Nine Months

I never knew it could hurt so badly and so long to lose you. Had I known, would I have done our life differently? Maybe. I don’t know. How can one answer that question? There’s no go backs. There’s no second chance that I know of.

Tonight, I have cried so hard my lips swelled, my throat hurts, my eyes can’t focus on this screen. I have sobbed for nine months. Wept, wailed, hated myself, cared for myself, evaded with alcohol and cigarettes, dealt in therapy, given into prescriptions to numb me in a socially acceptable way, called out to you in silence, begged you from across the table, prayed, cursed. Still, I am lost. Still, I miss you every day. Still, I wonder what became of your heart.

How did our souls get ripped apart in the blink of an eye?

I washed the last shirt that smelled like you yesterday. Nine months later. Pathetic, huh? It stayed up in my closet. Why you left that one and not the one my dad gave me is beyond me. I have them both back now, but the other one I washed immediately because it smelled of some cheap cologne you tried to wear. Something you donned for some other woman, no doubt. I don’t care about her. She was your numb.

I am so incredibly lonely. I play the part of good mama, recovering sister, sweet daughter, attentive friend, compassionate ex. Inside, I am wishing for the end. I am wishing to understand the lesson that was you.  I am wishing for the sun to shine and me to feel its warmth again. Or not.

Sometimes, I just wish you never happened.

But there are no second chances that I know of. I am stuck with the knowledge that I have loved and lost. No one else has taken me to this place for so long. No one has taken me to heaven and hell in such a short amount of time. No one has given me so much, just to rip it from me.

I am lost. Even my physical body is a slight reflection of its former self. The curves are gone. New pants; now twice in three months. I don’t know what I am doing here, on this planet. I am unsure of my purpose or the lessons I am to learn. I am wandering aimlessly, robotically.

Numb, except some nights. The nights I wonder where your heart went.

Where did always go? I can’t believe you lied. If I believe you lied, then I believe that I fell for your lies, that our life was lie. And to believe that would be worse than the hell I am feeling now. But not to believe that means that you just stopped loving me. And to believe that means that I was unworthy of love. What’s worse?

Remember?

Do you remember that story we were going to tell out grand babies? That one about how we met? I'll remind you because you seem to have forgotten that our love ever existed.

It was Christmas night 2008.

"Come meet my new girlfriend!", my bestie in that time said to me.

I walked into Misty's and there you were. Looking straight at me. Or rather into me. Our souls connected in a split second of fate. I saw you. I saw love. I saw my future. I saw your past. The only thing I didn't see were the demons you fought so hard to keep away. Those came just months later. I loved you from the moment I saw you.

I looked away as fast as you could bore into my soul.

Five months and two breakups later, I invited you on a hike. Your smoker's body was slow, sick, and so perfect to me. You lumbered along the trail, our hiking companions became frustrated and left us behind. You and I laughing. You and I taking pictures. You and I trying hard (not) to touch. You and I watching the sunset on Camelback Mountain.

That Philosophy paper weighed heavy on my mind, but so did dinner. You cooked; potatoes and onions. I existentialized. You drank beer. I marveled at how many you put down. You stayed the night. We didn't touch.

The next day, your truck battery was dead. That red truck took us to so many places. Alaska, camping, home, your move, my move, ins and outs, then finally to your sperm donor in Minnesota. It's bum battery gave me that moment I needed to kiss the physical body of the other half of my soul. That kiss was perfect. There was no urgency because it knew forever. After our respective obligations, we were together for the night. "No funny business," I said. I didn't stick to that. You made love to me.

There was that first real date. The train to Tempe. My third favorite picture of us, our first together. Too late to catch the train back. We had to call a friend for a ride.

Later that month, we camped with the boys, my boys became our boys. That love was so natural. Watching you parent was so beautiful.

And now, you don't talk to me. You dropped all of your other bests too. My soul has been torn in two again. The pain is unbearable. My heart beats because it has to.

Do you remember walking into love with me? Do you remember ALWAYS? Do you remember how to love? Do you remember me? Do you remember our family?

Numb

My grief is real. It’s bone deep. My heart is shattered into a million pieces and each time I think I am starting to heal, the scar tears wide open again. It can be a random text from her brother telling me that he loves me, or her mysteriously knowing that I am on a (requisite) date and texting in the middle of it, for no apparent reason. It is the sound of her mom’s voice and knowing that, in time, I will be gone from their lives, replaced by someone new in hers.

