it was over 365 days ago when i choose to keep my heart in one piece

It was over 365 something days I decided. I decided. To keep my heart in one piece. And I succeeded. I did it. My heart stayed inside this very chest. It did not fly on to the floor in a million something pieces. I did not need a bungee cord or super glue to put it back together. I did not lay on the ground kicked in the stomach saying why me again?  I did not need a therapist to hold my hand to walk outside. Alone. I did not lay in a puddle of my own despair. Not anymore.  What happened? It is not a disney story. For those only exist in the confines of tvs and screens and movie theaters not the reality of every day. Storybooks of childhood of happy endings made easy.  What happened? It was not sexy. It was boring. It grew tired. I grew tired from the lack of excitement without the crash and burn and the quick fire repetitions of love affairs. I grew lonely. Boredom. Now. It was not pretty this keeping together of this heart. Loneliness foreign.

What happened next was. Was I learned how to play hide and seek with boredom, I let loneliness become my friend and no longer an enemy sown together-it lost its power. I let the desire for the excitement bubble outside of me in other ways. I said out loud what I wanted while my heart was held together in all its entirety. I stopped looking. And somewhere along the line, I surrendered. My own rendition of a child's pose.  In this game of love. And turned a new page, created a new story.

A new story of my attempt at love. For the first time in the history of Kate. I kept my heart in one piece and allowed life to happen in a way I did not take every opportunity and make it happen now. Right now. Because what if it was our only chance?  But I let go. Because I could not stomach another heart wrenching demise. And I woke up into. A new story. Of a relationship. Possibility. Just because you get a new story, does not mean you get a new ending. It does not just work that way.

But could be breaking the curse of loser guys and dismantling not getting what I need and the storyline of falling for ideas of people-outlines of real men- being over. Be enough. Could my heart being in one piece. And me being okay. Even if this might be over. That in this ending. My heart staying in one piece. Might mean. It all is different. In a way I wanted. In a way I have always wanted. In a way I had never dreamt. That goodbye might not be the shatter of the pulse and core of me. But instead. Letting go. To see what might be next. For us. Or just me. But no matter what this pitter patter that stays with me enclosed in its home of protection. Hasn't left.

I said over 365 days ago I could not survive another heart break. And as I stand here. Thinking of what will be next. My heart is in one piece. And knowing there is more. More of this to come. Might be the greatest gift. Of all. By myself or with him. Or someone else. I know I am not broken. Anymore. So many times it took. For me to stand here. Really stand here. And my promise to myself unbroken. And this story engrained on my heart has changed and so have I.  

unexpected things happen. every single day.

hello all- written this late spring from the prompt of the last thing I expected. I wrote about three things that happened unexpectedly. enjoy! and as always thanks all my thanks! ps thanks giants for that win!

The last thing I expected was to be caught in the rain. Again. The sun makes appearance and viola we forget the impeding weather reports-we forget what the last few weeks have brought us-we forget. So as I walk. Walk briskly for my break outside the rectangular walls of education-of learning of pushing and pulling into become ourselves. There it is-the drizzle and me-no umbrella, no jacket, and no one of my favorite purchases-adult rain boots. I walked still. To get the coffee pay for it. I had last week and a salad. For today. I walked naked there. No protection.

The last thing I expected was to open up my computer and see what I saw in it. As I did my morning routine of checking my students grades. I started talking to myself and almost fell of my chair- in happiness. For two of my students, two of my students some teachers had forgotten, had written off, not because of any negative attribute other than fatigue and overwork and under love, had done it. They had gone from failing to not. They had gone from bad grades to good. And in opening it and excitement for their progress-I didn't expect this great news-although there was work and plans and parents. But the bigger part believed they could make a change. And taste success as they smile meekly. It does taste good. And when I told one of the students favorite teachers the news. So that is the good news he said, what is the bad. I told him, there is none. Unexpected to him. The expectation high finally found. I walked in the smile of all three of us as I walked away.

