Resolved: No Resolutions for 2016

I had an opportunity this year to come away from a hypnosis session with Brian Srotananda with a weight loss tip that has translated into virtually every aspect of my life.  He's on Facebook, based out of Chico, CA.  Go find this amazing soul. If for no other reason than to follow his cute face, his darling daughter, Jilli, their pet, Bun-Bun, and all their life shenanigans.  But trust me, he can help you unleash some amazing things inside yourself, as well.

I initially went to him as part of my ongoing pursuit of health and weightloss.  The hypnosis session focused in part around implanting positive messages in my subconscious that would improve my thought processes around food and a healthy lifestyle.  

I went to Brian with a list of ideas of things I wanted my subconscious to promote in my daily living.  One of those items was, "I will write down what I eat before I eat it."  It was a resolution of sorts, just on a meal-to-meal basis.  

What Brian did with that was tweak it into a real-time operation, making it, "I write down what I eat before I eat it."

It may seem like mere semantics to some, but what this did was turn my desire, my altruism, my good intentions, my resolution, into an actual, demonstrable act.  I DO this thing.  It's not that I want to do this thing, or that I hope to do this thing, or that I resolve to do this thing, or that I hope I have enough time to do this thing, or that I wish I had enough discipline to do this thing, I DO IT.

I've always been a 'resolution' girl.  Part of it is probably that my birthday is the last day of the year.  I tend to be in a very reflective mood anyway, contemplating all that the prior birth and calendar year was and wasn't, and what I want to make different out of the coming 365 or 366 days.  

What I have determined for myself this year is that it's less about resolutions, and more about an ambitious 'To-Do' list.  It's not that I 'resolve' to (hope, pray, believe, or otherwise passively seek) change.  It's that this shit is just gonna get DONE.  

Anyone who knows me very well, knows that in everyday life, I am all about breaking every problem, task, or opportunity down into 'doable' chunks, and then just getting the job done.  I am now committed, due to Brian's tweaking of my philosphy, to changing the behaviors, and applying those changed behaviors to my To-Do list.

For example, I have health goals for the year:

Lose 30 more pounds.  

My to-do for this does not relate to pounds at all.  

In 2016, I work out at least 150 hours.  I DO IT.

In 2016, I eat a low-carb, meatless diet.  (I know this isn't everyone's gig, but it works for me.  This is key-- find stuff that works for YOU!)

By doing these two things, the weight will come off.  It's not that strive to do them, not that I hope to do them, not that I pray someone, or some thing will spur me on to do them.  I JUST DO THEM.  The same way I shower every day, pay bills every month, pay taxes every quarter, these things are added to the list of things that JUST GET DONE.

I have business goals for the year.

Meet all my business and personal expenses for the year as efficiently as possible.  

I can do this if I book 500 premium massages for the year.  I just do it.  I do enough advertising and outreach to make that number happen.  

I write three more books.  

This works out to about 250,000 words.  

While this may seem insurmountable to some, I realized a couple weeks ago, that this number breaks down to about 5,000 words a week.  For anyone who follows me on Facebook, it's pretty easy to see that I write almost that much every week just fooling around on Facebook alone.  I will be channeling the focus differently, so that there is less 'facebookiness', and more birthing of my 'word babies'.  Very simple transition.  Done.  

My untitled diet and exercise book utilizes this philosophy a lot.  Figure out what combination of activities, sensible eating, and behavioral changes will result in your weight loss goal, and then just DO them.  

I resolve not to get lost in the ambiguity of resolution this year.  I AM JUST ON MY WAY TO GETTING THE JOB(S) DONE. 

Here Comes 2016

Watch for the transition of this blog to my official ‘author’ site in the coming months.  With the anticipated publication of ‘Cuz She’s Feral That Way, a lot of new things will be happening.  

For one, this blog WILL become regular in 2016… watch for posts at least twice a month!

The blog and new website will also be alerting folks as to when hard copy editions will be available in your local metro and rural areas.  

While I am and will always be grateful to the opportunity that self-publishing on Amazon is giving me, I am, as always, totally committed to supporting small, independent booksellers and stores.  I was raised on the importance of supporting the ‘mom and pops’ in communities, and as a small business owner myself, I understand that first-hand as well.  

I hope this finds you wrapping up a warm and loving holiday season, and looking brightly to a happy and prosperous 2016.  

Lots of hugs and love to you all... 

Keep In a Cool Dry Place

Two weekends ago, I spent another few days on the coast, comprising the Guitar Shorty concert, encountering the tour bus the night before the show, time in the ocean, a new tattoo, Tsunami Nacho food, new friends, old friends, and some of the best sleep I ever get—nestled in the Redwoods, and within the smell of the ocean. 

It’s the smells that really provoke me in this life.  My eyesight, like most middle-aged humans, is waning, but smells seem to cloak me in old memories, new moments, and reminders of things that should be eternally embraced. 

My drive home along the lakes which hug Highway 20 was unremarkable on many counts.  The weather was scorching as usual for August, the traffic was doggedly slow in all the wrong places, and my patience was a little worn as I sought to break free onto I-5 and race home for a client who would be waiting for my arrival.  I felt annoyed as I pulled into a convenience store parking lot, stopping primarily because of nature’s call.

After relieving that immediate need, I gazed furtively around the store, deciding to find something cold to drink, as the beverages in my ice chest were beginning to warm in the water that had transformed from ice the day before.  I was even more compelled to purchase a cold drink when I realized that I was going to be afforded the luxury of walking into a cooler to select an item.  The mere thought of being embraced by 38-degree cool air was enough to propel me to the other side of the store and into the refrigerated haven. 

The chilled air hit me like enthusiastic embrace of a long-lost friend.  As I took in my first deep breath of the cool air, the reunion hit a horrifying snag.  The cold, musty smell took my breath away.  I knew that smell from my childhood, when my parents operated a small restaurant resort.  Something living was decaying inside that walk-in.  My in-the-moment, logical brain told me, ‘probably lettuce or a soft cheese,’ based on the fact that the store made deli sandwiches.  But that logical order of thought was completely usurped by the invasion of a dark, coarse, damp, wet memory—one I had no idea I’d been housing for over thirty years.

What overtook my road-weary, slightly hung-over, completely over-indulged-from-the-weekend body at that moment was a point in time from late 1982.  Decaying produce, the cold-yet-swampy smell of an ancient ‘beer cooler’, the dim lights of same, all swirled in my brain, along with the smell of a cigarette-stained, beer-infused, bearded, dirty man. 

Somewhere back in that place in time, this man would regularly take me into that cooler, with permission from at least one adult who should have been keeping me safe.  Inside that cooler, I smelled, felt, and tasted things no child should ever have to recollect.  I am thankful for a brain which barred the memory from me for three more decades.  I am angry for a lack of recollection which has probably subconsciously driven more than one of the many poor choices I have made in my lifetime.

As I stood in the cooler somewhere in Lake County, I was overwrought with the flood of memories rushing through me.  On the verge of totally losing my cool, I stood in a corner, pretending intently to be deciding between cranberry juice and sparkling water.  I pretended to make trivial choices while tears flowed wholesale, in cascades, down the side of my 46 year-old face.

