Dear 2013,

Dear 2013,

It's the last night of my vacation and I think I'll do a little pondering.

You really kicked my ass this year.  You were sort of like a really bad case of chicken pox that wouldn't go away.  Not necessarily hazardous, just terribly annoying.

I'd like to say a few things before we part ways (for which I am eternally grateful, might I add):

1.  You really kicked my ass this year.

2.  Thanks for reminding me never to lie.  It's better to be broken by the truth than broken by a lie.  I won't forget that next time I have some pretty terrible news to deliver.  Also, Karma's got my back on this one.

3.  I've had two trips to the E.R. in less than 6 months.  I don't think this one really calls for any additional notes.

4.  I've paid off more medical bills in 6 months than I have pimples on my face (I'm sort of happy about that in a supremely vain kind of way...).  Thank you for allowing me the ability to pay them off.  I've done so with a new-found appreciation for folks' inability to pay for the truly tragic circumstances.  The medical industry does not make this process easy and I'm not a fan.  Taxes in Canada are higher but so is the quality of life.  Just some food for thought, 'Merica.  Thank Goddess for health insurance- otherwise I'd be up a brown creek.  I promise you, that should I some day win the lottery, I will find one family in dire need of a child's medical attention and pay the majority of their final bill...I promise you this.  (I've also learned how to "budget" and have discovered that salad is pretty cheap when all is said and done).

5.  I learned how to perfect the art of a "homemade Christmas" because I'm broke (see #4).  I am in love with the gifts I made and appreciate the solace in which I made them.

6.  I have a new-found respect for my body's ability to heal itself.  And while I cursed the medical industry in #4 (see above), I'm grateful for a group of doctors who've told me my running (i.e. super-fast walking) career has come to a halt and yoga's back in.  Score!!!!

7.  I've written more in the last 6 months than I may have in the last 6 years- this is a good thing.  I'll commemorate this year of mass hostility on my "Gratitude" page of my first published novel...at least you'll be recognized for your contribution in p*****g me off so much, it was all I could do but pound the keys on my laptop.

8.  My cat still loves me, despite you.  He even met a dog he likes.  And ya, the dog likes him.  I have a feeling they're going to be swell friends.

9.  2014 is bound to be better than you.  Anything's better than you, really (see #s 1-8).

10.  You really kicked my ass this year.  Thanks for showing me what I'm made of.

11.  Last but not least, thank you for breaking my heart, utterly.  You cannot feel the depth of warmth until you've slid, hard, into a glacier of ice.

Goodbye 2013.  You will not be missed.

Sincerely,

B

I Still Care for Me...

Dear 2013,

We're on the tail-end of your year.  And, I gotta tell you, you were freedom in the beginning.  You were a chance at happiness and you were a reminder that life moves regardless of my own selfishness.  You were filled with endless trips to various doctors, medical tests, sorrow and relief.  You were my burden and you were my relief.  You were the loss of friendships, painful goodbyes and you were the door that halted me in my tracks.

You were the opposite of awesome, 2013.  Truly a burden you were, like a window painted shut, you were.

You were heavy and hard and you were heart-breaking.

But, 2013, you were also such an inspiration.

You were a motivator of Spirit.  You were a reminder of magic.  And you were a second chance, 2013 and for that, I will be forever grateful.

You brought, with the pain, an amazing support system.  A panel of amazing medical professionals who eased me in to a transition.  You were a giver of both losses and freedoms.  A provider of pain and a giver of mindfulness.  It's an amazing feat you accomplished this year, so busy with twists, turns and finalities and beginnings.  At first glance, I'm not certain how you maintained your own strength as you left so many of us breathless (and not in the good sorta way)- and yet, 2013, so many of us are coming out of your rabbit hole, cleansed, hopeful and resigned to some of life's more simplistic means of magic.

I am here.  Standing straight up.  I have made it past your hurdles.  I am healthy, despite some fears otherwise and while your hours grew heavy and hollow, I have come out on top, fighting quietly.  I still care for me, even as lost as I may have grown in your arms, 2013.

I have found my heart again, despite you.

I fought, sword at-hand, my own body, despite you.

Mine is not the only story of breathless wonderment at the chaos that existed in you, friend.  Your's was a bag of pain.  And yet, you have brought me a neighbor whose circumstances are beyond my own measure, whom I love as a father.  And I will not lose him to you, 2013.  You wont claim him in 2013 and I will continue to see his smile, daily, as he waves me off to work, small and kind.  Your kindness in this is mighty despite your heaviness- thank you.

