The next episode

I haven't blogged in a really long time. I made a decision to go back to school.  I cannot go to community college anymore because the curriculum doesn't move quickly enough. The biggest challenge is ignoring the students who haven't done the reading or homework and not getting irritated by the time wasted in class going over information they should already know. I felt like either I should be paying less tuition than they were or there should be slower classes for them.

I'm intimidated by writing classes. UC Berkeley has a ton of intensive workshops. The first one I've got my eye on is Screenplay Writing. That will be useful for my projects with Twin Peaks. It will be nice to work in someone else's project for a while.  

Following the first of the novel creation workshop in the series, I've taken another break from the memoir. It's mostly to protect my sanity. It's especially difficult to keep it together while surrounded by the main players in my story. Mom has returned from the Philippines. My brother and his wife haven't moved out yet (it has been over two years since they moved in and said they'd only stay for a short time). Everyone else it's stagnant, so now I've got to do something. I need pace and quiet. I need privacy. I've gotta get out of here!

Now that I have a dog, I can't live at my former residence. I'm considering giving him away to a co-worker who already loves him. School and moving are big changes. The only way I can keep him is to have a yard or a safe walking/running path or trail where he and I can get a good run in every morning before my other responsibilities take over. There's no rush, so I have time to really look carefully. Either way he'll be just fine. We'll be just fine.

June's Project

I’ve enrolled in a beginning novel writing course.  It’s every Sunday in June.  Now I'm wondering if a person can write a novel in one month.  I have so much that may not be used at all.  This is an idea that doesn’t sit comfortably, but I’ve accepted that it is a very real possibility.

Bite me, self conscious thoughts!

Last night I spent several fun hours hanging out with a small group of friends from junior high. Twenty eight years we've known each other, and I actually considered skipping out because I felt self conscious about being overweight.

A few nights ago, after meditating, I decided to just get over it and accept myself the way I am right now. I may not feel attractive at this weight or at this fitness level, but I'm still me. Anyone who loves me won't stop simply because I'm overweight and any "friends" I lost during my fitness hiatus weren't real friends anyway. These people in particular have known me so many years that they won't care about anything so shallow. They just want me to show up.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprising after all, I've been steadily picking my healthy habits back up since that night without any feelings of obligation or dread. I dare say it has even been fun! I tell you, what they say is completely true; the kindest and most satisfying embrace is the one you give yourself.

hard work

Sometimes the most difficult thing to do is put your own problems aside long enough to support a friend.

Shattered Pieces in my Wake

The Puppetmaster and I walked along the embarcadero after brunch on Sunday. We passed the yacht club at China Basin, and a memory of being a theater usher came flooding back.

It was late one night after a Rent show. There was a cast and crew party at the yacht club, and there were a handful of ushers in attendance. I sat out on the deck in a dark corner with a few of the sarcastic girls smoking and cracking inappropriate jokes about the guys performing their favorite selections inside. They were each very talented, most of them so much that it overshadowed their larger than life egos. I had watched them in their glory so frequently that it was no longer a novelty.

A stranger walked in during one of the performances and bellied up to the bar. He was dressed in the dark layers common to the area like a fisherman or longshoreman. His pace was slow and purposeful, but his height allowed him to cross from the entrance to the bar with a few steps. The deck was silent as we looked on in awe.

He was beautiful. The ends of thick dreadlocks dangled beneath the wrap around his head, brushing his back just above his waist. His face was smooth olive with a thin goatee.  His eyes glowed golden green. The silence on the deck was broken with a whisper from one of the girls behind me, "Now, that's a man." The rest of us sighed and groaned in agreement. The top of my head tingled.

The tension in the yacht club was palpable. It became painfully clear that the stranger had encroached on a private function. He didn't stay long, but I don't recall anything that happened after his departure that night. I felt as though I'd seen a ghost, there for a fleeting moment and then gone forever. At least that's what I assumed at the time.

the ego's familiar face

I’m probably a typical underachiever.  I don’t take risks because I don’t feel like I’m good enough at anything to really excel at it.  I don’t compete at anything because I’m always afraid that others will beat me.  Not only will they prove themselves better than me, but they will rub my face in their victory.  That’s crazy!  My brain goes in a crazy direction there.