Wiping tears and mascara on the bottom of my tank top, I finally made the decision to just leave the store, making no purchase at all.  I got back into my car, pulled out a luke-warm bottle of water from the ice chest, and started the car. 

The drive from there to Redding was a bit of a blur, but this I do know—it was a swift one.  And a teary one.  And one that had me singing to every rock song I could find on the radio—at top volume—anything to avoid getting hit by The Feels on any more intense of a level than what was already battering me. 

Most of last week was also a blur, in terms of this situation.  I didn’t sleep well.  Nightmares were in high supply.  Sleeplessness was prescient, as was anxiety, and a mess of additional memories returning for some really fucked up homecoming. 

By Tuesday, the sleepwalking, and the attendant sleep-shenanigans had manifested.  My beloved “Hugger” pillow had been ripped open as part of a dream where I was trying to claw my way out of the beer cooler. 

I finally took some control over the situation.  I met with my counselor, who has had to walk me through other similar childhood traumas.  I was super honest with him:  I don’t want to be raw through this.  No Feels.  To that end, I have nursed a $120 bottle of Gold Reserve Jameson whiskey this week.  I have had an outing with one of *those* friends.  I have gained twelve pounds in eight days in an attempt to board up the hurt, anger, disappointment, shock, and sadness.

Despite those efforts, still I’ve been overcome with the return of this situation.  By Thursday, I had replaced The Hugger—with an even better version.  And I made a phone call, one which put me in contact with the violator in this situation. 

When he returned my call, I was on the other end of the line with a gravelly-voiced, aged, ailing man who did not have any recollection of me.  The comedian in me couldn’t help but giggle.  I mean, really, I didn’t remember him until a week ago.  The little girl in me was wholly pissed off.  What happened in that beer cooler should never have occurred.  That he was claiming no recollection was an affront I didn’t quite know how to accept, or process, or understand how to redeem. 

Though he was initially reluctant, he agreed to meet me.  Sunday morning, I drove to the small town where I grew up, down a familiar dirt road, and to a place that held other more pleasant memories for me.  It was some real irony for me that he now lived in a place that I associated with good times. 

We talked.  I confronted.  He shrank.  He denied.  He wilted—sort of like lettuce sitting too long in a beer cooler.  Finally, after assuring him that I only want to make sense of something so senseless, and that I want this shit to be back in his lap where it belongs, he confessed.  His apology was weak, or at least I think it was.  There may have been a sincerity there that I overlooked, because I have honestly had it up to *here* with people from my childhood blaming their drugs and their booze for a whole lot of abuse, neglect, and general lunacy.  

Regardless of those degrees of humanity in something so messy, I feel like I have offloaded the burden.  The process in doing so may not have been as perfect, or as exacting as anyone would want, but I am at peace with that much of it.

This is the second time I have confronted someone like this.  This is the first time I am still angry after the confrontation, but for now, I am okay with that, too.  I think it will dissipate.  The anger I shared with him yesterday made an impression.  To the extent he remembers, I am sure he will not forget.  And with that, I am carrying a lighter load.

Summer Drives

As I traveled between Sacramento and Mendocino via the I-80 corridor yesterday, I experienced something akin to déjà vu as I recalled making the same drive along I-80 several times in the summer of 1987.  It was a curious thing to think about the similarities and the differences between then and now…

The destination—in 1987, I was taking trips right into San Francisco, meeting up with friends I’d ironically made working at the Big Wheels in Shingletown.  George and his buddies were regular visitors to the area.  At eighteen years old, I was all agog at being in The Big City.  While I had lived in my very early years in the Los Angeles area, my parents transplanted us to Shingletown when I was eight, so my growing up years were rural—very, very, rural.  Weekends in San Francisco were filled with evenings quietly tiptoeing through the KPIX studios where my buddies worked, and then checking out interesting angles and lines to the city’s night life.  I fell in love that summer with the architecture and design of the beautiful city. 

This summer, almost 30 years later, I have been frequenting the Mendocino area, loving the interesting and eclectic blend of offbeat culture, beautiful forests, and the Pacific coastline.  There is something so soothing to me about walking beaches, and communing among the redwoods.  And the people I meet here are awesome. 

The music—that summer in ’87, I was constantly on the lookout for Huey Lewis and the News, the first couple of visits missing him by days in one direction or the other because of the band’s tour schedule.  My persistence finally paid off, having met him at a media event and winding up with opportunities to see him perform, and even attend Forty-Niner games at the sideline as he sang the national anthem at the start of the games. 

This year, with a verve that seems to come from the same youthful resonance all those years ago, I have been chasing after musicians all summer, enjoying the music, and meeting people who have that beautiful hunger and passion for the talents they’ve been given.  In 1987, the pursuits were completely successful only because of luck and happenstance.  As a woman in my forties, I am equipped with a radar, and intuition, and a perseverance of a woman on a mission.  I want.  I seek.  I find.  Tour buses, meals, after-hour jams, and new friendships have all fallen out of the musical tree in my pursuits this year. 

The wheels—in ’87, I was cruising around my universe in a 1975 Mercury Monarch.  I had bought it from Chuck and Carol Ann Dinning, as Carol Ann had upgraded to a new ride.  It had four doors, of which only two fully worked from both the inside and the outside.  Ditto on the windows.  But wow, that car could go fast.  Typical of a teenager, I was not fully satisfied with the ride, and longed to have a car that was smaller—cuter—and more fuel efficient.  In retrospect, I really had it all with that car.  The back seat was so huge I could—and did—sleep in it on some of my longer adventures.  I recall longing to get into a car with a car payment back then, as I felt that would be some sort of rite of passage, some big deal that made me more adult. 

This year, I’m driving a smaller, “sportier” car that probably would have filled the bill for the longings of eighteen year-old me.  As a middle-aged woman, I try not to curse on my longer road trips as I sit crunched up in my little Mitsubishi Mirage, a veritable ergonomically-incorrect torture machine that leaves me in need of body work after every adventure.  And there is no way I’m going to sleep in the back seat of this thing! 

This car also brings with it the unique opportunity to be ‘profiled’ almost every time I drive it in an urban area, as with its large rims and slim tires, it apparently takes on the look of gangster trouble.  While not the ideal ride, I love this car, as it has helped me travel thousands of miles over the past fifteen months I’ve owned it—seeing, living, loving, learning, and moving on in life.  I paid $1500 for it, and could not be happier that I don’t have a car payment or the need for an upgrade. 

As I drove through Fairfield yesterday, listening to Hall & Oates on CD, I thought about how many times I’d listened to that same band in the Monarch, on cassette tape.  Back then, I would sing along, but look side to side, furtively, so as not to be caught by other drivers.  Now, I roll down the windows in the slowed traffic, crank up the tuneage, and dance it out.  Sometimes, along with whomever is driving along side along the highway. 

It fascinates me, the things in life that change, and the things that don’t.  

Give Until You Get It

Sometimes, I get a bit overwhelmed in life by the things I can't seem to control.  It was part of the downfall for me in my last marriage.  Since then, I've worked hard to separate those things I can do nothing about from those things over which I do have dominion.  And I've been pretty successful at separating that kind of wheat from its chaff.

