undying love

I woke up this morning and, like usual, stumbled through making coffee and checked my Facebook like a good junkie.  i have quite a few friends from all over the world and will regularly see posts about issues that i, unfortunately, know nothing and have heard nothing about.  whether it's a bus bombing or lack of shoes or water, there are always some new posts about some injustice around the globe that i should feel something about, and sadly, rarely actually do.  yes, those kids in africa are there, they just seem so far away.  of course i know they are real, yes i know they're hungry, yes i know they're dying.  but africa is a little beyond my reach and it just seems to be what it is.  and so i sip my coffee and shake my head, "that's a shame..." and i move on.


this morning i had a story in my status feed that i couldn't just shake off, just a shared photo actually.  but as we all know "a photo's worth a thousand words".    

yes, you saw that right, an abandoned baby in a trash can. *  


although this photo was taken in india, where this is horrifically common, i have seen many news stories of girls/women doing this here in america.  at the prom, at work, in motels.  


my first thought as my stomach turned was 'what the hell?'.  followed by 'people need to know this really happens, they need to see this and feel something too!'  initially i reposted this to Facebook out of the sheer "see this people?? this shit really happens!  this is what this really looks like, not just the faces of the 'confused teenagers' you see when they run the story on the news! THIS is what baby abandonment really looks like!"  as i posted it i even had a comment saying "'no child left behind' needs to be taken into a new direction".  as i read comments on the originating post i saw mostly huge amounts of bashing surrounded the controversy of posting this on a social site and most of the comments were that this is "disgusting" and "my 3 year old almost saw this!" and "what about that baby's dignity??, they don't deserve to have their picture shown like this!".


for the sake of my unsuspecting Facebook friends i took the post on my page down.  not because i don't think they should see this, i think they should, but only for the sake of their potential three year olds who may be playing farmville.  


however, that being said, yes this is disgusting, yes it is horrible, and yes that baby deserves more dignity that having their photo spread around social sites.  HOWEVER, that baby deserved a blanket, a cradle, a home, a family and his MOTHER'S ARMS!!  this baby did not get the life s/he deserved, whether s/he was stillborn or murdered postpartum, either way, they deserved way more than this metal can full of rubbish.  


as i was in labor with sam i had my sister joyously shouting at me "i can see his hair! oh my gosh ash he has hair! i can see him!" and i kept pushing, knowing i was about to hold my baby and see his hair for myself.  at the point where i'd delivered his head i looked down and saw his hair, and was overwhelmed with love just seeing him part way out.  delivering the rest of him and taking him into my arms i was by far the most emotional moment of my life.  i'm pretty sure on the recording all you hear for a while is "oh my god, my baby, i have a baby!" and i continue to babble semi-coherently about how much i love him and he's mine.  he was early so still fuzzy with lanugo hair, and i couldn't stop touching him.  counting his fingers and toes, kissing his face and head.  loving and bonding and whispering promises of undying love.  that is what this baby deserved.  his mother holding him, stroking his dark hair, kissing those fingers, caressing every inch and tenderly cleaning and swaddling him.  like every newborn this baby deserved undying love.  and i'm just judgmental enough to say i hope this mother gets what she deserves.  if karma started in india let's hope it's most effectual there.








*(for those of you about to argue about photoshop, all i can say is, so what if it is?  i'd love to hope this photo wasn't real but that does NOT mean this doesn't happen, that does NOT mean this isn't at the very least an accurate representation of what it does look like.  so that being said, we're going to assume for the sake of argument that this is real and move on.)

Out of the Mouths of Babes

if there is anything i've done right as a mom it has been that i've quite completely granted Claudia the freedom and confidence to talk to me about absolutely anything and everything.  we don't get solo time often, but when we do she opens her mouth and like an Indian Snake Charmer she circular breathes and does not stop talking until she's exhausted every word she has to say.  

