Lost: All Semblance of a Sense of Humor. Reward, if Found: Air Fryer Food and No Questions Asked.

Warning: If you’ve ever referred to the Spring of 2020 as the darkest of times or the workers at the Urgent Care as first responders, you really just shouldn’t read further. Save yourself the 3 minutes. We all have opinions based on our own minds, experiences, and knowledge (though knowledge is harder to come by, what with the twists and turns of information). It’s never been easier to just move on. We don’t even have to disagree anymore, we can just erase! What a wonderful world, right?

——-

I don’t feel funny anymore. Not that I was ever hilarious or stand-up comedian level humorous, but I could usually make people laugh, or at least make one of those little noises like something’s stuck in a nostril, most of the time. I’m just not funny anymore. I wonder if it’s a phase, like post-single motherhood was or the ‘pause that I can’t use “was” for, because as soon as I do, it’ll slap me around again. (Fool me twelve times, ‘pause, shame on you.) This has nothing to do with the CV. My search for my own funny has gone back some years now. I’ve also noticed that things I used to think were hilarious and loved to make fun of, like The Bachelor, now just get my dander up. Have I changed? Have they changed? Both, I know.

The CV hasn’t changed my lifestyle that much. I’ve worked, not worked, and worked part-time from home for a couple of years now. I haven’t enjoyed my Raytheon-esque neighbors spending their stimulus bonanzas on home improvement projects, but I get it. Before the shutdown, I was in the camp of skepticism, but now I’m just in the camp of utter defeat. “They” have proven what they can do to us. I won’t say what we allow them to do to us, because we’ve always been a police state (ask the indigenous folk) and most of us are just too pretty for jail. 95% (I’m making up numbers now; it IS the thing to do in 2020!) of us are middle class and working poor, just trying to get through the day without it ending in financial disaster. We’re all scared, panicked, tired, on edge, and pissed off. All that gets so misdirected, but the steam has to escape somewhere. They know all this and depend on it. And frankly, they just couldn’t care less. Not that Nancy Pelosi is the end all and be all of the evil that is this world now, but her filming a CV segment on the James Corden At-Home show about her million-dollar commercial kitchen and favorite $25 ice cream cone and not giving a flying fuck about what you think is just the epitome of what’s wrong.

See? Goddamn Covid. At this point, I don’t know if I’d know my funny if it came up and shook my hand. Not that it can do that, it’s against the orders. Whatever that means, my fuhrers. My conclusions about everything now are either sell the panic, sell the pill or follow the money. Seriously, try it; if one doesn’t fit, the other will. All that blowfishing to say that The CV is just the latest. Remember when the extremists in Afghanistan attacked us and we bombed Iraq? The majority of us stood by that until we couldn’t anymore, mostly because we were repeatedly told the right way to think about it. Don’t feel the right way? Shame on you. Every administration since the beginning of the country has had its evils, of course. Every single one. And every year has passed with a little more us vs. them, but the wins keep getting bigger and bigger. Or so it feels, anyway. There’s an expression about good men doing nothing and evil. We just need one good man or woman to start the revolution. But they’re too busy just trying to get through the day.

See? Still not funny.

I went to the store this morning. I used to set my alarm to shop at 6am no matter where I lived, just to avoid people. I can’t do that anymore, because hours have changed and people are everywhere by the opening bell. This morning, I saw a pregnant woman in her mid-thirties, with two kids of elementary school age. They were all wearing masks. Don’t get me started on the mask issue. Bicyclists, walkers, people driving in their cars wearing masks in a holier-than-thou, I care about people and you don’t glare from the top of their Bugs Bunny print. How can there be this many stupid people? Anyway, she yelled at her eldest because he wasn’t moving fast enough to get her a scooter from the scooter corral. Once he panicked and was able to get his mom a scooter, the three of them stopped at the entrance so she could FaceTime her husband about the boy’s behavior. Screamed at him, too. “I HAD TO YELL AT YOUR SON FOUR TIMES TO GET MY SCOOTER.” I’m really trying to make a conscious effort to realize we’re all walking, or scootering, wounded. Maybe her husband is a lazy dickweed who sits at home while she takes the kids and her belly to the store to buy him Milk Duds. It’s 7am and maybe she’s already worn down. But apparently, my compassion is hiding out with my funny, because I really just wanted to grab her phone and find a YouTube video that would teach me how to tie her fucking tubes right there by the avocado bin. And FaceTime it.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to another store I had never been to. They had lectures streaming over the PA system about how to sneeze into a tissue and throw it away. How to wash your hands. How to not touch your face. For the love of God, the audience can’t be saved, dude.

Obviously, I’ve been busy. Eating. Really, my only ventures out of the house have been to search for food. Or to have wrecks. I remember years ago, seeing an elderly woman standing by her car that was straddling a median curb and thinking how the hell could that even happen to a person. Now I know. In April, it happened to me. (How’s that for not taking responsibility?) Really, though, it was all my fault. Well, me and The Covid. I was using one of those alcohol wipes some restaurants (eating theme again) give you to wipe your hands after you eat (imagine? hygiene? and no loud-speaker instructions telling me not to use while driving? how could I know better?) to clean my steering wheel. Yes, while I was driving. I think my reflexes must be preoccupied, because I wiped left and my car went real left and ended up on a median. Wrecked the entire left side of my car. Twenty six hundred and thirteen dollars and forty seven cents. Goddamn Covid.

