So, I don't do well when idle.

I am terrified of an empty quieted mind.  And yet, my advice is always to empty the mind of the negative, suck in the light and let it fill your brain spot with and electric current so heavy that nothing negative can sustain itself in your head space.

And when I take stock of my own advice, I wonder if I am not a coward simply spewing the advice I ought to take, myself.

A lot lives in my head and heart these days.  There's a lot of good stuff in there.  But there are still traces of remorse, anger, red-hot hate and some loss.

So, in an effort to take my own advice, I enlisted myself in a 30-day yoga challenge.

It's not *that* hard.

If you're fit and, for me, emotionally equipped to handle the emotional tidal wave that hits at the end of a practice, alone, on a mat.  See, at the close of practice, your body is relieved by rest and your brain's chemically altered somehow.  Well, my brain is.  There's a lot to be said for the benefit of exercise.  I get this.  I've heard this a million times.  And when my body suffered no real threat after the past year, I was told by therapists, medical practitioners, physical therapists and my beloved chiropractor to get off my ass and move.

"Do anything.  Anything at all," they said.

And all I did was sit.  I read.  I decorated my new abode.  I painted my nails and I watched T.V. as I have cable for the first time in a decade.  I made crappy delicious food.  I snuggled my cat and dog.  I rested on the couch with my boyfriend.  I put in 100% at work.  I cried from exhaustion and berated myself because I should have cried because my lungs hurt from running.  But I didn't cry because of physical effort because I refused to put in any physical effort.

Because I was terrified.

Exercise quiets my mind.  It has the tendency to put me in to meditation mode and that, my friends, is a dangerous place for me because it makes me think about ME.

I don't like to think about ME often because I mostly come to find disappointment.

So, this is why I fill my head space with anything but exercise.

Until I met Yoga.

Again.

Nearly a decade after our initial meeting.

A 30-Day challenge was a decent commitment.  If I hated, I could throw in the towel, check it off the list and call it good.

It's been 14 days since the dawn of the challenge.

You totally just rolled your eyes.

I saw that.

And you thought about telling me to shove it, didn't you?

I heard that too.

I get it.

Yoga's over-played.

Well, so is Cross-Fit.  So is the Paleo Diet.   But we all have our vices, don't we?

The thing is...this time, my practice is different.  I am not in a "class."  I am not checking out folks around me, constantly comparing my plank pose to the girl on my right who is flawless with no make-up and can mesh in to chaturanga as easily as someone might sip a cocktail through a straw.

I am alone.  Travis leaves me to my practice in silence.  The dog goes outside and the cat takes up space on his coveted window sill.  I am left to my own devices, following a series of videos.

I was terrified of the physical stamina it would take and I am still working on moving into warrior one without eating shit on my mat.  I knew this would be tough.  But I was totally unprepared for the emotional part of the bargain.

With so much effort going in to nailing down the movements and postures, I found that the day's events, the past year's struggles and fear of inadequacy evaporated.  I spent so much time focused on perfection, that everything else just went away.

Until the moment I mastered a one-legged chaturanga.  That's when it changed.  Success does funny things to me.  I realized I was capable of this.  I could master planks if I did them every.single.day.  I could feel the fatty parts of me screaming and I loved the tears coming out of every part that hurt during practice (i.e. SWEAT).

And then my mind quieted and shit hit the fan during a few practices.

Forgiveness is a big part of this practice. Forgiveness for yourself for *not* owning your practice as you want.  Forgiveness for your body's inability to stretch like you want it to or twist as needed in order to get your right elbow securely placed on your right thigh during a twist.  Forgive and persevere because at some point, your body will one day surprise you in it's ability to kick some ass.

But there's also those quiet moments, in yoga, when you've mastered a sequence and instead of your mind striving to make it happen, it starts moving in to the shit you don't want.  See, this is why we do yoga...for strength, stamina and meditation.

But the meditation part is hard when your brain recalls all the shit you're supposed to forget during practice.

And this is why I've come to take some unnecessarily unfair advantage of my yoga practice.

I use it as a tool to expel the bad stuff.

During plank, I force the emotions of my inability to forgive out in to the mat.  I force the sadness for the loss of my house out through cleansing twists.  And I force the pain of sciatica out of my leg through dancer's pose.  I force it all out on to the mat.  And it's a release I can spread thick, without judgement and without fear.  I take the day's wares and force 'em hard through chaturanga and I curse the bad shit instead of myself for not nailing a pose.

You're probably not supposed to to yoga with that much frustration.

But it's real and it's there.  And if my mat can take it, why not get it out this way while simultaneously shredding my arm and back fat?

Seriously.