Today, for the most part, I felt less successful at it.

I had a client whom I was unable to immediately bring pain relief.

I received an email back from a City Council member indicating that we are going to just sit by and wait for damage to be done to the old RPD building and grounds instead of attempting anything proactively to better keep transients out of that area.  (I can just about hear the echoes of the chain link fence already as they begin to scale their way in.)

My daughter is still radio silent in my direction.

Despite being conservative in my use, my electric bill was ridiculous this month.

Finally, this afternoon, I ran screaming from the building, to get a little sunshine, and to get some errands accomplished.  So fast was my escape, I did not even change clothes, leaving still draped in exercise pants and a winery T-Shirt.

As I was stuck in traffic, I mulled over all these things which were making me cranky.  I began ticking off the list of things I could do...

While I was waiting in line at the courthouse, I tapped out an email to my pain-ridden client and gave him some more exercises that may help his situation.  I've given them to him before, but I decided that the reminder might spur him, and let him know that I care.

I sent my daughter an email simply telling her I love her and I miss her.  That she will not respond is not my issue, letting her know I love her is.

When I got to REU, where I had to show up in person in order to resolve a long-standing confusion over which suite in this building is mine, I also paid a utility bill that is twice what I paid this month last year.  Some of that is because business is booming, and some of it is just plain I-don't-know.  But I decided to pick my chin up off the floor about it, and be grateful that I am more than able to make the payment.  Then I watched a woman in another transaction counting out coin change-- a lot of it-- to pay part of her utility bill.  I decided it was more than I could bear to watch, and I paid her bill, too. In addition to the joy of giving, it put some things in perspective for me electrically speaking.  My bill may be bigger than it was last year, but it is nowhere near as huge as what this woman had to pay.  I need to do a better job of remembering how blessed I am to be where I am at, even in its occasional imperfection.

When I went to the market, I grabbed the few things I needed, and was hoping to slide right out and on to other things.  My line was slowed up by another woman who was paying for her groceries with coupons, vouchers, and change.  I'd been saving my tip money this week to buy a kayak.  I can't tell you how much I don't care that my kayaking plans are on hold, because six kids are going to eat AND have fuel in the family car during this last week of the month.  Every time I go to the market lately, I come out with an enormously heavy heart over the cost of food, especially when I put it in perspective of so many families I know who have kids to feed.  Lately, every time I go to the market, I take extra money with me in the hopes that I can help someone else out, too.

And it's not that I share these things to get a pat on the back, or be called a nice person.  There are so many more things I do in secret, and at infinitely greater sacrifice, that I will never tell.  I give, because it's the right thing to do.  I'm telling you all about it, because I feel genuinely compelled that someone(s) out there need to hear this message.  I am learning more as time goes on that my gift to write is not just about composing and arranging words to my joy and satisfaction, it is because sometimes people benefit from what I choose to share.

Anyway, I finally got home, and as I was entering the building lobby, I realized with both equal measures of joy, and concrete reality, that I am pretty much broke for the week.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

But what I know about this life and the laws of reciprocity, deeds in this universe don't often go unrequited.  In my mailbox, I found gifts from Dutch Bros.  One of my Dutch Babies ordered me a new tank top and new lids for my flasks.

I got a little teary at the generosity and thoughtfulness.  With my own kids off doing their own thing, my nest feels horribly empty sometimes, and the abundance of love that a bunch of baristas show me completely blesses and overwhelms me sometimes.  

While I was getting changed into the newest addition to my ninja wardrobe, there was a knock at the door.  Already, my head was a-twirl with the fear that I'd forgotten a client, or something else equally dreadful.  What I was met with instead was the mother of the girl I helped down on the street yesterday.  She brought me flowers.  We hugged.  We laughed.  We cried.  And I was grateful.  Grateful that I was here to help her daughter yesterday.  Grateful that I had a chance to tell this woman that it's going to be okay, that she WILL make it through this thing called motherhood.  

Ultimately, what I think I gleaned from my adventures today is that no one really gets through life purely on their own steam.  Whether it's helping others in crisis, blessing their financial needs, or even just touching lonely hearts, we don't make it through this life on our own.  We are all in this together.  And isn't that a great thing?

Help Fight Cancer the Easy Way

This is Robin Renault and her family.  The degree of her awesomeness is pretty up there.  She is married to a SWAT team officer with the RPD.  She is the mother to two charming young men.  She owns two businesses.  And she is the face of cancer.

She has never herself housed the disease, but she has fought no less a fight.  Her sister, Heather, has a husband who has survived cancer, a daughter who has survived cancer, and a daughter whose cancer battle took her home to Glory.  She lost her mother to the sheer dismay and disconsolation of these cancer encounters in the family.

I've known Robin since she was just out of diapers-- since she was a little rock star dancing to Michael Jackson videos.  Her whole life she has had a resolve to her that I admire.  When she puts her mind to something, it gets done, and usually with a degree of excellence to which we all could aspire.

This year, Robin is the Relay for Life coordinator in our region, and she just pulled off that very successful annual event here in Redding last month.  Now, she is on her way to Washington, DC to go talk to lawmakers about the importance of continued cancer research funding.

In my 20's, most of my work career was devoted to making this same kind of outreach to the federal and state governments in an attempt to change forest policy in the Pacific Northwest.  What I learned during those years was that the best way to impact Congress was to put a face to your issue, and be able to articulate in person the impact that legislation will have on communities and on families.  It is the nature of the congressional beast that our legislators simply don't listen to much of anything except what is right in front of them.

We are all fortunate to have someone like Robin willing to be front-and-center for an issue as pervasive as cancer.  It touches almost all of us.  If you are a person who hasn't actually had it, you've probably watched a loved one battle and/or lose the fight to it.

As part of Robin's trip to the Nation's Capital, she has been asked to raise funds via luminaria bags.
Donate Here

 You know the drill.  Drop a couple stops to Starbucks this week, and send that $10-spot to the cause.  It's a ridiculously small price to pay.  You make the donation, she leaves her children and her two businesses for a week to go lobby for policies that help us all in the fight against cancer.

JUST DO IT.  And when you do, let me know, and I will match your donation, up to a total of $100.

I am... In this Moment

As part of my personal growth in life these days, I am learning the art of approaching life intentionally, deliberately.  The changes I want to make will only come when I am actualized in that change.  There is no more "I will..." only "I (do)..."

It's not that "I 'will' write down what I eat before I eat it," it is, "I write down what I eat before I eat it."  No future tense.  In this moment, this is one of the things I do.  It changes the accountability.  If I write down what I eat before I even put it in my mouth, I am confronted with the reality of my decision before the moment even occurs, the view what that will look like as part of my personal history, and with the consequence of how my action correlates (or does not correlate) with my goals and direction in life.

Eating pie for breakfast is not consistent with me walking the Pacific Crest Trail.  It is not consistent with my desire to wear a halter top.  It is not consistent with my desire to play volleyball.

I'm happy to say that this morning at the farmer's market, the moment I sat at the bench and texted myself, "11:14 a.m. a slice of pie", I was repulsed by the notion.  I was painfully aware of the backward step that would be in terms of growing into the person I choose to be (not the person I 'will' be, nor the person I 'want' to be, but the person I AM, right here, right now.)