The last thing I expected was to hurt a child with a underwear box. See there in the recycling laid two boxes of men's xist underwear packaging. A budding 10 year old was embarrassed by this. Why would my dad put that in there? To recycle. Yes, but can we turn it over. I don't want to see the front. The front donning a man with perfectly formed abs and arms and showing him sitting in the boxer briefs all in black and white. I would rather see the back. The butt I say. What is wrong with the front? You know. Her eyes look up in a knowingly growing into a woman way. Are his abs not strong enough? Shake head to the right. And left. Do you not like his arms? Shake again.

And then there is choice to run after her with the box. Just to make a little fun. Just to do it. But in the running and fun I by accident bumped her face with the box of the underwear model. And the unexpected words of since you hurt me with the underwear box-do you mind picking me up and swinging around? Unexpected. The unexpected happens. Every single day.

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 messiness of just being free: the gift my parents gave me of mud pies and staying dirty

What I remember best about childhood was the freedom. The freedom of play. I remember sitting on my tree swing crafted by father. The wood underneath my very tiny boney butt and the two distinctive pieces of yellow rope intertwined together around and around to the top of the tree. That yellow rope was my dad's signature rope. It was on my swing. It was on things he fixed around the house. On our Christmas tree when tied about our blue Volkswagen. And on this swing I would sit and swing and then sit. And just be. Staring outside and up into the clouds. And closing my eyes and taking my legs to my butt and lengthening out past my feet. Over again and again. My eyes closed brought darkness but this light show created in light and movement created colors and shapes. As I moved another show created. I spent time staring in and out and swinging. The freedom of just being there. And doing nothing. But daydreaming and looking and seeing and closing my eyes to create my own freedom of what I wanted to see.

My backyard was covered in vegetables my parents had planted in boxes built by my father. My seeds in with them and the dirt off to the side to place the seeds. And what would happen next. Would it grow? My label put upon a piece of wood and waiting. And in the dirt. The dirt I played. In afternoons of mud pies made for each one of my family and friends. And eaten very quickly and started again. Dumping it out to begin again. The mud caked my fingers and painted on my face and arms and sprayed onto my clothes. The texture of it. The mud. The way to make the perfect mud pie. Grabbing just enough mud and spreading it around the tin. With a design on top. And presenting it to my parents or my friends even if they weren't sitting next to me. The freedom to play in mud and not care if I was dirty. I wanted to be. And no one told me to clean up. They let me play in mud.

And I still like to get dirty. Maybe because I have had issues with spilling. Or it reminds me of what was. And every time I see a parent scold a child for having paint left over from a school project on them or the evidence of an ice cream smeared upon their face. I cringe. Because the freedom of not caring should be given to children. They have their rest of their lives to pretend to be perfect and clean. Let's give them this. The swings and the mud and the messiness of just being free.

What I remember best of my childhood was this freedom my parents gave me. In the chaos that was my home sometimes-this place this gift they gave me-when they weren't in the abyss of figuring themselves out. Somehow I had the freedom and the responsibility of adultness as a child in the worrying and caregiving and anticipating what would be next. And as much as I sometimes wish for a different childhood, I can't ignore what my parents gave me. The freedom to be a child. Sometimes. That allows me to be light and be free still in ways I know that without that swing to be swung made for only me or the mud pie tins filled with mud never needing to be cleaned-I might not have grown and flourished. Into who I became.

inheritance of the luck of the green eyes

I can say it was the luck of the green eyes. The luck of the mistake of green eyes. For they are a mistake. Missing on the punnet square of brown and blue. My father's eyes a deep blue like his mother's. Her Irish eyes became his. My mother's eyes more green and blue changing like the seasons and the ocean. I inherited my mother's eyes too. Her Irish eyes. And for with the luck of the green eyes I have skipped and jumped and jumped and crawled and ran and walked and fell throughout my life. And with these eyes I see. I see the scene around me. I see the inner workings of someone. What they could be. I see the unspoken words. I see the injustice and ask. Why? I see the look in the eyes of another. Letting me know they are there. Right there. Are if they have left and moved to another spot.

