Tag Archives: life

Nov26

Happy Thanksgiving for all.

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“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Well…almost all. Unless you’re an indigenous native…or gay…or black…or female…or…well, okay, unless you’re anything other than straight white male. And then, depending on your political affiliations, to be determined subject to the current balance of power…or…fuckall…

We children all stood obediently, put our right hand over our heart and repeated after our adoring teacher. In any other setting that ritual would be called indoctrination into a cult. The cult of nationalism has many sub-cults. The cult of school (yay, team), the cult of church. The cult of family. The cult of loyalty, unquestioned and unquestionable. Don’t you dare question. By the time we’re around the age of 10 (too generous? maybe 7?) we are gone. As in, so completely turned around and conditioned that we have no idea who we are. We do know what we stand for – because we have been told. God help us.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in these here United States. Let the celebration of genocide begin. That is not to say I am not grateful, because I truly am. I might be female, but at least I was born into a privileged white family. In a peaceful, free country. Might not have been the same United States you were born into. But let’s be honest, I’ve had many advantages. And much to overcome. I doubt my father would have been an abusive narcissist were he not born where and when he was. He certainly would not have had so many advantages, least of all a culture of protection around him to hide his psychopathy for 82 years. Talk about an invisibility cloak, phew! That worked well.

My mother died of liposarcoma at the age of 69. The oncologists refer to that cancer as “the anger cancer.” I suspect all cancer takes root in anger, but suffice it to say she died of repressed anger. I’ve told many times here about my memorable 16th birthday gift from her. She gave me two books: The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan and The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer. Was she trying to tell me something? Ya think? At least she made an effort. God knows she never had a chance of any freedom for herself. And I was so conditioned by then, I had only a smidgen more.

Had I not been born into privilege, in a relatively safe environment with abundant food and shelter, would I have ever have gained any insight into the underlying dysfunction? I’ll tell you what my family thinks: they think I am blatantly ungrateful. They couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m grateful for all the same things they are, and so much more. I’m just grateful for different reasons.

You see, I think they are living in a deadly and toxic state of denial. I think they are altogether unwilling to press pause on their insecurity button for just a little moment, long enough to consider – not accept, just consider – that they are not actually superior to everyone else. And so, they behave as if they are absolutely terrified of everyone around them all the time. They don’t leave the house without their gun. The world is a very scary place. It’s full of others.

I don’t envy them that position, although I have at times in the past. God knows most days I’d give anything for that previous naivete. For one more day back home with them all around the dining table on Thanksgiving, laughing. I didn’t know those were fields of gold.

I have often envied them the certainty of their convictions when I was questioning my own motives. When I was requiring myself to be as honest with myself as I possibly could bring myself to be about why I thought I might be smart enough to have figured something out.

I’m not. Smarter. I haven’t figured out shit. But I do have certainty of my convictions now. Not because I accepted what I was taught, but precisely because I have questioned it all and decided how to think and what to believe – beyond a shadow of a doubt. Insert belly-laughing emoji here.

What a mess we have created from fear. Of course, I’m neurodivergent, so conservative ass-holes seem to have everything backward from where I stand. And this grief I am going through recently comes with an equal measure of terror. Most of my fitful sleep is composed of my fighting for my life. Nightmares of my family trying to kill me aren’t new, but lately there are trained assassins after me. I’ve moved up in the world. Or they have. Now they can hire it done.

I’ll tell you what: fuck this shit. I’m determined to look the demons right in the eye and beat them at their own game. It’s freedom or nothing. Give me liberty or…

“Being an American means reckoning with a history fraught with violence and injustice. Ignoring that reality in favor of mythology is not only wrong but also dangerous. The dark chapters of American history have just as much to teach us, if not more, than the glorious ones, and most often the two are intertwined.” – Ken Burns

Oct19

we live here…

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Bitch, please…I grew up in Detroit. For those of you who are not familiar, or accept the cultural collective’s jokes and voodoo euphemisms of Detroit, you’re missing out. Detroit is the heart and soul of America. It is fu@king awesome. Go. Stay in the New Center area and spend a couple days at the Detroit Institute of Arts. Drive around and take in some of the most spectacular historical architecture in the United States. You won’t see it all in that time, but enough to enjoy yourself enormously and appreciate it’s beauty and world-class culture.

