an overflowing shitter and an upside down life if I am committed to something.  Yes, we need the initial inspiration.  The passion is helpful.  The vision is mighty.  Your “burning why” is essential.  A healthy support system is wonderful.  All of these things are important contributing factors but when the chips are down, the mood is low, the wind is cold, the coffee is gone, the running shoes are muddy, the knee is blown out, the house burns down – all that is left is our commitment. 

I have thrown my hat over the fence and said yes to my new publisher.  I have committed to this endeavor.  I will honor that commitment – and again, I will know myself as greater than I feel in this moment.  That’s what really matters.  It’s not so much what we produce, it’s how we experience ourselves after (and during) our honoring of a commitment made to ourselves.  It’s helpful to make the commitment to others, as most of us get sloppy simply making commitments to ourselves.  We let ourselves off the hook way to early and way to fast and then we don’t trust what comes out of our mouth.  We then begin to believe the lie that we couldn’t do it anyway – or worse yet, we sell out on our dream.  So making the commitment to someone else who will actually hold us to that commitment is the way to go.  My publisher paid me money to honor my commitment.  They invested in me.  My commitment is my investment in myself.

To honor our commitments, we must walk through our own fire.  It isn’t easy.  It’s often scary.  Patricia comes home with blisters on her blisters and missing toenails.  And, she loves it.  I can’t claim to have any blisters on my typing fingers although sometimes my wrists ache.  I can tell you that it often feels painful.  I am afraid.  I am concerned.  I am daunted to say the least.  And, just like walking through the fire on March 26^th, I will keep walking.  I will work on staying in today.  Staying in right now.  I know that when I finish this blog, I will sit down with that introduction and work with it.  And, knowing that, I am inclined to make this the longest blog known to man and may keep writing ad infintium in order to avoid sitting in front of that introduction.  Seriously, the squirrel cage is loud.  Screaming monkeys.  Bullying banshees.  Argumentative gargoyles.  That’s how it seems.  Silly, you say?  How is it I might struggle with writing that and yet here on this blog I have typed 1581 words in less than an hour… That is the human (my human, and I would argue yours too) mechanism at work.  That is why I wait.  That is why we wait. 

Now, please wish me luck.  I am at the edge ready to leap into the morass.  I am contemplating the potential fall.  I am waxing poetic about the plummet.  Now, I am diving in.  arrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhh!

As, I say to my author clients "Write on!" 

My Shitter Overflowith

New goals should be clearly set and worked toward, as this is the beginning of a nine-year cycle. It is best not to dwell on the past at this time. This will be fairly easy for you to do because most of the problems and disappointments of the past will tend to disappear, leaving the way open for these new challenges. This is a great time; use it to its full advantage! It holds the promise of an exciting new adventure, with life taking on new challenges that pave the way for the next cycle of nine years in your life. This is a time to clarify your goals and to act on them. Hard work may be necessary to get a new venture moving.

From a reading, describing the end of 2011 and what’s to come… Hmmmm.   An exciting new adventure.  Yes, I can see that.  New challenges, check!  Clarifying my goals.  Yes.  Hard work.  Fer shure. 

Most of the problems and disappointments from the past have disappeared - in a fiery maelstrom.  So, yes, it's true, I am not dwelling on those things.  Don’t even remember what they were.  And, most days, I am doing “well”.  And then there are those moments…  You know “those” moments?  The ones that take you to your knees, that leave you unsure if you will crack open on the spot and not “crack open” in the seemingly good way but in the way where your psyche may actually fold in on itself and you may just die right there?  Those moments.  I danced on the verge of a few of these moments yesterday. 