These eyes have taken in the secrets from friends and strangers alike. These eyes are my number one complement. I get. I have received. My entire life. From friends. From strangers. From strangers of friends. From family. Even from students. I began to say thanks my mother let me borrow them-they are her eyes.

But really they are mine. I inherited them ago upon my father and mother making me. Opened outside the womb for the first time. Outside I didn't want to leave the safety of her stomach. Late I was. Opened eyes to the world. And given my constant reminder of these eyes. The beauty of them. The drawing in. To speak of them. And look of them. And the reminder of these eyes being from my mother. I can't help but wonder what these eyes mean. What do these irish green changing with my shirt and with the conditions of my eyes glowing even more when I cry? What do they mean? Mean to have something that others adore. Mean to have something unique. Mean to have something that is a beautiful mistake. And as I blink again. And again.

I can't help but wonder about the luck of the green eyes. The beauty of a mistake a mix of brown and blue into me. My eyes. And in looking and seeing I know I see it differently. And for that my own uniqueness of these eyes similar to my mothers. But my own. They are my own. But a reminder. Reminding me. She is always with me. Still.

For the drawing in of these eyes might be the same. The same. But who looks at these eyes. And speak words of truth differently. These eyes are my own. My own gift. My own luck. My own Irish. My own way to connect for it is more than the eyes themselves the colors ever changing. Its about the way I see. That makes this journey and those who speak to me all the more interesting. So my struck of green luck I view the world through them and in it I see it all, the beauty and pain and laughter and a world I dreamt up myself, a world I try and create. And somehow through it all I see the glowing future. As I blink again and the lines around my eyes soften. Thank you, I say.

my grandmother still tucks me when she visits me in my dreams

The place where she felt the most comfortable was in a bed. A small twin bed next to another in a room where the cars say a quick hello and goodbye as they travel up and down the street. The comforter was dated probably from the 70's near the time of her birth and there was a starchy feel to it. But underneath-no underneath-there were sheets and blankets touched by fabric softener. The softness of a night light illuminated the room even when she reached adulthood. You need to be able to find the bathroom, her grandmother told her. 


 But the best part of this room, this room away from home was what would happen before she would sleep into the morn. You see she would be tucked in by her grandmother- even when its expiration date of adulthood- had occurred. The talking and the love of warmth of someone tucking you in. I was able to have that gift into my mid 20s. My grandmother, my mother figure since my early days of elementary school, she tucked me in . And never did I feel so loved. Never did I feel so comfortable. I learned from her how to love and care and have strength in caring for someone. You could be both motherly and feminine and have strength to stand up for yourself and others. Her fire became mine. Her height mine as well.

I had forgotten about the feel of her hands against the side of my body pushing the blankets perfectly to hold my body into comfort, into love, until I dreamt of it. The other night, I was again in that guest room, my borrowed room, and there she was tucking me in. I felt the warmth of her as I opened my eyes to daylight and felt her touch my side as the dream fading and I felt as if she was still there, comforting me. Fear started and then relief. Don't be scared. I told myself. For those who have loved us and left us not because they wanted to but because they had to-sometimes come back. Come back. In memories. And in dreams.

And I can't help but think that my most comforting moments of my life were delivered to me again by the woman I love and miss so much. A sign. A message. And comfort that can still extend through time. And distance. And death. Her comfort, her love, her example of strength and care lives and breathes inside of me. The dream is just a reminder of the comfort that lives on beyond the confines of life and death. I can't help but think she visited me to remind me, remind me before my birthday, that I am still comforted by her and she, she stills lives inside of me-in memories and in traits and in sayings. As I look down at my fingers and look at her mother's ring with one stone for each one of her children- my uncle, my aunt, my aunt, my father-and the the cladding ring, I can't help but think she is with me now. She gave me gifts and now she is watching to see what I will do with them.

ghost of boyfriend past

hello all-

thanks for stopping by as always and hope you are and have been enjoying this sun that we have had shining on us regularly. written from the prompt stillness after a ghost of boyfriend past sighting at yoga. enjoy.