The real tragedy of The CV is that there are even less reasons to leave the house than normal for me, resulting in even more braless hours inside the house and heat rashes due to boobs of a certain age. Speaking of heat, I got an air fryer. (Eating.) Believe the hype. I’ve made chicken wings I think I could sell in a restaurant. Or better yet, a food truck. It’s really not safe for others to be around me until my funny comes home.

I’ve been learning some new things about astrology and studying how the nodes affect us. We just exited 18 months of the North Node in Cancer, which felt like the purge for this Cancer. I felt like I was constantly defending or trying to explain myself. But I ended the shift standing up for myself and speaking my truth and just getting rid of the things that don’t serve, as they say. I think I’ve gained twenty pounds in that process even before The CV nonsense, but that’s okay, because now we’re in the North Node in Gemini, May 6, 2020 – January 18, 2022, when the shit will probably hit the fan anyway. I’ve read that we’re to think of what happened in our lives between  Dec 14, 1945 – Aug 2, 1947, Aug 26, 1964 – Feb 19, 1966, Mar 17, 1983 – Sep 11, 1984, and Oct 14, 2001 – Apr 14, 2003 for a glimpse into what could be in store. If so, I’m in big trouble. These were major growth spurts for me, trajectories toward independence and a new ferocity, but oh, the fear. I can’t live in that kind of fear again. I just hope I’m calmer now, more responsible for myself and less responsible for anyone else, but I admit that I’m concerned just looking at those dates. Luckily, I’m going to make crab rangoon in the air fryer this afternoon. They’ll calm my nerves.

We’ve had beautiful weather here in Tucson this spring. The snowbirds have been stuck here due to The CV, but they’re leaving as we speak, thank God. I always look forward to the summer solstice here, because it means that the steady climb to the longest day is over, and days will start to shorten, monsoons will come, and another fall and winter are soon to follow.

Oh! Unrelated. Did you know that May is the month of prosperity. It’s to do with the number 5, apparently. So, on the New Moon in April, I’ve been doing daily ritualizing and visualizing and meditating and acting as if around prosperity manifestations. Getting specific with my Universal requests. I know what I want, I do. I’m a pretty good mainfester (is that a word? If George W can say decider, I can say manifester), if I do say so myself, but for me, I’ve learned that the keys are to 1) be specific, and 2) just know. So, I’ve been consistent and specific – devoted to my monetary cause. And do you know what happened? The company I’m working for forgot to pay me this month. Maybe I’ll make turnovers in the air fryer, too.

I’ve since been paid, I’ve eaten my crab rangoon, I’ve had a lovely visit from my Spawn - he brought the funny with a lotta laughs making fun of Bob, the every Tucson bike rider click-clacking around Safeway in his cleats and Spandex shorts, junk way too close to the lettuce heads, picking up a ready made sprout salad to eat at the store cafe where he’ll wait for Jim, then they’ll saddle up and head to the micro-brewery for a half-pint (full-pint is just a little too much), and it’s just been a perfectly sweet day. I’m on a mission to find my funny, though. I don’t even know where to look anymore. Everything feels so serious, which is ludicrous considering I only have so many good years left on this planet. Why can’t I lighten up? And just like that, we’re back to the eating theme again.

Anyhoo, if you run across my funny, please tell it I miss it and that nothing makes sense since it’s been gone and I wish it would come home and I got an air fryer.

I Did That, So This is Nothing

I tend to catastrophize. I call it going to the dark side, and I do it at mach speeds. If it rains, I expect a flood. If I hear a new noise in the house, I know it will explode. Things like that. I don’t want to do it, I don’t like that I do it, but it's just part of who I am. I don’t know if it’s innate or learned. I’m pretty sure it’s learned, this distrust, but I also know I’m a born realist. As I age and get a little more fed up with each passing day, I see my line between realism and pessimism getting fuzzier. Could be old eyes, though. (Optimistic?)

Words cannot express how much gratitude I feel about my new freelance gig. I took a year off from technical writing and am actually enjoying it again. I have always known that it suits me – this organizing other people’s words, this doing what nobody else wants to do, this fitting together of techie puzzle pieces – but this job came at a time when so many people have been laid off and is remote and 30 hours a week and just grand. The first two weeks started like that 8 seconds in bull riding – just GO and hang the hell on – but then last week, my third week, felt like the bull was over it and just sat down for me to get off. Of course, I just knew the project was over. On hold. Virus, you know. We’ll call you when we pick back up (which never happens). For two days, I was so sad. I’m typically fine in this job hand I’ve been dealt – always looking for my next contract, gig, job (I’ve recently learned that this suits me well, too), but this opportunity was just too good not to grieve for. The Program Manager scheduled a catch-up call, and I steeled myself for the news. But it was all fine. She had been busy on another project and thought she was a bottleneck, so we reworked the pipeline process and all was good again. It was never not good, but I took it there.

One thing I do now when I feel like things are hitting bottom, like I just can’t rise to the occasion again, I think back to two times in my life that never fail to turn my funk into “This is nothing. I did that”.

