Making Mistakes or you know, it's Motherhood

     In the small town next to our small town, we have a gluten free bakery. It's tucked away in a plaza that shares space with the local sanitary district, an occasional used car salesman and various other businesses that survive for six months and then blow away with the constant prairie wind. 

    Years ago I went to a church housed in one of the bigger office spaces. I don't remember much except they had made a spaghetti dinner for after the service and it didn't smell that great. Now, I have been to many a church function and some of those church ladies, they know how to make a spread. This was not one of them. But it was significantly better than the fundraiser I visited this spring inside a church and the church ladies had made boiled hot dogs. Do you know the color of a boiled hot dog? LOL - not a natural one and Baby Blueberry had to have one. 

    Now, to catch up new readers, I must say that Baby Blueberry is no longer a baby, but instead is a teenager. And if you're a reader from the start, then if you feel old, imagine how I feel? I don't feel old until I realize that my surprise baby from a pregnancy in my mid-thirties is now a teenager. This is why poets and songwriters make art about time slipping into the unknown. It is the most elusive element in science. 

    But I digress, as I often do, even in real time conversations. My best friend from when I was a teenager, we will call her SB, often joked about how we would bird walk in our conversations. When I moved half way across country, we were pen pals for a while and then it slowly died out. I missed her. Sometimes there's nothing as intense as a teenage best friend, besides maybe first love. A couple of years ago I started to get the intense urge to look her up. I would dream about her. She would pop into my head uninvited. 

    And so I looked her up. Her obit was the third down on the search. She had died just shortly before that of cancer. At 43. Grief is hard. Regret of not connecting again before she was gone is harder. 

    She had ended up being a fifth grade teacher. Something she had adamantly said she would never be. And now, I'm teaching fifth grade. Also, something I had said I would never do either. I wish we could joke about that. She would enjoy the irony in it. 

    But again I digress and now we go back to the bakery. This bakery is a must visit if you ever come to my area of the world. The baker has worked countless hours to make goods that taste delicious. Not it's pretty good for gluten free, but actually yummy. And so the other day I had the Husband, who does not get the moniker Hero Hottie anymore, because that relationship is in murky waters, pick up two blueberry lemon muffins. One for Baby Blueberry and one for me. 

    I did not eat it that day. I'm recovering from the second of two major abdominal surgeries - thank you Crohn's- and was not hungry yet. 

    The next day I went to get it out of the fridge and I find one muffin with the delicious and best part of the muffin - the top munched by someone else. I started crying and fuming. How could someone eat my muffin? I angrily toss it in the air fryer and ate the bottom of my muffin. 

    A little while later...Baby Blueberry is searching through the fridge, pulls out a whole muffin, not touched and munched and asks, "Where is my muffin? I was saving the bottom of it to eat later." 

    I stare at the untouched blueberry muffin and then look at her. I look back at the muffin and realized that I had grabbed her saved muffin. I sigh. 

    I tell her what happened and then offer my whole, untouched muffin in return. It does seem rather petty to demand the top of the muffin. The best part. The part she now gets to have two of, but I graciously offer my muffin to her. 

    She shared a bit of it, since she realized I didn't get a whole muffin. But man, I really missed eating my entire treat. So the mistake I mentioned in the title - you thought it would be me confessing to some mistake with my child? No, it's the mistake of grabbing the wrong treat in the fridge, believing someone had taken mine, not bothering to look further because if I had, I would have found it, and then missing out of the best part of the muffin. 

    If only I could have hidden my muffin in my secret chocolate stash in my underwear drawer. I used to hide the chocolate in the cupboard, but they - the children - found it. So it had to go where no child is going to search - their Mom's underwear drawer. 

    Anyway, that is how good those bakery treats are - that I wrote a blog about a missing muffin top. Maybe I should put that in a Google review? 

 And also, having treats and kids is the definition of a paradox. 

