❤️ All you have is love. ❤️ As life is wont to offer, I have experienced the ins and outs of the deepest darkness and came one desperate night many years ago to be sitting on the back stairs of my own home on Garfield Avenue in Salt Lake City trying to sequester myself for the powerful and frightening things that had been drawn to me. 🌿🌿🌿And maybe there comes a point in everyone’s life where they are faced with the threat of feeling so alone that they cannot do anything but look at it, wondering aloud to the universe while sitting on the carpeted steps in the back of their home, ‘what can I do? Please help me.” But that is where I was that night. And there is both a long story and a short story through the journey of its resolution and I’ll leave neither but will simply say that I sat down on the steps as
https://www.thesun.co.uk/video/fabulous/holocaust-survivor-leslie-kleinman-bem-who-lost-his-entire-family-in-auschwitz-tells-his-astonishing-story-of-survival-to-the-sun/ When I think of the people who have gone out of my life as a result of this new time of naked ugly truth–“family”, friends, those who cannot find their voice of empathy in this new America; those who in a different time might have been okay with families being carted off on trains–there are moments when I chastise myself for being unable to love bigger; I feel bad for being unwiling to accept another’s path, knowing from my own experience that often the journey is one moment then another of flawed thinking. I feel bad that I don’t have contact with my brother, and my dad, and my mom; I feel like I “should” be making amends, reaching out in compassion. I worry; what if they’re scared or grieving and my actions are heartless? What if I’m being the same person I despise, lacking the tolerance that affords the wiggle room of compassion which allows painful times
[Above pic from Christmas Day 2017; I was heading back out to work so we snapped a pic] And somehow in the ins and outs of synchronicity and happenstance, that day before her birthday on November 30th, 2017, I began melding with The Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood”, again returning to that one refrain which bows me down until I remember that day of holding my baby, knowing (like not in my head but in my body; like a knowing stretching outside of “knowing”) that pooling around my experience was now the potential for every single bit of love and agony possible to have within one life. For I had worried I wouldn’t love her as I did Julia; that was a real thing for me. I worried I’d never be able to rise to that level; Julia was my early baby, born 7 weeks before she was ready then hooked to IVs—“she might die; be blind, deaf; have disabilities”—and even before
I listened to a choir performance my cousin shared of my Aunt Cathy—who apologized because she’d only intended to share it with choir members—and there was something there for me because I got this little tickle (of heart and brain flirting like courtship) that made me follow his lead and also offer reverent music. And my first impulse was to share something I’ve shared before–Part 1 of Chichester Psalms–because the specific Psalms the music references (108 v2 and 100) do this eruption of joy within me. Not sure why. I assume most likely because I don’t have any religion “radar blips” in my past so have been spared the disappointment of seeing that sometimes what looks like deep and lovely faith is just a nervous little man behind a curtain pulling switches. In my world, Jesus hasn’t been tainted and misused—nobody utilized him to abuse my much more sacred Source-appointed free will—so I have emotional freedom to look upon him
[FB post from yesterday, 8/27] This morning at 5:04 AM I got an email via my yelp account from a recently-homeless woman who wanted to get a quote on how much it would be for me to board her two “beautiful” adult cats in my home. It was already a weird morning because my friend Graham sent me a link to my old Garfield house which is now for sale again and seeing the interior sterility and the back yard–which the summer after James moved in 2007 was the site of a “healing through manual labor and sunburn”–with its huge tree gone and most everything I planted looking dead really put the punctuation on the end of that chapter in my life. It was the punctuation you typically see after “you stupid fucking idiots; what the actual fuck.” And so it was that I started my day. Sunday. An easy work day before the madness starts up tomorrow and moves
(For people who don’t know me irl, I somehow very circuitously became a pet sitter–someone who takes care of animals in their homes while they’re family is away–as my primary occupation. This post is about one of the families I tended for and that is me in the photos above). I had to stop sitting for these guys because they had moved to Sandy (I’m strictly Salt Lake City) but if I ever write a book, I’m going to contact Luna’s human to include her story. I don’t know what motivates some people to nurture what is not easily nurtured. Her new owner didn’t know if Luna could be rehabilitated–didn’t know what would happen, was unsure what would come of her effort–but Luna’s story pulled her into a situation wherein, at once, she was faced with the daily acceptance of knowing Luna’s ugly story at the same time as she realized that making a life with Luna would be
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And it was a time of great vulnerability. But I didn’t know it then.
Because at age 20, away at college, and in love with the future, I couldn’t see anything but sex and hope and an unwavering commitment to fervor and reverie.
When my mom turned 40, she had an epic meltdown in the upstairs bathroom of our geodesic dome house on Hazel Dell Road, crying and rocking herself in the bathtub while relaying how disappointed she was in her life, and the myriad things she thought she’d have accomplished by that age that she didn’t. We were having a party later that day that people would be driving from all over Northern California to attend so I remember feeling like it was important to bandaid this situation so she could get out of the bathtub, don some clothes, maybe some makeup and come down to her own party. There just seemed little sense in adding THAT disappointment to the mix, and it really felt like her meltdown/“existential crises” was just a little too much to handle from the cold water of an upstairs bathroom on party day. I don’t do epic meltdowns. I don’t do “I’m aging oh my god what
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Fifteen years ago to the day, my ex and I were in Reno. We’d driven the 8 hours with our then-2 year and 10 month old daughters, Julia and Livy, to combine James’ business trip with a visit with my mom, who’d driven from California to meet us. Courtesy of my
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I’ve been listening to this song all day and thinking about America.
I remember sitting in a car with my mother circa 1993, and being called on to defend my ex-husbands adopted Korean sisters because to mom all Asians were forever tainted by Pearl Harbor,