First is the memory of a particular, but typical, weeknight after The Devil Neighbors moved in and destroyed my lovely little home life in 2013. They moved in, but they lived outside. Homes were older and close together, and their driveway, where they liked to hang out, was the distance of a ruler from the side of my house. This night’s picture: the meth-addled mother holding her newborn, playing basketball, and talking on the phone, two relatively small children dancing in the driveway to music blaring from the detached garage that the father had converted into an outdoor funhouse, the father and another man playing pool and very much enjoying some sort of game on the mounted television in said garage– and all this? At 1:30 AM. The father posted this picture to his Facebook page when they went to the park for a picnic one day. (I kept an eye online for any party announcements, but every day was a party, really.) I had a full year of this, but for some reason, this one particular Tuesday night stands out as my rock bottom.

And second is the memory of the Halloween 2014 week I spent in a 9,000-year-old, Reynoldsburg, Ohio, LaQuinta Inn with nothing but my purse, my phone, and what I had on (which did not include a coat). I was asked to vacate the house I had shared with a human - I use the term loosely - at about 8 o’clock one night, and by ask I mean, “Get the fuck out”. My mother had done something similar to me when I was five, so I’ve always been a “leaver”. I must leave first, don’t ask me twice, I couldn’t care less, good riddance, you’re not the boss of me, etc. So, rather than wait around for the 2-day cooldown, I left. Childish, but I was a little mixed up at the time for reasons I would understand later. This picture: sitting in my car on a 40-degree day, steeling myself to walk across the Walmart parking lot in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers to start my new life from a motel.

Those two images come swiftly now, and now, I’m grateful for both. They have given me a courage of sorts. A new level of self-reliance, of confidence. And even a laissez-faire. I still feel all the feels of defeat and dark sides, but I rally, because I know: I did that. This is nothing.

It has, however, had a darker side, too. The yin and yang, eh? Rock bottom moments affect one’s ability to find joy. I have zero motivation to connect, to try, to experience, to explore, to see. I often put my trust in good things ending horribly. I read a sweet book called Sarah, written by a lovely friend, Dannie Woodard. Sarah lost her husband back in the homestead and prairie days and had no choice but to return with her young son to the city, to her parents’ home, to begin anew. She thought she’d try to make a living from her sewing. Dannie wrote, “She had no more dreams, but she had a goal.” I also read this online recently: The currents of time have altered the path that lays before you. The ripples on the waters still move along the wind oblivious to the turmoil left in its wake. No longer will this path take you to the dreams you once thought would be yours.

I do still have a dream, but I’m old enough now to know it’s just that. I definitely have a goal or two or twenty. The paths have definitely changed and will continue to change for all of us, because we change. I want to remember how lucky I am to have had rock bottom moments that have given me inner security and strength, and that goals are enough, and that paths are negotiable and often liquid, and that I did that so this is nothing. I want to remember how to just have a nice day.

March 17, 2020

And another month has come and gone. I cannot believe it’s been almost 30 days since I took my little day trip to the Tohono O’odham Cultural Center and wrote here. No wonder I felt due for another excursion. I drove to Cascabel, Arizona, a ghost town in neighboring Cochise County. Wildflowers. Dirt roads. Solitude. A Tucson friend takes stunning pictures of things and turns them into notecards and the like. He brought me a sampling to rifle through and pick what I wanted. I was smitten by a picture of a majestic eucalyptus tree shading a dirt and empty road. He had taken the shot in Cascabel on a trip to nowhere (like-minded people), so I retraced his steps. Come to find out, a fight for the land around the area has been brewing for six years now and is set to be settled this year. Developers. Humans. We’re just horrible people.

Nature and only nature always helps me. A Library Associate at a community college in New Mexico? I didn’t get the job. A digital content associate at a monastery outside Portland, Oregon? I didn’t get the job. An Adult Education Administrator for the Pascua Yaqui tribe? I didn’t get the job. An Associate at an Essential Oil Aromatherapy shop here in Tucson? I didn’t get the job. An Assistant to the President at the Tohono O’odham Community College? I didn’t get the job. A Program Administrator at my beloved Oldenburg Franciscan Retreat Center? I didn’t get the job.

But I’m recognizing what excites me (excite is too strong a word, for now), and I’m trying. I’m also throwing my resume in the ring for other things, the more practical and sensible things, so there’s that, too. My Desert House of Prayer part-time work is coming to a close because Father Tom is leaving at the end of this retreat year (June). I have been very sad about this, but it’s been a year of unfortunate changes, and I won’t work there without him. So it’s official; there’s been a purge. The path is still unclear, and I’m on it alone. But Aries season is coming, so I do have hope. I mean, Amazon and Safeway are hiring. If there’s anybody who could enjoy turning the green bean labels to face the same way, it’s me!

I am already thinking of this time between as a blessing. I’m a smidge less angry, less suspicious, and less anticipatory of unacceptable things. I’ve created only a little, but my thoughts about creating have been a lot. I posted my first online video (Instagram @postsinglemotherhood), and I’m about to submit another one to PBS’ American Portrait. I’ve organized my unfinished ramblings into one short story collection - and I do use the term loosely – and have started digging into the one that’s haunted me the most. We’ll see. I don’t want to look back on this time as ungratefully unproductive, even though I know I will.