Let me be clear, I absolutely adore Flame.  Living in her is lovely.  It is also challenging, small for two people and two big dogs and a major adjustment.  And, I would rather be living here than any of the other options we have at this moment.  Come snowfall, this will probably be different but we aren’t there yet.  We are getting our systems in order.  Internet still needs to be run off the generator which can be a bit of a drag.  Upgrading this system is a top priority on David’s list.  We have the water situation mostly handled as we have a larger generator, which can support the well pump.  The dog fence is operational – and I will talk about that in a minute.  The biggest “to be handled” issue is the shitter.  We topped out on the storage capacity of the shitter on Sunday morning.  We knew it was inevitable yet there didn’t seem to be a gauge anywhere.  They way we discovered we were at capacity was it just wouldn’t go down…  Unable to locate the proper “black storage tank” in time, we were at the mercy of the local septic pump-out company.  Fortunately it was only one and a half days of doing our business in the wild.  I absolutely love the freedom of living so far away from people that I can pee anywhere I damn well like.  Doing my other business, not so much.  Digging holes where the dogs won’t go scavenging and the entire experience is not on my bucket list.  Shirley Septic saved the day and bought us some more time to get this essential system up and running.  I found myself wanting to make jokes with the gentle man whose business it is to remove other people’s business.  He sees it all the time.  I, on the other hand, don’t usually shoot the shit while watching my shit empty into a bucket.  It was a bit awkward to say the least.  He was a pro so I rose to the occasion and talked shop with him. 

You would think that my mood would be drastically improved after all my shit was removed!  And, I was quite grateful.  The early summer day was beautiful and I got caught up with more paperwork then I have in months.  Being in the sweet space of Flame felt warm and supportive for checking items off my ever-growing to-do list.  Once again, I must say, I thought I knew what “busy” was before.  Hah!  I took breaks during the day to begin the training of the dogs on their new fence, and that’s when I began dancing on the edge of my angst and anguish. 

On the flat areas of our land (of which there are very few) and on a couple of the hillside areas, grass is coming up in patches and clumps.  It looks lovely, the green against the stark black.  It is a reminder of the regenerative power of nature; a sign of hope.  David lay out the invisible fence in a circle of a couple acres vs. the double that size these ranging dogs had before.  We are keeping the dogs away from the future building site so we won’t have to worry about them getting in the way of construction and its hazards.  Now, they have the flat area where Flame sits and a few hillsides around the property.  I began my trek around the fence to place the flags and weight it down with rocks.  As I went, I trudged through ash.  As I picked up rocks, my hands darkened.  As I brushed against trees, my clothes were left striped.  As I hiked, my once pink Keens (yes, I did it again) were left coated and my feet blackened.  Then, it was time to bring the dogs through.  One at a time, I led them on this route and watched them get coated with zebra stripes as well.  Grey socks growing on their precious feet.  I had already been picking black sooty sap off their skin, which yanks their hair and seems to create bald spots.  Watching my babies get coated in this greasy crap triggered anger so deep that it began to darken my sky and choke my air supply. 

We choose to live here; they cannot avoid this mess.  These dogs are high energy and need space to move.  Yes, we could keep them confined to a tiny area then always take them off the property for exercise.  But there is no real “clean” area on our 37 acres.  Flame’s sweet interior is beginning to take on a grey tinge as well.   Defeated after the initial training, I scrubbed them as best I could with baby wipes.  Too caked myself for anything other than a major wash down, I took them off the property and down the road for our usual hike.  However, nothing is “usual” around here anymore.  We keep them closer by as we don’t know what type of construction vehicle may try to pass on our narrow roads.  Also, much of the road crosses through burn area which is just more of the same with it’s own brand of sooty soil.  Then, we emerge into the land of “what once was”. 

I have reveled in the beauty of seeing what early summer is “supposed” to look like in Colorado.  Last night in my fragile state, the contrast was too great. It roiled and boiled me.  Here is what our land once was: green, lush, dense foliage, wildflowers, aspen trees in full bloom and towering pines gently swooshing in the breeze.  I couldn’t even weep, the pain felt too enormous.  It logded in my throat and made me want to give up, call uncle, say I quit.  Into my mind came the ignorant comments from a few who inquire, “well you have insurance, dontya?”  You have already heard my description of what it really is like to deal with the insurance and the unavoidable financial losses that follow…  As the uber-brilliant Kristina Hall pointed out, it’s not like a fender bender.  Oh, we will just put all of this in the shop and it will come back good as new.  Good as new.  No it won’t actually, not ever.  Or, at least in our lifetime.