Then take yourself “up north.” This is where I have lived the past 40 years. Let me tell you a bit about how I came here, and why I stay.

My father grew up on a farm outside of Traverse City, where my Irish ancestors had immigrated and settled during the potato famine. About to enter high school, his father moved the family to Detroit during the automobile boom. And so I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit and often visited my great-grandparents and aunts and uncles on Long Lake, west of Traverse City, in the summer months. By the time I was in my early twenties I would spend as much time as possible here, staying with my great Aunt Edith, my grandfather’s sister, in the old farmhouse out on Cedar Run Road. My young son had baths in the big iron sink after I pumped water from the well and heated it – on the stove I’d built a fire in. I would put on one of my great grandmother’s old house dresses, crank up the Victrola, and dance around the living room…romantically imagining I lived in a simpler time…way back when. Until Aunt Edith became impatient with my immature fantasies and reminded me that we had no trash pick up or mail delivery – and I needed to get my arse in gear. Those errands were not going to do themselves.

I have about a million and thirty stories I could tell that depend on the geography of both places, and all around the Great Lakes. There is nowhere else like Michigan on earth. And while it is great, not all of my childhood was great. I came from a big dysfunctional family that often settled differences with fist fights and spent years stubbornly not speaking to one another, depending on the current offensive issue. This blog is full of many – by no means all, of those stories, from day one, back in 2012. That was when I began to write as though my life depended on it, not knowing how true that was.

The move from Detroit to Traverse City was purposefully to get my child away from my family, and their drug and alcohol-induced violence. To be safe. To start over. It was the naive plan of a young woman suffering from PTSD, not yet aware of her ADHD, her mental and emotional limitations. It didn’t work. Not only did I not escape my own demons, but my family members were inspired by my new life and followed me. Over the course of the next few years they all moved north, too.

We live here now. Now I actually live about 50 miles west of Traverse, near the shore of Lake Michigan. My son grew up here. We have both traveled some; enough to know this is home. But home has come to mean an internal space for me as I age. It’s funny, the name of this blog…a painterly home. I thought it would be about interior design. Little did I know it would be about interior design – as in, my spiritual interior. There are so many more stories to unpack and share. I’m grateful beyond words for this journal and your readership. It continues to save my life on a weekly basis.

Today I am grieving as my sweet familiar, Chewy, is dying. I’m not ready to lose him. Many of you know that I had two elderly dogs I cherished when Chewbacca the cat came to live with us. I was asked if I could please help out a friend and foster him for a couple of months about 8 years ago. What a blessing he has been. He fit right in with the dogs, becoming immediately inseparable from my little beagle, Odie. I’ve written other posts about them, of course (see Sept. 9, 2025, Chew de Monk). I never would have chosen these silly names for these magnificent beings. But they were already displaced and going through enough adjustment to impose any others unnecessarily. For starters, Chewy became known as a catdog. He did not know that he wasn’t a dog. Since we lost Odie in 2020, Chewy has seldom left my side. Like the dogs, he feels it is his duty to be constantly underfoot. He follows me from room to room. He insists on touching while we sleep, just as he did with Odie; he extends one of his back legs and pushes it against my thigh. I will aver that he understands English perfectly. All of it. Only an hour or so ago I mentioned out loud that I would give him a bit more liquid and medicine in the syringe again, hoping he can rally. He begrudgingly pulled himself up and walked the few steps to his water fountain and took the first drink he has had in two or three days.

