Rolling with it

There is a lot to roll with these days. Panic fills the air as the smoke rises. 911 operators in neighboring counties throughout the state are inundated with midnight calls about the smell of smoke; fire departments are closing rank to protect their own backyards; rumors are flying; tourists are canceling their summer visits to our great state and the governor is attempting to calm the anxiety. Colorado is on fire and not in a good way.

Yes, it is re-traumatizing to those of us who have lost homes and loved ones. Yes, we wince at the latest headlines and cry at yet another tale of woe. Yes, we wonder if it could happen again to us in our rental homes or trailers. Yes, we gather together and look knowingly into each others eyes. Yes, we wish there was more we could do for all those who suffer as we struggle to keep our own heads above water. Yes, we lose sleep and question just what is happening out there in this crazy world. It is rampant. It is impacting thousands of people everywhere. It seems almost everyone knows someone who has lost a home or is evacuated. And, there seems to be no end in site. The weather continues to not cooperate, the soil is drying up, the grass withering. Storms roll through and flash their lightning strikes starting even more fires and leaving no measurable moisture.

I am back at Jessica’s after calling “uncle” on trailer living. The heat was too much for me, but I would have persevered. When my dogs began freaking, that was my breaking point. I cannot have my animals suffer. Not at all. Roscoe is staying at Jessie’s with her brood and Tigger is back with me. We are working on “Plan C, version 287.65” on where to live for the next month. Cool basements are being offered. Most likely we will spread our time between Jessie’s and Jessica’s. We just have to make it through July and then we will flee the state for the comfort of Florida, then the Bahamas. How can it be that Florida is having cooler weather than we are? Of course there is that most recent tropical storm but I am sure anyone in Colorado would trade the fires for a hurricane right about now.

I will go about my day as much as possible and attempt not to glance to the north or south. Driving up the mountain last night provided a terrifying view of both the Flagstaff fire and the Waldo Canyon fire. Eery, spooky, terrible, terrifying. Lives being disrupted, turned upside down. Living with the unknown - and then the devastation of the known. If you live anywhere near the mountains or foothills right now and you don’t have your possessions inventoried and videod, insurance up to date, evacuation list prepared and an ‘essential items’ bag packed, you are just plain crazy. This is the summer to be on alert.

So how do we live without living in fear? This is the question of the age. For those extra sensitive types, we need to find outlets and distractions from the angst. This morning, I spent time with Jessica’s angel girls. Pretending to bite off their noses, serving up their breakfast cereal, letting them feed Tigger, watching them strut around the house in their princess finery. The giggles, the hugs, the love, I soak it up. Buzzing energy fields of curiosity as well as tempestuous little goddesses in their own rights. I let them wash my mind of worry. I let myself be in the moment with them before they leave for their day of adventure. I absorb their goodness and their spunk. Now, in this quiet house that feels palatial after my trailer, I breathe deeply and read some headlines - steering clear of the pictures as those are already etched in my brain.

We went first this year. Going first is probably easier than going last. We got it over with by burning down already. We don’t have to worry about that anymore (well, as previously stated, it does come up as a vague worry... could we burn again? Is there enough fuel on the ground? Would “lightening” strike in the same place twice? Is the universe that cruel? Is someone up there making these choices for our fate? and on and on...) But really, most likely it won’t happen again. So instead of living in concern, we live on this side of things. First in a line of rocked lives. We wish no one had to feel this pain. We wish the state wasn’t on fire. We wish for the rain gods to smile upon us. Three months ago yesterday we were where so many are right now. So many thousands more. At the beginning, in the not knowing, in the early stages of panic, or in full-blown panic attacks. Life changed in an instant but it took a few more instants for this new version of our lives to be known.

The High Park people have been dealing with this awful reality for 18 days. That’s a long damn time to be in upheaval. And, no end is in site for dousing that fire. The Waldo Canyon fire is exploding, doubling in size over night, and the governor is saying, “we have never seen a fire like this in the history of Colorado”. I read headlines and I breathe. I turn back to my writing, my outlet, my sanity. I hope all those who suffer will be as lucky as we are with the support we have received and continue to receive. I hope all who wish to support those people will remember that this is only the beginning. This is the long haul. This will not be over even when the flames have finally breathed their last fierce breathe. This will not be over in a month or three months or six months or even a year. This will not be over when the victims smile for the first time, or say they are ok, or move to another home or another state. This will take a while. Possibly a long long long while. Please be patient with your people. Please give them the space to be however and wherever they need to be. Please know that just because we may look “good” on the outside, our insides are still crying out on layers we may not even realize. And, please read my blog from June 12th where I give suggestions for dealing with fire victims as we walk through fire.

We may be moving on. We may be rolling with it. But it is not a straight line, a neat progression or a stage to move through and check off a list. It is messy, ugly, scary and monumental. It has it’s beautiful moments where the world stops and we meet another human’s kind heart. It is a roller coaster. We roll up high and we roll down low. We roll through ash and muck and tears and anger. We roll with the waves of the next fire or the steam from the last. We roll in our sleep and roll through the day sometimes not remembering a thing. We roll in pain and sometimes we roll in laughter.

And, for those of you who are in the line of fire, let yourself roll. Don’t get off the roller coater until you are ready. Ride the ride. Be gentle with yourself, as gentle as you can be when you feel like you are falling through the earth into nothingness.

Just roll with it all. We are rolling with you.

Why does the bird sing?

A bird does not sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. Lou Holtz

I woke up worrying. Or did I start worrying once I woke up. In those early moments before getting out of bed and way before coffee, it’s hard to tell. What I can tell is how my 60 minutes of worrying between eye flutter and first sip of caffeine made me feel. Like poop.

