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Still Here

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My peri-menopausal years are a blur of madness and rage. I didn’t even know what peri-menopause was back then. I chalked up my radical mood swings to going cold turkey on cigarettes and booze. Being trapped in a situationship with a sociopath certainly didn’t help matters.  The melancholia that followed that uncoupling was beyond any previous descent into depression that I’d ever experienced, worse than the postpartum depression that pushed me to suicidal ideation while trying to care for two under two in my early 30’s. Zoloft, therapy and copious amounts of alcohol numbed me enough to ignore my then husband’s extracurricular sex life and subsequent trip to prison for trying to fly a commercial airplane while intoxicated. It made national news—viral before the term was ever coined.  I raw dogged menopause and eight years post-menopause I am not on a single prescription medication. No HRT, no patches and no GLP-1, just me, for better or worse. And that’s something I’m really pr...
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Into the Cold Abyss

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Been trying to get back to the thing that gives me breath and purpose and hope—writing. I’ve spent too much time on socials, running a fairly successful business, but it is draining the life blood from me and stealing precious brain cells that used to nourish and feed my creative flow.  Writing is survival for me, my most sacred creative need. Never artificial AI slop. Never. Just me, my soul laid bare for your eyes only, darling. I’m deep cleaning the cobwebs from the darkest recesses of my mind—from the abyss as Kafka so eloquently put it—in order to have a testament of my existence, my most…delicious lived experiences both good, and bad.  Follow along, won’t you, if only to find out if you’ve made the cut.    TTFN #writerlife #storyofmylife  #writingistherapy
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Conversation with Death

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I lay in bed last night, waiting for the rain, waiting, for the distant rumbles of thunder and the steady downpour that would lull my tired soul into oblivion.  It never came—neither the storm nor the slumber.  And in those hours of waiting, of lying still in the roar of oppressive silence, I had a conversation with Death.  What will you miss? he whispered. What will you miss? I will miss the feeling of late spring, when the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, cools, as I step into the breezy embrace of a shade tree.  I will miss daybreak and sun gazing, and hearing the symphony of songbirds when sunlight kisses the horizon.  I will miss the smell of freshly cut grass and the taste of honeysuckle on my tongue.  I will miss barefoot walks along the gulf and the feeling of salt and sand on my skin.  Go on.  I will miss staring at the stars in the night sky and sharing secrets with the moon.  I will miss feeling the crisp autumn wind in my hair, ...
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Living

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  Living, is just one single moment.   Sit outside and observe. Watch a honeybee during golden hour eagerly gathering some of Spring’s first nectar from happy little dandelions—bright yellow polka dots sprinkled on a carpet of the greenest fescue. Her life, her moments, are hard work done to maintain her hive. Does she know that the world would not exist without her?  Listen. Listen to life all around you. Birds are singing, you are safe. In the distance, nickering horses bid you good evening. Neighborhood kids shriek with happiness, celebrating their youth. Your best friend barks at a squirrel expertly navigating the canopy of trees surrounding you, because she’s protecting her yard. Such a good girl!  Dragonflies take advantage of these last moments of sunlight. Up and down, back and forth they go, frantically gobbling up a buffet of gnats, mosquitoes and tiny moths that are swarming overhead. I wish I could watch them in slow motion, set to a lovely piece of class...
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Strange Days

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Things are strange. Time is accelerating, a loop of rinse and repeat days, invisible G-forces holding me in place while life feels like it’s passing right on by. Another year gone.  There are lots of things I’d like to do with whatever time I have left, sure, but there is a reliable peace in this Groundhog Day existence that I struggled too many years for, and I’m not ready to give it up. A simple errand can draw peace and patience out like a salve. The World is nothing if not a thief of joy.  While the unstoppable flow of time rages on, I value these moments, these days, mundane and strange though they may be. 
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The Santa Hat

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You were sorely missed at Christmas dinner last night. The whimsical Santa hat you once wore, honoring the seat you held at the head of the table,  was both joyful and heartbreaking—our first family gathering since your funeral.  Everything was the same and altogether foreign. Your car was in the driveway. I half expected to hear you shout, “Hey, get in here!” as we walked through the front door. There was even a football game on, but the room and your favorite chair were empty, your absence palpable.  Many tears were shed, mostly through laughter, as we all shared memories of you. You would have loved it, you’d have been right there laughing along with us. Part of me believes you were, there, watching over us with that silly Santa hat on, tears in your eyes and a huge smile on your face.  Miss you Daddy .    
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A Winter Nap

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The world has been blanketed in monochromatic grey for days, a prelude to Winter’s nap. Some feral part of me wishes I could lose myself in a liminal forest, curl up under fallen leaves of an ancient oak to be reborn come Spring.  Maybe it’s not feral, it’s ancestral, the Calling of the Bears—a time for rest, reflection and receiving messages from the heart of Mother Earth. I’m grateful for a quiet mind and a soul that stills to listen. What an amazing gift.   
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