As a young person I never felt like anything I did was good enough.  When something turned out well, I felt compelled to come up with something better.  Perfection was the only scale for measurement.  If it wasn’t perfect it wasn’t right.  Mom taught me that.  I could never please her.  I tried.  Oh, how I tried!  She focused on every imperfection she could find.  To this day I cannot wear shorts because my hyper pigmented hair follicles, which she referred to as “polka dots” looked terrible in her opinion and should always be covered.  I’m not exactly sure why that particular memory came up, but it seems unnecessarily cruel to me now.  Why would a person tell their kid that?  Confidence is something that takes people far in life.  It’s one thing to teach your kids that disappointments happen (and then give them the tools to recover from it); it’s another thing entirely to take away their confidence and make them believe that success is unattainable for “someone like them”.  She probably just didn’t know what she was doing at the time, but it still makes me sad.  I feel sad not just for the child Hester whose dreams of the wide, enchanting world were shattered, but also for my mom who was so hardened and broken that she couldn’t even allow the people around her to believe in kindness, faith and miracles.

I am now at a crossroads that will likely be a recurring one for me – growing out of my irrational fears.  An important part of this process is looking at the beliefs I have about self-worth, remembering where they came from, reliving the emotions associated with the formation of those beliefs and rising above them.  It’s challenging to say the least.  The ego wants to cover up, cry, guilt, attack – anything to make the probing stop, but my logical mind knows that this is all necessary.  I lie awake at night while they fight sometimes. I don’t remember my dreams when I wake up afraid, angry and upset in the middle of the night.  It takes hours to shake it off.

This morning, for the first time in several weeks, I felt light.  I felt a peaceful acceptance of the things that are going on in my life.  I slept well last night.  I only wanted one cup of coffee, which I drank after the rainy and crowded commute.  I’m not exactly sure what changed, but it felt great.  I meditated in the dark before dawn and the minutes flew by.  Whatever this is, I hope I am able to sustain it.  I’ll need it to deal with the emotional gunk that I need to pull out.

turn the beat around

My character, success and happiness do not depend on other people’s opinion of me.  I cannot control how others interpret my behavior nor am I responsible for their thoughts about what I say or do.  I have no expectations of other people.  I do not concern myself with what they think about me or anything else.  Furthermore, there is no way for me to know!  I bring my best to what I do and it is enough.

These are the words I’ve decided to live by today.   I’m tired, irritable and especially sensitive, so it makes perfect sense for me to return here.

 Over the past year I’ve constantly fought my natural inclinations.  I dream about running and yoga all the time but haven’t done as much as a set of simple stretches in several months and haven’t laced up my running shoes in over a year. 

There are a few positives.  I’ve stopped compulsive gambling.  The shopping has slowed, but hasn’t quite stopped yet.  I don’t feel high from it anymore, though, so it’s just a matter of time.  The biggest change is the reduction of my sexual desires to little more than an occasional passing thought upon resting my eyes on a nice-looking man for a moment.  I’ve even stopped dreaming about it.  It scares me a bit, but I am facing it just as I do the walk from the bus stop to the house at night.  The fear of what comes next is just one of those things I have come to accept as unavoidable.  Besides, just because I’m afraid of it doesn’t mean it’s something bad.  I’m afraid of many things; most of them would make me very happy.

I often hear words out my own mouth that come from a peaceful abiding place that is achieved only by mental, physical and emotional balance, but I do not feel balanced.  I do not behave as a balanced person does.  I do not often think what I speak.  In my mind doubts and fears are prevalent.  I have intense highs and lows to my moods that I do not express.  I have withdrawn.