I’ve heard from folks that what I’m experiencing isn’t unique. Things are changing, yet they’re unclear. Someone reminded me that the Universe always lights the path eventually. I can’t imagine what my path will be, but I hope it will support my 2020 Word of the Year: Freedom. I’m not sure what that looks like either, but I think the Universe does. For now, I can watch the sun set on the mountains from my window and as day becomes dark, I can see the little flickers of city lights for miles around me, as well as the even tinier flickers of headlights as the cars drive down the mountain road after watching the sun set from the top. A few years back, I proclaimed that all I wanted was a little adobe house at the end of a dirt road to live out my days, and that’s where I am. I am so lucky and so grateful for this rest. The desert, despite its professional prickliness, has truly spoken to my heart. Maybe, I’m just learning how to truly listen?

February 20, 2020

Disclaimer: I’ve written once here each year for the last few, and this is my first attempt at any quantifiable personal writing in over a year, so you may encounter rogue sentence structure and punctuation. And ramblings.

I watch YouTube videos about things. Astrological and metaphysical things, mostly. I’m fascinated by it all, and I like the learning and the company of it. Thus far in 2020, I’ve noticed a recurring theme: This is a period of gathering information and having no idea what to do with it, of requesting clarity about it, of finding some footing. (It’s like a cruel joke. I mean 2020. Vision. Clear. Have we all been misled?)

On February 20th, I got a calendar notification on my phone reminding me that I drove to Tucson on February 20, 2017. I forget that time sometimes, and I shouldn’t. I took a risk – I can count on one hand the big risks I’ve taken in life, which will probably be a life’s regret on my death bed – and had nothing but hope and a knowing that got me in the car.

But three years later, I have neither. I’d take a risk again if I had one in mind, but I don’t. I typically chalk my chaotic thoughts and feelings up to being at a difficult age (edging out of the middle of the fifties, for the love of God), but this feels heavier, more important, like I’m in some critical place in life and have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

I’ve read some things that make me think I have company, so I think this might be a Universal energy issue. Fine, whatever, I’m glad for the company, but back to me. Am I just in-between? I’ve lately thought more about the new year being March 21st, spring solstice and the astrological new year, rather than January 1st, so perhaps this time is as it should be. Of course it is.

I think back to a year ago. February 2019. I was between projects, as I’ve liked to say when I was a full-time contract Tech Writer. Frankly, I was just unemployed. And I needed a break from the work I’d done in one way or another since 2002. I had no idea what I wanted to do during my days, but I knew that it had to be different. By June 2019, I got my wish. Different. I went in like barefoot girl I used to be on the first day of summer vacation. By January 2020, I had quit three jobs. One after two weeks, another after four months, and the last after two months.

I’ve never quit a job without another job in my pocket. Never. But I’d also never felt worse about myself, so I just couldn’t get out of the bed. I don’t yet know the lesson I am to learn from those experiences, but I imagine it’s what I’m supposed to be reflecting on now. I don’t entirely understand karma, but I think this has something to do with that. We shall see.

I want to work. In fact, I am working part-time at the Desert House, but I need a little more than that. I would feel more useful. I just need to know what I’m supposed to be used for. I apply to things and get no response. (Believe me when I say that no response sticks more than a no thank you.) I’m paying my bills for now. I officially know how little I can live on. I know now that I don’t have to earn the right to be on the planet. I don’t have to earn my keep every minute of every day. I’m worth more dead than alive anyway, and I’m not confident that will change in the twenty good years I might have left.

Anyway, a friend I met at a creativity workshop in Boulder in 2011 contacted me out of the blue (to some extent – it seems that when you’re connected on social media, nothing feels completely out of the blue anymore) to give me some bad news about a mutual friend a few weeks ago. We’ve talked every week since, as it seems we have similar concerns about life. Last week, I told her that I was planning to drive to Sells, Arizona, to the Tohono O’odham Cultural Center.

I told her that when I moved here, I was in the midst of a class in Federal Law and Indian Policy. I had become interested in Native American history in the years prior and I had hopes of doing something with that interest after settling in. I didn’t. Life. Work. Work. Work. Driving. Driving. Driving. (Tucson has a lot of great qualities, but there are just no options on the critically congested roads.) So three years later, I wanted to drive a native road to nowhere and everywhere for a possible change in perspective. She told me she sensed some…not jazz, we don’t use that word…twitches around the time of death.

Baboquivari Peak, where the Creator and Center of the TO Universe lives.

So, I took my journal, my charoite, my Nova essential oil, and my pink agate, I set the Corolla’s sail to Topawa, and four things happened:

1.  I stopped at every station in the museum and made notes at the Man in the Maze (I’itoi Ki). I’ve had this symbol on my altar table for years, but it meant more this time. “The complicated and difficult way a person must walk to find happiness and peace at the center”. The center can mean one’s death, but it can also mean one’s soul.

2.  I talked to two TO natives who couldn’t be happier people. I was the only car in the parking lot, save one van that had more than a few pieces held together with wire. They carpooled. He was in charge of grounds maintenance, and she was at the front desk, but sometimes, they giggled, “We switch”. They told stories and laughed the entire time I was there.