Tales of woe you wove.  And in it all, there you provided the stability of support.  You gave me the solidity of friendship- one who has never swayed; one who was there all the while, never leaving my side.  She is the one you gave me through this mess and a kindness you offered despite yourself.

I bid you you farewell, 2013.  And as you pressed so many of us to the ground, so we press you in heated goodbyes.  We are done with this alignment and ready for the next.

You chose to close this one out, however, nicely.  My body won and a nice Lumberjack swept me up and proved himself a light among the mass of chaos.  He pretty much kicked your ass, 2013.

You fought hard, 2013 and many of us fought back harder.  Thank you for reminding us of our own strength, truly. You've given me the blessing of a mom and dad who will win you, and years, such as yourself, over time and time again...in all, you have closed this one up with the presence of light and some kindness.

And while I am not saddened to bid you farewell, you aren't one I will soon forget- I still care for you.

Defrosted Regards,

B

On The Matter of Opening Up to Vulnerability

It's been a personal challenge, over the last 2 years, or so, to lighten my heart a little bit.  To put the clarification right on out there: that meant exposing some parts of me that've remained sheltered, put away on the top-most shelf, out of easy reach.  It means literally opening up to vulnerability...and that's not easy, folks.  Not one bit.

But...it's a necessity.

So, I took a ladder, placed it fright in front of my own self and pulled that box down, containing those parts of me that have been met with such candid and blatant hurt.  I opened the box, I took out each part, and let 'em all go...free reign.  Right on out there.  I didn't try to compartmentalize these things, I just let 'em go.  At the bottom of the box was a piece of ice that burned to the touch.  But when I looked at the box again, I noticed that the block of ice had started to melt.

In so letting these parts of myself just sorta go, that ice began to melt and wahlah...I was on my way.

I took a new approach to life: I just felt and I loved and I felt and I felt and I felt.  I didn't go on the new path without a few tools in-hand though.  I knew feeling this much would mean a decent amount of exposure on my own part and there's a balance to letting yourself "feel" versus throwing caution to the wind without keeping some kind of safety harness on your heart.  So, while I refrained from binding myself to prior sense of guard, I moved through this new path with a much needed new sense of openness.

I removed some trash from my brain space, took risks, ended marathons headed to dead-ends and just sort of cleaned house.  A few friendships were lost on the way and a multitude of healthy ones, took up residence in their place.  I've allowed these friendships to change my life, truly.  I met my match and released prior blocks.  And these friendships taught me that I was a lot lighter (and a lot kinder) than I give myself credit for.  They challenged previously dead-locked notions.  I opened wide up with the help of some amazing folks and I learned the value of exposing the sum of your parts sin order to maintain those parts which you most wish to harness.  And what happened when I did that was life-changing.  It's taught me to seek out the person I want to be as opposed to the person I think I should be.  And that is the single greatest lesson I could have learned.

Find out who you want to be...and be it.  Just be it.  And people will scoff at you for it but more folks will love you for it.

But mostly what I did was surrender. I actually like to call it "giving up" or "giving in," but what it really is, I've found, is surrendering.  I surrendered to the scariest part of my locked up self and that, my friends, is vulnerability.  I crushed it.  I owned it.  I jumped aboard a ship, took a chance and leapt to another piece of land.  It was the highest and brightest road I'd ever seen.  The sun gave new meaning the the term "light.  The trees were the greenest green and the adventure was filled with the most unhinged love I have ever experienced in my life.  I had exposed myself in this place and I owned a new sense of purpose.  Everything changed.  My expectations became simpler.  My morals were well-defined and my hopes, for myself, were now something attainable.  I had opened up to a new path of utter simplicity.  The breaths I took in that simplicity circulated an air within me, that knew complete and total bliss.

Lesson here?  Yes, I opened wide up and I felt bliss...totally.  And now, I know this elusive thing is so very real, so very tangible.

And in this bliss, something happened.

It slipped.  I'm not sure if it got tired, or over-worked but it fell away from me.  And the loss of that bliss is, well, you know.  In anger, I see this loss as a betrayal rather pointedly and yet, this morning there something else, I've noticed about this slip.

It's just one slip, that's all.  It doesn't "get" change who I AM.  And more important to me, it doesn't change what I want in life, ultimately.  And this is a new freedom for me.  My "life" doesn't change by this slip, only a few circumstances instead...and how very liberating.