To escape the blistering heat at our lovely trailer, we stayed the last two nights at the Highland Haven in downtown Evergreen. A lovely respite from reality, the Highland Haven is a high-end B&B built around an 1884 homestead. A small river runs along the property, towering spruce provide ample shade, the gardens are tended but not over manicured. Our room is lovely and dark and one might have thought I could have slept in - but oh no, I need to get up early enough to begin my worrying. Well-worn grooves of worry were my focus. Challenging relationships, the heat, fires burning across Colorado our future, where to do the laundry... It wasn’t until I walked back to my room with coffee in hand that it occurred to me that I might choose something else and start the day over. Some of us are slow learners.

Looking deeper, below the worry, I see fatigue. These small retreats keep us going but our souls need a little more time to mend. Two nights at an expensive (albeit lovely) hotel won’t fix me. Darn it! We did have a lovely dinner by the river having picked up take out Thai. And, we had some much needed together time, away from it all. Later today, I check in with my therapist, my first appointment in a couple weeks. I will lie on her couch and tell her my tales. She will remind me that it’s all ok, to be expected, and that I am actually doing quite well.

Writing seems stiff this morning. More proof of what I tell my clients: you can be tucked away in a mountain retreat, by a river, all alone - and still not be inspired to write. There is no perfect time to write. It takes dedication, saying no to some things to say yes to this, willingness to sit through the discomfort, the ability to watch words that bore you show up on the screen and keep typing anyway. Don’t edit as you write is a mantra - yet of course, us perfectionists, can’t stand that! I attempt to follow my advice and type away, knowing I can come back. I could add this to my worry list - maybe I am running out of steam with my writing. Maybe there isn’t anything left to say. But I don’t actually believe that. I think it’s just often the same themes emerge and I get tired of saying it, tired of feeling it - and concerned that you might be tired of reading it. And, I am going to write anyway. Write regardless. Write on. That’s what I tell my clients - and I am telling myself that too. Over and over again.

There are sweet spots in the day where I imagine writing emerging themes and insights and beauty. I want to share all of it with you but then the moment passes and I don’t remember. Last night had quite a few. A conversation with two dear friends as we do a Vision exercise that I give to all my clients. Part of an Abundance circle, we three are creating the next year of our lives. In a flash of inspiration, I sent the assignment with a rallying cry to complete it. I have done Vision exercises over the years, the first time being when I read Jack Canfield’s The Success Principles and let ‘er rip which (unbeknownst to me at the time) began my adventure in book writing. I know magic can come from the willingness to throw our hats over the fence and create dreams so big they scare us. And, I have done these assignments, creating castles in the sky and never quite following through. This time, it’s different. The usual instructions are to “dream big, think big, stretch, allow wild imagination”. Now, at the beginning of so much, I am allowing something (for lack of a better word) smaller. I am tired of pie in the sky lingo, I just want to be willing to dream of something. Like any good resister, I put off the assignment for two weeks and began working on it an hour before our call. Talk about putting rusty fingers to keyboard. The resistance was screaming in my ears. “That’s stupid, that’s a terrible, that’s boring, that’s unrealistic...” And, I kept the fingers moving anyway.

Something started to emerge. I wrote about the house that is taking shape, the lifestyle we are creating, how the fire brought us closer. Each sentence I wrote, I questioned. “Really? Do you want that really?” When the three of us came together, it turned out that we all had variations of the same theme. It is common lingo in the circles we travel to say, “when we declare something, what often shows up is not that.” Meaning, the challenges often rush to the surface to fill the space that is created in declaration.

With my powerful friends, I urged the permission for all of it. The glaring “not that” that has shown up, our mutual pissy-ness, dashed hopes and dreams, financial concerns (real and imagined), relationship challenges, and more. And, without having exact words for it, I urged us to do it differently. All of us have created before. What will make this one different I queried? We are all around the same age, have done a lot and seen a lot. We have transformation up the ying yang, we are self-aware and moderately successful in our fields. What will make it different this time?

I have been in this conversation a lot lately. I was on an inspired fast-track with my business last year, movin’ and groovin’, launching programs and products and astounding myself. And, I ended the year bone tired, realizing that even though I adore my work, I was still trying to prove myself. The old “when I get there, I will be ok” bullshit. Yes, I wrote a whole book about this, and YES I was still doing this to myself.

I want for these women like I want for myself. And, what I really want for all of us is to find peace. Peace within our hearts as a starting place. Then we can choose our dreams from there. So quickly my lofty goals turn to a proving ground for my worth. So quickly my admiration for another turns to what they have that I don’t. So quickly my success turns to not enough. So quickly inspiration turns to driveness.

Yes, we all have this and do this. Now, much of my motivation and push has burned away with the fire along with stacks of books telling me how to be better, stronger, faster; binders full of notes from my Masters degree, massage training, personal development work and all the business training I ever did; CD’s and workbooks of teachers offering their wisdom to entrepreneurs in the form of list building, business management, tele-seminar creation and more - all turned to ash. I implemented much of the training, yet many “to-do’s” continuously sounded their alarm from my shelves. “You are not doing enough” was their call. “You need to, you should, you have to, you must. Hurry up, don’t forget, don’t miss out. Don’t mess it up. You are missing opportunities. Now is the time. Hurry hurry hurry.” I hear their ghosts still singing to me. No, I say. I won’t listen. I won’t buy the garbage. And, I am certainly not saying it’s all garbage. I think you know what I mean.

It’s time to take it down to the bare bones. Just what is really going on here? How can so many of us go through life dissatisfied? We are smart, savvy, educated, talented, beautiful, yet it’s never ever enough. And, it never ever will be.