I think I have this notion that it should be different or the grief should not be here, still so real. Or that I am not allowed to grieve anymore because she doesn’t. I should be better by now. How do you grieve a baby or a marriage or a life that was never real? It’s not like the dream was real life. And yet here I am, missing work today, crying for the third time this week for a baby that isn’t real; missing dreams that were thrown out with the trash over eight months ago.

I don’t care about what the future holds in the way of romance. Whatever bullshit comments you want to leave telling me that time heals all wounds or that I will find someone. I just don’t care about all that. I care about what is lost. A whole life planned. That is what I lost.

I am coming up on the wedding date we planned. A wedding. Because I thought she loved me like I love her. It wasn’t true; I was delusional and too trusting. The wedding was supposed to be in Minnesota with the family who loved me from the start, unlike my own, who chooses when they feel like sharing love. We picked the date very specifically. Even my biological family was very excited. They love her too. She helped them love me again. Instead, I’ll be running away.

I am so numb so often. I am a robot on good days, void of most feeling. Those are the days I like. I have been called broken, emotionally unavailable, and, once even, cold. I just don’t care. I prefer to be closed off from the world. I wear that smile on my face for eight working hours a day because I don’t want the questions. I barely even feel my physical body anymore; I am that checked out.

Mind you it’s not the loss of her I am lamenting. She and I have a soul connection that I cannot seem to break. She will never be lost from me. It’s the hope she instilled. The safety and security. The dreams. All that, she took. Yeah, yeah, “Take it back”, I hear you saying. I am independent. I do not need her to take care of me, but parts of me are gone. Those parts. So, if time heals, she sucks at it. She’s a slow bitch.

Five years later

Y'all may remember about five years ago my mom's brother sexually harassed me and outed me in front of 20 or so family members and family friends. I chronicled it here. After a week of family members ignoring the problem, I took matters into my own hands and wrote the above mentioned post, which is anonymous to my family, but then I took it a step further. I posted the same piece on MySpace. That was the end of my relationship with that side of the family and the beginning of a fragile relationship with my own mother. On my side because I could not forgive her for making excuses for Gerard and not sticking up for me and on her side because she believes the blog post to be "so damaging that if it was one of my cousins, I wouldn't talk to them either" and in the same breath, "Family is the most important thing."

This past weekend, I spent a few days with my parents and my sisters. The beginning of the weekend got off to a rough start, but it got better. The highlight was my mom telling that she set a boundary with her family regarding me. They are not to talk about me or ask after me or my kids to her or my dad. It was as close to an apology as I will ever get from her, but I felt so light. On the flip side, I am not allowed to say bad things about her pervy brother to her, which is what I had done the night before.

I love that my mother was able to draw this boundary with both sides, because, ultimately, she was the one who was getting hurt. I admit, I never thought about this before two days ago. She told me there is no hope of repairing my relationships with Mary Pat or Gerard. That was such a relief to me. I have been dreading making amends to them because I didn't feel like I did anything wrong, besides hurt my mother, which I made amends for after she said her peace.

The parts about this talk that didn't sit well is all the stuff they make up to blame me for and the things they said about my boys. My next step is to talk to my sponsor about writing an amends letter to my mom's other sister who seems to get it. I am feeling so much relief and a bit of excitement knowing that I won't ever have to be part of that mess again. I also have a bit of fear about writing the letter because if she blabs about it to the others, they will assume that I just want to stir up more trouble for them. I guess that assumption will be inevitable no matter if I write a letter or will a Nobel Peace Prize. It will always be about them. I know I still have days more processing to do, but this is a nice start.

**I want you to know that I googled searched my mother's brother to link his profile to this page, but I thought that would be immature and spiteful and I am trying to be big about this.

Home

It's been far too long since I have posted. I have been writing, but mostly in my journal. I've been extremely honest in my journal, which is new for me. I am honest on this blog, but my journal leaves me much more vulnerable than this anonymous blog. My journal sits on my nightstand, begging someone to open it and read my thoughts. When I was married, I actually used to write what I thought he would want to read, so I wouldn't expose myself or hurt him. I don't think he ever read it, but I still lied to myself to make sure he didn't know the true me, and for that matter, neither did I. Now I don't lie to myself. I don't lie to her.

