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.

Everything will be all right in the end...

Everything will be all right in the end... if it's not all right then it's not the end. 

- Sonny from the movie “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”

“Delightful” is what one of the film reviews said, and I concur.  Many moons ago, when I first saw the preview with the above line, I added it to my very short “must see” list.  A lovely romp through India with a stellar cast of veteran actors, it didn’t disappoint.  Illuminating the “Golden Years” and the potential for a last great hurrah (or series of hurrah’s) is another reminder that it aint over til the fat lady sings.  These fine people thwarted their predictable path into frailty and leapt into the absolute unknown of a life in India.  Unlike so many movies these days, the dialogue languorously explored themes we all deal with which aren’t often reflected in the media.  The real deal.  Obviously, I am a fan of the real deal.

This film reminds me that this current iteration won’t be the last adventure of our lives.  There will be many many more.  Some chosen, others not so much.  It’s packed with life lessons and reminders of what really matters.  Stuff such as love, trust, hope, faith – and yes – that it can all end in a nano-second.  In a society where we have marginalized the elderly, it’s nice to be taught.  Yet, as my mom has always says, you feel like the same person inside, it’s the image in the mirror that keeps changing. 

As summer is signaling its arrival, I am attempting to slow down time.  Summer is quick and precious in Colorado and I don’t want to hurry through any of it.  As I age, I become less and less a fan of long cold winters.  And a long cold winter in Flame might be enough incentive to head south of the border.   Lying in bed thinking about the movie and the passage of time, I aspired to explore “big themes” in my writing this morning.  Instead of inspiration as I crack open my Mac, I feel congested.   My cohort this morning is melancholy and a screaming neck which after 2 months without my tempurpedic pillow is crying foul. (And yes, I finally ordered a replacement!).   With a notion of what I should write this morning, I fizzle instead of sizzle.  I know it’s good practice to move through all sorts of awkward spaces as a writer, so I keep my fingers moving as an exercise in dedication – and know that many edits will follow... 

As I click away, the notion of some internal clock signaling it’s “time to be in the lesson stage” of this process or some such B.S. starts to emerge.  I didn’t get the handout with the proper timeline to move from one stage to another so I am not sure if this is true or not.  From whence do I feel the pressure? My friends’ patience seems to continue but the reoccurring concern of wearing people out with our “process” rears its mean-spirited head.  I did have one person give me an “at least you _______” statement this week.  Mostly, I ignore these well-meaning sermons.  “At least you got out alive”, was this one.  Like we don’t already know that...  I really do know I am lucky, we are lucky.  And, I really do know that the most recent offerer of this platitude was well intentioned.  Do I sound angry?  Maybe…  A little irritated?  Well yes…

Where we are now compared to 2 months ago is night and day.  The shock has mostly gone, the reality has set in, we are making fledgling plans and we have put down roots (and now a flagstone patio) at our land.  And, it aint over.  We are 2 months in.  Right now, I am telling you this but mostly, I am telling me this.  I need to hear it.  My mantra for others has frequently been a reminder to be where they are.  I am so aware of the ins and outs and ups and downs of a healing process and I implore my people to ride the ride and not attempt to be anywhere other than where they are at the time.  Now, I need the reminder.  And, I need to know you really believe that.  That’s it’s not just some thing we humans say to each other but we actually mean it. 

Herein lies the rub.  A fear: if I seem like I am doing “well”, then people will think I am “through” and then expect me to be on the “transformed” side of this journey and then there won’t be space for my angst or moods or upset.  (I need a run-on sentence with excessive use of quotation marks to illustrate this concern).  In response, I plead: can I please have a year?  Can I have a year to be unwound, to be returning to form, to be in the unmanifested?  May I have the space to be inspired or inspiring in one moment and the space to be a lunatic the next?  Can society bear that?  Can my acquaintances tolerate that?  And most importantly, can my inner circle really be with that?  I surely hope so.