Stillness. I found myself in stillness as I found my place on the last steps to this new yoga studio. For the man who had visited me in my dream last night someone who I hadn't seen in months and haven't heard from either- stood to the right of me. As I look right, I see the shape of a head looking down that could only be his. Tightly shaved and looking down upon a device. And then his stance opened up ever so slightly with the flip flops I would recognize anywhere. Stillness found me as I spoke to register for the class and my last name fashioned more audibly than needed out loud so he could turn around to see me. But Bueler rolled off my lips and no turning of his head. He does yoga now? The inner dialogue begins to quicken. But stillness of should I move to him. Stillness of what to do next. Stillness I want to feel in yoga class is now my heart pounding in and out and in stillness of uncertainty.

I walk slowly. Purposefully. And walk gently past the man. To see his profile, to see him and ready for what might be next. And as I walk he turns his head to mine and my strong eyes he felt and the familiarity of his head and his shape and his dress are just that-they are not him and the things I thought were his but belong to a different man. As soon as he turns to me-both relief and a twinge of disappointment fall out of me. For as much as I don't like the uncomfortable especially in my yoga time there is a piece of me that would like to see him. Again. In a yoga class at that. And just see him. For a few minutes and feel his warm and kind eyes upon me and this time hope that all is more calm for him. And that the rapid pace of our love affair and his life that reflected that would feel different.

As relief pours out of me more than the disappointment. Stillness becomes me again as I sit down on my mat and remain still. Breathing in and out even though the edge of anticipation is still moving through the rivers of my body to my heart. This heart where it all has lived. Always. I become more still in being here. In this class. And as I move through the breathing and legs up and down, I can't help but notice this man, the man who I thought was someone else, a person away from me on his mat. As I lean into my poses on my right side of my warrior, I study the back side of this man. While breathing of course. In and out. His build- wide and coming down- his muscles toned but not daunting are the same. The dusting of leg hair and arm hair and the hands-the hands-I used to hold , held onto too long are the same too.

I used to study the man, the man I had a relationship with until I knew him in ways we didn't anticipate. And here in yoga stands a man from behind that looks exactly like him. A reminder of what was is breathing and in stillness lives with me. Right now besides me on a yoga mat. Before in a bed where we laid together. But he no longer resides once where he did in this heart. In and out breathing until I am looking down. To the next pose. The reminder of what was lives inside of us and sometimes in stillness we see someone who used to mean so much and now we can see from afar and in the reminder and in the stillness, we breath and move and know that it is time and has been to look forward. In stillness, I do as I push down my hands to the earth.

falling rain walking in redemption

thanks for stopping by as always. written from the prompt faith after a hard day at school. and so happy for a break in the clouds. i need the sun now.

Faith. As the cross between rain and mist saturate my skin with a spa touch I know I have to have faith. Faith in my work. Faith in my students. Faith in redemption and the possibility of it. As I open those doors from my public to private life to walk home-the drizzle brings a great relief that I don't find myself covering up or protecting myself from it. The dampness of the spray brings a relief from a hard day. Relief from what just happened and relief in the possibility of my faith as I step one foot in front of another. The wet sprays my face relieving and allowing for my own wetness to fall. I move slowly as I walk home. With sadness in my eyes, with contemplation across my lips, with disappointment living on my nose, faith finds a place in the lines between my eyes and loosens my face. It is strange when you have this look how many people mostly men will look at you. And try to speak to you. As if your sadness might be a sign of weakness a biological need to be saved. No one to save me. But this water washing over me to begin again. But this put the foot in front of the other. But the faith I found in believing. In believing in the possibility of change.

