Monday, July 06, 2015


I'd always thought 

I handled stress well.  

Had a picture of myself

in my head 

of a woman who 

could walk through fire… 

till I took a stroll once or twice 

in the furnace.

Abednigo, I am not.


I am well fired clay.

Strong but brittle.

Not scorched, 

but damaged 

in that I can

never be made into

something other 

than the form I was

when I entered the kiln.


I’d envisioned getting older 
as a toughening process.
I believed that when I was matured, 
when my grey hairs had arrived,
my heart would be mighty.
That each beat and each thud
would be audible to those
who claimed a bit of my love.
Instead I find I'm brittle and worn through, 
that those things which did not kill me
most assuredly did NOT make me stronger.
I suspect I 'm doing it wrong.

That Hole

It feels like you wish 
that I was different,
more perfectly suited 
to help you feel better. 
I don't think the person 
you wish I was 
exists anywhere. 
The hole you are trying 
to make me fit in 
is not 
a person shaped hole.

Thursday, October 02, 2014


I’ll admit, the voices in my interior Committees have some pretty brutal things to say to me.  But, let’s be clear, they don’t say anything that has not been said by someone before.

My Committee Members are not creative… they just parrot back the most unkind assessments and judgements that I have ever heard or read in RL or on the Internets- and they direct them at me.  They do it in a way that there will be no one to defend me… but myself, and I have a lousy track record of self-defence.

...and my Committees are currently in session.

I am a woman of unseemly sorrows.  I grieve for the loss of my helpmeets and friends; my long lost love of coffee, my daily, hourly, prayer of nicotine.  

That is where the lament starts, but it goes on to the aching loss of alcohol and last, but certainly not least, crystal meth.

It is grotesque but inevitable for me to grieve for these killers and distorters.  I think it may be something like the anguish that a mother of a mass murderer might feel when her sweet boy is dealt the death penalty.  Certainly, I don’t talk about missing these poisons with the sweet ladies of my church congregation; many of whom have never so much as touched a Dr. Pepper let alone a wine cooler.

I have only ever met one other active member of the LDS church who cops to having ever loved Crystal.  Other mourners may be out there, but they aren’t talking- just wearing their black armbands in private like I do.

Yet today, it’s autumn time and as the trees burn and blush, I will say out loud how I am swallowed up with grief and shame in equal measure.  Shame for who I was and also for what I have become.  

My body.

I love most of who I am, and what I do…. but my body…

People look at me and see an undisciplined woman.  A fat-ass.   A lazy cow.  Perhaps someone who could use a little bit of education on nutrition.  A girl who could stand to put down the spoon, already.  Go for a walk around the block.

Maybe you don’t see that, but some do.  I can read.  I have ears.

Undisciplined.  Lack of Willpower.  Lazy. Unorganized. Disgusting.

You have no idea, whatsoever, of who I am and where I come from, what I battle or what I have lost… but my Committees do.  

- and they think I'm a lazy fat-ass too.

I feel the shame, but strangely... not much regret.

I know I shouldn't post this, but right now I need... something. I think I need to be heard.

Sunday, January 26, 2014

When I Used to Blog

So much has changed since the time in my life when  I blogged regularly.

For one, my folks moved from New Mexico, to a town just an hour or so away from us... so that doused one of the flames that used to be part of the proverbial fire under my butt to blog.

For two:  My kids are growing up.  My Birdie has a real-and-for-actual gmail account that we let her get to keep in touch with her friends from our old town.  The girl turns twelve in one week.  This drives home the fact that I what I am blogging is not just my own story, but the stories of people who may object to being players here some day.

The Bird has not actually found this blog and trolled the archives.   Yet.  

I know this, because if she had?  The questions would not end.  Not sure how I feel about that.... wait, yes I do!  Freaks me right the #@$% out!

For three:  I have known for a while that I apparently have only a certain amount of writing in me.  I turned my writing time toward a novel.  I am now on my first re-write.   Go ME!

No.  You can't read it.  Seriously.  You don't want to.  Not yet, and maybe not ever.

For four (yeah, I know... this pretend-bullet point thing is not funny or clever, but I'm gonna just go with it,   LOOK!  First-draft-I-don't-care!): I had gotten a pretty big calling working with children in my church congregation, and for better or for worse, it shut me down in many ways for two and a half years while I poured energy into serving.  Plus, I felt awkward being real, or real-ish here on the blog, and having children find it and read it.  Or parents of children reading it.  Enough people in my ward knew about the blog and that was... too weird.

Then we moved, and that shut me down in some other ways.

I had some health things that scared the hell out of me, and stole some of my vitality and a year and an half of my life.  I haven't really bounced back physically OR emotionally from the surgeries and subsequent recoveries.  I just haven't.  Can't pretend like I have.  I look older, feel older... I am older.

Probably in the same way that I only have a certain amount of writing in me (it has gotten better with regular practice) I appear to have only a certain amount of social energy.  I am not the same gregarious woman I was three or four years ago.  


I 'm just not.  I have lost some of my resiliency.  

I feel like I should apologize to someone for that.

At the same time, however... while I am no longer as ebullient, neither am I as heedless.  Guess all I am saying is, I am unsure as to whether it was a fair trade; but, fair or cheat, I am trying to get a handle on what kind of a woman is left of me.

Some of what is left:  Yesterday I got a big order from Amazon that still has my brains reeling and my face goggle-eyed from the pure... awesomeness?  I actually don't KNOW what word encompasses the deliciousness of the three books I got.  I cannot decide which book to devour first!

At least my brain still works!