What I am asking now is:

What do I care about?
What do I really want?
How can I have goals, commit to move towards them yet not become over-identified with the outcome?
Can I let go of needing to prove something?
Can I really, truly be ok with who I am and where I am right now?
What if this is as good as it gets - can I be ok with that?

Do we judge the bird for not having answers? No, we let it sing its song. What does it try to tell us? Maybe nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe there is no message. Maybe it is merely singing.

A Touch of Grey

Fires are raging all over Colorado and the West. Smoke clouds fill the sky. With record breaking heat and winds blowing like stink, more and more people across Colorado are being evacuated from various fires and the High Park fire, still growing, is far from contained. Mother Nature is not cooperating one bit.

It might be easy to get discouraged about the state of the State, or the state of the world. It might be easy to slip into the darkness and the funk. Well, yes, I have to say, it is.

California was a lovely break from reality. I realize reality lives there too, but for me over the three days, reality was suspended. Someone cooked for me, I slept in a real bed, showered standing up, flushed the toilet at whim, hung my clothes in a spacious closet - and the best moments were wandering in and out of shops in the California breeze. The weather was perfect; the respite refreshing; the trip worth the trip.

Since arriving “home” the past few days have been a bit bumpy - and yes, I have had a relapse and am adding quotation marks again. Yesterday began well. I attended a 6:30am 12-step meeting. The crowd was small and we all had a chance to share. I acknowledged my fragile state of mind coupled with my desire to not be as ‘thrown’ by things as much as I have been. I have to admit, I have been gathering some compelling evidence for things not going exactly my way. Besides the obvious, not much has seemed to “flow”. Last week I drowned my Mac; the troubles continue on the trailer (leaking water pipes, leaking sewage, mouse infestation); then I left my new precious journal on the airplane. And much much more but right now it feels like blah blah blah to write it - and to say it.

Later in the day, my mettle was maxed as the temperature hit 90+ degrees in Conifer . And in Flame, well, let’s just say two words “convection oven”. And for some strange reason, we have more biting flies than ever before. These dive bombing buggers buzzed and bit mercilessly, leading to welts. Coupled with the oppressive heat my boys panted and paced the day away. The moment it cooled enough, we huddled inside until the wind picked up and they became convinced something lurked outside that was coming to kill us all. Soothing them with words of love and wisdom had no effect and even snuggling on my narrow bed didn’t cut it. Will these sweet dogs bounce back once they return to a ‘normal’ living environment? Have I taken years off their life? Have I taken years off my own?

To say the least, I have been questioning the wisdom of my push to live in a trailer. To say the most, I question my sanity. As these fires burn all around, we ‘homelosers’ (as we affectionately call our group) can’t help but be affected. It weighs on our hearts and in our minds. It reminds us of where we were, how far we have come and how much further there is to go. We send love and condolences to people all over the west who are dealing with fires - living in the unknown for extended periods of time; catching the first glimpse of the devastation of their dreams; the monumental loss and sadness buried beneath the layers of shock and disbelief. The early days of this adventure are a blur. Now in the “whatever these days should be called” stage, we are no longer numb. We are tired. We are fried, really.

With all the sadness floating through the air like soot, I grasp for the small miracles, such as the 7-year old in the airport singing proudly, “I am doing the happy dance, I am doing the happy dance.” A lovely moment for sure. Then quickly the question emerges of why we sensible adults don’t we do that. We all know that at some point in the not too distant future a “shush” from his parents (or some other authority figure or peer) will really shush him and he won’t sing aloud in public ever again, and maybe even in private either. But for this moment, I smile broadly at his parents in celebration and with the hope of encouraging their encouragement of his bold expression.

Last night before the wind kicked up, I soaked in the setting sun as it melted into scorched trees against bright green grass. Later, on 3am pee dash outside, I caught the moon - a sliver of what appeared to be burnt orange. I am looking. And, I am seeing. And, as I have said all along, this is a fine line. I simply will not force myself to be somewhere I am not in this process. And, a little looking for silver lining never hurt anyone.

Shortly, my women’s group will be here breakfast. I will ask them to remind me of what is beautiful as they oooh and ahhh over the loveliness of Flame before the heat takes over and cooks our brains. Sitting on my bed and writing, ipod playing, coffee at my side, blanket on my lap, I remember what I like about my cozy little trailer. In making my music choices this morning, my ipod stuck on “Touch of Grey” by the Grateful Dead playing it no less than 5 times in a row. I listened carefully each time, a sign sent from above.

Then I hear a whoosh of an email arriving and I read words from my dear neighbor saying the same things I was feeling. Happy to receive her words but not happy to hear that she is in pain, I write back sending love, understanding and gratitude. And, I may call her back and sing out-loud, in honor of that little boy at the airport.

Sorry that you feel that way, the only thing there is to say is...
Every silver lining's got a touch of grey.
We will get by, we will get by, we will get by, we will survive.

A Summer solstice - and sojourn

The longest day of the year. I think I have had others that have felt longer. But the sun promises to shine longer today than any other day. Maybe I will rise to the challenge and join it. Maybe not. Two sips of coffee in without enough cream to make it just right, I say, it's too soon to tell. I will certainly enjoy the last few flushes of a modern toilet as I return to Flame whose toilet is, once again, on the fritz. Thank God for Shirley Septic and my now semi-permanent portapotty. I don't mind it so much during the day (when no workmen are milling around) but those middle of the night pee times that have become status quo of my mid 40's, well, that's another story. Pledging to keep the leaking tank empty for our next professional opinion, I will stumble through the dark to my plastic throne - or I may just squat along the way. It's hard to imagine all of that as I sit on my plush hotel bed a mere eight feet from a fabulous flush. And, yes, one more standup shower for this girl before I return to the seated bird bath. How different tomorrow will be from today. Did you just say 'at least you are writing regularly again'? I think I heard you say that...