Yesterday doesn’t count. We spent the day at the emergency clinic while he got IV liquids, a warm enema, pain and diabetes meds, in an attempt to save him. We came home last night exhausted. He has barely moved and still isn’t eating. I haven’t given up. I keep telling him that I won’t ever give up on him, and that if he can pull through this I will do everything in my power to improve the quality of his life. I’ve promised new toys. I also told him that if he is too tired he is free to go. I will miss him every day for the rest of my life, and I will remember daily all the joy he brought. Rejoice at the thought of he and Odie together again. Still in a magnificently beautiful place, with all the loves that I don’t know how to live without.

Sep1

summer camp for adults

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I’ve watched this real estate video more times than I can count. It’s been on YT for over 6 years now, and I return to it every so often, just to get re-inspired.

Deep down inside, don’t we all want to live at “summer camp for adults?” Where the living is slow and easy. I’ve only been to Nantucket once. I instantly felt completely at home, as though I’d always been there. One night waiting to eat dinner at a bar, I met a young woman resident who made her living as a decorative painter. It’s a good thing a table became available quickly – I was just about to ask her for a job…never to return to America, as the locals call the mainland. I could just as easily have stayed and never looked back.

That is where all of my fantasy novels start. As a child the books I wrote (literally, on folded used paper that I sewed together) were all about horses and farms and life at the lake and solving mysteries. But all of the novels I’ve written as an adult still remain in my head. And they all begin with a woman disappearing from her life and beginning anew in a strange place. Like Anne Tyler’s Breathing Lessons, or Silvio Soldoni”s Bread and Tulips, the protagonist woman has become invisible to her family and friends. It’s depicted perfectly in the series The Marlow Murder Club, but this time Becks Starling finds a new life when she discovers a new calling as a sleuth.

New calling or new location, every woman who has ever been responsible to and for anyone else- in other words, every woman – soon discovers that she is invisible to those she cares for. Innocently most of the time, they have slipped into being dependent on her. The more responsibility she handles, the more responsibility they lay at her feet. She becomes the invisible cog that keeps the machine running smoothly. And she begins to fantasize about a different life, one where she is free...

Believe me, I’ve planned my escape to the nth degree. I’d be far less happenstance about it than any fictional character. No one would ever find me. I know myself just well enough to know how to disappear from here and reappear elsewhere unrecognizable.

But here’s a big clue: as far as location is concerned, I’m right at home where I am living now. A small village on the west coast of Michigan is as close to the NE coast of the country as I’m likely to get in this life. And other than those 2 places, I might feel at home in Great Britain or Ireland. Give me vast deep water, a cold, damp climate and pine trees. You can have the rest of the planet.

And to further dispel any mystery about me: my dream life is single and my dream home is shingled. An old Cape with wide pine floorboards. Collections of dishes and colorful artwork. I entertain friends and family at Sunday brunch while the dog and cat sleep on the hearth. As I’ve always been fascinated with architecture and the fine art of interior design, there are inspirational stacks of design books in every room for spontaneous perusal. And I almost forgot – every bathroom has a window, for Heaven’s sake! Who thought it was okay to omit windows from bathrooms?! Same plonker who thinks open floor plans are acceptable for humans, maybe. One more detail: there will always be rock and roll. Okay, that’s it for today. Carry on…

Aug3

one way only

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Success! My rain spell worked. Which is to say, I left my laundry hanging out on the line all night. Never underestimate me.

A beautiful friend came to visit yesterday afternoon. I was a bit verklempt. I almost cancelled, but I really wanted to see her. It’s been too long. The overwhelm was only because it came at the end of an insanely busy week. By insanely busy I mean 2 things: 1) I had at least one activity scheduled every day, and 2) I never got a nap all week. I usually nap every afternoon.

As it happened this past week I had 2 medical appointments scheduled which had been weeks on the calendar, and I had to cancel them for more pressing medical issues which required immediate attention. I also had to cancel lunch with my friend on Tuesday as I couldn’t drive to meet her. She was concerned about me and drove the hour out to my house on Saturday.

My house is very purposely located on a spit of land that elbows out into Lake Michigan, affectionately referred to by locals as The Land of Oz. I say purposely because I moved here precisely because it is a destination of some determination, ie; not on the way to anywhere. Nobody just drops in. I detest dropper-inners.