I am not ready to be on the other side of this.  I don’t want to have to know.  I don’t want to have this all figured out.  I want to be a wanderer for a while longer before I know who and what I will be. 

I glance out the window at my still forming Flagstone patio and the two lovely souls who are bringing it to life.  My dogs have chosen to rough house in the sand pile that is supposed to be the base layer of the patio.  They have spread the once neat pile around leaving doggy footprints and a bit of a mess.  Should I stop them?  Should I seek to neaten, tidy and control what’s happening?  The men don’t seem to be missing a beat even as 200 pounds of dog tumble into their space. 

Not every character in “Marigold Hotel” was wrapped up and resolved in the end.  If the movies can leave some strings untied, I suppose I can too. 

Evelyn: Nothing here has worked out quite as I expected.
Muriel: Most things don't. But sometimes what happens instead is the good stuff.
 - The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

Home is where the heart is and where the mothers are

Many thoughts arise on this foggy Mother’s day morning.  Rather than indulge my typical considerations of being a childless woman, I send appreciation and love to all the mothers I know – and I celebrate my treasure box of friends who mother each other.  If I sang praises for each of the glorious women I have in my life I would never be able to remove my fingers from the keyboard.  So today, I will clamor on about two beloved momma friends and of course my own momma.  And, I will update you on the journey to our new mother ship, the sweet vessel Flame.

The plan: move out of Lynn’s (another mother I cherish yet the tale of our journey together needs it’s own platform) on Friday and spend the first night in Flame. 

Actuality: rain, snow and unseasonably cold temperatures which discouraged decision to stay a first night in lightly insulated aluminum cylinder.  Felt it wouldn’t be good for mental health which appeared to be strained after day of packing little belongings we have which still took all day and coupled with putting finishing touches of sparkle & shine to welcome the beloved McHeffey’s back to their magnificent abode. 

Course correction: spent the night at the Wilson’s returning to the cozy basement where I sojourned the first few nights after initial displacement. 

I must say that being with the Wilson’s is good medicine.  The nightly routine here is tucking these angel girls in bed and reading stories.  David and I jumped at that prospect.  Actually, my “jump” was to be enveloped between the two lovely souls while David read to all three of us.   Awwwww.  In those precious moments, all was right with the world. 

Again, the Wilson’s welcomed us with open arms and hearts coupled with a genuine invitation to stay as long as we need.  Hmmmm.  A year?  How does a year sound, Jessica?  I love it here.  I love being in the metaphorical bosom of one of my best and dearest in the whole wide world.  Jessica is a rock.  We first met as massage therapists – she fresh out of school, me a veteran (not) with a mere 6 months experience.  We decided to share office space and became the best of friends pretty dang fast.  Bottom line: Jessica is one of those people that I am not sure I could live – or would want to live – without.  We made a “no leaving” clause early on so we have liberty to unmask our dark side with each other.  There is great freedom that comes with not having to “behave”.  So often in life, we are overly concerned with what people will think of us.  We try to be good, kind, friendly, and polite – and we can drown in that soup of nice. 

Jessica and I have allowed a richer experience than that.  We get in fights (not frequently but when they happen, they seem ferocious).  We are both strong willed women with passionate conviction.  Relatively recently, (pre-fire) she decided for some odd reason that I was drifting from her and my startled response was an f-bomb diatribe to rival any rowdy sailors’.  Translation: “I am not going anywhere, I adore you, I need you, I am never leaving this friendship, you are stuck with me forever, don’t ever doubt it, ok?”  It came out a little differently than that... but after my rant, I felt relief – that kind of deep relief that you only can feel when you tell the ultimate truth.  (This may not be your cup of tea, but I would suggest not knocking it til you try it!).  I then marched up to her house completely able to give her a more ear-friendly version. 