I watch my roommate pack her bag for her return to England. A wild-child entrepreneur at 25 with a shock of blond hair and a sweet soul, Jo Westwood was the perfect roommate. We met virtually, on the Facebook page for the course and skyped for our first meeting. We have mostly passed in the night but our interactions have been memorable. She is launching into the stratosphere with her social media business and already is working for our fearless leader, Christina Morassi. It's because of my commitment to be Jo's roommate that I came - and it's because of Christina that I even considered it in the first place. The promise to Jo kept me driving east to the airport as I railed and seriously questioned just why I was about to jump from one silver bullet to another and hurtle through the sky before I felt ready. I even wondered if my PTSD might suddenly escalate into a full blow panic attack on the airplane. It didn't, I slept.

I met Christina at a workshop last fall. Impressed immediately by her extreme full self-expression on stage, I said 'yes' to the offer of a laser coaching session. Christina is beautiful, sassy, full on woman, and fricken real as shit. She drops the 'f-bomb' from stage as ravishingly as she wears her full length ball gowns that are her signature style. Sometimes I don't actually listen to her words, I just watch with awe at her full embodiment of all of what it means to be a woman. Also quite brilliant, a former fashion photographer, turned healing professional with shamanism and other energy modalities sprinkled in, she brought an alchemical reaction to her gifts and morphed into a mega success in a short time. She is magnetic - and a true inspiration. At this point in my journey, I would not have flown across half the country for just any old workshop. Early in my adventure, Christina and I had a few sessions. Hers was the first voice that insisted I not 'jump to form too quickly', that I shouldn't hurry my process - I have taken those wise words and run with them. Thank you Christina.

For those first few hours among 'normal folks' in the workshop, I felt like a leper. I didn't belong or fit in among these shiny (and clean) classmates. Yes, I had bathed but the stain of ash still remained on my feet and in my heart. I couldn't not talk about the fire as we shared why we were there and what we wanted to get out of the course - but the words were stuck in my craw. I chose a few steady souls and asked them to go first. Without drama, I then shared my tale. It began to ease. Christina is far from a 'normal' workshop leader so she brought all sorts of expressions to our sharing. We even danced our response to our partner at one point which was one of the most lovely moments of the workshop. I noticed myself to be more free than usual in these things I might normally label as queer. And, I also took breaks. Normally a 'good girl' and a 'good workshop attendee', I don't miss a minute as I don't want to miss THE thing that will make THE difference and alter my life FOREVER. Instead, this time, I let myself be in the room when I wanted and out when I felt the need. Then, yesterday, I stepped way out of the room. A chance opportunity to have lunch with my college roommate who just happened to be in town led to a lovely meal, then a long stroll around most of the cute shopping districts in the area. I wandered all afternoon, asking for a few pointers from shopkeepers to know if I was heading in the right direction. The perfect California weather was my companion with that cool ocean air and a warm sun. I changed clothes as I went, shedding my workshop outfit of my leopard wrap dress (sans tail for your faithful readers) and fortunately low slung heels, morphing into flip flops, burnt orange corduroy cut off shorts, and one of the best bell sleeve hippy shirts I have ever owned.

A few times panic arose as I was playing hooky. I am a bad girl! Then, I would inhale deeply, and choose to be where I was. I needed this break. I needed to be outside wandering in and out of shops. I didn't hurry. I let go of the story that I was missing something. I connected with strangers - and met one of the most fabulous dogs ever. First, I glanced at his rear as he gazed out the window. When I finished my loop around the store, I caught site of his mastiff face curled against his ladies leg and I had to stop. Turns out, she found him at a shelter. At 2-ish, he had spent most of his life on the street. Yet this was one of the biggest babies I have ever seen - and he adored her. Rolling around her feet like a cat, belly in the air, then raising his massive head for a lick on her cheek, he stole my heart. How lucky they found each other. She lost a love of her life dog shortly before finding him. With the LA lifestyle, this big baby gets to go to work with her daily and has no desire to run for the open shop door. If I could have gotten away with stealing him, and if David wouldn't divorce me for bringing home a third dog, that honey would be in my hotel bed with me right now.

Today is the last day of the workshop. I will be amongst my entrepreneurially minded peers as we soak up the last day of Christina's wisdom and love on each other. Then, I will board another silver bullet that hopefully will stay in the air for as long as we need it to then return to my very own silver bullet on my charred land.

Early on, after catching my tears and holding my pain, Christina asked me to stay in a place of wonder. Just for today, on the solstice, I can commit to that. And, because sometimes things metaphorically tie themselves up into neat little packages for a moment before they are blown apart by our next human reaction, I quote myself in the last line of my book:

 And I am restored to wonder...

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. 

Calling all Grapplers!

Ahhhh.  That first cup of coffee.  There is nothing like it.  Actually, the perfection is in the first sip of the first cup.  Yum.  I could not, would not, live life without coffee.  Today we head south – to southern Colorado, that is.  We pack up Flame for her maiden voyage with us – she was born in 1967 so has been on many trips with many people over the years.  We only know some about the trips with her previous owners.  They shared photos of Flame in front of mesas and great vistas around the desert.  Their love apparent through the multitude of shots. I would love to know of all her jaunts around the country.  What sights has she seen?  Who have been her passengers?  What were they like?  What were their hopes and dreams as they took to the open road? 