The thing is, I've met my match on the mat.  It's a physical and emotional challenge for me.  I am quiet in my head and sometimes I let it rip and tear out of me and other days I use the practice to simply forget.  More recently, I use my practice as a way to push my thought process in to something I WANT. Something attainable.  I use it as a way to project the path I'd rather have set before me.  I use it as a way to remember my house fondly.  I use it as a way to acknowledge my fears and I slay them, completely.

And I see the response from my partner.  He's committed to seeing me succeed throughout this challenge, asking me questions about my practice, congratulating me for just simply completing the 45 minute challenge every day.  He shares my excitement over a headstand and a one-legged chaturanga (I'm seriously so excited about that one). But mostly, he gives me the quiet space in which to practice.  He doesn't get yoga and he doesn't have to because he knows what the practice means to me.

So, there it is.

A non-yogi's take on yoga.

The House That Loved A Girl

Once upon a time, there stood a house.  At first glance, this house appeared old.  Tired as though it's bones would crumble at the slightest hint of a breeze.  The house's stature was small, unassuming and altogether, kind.

Most folks wouldn't describe a house as kind.  Old, yes, but kind, never.

But, Friends, this was no ordinary house.

This house held magic, you see.  The kind of magic that's still and quiet but present, always.  This house had bones much like yours and mine.  This house had a pulse.  It was shallow and calm always but a soft and steady pulse, all the same.

I suppose it may be silly to personify a house.  Buildings are not living breathing things like you and me.  And I suppose that to write in a manner that might attempt to convince a person, a reader, a friend that this house was no ordinary house and that it did indeed live and breath might be futile.  So, it is not my intent to convince you, kind reader, that this house was alive.

I will simply tell you the truth about the house, as it was.

This house was not ordinary.  Of this I am certain and that small house had quite the story to tell.

Having been built in the early 1930's, this house had stood in quiet and calm for as many years as I've been alive, three times over.  I am not certain of the stories this house held or told about previous residents.  I am not certain the previous residents knew the house or felt her breath when she breathed in and out but I am certain that the small house had its fair share of residents.

The house stood at the base of a small street, tucked in to the enclosure of a small wooded patch along its backside.  I'm certain that when this house was built, the trees were heavier. But tucked away it stood, still.  The house was yellow, pieces of that yellow melting in the hot sun.  The black shutters and white window panes made the house look a bit like a bee and the house was content with this.  Hard wood floors gave the house an added dose of warmth and the windows were many, letting in the light from the West.  Always a lovely light from the West.  The kitchen was a funny room, slightly tilted and covered in brick at one's feet.  An original brick floor, never removed, never remodeled.  It stood red, warm and slightly slanted, so that if one stood in that kitchen and focused ever so slightly, he or she would notice the slightest bend and stretch of the floor.  This was a small joke well-played by the tiny yellow house, a small token of it's sense of humor.  When the train passed, the kitchen windows rattled, excitedly as though at the tip of a roller coaster, excited by the short stretch of subtle movement.  The subtle humor and the excitement gave the house a sense of silliness.

There was one powerful measure to this house, something that made it most special and that was the lighting in the house.  The tiny house would hold the light within itself, transforming the presence in to something that cannot be described but only felt.  The light lingered inside the walls and the bones of the house as a sort of kindness bestowed it, honoring the age of the house and the long-standing strength of the house.  It may have been small but the integrity of the house's bones was steadfast and mighty.

So, it was the light that most reflected what was unique about this house.  It was the light that made the house sing and dance, light filtering the floors, seeping in through the walls and coloring the energy of the tiny house with a yellow emotion that was nothing less than magical.

Remember, I will not attempt to convince you that this tiny house was magical.  I am telling you, rather simply, that the house did not just hold and harbor magic- it was the stuff of magic.  It was not a haunted, per se.  There was no Spirit left there, dwelling in the reaches of the home...it was the house itself that held the magic.  It was in the very bones of the house.  I cannot be certain whether the house was built with magic or if the magic seeped in over the years.  But I can tell you this tiny house was a place of wonder.  There were no rambling rooms like the Winchester House, there were no secret passages, or hidden items.  There were no written stories or secret messages the house bestowed.

It simply was a wonderment.  And if that is not something, Reader, that you are able to wrap your head around, then I cannot be the one to prove it.

One day, a girl moved in to this house.

She was sad.  The house could feel it.

On her first night, the house played a small trick on her.  And she talked to the house.  Wide open and out loud.  She talked to the house and told the tiny house that she was staying.  That she lived here now and while she respected the age and the being of the house, the jokes were not funny.  And when she talked to the house, the house was given a gift.  That the girl spoke out loud to the house gave the house something it needed: recognition.  Her voice gave the house it's place.  She recognized the bones of the house.  She could feel the house breathing- and the house came to see that it was indeed a special sort of thing.