In surrendering to my vulnerability, I took a risk.  Now, a risk is a risk and there's never a guarantee that the said risk will go on forever.  Life happens.  Shit gets in the way.

Shit happens.  And there are times when the shit is a lesson.  There are times when the same shit is something you caused and in order to adhere to a healthy standard of living, you gotta own what you did that caused the shit to come and the bliss to go.

And sometimes, it really a lot simpler than all that.  It just sorta is.

And it sucks.

So, now I've surrendered and I'm watching this lovely thing called bliss just fade away and it's all very quietly done.

The resounding thing to remember is simple: I did it.  I freaking did it!  I let go.  I felt more powerful than ever before.  My life changed in every way imaginable.  And moreover, I loved who I was in that vulnerability.  I loved the quiet and nondescript power it gave me.

And that is what I take from this: remembering the peace of having let go.  And while the loss of one bliss fades, I've come to meet this new person in myself in her vulnerability.  And I like her!

My compass is now sound, strong and defined...with a little help from having lightened my load when I let that box of stuff fly.   I accept what is and realize that many months ago, when I let those dark things go, I really did let them go.

I still love this vulnerability in me and it has, ironically, become my most firm foundation.  So it means I’m more ridiculous.  And it means I’m sillier and I risk sounding like a fool when I express what lives in me…or when I write.  But it also means I laugh a lot more and I live a lot more. 

Always maintain your vulnerability.  It shows you when you're wrong, gives you the power to say I'm sorry and it keeps me open to see the bliss that's still here, right in front of me, no matter how small.  And this isn't to say, that the pain felt at the loss of one form of bliss, stops in the moment when you harness the pain and own it...but it does mean that you're certain the pain will fade and you'll be left standing in the light again because you've surrendered this time, rather than give up.

An Ode To A Dad

When I was three and four and five, I had a knack for parading about in my favorite blue leotard, white stockings and black ballet shoes.  I’m not sure if I thought I was a ballerina or a fairy princess but it doesn’t matter because that’s not the part I remember, really.  Moreover, I remember the fact that my dad let me.  I slept in those shoes; I walked outside in those shoes: I’m pretty sure that entire outfit was adhered to my body, with little girl glue.  If I could get away with it, today, at 33, I’d probably parade about in the same outfit- only I’d add a tutu.  Probably one with sparkles on it.

He’s been a constant and I consider myself the luckiest woman alive to have such a man as a Father.  My introduction to wine was picking varied fruits, with my dad, so he could ferment all the goodness in his own masterpiece.  My first sip of liqueur was of the berried fashion around the age of 11 or 12 when that pesky introduction in to womanhood got the better of both of us, really.  My dad’s old-school and bloody hell- that tonic proved a miracle.  That was a treasured secret between us both for some time.  

 If I had to, I could change a tire on a car because of my Dad.  I am self-sufficient because I have a dad who encouraged and forced me to pave a way for myself. 

I am a traveler because of my Dad.   I’ve a deep and thorough love-affair with Paris because my Dad and I stood before the Eiffel Tower at midnight, watching the lights fire up the tower in to a blaze of romanticism.  Yes, effectively, I love Paris because of my Dad.

I’m a reader and lover of history and theology because my Dad’s taken the time to discuss, with me, the possibility that such a man as King Arthur may have taken seat at a very real Round Table.  Discussions around the most suitable time-frame and Arthur’s training as a Roman soldier before heading home to Britain is one I’ve only had with my Dad. 

He’s let me spew the blasphemous notion that Mary Magdelene and Jesus may have married- and he doesn’t deem me as ridiculous in this fancy.  I rather prefer this story to what may otherwise be a long-held traditional truth and I admire him for giving me that freedom where other may chastise me.

My dad is a quiet, level-headed man, driven by reason and logic.  He is also warm, kind and the epitome of calm.  He loves my mother and has loved her, I believe, since the first day they met.  And I like to think of theirs as a romance not often found in this time.  He’s also the man who let me put pink barrettes in his hair, polish his cheeks with rouge and paint his nails with a glistening clear polish.  Oh my, how I was proud of my efforts in those days.

He’s still the first person I call when my car breaks down.  He’s still the first person I call when my head spins in to history mode and I suddenly find I’m unable to remember when Hadrian’s Wall was constructed. 

