The Talking Trellis

Internet surfing for various random topics can sometimes be dangerous. Dangerous in that- look out you may discover something you need to know but don’t want to face- sort of way. The other day, I set out to back up a silly non consequential fact and ended up discovering a major set back in my well being: physically, emotionally and conscientiously.

Over a year ago, after much kicking and screaming, I was tested and diagnosed with hypothyroidism. The result made sense and answered a lot of questions the “collective we” had concerning my health and, interestingly enough, the state of my physical body. This should come as no surprise to anyone who has been with me and this blog from the beginning, as one of the reasons I started this blog was to discuss and navigate through this diagnosis with the feeling of a cyber support system cheering me on. Whether or not this was real or imagined, the cyber support system, made no difference to me- it was and is what I need to keep present and mindful about what is happening. However, somewhere along the way I stopped writing about this topic, and in truth, ceased writing as regularly as I envisioned I would be. Life happens, now is not the time to beat myself up about that.

After my diagnosis, my DO and I had a discussion. She advised me to cut out eggs and cheese and take fish oil pills. I shared with her that those two foods were not on my staple list whatsoever and asked if there was a vegetarian option for fish oil. She asked me what my diet consisted of and when I shared with her my staples, she gave me the same look everyone gives me when they learn I am a Vegetarian or see/hear what I eat. It is that look of, “you should really not look the way you look if that is what you eat- so clearly you must be lying.” My diet consists of mainly cruciferous vegetables, soy and roots. This has been so prominent in my life for over the twenty three years I have been a Vegetarian that my father once told me if I didn’t tell him what I wanted for my birthday he was just going to give me a pound of broccoli! A gift that suited me fine, as broccoli has always been my favorite food. My DO then amended her advise to state, “Yes- eat as much broccoli, cauliflower, leafy greens, spinach, tofu as you can and throw in a ton of flaxseed for good measure.” I ran with it. I was working on my trust issues with the medical industry and by all accounts this advise sounded just.

Turns out, after a night of frivolous internet surfing, I shouldn’t have been trusting. I should have followed my gut and kept researching and questioning, for that advise was not sound, medically or otherwise. If one is diagnosed with hypothyroidism, one needs to stay away from goitrogens- which are comprised of two major categories: Cruciferous Vegetables and Soy Related Products. Cue brain explosion and tears! In addition, omega threes are essential to introduce into the body, especially DHA and EPA- flax seed contains ALA which can sometimes be converted inside the body to DHA & EPA as long as one is incredibly healthy, not obese hypothyroidic red heads named Shawn Marie! Can you hear the bombastic Cosi Fan Tutte measure that is vibrating through my brain? Surely that is loud enough for everyone to hear, right?

I spent the rest of the evening in a shock with tears off and on as I found more and more data to back this up. Evidence states that one with hypothyroidism should avoid goitrogens, especially in raw form, eat foods high in iron and enjoy lean meats and seafood as their staples. Did I mention I have been a Vegetarian for almost 24 years? I spent the next day in denial and avoidance, losing myself in En Vogue videos on youtube. I spent yesterday coming back into the awareness while simultaneously doing tasks that took me away from thinking about it, and researching what to do about it all now. I received lots of advice after posting my dismay on facebook and from phone conversations with my parents: Mom, “That’s easy- Just add seafood.” Dad, “I wish it were easy to just add seafood.”

Therein lies the crux of the issue for me. I can get over accepting and following bad advice. I can even try to stop punishing myself for doing so. I can regroup and move forward. There are lots of ways I can approach this and even ways that do not mean I have to stop being a Vegetarian. I know this, and yet I still feel as if I made a wrong turn in the guise of following my conscience with, what was to be believed, healthy side effects. This has me shaken to the core. I am a Vegetarian because I believe in its merit and rippling good efforts, actions and outcomes. I have not ever been a preachy one, I have always known what works for one may not work for another, yet I have been a tried and true Vegetarian all the same. I have the knowledge to back up what is good and right and just about being a Vegetarian, for the individual and the world at large. I simply never thought it wasn’t good for me. And this has me heartbroken.

There is still processing to be done. I can see a better health coming my way, I can see this as an answer to so many doubts and concerns, I truly can. Yet, right now, I am still sad and need to allow that time to ruminate and churn and eventually become something less sad, something a little more optimistic. I will get there, and I will keep you posted, for now though- I am introspective about a huge part of myself that perhaps was never meant to be. And nothing about it is easy.