And so the house made a pact with the girl.  The house would care for the girl unconditionally in return for her belief in the house's Spirit.  The house could not change the girl's sadness but it could hold her close and offer shelter form whatever it was that hung inside of her.

And so, this is how the girl and the house came to be dear friends.  Understanding that each carried a heavy history and that each believed in the magic that resided there, quiet and steady.  The girl did not tell people of the magic in the house.  It didn't matter what anyone thought or felt in that house.  What mattered was the light in the house and the way it wrapped itself around the girl.

The girl transformed the house in to a home.  Books.  Hundreds of books.  Some, not so nicely shelved, and many others strewn throughout the house.  She draped the windows and filled the corners with things that made her happy.  She piled things on the walls and dressed the bedroom with antiques and warm colors.  She dressed the house with treasures and the house felt alive.  The house felt loved.  And the house loved the girl in return.

The house and girl lived in peace, each caring for the other in small quiet ways in a constant sort of way.

And one day something terrible happened.  The house could not tell what had happened but suddenly the girl's energy was heavy and dark, such that the tiny house could not get through.  It could not reach her.  For days and days, the house tried, it brought in more light.  It pulled the magic from it's bones and pushed it in to the house just so that the girl could be reminded that the house was there, always.  It could not talk to her- that was their deal.  It could communicate only in the emotional sense by which she could feel.  And the girl became daft and could not feel the house any longer.  The house feared that it would lose some of its magic and if the could could just look, just look for a minute, she would feel the love the house was trying so hard to give her.

It took some many many days but eventually the girl opened back up a bit.  She apologized to the house.  But the house knew something had changed.

Months went by and still, she kept the connection to the house at some bay.  She was stuck.  The girl was suddenly stuck.  The magic stopped at the skin covering her body.  Something inside of her pushed it away and it no longer seeped in to her insides.  She knew it was there but she had come to believe that she was unworthy.  She started to ponder the reality of a magical house and thought she might be absurd for having conversations with a house.  And so she became embarrassed and ashamed.  This thing that made the girl sad became more clear to the house.  But there was nothing the tiny house could do but insist that it keep trying.

And one day, the house had to make a decision.

The girl had changed.  She'd turned her back on the magic.  Her skin became a barrier.  She stopped writing about magic.  She stopped believing in magic and she stepped in to some grief too strong for the old house.

And the old house became tired.

So, it decided to gift her one last time.  And this gift would be something she would not be able to ignore.  This gift would be so great, that it would flood the magic back in to her.  But the house would have to gift her soon or, the house feared the girl would lose her belief altogether.

And so the house pondered what it could giver her.  The light in the house no longer touched the girl so it would have to be something of enormity.   The house was stuck on thought when it finally occurred to the house...

It needed to unstuck the girl.  Her will was strong but something had pulled the magic from her and stuck her in a spot where life stood still, unmoving and with no momentum.  And so that is how the house came to the decision to get the girl unstuck.  It would give her a few chances to see what was coming.  It would prepare her.  And if she was unable to feel or hear the house, it would keep trying.

The girl loved to read.  She had a fascination with stories and when she stopped reading, the house knew that the bad thing had taken some of the girl's spirit and love of journey away from her.  She also had a cat.  And since the girl was unable to hear the house, the house decided it was time to chat with the cat.  One night, the girl's spirit lifted.   The house could feel it and knew it had to be in this moment that it spoke to her...but it had to be something stupendous, it would have to break their pact and show her something so undeniable that she would have to let the magic back in.  And so the girl, with a Spirit just a little lighter, crept in to bed with a book and the cat at her feet.  And that's when the house decided to let them in.

The cat casually peered to the ceiling.  And when the girl called the cat, the cat was despondent.  Something was crawling on the ceiling.  But when the girl stood up on her bed to see what struck her cat's attention, she saw nothing.  And so she called the cat again, who in turn, ignored her once more.  She wasn't happy.  And finally, she talked to the house again telling the tiny house that this was not the pact they made.  The cat was staring at something and it made the girl uneasy.  You see, she was fine with the magic in the house but anything else made her uneasy and so, she told the house to stop.

But much like the cat, the house ignored her.

The house let them in so she would be startled and reminded that there is always something else.  There is always something just outside of our own sorrow and fear.  And the house knew the girl needed that reminder if she was ever going to get the magic back and so it let them in.  The girl was displeased but only for a time because suddenly, the girl eased in to the reality of what was happening.  She knew someone was there.  And her sudden fear was taken over by something stronger.  Peace.  Complete and total peace.  People get chills but not like the ones she got that night.  That night her chills were warm.