I don't really want to recap the last year. It's not been the same old though. There have been so many changes, especially in me, where all changes in my life NEED to originate from. I am happy. Maybe that's why I haven't been posting. Ha.

She's moving home. The same she it's been for the last 4 plus years. The same she that has had me on a roller coaster ride. The same she that moved out to pursue her dreams. She is the love of my life today. She is that same she that has broken my heart in many pieces. She is that same she that picks me up. She is that same she that has cheered me on right through graduation day and into a masters program. She's moving home.

Our home is small and right now, messy. It's new to us. We just downsized. My bedroom window overlooks the community garden we sowed our summer yums in. Our art is on the walls, including the two new pieces we bought at Pride last weekend. Her smell is on her pillow from the last night her head rested in dreams upon it. Our worm bin has no place in this tiny space, but so much room in my heart. The boys have the master bedroom, so they can fit easily together. My houseplants are thriving in the sunny living-dining-family-office-room. My yarn's in a storage shed. My books are in boxes. Her stuff is waiting to mingle with mine, to become ours in this tiny new home.

I am part of a community here. I want so much for her to be part of the community I have built around myself, but she has to find her own place here. I'm the PTA treasurer this year. I know parents at both the schools the children attend. I am asked to help volunteer and I do. I am terrified that she will be like him. Not liking to do anything I want to do, but doing it grudgingly. I know people when I walk down the street, just because I walk down the street so often. I have met neighbors. I am respected at the University. I am afraid she will be angry at not fitting in immediately.

I don't want to push her into doing anything. And yet I want her to feel at home before this is even her permanent home. I want to skip the bumpy transition and move straight to the smooth sailing. So many changes to be grateful for. So many fears to swallow, hold back, fight, quash, and never let creep in to take over my brain. I just need to have patience with the process. Once I finally let it go that she was ever moving back and moved on with my weekday life, the Universe decides it's time for her to come home.

She is my home. She is my last four years of struggle and growth. She is my today and hopefully my tomorrow. Here's to new beginnings. Here's to home.

My Friend Needs Your Help

Until now, what I knew about anorexia and bulimia was learned from After School Specials and biology classes. What I know now is that my very lovely friends daughter may be dying because of these eating disorders. What I know now is that mom and daughter and sisters are suffering. What I know now is that our community is suffering.

I am pleading for anyone who may read this post to follow this link to her fundraising page. If you can't donate money, please consider sending love and light to them. This mama and this child are our sisters and daughters, our wives and mothers, our friends and members of our community. Her story may be yours, her daughter may be yours, her mother may have been yours, struggling to save your life. No amount of support is too little.

My Secret Is That I Have A Secret

If I told you, what would you think of me? Would you call me a pervert or disgusting? Would you tell me I needed serious help? Would you say that you know exactly what I am talking about? Maybe you would tell me I was normal. Maybe you would tell me that sometimes you do that too. Or maybe you wouldn’t. 

This thing I hold onto is dark. It won’t hurt anyone but me. It doesn’t see the light. Ever. It’s just in my head. It just festers there. It makes me feel good, then it makes me feel very bad. Without it, some things would be impossible, or I think they would be, because it’s been there since my memory began. 

What little memory I have of times before recent, I hold onto tightly. I don’t know where the other times are. There must be other times. I can’t remember when my secret started. I can’t remember the first time it made me feel good, then it made me feel bad. I can only remember that it has been forever. I can only remember it being inside of me. 

Today I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone. Today I will bottle it up again for another day. Today I don’t have the courage to tell. I have tried. Only bits come out here and pieces come out there. But the real stuff is stuck behind my teeth, on the roof of my mouth, like peanut butter. I push it forward and out with my tongue, but only a little comes. 

Eventually I give up trying to tell someone. I am ashamed. I am bad. I am afraid. I don’t want you to think less of me. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t want you to look at me with disgust hidden in your eyes. I want you to love me like you always have, oblivious to my darkness and shame and fear and secret. 

I can imagine once it is out, it won’t be a big deal. I can imagine that you will understand. I can imagine that you will empathize. I can imagine a day that I am free of it. But I still can’t tell you. My mouth opens to tell you, then I pretend to yawn. My brain says go ahead, it will only bring you closer, not having any secrets between you. 