Just the other night her topics included, but were not limited to~ First, how our belly buttons don't match.  it would appear the mine is less 'foldy' than hers and more of an innie.  Second, how my butt is bigger than hers, but hers is bigger than theia's. Third-how slavery was really 'not nice' and she hopes that doesn't ever happen to her. (i made sure to tell her that slavery wasn't only limited to this country or to black people, but that over the ages at different times people made slaves out of just about anyone they could catch or buy) Forth she wanted to know if she really had to get married when she grows up.  she has decided she really doesn't want to be alone, but she doesn't want to fight with someone and end up breaking up.  i told her that most people do fight, but it's how you fix it once you do that makes or breaks a couple.  she then went on to hold up two toys, a barbie and a shark and said "mom, wouldn't it be so weird if they got married?" i laughed and said, "yes hun, but just wait and see, somedays it will feel like that!"

i've always tried to make it clear to her that she can tell me anything, even if what she has to say is that she's mad at me or doesn't like something i've done, as long as she says it respectfully and doesn't just throw a fit at me.  still, it always comes as a surprise when she does.  she'll start out saying, without the slightest hint of irony, "mom, i don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but you've been crabby" or "i'm not sure if i should say this but i think you have a pimple mom".  it just cracks me up that she's actually learning to be honest but in a way that doesn't totally come across as snotty or bad-attitude.  

she's beautiful inside and out and i'm glad to see in such a short time that at least in one area, the love and effort is paying off, and she's learning how to think independently and truly learning how to be herself.

Abyss to Precipice.

it isn't often we get a glimpse of what could have been. those parallel universes, lingering like shadows in light of our reality, revealing in their mystery the potential 'could have beens'. typically when one door closes and the next opens, the former door remains closed. usually that is the hard part, but often it is for the best. for who wants to move through these doors, making these choices, and then looking over their shoulder see a crack in the door, seeing what lies behind, that reminding them of what they had to leave behind to move forward?

the bigger problem is that for many of us, we will never have a great degree of certainty that our decisions made were right or wrong. living with the consequences, good or otherwise, is something we all must do. we cannot go back, there are no handles on this side of the door, and even those which have been left with a crack cannot be reopened, we could more easily rip open the universe than move back through one of those doors. and of course there can be no guarantee that the alternatives which were once there even remain.

i wish i believed that somehow life and these choices were some how linear, that each door opened in front of another, that there were some sort of reason, order, pattern, or distinguishable cycle to it all. that there could be any potential for anticipation, that it might be possible to foresee the outcome. so many people seem to have a plan, choice A, choice B, outcome C, then choice D and so on, and eventually the fruition of their plans, hopes and dreams brings them to a place, similar or better than for what they'd been shooting.

so often i've found that this cosmic sense of order and structure will have no practical application in my own life. i do not have two doors from which to choose, when choosing one and going through it i do not in turn find two more. instead, i am lost in an m.c. escher maze, with doors that open to nothing, stairs i have to climb only to reach the base, walk ways that i will eternally walk up and end no where. and each door that does not lead me to to the false beginning, or to nothing, leads me to a precipice.

what hope is there for one such as i when i stand at that precipice then? what am i to do? when life has given me these, i've jumped. jumped head long into the abyss below, falling into a beautiful disaster. most often, yes, left in broken pieces on the ground, but once put back together i bear scars as badges, reminders that at least i jumped. at least i didn't just cling to the rocks and stay there, not experiencing life for fear of being dashed upon the rocks below.

and for those who wonder whether or not it's been worth it, worth the pain, the scars and endless stairs i've had to climb to reach the next cliff, i say 'yes'. for with each climb i reach new heights, and the light of this reality scatters the shadows of mystery and brings me closer to where i know eventually i'll find myself supposed to be. better and beyond what i'd hoped for. i say 'yes', all the falls and the beautiful disasters are worth it, because as long as i keep jumping there is still a chance that one day, instead of a fall, i'll grow wings and fly.

heartstrings come undone

it never ceases to amaze me how life can change in a moment. i'm not even talking about huge life-altering events, like car accidents or a terminal diagnosis. there are those smaller moments, when we learn something, which may even seem quite trivial at first, is finally brought to light. only after closer examination do we realize that it's not just a blue piece of the sky, but the hinge on which the whole universe will now swing. swinging like a door revealing for once its other side. as if we're looking at a weaving, never understanding what each thread is for, never able to grasp the pattern, but realizing after the swing that the whole time we'd been looking at the underside. and now, for the first time, seeing the upper side, we see it and the universe in all it's glory, not as lightning bugs drowning in a black pool, but for the beautiful celestial expanse it really is.

i think when i sat down today to write this, i thought i'd be doing some piece on marriage. anyone who knows me very well knows that i love research. i'd never want to write a research paper again, but the searching and study part is like a good massage for my brain. so out of curiousity i spent some time looking up what philosophers and poets have had to say about marriage. knowing all the while that whatever it is i have to say, they've probably already said it, and even more likely, said it better than i could. you could fill libraries with the amount of books and words that have been written and said on marriage alone, and i'm sure somewhere there is a small bookstore that might just specialize on the topic.