With the reassurance that this moment was harmless, she opened the book to read, her cat finally curling beside her and the two drifted off.  When she awoke two hours later, it was because her phone had gone off.

Someone had passed.  Unexpectedly.  He was a hero, a son, a brother and a husband.  And he had passed.  And she wasn't quite certain that she was ready to take the news to heart and so she slept.

But sleep. she could not. He who had passed was in her home, in that sweet space.  She, of course could not be certain but the feeling was back.  And the house drew a great breath.  Something inside the girl was awake again.  Something inside was open, even if just a little bit.  And the house breathed out, pushing it's magic back into the tired girl's skin.

The house would have to act fast, it would have to make it's final push while the girl was opening up.  It would be an extraordinary push.

Three weeks went by and the girl grieved the loss of the Hero.  She grieved the loss for his family. And the magic came back bit by bit because she could feel some comfort he bestowed to those he loved.

The house was unsure of the timing for the gift.  It would happen soon but when?  When was the right time?

And one day, the girl let the house know a secret.

And the house knew.  The house knew this was it.  This was time for magic.  An explosive display of magic that it could not be ignored.  The house knew this was the girl's chance to move in to a journey. The house also knew the girl would never leave.  She'd live with those magic bones for eternity if she could, sheltered in the light.

But the house knew better.  She needed to adventure.  She needed to leave.  She needed to move on and she would never be able to do that, trapped in the memories of what had transpired in that house. This was her chance and the house feared she might not take it, so the the tiny bumble bee house made the decision to push her out.  It knew better than the girl.  Magic always does.  The girl was on the cusp, opening back up but never fully holding adventure's hand, stilled by the comfort of the house.  She was stuck so the house would push her out.

In the early wake of one cold January morning, the girl woke up in a sudden pain.   Her abdomen screamed at her.  She dragged herself from the bed, went to the bathroom and settled back in to the warmth of her bed.  Nodding off, a crash echoed through the house and woke her from an easy sleep once again.  She'd thought to ignore the sound, so wrapped in the bliss of one of the best night's sleep she'd had since that terrible thing had happened.

"Get up."  The voice was loud.  It was unmistakable.  And it was pissed off.

The girl was lazy but the voice was insistent.

"Get out of the bed."

And so she woke.

She walked through the tiny house, looking, sure a deer was tromping about the outside of her house, stealing the pansy heads again.  And then she saw it.

Through the kitchen window, red licked the neighbor's house.  Bright and furious.  Small.  The flames sat in a small huddle, confined to one small space.

She backed away from the kitchen and she thought to leave and did not act until the house screamed at her.  Pops and echoes, flashes of red, the undeniable intake of smoke and the haze seeping in to the kitchen made her move.  Suddenly, the very air around her screamed in warning. The trees caught fire, sending smoke through the door and in to the kitchen, this time rolling and fighting.  Wood snapped, the tree branches burned hot orange and she knew.

The girl could not remember how to unlock her phone.  She knew she had to call someone but she could not remember who.  The house beckoned her to leave, to push open the door and leave but she caught herself, struck by something.  The cat.  The house screamed at her to leave but knew it was fruitless...the girl would never leave without that cat.  She would burn in that house with the cat.  And so the house staved off the flames while the girl grabbed the cat.  Blood tricked from some place on the girl and the house cried out in some pain.  It wasn't meant to be this fast. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.  But the house had a job to do, a promise to fulfill and despite the violence of the moment, it had to push the girl out.

The girl fled the house, finally.  She'd feared for those around her, kicking doors, screaming at the very top of her lungs.  The house trembled, suddenly regretting, for just a moment, as it saw fear creep through the girl at the loss of some life.  The girl would break down doors, smash windows.  She would do what it took to wake those surrounding her burning house.

And then the house saw the relief in the girl's eyes as people fled their homes.  And suddenly, the girl was still as she turned to face the house.

And when the girl looked back, suddenly, the tiny yellow house was wrapped in fire, burning hot like Kali.  There was no yellow.  There were no pansies.  The tips of trees were dressed in the fire.  Smoke filled the night sky and the trill of sirens sang though the air.  The girl looked at the house.  Behind her men in uniform piled around her, lights flashed.  So loud were the lights.  So strong that the momentum of the lights made sound, pushing.  People were wrapped in blankets.  People milled about.  People were smoking and asking too many questions.  It was so loud.