A few weeks before I started working for a certain Jewish named discount store predominantly for the mature woman, when I went in to retrieve an application in fact, I wandered through the store and saw a dress. I am infatuated with dresses, though I rarely wear them. I want to wear them, all the time. I have a few in my wardrobe that sadly do not get to see the light of day, let alone a night on the town; an actuality that doesn’t stop me from looking at dresses and dreaming up scenarios to wear a dress. The dress that caught my attention was a snazzy a-line made from a geometric patterned material in earth tones and trimmed in black. I was immediately drawn to it and could see myself in it, smoothly moving from day to night. It was in my size and on the sale rack. However, when one is looking for a job, a frivolous purchase, such as a dress- no matter how marked down it had become from its original department store price- is a no go. When I first saw the dress, it was twenty dollars, which may not seem a high price, but twenty dollars, when you are unemployed, may as well be a thousand! Also, at the time, it represented food for a week (yes I am that frugal). So, I smiled at the dress and thought- if I get this job and you are still here after a few pay days, maybe kid, just maybe…

I got the job, after what I have come to call the ‘texas wait and see’ period of a week or two- just when you resign yourself to not getting the job- the offer call comes and makes you shake your head. Each shift I worked, I would walk by the dress, say hello to it and see if it had come down any further. I got paid, and, of course, the money went to bills and survival. This continued for weeks, until one day, as I headed back to climb the stairs to clock in by way of the dress- it was gone. The dress was no longer there. I shrugged and consoled myself with the fact that it clearly wasn’t meant to be and it was still out of my price range anyway- even with my discount. Days and weeks and probably a month went by before I found myself behind the register during a fourteen hour sale. The lines went back to the end of the store. I was in a boxed off cage of sorts, happy to be busy so the day would go by fast, when what should land on my counter top- but the dress. It had been in the middle of a pile of clothes placed there for purchase by two sisters who were delightful. We had been joking about something inane as I rang up their choices, and then my hand fell upon the dress. I asked them where they found it and was regaled by it being the only one on the rack like it and how one of the sisters looked great in it and how they were going to Vegas so they needed something fun to wear. The sister it was for wasn’t super excited about it, yet she figured it would do, especially after her sister’s insistence. I tried to dissuade her, she wouldn’t budge, I rang it up only to discover its current price was two dollars! Ouch. On top of that, seeing as it was on clearance, it was further reduced. Which means, she got my dress- that she didn’t even want- for one dollar and forty cents!

Sure, one of the shapes in the pattern was filled in with a color I really shouldn’t wear. Okay, I wasn’t in a place where I would have an occasion to wear the dress. True, I never even tried it on. But there it was and it was gone. It was my fault. I should have been more diligent in looking for it when I didn’t see it that day. I should have put it on hold. I should have come up with a clever reason why they couldn’t buy it. I should have just bought it in the first place. And if you still think this is about a dress- you were like me- and hadn’t been paying attention. I got the wake up call when the same set of sisters came back into the store to tell me how nice I am and how great the dress worked out and how I should just be their personal shopper. Forget that all I did was ring up their total and bag the items for them after taking payment and that I was serious when I tried to talk them out of buying the dress. Their pure adoration for me struck the cord that I needed to hear, even if perhaps I didn’t want to hear it- None of this has been about the dress, nor any other dress, for that matter.

I have become so comfortable with helping others and making sure things stay or go smoothly for everyone else- that I forgot to do the same for myself. This has been going on for years, yet really came into all encompassing full force this last year. I can easily spend hundreds of dollars on other people’s desires, though will have buyer’s remorse before I buy something for myself. Sadly, this applies to almost all areas of my life as of late. In making sure everyone else is taken care of and happy and comfortable, I have become a shadow- diminishing, complacent and slowly loosing my voice. My love has been whispering in my ear about this- and now I finally see it. What’s more, is that I feel it. This awareness is heavy. It requires a change, a shift in attitude. A special introspective lens will be needed to discern why I let it go this far, get so bad, that I wasn’t even worth the frivolity of a silly little dress- let alone making my dreams, and therefore, my life come true.

Yes, perhaps there was a dress first- but it isn’t any longer. As I allow my dreams and goals and wishes to come forward once more, my wardrobe shall be stocked with all kinds of real, metaphorical and imagined dresses to clothe me- inside and out. Moving forward, I will be back in step and gosh darn it- every now and again, come first.

This is how I would explain my graduating high school. It is an art school, The Los Anegeles County High School for the Arts, to be exact. We affectionately abbreviate it to LACHSA, pronounced Lock Suh. It incorporates all art mediums- performing to visual to fine. Lachsa is still operating and I hope thriving. However, when I uttered the title sentence, over twenty years ago, it was a school in its infancy.

I arrived at the school as a junior in its toddling year of existence. I may as well have been fresh off the farm, though I was a suburb kid from Colorado who had already been dancing and performing for several years. My mother had sent me information on the school and I auditioned over the summer while visiting her. I did two monologues, one from The Runaways and the ever classic, “Ladie’s First.” I wore a cooky hat and the volunteer with whom I signed in thought I was a parent and therefore I didn’t see any other auditioning students until a few seconds before my turn. The panel cut off my monologues well before their completion and asked me one question, “Will it bother you to not perform professionally while you attend school?” I answered, “No,” and was sent on my way, certain I had failed. To my delight, I had not, I had gotten in. I later asked one member of the panel about this and she replied, “Oh- we knew when you walked in the room.”