Divine Signs in the Sky or Maybe it's Just Science...But Also, Mom sends me rainbows

 My mom sends rainbows. They are little gifts that show up randomly. 

    According to the internet, most places will experience a rainbow less than six times a year. So out of 365 days - not really that many chances to see one. 

    Then you think about how many days of the years are full of sunshine - in my location over 200 days and the odds grow smaller. 

    And then for you skeptics out there - rainbows are a natural occurring phenomenon and can not be sent by our deceased loved ones. 

    But what if they could be?

    What if the world is this wonderful blend of the science we've learned and the divine just on the other side? And what if sometimes that rainbow, or that song on the radio, or that butterfly landing on you is the bridge between here and there?

    Just a whisper. An invisible thread like gossamer. Where you can only see it when the Light shines just right. 

    My mom loved rainbows. They made her happy and I completely regret not asking her why. Did the colors soothe her soul? Was it just a flash of color that brightened her day? Or was it her link to her ancestors and their whispered encouragements? Did she feel the same tug I do now when I spot a rainbow arching across the stormy gray clouds in turbulent skies and shimmering behind big, fat droplets of water?

    One of the first rainbows came on December 24th, 2020. Her blue heeler had already been sick and old when she passed in March that year. And when my mom was dying, I promised her I would take care of my dad and her dog. That holiday, my dad decided to visit his siblings. He needed to get away. The first Christmas without is a lost feeling. You can try to decorate it and wrap it in pretty paper, but the box is empty underneath the bow. 

    He left the blue heeler with me.

    And when he brought her in - he had to carry her inside the house. She was already ready to go. 

    I didn't want to be responsible for this.    

    I just prayed she made it until he got back. 

    She would not. 

    The day before Christmas Eve, I called him and explained as gently as I could...

    She has to go in. It's just too much to wait. 

    He said call him in the morning.    

    And I did. And so before the girls woke up on Christmas Eve morning, while the house was quiet and decorated with a tree and lights...

    The husband gently carried her to the back of the car - and laid her on her dog bed which we had set back there to make her journey comfortable and soft. 

    We drove her to the vet and sat with her while she left this earthy plane to join my mom. 

    And when we walked into the parking lot, there was a full color rainbow in the winter sky. Just in the clouds. No storm. No rain. 

    Just a rainbow. With colors. 

    And as we drove home...the rainbow ended up being over our house. 

    Over our house. A rainbow in winter. 

    And I bawled. 

    And my mom didn't seem so far away. 

Actual photo of the rainbow on that winter morning. 

    

Grief coming around like a circle

 

Grief is a circle, so they say. We walk around along this path, coming away from our grief and then walking back to it. Sometimes we travel big and wide circles and sometimes they're tight, little circles. 

Actually, I've heard grief compared to many different shapes, as if this hard emotion needs the easiest of analogies to compare it to. It's a ball inside a box, it's a triangle full of sadness, it's a circle that never ends. Or maybe it's a lack of shape - it's a hole inside our chest. 

Grief is an ocean wave, flowing and ebbing and moving in and out like tides. High tide and low tide. 

So. many. analogies. 

Sometimes I close my eyes and I see my mom in that last scene where she's alive and conscious. She's in her pajamas, hair unkept, and body pain filled. We sit down and have cookies. We talk about the ordinary. 

The ordinary. The normal. I tell her about the girls. I talk about subbing. I have to share the conversation with my dad, who calls on his lunch break and talks for half an hour. 

I imagine driving over to her house and stepping into that scene- because in my head it is frozen in time. When I left that day, I said I will see ya later, mom. I remember staring at the stained deck stairs as I leave, holding a bag of Walmart French fries she has sent home with me because my Dad couldn't eat them. In my memory, I'm swinging this bag. This white Walmart bag, heavy with frozen potatoes. 

It is the last gift my mom will give me. 

Frozen, Walmart French fries. 

But it is ordinary. Sending something home with your kids, right? That is the gesture here? We live our lives in the ordinary. In just the other moment? 