I am coming to realize that so much of my life I have lived for what I sought in the future tense, or attempting to salvage things-- or find comfort from-- the past.  Yet, neither of these acts are ones of 'living'.  For in the past, we can only embrace reflection, and in the future, we can only embrace hope.  It is only in this moment right now, that we truly live.

Today, I lived without pie for breakfast.  And I am glad for that choice.

We Should All Be Sparked By Baby Ember

For those of you who are not local, or who are and may not have heard, a six month-old baby, Ember Graham, was reported as missing on July 2, 2015 from her father’s home in the Happy Valley area in Shasta County.  Yesterday, July 7^th, the search for the infant was suspended, based on information gathered from the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department, which leads authorities to believe that this is not a case of child abduction as first reported by Ember’s father, Matthew Graham. 

I am choosing to write about this, because there has been so much hullaballoo and finger-pointing in the news and on social media—did the dad kill the baby?  What did the mom know?  Divisions have been borne, with camps entrenched in support of mom, in support of dad, berating the Sheriff’s Office operations on this case, etc. 

Let me throw a few broad notions out here first.  The Sheriff’s Office is doing their job, with the training and resources available.  Not all information being gathered in the case has been disclosed to the public, as that is standard operating procedure in an investigation.  This is not a sign of incompetence.  It protects the integrity of that investigation, as well as the safety of officers, persons of interest, and others in the process.  If you have a problem with the Sheriff and how he’s running things, he is an elected official, and in a smallish county the size of ours, you have a pretty big voice in whether he keeps his job or not.  Save that discussion for the ballot box if you have a problem with how he’s doing his job. Let’s get back to the fact that there is a missing baby, a grieving family without closure, and a community trying to make sense of an avoidable tragedy.

Second, though we want answers, and we want them now, we all need to respect the process.  Investigating humans and their shenanigans takes time.  It’s a messy prospect at best, and rarely does it look like the neatly packaged cases solved on TV crime shows. 

What I want to do in this post is shed some light for a moment on some of the more quiet, yet disturbing, aspects of this case; and for all of us to think about what each of us can do to help prevent tragedies like this one in the future.  I don’t know about you, but the fact that there is a missing (and likely dead) infant and a grieving family in our community, saddens me. 

We live in a world that is at times imperfect, and in some parts, evil.  As a society and a culture, we will always fall short in attempting to correct or change “bad” behaviors in others.  That does not, however, mean that we do not have an obligation to lovingly be our brother’s keeper, show some concern, and appropriately, but demonstrably, seek accountability from one another.

In this press release, the Sheriff’s Office reveals several things about the case that I find alarming, both in their physical presence, and in what it says about the rest of us, collectively. 

The Sheriff’s Office states that in questioning Matthew Graham, it was learned that he was living in a 25’ camp trailer, with no running water or working bathroom.  Sewage from the main residence on the property was in such disrepair that it flowed into a cesspool.  Where was anyone in the extended family or community questioning the safety of a small infant in this situation?

The news has reported consistently about the baby’s high risk for seizures, and her inability to sleep much through the night.  These are symptoms highly consistent with pre-natal exposure to methamphetamine.  If this is the case, where were people supporting her through pregnancy, and where were the authorities in ensuring the baby’s safety post-birth?

I have to wonder, how many people noticed something ‘not quite right’ in this family’s situation, and chose to ignore, or to gossip and judge, instead of finding ways to lovingly support or intervene?

I put all this out there just to remind ourselves collectively that as a community, and as a culture, we are only as strong as our weakest members.  It is in our best interest as a society, and as individuals, to convey that love and concern.  It’s not always easy, and it’s not always convenient.  It will require that we get out of our hermetically-sealed suburban bubbles and interface with others.  It may mean we are late to soccer practice, or it might mean learning to communicate with people we find “odd” or that we perceive as having nothing in common with us.  Do it anyway.  Do it, because you don’t want it to be your son sitting in a jail cell prospectively facing murder charges.  Do it, because you don’t want to go to a funeral with a neighbor who just lost a grandchild.  Do it, because it’s the right thing to do.  

It's Not Homelessness When It's Your Choice

I met a man named Ray a week or so ago, out in front of the Dutch Brothers on Eureka Way.  It was early, and I’ll be honest—I was really in no mood for his unsolicited conversation.  Pre-caffeinated Susanne is most often a sketchy prospect. 

As Ray began to talk, I couldn’t help but become, if not curious, somewhat alarmed.  According to Ray, he’s in his seventies.  He's wicked smart.  He's got a great vocabulary, and he knows a lot about U.S. History.  

He also had a 40-year drug habit.  Initially, he shared with me that he’d quit, but at various other parts of the conversation, he would mention the occasional relapse—primarily with cocaine.  This habit had caused him two heart attacks.  Healthwise, he indicated that he’s doing much better, literally back on his feet, after taking a nasty fall about a year ago, and being chair- and crutch-bound. 

He lives on the streets.  In fact, the most personally unsettling part of the conversation was that HE recognized ME.  At one point, he said, “Yeah, that’s a nice building you live in,” pointing to the place where I live and work, less than a block away. 

I asked him how he knew me, and he proceeded to explain to me that he often sleeps across the street from my suite, in the Old City Hall lawn.  I had never noticed him, but he was very aware of some of my details—which windows belonged to me, the sounds of laughter a couple nights before (pretty, like tinkling glass, he said), and the smell of my cinnamon candles in the early spring, when it was still cool enough to leave the windows open in the earlier evening. 

He explained to me, almost as a badge of honor, that he gets picked up by the police, “once or twice a week.”  I politely asked him why the police were targeting him, and his response was, “Oh, you know, the usual bullshit: trespassing, loitering, sometimes drinking.”

Another of the shocking details to me was that he has a payee for the monies he receives from his retirement and his disability.  There is someone out there who is “helping” him with his money—a more than modest sum of it—and he STILL does not have a roof over his head.  How can this be?

The more we talked, the more I realized that he PREFERS his rooflessness.  He reminded me of someone out of a Roger Miller song, sort of hoboing about in life, content in his marginalized existence, wearing some aspects of it proudly. 

His resourcefulness was a curious thing.  Aside from the small cup of coffee he purchased, the driving factor for him sitting at the Dutch Bros that morning was the free electricity.  At the menu board in the drive-thru lane, there is an empty electrical socket, which not only does he use, but he also “stores” his cords there from time to time, claiming that his belongings often get stolen from the other places he “stashes” them. 

I asked him several times, several different ways, why it was that he didn’t rent a house or an apartment.  At one point, he launched into an account of how he owns homes in SoCal, and lets other family members live there.  Once, he actually said he just prefers to do without the “hassle” of having a place to live. 

I hugged him as I left, and made him pinky swear we wouldn’t talk about the smell of my candles any more.  I can’t explain why I feel such a sense of exposure by that, but I do.

As I walked home, I again mulled over so much of what’s going on downtown.  Sleeping in public spaces, drunk in public spaces, trespassing, littering, assaults, burglaries.  As Ray demonstrates, it’s just not as simple as putting people in houses.  Many won’t stay.  Some, because of mental illness and drug addiction will destroy the structures.  It’s not safe for these transients, or for the rest of us, to be exposed to the unchecked behaviors. 