Two years of my life were spent at Lachsa. Two of the hardest, most challenging, most demanding, most freeing, most exhilerating years of my life. I met some of my closest friends at Lachsa, kindred spirits, unique thinkers, all of us united in a pursuit of the obtainment of the exonerated state of ‘art’ no matter our discipline of choice. We were a dedicated crew, we were exhausted from the rigorous schedule of academics in the morning and arts classes in the afternoon. For most of us this schedule was bookended by two hour bus rides and/or extensive commutes. I also had an after school job, as I was paying rent and surviving so that I could go to school.  I do not believe any of us thought it was easy, yet it was the work we loved and finally on a subject we loved even more. We made it through bomb threats and earth quakes and Maya Angelou and Garcia Lorca and Barry Manilow. We made it through the constant fear of not being good enough or working hard enough and being sent back to regular high school. We championed constructive criticism and to top it all off, all of this happened at an institution on borrowed land. We were to be on our best behavior at all times, so that the campus who hosted us would not change their mind. Hence, no dancing on the tables, at the very least- not in shared areas or common grounds.

Yesterday, I saw the new Fame movie. I had high hopes for it- another film about my people! I was armed with Micheal Gore’s original film, which came out when I was nine and I remember watching it then, thinking, “I am too young to be watching this.” For it had extremely controversial themes and grit while it dared to show the truth of the struggle it can take to be an artist. I had five years of the television show under my belt, I knew Doris Schwartz like the back of my hand, Maureen Teefy to Valerie Landsburg. I auditioned to dance with Gene Anthony Ray when he came through Denver. I sang “The Body Electric” and I was “Out Here On My Own.” But Baby, no one can be strong enough to witness this new incarnation. Save, perhaps, the homogenized,  off kilter, imbalanced, brainwashed, Hollywood youth and its blind followers.

Fame 2009 is chock full of the beautiful people, it looks pretty, even with some bad skin. It is a cliff notes version of a handful of students lives that no one cares about. They are boring and handsome and rich. They don’t break a sweat. Though, they do what they are told and get swindled by the most obvious swindlers and in the end they all get solos! There is no sex, though there is inappropriate dance montages for high school students and inappropriate teaching practices. Nothing nurturing, nothing sustainable, and so very much of a disneyafied New York, that truly makes me want to hurl. These are not my people. The people who created this movie are not my people. I will go so far as to say, Fame 2009 is a smoke screen, a distraction, a lie.

Yes, I could be too intimately involved. I do not apologize for that. I worked for it. In this day and time when arts funding is slashed to almost non existent statuses across the globe. In this day and time when art needs to be dangerous, when children need to have something to bite their teeth into- here is yet another smooth, non factual, inconsequential brief on how, as long as you look good and have no personality, you don’t need to work hard or delve deeper. There is no room in this world for meanings, or history, or substance. And by all means, no room for actual, real, pull your heart strings, wrench your gut- Art. They had a chance to turn it around, and they blew it.

By the time I matriculated, in Lachsa’s 1989 pomp and circumstance ceremony, I was marked for life. I knew how to criticise literature, I knew how to break down iambic pentameter, I knew how to project to the back row, I knew that the roses at the end come with the thorns in the process, I knew that every member of the corps is just as important as the star, as they both require the dedication and the work involved, I knew that every opening has a crew of unknown devoted behind the scenes artisans, I knew that art was work and life was hard when it mattered the most, I knew I didn’t want to shake Supervisor Antonovich’s hand at graduation, or ever. Why can we not teach the world and the world’s children the same thing. Correction, why can’t society and the media?

There are times, especially those of late, when I feel I am not honoring my arts education. I have been asking myself quite a bit lately, “What am I doing? Why aren’t I doing more?” My thoughts have been questioning my existence and I feel propelled to change, to call upon my art education and life experience and come up with a new way of life, honoring who I am, what I believe and what I want to represent. It isn’t an easy task, the burden of being an artist. Most times it isn’t viewed as noble, nor worthwhile. It is rarely viewed as arduous as it is, the world only seeing the few who receive acclaim. I do not know exactly how I will incorporate all of this into my life and its curving path and expanding journey, I simply know I have to.

Until I figure it all out, and after to be sure, I will stay in the Micheal Gore camp of Fame, I will remember his name and what he accomplished. I will be a proud alum of Lachsa. I will dance on the table of life, the table that needs a matchbox under one of its legs to keep from wobbling, the table that is slippery with the sweat of others who dared to dance their art upon it before me, the table that will support us- even when it is a replica of the deco style, the table we all gather at to discuss and share and thrive and together we’ll see where that gets me, us.

I love reunions; the word itself and its very meaning. Whether or not this has anything to do with my life long adoration of the song “Reunited,” I cannot say. Even typing this, the image of side by side frames of Peaches and Herb raising their individual microphones and singing about how good it feels to be reunited conjures up in my mind. I viewed this serenade, as often as the networks would air it, on the television that had been relegated to the basement. It was a sad set with a twelve inch screen and quite clearly not worthy for the place of pride and sitcom/sports/news viewing in the main living room. With a hairbrush in my hand and visions of beads in my hair, I sang that song with escalated emotion every chance I got. There were no faint disco lights to accompany me, no cheesecloth for mood, nor a thoughtful, supportive, quiet studio audience. Most ironically- there wasn’t anyone, or anything, for which I could become reunited, no matter how good it might feel.

When “Reunited” was climbing the charts, and being awkwardly danced to on Solid Gold, my years had not reached double digits. Little did I know beyond my family and we had no cause to be separated. I would add- and school- to the above statement, yet I went to as many schools as there are years in a school career as we moved every year and hence, furthering reunions to being nonexistent in my life. It would take me until age 13* to feel my first reunion, and yes that felt good. My next would come at 17**, complete with exposure to the bitter sweet reality that from then on every time there was a reunion, there is someone who was left behind.