Yet instead of packing up, I am sitting here.  David knows that I need to write before anything, so he will begin packing and I will join him after.  After how long, I don’t usually know.  Typically, I sit for about an hour.  Settling back in bed, hair in a pony tail, pillows propped up behind me, coffee cup to my side, I position my laptop opening the lid with anticipation of what’s to come, never quite knowing what I will say or who I will be.  I have tales to tell and they seem to keep coming.  I am going with it. 

Writing is my practice and my therapy.  I won’t skip more than a day in a row and don’t skip many days at all.  It’s my quiet time.  For so many of the early days, being quiet was a bad thing.  Being alone with my brain was not something I wanted to do.  Yet, by beginning to write about it, I had an outlet.  I could write the confusion, the darkness and the angst and not feel alone while doing it.  I was speaking to you, you were listening.  I am still speaking to you – and you tell me you are, in fact, still listening.  This means the world to me.  It is what matters most in my life – writing this journey and writing about ALL of it. 

This has been the place where I formulate who and how I am being about all of these changes.  I can vent the yuck here, share the moments of beauty, cry and rail, laugh and write my truth.  This process has cemented something that has cried for formulation for many years.

Another well-meaning friend offered wisdom as I walked through the doors of Fox news to be on live TV – in the studio, next to the anchors, watching the teleprompter – all of that.  I have been on TV a few times during this adventure but it has been taped interviews that are later picked over for the nuggets and my lengthy narrative has been reduced to short moments that illustrate a story.  This was different.  And, they had read my blog and knew about my book, so I was going to be able to speak about that.  My friend said, “you can share how you are dealing with this so differently after writing your book about not waiting”.  I felt myself brace, “No. That’s not true.  I want to share how it’s messy and not linear and unpredictable and doesn’t have to be anything other than it is, and yet, still, there are moments of beauty.”  I think I went on a short rant about expectations of how we should be, our cultures discomfort with grief, how we celebrate the empowered, etc. 

I am about the messy these days – and may be forever.  I bare my soul, share my ugly and angst as well as telling you I can see a flash of green on my tree, or a hawk flying low, or when I pat the velvet forehead of my dog my heart breaks with love.  It is ALL of that.  The concept of a straight line where you neatly move through stages and emerge victorious – is bull hockey.  The idea that you create an empowering context and always, unwaveringly live from that.  Gag me.  I am not going to say that, no how, not ever ever. 

And by now you know, I am not purporting that people stay in the muck forever either.  If you know what I am talking about, you know what I am talking about, capiche?  Let’s just embrace messy, write it raw – disrupt the ordinary in that way.  I am committed to not knowing, to letting myself not figure anything out, to be where I am and not come to “the other side” a moment too soon.  I will not emerge from the cocoon before I am ready.  The permission I have given myself is freeing.  On some deep level of my psyche a small, quiet voice whispers, “finally”.  It’s a full deep breath and a level of acceptance I craved before but never quite knew.  And, when I am completely in an obsessive loop of negativity, it’s strangulating.  But if you dance in your darkness, you know what I mean.  You know the paradox – the relief I of letting yourself be in it yet not always of it.  And, you know equally that “this” state is not a fixed state.  It changes too – with the wind, with the bumping up against another angsty human or even with a bad case of gas.

Some might label this as a lack of choice.  Not at all, I say.  I am choosing to be here.  I am choosing to ride the wave as it carries me to a soft sandy beach to be bathed by the sun. Or as it tosses me against a jagged rock jetty and I am bled dry.  I will see where this ride will take me.  This ride where if I truly let go, and can stay in this place, and not try control the outcome – where might I end up?  I’m not even describing curiosity; it’s more like plain vanilla willingness.  Nothing fancy, just wanting to see. 

Did I communicate any of that live on air on Fox news?  I hope so.  I spoke what was there to speak.  I spoke from my heart to the hearts of those who are beginning to ride the ride in the High Park fire.  Now, I speak it to you, perhaps a little more lucidly since cameras are not rolling and I can go back and edit a bit for more clarity.  Yet, as I re-read my words, I am not sure I am communicating what I want to say.  I think if you know, you will know.  Otherwise, it might not make sense.  Part of being willing to be in the unknown is the challenge of recounting it.  And, I can’t be separate from it right now, so I am describing the experience from down in the trenches.  I am telling you about the blood and the guts and the mud and the bullets whizzing overhead with glimpses of the blue sky.  I am not telling you about the battle that was fought 20 years ago and the wisdom I gleaned and now want to pass on from a place on high…  No.  I am not doing that.    

What I want to provide is peace of mind and heart for those who grapple with life.  I want ease for those who struggle.  Not to get to “the other side” but to embrace being in the midst.  Then we can meet each other there with knowing looks and a warm embrace.  We will see the flotsam and jetsam of darkness and recognize a fellow traveller.  We won’t brush things over but we will know what deserves our grapple and what doesn’t. 

Are you a grappler?  Well, then I write for you.  Do you thrive when you see the rich fabric of the world?  Then, I call to you.  Do you scream to know you are not alone in your angst?  Then, I scream back.

Let’s grapple together – grapplers unite!

It's the little things. And, sometimes it's like herding cats

Like herding cats.  That’s what it feels like as I attempt to sort my thoughts today.  I was given a writing assignment which I gladly said yes to!  Then as I sit down at the keyboard, the anticipation builds...  What will I say?  What will be the words that I know will come as they reliably have for the past 58 blog entries.  And what happens?  Nothing.  Nada.  Niente.  Nilch.  And, more of that.