Yesterday at school my student got caught for a serious offense. An offense that included the dean and the authorities and his family members. A kind of offense that gets you kicked out of school. A kind of offense that gets you a record. At first as I heard the news, I sat down and it slipped off me. There was a pause and disappointment. But it wasn't until I saw his face. His face before he made the walk down the hall and the stairs to a future he was uncertain of. A conversation I knew was about to happen. He walked not knowing what was to come. I stood in that hallway watching him walk away and I froze. Do I go after him to say anything? Do I let him walk along side this security guard to his destiny? I let him face it alone. Part of this job is letting go. Letting them fly alone. But knew and hoped that I might be able to talk to him. For this moment. But to let him know we were still here. Here for him. For I might not see him again. And a relationship built in writing during a volunteer project became me giving him cliff bars and taking walks and discussions about life and future and choices. There was a gift in that.

As I walked in to the room. I didn't know what I was to say. He looked up into my face. And the first thing he did was cry. Wetness fell down his face. He had held it together until he saw me. Someone who believed in him, someone who he had disappointed. Someone who he trusted and shared more than with many. And in that moment. I know the only thing I can do is sit there. Be there. Help him get through this moment. And let him know. He is more than this. More than a dealer. For he is. As he wipes away the tears, we all are heavy in the sorrow of mistakes made and what would happen next. Consequences are important to make us stop. Stop in our tracks. And the choice we have to decide whats next. Choose right or left. I didn't leave his side until I had to. I knew that being there and caring was more important than the yelling and lecturing and legal troubles that would come.

Faith in myself to do the right thing or what I think it is. Faith in this student to be who he dreams. Faith that as I walk, walk home that we all get chances again. I have to believe in redemption. I have to. But now it is something he must face alone. Not with me by his side. But I have faith. That I still might sit there. For him. And as I become more wet from the sky donation above, it washes over me. As I start again too.

when chasing dreams, it is hard to stay in the back of this boat

What I finally decided to say was ask if he still wanted the dream we had all been working towards. I finally decided to ask him what he wanted. Right now. You see this happens sometimes. We get excited over a student who is dreaming big especially one who had not had the opportunity before who dreams had not been allowed for him in this way. Not by choice. By the accident of being born in a neighborhood with different pressures. No he could dream. But only so big. His dreams could not expand into others or be bigger than himself. And there he went along in life. Making choices. And when he finally got to me. It turned out this student who never thought the words college would cross across his lips, a student who never thought he could say it without someone laughing. He after multiple high schools and a path I allowed to stay in the past. He could still go to college.

So once we found out and he said the words. We jumped in the boat and all started paddling fiercely. For we could not let this new dream die. The death of it. Would kill us too. The obstacles so great, so big, that he needed the extra assistance through the rough waters around this school, around this home. The waves kept on trying to capsize us. But every time we braved it. And peaceful waters would return. His father would drive over the bridge just to bring some money for his college application. He would decide to go to a safer location for the SAT-these are realities you might understand, I might not understand.

But you see somewhere along the line I realized I was in the front of the boat with a colleague and I wasn't sure where the student was. If he was on board at all. Had we lost him on the this last ride against the current? I looked back and saw his face. His eyes distant. His face solemn. The excitement of the dream was dwindling. I realized I had to ask him what he wanted. I realized I had to tell him we wouldn't be disappointed. I realized we could support him in his next step and that didn't have to be a four year college. And once I realized-I had to tell him. The dream didn't die it just changed. And his face relieved in thank you and I didn't want to disappoint you.

We are still on that ship. We just needed to change our positions of the rowing. We still have to go against the current for the temptations are great. The greatest gift of all was the dream. That he could dream and we could believe in him. But in not asking him. We forgot him. But once we remembered it wasn't our dream and our life but his. We did what we could to keep that ship destination bound. Knowing it can stay afloat with our help but he needed to be manning the ship.