Traveling, exploring, moving, running away and geographical fixes were the mainstays of my existence. Being of a social persuasion, I made friends at every stop, twist and turn, so you can imagine how many reunions I have faced over the now three and half decades of my life. Connecting and reconnecting with all of my friends and extensive family has not ever ceased to delight me. I attended the 10 Year Reunion of my Arts High School^ and had a wonderful time. For the most part we all looked the same and our personalities rang true with our memories.

By the time, or rather one year shy of the time, our 20 Year Reunion came around- the alumni planned a joint reunion of all the classes that graduated in the 80’s. This made our 20^th Reunion take place on the 19^th year after we graduated. Coincidentally, the same year my life really started to take a tail spin financially, rendering me unable to attend. (I may have also been bitter about losing a year on the milestone, yet we do not want to go into that deluge of bitterness, trust me.)

A few weeks ago, my regular High School, whose alumni is comprised of the people I went to junior high with and have recently reconnected with by way of social networking, hosted our 20^th Reunion. This happened a week after my love and I moved to Texas. We moved rather reluctantly as victims of the economy, which should clearly illustrate how we did not have the money to go to the Reunion.

Little by little, over these past few years, I have started to feel like that second class television set whose antenna is nowhere near strong enough to get a proper signal from the basement level. I have had an overwhelming feeling of being removed, set aside, and passed over. Everything and everyone was beyond some barrier I couldn’t cross. It wasn’t anything anyone else did or said or shared, I fell into this gloom all on my own. I somehow stumbled into the land of no reunions, not even little ones. If I was Peaches, Herb was too far away.

If this in and of itself is not pathetic enough, a few days ago John Hughes, the man who made facing my teen years slightly more bearable and set an unmatchable standard for the expression of certain aspects of my generation, passed away from a heart attack. I began to wonder- How can our spirit thrive if his heart is no longer beating? It all felt connected. My irrational grieving from alienating myself united with sincere grieving over a symbol of my youth and therefore, my youth itself.

There it was- the mirror I needed. It was my youth and the ridiculous list of things I had not accomplished that I was grieving. I couldn’t express any of this eloquently or even in a languid fashion. I believe I was facing my mortality and for me that meant renouncing, alienating, and not understanding why. Now, that I can see my state of mind somewhat less cluttered, I can begin to reestablish a reunion of myself, compile all of my pieces to move forward. I can let go of what doesn’t serve and embrace the tools I have acquired along the way that shield me when I need it and illuminate when they can.

I further examined how Reunions are all about celebrating the past. I love my past for it has brought me to my present, which I wouldn’t trade for anything. It is hard and uncertain and mine all mine. I think it is time to put yesterday to rest, so that tomorrow can shine. How exciting to face the world armed with the: what ifs, maybes and why nots- to once again be reunited with the future. And yes, oh yes, it feels so good.

*We moved several towns away and I found myself the new kid at school, yet again, in Junior High and fast became the spit wad target on the bus even though I wore my bi-level haircut proud, missed a day of school to recover from the Jackson’s Victory Tour and everyone else had acne too. After I penned a tear stained note to my mom that may have mentioned running away- I was reunited with my friends at the first Junior High I had attended and astonishingly was allowed to matriculate from the very same Junior High when it was time to move on to High School.

**After one year of High School, I moved with my mom to California, got into Art school and during winter break- went back to visit my dad and friends in Colorado. It was great, yet I missed my new friends in CA and then when I got home I missed my older friends in CO again- hence my first lesson in this perpetual emotion. Yes that was a throw back to the Nylons- big points if you got it before I mentioned it!

^ I do not think my regular High School had a clue as to where I was at that point. Also, as I didn’t graduate among the class with whom I started, I am probably not officially considered one of them; though I am in my heart, most sincerely.

I was born in Colorado during a winter snow storm a day before spring. Snow suits and mittens and freezing football games peppered my early years. Halloween costumes were covered up by fluffy down jackets and the little league parks were a home away from home. Yet, when I think of my childhood, I think of a beach in Maine- over two thousand miles away from my day to day, in and out physical address.

As a child, I sat in the sand to build castles only to watch the waves wash them away. When the surf took away my masterpiece, I would cry. When it was suggested I move further back away from the tide line to build, I insisted my spot was the best. As a child I could roam freely from the sand to the water to the playground to the arcade to the candy factory. As a child, salt water, sea air and sand fueled my every move. All of this is true; no matter how limited I may have been in a land locked mile high desert.

It isn’t that I do not remember the days I spent growing and exploring in Colorado, I have plenty of memories to encapsulate upon those days. However, when I recall my childhood or someone asks me about my childhood- the very first thought is always York Beach in Maine where my brothers, my mother and I spent a few summers, clearly during an important part of my development. In the memoir of my everyday, my childhood consisted of body surfing, running up to the window of the candy factory to watch the taffy machine, candlepin/stick bowling, and lobster for lunch and my name being pronounced as if two of its letters traded places. My time was marked by a sailor’s bracelet that I put on the first day there and did not remove until its last braided thread fell off of me.

