As we settle in to our “new” (c. 1937) house in Evergreen the cracks in our foundation become more evident. Relief is here, all our stuff is finally in one place, and we are breathing some sighs of relief. Almost 7 months of living out...

Dare I say, I have experienced some contentment as of late? Dare I say it? Well, there, I just did. Now in our final stretch of 2012, I can say I am happy that these digits will turn to the next (as long as the...

The next step is to leave this fine hotel room, head out in the rain, meet the woman who is buying our home, and sign the papers to make it official. I chose well to stay here for my last night after the furniture was...

Up before the sun is not my usual M.O. But I now rise from bed to enjoy my last day in this house. Today, I say ‘enjoy’ because after taking one to many trips to the dark side, I screamed uncle and called in the big guns. I have plenty of great teachers and mentors in my life, and I have the good fortune of an inclination towards Shamanism as well as a new community who plays in that playground. Ancient spiritual wisdom was just what the doctor ordered l in helping me turn my ship around as I continued to bump ground as I sailed further into dark water. Wading through memorabilia as the memories wafted through air like fruit flies, smacking my skull and knocking me senseless, I was beginning to drown in the pain. Two Shaman’s later, I am back on solid ground. I don’t mind walking through my grief and allowing it to be - and I needed to see the sun shine just a bit. I needed to know that healing was happening and that this wouldn’t be all there is and was, forever. Shaya Mercer brought me reminders of the little girl I once was as I first explored the territory around this lovely home. We were a happy family, fortunate to vacation at the beach, my parents gorgeous and smart and in love with their little brood. Then suddenly and out of the blue, Dad was leaving and life altered. All my clear memories after that event are my mistakes and humiliations and youthful angst. Might I have been that anyway? Sure, but as we know, divorce messes with kids heads. Like many, I stuffed those feelings way down deep and then stamped them down further as I launched into my addictions. “I will never be left again”, became a mantra. “Be good, be nice, be sweet” became a trap.
The hollowness of my core echoes its mantra into my mind. Or is it the other way around? My mind echoes and tells me it’s my heart. Is my heart breaking? Is this pain real? Does anything ever make sense? I sit to work on my book this morning before the crew comes to pack and the house is filled with that activity. Entrenched in a re-write of my book that began early this year, I hit a serious road bump after the fire, then began again with fits and starts throughout the summer. I am writing an updated version on waiting, bringing in my “new” perspective, removing references to Jack all with the partnership of a new publisher. This is quite an opportunity but I can’t seem to get this sucker off the ground.  With the help of my editor, I have melded new stories with old, changed the introduction, and have places where I merely need to write transitions yet each time I begin again, I wonder, just what is it I am saying? What is this waiting thing after all? Is it a phenomenon? What does it even mean to wait? Recently, on two separate occasions, I received direct reports from new readers of how my words spoke to them, pointed to where they wait themselves and challenged them to look at life differently. This is obviously quite a gift, coming in the midst of my questioning.
Yesterday I had the great opportunity to laugh. After a doubled over fit of hysteria I had in the Bahamas with the Meehan family, which was literally triggered by nothing, I am not sure I have guffawed even once since. Yesterday the damn broke thank the good lord above. I needed it. Big time. Getting way too significant over here, I was. And, yes, I am still mourning – but yesterday I laughed my ass off too. So this is a time, once again, to acknowledge my friends with whom I can both share the dark angsty stuff as well as laugh like a school girl - or rather a frat boy. With my friends, we cycle between the angst and roar in minutes. This is how I know I am not really going over the edge, by going over the edge. It started simply enough with some banter from a new friend, comic Jeff Wozer about his recent near miss with a killer deer.