I keep getting stuck on this idea that we need to clarify who is out on the streets.  Some people are suffering misfortunes-- job loss, marital separations, etc.-- which create situations where families or individuals are homeless.  But then there's the Rays of the city.  He's not hanging his hat anywhere because he doesn't WANT to.  What do we do about this?  At what point are we going to say that his 'freedoms' are causing problems, and his choices are causing harm?  And at what point are we going to find a collective solution about it all?

... On The Way To Idaho

I posted the other day on social media, looking for someplace groovy to eat in the Bend, Oregon area.  I was on my way to Idaho, to see my son, Jesse, and his wife, Amanda.  I hadn't been to Bend in over twenty years, and figured getting some input would be a good idea.

As is generally the case, the weirdos I know and love on Facebook came through in spades.  I always trust my FB friends more than the random Yelp review.

Ultimately, I selected this lovely pub and grill, McMenamin's, inside the Old St. Francis School.  Credit for the selection goes to Ronda Snyder.

Let me also note, I think there are more trips to Bend in order to try the many other suggestions provided by friends.  Bend seems like a neat little town.




The food was great, and included some legitimately interesting vegetarian selections, like the grilled cheese sandwich I had, which included slices of apple and carmelized onion.  The pilsner beer I tried was refreshing, and the venue was beautiful.





The site also contains hotel rooms, resting pool, and outdoor seating in a beautiful garden area.








In my FB post, I had specifically requested suggestions that were "weird or fun."  My friend, Mike Daley, responded that if I was going to be on site, it was likely to be weird or fun.  I don't know that I would agree with that.  In fact, I tend to think that Mike is a conjurer of these things.  He speaks them into my existence, and they come to pass.

Upon arriving at McMenamin's, I was greeted with this interesting box...

 Located on the porch entry of the pub, the box compelled my curious nature to open it up.

Inside were random items: a sandpail and shovel, a blanket, a newspaper section, and other odd curios.




These, I classify as "fun".  Now for the weird...

So, after I was cheerily greeted and seated by my waiter, I went to go use the ladies' room to freshen up.  As I was in a stall taking care of business, I could hear the lady in the stall next to me pull her pants up and right herself for departure from the bathroom.  At some point, I noticed that she was not flushing.  Odd.

As I stood up to reclothe myself, she began to chant.  And pray.  And bless.  Her waste.

I was well into washing my hands and thinking in my head about seven different kinds of "WTF?" when the woman finally exited her stall and came to the sink next to me.

Silently, I searched for a filter inside my brain, but as usual, I could not find one.

"Hi there," I said to her.  She nodded back a hello.

This was not the response I was hoping to receive, envisioning something that was a little more open and receptive to my further questionings.  But again, when has that ever stopped me?

So I asked, "Can you tell me why you pray over your pee?"

She smiled, and answered, "Well, I figure this: I pray when I put the food in, so why not pray when it comes on out the other side?"

Well alrighty, then.  I finished drying my hands, bid The Blesser adieu, and returned to my table, already thinking that I'm blaming this episode in life on Mike Daley and the divining of his observations in life.  :-)

This Is What Cancer Looks Like

Heather Jenkins Grant and Robin Jenkins Renault, speakers, organizers, and supporters of this year's Relay for Life

I've tried for three solid days now to write something that will inspire people to show up to tomorrow's Relay for Life opening ceremonies tomorrow at Shasta College at 9:00 a.m.  My intent was to write, in my own words, about these two women, Heather Jenkins Grant, and Robin Jenkins Renault.  

Words fail me, in light of the testimonies these two have to share in their commitment to find cures for cancer.  

I have known these two women for about 35 years.  I babysat them when we were all younger.  Heather babysat my children.  I have watched them grow into amazing women, wives, and mothers, advocates, and businesswomen.  I have watched them grow in faith, hope, and grace in ways that could only come from a divine hand.  

To say that these women have overcome adversity, is a monumental understatement.  What I most admire about these two and their families is that they are the face of what cancer does not have to be-- the destroyer of families.  

What I want you to do is join me at the Relay for Life event tomorrow and come hear the story of Rebekah-- a sister, a daughter, a delightful child whose life on Earth was cut entirely too short.  Hear the story of Rebekah's sister, Rachael, who prevailed through her own cancer.  Hear the story of the loss of a grandmother whose heart so broke over these two children.  Hear the story of two women, a brother, two husbands, eleven children, and seven grandchildren who have remained strong and intact, despite all the odds.  

Come be inspired by the resolve of two women who are choosing to lead the fight instead of being knocked out by it.  Come stand in hand with YOUR community to raise awareness, to raise resources, and to raise the level of the power in the fight against cancer.  

The Places We Find Grace

This is the first of at least three posts which I will be sharing in advance of Redding's Relay For Life event on Saturday, June 6th at Shasta College.  As a cancer survivor, I continue to be struck by the pervasiveness of cancer in our lives.  If you haven't had it, you probably know someone who has, cared for someone who has, or been a part of a family who has been devastated by the disease.  My goal with these posts is to bring awareness (or a reminder) of how widespread the impacts of cancer are, and how important it is to find a cure for a disease which is so indiscriminate in its direct and indirect impacts on people, families, and communities.  

"I've known your husband so long, that I was actually taller than he was when we first met," I told her.

We both tittered at that, since her husband, Tom, is a towering six feet, four inches.  Tom and I met when we were in about the third and fourth grades, respectively.

I had never met Mosette in person until yesterday.  Married to someone I grew up with in Shingletown, we were mere Facebook friends.  When I saw her post, looking for a ride to the airport in Sacramento, something moved inside me.  I messaged her that I could give her a ride if she still needed one.  As most of you can probably guess, the fact that we had never met in person was little deterrent to me picking her, another stranded traveler, and their luggage up at Redding's little airport.

Suddenly, the odd fact that I had been unable for a week to schedule anything on the massage calendar for that morning made total sense-- unawares, I had a different calling for the day.

Their plane had broken down, and passengers were told that it would be five hours until they could get the flight back on track, if at all.  Because Mosette was on her way to Arizona's Cancer Treatment Center of America to be with her husband, time was of the essence.  

Having never met her, I was not entirely sure what to expect when I arrived at the airport.  I've had a similar cancer to the one her husband is battling, but I was in a lesser stage.  I can only imagine the stress this woman is under.  

What I encountered when I pulled up was a woman with a smile on her face.  She glowed.  We got her and the gal from Virginia, whose name, regrettably, I cannot even remember, all loaded up and we hit the road.

I had bought them some Dutch Bros., so we were fueled up on every level for the trip.

Mosette and I talked almost non-stop all the way to Sacramento.  Because we know so many people tangentially to one another, it was like a strange homecoming, and an odd sort of fill-in-the-blanks.  I learned about how she and Tom met, the three wonderful children they are raising, her efforts to obtain an education, and a lot about the amazing, stalwart effort she has put into caring for and supporting her husband and their children through this difficult time.