 

This morning I finished “Finding Ultra”.  The story itself was a thoughtful recount of the life-changing decision Rich Roll made that led him to become completely transformed inside and out.  I didn’t find his physical and spiritual development particularly inspiring necessarily, but I was particularly interested in the appendices.  Rich Roll, just like Scott Jurek, is a vegan world class athlete.  He went through in detail his experiences with highly nutritious, animal-free superfoods and research he had found about microbes, intestinal flora and what all these things have to do with eating habits and cravings.  At one point I touched my palm to my gut and thought, “This is what’s happening inside me.  The flora in my intestines feed on the unhealthy, oil and sugar-laden, meat and dairy-rich foods I’ve been consuming.  I need to get them out of there.  I need to detox.”  I ate the banana pancakes in the employee café for breakfast, mostly out of convenience.  For lunch I walked to Berkeley Bowl and purchased four items: a cauliflower and walnut bean salad, a quinoa and edamame salad and two bottles of chia seed kombucha.  I’m on my second fill of the 96-ounce Klean Kanteen I keep at my desk.  This is the solution or at least the beginning of it.  I am absolutely convinced.  It is going to be a difficult transition, and likely some bumps along the way, but I have to get back to my happy, healthy, energetic self.

In support of the detox, I’ve also decided to reread “A New Earth” and “Reinventing the Body, Resurrecting the Soul.”  This is the way I will recover, with the physical.  It is the only thing I can grasp right now, and I am desperate for control.

mindfuck central

Over the past month or so I’ve had some irritating money issues.  I double-paid my DMV registration when the check took too long to post.  The deadline was looming, so I went into the DMV office and paid the fee by debit card.  The rep at the counter assured me that the DMV would not cash my check if I didn’t owe them anything.  She was wrong.  Not only have I paid the registration a second time, when the DMV cashed the check the money wasn’t available in that account so I incurred a NSF fee of $30.  So I have double-paid my $274 registration plus a $30 fee.  To top it off, I now have to file an application for refund using their form.  Who knows how long that will take?

I took my car in for a smog check, which it failed.  The mechanic gave me an estimate for the work that needed to be done before running the smog again.  He said it would be at least $2500 – he stressed AT LEAST because there was still no guarantee that it would pass smog after the service was done.  I can’t get new license plate tags until the car has passed smog.  I’ve had the car parked in the driveway since my registration expired.  It will remain there until I can afford to get it serviced and roll the dice again.  Catching the bus has been okay without Lucky (he stays home with Mom most days since she is still in town), but I’ve tacked on an hour in both directions.  This two hour addition has come immediately from my self-care rituals.  I haven’t stretched, flossed, put together an outfit, done my makeup, eyebrows, pedicure, manicure or anything of the sort since putting the car away.  I rarely even bother to comb my hair.  I get up in the dark and return home in the dark every workday.  On weekends I take Mom out to run errands (in her car), do chores, clean up after four grown ass people, bathe the dog and basically just get ready to do it all over again the following week. 

Weekend before last, when I checked into the hotel where we had our team training retreat in San Diego, I used my debit card for incidentals because our rooms and parking were all being covered by a master bill account.  The hotel held $570 from my checking account.  That wasn’t supposed to happen – mistake on their end. 

Last weekend I stayed at the LAX Renaissance.  I prepaid that stay with Marriott points, so I also used my debit card for incidentals ($50 is typically held for this purpose).  I checked out of the hotel on 3/23.  On 3/24 they placed a hold for $334 on my account (I’m assuming that is the cost of two nights although I really have no idea why that would even be relevant since it was prepaid).  I called Renaissance to find out what the hell was going on since the hold was put on my account the day after I checked out.  The woman told me that she couldn’t help me since the accounting department was closed, but she could see that it was a mistake and my card had actually been run twice (and both times for the wrong amount since the reservation was prepaid).