of course i have my own thoughts on the subject, but first, some of the quotes i found were hysterically funny, yet so poignant. here's a few so they can speak for themselves:

When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part. ~G.B. Shaw, Getting Married, 1908

For two people in a marriage to live together day after day is unquestionably the one miracle the Vatican has overlooked. ~Bill Cosby, Love and Marriage

The marriage state, with or without the affection suitable to it, is the completest image of Heaven and Hell we are capable of receiving in this life. ~Richard Steele, The Spectator

In the early years, you fight because you don't understand each other. In the later years, you fight because you do. ~Joan Didion

Marriage is a wonderful invention: then again, so is a bicycle repair kit. ~Billy Connolly


alright, so that being said, my own thoughts:

beginning with a relationship, it can quite easily be compared to a dance. one in which both partners come together, and between them hold the ends of a rope. as the music plays, continuing throughout the relationship like a soundtrack with highs and lows, they dance. sometimes it's slow and controlled, other times wild and passionate. there will be times when it's much to fast, the steps too complicated, and one partner will have to warn the other that they might lose their grip. in consideration for the other, the one will work to make it manageable, to slow things down, to help the partner; they would, after all, rather accommodate, rather than send the partner flying off wildly, thus ending the dance. in a good relationship, this is the choice that is made, to take the dance in steps that keep it enjoyable, and allow them to hold on easily. because both of you dance knowing the other could choose to let go there is such a feeling of love, in this choice. knowing that each day your partner is making a choice for you, a choice to hold on, a choice to accommodate you because they want to keep dancing, and to keep dancing with you.

it's usually during this light cadence that the choice to get married is made. all this dancing, the spinning, twirling and loving, who wouldn't want to continue this forever? especially with this person who's held on, supporting you when you couldn't hold on, who made the choice to hold on tighter for you, who yielded when necessary, lead when called for, and knew all the while that you were choosing to hold on to and, therefore, never took your presence in the dance for granted. who wouldn't want this? to boldly claim this partner for life?

so together the choice is made, you'll marry.

and of course the chorus sings, and the music reaches beautiful heights, and on the wedding day the whole world stops. the dance is in slow motion, it's so easy that day. and you stand there together, in the location of your choosing and whether to a judge, pastor or priest, you hand over your rope temporarily. you say all of the beautiful things, make all the pretty promises and commit to dancing together forever. but before you're done, you get the rope back, but this time you will not be holding it, it will be tied to your arm. 'no matter' these new lovers say as they go off dancing. in the post nuptial bliss they're dancing so close they don't even notice the rope. their hand now free from holding it is this wonderful new experience.

the music commences and the dancing resumes. this couple, now tied together has a new element between them, same rope, same love, whole new dynamic.

they go dancing off into the sunset or some such nonsense and before you know it the music is playing it's highs and lows again. although this time much less consideration has to be given to each other, since after all, you're now tied together, and the threat of letting go is gone. at first this new security is amazing. does something wonderful for you and you can rest knowing that your partner will never leave you. however, when things begin to spin out of control, and the steps get too complicated, there is much less motivation to yield, to accommodate each other. after all, it's not like they might let go.

in really good marriages, and in the beginning of most others, there is still a small amount of control that is regained, some slowing and help given to each other since it is generally the habit you've established since the beginning. there can be times though, when one or the other doesn't view the dance as going as badly the other does, and might take advantage. again, falling on the fact that this rope is now tied, and the other can't just leave. they're not actually working to hinder the other person, there just isn't the fear anymore that it might be over if it doesn't settle down. usually there is a point there the knot is getting tight enough to cause discomfort, and decent people will recognise this and finally work to appease it. some people are natural moderators and continue to dance as if they're still just holding on.

now i'm speaking only out of my own experiences, for i know there are some amazing marriages out there where the dance remains beautiful and the weight of that rope is never felt and it's knot is never tightened.

for me, i've found that all too often i am the only one to yield. i'm the one who accommodates when things get out of control. however far it is from where i want to be, i'll move in to loosen the stranglehold of the knots. this rope which once was a symbol of love and the connection between us has now become a tourniquet. slowly, but with such force behind it, it's tightening the knot like a noose, and about to amputate my hand. i will not say that i've never been the one to give the rope a hard jerk, hoping to finally knock the other person over so i can finally get their attention. sure, several times. there is only so much one little arm can take before even i, the yielder, take action. the pain from these knots is bitter.