We talked about the the incredible network of support she and Tom have had over the past year.  They say it takes a village to raise a child.  It takes one to raise children and run a home when cancer calls on a family as well.  To say that her family has been covered by grace is an understatement.

The thing that stuck me most deeply as this woman shared her story, was her execution of grace.  I don't know that I have ever encountered someone who could walk with such dignity, honor, strength, courage, and understanding through such a difficult life event.  She spoke with a matter-of-factness draped in an incredible love and resolve as she shared the reality of end-of-life issues for her husband.

When I dropped her off, I helped her unload her luggage, gave her a hug, and wished her safe travels.
I prayed on my drive back north, tearfully interceding for Mosette, for Tom, for their children, extended family, and everyone who has been helping pull the load for this family.  And still, I was struck by her grace.

I ruminated on that for quite a while.  I realized that we receive grace in this life.  It's a thing.  From family, friends, other humans, who give us that which we do not necessarily deserve.  Those of us who believe in God receive a grace, which is defined as unmerited favor from a loving deity.

What I also realized, is that grace is active.  Grace is a verb.  According to Merriam-Webster's, grace is to confer dignity or honor upon (someone or something).  How many of us stand active in our grace in this way?

Even with the inevitability of the way cancer is changing her family, she walks in, and with, an Amazing Grace.

To watch a woman with so much on her plate confer such grace during a time of dismay in her family was awe-inspiring.  I drove two women to the airport yesterday.  I drove home humbled.  Changed.

Labels at the Farmer's Market. Who Knew?

Just returned from the farmers’ market.  The morning was really beautiful; cool and slightly overcast as I walked down to the city hall.  I had somehow managed to get there on the early side, when the ‘serious’ foodies are striking the farmers’ booths with amazing skill and precision.  This was a good thing—scratch that, this was a great thing.  I lose patience with people who shop for sport or leisure in crowded places.  I just want my dried persimmons and fresh chard and then I want to move on. 

I had the good fortune to run into a friend I haven’t seen in over a year.  Since we each were just finishing up our shopping for the morning, we decided to have breakfast and catch up a bit.  I bought a spinach and cheese tamale, and she bought some hummus and lentil bread.  We each bought juices from the Roots booth.  It was quite the impressive little impromptu banquet. 

We spent half an hour chatting about what each of us has been up to in the past year.  We’ve both started businesses, we both found long lost relatives, we’ve both lost family members close to us.  We’ve both traveled, and breathed and cried and loved and lived.  We are human.  It’s what we do. 

My friend took off, and as I sat, still nibbling on some of the lentil bread, another acquaintance approached me.  After our initial hellos and how-do-you-dos, he says to me, “So, I saw you were sitting with your gay friend…”

“Why is it important that she is gay in the context of this conversation?”  I asked. 

“Well, no, it’s not, it’s just…” he faded off.

I was surprised that he went ahead and sat down next to me.  I figured that one unfiltered missive out of my mouth was going to be enough to chase him off. 

Next, I offered him some lentil bread. 

“What kind of crazy communist food is this?” 

“It’s Indian food.  India is a Socialist Secular Democratic Republic.  And for the record, it’s delicious food. Try it.”

He didn’t last long after that, making his good-byes and traveling on with his day.  I noticed by the time I walked home, he and I are no longer Facebook friends. 

It occurred to me on the way home that the only pertinent label that could have been applied to breakfast was ‘vegetarian’.  We never even got to that part of the conversation.

What I don’t understand is the weird fixation with labels.  Indian food may be different to many who live in the culturally insular place that is northern California, but let’s talk numbers here.  One of every six people on the planet is from India.  Next to Chinese, Indian cuisine is the most commonly identified cuisine on Earth.  That we in ‘Merica are labeling it as an uncommon or marginalized food choice is myopic.  We can argue as to whether or not we are still the greatest nation circling the sun, but we cannot argue that we are the most populous or prolific. 

And what does political persuasion have to do with lentil bread anyway?  It made me chuckle as I was leaving the farmers' market to realize that part of why I go to the farmers' market in the first place is to be in an environment where I don't have to read labels.  Real, fresh food.  

Labels on people drive me even more insane.  My gay friend?  No, pretty much, she is my friend.  My caring friend.  She is a friend who encouraged me to learn yoga as a means of pain management when I was going through cancer treatment.  To be honest, had I not started reaping the benefits of her shared knowledge, I would have stopped treatment before the last, most caustic round of chemo.  Using yoga to manage pain gave me the extra strength and energy to rock ‘em, sock ‘em through another hellish medical protocol-- one which was designed to poison me just to the point of killing the cancer, but not actually killing me. I likely would not be here had she not encouraged me and loved me and supported me through a challenging time in my life’s journey, because after the second round, I had preliminarily made the decision for myself that the pain and suffering were impeding my quality of life.

Her sexual orientation is not the primary identifier when I think of her.  Period.  But, since we are on the subject, she and her wife have been together for over twenty-eight years.  They have raised two children, one of whom is in medical school to become a doctor, and the other who just graduated summa cum laude and is on her way next month to Africa to do relief work. 

Why is it we only apply these labels when we are looking to marginalize or segregate?  In the information above, should we be considering this Awesome Gay Parenting?  Or Marvelous Gay Monogamy? 

I prefer to think of it as people getting it right.  Enough of the rest of us know all too well what it’s like to be divorced and to have children who are a challenge to raise.

And again, I come back to my general take in life:

It is not my job to judge.  

Or render social stature upon others.  

It is my job to love people.  

Downtown Redding-- Here's What It Is...

I wonder, what would happen if the motels downtown stopped renting to "homeless" people?

I am getting tired of walking past the ones on Market Street between Sacramento and the 'Y' at Pine/Market/Cypress and being bombarded by 'residents' who ask for money, booze, drugs, etc.

I'm not suggesting that each tenant in these places is drug-dependent.  I can only speak from my observation, training, and experience, which indicates to me that most of the people I encountered today as I walked home from the bank and market, are suffering from a degree of paranoia and mental impairment consistent with prolonged use of methamphetamine.

Drugs are illegal.  Why are people not being arrested?  Why are building owners not being held to greater responsibility for these kind of "blight" issues on their property?

Today, I gave away the entire bag of groceries I had just purchased at the (Un)Safeway to a mother with four children under the age of six.  I'm not even sure why I did it, other than once I handed a four year-old a banana, watched as his five year-old sister helped him open it, and then immediately share with the two even younger siblings, I couldn't think of a single thing in that bag that I couldn't live without, even if it meant I didn't eat for a week.  I remain conflicted.  Jesus would feed the children.  Jesus would heal the addicted and tell them to sin no more.  But part of me somehow feels like I'm enabling, perpetuating bad behavior.

I was then hounded by two large women who did not like that I had taken a photograph of the general area of the motel where they were congregating in the parking lot.  I asked them if I could do anything to help them.  They began cussing at me, and trying to intimidate me.  I disengaged verbally with them, and continued walking home.  They followed me to the next intersection at Market and Sacramento streets.  I turned around on them with my taser in hand, and in my "Scary Susanne" voice, let them know they needed to back off.  I really prefer to be my normal, goofy ball of fluff, but I'm glad for my ninja skills when I need them.