All of this was a mystery to me until the evening of 3/24 after I got back home and went online to pay my car insurance.  My card was declined.  When I looked up my account info I was shocked, then angry, then upset.  The hotel where I stayed for work was eager to fix their mistake quickly, but the Renaissance rep told me to just wait until the following day and it should fall off on its own.  That wasn’t so.  Yesterday, ON MY BIRTHDAY MIND YOU, everything absolutely fell apart and my account went into the red with multiple overdraft fees and holds and just plain frustrating craziness.  Although I didn’t have any birthday plans, I couldn’t have gone anywhere if I wanted to.  My money is all tied up.  It’s a huge mess, and I can’t do a damn thing about it!  I have made requests for review by accounting representatives, jumped through hoops and yadda yadda yadda.  All I can do now is wait.  Last night I woke up so angry because I’d been dreaming of it.  I lie awake in my bed for almost three hours afterwards, begging the universe to resolve the situation and help me to be at peace.  I do feel a bit better today, but still far from my usual self - I'm fighting to keep my optimism at this point.  The most disappointing thing is that I don’t really desire or ask for much.  I am polite when I bring a mistake to someone’s attention.  I wait patiently on hold when they scramble to figure out what went wrong.  I empathize and never raised my voice.  Still, here I am  - screwed and powerless.  It’s bullshit.

 

 

rambling in transit

Today someone apologized to me.  I felt like crying.  It was confusing.  I was feeling sorry too, sorry that the apology was needed in the first place.  I admit that I did need it.  I didn’t want it, though.  I wanted to stay angry.  I wanted to have what was left of my anger to support me this week.  I wanted to use that anger to protect me and close the door to the emotions that are swirling around in my little brain.  All this writing about my childhood is just ripping off a scab.  Now I’m open, raw and incredibly moody.  I wanted to distract myself with anger.

I do a lot of listening.  I sit and just listen to life: hvac hissing, shoes tapping on the floor and getting softer as they move further away, conversations near and far in voices that are high-pitched, baritone, upward inflections, laughing nervously, stalling for time, beating around the bush, attempting to make a hasty exit or just going around in circles saying the same thing a bunch of different ways.  The tinkle of keys and bracelets, a nose blow, an exasperated sigh, the rustling of a paper bakery sleeve, the creak of a chair and all kinds of echoes all around - the shadows of sounds bouncing off the walls, the ceiling, the windows and muffled by the rugs.

I listen to my brother and mother talking.  I hear the hurt and anger in his voice.  I hear the stubbornness in hers.  I step in to cool things off with a laugh or I drop something to distract them.  I’d rather they bicker at me than with each other.  Some things never change I guess.  I don’t really mind when they fuss at me; I forget it as soon as the conversation changes.  I never forget how they treat each other.  Interesting, right?  It's funny how roles evolve and still remain the same as we "grow up".

I also do a lot of wondering.  Do people choose their parents before they are born? Did I choose my parents?  Why? Were we connected in a former life?  Can one person in this life be split into two or combined with another in the next?  Are there a number of original souls who were split up to make all the people who are living now?  Are we all divisions of the same original soul?  Is that why everything is connected?  How do we tap into the connection between all things?  Is it possible to be aware of a nonlinear existence?  Would I freak out and have a mental breakdown if I got a glimpse at something like that?  Is that what happened to schizophrenics?  Are babies able to look into other dimensions or see auras?  This train of thought can go on forever.
 

I’m sure that everyone has moments when they wonder how their lives would be different if they knew then what they know now.  I’m convinced that I would be even bigger trouble than I was, if that’s possible.  Walking wounded .  I’m not sure why so many people loved me.  It was pretty clear that I didn’t appreciate it - I couldn't.  Okay, maybe I wouldn’t be as much trouble.  Had I known that the time I spent with certain people would be so short, I would have been kinder.  No, I wouldn’t be rich.  No, I wouldn’t be popular.  I would be kind.  I’m not sure when that became enough.  It might have happened just now.

Yin-Yang - Something Given, Something Taken Away

When I was a child, whenever I would have a laughing fit my mom always reminded me that every laugh must be paid for with tears.  It wasn’t until recently that I understood what she was trying to say.  I always thought she was just a buzzkill.  Okay, she was a buzzkill, but she also had a lot of wisdom to share.