not that i want to lead while dancing, heck no, but i have to want to go in the direction the dance is going. and for me, i've realized, or admitted to myself much too late, that not only do i hate the dance i'm stuck in, but that the reason it's so bad is because generally we're not hearing the same music. there is no harmony, and dischord is reigning supreme.

i have always held out hope, beyond wild hope, that somehow the dance would slow, we could nurse our wounded arms and learn to dance again, but sadly, for me, i've had to cut the rope to save my arm. if i've learned anything in my experiences, it's been how wrong i can be and have been about the dance.

in light of this:
'love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. love never fails.'

i've come to realize that love is not the rope, love is the dance. the rope is only the commitment, you either choose to hold on, or you don't. no amount of knots, however far up your arm, can make you stay. tying the rope to your arm should only ever be symbolic and your hand should always be holding on. that way you'll know, and remember from experience, if you're about to lose your grip, it must be fixed, and never fall back on the knot as a saftey net. the knot will only make you lose your arm. the only knots that should ever be relied on are the heartstrings that get tied every time you choose to hold on.

A place for everything..

My whole life I've been defined as the "carefree" one, or silly, goofy, not exactly irresponsible, but very aloof and fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants.  I've never been what you'd call "organized" or "tidy" and although I don't like a dirty house, I admit, the clutter is pretty crazy around here most of the time.  I prefer things to be temporary, fluid and without structure.  Very much the opposite of "a place for everything and everything in its place".  And for most of my life I've completely rejected other people's attempt at enslaving me to their way of "thinking".  

As and artist and a free-spirit I have my own sense of organization, in general, being organized to me means being able to see everything at once.  If Type A's are the card catalogue, I am every book on the shelf, or quite possibly the floor.  I can't do dressers, piling all the clothes on top of each other (folded or otherwise) is just silly, who can find anything?  My husband keeps trying to get me to use filing cabinets, but the idea of all those little tabs, and not actually being able to see all the papers just bothers me.  And how to decide where it goes?  Name? Date? Category? Serial number? I'd need a tab for every item and that just wouldn't be practical!  In keeping with my philosophy that the things around me should be fluid, able to move and non permanent, I'd call my sense fluidization vs. organization.

Having three kids does something to you though.  I find that we really just don't have room for everything to be out all the time, and different seasons do call for different things, clothes, decor, etc... And don't forget the kids are constantly bringing home papers from school.  Right now we have tons of the art projects tacked up in our hallway, lining it from one end to the other, like a child-finger-paint-doodle-mosaic-wallpaper.  Just the way I like it, seeing everything at the same time, and who am I to decide which masterpiece should be tossed to save another?

I find myself, and my mind, constantly at odds with my spirit, like somehow internally I'm being nudged in directions I'm not sure I want to go.  Every step of the way I realize I'm saying things like "hun, we need to find a home for this" or "yia yia, does this have a spot on your shelf?"  It all came to a head at Christmas.  The kids got all these new toys and clothes and it just wasn't going to work to have the clothes thrown in their dressers, and the toys in the toy bins.  I knew something had to change, and try as I might, this change was rushing in like waves in high tide, crashing with bolder smashing force.  How was I going to brace myself for this?  I was I going to keep my free-spirit intact with all this "need for change" swirling about?  

Well my husband, not exactly a Type A, but still much more "traditionally organized" than I am, and I started sorting through some things, and started putting old clothes, summer clothes, miscellaneous electronic items, less used toys, hand-me-down-clothes, and every other sort of thing in designated rubbermaid bins.  (I cringed as I realized I wouldn't be able to see through the bins and know exactly what was inside, but I decided to let it go and at least be thankful that all the things left out could be arranged however I desired.)  We don't have a garage, nor do we have extraordinarily large closets, so the task of finding the perfect home for these things was big.  I had to completely rearrange the girls' closet, moving a toy shelf over, trading spots with some hanging basket-thingys, and getting a second, lower hanging, bar for claudia to be able to hang her own clothes up.

All of this was going really well; I even enjoyed it a little.  In the girls room I was maintaining my organizational standard of "seeing everything at once" by how I arranged the closet and kept as much out of buckets and bins as possible.  Joe's room is similarly organized and so is the mud room and kitchen (albeit behind closed cabinets).  All of these small nudges and slight directions didn't seem to be taking me down too dark of a path to 'spirit doom' so I let my guard up a little bit and started to relax.  I didn't seem to be completely losing myself to this crazy process.  I was going to be alright, what was the worst that could happen?