My middle daughter is still grieving in heavy waves that I can feel roll off her sometimes. Grandma didn't live to see her graduate from high school. She just recently talked about that day. It was a painful day for her. 

Grandma wasn't there. Grandma made her older sister's graduation, but she wasn't at hers. 

Also, her shitty boyfriend at the time ditched her graduation to pack a suitcase. 

And her other grandma ditched her because she couldn't stand the other people coming to the graduation dinner, so instead of being an adult she chose to hurt her granddaughter. 

Grief is a photo frozen with pained smiles and big events. 

Grief is a lack of a photo. 

I dreamed of my mom the other night. She pulled up in her bright, red mini van and I swung the heavy, side door open. Just like I did a million times before. The sound of the door echoes in my head. I can hear it my ears. I feel the weight of the door in my fingers. She's in the driver's seat, explaining that she knew she was going to die and it was okay. We chatted a while and she drives away. 

I do believe she knew. She started teaching my dad how to make tator tots in the oven, and she wrote down the dog's medication list for my dad to follow the week before. She refused to go to the doctor before that day, because she kept saying she didn't want to die alone in the hospital. 

She knew. 

I still have that list, written in her shaky handwriting. 

Grief is a shape. Grief is water. Grief is explained best in analogies. 

Grief is part the ordinary. 

My mom died a year ago and I'm still not over it

1 year later. 

And sometimes I still grab the phone to text her exciting news.

Or I still think I should call and make sure she has what she needs.

Then I remember. Or maybe I'm not really forgetting...I just hope that I'm wrong.

This year has been a struggle.

Made even harder because she's gone.

Baby Blueberry still struggles...a year later, which has to be even longer in a eight year old's mind. 

This month she has made it a habit to eat mainly the snacks Grandma would make her.

Chocolate cereal with rice milk. Mott's fruit snacks.

And she asks Gibson quite often, "you're missing her, huh bud?"

I had promised my Mom I would take care of her dog.

On Christmas Eve, Hero Hottie and I had to take her blue heeler in and have her put to sleep.

On the way home a beautiful winter rainbow appeared out of nowhere and arched right over our 

house.

Sometimes fulfilling promises hurt like hell.

This morning I was going to climb to the top of the hill with a mug of coffee and watch the 

sunrise, because she died just before the sun came out. But today is windy and cold and the town 

is on fire.

Instead...

I will just miss her.

Just like I have the last 364 days.

Grief Shopping for a House or How Not to Deal with Death

          On last week's episode we had learned that our heroine was awashed in grief. Rather than turning to the usual devices of grief control - drugs, alcohol, shaving her head, or binge watching Netflix - she decided to buy a new house. This was grief shopping to the extreme. Our heroine was obviously lost and a little crazy in the head, but she was being driven by her strong emotions and a narcissist real estate brother who was desperate for a sale. Would her childhood demons take her down the path of a bigger mortgage or would common sense prevail? Lets tune in.

       Our heroine is answering the phone...

        "Hello." 

        "Hi, my name is C. from the C.'s Team and I scheduled your photos for your house on Friday." 

        "What? That's not what real estate brother said. I can't be ready by Friday. My bathroom is torn apart to the sub flooring. The house is a mess. I have a trash pile out back."

         "Well, we want the house listed by such and such date, so it has to be this Friday."

        "Umm, I won't be ready." 

        "Then we can't list it by next week and we want to do that, so I have the photos scheduled." 

        "Wait, real estate brother said if I wasn't ready we could just take a photo of the outside."

        "We don't like to do that. We want all the photos when we list the house." 

        "That's not going to work. I need to talk to real estate brother."

        "I'm just trying to get your house listed by the date you wanted."

        "I understand that, but I won't be ready." 

         Quick goodbyes, and click, followed by frustrated screaming. Our heroine is clearly feeling her inability to have a confrontation, in the chest, in the gut. Calls real estate brother. Sets the time for a little bit later. 