Don’t try to guess. The answer is no to all you are thinking. This thing, this secret, is dark. And nobody should know it. Not even me. If I tell you, will it leave me alone? 

Coming Out: My story in full

Junior high. In the locker room, I looked at boobs like any other teenage girl. Sounds like a line from But I’m a Cheerleader, doesn’t it. In this case, it’s not. Audra Valaro had the biggest, perkiest boobs, with the sweetest little nipples, and her locker was right next to mine. And she wasn’t afraid to take her bra off, or get totally naked for that matter. Every day. God bless her liberal parents! 

I was 16, masturbated to the painting of the Virgin Mary outside my bedroom door, and thought about Allison Whitter. What it would be like to play soccer with her, run my fingers through her long brown hair, smell her close-like. Never had a boyfriend. Never really cared, except I thought something was wrong with me. I was ugly or lumpy or smelly or something. I mean, by this time, I should have at least been kissed, right? 

The girls in the ads, I was just looking at them a long time so I could see why people, me included, looked at them to define beauty. And because they were girls, in short skirts, tight shirts, no skirts, no shirts, flat stomachs, curvy hips, lovely breasts, round butts, that line that follows the hips, you know the one that gives you goose bumps when she follows it with her finger tips.

I told my mom. She said it can’t be. I’d never even had a boyfriend. How could I possibly know? My mom, I don’t often think she knows me well, appealed to my logical side, that’s to say I’m 99% logical side, got me thinking. There was this one guy. I actually only saw him a few times. He wouldn’t go for me anyway. Why not? 

A year and a half together, I was 17 and 364 days old before I had sex with him. It hurt. But it always does the first time. Although I did get over the initial pain, there was never anything right about sex with him. I would fantasize, lose myself, disassociate. I remember only a few times that we actually did it, but I also know it was many more than I remember. I don’t even remember the first time, just when it was and that it hurt. 

We were together for three years. After him, I thought about Joylynn, my co-worker. I thought, this is my chance, but what do I do? I thought I’m finally free! I thought, well God, if I don’t have a husband by the time I am 21, I will be gay. I worked at a record store. I went to college. There was no reason I should be afraid anymore, yet I was terrified. 

In walks Ryan. Not particularly attractive, very short. Nasty disposition. Negative from day one. Six weeks later, I have a baby growing in me. God answered me, didn’t He? My mom went apeshit and pretty much disowned me for making a baby before I was married. She insisted we marry, I refused. When Ash was 8 months old, I finally married Ryan. Then came Aiden soon after. I don’t remember but a handful of times that I had sex with Ryan. Sometimes I am amazed that it was enough times to have three kids with him. 

I was doing everything right. I was married. I had two kids. I worked at an office and put my kids in daycare. We rented a house in an okay neighborhood. Something was missing. It must have been another baby because I decided another was just what we needed to make this thing work. Because we were falling apart, if one could say we were ever together. I was mean. I was sad. I was missing something still. My beautiful blonde headed, blue eyed Kieran stole my heart. Three happy, healthy, amazing children and still not fulfilled. What could it be? A house? Yes! So we bought one. Not a house. Need to be at home with the kids full time? Yes! But no. I was so alone. With everyone around me, I was desperate to tear out of skin and shout SEE ME! I’m here! But I didn’t know where I was really. 

Things I tried to save my marriage:

1. Being a subservient wife. That lasted about a week.
2. Church. He hated it and I felt mad having to drag him.
3. Medication. Nice, but no. 
4. Fuck Fridays. The worst of my ideas. Pretend I wanted sex. Seduce him home for lunch and lay there under him while I let him mercy fuck me. That’s the shittiest thing I could have done; though, at the time, I was sure it was the nicest thing I could give him. I hurt him badly.

Then came Erin. Short, dark hair, smelled good, obviously gay, though weirdly she always tried to hide it. I thought, this is it. She can answer all of my questions. She can see me for who i really am, if indeed that’s who I am. I fell in love with her. I let her tell me how to transition from marriage to separation, even though she really didn’t know the first thing about it. I made the guest room mine, asked him to move upstairs, watched every episode of the L-Word until I was caught up, horny as fuck, and fairly sure that when it came to sex, I’d know what I was doing. Then it came to sex. Gulp. I was so fucking scared. I didn’t touch her at all. 