When I moved out here on this precipice of life and beauty I had to drive to the post office for my mail. They didn’t deliver mail here just outside the village limits. Yes, that was 2018. I had to join with 3 neighbors and petition the post office for mail delivery, clear and level a path next to the road and install mail boxes. We get mail delivery now, but not necessarily daily. They will deliver your mail when they darn well get around to it. It’s a privilege, and don’t you forget it. I do appreciate it. I know they are short staffed, and I appreciate having a local post office. Many villages around here do not.

Friday I received a new deck of tarot cards in the mail, so I opened them after lunch with my friend. We sat on my very long, deep sofa (a.k.a. Mom’s Cosmic Healing Sofa) and shuffled, talking, laughing and kvetching…and we each drew a card, which took our mundane conversation in a deeper direction.

One of my many withdrawals in recent years has been from the practice of reading and channeling professionally. Because, well, people. Most people don’t really want to be challenged to grow, to face their shadow, to look at the habits no longer serving them. They don’t want to sit in the present moment until the tears come. It isn’t comfortable. It is, however, priceless. The tarot is so beautifully designed for exactly this work, and I cannot use it otherwise. I mean, sure, you can use it to access any information you want to know. I can astral travel anywhere and spy on anyone. I won’t. I can psychically answer all your questions. I won’t. Those are parlor tricks. As Geraldine Jones would say, “that is not my job!”

During her visit, we talked about my friend’s daughter-in-law, who has also been living with chronic Lyme disease. She is much younger than I and has suffered far worse for much longer. We spoke about healing, but my compassionate friend asked about how I deal with pain and not being able to function some days. I told her it has been my greatest teacher. When I am ill (sometimes on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m.) I pray. It’s the only help. I pray with each breath. All I say is: “Thank you.”

Thank you for this body. Thank you for this pain in my liver. Thank you for my life. Thank you for my home, for this bed, for this sweet feline companion, for my beautiful son. Thank you for my big, violent, fu#ked up family – and for the fight in them. Thank you for friends, long-standing and patient, brand new and welcoming. Thank you…for the purpose this illness serves though I do not understand it. Thank you.

Thank you…”so that I can have this one way, along with every other way, to know that I am here.”

Jul27

don’t it always seem to go…

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Woke with a song worm this morning. Played several different versions of it while feeding catlips and making coffee; ending with the Queen herself, of course…so often my inspiration. Life changed forever that summer back in 1970. My family and I were traveling on our Chris Craft, as we did much of the summer, and moored in a tiny fishing village in Georgian Bay. The general store had the album displayed, and I bought it for the drawing on the cover, never having heard of the Canadian singer. We’d plug in my portable turntable out on the deck and dance and sing along, until we wore that vinyl scratchy.

My childhood home was always filled with music, often around the clock, until I would burrow my head under the pillow and wish it would stop. Midnight margaritas were real in our house. Your questions were often answered in song lyrics. At the drop of a hat all seven of us (Mom, Dad, me and my 4 siblings) would burst into song in public restaurants and shops with any inspiring prompt. The world was our oyster, and constant muse. There really were no ordinary days. They were all extraordinary. Magical and full of spontaneous adventure, fun, friends, my adoring grandparents, our horses and dogs and cats and bunny rabbits and all kinds of birds and fish…our every whim pretty much addressed instantly.

For the most part I had absolutely no clue what the world – or real life – was like. That’s why the horrific events of the rest of the world were so devastating to me. The war in Vietnam. The riots in the streets of Detroit. The assassination of fine men. I was shocked by human cruelty. And utterly unprepared to face the reality of my family’s personal dysfunction – let alone the country’s. I never will understand it fully in my lifetime. When you have so very much in life, why would anything but wonder and generosity occur?