A week ago I was back at York Beach as an adult, with my mother, one of my brothers and my love. It was a gloomy day and the tide was just easing away from high. My brother took off down the beach in the hopes of finding a sand dollar, Mom, having been in a cast, sat on a bench as my love and I waded in the water. We all were in a strange head space on our way to the beach. We knew that the next day was the funeral of a dear Uncle, which is why we were in New England in the first place. Wrapping one’s head around the reverence makes a revisit to childhood a conundrum.

Eventually we regrouped and walked past the arcade, where thirty years ago I put a nickel in a machine and got a “Spooning License”. By the time we made it to the bowling alley, the sun was attempting to be seen. My love bested us all at a game of Candlestick bowling, though she had not ever seen or heard of it minutes before the game began. As we crossed the street toward Goldenrod, (the candy store/factory) the taffy machine had been fired up and we couldn’t have been giddier. We clamored around the window to watch hot liquid get pulled into a hard fluffy pillow that got stretched into a tube and then fed through a machine to cut the taffy to size and individually wrap it up to be purchased.

Moments later we had salt water taffy in our tummies, the sun was shining, the waves were crashing and the big yellow dog on the boardwalk was lavishing us with kisses. Childhood snuck back in, all was shinier, and we felt safe and adventurous. I dipped into the corner gift shop and found a sailor’s bracelet in my grown up size. Could it be that life had come full circle? Had my childhood found a way to wrap around my adulthood? Could they exist together or was it time to leave my childhood behind?

My head continued to swim with these questions as we drove away from the beach. The questions were present as I said goodbye to my Uncle’s physical body. The questions were there as tears filled my eyes. Here I was in the land of my childhood, regardless of what geography dictated, facing death. I couldn’t help but muse about where the time had gone and if I had used it appropriately. More and more I had begun to regress into thinking that it was too late for me, that I had wasted too much time living in the moment, thinking there will always be tomorrow to do that, to see this, to accomplish more. All of these thoughts are dangerous. It may never be too late, yet that doesn’t mean one may not feel as if it is, and I was there. I was there in a hard, bad, negative way. My logical side was trying to comfort the negativity away with optimism. My emotional side was beginning to panic.

There is nothing like a mirror from your youth to set you into a tail spin. I was getting caught up and it was weighing me down tremendously. I loved being a part of the service to honor my Uncle- the first person who taught me that being a free spirit was a valid path. I loved seeing my Mom and my relatives from her side of the family. I loved sharing so much of my cultural heritage and childhood with my love. It was the feeling of all of this love that finally brought me around.

I may not have gotten to every goal in my life yet, I may not be as successful as others, I may not get to do it all, yet I can turn that mirror around and look into it for reassurance, instead of a ticking time bomb. I can carry into my adulthood the magic of York Beach: the sweetness of salt water taffy, the calming sea air, the action inspiring waves, the “never know what you’ll get” attitude from the arcade, the “looking at things a little differently” reminder from the candlestick bowling, my family- no matter the baggage. And now I have a new image to conjure through that mirror- kissing my love on the beach and sharing the little girl in me with the grown up relationship we share.

My adulthood doesn’t have all the answers. Neither did my childhood. My adulthood still cannot pick a destination to settle into, much like my childhood. However, they both have their place and they both hold promise. If ever I forget this again, or simply need a gentle reminder, there is a sailor’s bracelet in my jewelry box that holds the truth.

During our last week in Denver, the Triple J Household (Jes, Jaala & Justus) took us out to the movies to see UP and celebrate Alicia’s birthday. None of us really knew what to expect from UP, yet we were all in tears from the first reel to the last. The tears represented all emotions imaginable and conjured up many memories from the past and a few hundred that have yet to be made in the future. It is a wonderful movie, a truly magnificent testament to the two lives most worthy of the acclaim this movie has received. The excursion was a surprise and one of the best gifts we have received. Making the evening more delightful was the venue in which we viewed the movie. Not so much the actual venue as it is now, rather, what used to encompass the space.

Many moons ago, to the tune of over twenty years, there was a shopping center in southwest Denver called Bear Valley. The mall included bear statues one could crawl upon and feel triumphant. There were your basic sundry shops and only a restaurant or two; these were the days before food courts. It wasn’t a grand mall nor a spectacular shopping experience; venture back in time when the big stores at the mall were a drug store and a department store. Yet, as we knew not what the future held for malls and shopping centers, it was doable and held magic on its own meager merits.

When I was a single digit child, a visit to Bear Valley was about as exciting as life could get. Especially if it happened in the company of my childhood friend, Melody. I idolized Melody and, truthfully, still do today. I am guessing that after you read this you just may idolize her as well. As I would leave the house to get into the car, driven by Melody’s mom, that would take us to Bear Valley, my mother would hand me a dollar. You read that right, a dollar.

Now, I mentioned this mall existed quite a few years ago, though I am not exceedingly old. The events that I am about to share, happened between the years of 1977 to 1980. In those years, as it is today, a dollar was not much money. What I haven’t shared yet, is my innocence and lack of understanding concerning the value of money. To me, back then (and some may say at present) a dollar may as well have been a million dollars. I was in heaven! I had a dollar and a day at Bear Valley with Melody.