In school I loved science.  I still do, but I’ve definitely lost the patience for research.  Science explains stuff in as much or as little detail as you require.  Science is always looking for the reason why something happens.  I like to use science to understand things that are bigger than us.  Religion says that people don’t die but are instead changed somehow.  Some religions say they go to heaven or hell.  Others say they are reborn into new lives.  The way I like to think about it is somewhat scientific – everything and everyone is made of energy.  Energy can be redistributed; it can be released by one object and absorbed by another.  Energy can be transformed.  Energy cannot be destroyed. - it isn't linear like our lives  Science fucking rocks!

Science says that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  This is what my mom was trying to teach me.  I didn’t learn it at the time because our communication styles are so different.  She was simply stating that there must be balance.  Today I find myself with my face pressed up against the window, looking into the house of my own life at the powerful force of balance.

I woke up this morning feeling a melee of emotions uncharacteristic of my personality: anger, repulsion, anxiety (ok, that one’s actually quite common for me) and shame.  Yesterday I was elated and hopeful, but I am not disappointed that my mood has reversed.  I know with every fiber of my being that balance is working everything out.  There’s no need for alarm.  Besides, what good would that do anyway?

Writing about my life gives me the opportunity to relive experiences that left strong impressions and feel all of those intense emotions again as an adult who understands them better.  I empathize with both my child self and the adults who were responsible for taking care of me, which is monumental.  It’s unfortunate that children are unable to analyze how they feel and determine the cause of their pain.  What’s even more unfortunate is that many adults are also similarly unskilled.   It’s not anyone’s fault really; expressing and acknowledging emotions is just beginning to be a valued skill in our society.  There’s that word again – society.  Pffft!  I guess there'll be more on that in my musings later.

The Most Important Lesson to Teach a Child

When it comes to immediate family, no one feels good about playing favorites.  Although it’s rarely talked about, every kid has their favorite parent and every parent has their favorite child.  Although my dad’s parenting skills were questionable, he was my favorite.  I remember him as a great father in spite of his faults.

Don’t get me wrong, Dad was an extremely flawed individual.  He was a military lifer who joined the service soon after becoming an official adult.  He served in two major wars, one of which he never mentioned.  As far as the numbers go, he left the US as part of a massive platoon with tens of thousands of other young men.  Fourteen of those men returned.  I understand now why he never spoke of it.  After poring through as much frontline media as I could find, I’ve come to respect Dad much more than ever before.  He was a more complex person than I could have imagined.  These new discoveries stengthen my bond with him after his death.

Dad was a dreadful husband.  He and my mother often fought physically when they lived together.  They were ill-matched as a couple.  My mother is one of those people who must push the boundary by pointing out the embarrassments everyone would rather ignore or cover up and repeatedly rehash the same sensitive topics.  It’s no surprise that, on one of her notorious hot button hunts, she found something dangerously painful in my father and picked at it until it burst open like a rotten fruit in the hot sun.  I’m not saying she deserved it; I’m just saying that it’s not surprising.  When Mom threatened to take us (me and my brother) away, Dad lashed out violently and tried to cut her face off with a pocket knife.  Luckily my brother (then a teenager) was there to intervene.  Supposedly I was away at the babysitter's, but I have no recollection of anything: my mother’s stitches, my father’s arrest, weeks that follwed.  The only one memory I have of their terrible breakup is the day that I came home from school to the foul, overpowering odors of blood and feces.  Mom said that Dad, in a drunken stupor, lost his keys so he broke the window and crawled through because he had to use the bathroom so bad that he couldn’t wait.  It wasn’t a nice lie, but it didn’t leave any room for unanswered questions.  I found out much later in life that Dad’s closest friend had taken his keys away to keep him out of the house and away from Mom.  Indeed, he was an awful husband.

Dad wasn’t an ideal father either.  His alcoholism made him inconsistent in what he taught us and unreliable as a babysitter.  He beat my brother mercilessly before I was born.  There was one warm autumn in particular when my brother wore sweaters to school in the heat of Indian Summer to cover up his bloody welts. 