Having to “behave” is confining.   I am certainly not suggesting that we go around dropping the f-bomb at will, or that we give up common courtesy.  I AM completely in favor of having friends with whom you can show your soft underbelly and your down and dirty brand of humanity.  Fortunately I have cultivated these types of friendships with my peeps.  We have walked through thick and thin together and we absolutely know (even when we forget temporarily) that we will be there for each other forever.  Yes, I know there are no guarantees in life but this is one thing of which I am absolutely sure!

Now back to “the plan”.  We actually moved the trailer to her new home on our land with the help of Chris Meehan – my brotha by another motha and David’s dearest bosom buddy.  (I know that guys don’t say “bosom” buddy but the thesaurus on my Mac can’t find anything more adequate to describe that bond)  Chris dropped what he was doing to come and assist this momentous move and to be there for us.  He understood the magnamity and treated it with love in his heart and commitment in his soul.  I know I have mentioned the Meehan’s before but today a special shout out to that fine family.  We are not just friends, we are kin.  We fit together like lock and key – a part of them is with us and a part of us with them.  You already know Dusty as “the Goddess” but today I want to express more admiration for that exquisite creature who shines her light so brightly for so many.  There are lights in the world and then there is Dusty: a light so luminous that it doesn’t just fill a room, it overwhelms it.  Darkness melts in her presence and us lesser-lit folk become whole simply being in her space. 

Both Jessica and Dusty are extraordinary mothers.  I watch them with their girl-pairs and learn more about what it means to love.  Their daughters are in different stages of life – Jessica’s girls 3 and 5, Dusty’s 10 and almost 16.  They are all exceptionally beautiful girls, being raised by mothers who are self-aware, strong, passionate, bold and fiercely loving.  These girls have the foundation to become self-assured, bold women in ways that many of us had to earn through trials and tribulations.  Of course there are no guarantees but at opportune moments I will remind these girls of who they are and where they come from.  I plan on being in their lives for a very long time. 

And, of course, a special acknowledgement of my own strong-willed, beautiful, brilliant and talented mother who is way too far away from me right now in sunny central Florida.  Thank you momma for influencing me with a love of horses, hugs, beautiful art, dancing, laughter and much much more.  You are a beautiful soul and I am glad you didn’t give up on having children after your earlier heartbreaking miscarriages.  I am grateful to have you as my mother, my teacher and my friend. 

My mom was a belly dancer, an artist and a wild-child in the 70’s and now in her 70’s she still is in many ways.  Speaking of belly dancing, last night, David and I attended another Goddess friends belly dancing show in our little bedroom community of Conifer.   Sheila – aka Sheika – leads a troupe of dancers called Mountain Kahai.  How glorious on a misty, rainy (yes, still!) and chilly Saturday evening to be bathed in the soft light from the stage as countless dancers expressed the beauty of womanhood in all shapes and sizes.  The colors were rich, the moves exotic, the beauty was real.  My lovelies Jessica, Susan and Lainie danced and Dusty and I snuggled in the packed auditorium.  The plan after the show was to (really this time!) move to the trailer.  Yet as we exited the high school into the driving rain we detoured to Jessica’s again. 

I know when to say when and attempting to bring the dogs in through the mud and wet cold for our first night is not in the best interest of my still fragile psyche. Rain, snow, sleet or hail we are going there this afternoon in the light of day to settle.  I did a happy dance when I hung my modest wardrobe in the closet yesterday.  I have hangers!  I have a closet!  And, I know I told you already about my drawers!!! I adore that trailer.  She is lovely, welcoming and she is home. 

Home is where the heart is.  This morning my home is in this snuggly bed in Jessica’s basement, sitting next to David as he reads to Cassidy with Tigger snuggled at my feet and Roscoe curled up on the floor.  Home is with my soul sisters.  Home is our 1967 Airstream named Flame that waits for us on our land to begin a new phase of this adventure called life. 

And, one more happy mothers day to all you mommas out there.   You make the world go round.