Our routine was to spend the whole day languidly shopping and conversing and playing on the bear statues- though I feigned non interest to appear older for Melody, who had a few years on me. This age difference fully cemented her enigma status and cool factor in my eyes. She and I would look in stores, where I made mental notes as to what the inventory contained and what I might want to buy. This went on for the few hours before we paused for lunch.

Lunch, during these excursions, took place in the restaurant attached to the drug store. We were escorted to a booth, menus placed in front of us and a soda pop was promised to be on its way. I looked over the menu and selected a sandwich, a grilled cheese, with fries on the side. Melody changed up her meal from time to time- I stayed consistent. We ate and chatted while the waitress catered to our every whim and need. After finishing our meal we resumed browsing until the day ran out and our ride was on their way.

My final task of the day was to decide what I would buy with my dollar. Yes, you see- I thought lunch was supplied for free, that the waitress was so good and nice to us because she enjoyed it. In my mind this happened for everyone. There was no need for money- everything was free! Everything, except the one tiny trinket I would deem worthy enough for the trade of my dollar. This treasure, I took all day to decide upon. I would look through every store and hold on to my dollar assuredly until the last minute when I would run back to the miniature store and buy one thing for my doll house. I only had a dollar after all. I was lucky to acquire a tiny plastic album, or broom, or baby doll, and even then I am sure I didn’t have enough for tax.

Melody was my fairy godmother, guardian angel, role model, red haired goddess and bankroll all wrapped up together. She created this magical bubble where time didn’t matter, where decadent reward food was provided, where reality was kept at bay for a day for one little girl to experience daydreams while being wide awake. A different world from her own, a wonderland- if you will- the likes of which has yet to be matched.

It was fitting to experience UP on the same spot Bear Valley once was. To watch a movie about believing and love and magic, where I was first in the land of make believe. Where I could suspend the harshness of my childhood to float through the day with my only concern being how to spend my one dollar. To revisit this spot with dear friends and the one I love, all of us under the spell of UP, is something I will cherish forever. I am unsure of how to express the gratitude in my heart for Melody, The Triple J Household, and Alicia. If I could go back and retrieve all of those single dollars and redistribute them to everyone I love, so that they could experience a dollar all day, the way I was privileged to experience…I would be UP and on it, in a heartbeat with the help of the magical balloon in my soul.

Almost a month ago, Alicia and I received some sad news. This isn’t necessarily uncommon; we have been receiving a certain type of sad news on almost a monthly basis for going on a year now, so hearing the sad news is not what made the event extraordinary. Rather- it is where we were when we heard it, how I reacted, and what chain of events followed.

Gearing up for the news we decided to be decadent in the best comforting food sort of way and so we headed out to Waffle House- no judgment dear readers, sometimes you have to go where it feels right and cozy, arteries be damned! As there are no Waffle Houses near us we went up to one in the burbs. It was an odd time of day, therefore we had the place mostly to ourselves. We ordered and waited and then the phone rang announcing the delivery of said sad news. Usually, I roll with the punches and take things in stride. This time, I cried.

I am not a pretty sight when I cry. I turn red, I shake, my nose runs, my eyes swell and puff, I try to hide it but I cannot. For the most part I can be quiet, but everything else gives it away in spades. Alicia does not like to see me cry and does everything she can to comfort me, yet once I start I cannot be calmed for quite some time.

Our food is delivered, and the waitress asks if I am okay. I cannot speak when I cry for if I do I sound bitingly angry. Because of this, Alicia answers for me. The waitress sizes up Alicia and will not accept any answer from her, and so she asks me again- her eyes piercing into mine with a glow that I have shared before in my time. It is a look that communicates more than the words that have been spoken, it says, “If you are in danger or harm, I am here to help.”

I assure her as best I can that I am indeed okay. Yet, my crying continues and another worker comes over to ask if I am okay. Then another and another. Each time, Alicia’s words are not accepted, only mine. Each time the unspoken is shared through a look of protection.  This look is mare than a pact, it is a call to action, a summoning of a comrade for the good fight. The fight that will save your life.

Alicia and I finish our meal, slightly bewildered. I have stopped crying and seem to be able to speak without choking or yelling. We pay and head out to the car. The eyes of every staff member upon us every single inch we cross. The look is present and stays with me long after we pull away.

Enough time has passed that I can write about this day. This isn’t to say I have just remembered it, for nothing could be further from the truth. That day has been with me physically and in my mind everyday since. I simply wasn’t sure how to put it into words until now. You see, if one didn’t know Alicia they might misjudge her as someone who could do harm, someone who could inflict pain. She is fiercely protective and if someone hurt someone she loved, she would (and does) rise to the occasion. However, she is not violent and would not ever hurt nor oppress me. I know this. Anyone who knows her knows this. The staff of Waffle House does not know this. The staff of Waffle House, in the very least on the aforementioned day, is compromised of people that no one likes to talk about. People who have been hurt, people who have been saved, either by themselves or by another unsuspecting good Samaritan. People who recognize and know how to give that look.