The dream didn't die. It just changed. For a dream outside of the street quickness is the dream of most of my students- it looks different and feels different and it is hard work for them and for us. But really what I had to say was I made a mistake when I decided to get in the front of that boat and not move. That is what I said. That is what he heard. And together we still paddle. In unison.

built with love: the safety of a picture window

Dreaming. I lay upon my back upon the small piece of grass in front of my duplex home in the f section and stare above. Above me- the clouds move. Just watching the movement of the clouds- cotton balls that I always dreamed I could walk on. My younger self- stared up wishing to walk upon the clouds even though I was told I would fall through. That the clouds would not hold my weight even as a small child. But somehow I thought if I ever got that high I could walk, walk upon those large drifty cotton balls. Cotton balls of cotton candy pinkish sometimes when the sun is drifting away. I dream of jumping between the clouds not falling through. Where to. I didn’t know. Then or now.

I still find my self looking up at the clouds. Today. And stopping and watching the quickness of the changing canvas along the blue. I alert the kids to the good clouds ahead while driving up and down the hills to our next destination. At the stop light, I say I have always wished I could go up to the clouds. K responds, you can you just need the right ladder. Dreaming.

Dreaming. I used to dream there were witches under my bed. And in my closet. So often that I couldn’t sleep in my bubble gum ice cream pink smeared room. Pink everywhere upon my request. Then. I couldn’t sleep and found refugee down the long hallway in between the two parts of me- my mother and father. Darkness around me. I thought. But the nightlight never forgotten to be put on by him or her after my reading. I found them each time.

Dreaming. Of witches. My witches dream. Became a problem. They kept coming. And my father did what he could to bring me comfort. In my closet- one of the locations where they would come in my dreams. He built the safety of a picture window only a father could. In it was a picture of trees and sun and clouds. Drawn by him in pencil and then in color. Lined in the only color I thought should exist pink, pink window panes. He pulled down the string of the light he had lengthened so my five year old hands could reach.

And there was my very own picture window. My own blanket. My own safety. From the witches. See Katie he said you don’t have to be scared anymore. My picture window. A picture window from my father. Was the only thing that kept me from the witches in my dreams. And got me to dream. Again. In my own bed. In my own room. Light on in the closet. So I could keep the window. In my view.

bringing down the house- they say time heals everything

Time was the explanation. Give her the time, they said. With words only spoken in ways you can’t capture not by a camera or to inscribe in a book or another location to replay at another time. No these words of give her time. Are transmitted through the looks of communication that you can only understand if you are paying attention. These words of time are spoken through the eyes. The look comes toward your own and the sense of acknowledgement that yes this sucks, yes we would rather be talking about anything else, and sorry all mixed into the perfection of the attempt at empathy.

Time. Time was all she had. Had been given. By me. By her. By him. By all of us. She had been given all the time in the world. To be someone else. To be herself. To be anything but who she was now? Because what she was now. Now she was nothing anything you would wish for anyone. Anyone at all. But especially not your mother. A mother who birthed you. Who loved you. Who fought for you. Now a stranger familiar only by blood and forgotten on purpose and remembered always memories.

I look at a picture of her. And can tell. She is telling a joke. Right then. But how? When my cousin purchases her cowboy boot slippers I laugh and speak as if I am speaking of a normal mother existence, mom will love those. The words come out easily as if any of this is easy. Because in time I have forgotten. That part of this wit. These funny bones I inherited. I inherited from her. Time we have given her. Her to be normal. But in time I had forgotten when she was. Was. And that she still can live inside of me. Even if it has been all the time in the world since I have seen her face. My own face. In her eyes. That I only have too. I forgot about my ability to remember. Remember things in a photographic way-the ability to remember how and when I met someone years ago, the transcript of life pulls quickly out the top of my head. That it was hers, it was hers first. Time can’t change that. Time hasn’t.