Then I can’t even switch gears and write my blog cause my head has suddenly become filled with crap.  I have to say, I awoke with some crap in my head.  Thank God, I talked with another “home-loser”, the lovely Sharon, and she and I laughed at the ‘murphy’s law’ that seems to be following us around.  Just as she was calling me, she opened the microwave in her rental and the glass plate randomly broke.  My tale?  I picked up my new dress from my trusted tailor to discover that absolutely none of what we talked about had been done.  A relatively simple project, or so it seemed, he was to move the ties around so the dress fit better.  What I ended up with was not that at all – and get this – one of the ties had been removed from the waist area and literally was re-attached to the bottom of the skirt hem, hanging down.  Seriously.  Ummmmm.  I can’t even begin to understand this logic.  In telling my beloved neighbor, she laughed harder than I have ever heard her laugh before which in turn made me laugh instead of continuing down the grumpy path where I was headed all morning.  Then, Sharon proclaimed, “it’s a tail”.  She must be right.  My leopard print dress required a tail.  No other explanation needed.  Hear that, Murphy?

My sleep has been off again, and my mind has been grasping things to obsess and worry about.  The dress was my top worry as I drifted off to sleep and then this morning at 5am I woke up thinking about it.  So much for not sweating the small stuff as my grand lesson after tragedy… Meeting yet another fire survivor this morning who lost his home in a fire 12 years ago, a knowing nod accompanied his kind demeanor as I told him some of our tales.  He understands.  We understand each other.  What normally would be an annoyance or inconvenience becomes monumental.  And, for some strange reason these “little” annoyances seem to be everywhere we look.  From my dress miss-hap (which was supposed to be one of my few “nice” outfits for my upcoming trip), to David’s lengthy drive to a RV supply store (where kindness and a helpful spirit were touted yet completely lacking), to the variety of septic “issues” we have had, these things add up in our already fatigued systems and we quickly dive into overload.  Or maybe we never leave overload and these things just further cement our spirals...  It’s debatable. 

It’s the little things that bring the shit storms, and the gifts.  Today, in discussing the fate of our scorched trees, we glanced up at two we were hoping to save but were making their way onto the “fell” list.  “What is that?” we wondered aloud.  “Is that what we think it is???”  It was.  A small patch of green pine needles way up high, almost beyond seeing.  Was it a tromp l’oeil or the small sign of hope?  Since we both saw it, and then the kind man who will fell the rest saw it, we believe it to be true.  And, we believe it to be new growth.  A few clumps of green amidst a sea of black and brown.  These two trees were our favorites besides our long lost pine that towered over our deck and provided much needed shade on our south facing lot.  Shade is a missing commodity these days and its absence is one of the drawbacks of rebuilding here.  We created shade by Flame in the form of an umbrella, and now a vintage style awning which keeps the sun off of her sides and a cool breeze passing through.  During the hot summer days of Colorado it would be intolerable to live here without some shade. 

Will our two trees come back fully?  We don’t know.  They officially have been given a stay of execution.  For now.   The nice young man who will be taking 20+ other trees knows what he is doing.  He was 15 when his family lost their home to the High Meadow fire.  Hired out to cut down neighbors’ trees during their recovery process after proving himself on his own land, he then formed a business appropriately called “Splintered Forest”.  At 27, he carries wisdom beyond his years.  He patiently followed me around as I became more and more willing to let more and more trees go.  They call them ‘widow makers’ after a fire.  You never know when one might drop either while you sleep or innocently pass by.  Of course, I ok’d the ones by Flame, but then expanded my consideration to those overhanging the driveway, the future home site, and David’s storage container “man cave”.  We will utilize all the remains by chipping for erosion prevention and chopping for firewood.  If they have any life left in them, these trees will not die in vain.

I feel relieved to put ourselves and our forest health in this young mans hands.  I am happy he really gets it.  We are gathering our team of those who live up here, have lost homes in the past or have some connection to our particular area.  This feels good.  We don’t get pat answers or our concerns swept under the carpet.  We also don’t have to explain too much. 

I asked this man what the biggest life lesson he received after his fire.  His reply, “It’s all just stuff.”  A good metaphor for life.  It’s all just stuff.  Sometimes I will interact with it like that – and other times I will attempt to organize the un-organizable, just like herding cats.

Last night I shared with my women’s group my realization that this time is precious.  It’s dirty, raw, ash-covered and tremendously challenging – and it’s also precious.  It will be like no other (hopefully).  Next year this time, we will be rejoining the majority of US citizens by living in a house, and life will be different.  We won’t have to say, “Excuse me” to pass by each other.  We will have a sink larger than a shoebox.  We will take showers standing up.  And, we will even have a washing machine so we don’t have to do the smell test and ponder – can I get away with one more day? 

My phone rings and it’s my neighbor Jeanie who talked to Sharon and heard about my dress dilemma.  Now living in Denver, Jeanie offers to drop my dress off for me to save me a trip.  Ahhhhh.  It’s the little things.  I discover a much easier way to do dishes in my shoebox sink.  Ahhhhh.  Another thing.  My phone rings again and it’s a man wanting the former owner of my number to paint his garage floor.  I kindly explain that he must have a wrong number.  He responds, “Well, do you want to paint my floor?”  We chuckle together and move on with our day.  Ahhhhh.  It really is the little things.    

I am part of a bigger whole.  I am not alone.  I have my peeps.  And, meet more along the way.  We understand each other as we walk through this fire called life and the resulting ups and downs.  We will stumble and fall along the way.  Then, we will look up for an instant, and perhaps catch a glance of green in a towering pine that once was grand and hopefully one day will be again.  

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?  