         A week later and the house is clean. The bathroom isn't completely finished, but it will have to work. There is a huge garage pile in the back ready for a dump load- the old sink, the old toilet, and junk from the sub flooring. Surely, the photographer won't take a photo of the garage pile for the listing photos.

        He takes a photo of the garage pile. But it's a good looking photo on the official MLS listing site. 

        The listing goes live and suddenly there are a hundred million real estate agents wanting to see the house. Our heroine is overwhelmed as she repeatedly packs up kids and dog and escapes the house. One real estate agent doesn't realize that the door was locked and just thought it was stuck and proceeded to try to bust down her door. Luckily, the trim was easily repaired. 

       Another real estate agent starts complaining to her about the Team's lock box system. 

         Like she has any control over it. "Please, complain to me some more, I will change their whole system for you," she thought to herself as she said out loud, "They just put it on my house."  

        If she had any lingering thoughts of becoming a real estate agent, they were killed with every interaction she experienced with the real estate agents. Our heroine wasn't saying the reputation of real estate agents was earned, but they started to remind her of used car salesmen in better suits and expensive shoes. (No offense to used car salesmen.) 

        In twenty-four hours an offer comes through, it's only 3500 less than what they were asking and real estate brother says it's the best offer they are going to get, so they better take it. She was already not happy with the listing price and now she's supposed to take 3500 less in a market where houses in her neighborhood are going like hot cakes. Like cupcakes during the cupcake craze. Like donuts used to before cupcakes took over. Either way, she thinks they should wait for a slightly better offer. 

      But she's a people pleaser and so she says...yes. 

      Our heroine is slowly starting to realize she might be her own worse enemy. And the childhood poverty. But her lack of backbone is certainty dragging her down a path she feels unable to leave. 

     And the more she crunches she the numbers, the more she worries that although the mortgage lender says she can afford more house payment...her bank account is screaming at her with a different story.

    But does she listen to the bank account. No, she shuts him up and tells herself she's going ahead with the path, because to say something different might make her a failure. 

    Why couldn't our heroine just shave her head like normal people? 

     

         

Selling House- Buying House-Do not Attempt During Grief

         Before my mom died, we had been contemplating moving. Our neighborhood had been undergoing a transformation during the last ten years and it had made us question staying there. 

       When we had first arrived, it was composed of residents who were in their seventies and eighties. During the cool evening hours they would work in their yards; trimming perfectly shaped hedges and neatly trimmed edges along the sidewalks. Their houses were always freshly painted, and if their garages were opened, all the tools were lined up in perfect rows on peg boards. They always had a small amount of change for buying fundraiser items - candy bars from the orchestra kids, popcorn from the Boy Scouts, and Girl Scout cookies. Were they all friendly elderly people who ask about your day or greeted you during your walks - absolutely not. One older gentlemen had stopped caring about the state of his house many decades ago, and the latest addition of an old and greased stain recliner chair on the front porch was only the most recent eye sore of the street. Additionally, the children avoided his house for fundraisers because he often came to the door in various states of undress. Nothing exposed, but a lack of concern for his condition. 

      And then the older residents would move out. Some went to nursing homes or assisted living places. Other residents went to - well, I don't know the state of their eternal souls, so we can only wonder where they went. As they left, the houses, being part of a working class neighborhood, were bought by investors for rental properties. It didn't take very many years for the hedges to lose their sharp edges or for the yards to fall apart. The street started to have another beat, another rhythm to it. On weekends, you could listen to the neighbors two doors down yelling, shouting, and threatening each other. The more drink, the louder it was. And they weren't afraid to reprimand the neighbors either. Oh, and if your dog is barking louder than their fight, they're going to band together and start yelling at you. One time the neighbors above them couldn't keep their break up private and they were yelling in the street. They yelled at them to take it inside. 