Jun24

the temple of my belonging

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Well, it’s been Crisis Intervention 101 here again. S’always sumpin, innit? But we’re through it intact and life is calming down. And cooling down, finally. Although we are still at 98% humidity. Normal for Michigan this time of year. As we say here, we only have two seasons – winter and July. July just began a week early. The crowd of tourists are all back in town. So I avoid town. They do serve to remind me to get out and enjoy the beauty around me.

This is the draw, and I’m so close to the shore that I can see the tip-top of a 400′ sand bluff from the bottom of the driveway (above the trees). It’s about 1/4 mile to the lake as the crow flies, or a mile downhill to the beach. I love my views, downhill in 3 directions. I have one immediate neighbor to the north, but this is a weekend summer home for them. Because I don’t have many windows on the north wall, I often realize they’ve been and gone only because they set out their trash bin at the street for Monday morning, and I gladly roll it back up the drive for them. They do many nice things for me, like mowing the back 40. I may struggle financially, but I am wealthy beyond measure surrounded in this beauty.

If I’m honest, it is a constant worry that I no longer seem to have the physical strength or financial means to maintain my home or property. We are both tired and worn. So often I will look at the real estate online to see what I might find that would be easier to grow old in. But every time I become overwhelmed with sadness. I love my home; I just want to take proper care of it. I love where I live. The ashes of my sweet pups are buried in the garden, their final romping place. My elderly kitty is the mighty king of his domain and I’d love him to live out his days here. It’s quiet and peaceful and safe. And the roof has started to leak…

I’ve often wondered why home means so much to me. Other people I know seem far less attached emotionally to the place where they dwell. In my dreams I am frequently in my childhood home on the Detroit River, long expanse of lawn lined with 3-story-high willows swaying in the breeze. Hundreds of peony shrubs perfuming the air, sunrise over the river. In a surreal way I felt somehow more connected to the natural surroundings than the people I lived with. There’s more than a few therapy sessions needed to unpack that realization!

And in hindsight I confess that I stayed far too long in an abusive marriage because I didn’t want to give up my home. Home. It’s really all I have ever longed for…a home of my own. Heaven for beginners.

Mar15

obstacles in mirror may be closer than they appear

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This little reprieve away I went south – literally. I flew from Michigan to Arizona to help a friend make the trek back. As we are in our 70’s now, and our priorities have changed, she was moving from Tucson back to Traverse City to live close to children, grandchildren, and friends. To lend support and be supported; that’s what it’s about now that we are aging.

We finished up the last little bit of packing, and once the movers had the house cleaned out, she and I left to drive back to Michigan in her car. We left Arizona in a blizzard, which seems perfectly appropriate. Why wouldn’t we drive through the steep mountain passes of Salt River Canyon in a blizzard? Because as we know, WWASOS (white women ain’t scared of shit.)

She was driving. We had a hotel reservation and a deadline. We got through the mountain blizzard and both said, “well, that wasn’t bad.” The next morning I overheard two older truck drivers in the hotel lobby talking about that drive being the scariest thing they’ve ever done. We were in Gallup, New Mexico, headed to Santa Fe, and were informed by the hotel that our highway east was closed temporarily due to a semi pileup. The roads were icy and it was snowing. So we lingered over breakfast before taking off, and that drive was a breeze.

We were reminded what a spectacular country this is. Wow, it is beautiful. Very inspiring. My dear friend treated us to lovely hotels and meals. We drew tarot cards and we cried a little and laughed a lot – and solved all the world’s problems you’ll be glad to know. Only a little witchcraft was involved…some reiki, some prayers (aka spells), and a good deal of coffee…

And I am home, my favorite place to be in the entire world. I am once again reminded of how addicted I am to my routine, my creature comforts close at hand (not at the bottom of a bag) and how I do so love the trees and the birds and the lush rolling hills of Michigan. The topography is soft and undulating here, like me. This is my land.

Nov13

winner winner

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Okay. I’m like the Terminator – I’m ba-aaack…I won’t pull any punches here; the election results catapulted me into an even deeper depression than the gradual slide I had been in. A couple of people suggested that I seemed “kinda bummed.” I’m sure they will recover from my reaction. Let me be clear: I am not bummed. I’m devastated. Absolutely gutted. It’s not just the business of politics – it’s personal.