The earth is crowded with these silent heroes, heroes who were once victims and are now doing whatever they can to survive. It is the person next to you on the bus, the person behind you in line, the person who held the door for you and perhaps looked after you a little longer than you noticed. You see, once one has shifted from victim or oppressed to survivor, they are in an automatic club that knows not of its membership for there are no words to fit the pledge, no words that could adequately express every individual journey. Besides, this club doesn’t need words, it thrives on action. It is ‘Pay It Forward’ for the under dog who may not ever see justice, but will see to it that everyone has the chance to try for it.

I recognized that look only because I am a member of this club. I made the shift with help from others and help from myself, help that came from the most unexpected places- like a long distance phone call, or a cop who looked a little longer than needed to make sure. Help that was loud and help that was silent and help that was as simple as a squeeze of the hand. Now, as a survivor I pay my grateful dues in being watchful for who might need that look. I pay my dues by helping to push the car that ran out of gas, by navigating a wheelchair turn, by opening a door and all the while looking out for the subtle and not so subtle signs of distress.

The staff of the Waffle House that day are my kin. We may not have the same appearance or the same ideology, but we know what it means to look out for people, to not take the big voice as word but to seek out the little voice who may be screaming for help. They didn’t recognize me as one of them that day as I was not on duty. Some times we get lucky and find a protector who allows us a day off when we need to be vulnerable and find a way to bring ourselves back without worrying about being on the look out for others.

How wonderful to know the chain is in effect. How sad to know the links are still building and so many have woes and tragedies that are shaping their lives. Yet, I am on the watch and the look is in place to speak all those words we all understand, “I am here. I will help.” Thank you staff of Waffle House and thank you my love for allowing me the space and the silence and the comfort to embrace it all.

I am on the precipice of change. I can feel it. I can feel it in my bones and it rattles my thoughts. Thoughts that, when given light and examination, reshape everything.

Is it the state of the world, or merely the inner workings of my inner minions. The minions that keep me churning and often cause my life long battle with insomnia to grab hold and squeeze me awake. Tick. Tock. The hours of the night face me, while I redo, rewrite, relive, revive aspects of my past- but mainly illusions of my future. Illusions I wish to be tangible, so I race to sleep to stock the energy to make them real. Though through uncertainty, sleep is elusive, and therefore restless and spinning I face the day. The days, the week. A week from now. If I can make it to just a week from now- I will have more answers. I am certain of this. Or is that certainty a mirage?

What I know is that attitude is at the helm. Attitude to be followed by tedious, monotonous, overwhelming, rewarding (at an undetermined time in the future) work. Work I can face, and do not ever regret, if I can focus on one aspect, one step, one inch at a time. For it is the tangents that impede my progress, all the arms and tentacles of everything that is linked to every thing that is linked to everything, everywhere.

I call upon the ripples to gently guide me to stay upon the true course. I call upon the winds of change to be kind. To me, to all of us.

There is a line in the Plain White T’s song Hey There Delilah- which sings, “The world will never ever be the same. And you’re to blame.” I love this lyric, for its simplicity about how the world can change in an instant and in it’s entendre of switching the negative to a positive.

More often than not we blame someone or something for something bad, yet there are positive things that arise from interactions and from opening our hearts and the culprits of such things pretty and sweet are most certainly to be blamed.

Growing up my family had several dogs, most of whom were named Brandy. (Those who have been hanging with me will know why, and those who may want to know- merely need to inquire and I will share once again.) I enjoyed these animals but felt much more akin to the dozens of cats we had over the years. Albeit, ‘dozens’ may be an exaggeration, yet it feels right in this moment. This actuality, of responding more to the cats of my youth, and my eventually growing up to be somewhat of a gypsy, lead me to believe that I was a cat person.

Cats are spirited and loners and free wheeling and mysterious and cantankerous and cuddly on their own terms. All things I could understand and relate to- they also didn’t need someone to be home on time or to follow a strict schedule. Again, a necessity for any sort of creature to be a part of my life through the majority of my adulthood. I was good with being a cat person. A cat person, who didn’t actually have cats- but a cat person all the same. I would proclaim it and most assuredly not ever shy away from it when the topic was broached.

And then I met Kirby.

I met Len before I met Kirby. Len was Kirby’s human and my partner. Len referred to Kirby as, “My little Bunny!” The description fit the fluff ball of a Pomeranian that was Kirby. Sweet little face with a punctuated nose and a charm that could sweep even the most staunch cat person off their feet. I had not ever met a Pomeranian before I met Kirby, and that was fine- for Kirby was the essence of all things good and entrancing about Pomeranians. At least as far as I could tell by falling in love with her and watching her work her wiles on others.

Kirby enjoyed the non fenced yard, yet never strayed from it unless given permission to run down the hill to friends who were expecting her. Everyone was expecting Kirby, for a visit from Kirby would make you smile no matter your mood. When Kirby wanted in, she wouldn’t bark, she would politely wait at the back door until you showed up to grant her access. Kirby’s favorite snack was cheese and she would steal a slice of pizza right off your plate. Kirby thought she was invisible when she hid under the chair; watching her try to be surreptitious only delighted us more.

There were times when my old ways came to focus and I had momentary patches of resentment. Not toward Kirby herself: for having to be there to let her out, from be awakened by Kirby’s best friend to go for a walk, for not being as footloose and fancy free as perhaps a cat would have allowed me to be. These times were fleeting and soon forgotten- mostly before they had even happened.