And what some folks don’t know is that this man was my second chance.  He’s my step-father but I’m not sure I’ve ever really thought of him as that far-removed from my own notion of what a father is.  He’s taken me as his own, loved me as his own.  When you get old and ponder your beginnings, it becomes hard to find words that match your gratitude.  My Dad is nothing short of a miracle in my life and what I feel for him, the magnitude of my gratefulness for him, isn’t something I can put together with a limited character range of 26 symbols.  It’s profound, somewhere far beyond that, I suppose.

Really, Dad, I love you for who you are, for the path you chose to walk with me and for the support you show me every day.  Blood may run thicker than water but love runs thicker than blood- and that’s what you are to me- fearless love.

                Happy Dad’s Day, Papi.  I wish every girl was as fortunate as myself to grow up with a man like you at her side.

On Writing About a Bunch of Stuff No One Cares About

A co-worker and I danced around those topics about which we write.  He writes about being a dad.  He writes about the breath and pulse of the city and he writes with a voice that is honest and resonates with his sense of humor.  

I write about…stuff no one really cares about.

And while we laughed a little at ourselves, and maybe a bit at one another, we spoke more about why we write. 

My mom suggested once that writing, for someone like me, is like breathing for anyone else.  And while it’s extreme and self-admittedly silly, the simile’s right on par, really.  I write a lot.  I have shelves lined with smashed books and even more shelves sheltering hundreds of pieces of paper, slammed with tiny letters, I just can’t seem to part with.  I have reams of paper, notepads and notebooks at the ready should something come to mind. I keep them at work, at home, in the car, beside my bed, in my purse and if I could find a water-proof tablet and pen, I’d keep both in my shower because with water comes wisdom.   I write at work, maybe when I shouldn't be.  I text myself notes about characters who take up space in my head.  I write mostly because too much exists in my head and I get lost, there, sometimes, like when I think about fries...

I have a maddening love affair with fries, especially McDonald’s fries and I spend time mulling over the fact that sometimes I hate myself for how much I love McDonald’s fries despite that the fact that I know better.  I think about the social impacts McDonald’s has on the “family dinner” and the deranged factory farms from whom they purchase their meat.  And I think about all those kids who will grow up thinking lettuce is a floppily over-sogged piece of green that looks sort of like bile.  And I think about how places like McDonald’s only procure our society’s assumption that eating foods grown from deep brown earth by people who've known and sewn the ground for generations is not only less cost effective but also less satisfying than eating a soggy slab of cow. We just cannot seem to appreciate the simplicity of a ruby-red sun-drenched fresh tomato bathed in sheets oil and vinegar.

 And then I think about the damn fries again.  McDonald’s fries are an explosion of salted amazingness. 

And since this will live in my head for a while I decide to write about how it feels to hate one’s self for loving those damn fries.  And I don’t write about the fries for anyone but myself.  Because really, who cares?

And I think, for a moment, I might be ridiculous.

And my co-worker’s words come back to me.

He explains that we write because we have to.  Not for the purposes of entertainment; nor for recognition.  Not even to educate.  We’re not trying to make a point.  We’re just…breathing.  In and out.

We write because we have to, despite what our tirades may say about us.  We’re a little off.

But he did simply say “it’s the crazy ones that make it.”

I reassess for a moment and know there’s some other eco/animal-fanatic who also loves McDonald’s fries as much as I do.  So perhaps it’s me writing about fries and slaughter houses for that person; so they know they aren't alone.

I've not posted anything here in some time.  Not because I don’t have anything to say but because what I have to say is sometimes so minimal in comparison to the intellectual complexities we’re bound to in this life.  And as much as I’d love to write intelligently about those said complexities; sometimes I just have to write about nothing. There’s this weighted pressure to ensure that one’s words measure up to something meaningful, wise and enchanting. 

And the simple fact remains: not every teller of stories' voice is equal to that of Isabel Allende’s and not every thought is as provocative as those belonging to Herman Hesse.

Sometimes it just is and that is enough.

Thus there exists a troop of folks who write despite the fact that few may care though it gives us the space to take a breath.  It provides us with the momentum of following through with what it is we simply must do.  Deep breaths in and out, providing release from those thoughts which swim through the veins of thought: gone and expelled, making room for more.

So, cheers to me (and those around me- I vow to be less haggard in return for the freedom of having removed these crazy bits from my noggin) for writing about the stuff no one cares about once more.

Hip and Awesome Surf Swag

It used to be that surfers, in most places, paid homage to the single greatest force of their own sacred haven: the ocean.  With her currents always wavering and her massive self an expansive place of solitude, reverie and risk, the sport was about nature; not man.  Not fashion and not hair do's.  Seriously?