But the girl could not hear the voices.  She could not see the lights.  She felt only arms around her while she watched the tiny house burn.  The girl did not cry.  She did not make a sound.  She did not move.  She could not move.  She watched, only.  Talking to the house one last time, she said goodbye.  She felt the bones of the house breaking, the magic, she hoped had left with her, fleeing from the house. She felt such a sadness for the house, for her inability to save the house.  She felt sorrow, not for herself but for the loss of the house.  She asked if the magic got out but in her bones she already knew.  She knew this magic had to move.  It would not die but it had something to do.  It burned hot in the house and the girl liked to imagine that with the smoke of the fire, the magic burned hot, burning through the air and rising to the sky where is belonged, traveling to some new place, outside of the chaos of the moment. The bones of the house released the magic in to the air where it would move in to some new space. The girl knew the magic had lifted, safely.  But this did not stop her from mourning the loss of the bones and material stature of the small old house.

The girl's memories went up in flames that night.  The sorrow the girl held on to died that night.

Days later, the girl knew.

She understood.  And she was grateful.

On Wednesday, January 29th, the girl's past died.  And a new beginning was born.

Fire purges.  It rages.  Fire cleanses and releases.  Forests are reborn in the fury of a fire.  Seeds and trees and things grow from fire.  Fire is real and it is a myth.  Fire has always been and it will always be.  It will destroy and it will force things and people to rise from it's ashes.  Fire bestows blessings.  It's a fury not unlike madness.  It's personalities, cleansing, angry, broken and hot are many.  Fire is the end.  And it's the beginning.

Fire burns hot.  And when the smoke burns black and fills the air, something is born.  A choice to rise up.  From the ashes, a Pheonix is born.  Orange and red.  It is the color of that which made it.  It exudes strength and courage.  Wings are gifted to the creature, red, yellow and orange, brightly contrasted to the black from which is rises.  The weight of black ashes are no match for the wings of this creature, born of fire.  Pushing, this creature rises to the sky, above the loss and above the black ashes.  It's wings meet the air and it's eyes face the sun, moving always to something new.

I am the girl who loved a house.  And I am the girl who was loved, in return, by a house.  And some will call me the Pheonix.  But they are mistaken.  I am no great mythological creature.  I am just a girl. It's my future who is the Great Pheonix.  My future is the one who rises to the challenge of a new start. Of a new path.  I am simply a small instrument through which that journey happens.

Aside from the house itself, the greatest loss has been that of my books and my journals.  But, I guess the Universe knows better than I do and she's forced me to read new books and write new stories.

Un-Stuck

It's Saturday morning.

And it's so quiet.

I'm pretty sure it's so quiet that I can hear the delicate push of the tomato plants, in the back, pushing their tiny sun-yellow buds to the sun.

My Mom would tell me that if I tried hard enough, I might hear the stir of faeries tromping through the dirt and the leaves, the petals and the trees.  Never to be seen, only heard.

The small piece of silence is a funny balance to the chaos of the past few weeks, months...and year, really.  With plans each weekend, I feel some delight at knowing that my life has carried on and that I've acknowledged that when bad things happen, life doesn't wait for you to keep up.  And, I've taken that train and moved.  Such movement isn't done in the spirit to forget.  I've moved at 1,000 miles per hour because those were the circumstances offered me- and I wasn't going to pass up weekends spent on the water with friends.  Nor would I pass up the opportunity to celebrate the accomplishments and celebrations of friends.  The weekends of social craziness swept me up in their arms, have introduced me to new friends, have forced me to keep my head to the sun and have supported a transition with such effortlessness that I have a hard time tracking the events of each and every moment.

And then, life gives me this quiet.

A quiet so profound, all that's left is appreciation and calm.

Finally some calm.

And, herein, lies that thing of "balance."  It's that space that forces one to recall, stew and move in to memory.  And I realize, we move so fast, all of us, just to keep up sometimes.  Sometimes, we move without thinking or pondering because the moment is ripe, right there in front of us, and we take it.  We move at a speed, forgetting the broken parts of who we were so that we can move in to the solidity of who we are becoming.  Even in my thirties.  I am not yet who I am and this quiet reminds me that of the world and of experiences, I still know and realize so little.  And I have so much to gain from this quiet as it pushes me in to this space of something rather curious.

At 34, I know I'm good at "handling" the stuff that comes, the sadness that comes.  The surprises that change families, that  stuff that stills us in step.  And while I understand the logistics of coping, I also must surmise that I am not who I was even a year ago.  I am not the badass I told myself I was.  I am just not the same person.  And in my stubbornness to find my place of success, life broke it all in to a million tiny pieces because life knew me better than I knew myself.  Life broke that girl because I was too stubborn to change on my own will.

