it wasn't life or death. until it was and finally i wasn't scared.

Hello all, this was written in 70 something degree weather (last week) outside cafe bar from a pregnant nurse with a dog and cobb salad. she was a stranger but we shared a table. enjoy and all my thanks always!

Life or death. It wasn't life or death. I would tell myself. Out loud. Written down on reminders. Post its. Stuck. To myself. To to others. In the writing-in the pen-lines in the sand of the book of pages. In words formed in squiggles and straights and the cloud of my personal audio narrative hitting the airwaves of the soundtrack of this life/ our lives. I said it. But I didn't mean it. I said it to believe. Believe it was true. That I wouldn't die in this bar in running into someone who I was just decided to stop seeing, again. That I wouldn't die in this interview. Or in the pounding muscle of my heart in the first date. Or in this car. When I am not driving. I can see the snap of the fingers into the loss of control. Or in the confines of this plane. Across this bridge- the long ones and even the short ones. The height and distance of no return made me feel like I would die. But it wasn't life or death.

When the words- and the yoga- and the acupuncture- and the herbal remedies and the therapy and all the other coping mechanisms of anxiety failed. Anxiety predetermined in genetics and reenforced in environment. When these true and tried ways failed-I would resort to my xanax. Xanax prescribed for the confinement of planes crossed of over to first dates- just a quarter- to breakups- probably half- to first interviews- a quarter or a half to be sure. It wasn't life or death and I could believe it if I kept the safety of my flotation device in the small zipper in my red vintage purse with a bow. Just in case. Open upon emergency. Break the glass. Break into a piece. Swallow without anyone seeing. Hidden from everyone me. It wasn't life or death.

Until one day it was. It was life or death. And I stand in the water in a swimsuit no emergency prescription freedom to make it less so. Just me in a swim suit surrounded in melted snow of a lake. And it was life or death. And I was calm. No pace of my heart- uncomfortable in and out of this body. No wanting to run away. Just seeing and doing of the slowness of a firefighter upon arrival. As I looked out beyond, I knew they were in trouble. I yelled for help. And the swimming. First my brother. I knew right away. She needed help. I am not frozen in fear but I am unsure to follow or stay. Help I say and another one is moving. He moves through the water a brisk slow no splashing stroke. Gliding. I just follow. Talking calmly. Letting her know we are coming. We are coming. You are going to be okay.

The calm movement of their pace- the sail boat of them arrive to her. Turned over and floating. And all three moving to shore as one. She sits in the beginning part of the lake cradled by the bottom her toes could not find. The water visiting her. And then leaving again. It mimics her breathing. My body caresses the sand, the bottom of this lake, next to her. We embrace and you are okay and you did a great job are the only words that can be produced from this mouth. We walk slowly on the sand. Footprints in and out. Proof we are there. Were there. I need milks-she breaths.

It was life or death and finally I wasn't scared. And somehow the life of the death of it all happening really happening made all the worry and worry and work and escape and working on not being scared toss away and gave birth finally to faith. Faith in myself. Finally it had been life or death and I wasn't scared.

it's official: i ain't martha stewart of femininity

hello all-

i am back from the heaven of tahoe. the lake that can make anyone complete. thanks for stopping by. this is written from the prompt, cleaning. and now i am back from vacation. maybe i'll clean my room. maybe. all my thanks always! enjoy!

Cleaning. I have never been good at cleaning. I spent more time trying to negotiate out of cleaning my room then actually cleaning it. It seemed to snowball in my teenage years when my life became a pitter patter of busyness and activities and sports and responsibilities and the socializing all more important than the actual business of the cleaning of the room. My father- I would tell him dad other girls are pregnant or doing drugs in my sad attempt at trying to get out of the cleaning of my room. Without skipping a beat of the drum of parenthood he threw back my way- I don't give a shit about them, get up there and clean your room.

Things haven't changed much. I will go on streaks when I try to actually put clean clothes away upon the exiting out of the dryer. There will be times I will dance with a cleaning once a week. But nothing sticks in this department. I am too busy. I have better things to do. Its sunny outside. I got to relax. Anything and everything to avoid it.