Surfer Magazine never caught my attention as script which ever really notated the true life of a surfer- and now, looming through the mags pages is well, stupid.  I feel stupid reading the thing.  Those who pay heed to the sport as a way of life don't have the cash flow to support Tom's shoes.  They wear flip flops.  Attire consists of the most limited drapery of what's most readily available, be it clean...or not.  You're going to the beach.  Have you been to a beach?  There's water.  Quite a bit of it, actually.  Duds will only suffer under the rays of the sun, bleaching fancy swag.  Sweet kicks prove more frustrating than sweet.  Have you tried to walk, or even run, on the sand, in close-toed shoes of any kind?  It's hard.  Then, there's the nature of the beach itself.  It's messy.  Very messy.  And then, you gotta kick off your sweet $70 Vans in order to get in the water.  You gotta relieve yourself of your awesome new aqua T-shirt from Hollister which showcases some stick figure on a board, trailing through a tunnel, on a board.  Really?

The lack of fashion passion, is for a surfer, not a thing to be trifled with, nor is fashion what most of us want to read about in a magazine whose purpose is to take on a few surfing journeys.  But then, I try and actually read the articles and it's like navigating my way through a disjointed acid trip.  The beginning sentences are framed in a way that brings me to a place of horror.  The frame in which the first part of the sentence is encased appears to be similar to that of some hostage release letter.  It's blocky and ugly and takes my mind away from the point of the story, and now I'm so angry about having to navigate my way through advertisements, acid-trip colors, logos blocked by giant neon green pot leaves, I'm not even interested in reading the damn article.

So why read it, then?  Great question.  I suppose I could shut my trap and leave well enough alone, but the fact that the mass population, say....like kids in land-locked Oklahoma might be reading about the sport through the eyes of some pompous money-ridden mag makes me sad.  This is not what surfing is about and I still stand firm by my belief, that crapola like this is not the basis upon which sea-faring athletes base their love.  And I guess that's my point, really.

For those who stand strong in their love of the sport, one single thing remains true.  Respect.  Lots of kids spend plenty of time just staring off in to space when at the beach.  The immensity of the ocean is not something most of us believe we can "overpower."  That surfers respect their limits...most of the time...is something which holds to true to the honor one feels when on a board and totally at the liberty of the sea's own navigation.  The most handsome, saucy and brilliant surfers will tell you they respect her limits.  Being on a board, in the middle of nowhere, is prayer to lots of folks.  Having the honor of gliding over the seas and under the greatest open sky is an honor; it's church to these sorts of folks.

So, I guess I'll lay off on the reading of pretty much any hip awesome surfing mag and stick to the stories about kids (now old guys) who worked 3 jobs in summer in order to buy their first board and then grew to discover the smallness of their own ego the first time they were swallowed up by the changing tide, only to fall in love with a piece of nature.

Nothing.

Funny thing life is.

The ironies and the simultaneous moments which oppose one another, in one giant stint of chaos.  When you see the logistical success which you have attained but then  feel that somehow the world and her singing birds have slipped, some, from their well-hinged axis.  Washing in a tiny shower filled with every big thing there is to feel.  When Metallica songs are played by four simple cellos.  And when the world is cold outside and your insides are snugged warm and tight.  And when a cold-hearted day is warmed by the grace of a humming white cat.  Or when freshly swept, polished and mopped floors are suddenly dusted once again with white only moments later.  Or when you come to find that in some lights you have become who you so wished not to be, aware suddenly that through all the fighting, you've not fought hard enough, still, to be who you envisioned.

And then there is the security of a few tiny and weak-standing walls.  There is peace in the fur-covered wood floors you just mopped because it is something you recognize and life without the source of the fur just couldn't be the same.  And then in this tiny space one finds that the chaos and the unknown is suddenly hushed and quieted as soon as the door shuts behind you, placing a well intended barrier between yourself and everything you cannot control- like the axis spinning, just a smidge off kilter.  It's here that you finally see that though it's one of the worst, your bed is in fact perfect and just what you need.

When it becomes so quiet that you come to see that the race you're running and won has long since ended and that all along the way, you've missed the sight of gnarled branches uprooting from the earth, the green of the trees and the veins of their leaves and the trumpeted voices of the birds whose songs were meant to urge you to move forward.

When you realize that you are quiet and hushed like hot tea...not gregarious and bold like a red wine.

When suddenly you are the small sound of a simple whisper and like it.