As I slowly surrendered bit by bit and allowed the waves of "traditional organization" to crash on to my wild-spirit-home, they grew bigger and bigger culminating in one final tsunami that took my by surprise and for a minute I went under, and in that moment of chaos being tossed under those waves, something terrible happened.  I must have hit my head on the reef or something, but before I realized what was happening, in that moment when I was totally engulfed, I uttered words that are the harbinger of death for any free-spirited person such as I,

"hun, do we have a label-maker?"

GASP!  What did I just say?  Am I dreaming?  Did I actually just ASK for the tool of the enemy?  This instrument, when used properly, could spell doom (heh heh) for anyone trying to keep their unorthodox soul alive.  A tool long used to usher in a regime of rigid structure and permanency, "this item shall belong in exactly this spot, and only this spot, for eternity, or at least until you use fingernail polish remover to strip this label off"    

Fortunately as the waves subsided and I surfaced for air, I realized that being deprived of oxygen can make anyone say dangerous things, make deals with the Type A Devil, just to stay alive.  And fortunately (thank the gods of Wild and Free) the answer was "no", we do not have a label maker.  So for now, we have many rubbermaid bins, none of them clear, and all of them with contents soon to be forgotten and unknown.  Although a part of me is at odds with not knowing, another part, my renewed and secured fluidization, rejoices at the lack of structure, and looks forward to the day when, upon searching the contents of said bin, I get to dump its inventory on the floor and see everything at once.

Yosemite's Real Beauties

So I've told this story a few times, ok, more than just a few, quite a few.  I knew that I should blog about this at the time it happened, but of course I'm the Queen Procrastinator and, well, I just didn't.

But anyway, here it goes now, better late than never.

So back in August we took a family camping trip to Yosemite National Park.  There are about 50 stories I could tell about how beautiful, big, emotionally impressive and breath taking it was, but the most moving story is from our last night there.

The entire time, Claudia was really emotional, in a very good way, she was really intune with what was going on around us, the majesty of it all, and more often than I can recall she'd say something like "oh mom!  it's beautiful!  Jesus made this for us because He loves us right?!"  "yes, baby, He made all this, and made it beautiful, because He loves us."  awwwww.... yes, it really was sweet.

So the last night that we're there, we decide that we wanted to take the kids out of the forest where we were camping, and out to the meadow so they could see all the stars.  We'd brought our bikes, so we took turns, first I headed out with Claudia on my handle bars and in the pitch dark of the night, with the path illuminated with our little flashlights, we rode out of the forest into the starlit meadow and laid down to look up at the stars.

We're laying off the path, in this meadow in Yosemite Valley, cliffs with the Royal Arches on one side, and the forest and more cliffs on the other.  As we look up, you could see the whole universe.  Ok, well not really, but living in southern California, you maybe see 50 stars at night, and in the clear sky up there it was mind blowing how many stars there were.  Claudia was about to cry, again, and she says "momma look!  they're beautiful, and Jesus made them for us because He loves us so much, right?!"  "yes hun, He loves us that much."

We agree that it's not fair to leave Joe and Papa waiting, so we get back on the bike, turn on our flash lights, and head back into the dark forest to our camp.

Claudia briefly tells Darren how beautiful it was, and that she hopes they have fun too, then they take off and we sit down next to our campfire and she cozies up in my lap.

She starts to talk to me about how beautiful it all was, we look up and in the parting of the mass of trees above us, the small break in the canopy lets us see a few stars, just a fraction of what we saw a few minutes earlier, but probably still more than we ever see at home.  She keeps talking, and in a way that is very typical of her storytelling-reminiscing-memory-wandering, she starts to tell me how she missed me when she was still with Marisa, her birth mom.  Of course, she doesn't understand that she didn't actually miss me, that she didn't even know me, but because she's still young she doesn't necessarily 'remember' in chronological order.  I told her that I didn't know her yet and that's why she wasn't with me.  She started to get really sad, emotional at least, saying that she wished she just could have been in my tummy instead.  I had to explain to her that Jesus had a very unique plan for her, and that part of that was to be made inside Marisa's tummy, not mine.  And that Marisa would always have a very special part of her story, she'll always get to be her "tummy mommy", and my special part of her story is to get to be her "family mommy".  