It surprises me. Because I do a good job of attacking most things head on the unmentionables of life that people hush about out loud or in their own inner dialogue the court reporter in their own very heads. But why not address this? My clothes always look clean and so do I even if I skip the shower too. I will never be the Martha Stewart of femininity-I would have failed as a cookie cutter of cleanliness as a 1950s housewife. But what about me that I can't face it. The clothes strewn about. The wrapper of a dark chocolate bar for before bed time. Receipts that provide a record of how I spend my time. Papers and more papers.

Cleaning. I am good at cleaning the soul. Cleaning what I should. Cleaning enough to squeak by. But maybe it is the spending the time on cleaning up myself and others that I just can't face the physicality of this task. I know most experts, those who specialize in clutter and hoarding and the such would tell me the room reflects my psyche. That it is cluttered and unmanageable and out of control. But I don't feel that way. I feel calmer than I have in years. My yoga mat being one of my clutter free zones. I should place in on my bed to zen me out. To begin the cleaning.

I really hate the loneliness of cleaning the room. But I don't mind the cleaning of the soul, yours and mine and others. Maybe we all get a speciality and mine has more to the organizing the hard questions and the lifting sometimes heavy and the folding of dreams and behaviors and dusting away the old to become someone new.

Today. Today I might have cleaned my room. My room. If I hadn't been on vacation. On vacation. From the cleaning. The cleaning I do. And the cleaning I still need to. You never really get a break from the working on yourself. And my work. My choice of work. Of the listening and moving and helping. The cleaning of humans but still letting the messiness of them survive while they do the heavy lifting for themselves. Sometimes you just need someone there to help you clean. I know I do.

the slowing frenzy of life, of companionship

this urbanite was in the mountains with wildlife but now i am back for just a moment. written from the prompt frenzy. enjoy and thanks for stopping by as always!

The frenzy was gone. The movement rapid slowed to a pace that keeps the clock ticking more slowly. As I sit across from myself. I sit next to groups of twos and observe. Observe while write. Observe while read. The slow frenzy allows it to slow down in pace so much that I can watch. And learn. To my left sits an unusual couple of a man with a turned up hat and scruffy beard who raises his voice upon talking of work across from him a short hair and stripe shirt vertical tucked into a khaki skirt, hair bobbed to match female. Unusual pairing and then the eating. And being done. How are you? How are you? To each other. Let's walk. She says. Let's go home. He says. What do you want me to get in shape? On the sunniest day we have had in days, weeks, months. And as he reaches down for her leg the calm frenzy of companionship. And as he pays and she corrects his tip they walk together out separating in tables and coming together again to meet at the corner and hold hands across the street for the walk, the walk home.

To my right. A couple of friends. Talking about the frenzy of relationships. Failed. Many. Failed. Ones. It being over. And done. Again. I didn't touch him. I didn't want to touch him when we were together. Where did he sleep? You only have one bed. I just need to move on says the wavy reddish haired woman in a vintage piece picked up in the mission. Maybe I'll move to New Orleans. I need to move someone new. Somewhere hot. Her companion tight skin jeans paint her body skinny. I know I get it. I moved to LA. The slowing down from the frenzy makes us ask what is next. And what is next. The splitting of the bill. And the walking away around the tables and meeting again. At the corner to walk across the street in unison without holding but moving together. The same path as the others.

I long for a frenzy. A frenzy of companionship that doesn't scare me but excites me. A frenzy of warmth. A frenzy of movement. But the slow with the fast together would make it complete. He says he wants something more stable for me. As do I. Along this road. I have had the frenzy brought on quickly but without the calmness of closeness that I long for a little bit longer. And each time it starts it feels different. It does. But somehow in the slowing down of the frenzy of life, I have stopped moving and started watching. Watching others. Watching myself. Watching what happens when I long for what I don't have and get what I do. The frenzy of a companionship that travels far and wide but allows me to see it all happening beyond just me, just beyond just us, beyond what is next.