One look down at the fur ball on my thigh while writing, open concerns that she was safely on the bed, watching her play with Sammy No Rats (the cat), observing her take on the world from the vantage point of our ankles- was all it would ever take to melt any woes, or days gone by of being a self proclaimed cat person.

Kirby passed away. Long before her time and long before anyone in this world was ready for her to go. When I read the news, I acted before I could think. I jumped up from the couch, tears forming in my eyes and paced the room a few times. I ran into the room (where Alicia had been sleeping for hours) and blurted out that Kirby died. I sat on the bed and cried. I sat where, if this were the bed that Kirby knew, she would have been sleeping soundly with a teeny tiny snore. Alicia held me and calmed me down. She was no stranger to Kirby through the many stories I had shared and often asked if we needed to go get me a pomeraranian. I was numb for a few days, and even as I type this- there are tears in my eyes.

My heart exploded for that little half pint of a dog. Exploded in a way to not ever go back. I love dogs- all of them it seems. I still love cats, but am no longer a single species person. The witch in me will always make room for the cats of the world, only now dogs are welcome too. And fish- we mustn’t forget the fish. I love animals, as I always have, yet my snobbishness and preferences have all but disappeared for good. And yes, Kirby is to blame.

Now that I am openly an animal person, there are some that say I have quite the animal magnetism. I have noticed that animals come right up to me and/or follow me. Even at the zoo, I am captivated by the animals coming up to greet me or walk the length of their cage with me as I pass by. I talk to animals as I speak with humans and I believe they understand me, at least some of the time. I am not so sure if all this means I have a heightened animal magnetism, or if I have simply been touched by Kirby.

Thank you Len for sharing Kirby with me. And Kirby, you will live on in my heart forever and a day as well as in all the souls of the animals we are lucky enough to embrace.

Viva Le Kirby- the best little bunny ever!

Wow- 2009! Did anyone else see this coming? I am happy to be in 2009, yet the whirlwind that has brought me here is staggering and astonishing. The holidays of 2008 were grand but kicked my ass a bit. And when I say, ‘a bit’ I mean a lot. It almost seemed as if time stopped for two months and now, well- now I have to recap and immediately move forward. I can do that. I am used to doing just that.

So many things have me hopeful. Truly too many to list. There are goals I have and dreams that are bound to come true, feisty fights, lingering laughter, and love- why would I not want to look forward?

Here is a sampling:

More sustainable living
Expanding our family
Gaining more rights
Getting Healthier
Keeping in intimate touch
Anklevine’s continual evolution
No new shoes
Clearer focus
Definitive decisions

Some Explanations:

-One of my goals for last year was to learn how to steam bread, I have accomplished this goal and it has in turn made me so more confident and adventurous in the kitchen. The more I go back to the kitchen the more dreams and realizations toward a sustainable living percolate and come true. Will keep you posted as more surface and need attention.

-I have been curving my consumer ways. ( Go ahead- call me a frugal bitch, I can take it! ) Mainly because I enjoy subverting the patriarchy of commercialism and economically is such a sweet sweet way to practice this love. Also, we all of us, pretty much have more than we need- some way more, some a tad- but more nonetheless. I do not get to wear all of my shoes, so I have decided that when I feel the urge to buy a super cute pair to add to my collection ( Yes, collection. I buy classic styles- even when they are trendy- and they surpass time and can be worn on my whim, which- of course- is all that matters. Also, I even have two pairs of flip flops. But they are kitten heeled wedgies and have sweet sweet gingham patterns- hardly the ones I rail about. ) I am going to go shopping in my collection and take a pair out from the back and go dancing! This rule does not apply to anyone who might like to gift me a pair of shoes, I have not gone crazy. Nor does it apply to sport endurance shoes, should the need arise to replace them for safety and health reasons.

-Expanding our family- true, many of our friends are in our family, yet this year, we would like to have a baby. A healthy baby. Born of our love and generosity. One that grows under our charge into a well rounded person of their own. There you go universe, get to granting.

-The world is spinning and little by little it will start to throw out the unjust rulings and declarations to form a more unified, equal representational paradigm. I am speaking of laws and ordinances that make full citizens who pay all the same taxes and are upheld to the same laws, second class or exported. We have the spirit of the Smith sisters and their cows to back us up and we will move forward until we may simply live. Abby and Julia, I wish you could have lived to see the passing of the 19th Amendment. I know you are smiling down on us as we fight to ratify the ERA and for all of our GLBTQI sisters and brothers to be granted equality, at the very least in the law.

-Anklevine was born last year and this year there are many plans to spruce it up and keep it improving. A stagnant thing doesn’t get to see the world, and anklevine’s roots are spreading. Check back often to see the newness of the day. ( in all honesty, give me a few weeks, my to do list is growing by the second! Though I promise to be more forthcoming with blogging. ) The platform is going to come into its own, the store will be restocked and updated. All good things, good thingsindeed. Wait, what’s that, look down… is that a vine around your ankle? You have been kissed by anklevine.

Beautiful Horizons on the scene, snow or sun covered. Blessed Be- yes, you and me.