A couple blocks later, I was approached by a man on a bicycle, asking me questions about the encounter I'd had with the ladies at the motel.  I told him, yes, I took photos.  I live in town, I care about the safety of the community, and places like that motel are a real problem-- case in point, I was accosted and harassed for stopping approximately 20 seconds on the sidewalk to take a picture.

He stated that the ladies who followed after me felt like I was stereotyping them, and judging them, because of where they 'live'.  I told him that I felt like I was being judged because I have a fancy phone, a great hairdo, and clean clothes.  Because honestly, of all the people who have walked by that place today, I doubt there's anyone who wants more than I do to find a solution to "help."

Neither of those women could have known that I lived in conditions as a kid, as much, or more abject as they do.  They couldn't have known that I just gave away my week's worth of groceries to one of their neighbors.

I told the guy on the bike, that there is a problem in town, and I am interested in seeing that it gets fixed.  I don't know what the entirety of the solution is, but I do know that I feel like part of the dilemma for now, is that we are not even properly defining, or maybe labeling, the problem.

Would having a 'real' home fix the problems for these people?  I kind of doubt it.

Would getting better mental health and drug treatment services in place, with penalties for non-compliance, fix the problems for these people?  Maybe.  But maybe not.

Would entering into relationship with these people and showing them love and mentorship help?  Maybe.  But that's a dangerous prospect.

I guess I'm posting this today because I feel like we need to keep pushing around this boulder of a problem in town, looking at it from every angle we can, until the solutions-- real, sustainable, long-term solutions-- come to us as a community.

Happy Birthday

Me and Crazy Aunt Mari, 1971

I went looking for a picture of me and Crazy Aunt Mari to post today, and realized there just aren't that many.  This one is from April or May of 1971.  The smell of the housecoat in the picture is one of my earliest memories.  Short on maternity wear, she wore it a lot as her pregnancy with my cousin, Michael, progressed.

That year, my mom was having some pretty heavy duty issues (sort of like every year, actually), so I spent most of my time with Crazy Aunt Mari, and/or my grandparents.  Sitting in her lap was a place of comfort, and safety.  I loved feeling Michael kick, and smelling her long hair.  I can remember the degree of anger and jealousy after Michael was born, when he was always in "MY" lap, my unofficial throne. That really sort of set the tone for me being bossy and annoyed with him for about the next twenty or so years.

Michael was the love of her life.  When she got pregnant at 20 years old, the doctors straight up told her to go have an abortion, because with her severe scoliosis, she and her baby would likely die.  I often believe that her next truest love in life was proving people wrong.  Now that I actually like my cousin in our adulthood, I occasionally ponder and celebrate the degree of stubbornness that allowed the world to be blessed with a brilliant writer and beautiful artist and singer-- giftings of which have also found their way genetically into the sweet soul that is my cousin's son, Avery.

First Day of Kindergarten for Me, 1974

As I was sorting through photographs this morning, I realized that part of the reason why there aren't too many pictures of her and me together during my younger years is that she was always behind the camera, and busying herself with whatever was making moments special for those of us in front of the lens.  Trips to theme parks, the ocean, random road trips, all were chronicled with care.  The most amazing Halloween costumes, well-thought Christmas gifts, and the grooviest little outfits a kid could wear; I don't think until today, I really appreciated how much she put into normalizing what was a very unstable time in my early life.

Halloween 1974

Were she not in heaven, today she would have turned 65 years old.

Today, I've got Janis Joplin, Elton John, CCR and Bob Dylan grooving on my beat box in her honor.  For what I lack in pictures, I forever have ensconced in memories of the songs that remind me of her...

Happy birthday, Aunt Mari.

Love in the Land of the Oakland A's

Yesterday’s adventures to the Bay Area were just what the doctor ordered for a woman who lately hasn't physically been feeling at the top of her game.  Despite the few extra stops along the way to manage some physical issues, the weather was perfect, the game—despite an A’s loss—was fun, and the scenery along northern California’s farm corridor was beautiful. 

I am still scratching my head over the fact that I wound up with The Devil I Do Know as my travel companion.  We spent 13 hours together yesterday.  I don’t think we spent that much time together in all of last year combined. 

When I ended our marriage sixteen months ago, it was a decision based purely on logic.  He had become physically dangerous, and I was not safe.  I could not afford the luxury of looking at the situation in any other conceivable light.  To do so could have continued to leave me in a dangerous spot. 

Over time, it has been my prayerful, loving, and human objective to find peace between us; to find a place where he and I could platonically connect and find healing in the tragic circumstances that tore us apart. 

In the past year, on those times when we needed to have contact—closing out personal and business issues, exchanging belongings, dealing with lingering legal issues from the nightmare that broke both our hearts—I would insist that we meet in public.  Given the degree to which he had physically harmed me, it seemed more than prudent.

To say the least, things were not easy between us in the early days of that break-up.  There were tears, shouting, anger, and frustration for both of us.  Over time in the past year, as tensions cooled, we've reached a place of a common peace.  We are friendly, and we are friend-ish.  Though, I still have a hard time trusting him. 

But what I do know, as I have healed over the past year-and-a-half, I have felt the mantle of my existence resonate and propel me with regard to him—just love him.  My job isn't to judge, it isn't to decide what’s fair, it isn't to change him, or tell him how to fix himself, or how to live his life.  My crusade in this regard has nothing to do with any reparations he might owe me, emotionally or otherwise.  My job is simply to love him. 

Now, don’t get me wrong—I have no notions of sharing a life with this man.  I have no dreams of being loved by him the way he so beautifully once did.  I have zero expectation that the piece of my heart he has held since I was fifteen years old will ever be what it was.  Those things are gone, and the vessel that I am, broken and reconstructed, likely would no longer hold the love we shared in the same way anymore.

But loving people has consequences.  Done so properly, with appropriate boundaries, loving people changes them.  And what I’ve discovered in the past year or so, is that choosing to love a person, no matter the circumstance—it has changed me, too. 

So yesterday morning, when I was still scrambling around to find someone to go to Oakland with me, it was almost comical how none of the conversations I was having with people were able to yield a travel companion.  One girlfriend wanted desperately to go, but there was no way to truncate her parent’s departure that morning.  Another buddy wanted to go, but he had no way to make it from Weaverville to Redding in time for us to make it to the game.  My neighbor was hot on the idea of going, but he couldn't commit because he had to leave at 10:00 last night to head out of town on business, and yesterday’s agenda was sleep, sleep, sleep. 

And then Devil I Do Know texted me, and said, “I've never been to a MLB game.  Wanna take me? :-P” 

I frankly was surprised.  I didn't realize we were even still connected on Facebook anymore.

I was hesitant, but ultimately decided that I was willing to take the risk.  I let a girlfriend know what was going to go down, and I brought my ninja weapons with me on the trip. 

I’m a pretty big sucker for anyone who says, “I’ve never done ______ before.”

In addition to loads of small talk, laughter, lunch, $11.25 ballpark beer, some good baseball, and some great fan experiences, I learned a few things:

The Devil I Do Know is also a man on his own healing journey.  It turns out, in all the things that tore us apart, he lost a wife he loved very much.  He lost a future that he held dear.  He has had to make peace with all of the same, and some similar, losses as I have. 