I know I am not alone cause Michael Franti says so

I have found God and his name is Michael Franti.  I have found heaven and it is called Red Rocks.  I speak the truth, my people.  Let it be known.  Shout it from the mountaintops.   The lost have been found.  In the form of a 6’6” dreadlocked artist, Franti reminds us simultaneously of the darkness in the world, the depth of human emotions, and the glory of true joy.  He seems to hold all spaces equally without judgment. There is room for the love-struck teenybopper, the 89-year-old fan, the first date, the wheelchair bound, the pot smoking hippies culture par duex and more.  We are all welcome.  The bad day, good day, high on life or in the trenches, we stood shoulder to shoulder through the 3-hour show and danced our butts off, following his decree to raise our hands, jump, and make some noise.  Smiles glued to faces, knowing looks as we passed each other in the crowded aisles, joy was found at Red Rocks last night.  Franti sang simple odes of understanding the human condition:

And when the rain falls down

You know the flowers are gonna bloom

And when the hard times come

You know the teacher’s in the room

And when the sun comes up

You know that I’ll be there for you

Don’t let it go, oh no

He spoke directly to those going through struggles and pleaded with us to not give up.  I think we all agreed last night.  Red Rocks is a magical place.  My first experience there was in the mid 80’s as a college student.  It’s a blur for sure as drinking and drugging were my companions at any concert but the magical venue left it’s mark.  If you have never been to a concert there, you must at least do it once in your lifetime.  Musicians love it.  The natural rock formations create a perfect amplification of sound.  Many claim it as their favorite venue.  For most Coloradans, and those lucky enough to visit our fine state, it is definitely our favorite. 

David and I needed the alchemy of a concert at Red Rocks.  And, not just any concert.  Franti filled the bill.  Not only are his lyrics a peek into the real deal of our human condition, his presence and love for his audience was palpable.  He was amongst the crowd multiple times, hugging people, singing in our faces, shaking hands.  He popped up in various locals throughout the venue and stayed in each place long enough to make the entire stadium feel they had front row seats.  He invited people come up on stage and share the mic for a few lines.  He thanked us with genuine gratitude after each song – and he played and played and played.  We were with dear friends so the night was even more special.  After a day of relatively high angst, it was the panacea.  Thank you Michael. 

I met a friend's judgment yesterday.  It came swiftly from an old place in a well-rutted relationship.  We both have our roles we play and we both predictably, in times of stress or strain, trigger the shit out of each other.  It seems like we “should” be able to get along.  We are both great people, yet we often come from very different places which occur as opposite opinions.  And, they aren’t really that opposite, it just ends up that way.  Two wills, not hearing each other in the least, attempting to say what we need to say, but no real messages are received.  We end up frustrated having gathered more “evidence” for our opinion about who and how the other is.  Oh that dance is so fun.  Not.  The dance we unconsciously choose is the same dance we always do – and after stomping all over each others toes - we complain to our respective parties.  We may do this dance forever. 

This is one of those relationships where I often find myself “wishing” it were different.  It seems like we should be the best of friends.  For many years, I was heartbroken about that (which is an oh so attractive way to be with another…).  I have had seriously wonderful times with this person, sharing deep familiar laughter that only a long-time relationship can produce.  And, I get over the top hooked beyond belief when we have our ‘little’ altercations.  I let these interactions take me south into obsessive-land, replaying the conversation over and over again.  And did I mention over and over and over again all the while hoping for resolution to occur solo in my noggin, which as you know, isn't the best place to seek resolution.

Proud to be relatively peaceful last night after consciously letting it go multiple times, I then wondered what Michael would say about it all.  I am sure he would understand.  He would say that love is all that matters.  He would get the darkness, the angst and would probably give a big sweaty bear hug and a peck on the cheek.  Then he would write some lyrics.  As I write my ‘lyrics’ this morning, I wonder, can I let go enough to let love be the thing that shows up?  Can I let go of my hurt feelings and my ongoing dilemma of feeling misunderstood in this relationship?  Will I? 

I need to remember that this person is not a place I should go to for deep understanding.  This has inherent irony and therein lies my trap.  But really, we are too similar and then, alas, too different.  I am learning to celebrate my “all of it” ness in life.  If this recent life occurrence doesn’t continue to open me to that then there is really no point.  It’s what I am supposed to be doing on my trip round the sun.  I know that in my bones.  And, the messy humanity thing isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.  Some people like it neat and tidy.  Others like it empowered and transformed all the time.  Talking to one of my clients yesterday, we agreed on our attraction to teachers who are real.  Both sick of the distant guru who shines light down from the mountaintop and claims to have left their troubles way way way back in the past.  They spread the message of what’s possible yet leave no room for the “down” days – or moments. 

Yes, I do believe that there is no ‘good’ day or ‘bad’ day only our thinking makes it so.  And, I believe in not having to be perfect all the time too.  Thank the good lord above, most recently manifested in the visage of Michael Franti, that I have lots of peeps around me who preach the same gospel.  We want the real deal.  We want to be heard and listened to in our angst and darkness and messy humanity.  And, we want to be known as who we really are but certainly not told to snap out of it. 

I met a man yesterday who openly shared his pain with me.  A stranger across a counter, he causally said something about life being difficult.  As those who go through life traumas can attest, this is how it seems in some moments.  Again refer to paragraph 8, line 1 above and remember I get it.  And… Do you think that I should have said to this man, “you should look for the silver lining in life” as a way to turn him around and force feed appreciation and gratitude instead of for a moment pausing and being with his pain?  Certainly not, in this not so humble human’s opinion.  Instead, I stopped and spent time with him.  I listened and asked questions.  And, I chose not to tell him any of my woes.  He knew I got it.  His spirit wasn’t destroyed either.  He and his wife lost everything after an almost fatal accident two years ago.  He spent months in the hospital, lost his 6-figure business, the bank took his house and then the repo men showed up and carted away all his stuff.  He is living with his kids and struggles emotionally with the massive changes in his life.  He is making his way back to stability but is far from going out on his own again.  At his age, he may not make it all the way back.  He misses the freedoms of his previous life – and is still able to see the gifts of his new life. 