Six months. I was drunk or high for six months. I went out every night. I went on trips to San Diego Pride and made out with girls. I drove to and from Palm Springs. I pretended to be a mom still. I lost friends. I gained friends. A few friends stuck by me, mainly my Tribe. I was a crappy parent. I was lost and floundering in this new world. The only sure thing was that I did belong here. I knew it. I felt it. I just wasn’t sure where my place was in it. 

I met Tara, who is now Trey, at the bar. We hit it off and had the sex a few days after we met. In Lesbanese, that means we were insta-girlfriends. Here came my first boost. The first time we slept together, I went down on her. She came. Like actually came. Like I made a girl cum. Me. And I came just doing it. I was inside her, outside her, on top of her, under her. Many weeks later, I told her that was my first time and she didn’t believe me. Can you say ego boost? Damn. I was a full-fledged, hot-shit, girls want me, I can make them cum with a look, LESBIAN! But don’t call me that. I still hate to be called a lesbian. 

We broke up. Tara and I. Then there was Jen, for just a night. Then the golfer who would prefer to remain anonymous. I can still remember the sex with her. It was good, Especially because I got to do so much of the work. That didn’t last either. There were many tears and swears and why not me’s. There were thoughts of giving up and going back to men. They were easy. Sex gets you what you want and to get through that you only had to close your eyes and pretend it was a strap-on. In the end though, I chose me. And I finally chose my kids. 

I met T on Christmas in 2008. I never knew what love at first sight was until then. My heart knew. My soul remembered hers from months, years, decades, centuries of lives we lived together. I couldn’t look at her. If she saw me, she’d know. When I saw her, I knew she knew too. I was still with the golfer for another week (unbeknownst to me) and T was with our friend, Missy. We spoke on and off. After my break-up with the golfer, she rode her motorcycle to the coffee shop. I asked her take it all away [my pain]. She whispered in my ear, in a sexy, raspy voice, that she could, but it’d only be for one night. I still make her say that to me. 

Months later, it was time. The first time she was in my arms, it was familiar and right and safe and perfect. The first time we came together was like so many times before that we can’t remember. Her lips fit mine. Her body held mine in perfect shape. Her arms are my safety. We are not perfect. We have many issues to sort through. Three short years in this lifetime together and we are just now truly falling in love. That deep love that will bind two people forever, no matter what. We are a family with the boys. We work together to make our dreams come true. This is what I was missing. This is why I hung onto the life I wanted to throw away all those years. This is what living feels like. 

It'll be you that leaves me.

Would you be happier with someone who knows your struggles, your fears, your nightmares, firsthand? Would you be happier with someone who can't be touched either? With someone who lived your terror? Because I am not that person. I just don't know.

I want so much for this to be normal, but I have a hopeless feeling that there is no normal in this. I am hopeless that you will never be able to meet my needs the way I wish for. I will never be totally confident in you always having the control. I have already given you so much control. I have found peace and acceptance with giving over what control I had. Can I find that same peace and acceptance with giving the rest of it, all of it? Can I ever find peace in in knowing that you will never meet me halfway because you are broken?

Because someone broke you.  Someone left you bleeding and hopeless. Someone stole your trust and wellbeing. Someone took all control from you.

I joined yet another support group to help me through the demons you brought into our life. All I see there is the hopeless lives others have led with the broken ones they have loved. I haven't posted because I don't want to believe ours is hopeless. I want to believe that all the work you are doing will help. I want to believe that you can be glued back together so you don't bleed anymore. I want to believe that we will be our dreams.

Your past, your crises will always be what we deal with first. My own sadness and hopelessness will always be hidden from you and forever mine to sort through alone. My happiness will always be shared with you to keep you from feeling hopeless. How can I leave you for something you couldn't stop? Something you are actively trying to sort through and patch? I'd be a selfish asshole to leave.

How much more can I deal with? As much as you can. As long as you continue to heal, so will I continue to support you. (There's that stupid hope again.) Though my head tells me to honor me.