And I’ll get into some of the details of the day to day hell of the past week with you, but first, let me begin with the healing. Because I have not been able to sleep – or breathe well – I called my doctor yesterday. I decided, a bit late, that I need to go back on an antidepressant. Obviously I am struggling to cope with assholes. That’s what antidepressants are for. She offered me a prescription for a sleeping medication and I declined. They are all habit forming. I have habits. I have bad habits in fact. But I do not knowingly engage in new bad habits. I have enough old ones, thank you.

I have fond memories of my father patiently teaching me to play solitaire at a young age. I still play on my laptop or phone when I’m waiting somewhere, or sometimes even when I’m anxious. It relaxes me. Because I’ve been playing all my life, I rarely lose. Now there are many apps available to win money playing online. I struggle financially, so maybe I should consider playing solitaire for money. It’s not gonna happen. That’s called gambling. And gambling is a known addictive behavior. I have an addictive personality. I am never going to willingly engage in any addictive behavior. That’s called self care.

When I talk about self care (let’s do) I do not mean that I switch from coffee to herbal tea after noon (although I usually do that, too.) I mean that I do not engage in any behavior that risks my optimal health.

Some of you know that I was a roller skater until my forties. Not the kind you clip to your shoes we had as children, but the kind you invest real money in to have custom made. The kind Michael Jackson flew into Detroit to learn dance moves from. And yes, I was a token white person in that sport. I skated with Anita Baker at Detroit Roller Wheels before she had a recording contract. I have maintained since high school that it would have been an Olympic sport had it not been a black sport…but I digress.

When I do enjoy the bliss of deep, restorative sleep, I am often roller skating in my dreams. My heaven is paved with smooth wooden streets. I can’t begin to describe the freedom of being able to dance on skates, the sense of flying when you’re moving fast. The sense of floating when you’re moving slow. The trust of moving through air with your eyes closed being led through a dance. There were enough rinks in the Detroit metro area that you could drive from one adult dance session to another and skate continuously for hours any day of the week. And I did. It was my drug of choice. I also knew I could take my skates and travel alone anywhere in the country and meet other healthy-minded sober individuals (you can’t skate drunk) that I could feel safe with.

But once I had moved to northern rural Michigan I had to give up skating. There are no rinks nearby. I haven’t skated in almost 30 years. Would I try it now? Hell no. I used to love horseback riding. Probably not going to do that again this lifetime…never say never, as they say. I can say with certainty that I am never going bungee jumping. You get the idea.

So why in the name of self care would I vote for a fascist? Anyway, here we are. As it happens I didn’t really have much energy to deal with my reaction to that mess. That is going to take time and enormous discipline to sort through. My cat is hanging onto life by a thread at the moment. And my precious only child is in crisis with his alcoholism. It would be difficult enough to deal with were he not also living in my house. So now I’m dealing with an energy intruder who cannot seem to control his own behavior and is making my life crazy. Kicking him out means he has no safe place to stay. He becomes homeless. He’s broke. He is sick and not strong enough to work consistently. It has to be faced, and yes, I am strong enough to do it. Sadly, I’ve had ongoing experience with this all of my adult life with most of my family members. It is heartbreaking, which is the real reason I called the doctor yesterday. I was afraid I might be having a heart attack. It was anxiety. While I would give my life for my son, I won’t make a single compromise for his demons.

And so I have begun to work the 12 step program again. I have found an online Al-anon group so that I can attend meetings. I will get a sponsor, I will continue to meet weekly with a therapist. I will be diligent with self care.

This is the first morning in a couple weeks that I have woke without panic. My breathing is under control. I managed to get some sleep. I’m not shaking. The sense of dread is not completely gone, but I feel it dissipating. And now my inner warrior kicks in. Jesus, I can be a raving bitch. I’ve had to be, and I’m as good as it as I am at playing solitaire. But the only alternative to being her is to be more protective of my personal space moving forward, a lesson I could have sworn I had learned. But here we are.