I will not shut him down or feed him an empowering line.  I will not expect him to be somewhere other than he is.  I will have patience with his process and I will recognize that sometimes emotional scars take longer to heal than the physical scars.  I will nod knowingly but not try to one-up his pain.  I re-promise to have unwavering compassion for people’s stuck places.  I will forgive my friend for not knowing how to be with my stuff and his not so well hidden expectation that I be somewhere else - like an attitude of gratitude perhaps???  How about we don’t enforce that on someone else.  We could be the example – and kindly choose not to have to spell it out for someone else.  The spiritual principle of ‘shut up’ is sometimes the best we can hope for. 

I will search Franti’s lyrics for THE answer.  I am sure it is in there somewhere.  I will let you know when I find it.  

Just who is this God dude?

Well… If I had written yesterday, I would have begun by crying out, “God hates me!”  Now I know that isn’t completely true.  And, I know everything could be a helluva lot worse.  And, I don’t even know for sure there is a God to hate me afterall.  Is anyone really up there watching over us?  Does he or she reside within us?  Does anything make any sense?  Are my prayers heard?  Are my curses ignored?  Will I burn in hell – or are we all living in hell right now?  All these questions and more would have tumbled from my fingers onto the keyboard…

After my debut performance as a stand-up comic on Tuesday night and the resulting freedom and exaltation that came from that, Wednesday was wonderful.  I felt different as I drove to my weekly appointment with my therapist.  The colors seemed brighter along the road – and don’t just tell me it’s cause they were brighter… My soul felt lighter and I thought I might have turned a corner.  Proud of my progress through this trauma, my therapist acknowledged my inner resources and ability to rely on my many years of personal growth tools.  I felt it too.  Ahhhh.  Life was shifting. 

After being gone much of the day, I returned home to Flame a tad on the tired side and discovered an odor.  A somewhat familiar odor, I might add.  Looking in the place I now know to look, I observed the drip drip drip of raw sewage falling to the ground in the same pattern as before.  Again?  Really???  Dollar signs began racking up in my head from the conversation with the repair person who felt so happy to be saving us the “big” repair by attributing the leak to merely a seal on the tank.  And, then the rain started to fall.  I quickly did my business in the glory of nature and returned to the warmth of Flame to retire.  All through the night, the rain grew more intense, the thunder boomed and lightning flashed.  Besides not being able to sleep well, I didn’t think much about it.  Until morning that is.  On my trip out to do my morning constitution, I discovered what all of us “homelosers” had been afraid of.  A bad case of erosion was there to greet me.  And, yes, many people dealt with storm related chaos and damage from this deluge – and ours was due to the lack of vegetation on the ground – and you already know what that was due to…

I felt the psychic clouds roll in even as the sky was clearing.  Too tired, smelling the stink of the dripping “blackwater”, and seeing the devastation of the land once again, I began to fold.  My morning was consumed with rallying the troops, finding out who else was dealing with erosion, emailing Channel 7, taking pictures, reaching out to our community resource team all while waiting for the RV repair guy to call me back.  Shirley Septic (my heroes) arrived mid-morning, delivering a porta-potty and pumping the holding tank to slow the leakage and make the repair guys job a little bit easier and lot less messy. 

The light I had sensed the day prior evaporated in the stink, running down the newly formed gulley’s that covered our property where once there was earth.  I watched it run down hill and wondered if I would ever have any consistent feeling ever again.  Did I have the energy to deal with this?  To reschedule my clients (again), to change my plans for the day (again), to make calls to strangers (again) and beg for their assistance?  I wasn’t sure.  In between making things happen, I talked to one client and suddenly a small bird flew into the trailer, got trapped and began to panic.  I felt my panic rise as well as I watched it’s wings batting against the walls as it tried to escape.  Finally, I managed to open a stiff plexiglass window wide enough for the bird to slip out.  As it flew away to safety, the panic stayed with me.  Sinking.  Should I sound the alarm, call my therapist and ask to be diagnosed or maybe committed?  Was this a “normal” response, would I ever see my sun again?  What did I think was funny about the fire anyway?  I wanted to take it all back.  I give.  Uncle.  Help. 

If there is a God, I am certainly happy he (or she) can tolerate my anger with him (or her).  There is some satisfaction in taking the lords name in an excessive level of vain.  I don’t know if threats work, but I feel better in the moment.  As the day progressed, my actions began to pay off.  The repair guy came – and will come again with more parts on Sunday to hopefully really fix the problem.  Channel 7 came and did a headline story that aired twice last night.  And, we retreated to Jessica’s for the night. 

As I use her facilities, I am amazed at what a real toilet sounds like when it flushes.  I marvel that I don’t have to press a pedal on the floor to evacuate it.  My dogs actually have a floor to stretch out on and can run through the house as they love to do.  I will actually take a shower standing up today!  Amazing.  We won’t run out of water, electricity or propane.  I am doing 5 loads of laundry as I make some phone calls from a landline.  This living in a real house thing is kinda nice.  Tonight, we will join friends at the glorious Red Rocks stadium under the Colorado sky to see Michael Franti sing his magic.  Shortly, we will take these now sleeping dogs to expend some more energy at the dogpark in Evergreen.  We will stop at Home Depot and check out kitchen counters and cabinets.  I will show David some recycled glass counter tops that we might fit into the bathroom budget.

The sun is shining, the aspens are shimmering and we are breathing.  Maybe there actually is a God, and maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t really hate me afterall.