      One time someone on the run had dumped a gun in one of the yards. My daughters woke from their sleep because the movement of flashlights in the backyard had awoken them. It was law enforcement trying to find the discarded weapon. Another night it was gunshots just a few doors down. The drug houses had started moving in. I'm sure our experiences were nothing like the inner city, but for our once quiet and family friendly neighbor, it was a troubling change. 

     Two weeks after my mom died, a house came up for sale across town, on the Westside. Ohh, a different zip code. The desired zip code of our town. Yes, our small town only had one desired zip code. The other zip code included the North side, the downtown, and our neighborhood. The post office had a separate zip code for the PO Boxes. If you lived in the annexed part of town that had bad water, roads that ended in weird dead ends, and where people could get a way with shooting off illegal fireworks, that was the last zip code. 

     We just had to put our house up for sale. It only needed a new bathroom, the sheetrock fixed in the basement, and a new roof. Suddenly, I put a frenzy of energy into preparing the house for our listing. I enlisted Hero Hottie into putting in a new vanity and floor into the bathroom. Enlisted? I think I was half crazed with something that had overtaken me. It wasn't grief -- it was the opposite of grief. It was avoidance. The more energy I shifted into preparing the house, the less I had to think about the state of my heart. You would expect that as I repaired, cleaned, and organized my house - the ever widening grief would diminish. 

     Hero Hottie liked the idea of moving Baby Blueberry into a different school district and so he poured his energy into the bathroom. Which as we pulled up the floor, we realized it needed a whole new sub flooring. He gritted his teeth and got to work.

     Grief blossomed and bloomed like the dandelions taking over my lawn. What was a house, a home, except something you escaped from when the pain was too much. My parents haven't given me an anchor of wood and shingles in my childhood. The only stable thing in my life had been my parents, especially my mom. 

     And she was gone. 

The Good Witch Lied, You Can't Just Click Your Heels and Go Home or Grief Covid Style