When I was born, something changed.  My mother and brother still talk quietly about it today, now that my father has been dead for several years, like he might overhear them.  He was a hard and cruel man until I came along, they say.  The fact that I adored my father didn’t earn me any points with them.  After Dad left the family home I was lost. He died a few years later and left me completely alienated.  In my early thirties I finally confronted my mom and brother about it, and they admitted to harboring resentment against me my entire life.  I knew it!  I felt it.  I understand that they weren’t capable of feeling any other way under the circumstances, but remembering my position as the helpless child in that situation still makes my stomach turn.  I lived a life completely devoid of empathy. I learned to hide injuries to avoid being punished for them.  Eventually I just hid everything – good or bad.  I lived a double life: 16 year old honor roll cheerleader and suicidal alcoholic – charming.  I love my family dearly, but I also feel a deep sadness for them.  It’s like being hungry for a long time, when the pangs end and there’s an uncomfortable emptiness growing with every passing minute and draining your energy.  You know you need something to eat, but you're too tired to make an effort.

The great thing that my father did, and that any parent can do for their child, was be human.  He made mistakes.  He admitted to making mistakes.  He apologized (to me anyway).  He explained himself.  He revealed his weaknesses.  He told me the truth and allowed me the time and space to think about it and understand it.  He asked my opinion.  He never refused to answer a question, even if he had to go find the answer because he didn’t know it.  When I disappointed him, he sat me down and explained exactly why he was upset.  He made sure that I understood why the punishment he chose was appropriate.  He even gave me the opportunity to object if there was any misunderstanding.  There was transparency with him.  This is why he was my favorite. 

Dad and I grew apart when I began hiding my feelings and behaving defensively.  The last thing he said to me before he died was that I was becoming just like my mother.  Burn.

Even as I face my own demons as an adult, I remember my dad.  I think of how much struggle he endured and how screwed up he was and how much I loved him and still love him.  I used to compare my exes to him often, trying to make a case for tolerating alcoholism, financial irresponsibility, womanizing.  Now that I’ve been solo for a while I realize that his memory serves me better when I use it to look at myself.  All of the things that combine to make me: my quirks, regrets, loves, fears, strengths, vulnerabitilies, they're all part of the package - my human experience.  The same way I loved him as a flawed human being, I must also love myself.  He's still teaching me stuff...

Vision Cocktail Party

Late yesterday afternoon I wrapped up a 2-day workshop with three dozen of my coworkers.  One of our last group activities was a Vision Party.  The basic idea is to have a vision of your future and share it with everyone you talk to at the party.  The other person gives you their ideas on how to bring you closer to your vision.  I’m not normally a person who enjoys just standing or sitting around and chatting; I’m an activity partner.  However, I thought it was really fun! 

I get bored with conversations pretty quickly, preferring to just keep someone company with a friendly presence or a few laughs while they do most of the talking.  Discussing our passions is a completely different realm.  When someone opens up and reveals something they truly desire, they beam with excitement and hope.  I’ve decided that I want every lengthy conversation I participate in to contain some of this.

From now on, when I say I want to meet for Happy Hour it’s going to be a Vision Happy Hour.  It doesn’t happen very often, so the timing should be perfect.  What I’m especially looking forward to is cheering from the sidelines while my friends accomplish the things that make them happy and having them do the same for me.

This is 40, well, almost 40. This is approaching 39.

                I’ve had this window open all day – a blank sheet of paper, the writer’s best friend and worst enemy.  Yes, I said “writer”.  It’s of no use to me to continue this game of mock indecision.  I’ve always known this is what I am.  Bookshelves of filled journals dating back to elementary school, lovely pens in every drawer of every room, an empty journal in every bag, backpack and suitcase, volumes of pages printed from files stored on my old Apple 2gs, files on a portable hard drive and taking up space on a couple of remote servers: it’s all proof of my denial.  So why haven’t I completed anything or even had any interest in writing for the past several years?   One tiny word that causes so much grief for everyone – ego.