Life breaks us to make a point.   I believe this to be a cliche as much as you do, trust me.  But there's truth, here.  When we are so wrapped up in being and trying for something so dissimilar to who we are, innately, life reflects lies, sometimes in ways that are so tragic and so dark, that we cannot help but question "why?"  Life is not fair.  It's not about what's fair.  It's about how we choose to cope with those pieces which "seem" unfair.  It's about choosing to be who we are, innately.

And, while I may not be who I was even a year ago, there's still more in knowing that I'm not sure who I'll be in another year.  And that, my friends, is such a trip.  I am enjoying this shoot down the rabbit hole.  I have never adventured as I do now.  That I cannot see a destined place for me might frighten the hell out of who I was last year.  And now, that adventure seems so wide open and the joy at discovering the reality that "it's never too late to be who you want to be" is a journey I am happy to take.

I am a mess of seriousness and light-heartedness.  In the quiet, I am quiet right alongside it.  And in the open air, I laugh because I can.  I make mistakes now more frequently.  I make a fool of myself and I play harder.  I laugh louder and I smile more often, just because I can.  And for all of this, I am grateful for the broken bits because I see now that the broken bits don't "define" us, really.  They push us.  And rather than fighting to fit in some measured box of "success," I just "am" right now.  I am measured not by my past or what ever may have happened.  I am measured by who I am in this instant and by who I choose to be moving forward.  The freedom of that is profound.  There is so much to be in this life, and the fact that we get to choose is something I will never take for granted.  Ever.  We get to choose.

"I am happy for the trauma" said no one ever.

But, I am grateful for the trauma.  I am grateful for the trauma.

Perhaps to say that I am happy for it is a stretch, but to be grateful for it is something so real in me that it is hard to ignore.  I am a lighter person for it.  I am a happier person for it.  I am starting over because of it.  It's not often we give ourselves the chance to adjust to a new person.  We meld in to what has existed.  We mold to the expectations set before us by a set of beliefs and people who don't even know us.  Yes, I pay my taxes and I have a job.  I pay bills.  And I know that some day I will die, just like the rest of us.  But I also know that there is so much kinetic energy out there, pushing us to be.  There are so many chances we pass up and so many journeys we fear because they remain outside of the sphere of "practical."

Those who know me best know that I am not innately a person who is "practical."  And my drive to be so has diminished in to something so open, that the magnitude of such an opportunity sometimes takes my breath away.  I am in awe of my own luck and good fortune.

I would never have stumbled upon this stretch of my journey had things remained as they were.  And I will never take that for granted.  Ever.

There are so many colors, so much kindness and so much adventure in this life.  Had the events of the last year not taken place, I would've remained stuck on the wrong trail.

And while re-building has it's tough spots, I am more than grateful for the freedom of a new trail.

So, a high Cheers to those who choose the freedom of an un-stuck path.  Life will not wait for us to keep up but she will always push us in the direction of the open spaces we need.  We just have to be open enough to see them.

"You Always Gotta Look For the Peanut In the Turd"

It's not easy moving back in with your folks when you're 34 years old.

Especially when you've taken great pains to avoid same said move.

But...it's a lot easier than losing your home.  To a fire.

Well, let's be fair, here.  There wasn't much to move after the fire.  As in: there was n.o.t.h.i.n.g. to move because well, it all burned up.  So, really, it was physically, an easy move.  My cat, who is either an angel or badass, or maybe a badass angel survived the fire and moving him was pretty easy...stuffed in a borrowed box poked with a crap-load of holes, so his little lungs had some space.

My sweet Mom collected me at the scene and what a shit moment that was.  The street was laced in water, blue and red lights reflecting off the water swimming on dry pavement.  And the sky was lit with beautiful, tiny flecks of fire resembling tiny orange lightning bugs, scampering through the fingered branches of the Oaks surrounding the house.

Mom and I stood, with the neighbors, watching as my tiny, sweet little house lost itself to flames.

I'd just finished cleaning every nook and cranny of that house.  I'd re-decorated, a few months prior, hoping to remove the memory of what was the ugliest and most dishonest break-up I'd ever experienced. Catholics take the Eucharist and pray through stuff like that and non-believers grab the bull by the horns and persevere through stuff like that. People like me?  We burn the hell out of White Sage and cleanse our space of shitty memories.   Leading up to December, this mass cleansing was also a way of opening the door to a man who, as it turns out, makes me rather happy about the ultimate parting of the other. And the hardwood floors shone with happiness while the spiderwebs cried at having been removed from the comforts of the ceiling corners and spaces.  The new feminine ivory-white bedspread was the first I'd bought in well over a decade and I like to imagine it loved wrapping itself around me in complete and utter calm each night.  The oven and kitchen thanked me for the mass cleaning I'd performed anticipating the cakes, pies and veggie lasagnas that would make themselves at home, right there in that sweet warm space.