I don’t think until yesterday, I had ever considered that he had suffered those things too.  Most shocking to me, was his admission that part of what had helped him come to this place of healing for himself, was that I chose to love him through it, even outside of our marriage. 

When the mother of his children was causing him a new layer of grief over the kids, I went to bat for him.  Letters were written, therapists were contacted, and things that might otherwise have been stuck, got moved along.  No matter the problems between him and me, the problems he was encountering with regard to his children were wrong, unfair, unjust, and ridiculous. 

When he found out he had diabetes on his birthday, I took him to supper, just so he could talk.  He told me yesterday that he was really scared about the diagnosis, but that having me break it all down for him in my usual humorous way helped him move along. 

None of this is to toot my own horn.  There are loads of people out there who are better ‘lovers’ than I am—more thoughtful, more consistent, more caring, more concerned, more whatever it is that people who need love may need in life. 

What I am learning, is that loving in the best way we know how, in each situation, and for each person we encounter, is all we need to do.  And that is enough.  

Welcome Back to The Blog!

It has been a few years since I've posted in here.  As things move along with my writing career, I will be using this blog site more as a place for readers to check in, and for those who wish to discover me and my writing style as an author.

There are a lot of exciting things on the horizon, and I am excited to be able to share some of them with you here!

Thanks for stopping by and perusing Just Passing Through...

With the Right Person...

And today, this is the mantle of my existence. I had my entire schedule upended today by a sweet angel who sent me a visitor from the Land of Writers. The entire day has been one intense, inspired, and memorable experience after another.

At first, I was a nervous wreck, just thinking about meeting a stranger, and one who could help me advance one of my life's goals, at that. Then I realized, she's here to see me. ME. In all my inglorious humanity.

A couple weeks ago, I was faced with an awkward situation, where I was "excused" from a book club that I'd been attending. I was disappointed, as I felt I'd found a great group of women- smart, funny, authentic. They felt I wasnt a good "fit". In that situation, I just shook it off. I'm not everyone's cup of tea. But long ago, I accepted for myself that so long as I can say my intentions are pure, and that I'm walking in love, I am pretty much fine with rejection based on personality.

As I was flying about in a dither this morning, temporarily purchasing the misguided need to impress, I thought about the book club situation, and rebooted.

I took off the fancy pants and put on the jeans I like the best this week; the ones with holes, and skinny legs, that make me feel one big hairdo away from being a Bon Jovi groupie. Add to that a tight T-shirt with a slogan on it that is highly inappropriate, for those who are smart enough to get it--a ninja suit if there ever was one.

I figured, if this woman wants to see where I grew up, we're gonna get pretty damned dirty getting there. That she smiled and winked at the shirt, made me think we were off to a good start.

I decided, with zero shame, that we should take my pimpmobile Up The Hill, instead of her Cadillac. No amount of package-upgrade-automatic-whatever would really be a net benefit down four miles of dirt road, the last half-mile of which now has manzanita growing in the tire tracks.

I told her to bring a change of clothes. We might be meeting some of the most legit people I know, but they don't smell good. Just a fact, I told her, supported by my duffel bag with my own change as well.

As we left my suite, I grabbed a wet paper towel. She asked. I explained to her that I had delivered decadent cupcakes to a really cool lady earlier in the morning, and that I had dumped one out on the seat, and while I ate it promptly to send it along to cupcake heaven instead of allowing it an earthly and deformed existence, I hadn't cleaned up the frosting that landed on the seat, during my near-Olympic use of The Five Second rule.

She shared a similar story with me, and we both erupted in a fit of giggles as I continued on in my tale of how Katie, the cupcake recipient, was both my frosting-filled soulmate, and my daughter's namesake.

I took her to the elementary school I attended. She was immediately drawn to a 30-plus year-old mosaic. I told her about the art bus that had come to our school for a week in about 1980, and how my class had worked on portions of the piece, and how my desire to work on it the following day had led to a series of events which resulted in me not being at home the night my mom in a drunken rage, nearly shot my dad.

I told my companion, "You asked for 'authentic', but if at some point this gets to be too much, you let me know, and I'll buy you a soda and take you back to Redding."

She nodded, and with a twinkle in her eye, said, "I see your near miss and raise you a dead brother."

A small part of me would like to say that we left it at that, but the rest of the day was interspersed with details of both our pasts that made it clear we each had experienced life with people who expertly put the FUN in dysfunctional.

We sat on the memorial bench in front of the school and I shared with her an hour's-worth of my best school memories-- the teachers who inspired me to learn, the friends who were a world-facing escape from a lot of weird living at home, the beautiful things about attending a small school along a ridgetop that I really didn't appreciate until much, much later in life.

As I took her further into Shingletown, we talked about writers we have enjoyed at various stages of life-- ‪#‎JudyBlume‬, Jodi Piccoult, Maya Angelou, Stephen King, ‪#‎AnneLamott‬... It is a blessing to talk about words with someone who loves words in the same way I do...

I took her to meet the old guy whom I long ago nicknamed Mr. Romano Cheese. He is responsible for that delightful piece of life advice I occasionally dispense, "There's a lil asshole in all of us, Sweetheart. The key is to find other people who know how to properly channel that inner asshole we all possess."

I took her to the site of the burned-out Big Wheels. "Yeah, some small towns complain about the local bar and grill being sort of half-baked. Ours has been twice-baked. We excel."

At my growing-up home, I showed her places where Bonnie and I used to play, and told her accounts of climbing trees and jumping off rooves and hiding treasures and learning survival skills.

"You jumped off THAT roof? In this life? And you're here to tell about it? What. The. Fuck?"

We scoped out peeps at The Store. There are actually two small markets in town now, but to my way of thinking, the one which bears the town's moniker and is attached to the post office, will always be THE Store.

I couldn't give her background fast enough between hellos and nice-to-see-yous to inform her of how I knew these people.

Both of us finally over-stimulated by the amount of traffic and people and stories, she jumped out of the car, ducked into the store, and came out bearing a paper bag well-wrapped around two bottles.

"Take me to That One Place," she said.

We hadn't talked of Any One Place during our travels. Using my best telepathy, I took her to a boat dock on a lake owned by the local power company. I had wanted to take her to a different boat dock on a different lake, but her shoes weren't really up to the fence scaling and general trespassing that likely would have been involved in getting there.

We each drank a Bartels & James while hotspotting off of her Super Urban Satellite phone. We shared a rash of giggles as we compared the similarities of our small town teenaged experiences.

I shared with her enthusiastically the news I received in an email about an order of shirts with my massage business logo on them. She was effusive with praise for me, "That's a really great marketing opportunity..."

I stopped her mid-sentence and confessed, "Yeah, it's all that, but mostly it's a legit way to deal with the very adult problem I have dressing myself every day. Now all I have to do is worry about pants. And maybe socks."

On our drive back into town, she spouted out process and contract negotiations, and other business stuff.

"If I am able to get this rolling for you, trust me that I get your challenges. You're going to write your ass off, and apparently, I'm going to be teaching you how to improve your wardro--scratch that, I'm going to be selecting some pieces for you to wear..."

With the right person, there is no such thing as inappropriate behavior.