Thursday, November 14, 2013


Spoiler Alert:  Birdie has been working on a Christmas album as gifts for the relatives this year.  

She can do this because shortly after we moved here (uhhhhh.... we moved to a town about 20-30 miles north of where we had been living) I found her a voice coach.  I like this "coach" because her approach is purely practical.  First she finds out what the student is interested in learning or wants help with, and then she jumps right in and coaches from that angle. 

Yes, she assigns vocal conditioning a scales and the like... but the serious focus is the style and songs that the student is interested in developing.  In late summer we attended a recital of her students and while at least half of her kids tend toward the Taylor Swift, Katy Perry or Sara Bariellas thing ... a goodly chunk of the rest had a range from spiritual to Broadway musical.

Along with preparing her students to perform, she has a little recording booth/closet in her studio, and this lady wields Garageband like a boss.

So... she has sent me three of the four songs Birdie has cut so far... and when I listen to the tracks when no one else can see me, I weep.  

It is so beautiful. 

It amazes me. 

I am stunned.

Not by her voice exactly.  Her voice is amazing, and she has really worked hard to get the skills and abilities she has developed...but  her voice is also simple at it's very heart.  Her voice is very similar to mine.

Confession: I have always admired the amazing singers... the Aretha's, the Alicia Keys' and the women with powerful and stunning voices that make the walls shake and blow my mind.  I have grieved the fact that I do not have such a voice and no matter how much effort or training, could never have such a voice.  Seriously.  Grieved.

I weep when I hear my daughter's voice because I now understand so much better, the love that our Father has for us.  There is nothing small or deficient about her voice, which sounds, in it's simplified version, so much like my own.  The sound that comes out of her mouth is glorious and captivating and touching.

I have misunderstood.  I have always been enough.

We are enough.

If I am cool, I will post the Christmas songs after she is all done.... but here is this one.

Wednesday, February 06, 2013

15 Again

What do you say on your abandoned blog, when you finally realize that you are falling to the bits and the pieces because you feel like you have no voice.  No voice, and you have abandoned one of the few places that helped you feel like you were not voiceless.  Hi!  Bloggy!

Don't know, but I think I'll begin with a nice...
"Y'all, I am as angsty as a teenager these days."  

...and more than a little OCD.  Well.  Maybe it's not exactly OCD, but it's not exactly not OCD.  I don't know what it is, a syndrome of some sort I suppose, but I don't dare go googling around on the Internet for the accurate name for it.

Because google is the delivery system for my insanity.  The viral packaging that my personal brand of freakout gets delivered in.  That,  and the old FecesBook.  I just want to go see who is doing what, and check any messages or events, but then I run up against  this, that or the other political whats-it, and BAM!  I am sucked into a link festival of horror.  

Like the fact that....  Whups!  almost left you a link to the kind of crap that is eating my joy.  News about Executive orders and statistics and civil rights and oohhhh....  Done.  No more.

I will do you the kindness I cannot seem to do for myself, and refrain from exposing you to information that will make your brain bleed and keep you up at night.  And yes, I vet the heck out of everything, so it's the real deal info, and not the crack pot crap.  But that also means that I wade through a ton of alarmist crap and nut-job BS.... and that does not help to take the edge off.  The fact I end up with stuff that is straight up hard news that still sounds like whack-job conspiracy theory crap makes it worse.

Let's just say that the older I get, the more Libertarian I lean.  A stymied and ineffectual Congress is a good Congress in my book.  Less legislation equals public good.

It does not help that it is a generally held belief by most sane people, that as an American Citizen of the voting age, I should be well informed.  I am coming to the conclusion that my mental health would be improved if I spent more time trolling Netflix for rom/coms, or seeking out the best the internet has to offer in terms of grumpy cat memes.

Or... y'know, walking away from the computer.

I had been doing better for almost two weeks, and then I relapsed yesterday.  I won't get into the details, not that I don't think you, if you are an American who can vote, shouldn't know, but it will send me back into the spiral of link-and-find which leads inevitably to quiet panic.  

...and the last thing I can afford to do it get into some sort of "discussion" in the comments of this post.

Tuesday, July 03, 2012


I prayed for rain
I burn on

He hears my prayers
Allows me to burn
Undone, unrestrained

Cheat-grass, sage
And juniper heart
Consumed as
I burn

Monday, January 23, 2012


It's finally behaving a little like January, what with the snow and ice and such.... so today I threw Henry in the van to pick up Pearl from Kindy-garten. On the drive home I go over the rules for when I go get my hair done. I go to the same lady who's been doing my hair for about nine years now, she's in our congregation at church, and she has a salon in the basement of their split-level home. It has been in this home that all four of my kids have had their first real haircuts.

It so happens that her six year old daughter is in Pearl's Kindy class, and they have been having some great play dates. In the past they mostly just ignored each other or played around each other when I went for a hair appointment, but I could see that now they will probably continue one of their epic LPS games... and Pearl might be invited to range past the playroom and into the upstairs where the rooms are.

"So.. I expect you to stay out of their kitchen. And don't go into her brother's rooms or her sister Myra's room. OK?"

"OK, mama." She pauses, thinking, "Her sister is a teenager, huh, mama?"

"Yes, she is. She would not appreciate you guys messing with her stuff."

"Is Birdie a teenager?"

"No, not yet. She won't be a teenager for three years or so."

"Oh! That's right! Birdie is a..." I'm driving so I cannot actually see her furrowed brow as she searches her memory, but I know she's got that look. "Birdie is a... uh... a TWINKLE!"

The heck? "Oh! You mean a TWEEN!? Technically she'll be a tween when she turns ten."

Huh. I think I like "twinkle" better.