And then, one night, my "get-on-your-hands-and-knees" house beckoned me out.

With a bang.

My sweet house, charmed with 20 plus pots of pansies, garden fairies and gnomes pushed me out.

It was time to leave and that house.  And that house, who loved me as much as I loved it, gave me ample warning of the end of our time together.

It's now been over a month since I lost my house.  And if I think about it too much, it makes me sob.  Alone. I cry alone where no one will see because, really, it's not that I lost my stuff...it's that I lost my independence. I lost the house which became an extension of my very self, of my being.  I lost the hundreds of books with whom I shared stories and moreover whose stories I'd hoped to some day emulate...not copy...but whose bravery in pairing privacy with wide open world inspired my own hope to someday do the same.  I lost the quiet and the re-assurance that while days aren't always good days, at least my perfect, sweet house was there.  It was the ladies' sanctuary.  It was the escape for moms who needed a quiet wine break, if only for 2 hours.  It was the Downton Abbey re-run party house where my girl Natasha and I screamed at the tv screen and clutched one another's hands when Matthew was killed in a car wreck.  It was the gathering place for "wanna be wine parties" and movie marathons.  My sweet house was a labor of love.  And I feel as though I have lost a love, truly.

I cry, too, because I feel sorry for my stupid self.  All those years of saving, banking and proving to my own damn self that I am independent all went up in flames.

And.  I am wearing other peoples' clothes.

And that, my friends, is not only humbling, it is heart-building (opposite of heart-breaking).

Because suddenly, you know that these clothes, and the toiletries, and the cat supplies, and the financial donations, and the plates, cups, wine glasses, dishware, robes and a bazillion other things tell you something spectacular about yourself.

No matter what anyone has ever said or done to me; no matter how much it's hurt that someone's taken my heart, broken it and left me to sweep it up off the floor; no matter how many lies or betrayals or letdowns I have ever experienced....one thing sings louder...L.O.U.D.E.R. than all of that...

...and that is...that somewhere along the road, Karma decided she owed me one....for something.  I cannot express, with 26 letters, what it feels like to be at the hand of an outpouring of generosity- not like this one. It is overwhelming and warm and the kindness feels like a warm sunned-up yellow.

To feel this well-cared for feels like eating an extra large calorie-free, animal-friendly version of McDonald's french fries...but to accept the help despite an ego the size of Texas feels....kind of like bliss, even during the heartache.  To break down, and to just accept the help feels empowering.  I know, now, that one person can feel both positive and negative extremes, simultaneously and that they can resolve to maintain some form of healthy balance between the two.

My friend and co-worker asked me about the now house-hunt.  And, well, it's me...so I was honest.  I told it sucks.  It's not easy.  And my sweet boyfriend has now sort of taken this one by the reigns....like he does everything else...and has given me some reprise, here.

It has not been easy to find a house.

And so...I live with my folks.

Hello.  My name is Brett and I live with my parents.  For 81 days.

Nice to meet you too.

And while my parents accept me as the badass child who never gives in and is as stubborn as a dead-weight freaking Ox, they have done absolutely nothing...but support me.  They have risen like heroes.  Let me drink my cocktails and read Harry Potter in peace and never judge me...for either.

Moreover, they silently support my needing of them right now.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am unquestionably obsessed with my books.  Some favorites have been replaced by dear friends and the collection is building.  It was important to my landlord, who owned my sweet little house, that I walk through the standing remains of the structure in order to pick and choose some charred items that may have survived the house.  And in truest of form, I put on my brave face and I walked through what I could, never emitting the sadness that overwhelmed me.  I pulled some things from the clutches of blackness...two of which included some water-logged books.

Two books.

Who cares?

My Dad cared.

I never told my parents about the items I'd pulled from my house and stored in their garage.

Instead, my Dad took the water-logged books, all by himself, and has spent the last week, painstakingly drying them.  He's placed them in the sun, separated pages with bark.  These were not books that I had coveted like, "Siddhartha" or "A Good Year."

But they are now.

They are coveted because my Mom and Dad know me so well that they go to these lengths in order to preserve some silly books...which they know are the product of my grandest dreams, ever.  They tell stories.  And their stores are saved...and those now-coveted stories look like this:

Ironically, they look like flowers to me.  How about we just go ahead and call then fire flowers.

And, in the end, it's just like my friend Jim says, "You always gotta look for the peanut in the turd."  Well, as long as you equate peanuts with "good" and turds with "not-so-good."  