3.  I turned both coming and going onto Indian 35, an empty reservation road with a perfect view of Kitts Peak Observatory (link). Horses and cattle roamed free. I had yet to see another car when I got to the six-mile marker, and I was in heaven. I turned off my car, got my little beach chair from the trunk, sat in the middle of that road, and made more notes, mostly about, “How the hell do I get this?” I’d still be out there if it weren’t for the torrid relationship between my skin and desert sun.

4. And the fourth thing? I came back home and after a day catching up on things at my part-time job, I updated my website’s mechanics, started a new short story collection (I have so many unfinished projects that aren’t novels, I mean really, me a novelist, there’s just no way), and wrote this post.

I have to deal with all my feelings being fleeting . *See chaotic talk above. And yet, I feel happier and more at peace today than I have since those first months in Tucson. I think I forgot the why. The how escapes me, but I don’t think we’re supposed to ask about that anyway. We’re just supposed to take steps, knowing they’re directed. This is hard. Steps with no direction? That’s nutty.

One You Tuber I particularly like thought a whole lot about February 20, 2020. It would be a significant day, he said, as a sign or message from the Spirit world would come through that day and would mean everything to us, that would set us free in some way. We just needed to listen. To be open, be quiet, be still. So what if my February 20, 2020 happened on the 19th (I’m ahead of my time?). I believe close counts in horseshoes and magic.

But remember…fleeting. Expectations are at an all time low. Plus I’m currently in the throes of an addiction to Homicide Hunter on the Hulu.

No. Thank you. No.

For the past few years, I have been working on my NO. And I’ve learned that, in reality, I’ve been working on this my entire life. I’ve always struggled to say no to things. I don’t know if this is a byproduct of being raised in the ‘60s and ‘70s (even Nancy Reagan’s Just Say No campaign had no effect) or if it’s just something with which a lot of us struggle. Probably the latter; I’ve learned I am rarely alone in matters such as these. For me, it’s in my father’s voice, “If you’re asked to dance, by god, you better dance”.

As a child, I always felt like my parents were doing me a favor by letting me live with them. (Adopted and a few other things.) So, if someone asked me for something or invited me to something, they were also doing me a favor, and saying no would imply that I was somebody. Who do you think you are? Who are you to turn that down? Nobody else will ever ask you, you know.

As an adult and then single mom, I worked as a contractor for a lot of those years and never turned down an inquiry call, a job interview, or a job offer. I always took the call, even when contracting became chock full of phone scammers. They were calling me, so who was I to not answer. This was mostly out of necessity, of course, but it was also because I felt like it was the wrong message to put out there. If I said no, I could potentially never be asked again. Fear. Lack. Insecurity. Less than. Unworthiness. You know, the usual. The things most of us spend lifetimes trying to overcome.

So, I have to tell my writer self (the only person who will see this these days – I really need to do something about that this year!) about my week. To honor it, to be grateful for it, to learn from it, and, most importantly, remember it.

Tuesday, I walked out of my job. Quietly. No fanfare. Put my badge on my desk, looked around the open workspace room just to make sure, picked up my purse, and walked out. Down the stairs, through the lobby, across the parking lot, into my car - I felt nothing but calm. A few times I heard the speech in my head start, “Who do you think…”, but it was drowned out by the steadier, “Nooooo”. There were many things wrong with this job (including being humiliated for two weeks), but really the reason boiled down to one thing: I said yes AGAIN, when I should’ve said no.

Wednesday, I spent doing things on my creative projects list. I felt unstuck. I wrote two things, sent an inquiry I’d meant to send for months, arranged a creative coffee date with someone I met at a recent workshop, signed up for a new workshop, and had a revelation of sorts about how to weave together some things I’ve worked on.

Thursday, I went to my part-time job at the Desert House, where I was asked to work on a new website in June and July. Whaaa? I love creating websites. It takes me back to my pink bedroom as a girl, where I’d draw and arrange little cities on poster boards and use my brother’s army men and hot wheels to create small town days and stories. Not to mention that this website project would be juuuussst enough money to pay my bills for the months.

While I was in the kitchen filling my cup with ice and before heading to my library office, two large and fully red (we get the gray with redhead kind mostly) cardinals landed on the birdbath outside the window. Silent oohs and ahhs. Typically, they’re shy, Sister Deb whispered. Someone’s clearly trying to tell us something, I responded. Messages. (I believe it was my mom and dad, together again finally, just the two of them before they thought they wanted kids, and back in love. I like to think they had a long talk with each other about how things turned out, and that they’re cool with all the reasons we let each other go. If I have to throw science on this moment, I think the red ones are only males, but whatevah.)

Then Friday, while running an errand, I got the call I had been hoping for all month. The pieces aren’t together yet, but I know. I feel like I did when I came to Tucson in 2017. I got in my car and just drove. There was no doubt in my mind at the time about what I was doing. And there’s no doubt now.

See, I have been trying to get out of the tech writing business for years. It’s a job I’ve done for 17 years, and it served me and my son so well. I’m so grateful for it, and so grateful that I was able to do it and was good at it. But working as a contractor and in the corporate world isn’t me anymore. It’s not what I wanted or envisioned when I moved to the desert. I’m not unique, I know. As all of us age, we want something new, something purposeful, something that means something to us. This year, though, for me has felt more serious. Almost crisis level. Like I’d rather work at Walmart or any drive-thru (and I am NOT good with the unwashed masses). Like if I had sharp, expensive knives in the house, my Sunday nights might end a little differently and a lot messier.