I keep thinking the next thing we have to overcome will be the thing that breaks us because it's always worse than the last thing. Then we don't break, we get stronger. How strong do we have to be before the Goddess believes we are worth a life without struggle? How much more until we break? I am tired. So very tired of there always being a next struggle. I expect them now, so I do not get blindsided.

Chasing the storms in your heart is the worst and best job I could have had, but even those jobs have to end sometime. Will our end be our deaths, in 60 years? Will our end be this next struggle? The next revelation? The next year on constant battle?

Always questions, never answers. Not even in the silence.

realization and gratitude

last year, this time, she was almost gone. i had to plead with her to come home for her birthday. she tried to get out of the small celebration to go drink. i told her to go. i wasn't going to beg her anymore. i was ready to let her go. last year, this time, 18 beers in three hours was a good day, 18+ beers and a bottle of jack daniel's was a bad day. last year, this time, she would call me and tell me what a miserable person she was. that i didn't deserve her. that she would never be good enough for me. i was beginning to believe her. i was ready to say goodbye for good. it felt like giving up. what a failure and yet how strong i was. i did it. i told her goodbye. i told her no more. i gave up my soul mate because i no longer recognized her soul. i gave up the strength, peace, safety and happiness i once knew in her arms. i did it for me.  i did it for the boys. i did it for her.

that wasn't what she wanted. in december, the bottle stopped touching her lips. the cans stayed at the liquor store. the stores were dumped. she wanted me. us. as much as she wants the alcohol. eight months later it still whispers, calls, screams, begs, pleads, for her to just try one more time. it won't hold her so tight this time. it will let her have the life she wants at the same time as she has it. it will make her stronger, smarter. it lies. she knows it. she knows the untruths it spouts to get its way.

this year, 2012, we have had rough patches. we have had moments of doubt. but i realized that last year she was all but lost to me. to us. this year, 2012, she has accepted that it doesn't want what's best for her. i have accepted that i don't know what's best for her. this year, so far, our biggest blips were her falling off a few times. her getting help with the underlying. me realizing the helpless to help her isn't totally helpless. the kids understanding why. our dreams are coming true slower than anyone would want dreams to come true, but they are. i can hold onto that for today. i got to hold onto her last night. and for the two nights before. this is what i realized. this is what i have today.

the aftermath

my heart hurts in a way i can't describe. i feel the heaviness of resigned acceptance sitting hard on my chest. she is the way she is and i am helpless to fix, heal, or even patch. i just have to stand by and watch the destruction. i have to hear the cries and pleas and not do anything. because what is left for me to do? i have tried to listen, but she no longer talks. i have tried to invite, but she never accepts. i have tried to outright stop the destruction, but the force is too strong.

i can only stand by helpless. and watch. and watch. as it eats her alive. it's all up to her. i can only wait and accept the heaviness that is settling.

why her?

i don't always ask why her, but tonight i am. why her? why was it that this person, the other half of my soul, was made to suffer and stumble and struggle her whole life? it's just not fair. and for what? i'll tell you. so someone else could feel in control. so someone could turn a blind eye. so someone could pretend everything was alright. she suffers because others couldn't. wouldn't. we all suffer now.

if it meant she wasn't in my life. if it meant i never knew her love. if it meant, as she believes, that she wouldn't be her, i'd accept that. if tomorrow her pain went away, but so did she, i'd say goodbye and never look back.

why her? why was she abandoned? why wasn't anyone watching over her? why today does she suffocate? does she choke on words she needs to scream? why can i only stand by helpless? always helpless to abolish her pain. always helpless to filter her dreams. helpless to numb. helpless.

how could a god allow something so fragile to break? to be broken. shattered. something so precious and priceless to fall into the hands of someone so careless? so ruthless? so oblivious? and how does this keep happening. not to her, but to other hers. other little ones. other fragile souls.

most days i don't think about it. most days we love. we fight. we wish. we dream. we stumble together through regular life. most days it's not on my radar. but hers. it's always blipping. the rage. the sorrow. the betrayal. most days it's nearly muted.

but some days, it takes the light out of her eyes. and that tears the breath from my lungs. the days she isn't here. isn't her. the days she believes her struggle is private. but i know her soul. i know her struggles. i know from watching her fight demons in her sleep. i know from watching her fight rage in wakefulness. i know because the other half of her soul belongs to me.

why her? she suffered so someone else wouldn't. couldn't. her soul is strong. she isn't broken. she isn't damaged. she is strong. she knows why her.