He's right though.

Through the bad, you always have to seek the good, no matter how much it hurts your Ego to whittle itself down.  No matter how tragic the circumstances, you have to seek the good.  And, when you're really, really, really quiet, it makes itself known.

Clear as the bright blue sky and as boldly as a blazing fire.  The good shows itself.

So much for the White Sage ceremony.  My sweet house swept up the bad stuff, made room for the good stuff and forced me to accept a path that is rather unknown to me.

And I accept that.  I hold my sweet man's hand tightly, drink Gin and Tonics with my parents, appreciate that my cat and Travis' dog get along and have resigned to letting things happen as they will, soggy books and all- and that's because I've found a few peanuts in a pretty big lump of turds.

And no matter what, I am still always a little bit ridiculous.

Marrying Justin Vernon..or Maybe John Paul White...

I'm dedicating this post to my fellow lover-of-words, Sergio Villarreal because while I say I will write daily, he actually does. And he's fearless about it while I pick the skin around my nails, pondering how foolish I might make myself look when I click the "Publish" button and well, Homecat probably doesn't.  He's been a big source of inspiration and comfort in...well...just sort of knowing that while we both pay bills, have jobs and pay taxes, there's something about these 26 symbols that drives us in bigger and better ways than other things in life.  He's a dad and a husband and writes about reality. You can read his blog here (it's a little different from mine, where I write about Fishermen, fairies and mermaids...Serg writes about the awesomeness of being a dad and husband).  Reality and escape...all the same, really.  One conversation, in life, I will never forget was one with Serg.  We just sort of pondered the need to write...like taking a breath to anyone else, we write.  Just kinda what happens.

I believe in tiny tokens of unmistakable coincidences; those pieces of truth which remain so unabashedly brazen that you cannot escape them.  Those things which sing out boldly, reminding you to pick 'em up and keep walking.  And some of those tiny truths, lately, have resided in this stack of cards that continually remind me that while I am not one we might all consider an "artist" per se, I am still beholden to these 26 symbols we call "letters."  And, I am reminded (that I should not start a sentence with "And") that sometimes gifts are not for the many but simply for the self and we are constantly reminded of their sway.

The stack of cards tells me to follow this path, to fulfill something I might otherwise be unaware of and to be brazen in my delivery and so I am, these days: brazen that is.  Brazen in my commitment to escape from the cabin fever that's taken over; brazen in my commitment to something bigger than myself, even if I have no clue what that means.  Folks post photos of their babies, wives, husbands, new loves, dogs, cats and gardens and dinners on Facebook and still, I fear putting a few letters together,  in order to share something of myself.  It's ridiculous, really, the fear.  How is it that words hold so much more fear than photos?

I have a job and I pay my bills.  I go to the dentist, regularly and brush my teeth three times a day.  I celebrate my friends' babies, weddings and engagements.  I make lunches for the week every Sunday evening and I kiss my cat every morning before I leave for work...and I anticipate the pitter patter of his paws caressing the wooden floor boards, when he greets me, daily, at the door when coming home from that job that helps me pay the bills. I am vigilant when attending to my annual check-ups and I wear deodorant, almost daily.  I pay my taxes on time and I go for long hikes on the weekends.  I drink on special occasions and I get asked to turn the music down by my neighbors on occasion too.  I prefer animals to people a lot of the time.  And often, I wish I was packed solidly on a horse somewhere out in the woods.  I also prefer trees to buildings- despite their architectural vision.

But there's a lot more...

I wish my world was comprised of this view while compiling 26 symbols in to words that meant something worth while.And I guess, at some point, we all have a story worth telling.  Or...maybe I don't care whether my words mean anything to anyone else, sort of like that pepper-lemoned shrimp pasta photo someone shared on Facebook (not to demean the shrimp dish, I'm sure it was really delicious...though, a white wine would have accompanied those flavors better than the red).

I wish I could tell the truth like Molly Wizenberg and tell stories like Isabel Allende.  I wish I was wise like Paulo Coelho and I wish my silly words could tell stories like Sarah Addison Allen.

If words could sound like music, then I wish mine could sound like this..and also, that when I'm in my 50's and 60's, my husband looks like that...but that he doesn't go to the Sea to die, like Kate Chopin's beloved Edna Pontellier. Or maybe I could just marry Justin Vernon of Bon Iver.  If I was able to depict words of betrayal, then I wish they could sound like this because they do so, so mysteriously and I will have you know, you can only hide behind a lie for a little while, and then, you just have to own your self.

Marrying Justin Vernon- that's a good place to stop.

Or maybe marrying John Paul White...I don't know...

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