A few months ago, I received some resume advice that I thought had finally worked: Publish two. Spotlight retreat center work in one and use it to apply to new things. Spotlight technical writing work in the other and apply to the usual, just in case. (That just in case bit? I guess it made me feel better, I don’t know.)

In late April, I had an appointment to speak to a career counselor, but when I arrived, she wasn’t in the office. The young lady at the front desk and I talked for, at most, five minutes about life and work and looking for work and wanting something new, etc. She said, “Hang on. I saw something the other day. I’ll print it out for you.” And she did. And the angels sang. I heard ‘em, really I did. I came home, perused the organization’s website for a bit, wrote a half-professional, half-personal cover letter, like I did when moving to Tucson, attached my new retreat center resume, said a little prayer, and pushed SEND on the email. Two days later, I was asked to interview, and the following week, we met and the word “offer” was used. But there would be a process, of course. And in the meantime, I got the offer for the evil job that I, of course, felt like I had to take. Asked to dance, after all.

Saturday, I bought a new mattress. And no, I do not have a job. I also cleaned out the “save boxes” under my bed of all the things I can better picture in my head. I donated some clothes and closet what-nots. I outgrew. I made room. For empty space. Blank slate. The white page. Last week, I drew the Death card from my tarot deck. This week, it was the Nine of Cups. Any more connected and I’ll be dead.

And today, Sunday, I’m writing this. As practice for more to come, I hope. It’s who I am, and I’m feeling a lot more like me now, a lot more like the me, now. Me. Now. Unstuck.

If we all do put ink to this deal, I will seal it with my own dragonfly ink and buy cards and gift cards for the two women at the career counseling office. How that one knew me after five minutes, why I never. I will write more about what I get to do. I’ll be broke, but I think I’ll be happy. Frankly, I’ve always been broke, just with a few more “things”.

I hope this gives me an opportunity to be more compassionate and connected, to remember how much I like learning about the individual, rather than judging the collective. I want to be nicer, to think more, to consider more, to feel more.

If this doesn’t come to pass, will I say yes to something else that isn’t mine? No, I say. NO. I’ll be that annoying voice you hear as soon as the door slides open: Welcome to Walgreens! Until what is mine comes along. But I will not be a technical writer again. No.

...hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things...

This post was posted in 2017 to another now retired site that was about spiritual retreats, places, and tools, but I’m bringing it here to my personal site, because I am in a 2020 period of complete unknown (wouldn’t you think this year would be about perfect vision already?), I thought i might need to paint a picture for myself. I’m writing and organizing and posting just for me, so if someone sees this who has seen it before, just ignore it.

The Temple of Janus in Autun, Saône-et-Loire, France.

About a month after I started working at the new job in Tucson last year, a buddy called to tell me how proud of me he was. He likened me to Andy in the Shawshank Redemption, and I didn’t mind that at all. Honestly, it made me feel a little badass. I admit, it’s easier to do anything when you’ve lost everything, but it truly did require some gumption to move here jobless, homeless, lifeless, and of a certain age. 

Mostly, though, it took hope. As Andy said to Red, “…hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things…”

So, I told my friend about the moment I got my new computer at work just a few days before. A fancy Windows Surface Pro with all the fixins’. (I think they still expect something in return.) It sounds like such a small event, but I retell it here because, for some reason, this was the big confirmation I had hoped for: The gods weren't mad at me anymore.

IT Guy (who I just met this day): What do you want your computer name to be? 

Me: I get to choose? 

IT Guy: Yea, you do. But it has to fit with the theme. All the computers are named for planets or galaxies. 

Me: Then, I’m out. I have no idea.

IT Guy: Want me to pick for you? 

Me: Yes, please.

That afternoon, he returned with my fully-functioning and newly named, fancy pants computer that he had named Janus. 

Me: What is Janus? 

IT Guy: Look it up. 

I learned that Janus is an inner satellite (whatever that means) of Saturn, also known as Saturn X (a favorite number of mine symbolizing both beginning and completion). This satellite (whatever that means) discovered in 1966 is named after the Roman god, Janus. 

According to ancient religion and myth, Janus is the god of beginnings, gates, transitions, doorways, passages, and endings. He has two faces, looking to the future and to the past. He presides over the beginning and ending of conflict. He is the god of motion and transitions, especially pertaining to birth and journeys. Janus frequently symbolizes change - the progress of past to future, from one condition to another. 

Me: I cannot believe you picked that name! It’s just so perfect for how I got here.

IT Guy: <shrug and a smile>

My Shawshank buddy said, “Your computer is Janus, and you're Janess. You did it, kid. You can relax.”

I don't know about all that, but I know a little: I've been scared a lot of my life. I do know why, but I don't know of what. I had to learn about my own intuition. I had to learn about Divine flow and alignment. I had to spend more time listening than fearing. I had to honor my heart, my Spirit. All these things gave hope a little more room to breathe. I'll never be optimistic (see?), but I have found my hopeful. And that really is the best of things.