         By the time I had reached the age of eighteen, I had moved at least fifteen times. Take a moment to think about the implications of that statement. The math would suggest I moved an average once a year. If only that was the case, it would have been easier. But the funny thing about averages, is they don't mean much. Some years I moved two or three times. The longest length between moves was about four years. It was the most stability I had - those four years.
        A few years ago when I was writing for my local newspaper I would interview people working in the social work field. They all seemed to have big hearts and a desire to make peoples' lives better. They also all seem to have a lack of personal experience of what it means to live in less than middle class. But who attends college? The middle class. The upper class. Sometimes a person from the working class manages to bridge that gap. Or claw their way through the middle class language, vocabulary, and invisible barriers.
      In my town they would hold seminars for the working professionals in social work in which they would pretend to be poor. They would be given cards that would give them scenarios to work through. Examples included your car broke down and you can't make your doctor's appointment or the food pantry is half a mile pass the last bus stop, how do you pick up food?
       I was often asked when I conducted these interviews if I had a background in social work before journalism because I knew what they were talking about.
       No, I don't have a background in social work.
       I have a background in social class. In working class. In poverty.
      It wasn't until later when I grew up and started experiencing other social classes, (If you don't think American has a class system, then you're not working class. Consider yourself lucky and just make sure your town puts a bus stop out to the damn food pantry.) that I began to realize that moving fifteen times in a childhood wasn't normal. Moving half way through a school year wasn't ideal.
     Yes, I was always that kid. "Hello, class. This is so-so and she's new today. So everyone be nice to her." Do teachers realize how much a new kid loves to be told to stand up, have the entire class' attention on them and made to tell something interesting about themselves to the class? Yeah, I didn't think so, because if they realized how difficult it was to be the new kid, they might not make them the center of attention.
      I tell you these details about me, not because I ever thought they were relevant to my life today or because I seek some kind of sympathy, but because my mom suddenly passed away on March 30. And if that connection doesn't make sense to you, don't worry. I have found that in my grief, I struggle with putting all kinds of thoughts together. Some of them click as they should, and some don't. But neurons don't care when they are being destroyed by grief. So weird things happen in the brain.
    My Mom was only 59 years old and because of Covid, the hospital had strict restrictions about visitors. I wasn't even there to say goodbye or to be there for her. Hell, my dad wasn't even allowed to be with her. I was allowed to say goodbye through FaceTime, while she was sedated. But not completely, because her brow furrowed when I talked to her. When I said goodbye. And I couldn't make it better. I think the only thing she feared was dying without family by her side.
     Since that time I have struggled immensely. with grief. with a sense of failure for not being there. for failing to give her a house at the end. My Mom grew up in broken down trailers, and in tiny rooms of the back of bars, and in conditions that were not suitable for a child. If I don't know what the meaning of home means because I never stayed long enough to figure it out and I've been searching ever since,  than she wasn't even aware that she was looking for something.
    My parents moved seven more times after I turned into an adult. They might have stayed in the farmhouse, but 9/11 destroyed her business, and took nearly everything they owned after that. They house surfed after that, driven by storms they had no buffers against except for the weak ones two of their children managed to provide. Their third child, had to run to Texas to escape her poverty made demons, and I would tell her, if she was talking to me, that there is never enough distance in the entire world to run away from our own personal demons.
    My heart aches with the fact that my Mom died in a broken down trailer, with a leaky and moldy office room, windows that allowed the fierce Midwest winds in, and rats that crawled through her kitchen drawers. There were holes in the sub flooring which trips you on the way down the hallway, and the deck was falling apart. My brother had purchased them the trailer outright when they couldn't afford the rent on their last space. If he could have bought them something better, he would have.
    For years they had lived in my basement, before Baby Blueberry came along and we needed more room. I gave them shelter for the cost of running the Cove heaters because damn, those are expensive.
    I couldn't do more. I wanted to do more.
    I wanted to give her what she had spent her hard and difficult life seeking and I failed.
    But even had I provided a house for her. For my dad. Would they have finally found it? And what is it? I thought I knew. That's why I bought a house three days before I got married to Hero Hottie. And then my mom died and I find that I don't know what this idea of home means.
    I thought my lack of decorating was because I believed I wasn't artistic enough to decorate. I thought it was because the only thing I ever saw growing up, was that my parents would get permission from the landlord to paint the walls a light blue. In every single house. I thought my lack of style was because my mom used cheap, garage sale knick knocks and passed down doilies to decorate our spaces and I didn't like that style, so I didn't do anything.
    Then I had a realization as I spent hours thinking about my mom and my childhood, after she passed, I never took the time to decorate my houses, because even though Hero Hottie and I have been in our current house for over ten years, I expect to pack and move without a moment's notice. I'm always in waiting mode, ready to clear out. Ready to leave. Why decorate a space that you're going to leave? Heck, I have numerous dreams where I have to pack a bag and just leave. And in my dreams I'm always worried about taking the items that mean something to me.
    My mom has left me lost. As Baby Blueberry said, the first week of quarantine we did okay, the second week we started getting grumpy with each other, the third week Grandma died. And then counting the weeks stopped.
    Dorothy just clicked her heels and she found her way home. I lost the only stable point I ever had and I'm spinning like a tornado who might land in Oz or Kansas, or back in Oregon. And it doesn't matter, because no matter where I land, I've tried clicking my heels, and I still haven't found home.

The Ramblings of a Depressed Human Needing Love Words

It has been four months since I have wrote words on this page. And although I haven't decided if there is purpose in continuing this blog or in which form, tonight -  I felt compelled to put digital ink to an illuminated screen.

My heart is held together by Elmer's glue, and little scraps of embroidery thread, it beats with a broken rhythm - I think they call it depression- and it feels - literally, not figuratively- like a heavy weight in the middle of my chest.

For four months I have wrote thousands of words. Thousands of words that were actually read by ten of thousands of people. An accomplishment I never thought I would see.