Who will help the land?  Besides being patient with it, what can really be done?  Who will scrub the soot from the trees?  The rain is trying but it is a monumental task.  It may take eons.  I can accept a lot, but when my dogs are impacted, I get pissed.  To all the bureaucrats who paper-pushed this fire into existence and then went on their merry way, how ‘bout you put your babies in the middle of an ash forest that once was their home and see how well you handle it while they crawl around and turn black from the soot.  When they breathe in the ash and begin to shit it out, let me know how accepting you are.  When you have no idea of the long-term effects, tell me how you sleep. 

When I stepped briefly away from my writing just now, the notion ran through my mind that I am too dark.  Perhaps you are tired of it.  Perhaps I should be grateful for life.  Then, I recall the words I read yesterday by Dawn Cartwritght who explores the trap of living in “love and light” where many of us feel we need to be all the f-ing time. 

I find that life has texture. It’s interesting. And so am I. Life becomes an adventure, something definitely worth getting out of bed for in the morning. And not because I am now comfortable. Not because everything’s rosy. It’s because everything is on the table. That 15 megatons of internal pressure caused by trying (said with clenched jaw and grinding teeth) to live in love and light has been released. I am free. I am raw. I am naked. And my heart? This is the big bonus. My heart is open. No longer a made-for-TV version, but the real thing. 

This is not a made-for-TV version unless TV decides it wants the real deal and not just the sound-bites (hear that Marshall? ;-) that never quite capture the actual truth. This is the raw and gritty version that has it’s ups and downs and all arounds.  This is good one day and horrific the next.  This is gratitude for the silver bullet I now call home and a moan so deep as I glance in the dusk at the vacant hole that once was my dream house.  This is all of it.  It is avoiding people I love cause I just can’t deal.  It is running to the arms of others who happen to say the right thing at the right time.  It is irritation at people’s careless, yet well-meaning remarks, deep anger at the “system”, great love for the world, marveling at the star-filled sky out my window from my cowboy-sheeted twin bed.  It is the promise of the first cup of coffee.  The stinky wet kisses from Tigger.  The happiness from the feel of my Mont Blanc pen in my hand as I drink out of a Walmart plastic cup.  It is a life in Flame and in flames. 

Are we making the right decision to stay here on this damaged but still extraordinary land?  Who the fuck knows.  We may never know.  There may be ambiguous or tragic or amazing consequences later.  Only time will tell.  Only the shadow knows.  

In Gratitude

In this moment, I am forced to experience gratitude.  Forced you say?  How does that work?  Well, lemme tell you.  Yesterday, we had a visitor.  Previously a stranger, John was the deliverer of joy.  Joy came in the form of a community rallying around me – and us – by creating a gift so lovely and heart-filled that I can be nothing but grateful this morning even as I sit with cramps and fatigue that makes my eyes feel squinty. 

The weekend after the fire, I was supposed to be with my community of healing professionals at a training program created by Jesse and Sharla Jacobs of Rejuvenate Training.  Jesse and Sharla have dedicated their life work to empowering and teaching holistic practitioners and coaches a heart-centered way of marketing themselves as us healing types are often not so business savvy.  In fact, we prefer to give our services away out of love and due to the fact that we are expressing our passion.  That should be free, right?  Charge what we are worth, what???  How can you put a price on love? 

Sharla and Jesse understand this mindset, as they are holistic practitioners. Sharla trained as an acupuncturist and Jesse as a coach so they both saw the perils of the over-generous spirit in themselves – and in the people they chose to spend time with.  Yet, Jesse and Sharla knew something else was possible and invested in thousands of dollars and hours of training to become business savvy.  Seeing the ease of creating a successful heart-based business, they vowed to bring this level of ease coupled with success to countless others.  Thus the birth of Rejuvenate training. 