If you've never seen the movie, this ending about hope might make you want to. 

I Told Y'all My Throat Chakra Was Busy

I don’t usually write a farewell letter to a year, although I have, for the past five years, done Susannah Conway’s Unraveling the Year and Find Your Word workbooks during the holidays. But 2016 contributed so to my already sunny disposition that I felt the need to give it a final kick in the ass on its way out my door.

I really don’t know where to begin. There is the obvious: the country’s political division, which we’ve turned into a contest of morals and ethics, as if those things even belong in the same conversation. It astonishes me that people think so black and white in this area. One side is so good. One side is so bad. I don’t understand it. I see gray in deciding what I’m going to wear to work every day.

Then, there are all the deaths of folks I grew up watching, listening to, and reading. And a person can’t forget the steady stream of new stories about the scams, the thefts, the new ways people have thought of to screw each other over. The violence in cops killing people, people killing cops, men killing women, women killing men, mothers killing their children. Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera.

But, 2016 got personal.

In March, I had to let go of the majority of my possessions. I thought I was doing pretty well at this, until that time of the night when you lay your head on the pillow to sleep. It was at that moment each night that the inventory checklist in my head started at the beginning, as though it hadn’t been gone through the night before. The furniture I had loved, my grandmother’s chair, an autographed book, just the right lamp. And the pictures! I had the forethought to get important papers and anything related to Spawn when I escaped in January of 2015, but I had left the rest so it wouldn’t be noticeable to him. Near as I can tell, there are now three pieces of evidence that I existed before age 27.

The plan all along was that I would get everything in 2016. But when the time came:

Him: What do you plan to get?
Me: Well, X and Y and Z.
Him: Those aren’t here anymore.
Me: Where are they?
Him: Donated. Given away. Sold. Thrown out.
Me: WHAT? What about the stuff in my mother's cedar chest? The photo albums, the…
Him: That stuff has all been gone for months.
Me: Where did it go? You told me everything was there.
Him: You need to get your story straight. I told you time and time again that I got rid of this stuff long time ago. I got tired of looking at it.
Me: You got tired of looking at stuff INSIDE a cedar chest?
Him: Yup.
Me: What am I going to tell Spawn? I wanted him to have some of that when I die.
Him: Tell him his mother didn’t care enough about him to get it.

I could write a book.

Come to find out, he had thrown everything out a year before during a rage when I caught him in his 3,987th lie. (He raged to punish me for his behavior. It’s too much to write in this note to 2016, but it’s a mental illness that I’ve forgiven him for. I’m still working on forgiving myself.) But I never had a chance to get my things. And he lied for all of 2015 that I did. I cut my losses on anything that remained just to avoid any further contact. I couldn’t get a straight story about what was left, and I was convinced that had I arranged storage and gone there with a truck, he would’ve called the police claiming that I was stealing his stuff just to fuck with me. (In this situation, he would’ve won because he’s a firefighter and unless a person knows him as anything else, he is considered to be among the pillars of Pennsylvania.)

I had to choose my own peace. It was the right decision. I only second guess myself when I lay my head on the pillow every other night now. And I have come to think of my life as before and after. It’s weird how this seemingly tiny blip in time had such an effect on me. I’ve seen stories, of course, of people who have lost everything in fires or floods, and I feel that. Though, I also feel like I participated. Though, I also know I never stood a chance. Though.... When I think of it in my mind now, I think of it as “the big fire”. Before and after “the big fire”. It helps. Some nights. Tylenol PM helps on the others.

Soon after, the friendships started to dissolve.

A person I considered to be a pretty good local friend seemed to find a lot of humor in this situation and liked to bring it up for discussion every time we saw each other, to a point of berating me in front of others. I even got a birthday card about it.

In August, came the Kessler Boulevard storm that knocked out power to my little house for five days. The coolest day that week was 97 degrees.

I lost two friends, and my landlord lost his mind.

First, the more casual friend. We used to watch The Bachelor together each week over the text lines. The storm came through on Thursday, I believe. That Monday night:

Her: You watching tonight?
Me: No, the storms wiped me out. I still don’t have power.
Her: Oh, no! I drove through there on Friday. It looked bad.

<crickets>

The following Monday:
Her: You watching tonight?

What is up with the people I know?

Next, the better friend. We spent time together. We liked each other. We supported each other. We knew things about each other. You know, friends. In a Facebook message:

Her: How are you doing?
Me: Not so good. I’ve been without power since Thursday.
Her: Oh no! Is your landlord helping you?  
Me: No. What could he do? He has no power either. It got all of Kessler.
Her: Oh, no! I haven’t watched the news. I didn’t know.
Me: Yea, it’s pretty bad and no word about when power will even be restored.

<crickets>

The next NIGHT (32 hours later):

Her: Shoot. I went into a movie and forgot to message you back yesterday.

I didn’t reply and unfriended her to prevent further messages. So, she blocked me. I’m sure she thinks I was mad that she didn't watch the news.

With friends like these, as they say…..

And then, the landlord. It took all of September for him to replace my refrigerator. It was declared dead by the insurance company at the first of the month, but I can only assume he was waiting on a check before he spent the money. He had a lot of things to take care of as a result of the storm, and I am his first experience with renting part of his property. This house came in the perfect timing for me and I am grateful, but he has no idea how lucky he is to have me here. I am da renting bomb.