Dec15

The Perpetual Arranger

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“…you are the perpetual arranger,” said a childhood friend one day many years ago. It is true that I am constantly changing the furniture layout, the menagerie of items, the plants indoors and out, the accoutrement of life. C’mon – you do it, too, whether you are conscious of it or not. We are the curators of our own space. It is a thankless struggle when we are raising children, but it is innate. Now in my later years it is an act of pure delight. Don’t put that there! That goes over here…see?!

My darling mother used to say, “I’m just rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” How many times I’d been astonished and befuddled by how she managed a big house full of five children (six if you count my father, who certainly qualified.) We would laugh, but I always had the same reply: “It matters, Mom. The arrangement of the deck chairs matter as long as we’re standing here on deck.”

A friend recently confided that her mother thinks her house is cluttered. I’ve been told that about my homes since my early 20’s. But let me tell you something about my friend’s house. The house itself is beautiful, but there is a less apparent component: I walk in and I FEEL an energy shift. She arranges her home with INTENTION. Like myself, she believes her home is her sanctuary; a living altar. I’ve already asked her if I may come film a short video for the blog after the holidays. I’d like to investigate this process with several people whose homes I admire for different reasons.

In design terms, we are maximalists. I am just as disheveled by clutter as anyone, but clutter is not useful nor attractive. And there are ways to live with the belongings you love without them becoming visual clutter. There are specific ways to do that, and we will explore those here in the coming weeks.

The internet is – pardon me – cluttered – with videos about clutter. Believe me, I’ve watched them discerningly. I’ve read the books (glad to share my favorite) and yes, clutter is a symptom of PTSD. It is both indicative of and perpetuates mental unrest. But most of the approaches I have found fall short of long term solutions; they address the symptom rather than the cause. Have we not learned better yet? We’re seeing the manifestation of this in our health care system. Yes, recognizing a problem is the beginning of finding a cure. We’ve got this.

I love my stuff. I love my home. AND, I love my health, mentally and physically. Health is a lifelong goal I will not compromise (shall we talk boundaries here yet?!) The goal is also beauty, inside and out. Health and beauty are two sides of the same coin. Beauty is a sacred affirmation to our spirit, to God, that we are thankful for the grace in our lives. We are paying attention. We are outgrowing survival mode. We are committed to life. Can I get a witness?!

But beauty is entirely personal. AND, I insist – NOT based on economics. You can live a beautiful life in a beautiful place with or without money. Stick with me and I’ll prove it. (I’ve made some pretty cool decorations out of the plastic netting the onions came in.)

What are your seven favorite things at home?

“Nothing is interesting unless it is personal.” – Billy Baldwin

Dec10

SHE LET GO

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Good Sunday Morning. Let’s have church, shall we? How sacred is this precious life we are sharing on this precious planet? One of my former husbands (don’t judge) used to say, “life is not for the faint of heart…” Can I get an Amen?!

Only recently back to this form of expression, I want to share with you, my revered friends, who have patiently stuck it out with me through years of grief – and anger (phew!) – and, more importantly, humor and insights and love. Just love. We always come back around to opening our hearts. It’s a PRACTICE. It’s a practice of letting go. Of learning to shed our conditioned defenses, of healing.

Turns out healing is a lifelong process (who knew?) and I’m so grateful to have lived to almost seventy now; to find out that I am never going to figure this all out. It’s not figure-out-able. It wasn’t meant to be. As I’ve said since my 20’s, “on the road to enlightenment, I’m taking the local.”

“Now I become myself. It’s taken time, many years and places…” – May Sarton

“Anything I have ever let go of has claw marks.” – unk

SHE LET GO by Safire Rose

Without a thought or a word, she let go. She let go of the fear, she let go of the judgements. She let go of the opinions swarming around in her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go…

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was and it is just that. In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forever more.