I’m not sure why, as a society, we’re so addicted to ego.  We obsess about how we compare to those we consider to be the picture of beauty, talent, success, you name it.  Why can’t it just be wonderful to be ourselves?  Instead of embracing the variety of shapes, sizes, nationalities and colors we are born into, we pick one unattainable definition of perfection and measure ourselves against it.  In the end, even the person we believe bears the closest resemblance to perfect really is not.  Mr. or Miss Perfect compares him/herself to someone else too!  It’s like mental disease epidemic.  Here is where I insert my usual tagline, “and this is why I don’t have kids”.

Some people use that ego energy to propel themselves from humble beginnings to great success and superstardom.  They push themselves to get as close as they possibly can to what they believe is perfection.  Along the way many of them discover that what they are shooting for doesn’t exist.  Some people (and I fall into this category more often that the other) just give up.  What is the point of wanting something that can never be?  What’s the point of trying if you can n ever get what you want, especially if what you want doesn’t make you happy?  I may as well just accept the misery now and get it over with.  I got tired of getting my heart broken.  Amidst the melancholia, I observed something strange.  There was a glimmer of light, the surprising and blissful moments of complete clarity that somehow sustained my hope in some of the lowest depressions I experienced.  Even when those dreary days ran together into weeks, months, years, there was always that tiny spark keeping me going.  I don’t know how it survived, and that doesn’t really matter anyway.  I’m just thankful that it’s still there.

I’ve spent the majority of my life beating myself up for not feeling how “successful” people feel, as if there was any way I could have felt any differently or as if the self-inflicted guilt would change my feelings in a positive way.  Now, as 40 appears on the horizon, I finally don’t care.  I don’t care about pleasing or displeasing my mom.  I don’t care if my brother respects me.  I don’t care if my ex wants to be friends after we break up.  I don’t care if I never get anything else published.  I mean, yes, it would be nice but that isn’t why I write.  I write because it makes me feel sane.  I write because the chaos swirling around in my head runs through my fingertips and lines up nicely on the page.  Then, there’s quiet – peaceful, spacious quiet.  This is why I am a writer.

Life with a Dog

When I thought of getting a dog, which I’ve done frequently over the past year, I thought of a German Short-haired Pointer or a Doberman mix.  I wanted a dog that would run with me in the pre-dawn hours and provide protection on backpacking trips in the backcountry.  The fates aligned and bought me a rescue, Lucky.  Lucky is a Chihuahua mix (I think with Miniature Pinscher based on his long legs and pointy snout).  Had I seen Lucky on the adoption websites, I would have passed him up without a second glance.  That’s a rat, not a dog.  I still feel that way when we’re taking our evening walk.  I can’t exactly count on him to discourage an ill-intentioned aggressor.

Lucky was found running the street by one of my coworkers when she almost ran him over.  The shelter asked her to foster him until the owners showed up to claim him.  They never surfaced.  She and her family tried to keep him, but there was so much internal debate in their household about him that it proved to be more trouble than it was worth.  The kids were all allergic to him, and her husband was hesitant to let him stay from the beginning.  Six months after they adopted him, they were ready to surrender him.  I volunteered early in the period of unrest to take him in.  I’d already begun looking for adoption online again when she came to me and told me that they were ready to give Lucky away.

From the first day, my routine was forever changed.  I’ve traded my early morning coffee while watching the news for coffee while taking a freezing cold stroll outside.  I’ve traded my gym bag for dog treats, toys and miscellaneous supplies.  I’ve traded my nightlife for hiking and puppy play dates.  On weekday evenings I pack two lunches.

The thing I miss most is sleeping in.  As I write this my eyes are dry and burning from a combination of too much time reading the screen and needing more sleep.  The only quiet time I have to read, watch a movie or catch up on news and emails is in the evening while Lucky is fast asleep in his bed.  While I’m at work in the office he naps next to my desk, readying himself to prance and play when I take him out every few hours.  The need to simplify my life is more pressing than ever.  Basically I’m exhausted.