Adventures in Sprouting

As if I don't have enough to do with the end of the semester just 4 weeks away, I started sprouting alfalfa. I was in my local expensive store, you know the one, when I came across their home sprouting section. All I had to buy was the special lid with holes (it fits the wide mouth mason jars I recently acquired) and some seeds. Initial cost: $15. I have been soaking and rinsing since Sunday night and my sprouts are beginning to sprout! I am going to buy another lid and some different seeds today. I may actually be able to sell my sprouts at the farmers market this summer if I can master growing them!! Here are pictures of soaking and day two. They're boring, but the daily chronicle should be cool in the end!

Soaking

Day Two

how do you do it?

A few weeks ago, after a customer commented on my new tattoo, I realized that I am growing up to be the person I wanted to be when I envisioned growing up. I have tats and piercings. I go to college and frequent my favorite coffee shop. My pants haven't fit my waist since I was seven, and I have the body to pull off LOW rise jeans. There are a few things that still don't work with my 15-year-old version of my 34-year-old self, but I'm getting there.

One huge component is how I live and raise our kids. I live a very modest life. My rent is my biggest bill and I gladly pay it because I love the home I have made this house into. The kids go to a laid back "hippie" school, it's a Steiner school, for anyone who wants to know. They are versed in all forms of art, music, drama and get to play in the sunshine, rain, snow mud and anything in between. They play sports and Number 3 is joining the Earth Scouts this month. I work only three days a week and go to school five days a week. My loans pay for most of my expenses right now. I weighed the consequences of taking out so much money to the benefit of being able to concentrate on my school work and, most important to me, being able to be with the kids.

My friend emailed me today and asked for advice. She is thinking about quitting her job and working from home. She's scared to death and asked for tips on how to do it. Without too much thinking this is the advice I gave her:

Sheer will, perseverance and faith that you can do it. Honestly, I'm not sure how I do anything anymore. I just believe that I can, take what comes and own it; good or bad. That doesn't mean I don't struggle, cry, scream, give up or complain, but at the end of one of those moments, I wipe my snot and remember that I have felt like giving up before and it's all worked out.

Most of the time, my plans are basic, not thought through. I'm not sure if that's good because I don't have expectations or bad because if I don't really have a plan, then I really don't have a back-up plan. Except I do have a back-up, I suppose. It is faith in my convictions, faith that, once again, I will be okay, faith that I am supposed to be where I am right now, no matter where it is. This isn't based in religion or God, just belief in magic, I guess. The magic in me.

I guess what I am saying is super-cliche, but follow your heart. Do what's right for you. In my case that meant breaking apart my family, losing my home and my car, leaving my friends and living without running water for 7 months. And that doesn't include what I have done to keep my relationship with Tris thriving. I believed that leaving [the kids dad], so many years ago, was what my heart was telling me to do. I believe that doing everything in my power, without giving up myself, is what I have to do for my romantic relationship. I believed that moving to Flagstaff was the best choice I could make for my family.

On my hard days, and I do have them, I remember what I believe. I make a list of the things I am grateful for and do not pause to mourn the things I have lost in my journey. If working from home is what you want to do, I support you. You may have to make a list of the things you are willing to give up to make that dream come true, but if you are willing to put them on the list in the first place, then you are probably willing to part with them. Simplifying my life was the best thing I have ever done, but that is just me. I know you will take the next step in the direction your life will take, just be willing to accept whatever direction that is.

Oh. And I make my bed every day because there is subtle satisfaction in doing one little thing for myself, even if the rest of my day is devoted to everyone else. (I learned this from my friend, Katy. In fact, she practically made me make my bed every day. Now, it's a habit and I relish in the fact that I get to slide into tight sheets every night. )

I retyped this mostly for myself. This is what I tell people and what it probably true, but from my perspective, I am only doing what I have always done. Maybe it's ordinary, maybe extraordinary, maybe it's just mi vida loca. Anyway you see it, I make my life the way I want it because, to me, there is no other option. I hope you are realizing your dreams and not letting fear hold you back from the reality that could be yours if you just jump. So plug your nose, when you are ready, and be prepared for whatever temperature that water is when you hit.