I found Rejuvenate after hearing Sharla on a tele-seminar and after vowing not to sign up for any more trainings!  Yet, something compelled me to register for the course she was offering.  Attracted to her warmth as well as her no-nonsense approach, I knew I was on to something.  What I had no idea of was the rich and deep community I was entering.  A year later, I had attended every course they offered and my business more than quadrupled.  I also was part of a family of practitioners who became some of my dearest friends.  We eagerly awaited the next weekend training where we would see each other again; we kept in touch in the in between time through social calls as well as small mastermind groups.  We cheered each others successes and nurtured each others failures as we got out there in the world to market our businesses.  We grew in ways that weren’t expected and our investments in the trainings were made back multi-fold.  I found my home, I found my business expression, I found a community of “my peeps”.  

As I began packing on the day of the fire, I anticipated first a speaking event in LA, then my weekend where I would be surrounded by my Rejuvenate community.   I would reconnect with Megan Walrod my coach extraordinaire, and get to bask in the aura of Jesse and Sharla.  What a gift – and a lift – it would be to be around these people.  I was still madly in love with my author coaching business but needed a recharge in my marketing efforts.  I needed to be reminded it was fun and a natural expression of my love of my work – not the struggle I had started to make it.  This course was my favorite from last year and I was nervous (cause that’s how I roll…) but ecstatic to bathe in the glow of the community. 

Instead, you know what happened.  My home burned to the ground later that day, and my life turned upside down.  Megan and I have been talking regularly during this time, having developed a mutual coaching arrangement – me with her book, her with my business – and a deep friendship.  Megan flew here to be with me twice and we spent long hours in my lovely home creating visions, worksheets and templates for my business while she wrote some of the most deeply moving words I have ever read.  I am so glad she spent time in my space as she now shares the loss of its exquisiteness.  Reports of the fun everyone was having at the course came flying in coupled with how often I was mentioned and missed.  I felt the support and love over the miles from my community – even those I had never met before.  Then Megan told me a gift had been created and a messenger had been chosen to deliver that gift. 

John, the messenger, arrived yesterday in a bright yellow rain jacket which was much needed in our Seattle-esque weather.  As he emerged from his car, we glimpsed a burly man with a bald head and a twinkle in his eye, and wondered just who this stranger would turn out to be.  He was on a road trip through Colorado having come from California and tasking himself with the delivery of my prize.  He gingerly carried a brown paper wrapped box into the cozy warmth of Flame.  We all sat together eating orange slices and began the getting to know you process.  It turned out, that John and David had much in common so the conversation flowed easily.  Of course, he and I had a love for our teachers and community so we connected without words.   

After a bit of settling in, I began to unwrap this gift which was lovingly transported all the way from San Jose.  After wrestling with the ribbon, out of the top, peaked white fabric and twine.  I began to pull my prize – and handwritten messages greeted me.  “HOPE for the Best, BELIEVE everything happens for a reason.  And, KNOW that you have love and support always.”  “HOME is where your heart is.”  “The sun is still shining.”  “LOVE”  “Wishing you be filled with love and the knowing that we care.”  On and on I pulled this chain of prayers flags from the box until I was buried beneath the love and hugs from afar.  Each member of the course had hand made their own flag.  All the staff and people assisting each created one too.  Jesse and Sharla signed their own.  And, their young son Jacob drew a picture.  All the flags were painstakingly tied together by none other than Megan Walrod.  I still have not stretched them out to see their vast expanse.  They sit, as my “goggy” next to me as I type, an undeniable physical representation of a vast community of people who are with me, loving me, near me, hear for me.  How could I experience anything but gratitude today?  I could not. 

To you, my Rejuvenate community, I cherish you.  I am moved beyond words to describe my feelings.  The gesture, the sentiments, the love that comes off each and every one of the flags is unutterable.  I am brimming with the blessings from all of you and of all of you.  What makes life bearable is love.  What makes tragedy fathomable is connection.  What makes me happy today is YOU.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.   

Forever yours, Kristen

PS - 

If you want to know more about Rejuvenate Training you can check them out here: www.leapintoyourdream.com

You can also listen to my radio interview with Jesse – which eerily was on the day they began the “controlled burn” that ended up raging out of control a mere 4 days later.  The interview is at www.whatareyouwaitingforshow.com - just scroll down on the left to the audio player.