In October, the contractors came. Part of my little house damage included the power lines being ripped off. The roof needed to be repaired and the lines more firmly secured. The landlord notified me via text on a Tuesday evening that the workers would come the next morning and need to turn off power for the next couple of days while they worked. I, of course, mentioned the lack of notice and that I worked from home and had no time to make any arrangements for a place to go. I asked for consideration and time. His response, in a text:

Him: Nope. It’s happening in the morning.

Nope? Seriously, NOPE. Exact word. (This repair took 3 days. 3 more days with no power.)

And he’s been mad ever since. For the remainder of the year, this 66-year-old man has been in retaliation mode. I can’t quite figure it out, but I think it’s because he thinks of me as an employee and himself as my boss, and I dared to question his authority? But since October, unless it’s cold or rainy, he is outside of my little house most weekends. Scraping this, hammering that, painting the other. Not only is there no advance notice, there’s no notice at all. If I were a gun-totin’ gal, he’d be dead, because I’ve been especially jittery this year, and it’s a scary thing to see a man’s unexpected shadow or hear him puttering about your periphery.

Also, this year, they tore down Memphis’ Poplar Avenue Sears, the site of the best memories of my mother and brother. Money.

And they closed the retreat center at my beloved convent in Oldenburg. Money.

On a positive note, I suppose, I worked all year. Money.

During my Unraveling ceremony last week, I was hard pressed to answer one of the questions. It asked, “Write about your favorite day in 2016”. I racked my brain for hours and couldn’t come up with one. Not one.

Until, this….

I took a weekend farewell trip to the convent. It was sad, and I was sad. Sister Olga was sad, too, but had the same thing to say about it to everyone who mentioned it: “It won’t be the same, and that’s okay”. She led a class that Saturday called Transitions that focused on liminality, Jung's word for the stuck feeling in those between times when you know change is inevitable but can’t quite cross the threshold. The room was filled with women in their fifties, as one would expect. But sitting next to me was a girl in her thirties, obviously wise beyond her years. I actually initiated a conversation and we were fast friends all day.

At some point, a woman across the room shared a story about not knowing what to do since her mother passed away. It had been a year, but she couldn’t bring herself to do anything with her things. There was an entire house full of stuff. Should she save the dishes for her own daughter? Should she donate her clothes? What should she keep? What was okay to give away? She was stuck in indecision. She had been her mother’s caretaker for her final few years and had looked forward, relatively speaking, to the day when she could do things she wanted again. But she just didn't know what to do.

Sister Olga told her a story about her own aunt who had dealt with a similar situation years ago. Her aunt was ruminating about a turkey platter in a box she’d held onto for years. She was saving it for her daughter, but her daughter didn’t want it. And Olga couldn’t understand it. As a nun living in a small, communal space, part of the life is to not live in a world of possessions. Olga made it funny, of course. Shook her head at the absurdity. “She was saving it for her daughter who didn’t even know what a turkey platter was. She didn’t want that thing. It meant nothing to her. Why not give the turkey platter to someone who wants it and who might even take it out of the box!”

I chimed in (and in front of the whole group):

“I’ve had a recent loss of a lot of my things. My grandmother’s this and my mother’s that. And I feel grief, like she said. These are things I’ve carried around from house to house since I was 18 years old, when my mother died and I was the only one to take them. And now they’re gone and there’s grief, but there’s also guilt. I feel such guilt.” To which Olga immediately responded:

“Oh, but the freedom!!”

2016 has led me to a more spiritual, more metaphysical way of life. I’m learning new things, and I’ve enjoyed that a lot. In fact, as I'm typing this, I realize there was another good day in 2016. The day I took a leap of faith into the world of Reiki. The guilt and shame caused constant tears, and I needed help. I needed an energy release. I need a lifting of the curse. I cried and cried during that first session. And I was told that my throat chakra was busy. Thus, the title of this note. My new Reiki master said that I had so much to say, but that I wasn't expressing it. So my throat chakra was spinning and blocked. I needed to express it. Free it. To dissolve the clogged drain in my throat, I needed to reconnect with my creative outlet: writing. (I haven't done that much, though, because it feels a little like reliving things and being whiny, but I may try. It may be the only way out. Speak it to heal it, so they say.)

I'm calmer now. I don't get riled like I used to. I pick my battles for my own advantage. I walk away faster. I have a feeling of knowing that I don’t think I’ve had as strongly before. I am my own security, my own soft place to land. God and I have worked things out. He fucks with me and I yell and yell and He laughs and laughs and says, "Yes! There ya go. More of that." I do the right thing, and if I don’t, I know how to apologize. If you don’t make me feel better about myself, then you don’t belong here. In the always exquisite words of poet Warsan Shire, “My alone feels so good. I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude”. I like me. I dig me. In fact, I love me. I am good. I am well. I have limbs and working organs and flesh and bones and ears and eyes. And I have a heart and a peace of mind, and I'm not afraid to use 'em.

So, I call, 2016. I see your bullshit, and I call. I have no choice but to play the rest of this game with your hand in it, but as long as somebody keeps fillin' up the pretzel bowl, I'm still in.