She started to tell me a story about a time when she must have gone on a court appointed visit to see her birth mom.  At the end of the visit Marisa told her it was time to leave and Claudia had started crying saying she didn't want to go, Marisa told her that she had to, that she'd have to go back to Wendy (the temp fostermom at the time).  She was upset that they were taking her away.  Claudia turned and looked at me and said "and she didn't feel bad."  we try to help her to remember these sorts of things with as little negative subjectivity as possible so I said, "you mean she didn't cry?"  

"no, well, maybe on the inside, but I didn't see it"  

"hmmm"

"you would have cried, right mom?  if they were taking me away from you?"

"yes, Claudia, I would have cried if someone took you away."

"okay then"

She smiled, gave me a kiss and then turned back to look at the fire.  For a long time we just sat there, holding each other.  Her probably now thinking about stars, s'mores and bears and all the beautiful things we'd seen in the week we'd been there.  And me thinking about how she'd worked through a painful memory in her past, recognized that although Marisa loves her, something is definitely different about her and the kind of mom she is, and how she realized that although I didn't have her in my tummy, I would have cried if someone tried to take her, and that's the kind of mom she wants, a family mom, a real mom.  

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Memories

So the other day I was going through old pictures and I come across this one of the house I grew up in outside of Lincoln Nebraska. It was an old farm house on 13 acres of land, with another 13 or so open to ours from our neighbor. Around 3 acres was separated from the rest by a 100 year old tree line to the North and West, this was our immediate yard, meaning it was the part we had to mow and we played/ran around in. We had a pool, volleyball court, vegetable garden, expansive herb garden, picnic table and a really sweet club house, needless to say, we had a lot of space.

But most of you know I now live in Orange County California, which pretty much means everyone's homes are crowded and no one really has a yard. Certainly no one has huge tree lines or 3 acres of grass in their yard. Maybe the have a pool that takes up what small 'yard' they might have, or maybe just a gazebo. Where we are we have no yard, we just have a green strip which is really just a 2 1/2 foot wide glorified flower bed that goes around our house.

So I decide to show this photo to my kids thinking that they'll maybe find it interesting, maybe just think it looks weird, who knows, since they've grown up only in Southern California and probably haven't seen anything quite like it. I couldn't have underestimated their reaction more.

I show them the photo and say, "Look guys, this is the house I lived in when I was a little girl."

They both got really wide eyed and said almost in unison, "YOU LIVED IN THE PARK?! COOL!!!" It was really hysterical to have them think that because of all the space and trees it must be a park.

I talked to them about what it was like to live there. About having a pool, horses and other animals, a big tire swing and a hammock, lots of dogs and so many kids. They were so excited and kept going on and on about me living at the park and how neat that was. It was like I was their version of "Julie of the Wolves" growing up in this wild park. The excitement on their faces was astounding and I guess I just didn't want to ruin it for them; so I didn't tell them the truth. The truth that there are places in the world where boys and girls get to have huge trees to climb, swings, horses, swimming pools, least of all grass to run around on right in their own back yard. So I just laughed and said, "Yes, I guess I did live in the park."

As I went to a picnic today and I told this story to a friend, I looked around and realized that it looked strikingly like my yard in the photo, a tree line all the way around, with lots of grass and a picnic table off to the side. No wonder my kids think I lived at the park, that park alone easily could have had the tot-lot traded for my house in Photoshop and no one probably could tell the difference!

Of all the people I talk to that are California natives or at least "big city" natives, it never ceases to amaze me at how bizarre my life experiences must seem to them. I came from such a different world, living bare feet in fields of grass, riding bareback on horses, helping animals give birth, mowing a baseball field into our pasture during the summer so the neighbors can come over and we can all play ball. I was growing up in a country culture but with a big enough city near by that I didn't come out of it with a red neck. I can see as an adult how much those experiences and that environment played a role in who I would become and what I would value as an adult. That time, place and that way of life are still very much a part of me. My silliness, carefree attitude, love for the outdoors and of course, my aversion to shoes.

I look at that picture everyday now and when I think about where I am, how far away I am from home, and what I've left behind it makes me a new kind of lonely. Lonely not just for the simplicity I suppose, the "who cares when you got your last tetanus booster..." attitude but most of all just the "go forth and laugh out loud all the way" kind of fun where you make every moment count, and it sure does add up to a lot.

I look at the people around me and realize more and more that most of these people, if they knew my story, would probably agree with my kids, and it's probably true;

I did live in the park, and the park still lives in me.