I wrote about food and I interviewed a finalist from the CBS reality show Survivor. I talked to pastors and chefs, and master gardeners.

I talked to professionals and your average joe. I was given mugs of steaming coffee and warmly invited to sit in their living rooms. One photographer I interviewed I had admired his work since I moved out here, years ago- never imagining I would have a chance to meet with him.

I offered people a chance to talk and sometimes the stories I heard never made it on newsprint, but I learned further about fragile hearts and sensitive souls and came away realizing that there's not enough hugs in the world and we are all so imperfectly human - each with our own story, shaped by tears and laughter and heartbreak.

One article I wrote was about how the non-profit social organizations in my Western small town had set themselves on a new path to change poverty. How instead of throwing more services and financial assistance at the needy, they were going to teach real skills- tech school or college - instead.

Instead of handing them fishes - they were going to teach them to fish.

One day, if I continue with this blog, I will write about how writing about interviewing people who deal and help people with poverty made me realize they can't feel it. Empathy- yes.  But to understand poverty you have to experience it. Pawn off useless crap to feed your kids. Or visit a food pantry.

Feel it. In the rumble of your belly. And the red stain of shame flushed cheeks when you're three dollars short for hot dogs and the small business owners sells it to you for the dollars and quarters and pennies in your pocket.

For four months I have avoided this space. I have filled my head and my fingers with words about my community and other people's stories and I have avoided my own.

My grandparents died and then I was thrown away by a loved one who never in her life has thrown anything away, but she could toss me and the rest of the family away like an old box of cereal. 

Nah, she keeps old boxes of cereal.

And I have to admit it hurts like hell to not even be as valuable as an old box of cereal. And I have to admit in my imperfectly humanness, I hope the holidays are just lonely enough to hurt. And then I try to remember love, but anger can be louder sometimes.

For my friends and families who have lost dear, dear loved ones this year, I worry and pray for you. And my heart swells with tears that I don't know how to express- because despite being a writer, I can be pretty lousy with spoken words.

But I have a wonderful friend who has taught me to say something anyway. So I stumble, stutter, but I speak clumsily and I have found that my far from graceful offerings of comfort aren't as rejected as I feared.

And I have seen the light, and I know even in our darkest hour we are never, ever alone. And of course, Bean reminds me how do you know it's your darkest hour...

 Ah, shit. I was trying for something hopeful and poetic and worthy of a life coach. But freaking me, truthfully that's not me.

Let me speak frank and with the anger I keep carefully contained under lock and key.

 Life can fucking suck and we don't always understand the reasoning behind what happens.

 It can be tough and fill us with hard words.

It can drag us down into the murky water to drown. And we do. We try to drown it with drugs, drink, food, and reckless sex. We numb ourselves and medicate ourselves and we turn away from the Divine.

And we forget to breath.

WE FORGET TO LIVE. And then Bean reminds me that she doesn't understand why people keep telling everyone to live - do more than survive. Aren't we living?

Are you? Am I?
 .

 And in the meantime, the world shifts in imbalance - back and forth along the broken edge of a cliff, dividing people and we can feel it in our collective emotions. And if a hashtag could fix the world, then things wouldn't be falling apart like a snowman in summer.

And it's not that I'm writing about anything that hasn't been discussed since humans made a written language, and our ancestors understood hardship and death.

It's just us in the Western world we have been coddled and lived within an illusion, shopping while we sip lattes (and I do enjoy a good latte)  and now I realize that one of my main jobs of being a parent was not just to teach them compassion and empathy, but strength.

Because this world will kick you in the ass. 

And since us imperfect humans love to find solace in words - words from songs like the Beatles, and quotes from deeply spiritual people like Mother Teresa and from words handed down through centuries like the Holy Bible - one theme remains clear -

The world may kick you in the ass but

Love kicks back.

And that's how I am going to finish this utterly too depressing narrative about ass kickings, old cereal boxes, and how cancer is pretty much the most shitty deal ever.

We always find love words to give us strength.