We have given her all the time in the world. To get the help. She needs. Help that none of us can give her. No matter how many degrees we get. Or how many lives we save. Breathing life into the others. So much easier. But your mother. My mother. Give her time, they say. But that is what we have always given her. Time. And now time has passed. Passed. That I am no longer the eighteen year old she last saw on that park bench budding with adulthood. For now I am an adult. And in adding up the years. You realize time is all she has. But time is what she has lost. Lost.

So this time. As every time. You hope it will be different. That she will in fact seek the help she really needs. Needs. Time can only explain so much. Time can only give us so much. We have to do something. Too. Ourselves. For me time allowed for me to walk and run and play and breathe life for myself. I had to forget about her most of the time. But never forever. Forever. Because I still hope that the help she needs, the help that time can provide her, the help that is possible can be hers. So that when we look back upon this story-my own story of my mother and me and everyone who has loved her-we can say she had more than time, she had finally found the answer.

ode to the wimpiness of the this californian still yearning for a real snowfall, just one of course

this is dedicated to my lovely roomie who provided me with a british make hot water bottle for my bed to heat up. i was reluctant to believe as well. but it worked. also to all my friends who held my hand through my borrowed east coast winters. thinking about you always. based on the quick write for heating up! enjoy!

Heating up in the warmth of my covers and personal heater and layers. I am frozen. Mostly because I went outside not equipped for this now impending winter. It was 70 something a few days ago and now I am reading mid 50s. I couldn’t warm up all afternoon- all evening. I heated up soup and tea and myself in this bed and nothing seemed to work. But soon I was fast asleep in this cocoon of heat. I did wake up sweaty and realized I was defrosted again.

I am wimp. I realize that I am the northern Californian make and snow angels and snow days were not mine until adulthood. By choice. I was shocked the winter lasted so long sometimes 6 months. I was shocked it snowed on my birthday every single year I lived on the east coast April not too late for snow. I was shocked to learn about wind chill and scarves up your neck with just your two eyes out. I was shocked to leave my house quickly and land flat on my back. Laying there in my apartment parking lot. Not knowing what hit me. Because I was naïve. I am a Californian. Black ice and wind chill and snow storms were left to the movies. Were left to other people’s lives. Hats were for style not for luxury. Winter jackets- never really did I need one. I had to prepare for this new life I was embarking. Buying my first down coat. Heating up.

But even in the chilliness of months I did find things that heated me up. A snowball fight of childhood lived as an adult. Laying on my back snow angels mine for the first time. The movement of the sand of my upbringing now upon this snow. Back and forth. The walking in the snow before anyone else had. Your foot slowly begins its descend toward the bottom of the pool, the tub of the ground. Days when the snow didn’t get cleaned in time and New York City would slow to a halt. A city yearning for a pause. And walking up and down Amsterdam, people now as cars. Cars not running, no buses, no hustle, no bustle. Just the soft noise of the snow slushy against our feet. And warmth inside and around. We are walking on a New York City street. Where usually you might need a prayer just to cross. To the park. Snow everywhere you can see. The beauty of the whiteness before the cityness gets to it.

I complain about the cold. But I do miss the winters I borrowed for a few years. I do dream of a snow fall outside upon my San Francisco street so I can feel the sand of snow now at home and hear the quietness of sound of my foot steps on the pillow of the snow. The slowing down and the happiness of it when it first falls that would be my request. One good snowfall and back to my cold enough winter in the 50’s. Teasing me first with a few 70 degrees days before it decides to make its entrance. Again.

image: courtesy of life magazine. http://www.life.com/image/56831621

they forgot to put that in the manual

hello friends, have an amazingly great and beautiful thankful filled holiday. i am thankful for so much and since i started this project i have been thankful for your kind words and eyes upon this page. be well. check comments on this piece inspired by the prompt saving it at creative caffeine

As I drive my car on this frigid morning down this one-way street. Leaves fly like paper strips over my head. And then there are few stuck. Holding onto this windshield its tentacles not letting go of the glass. The brownish greenish colors grow and starts making that tick tick tick sound of movement upon the car. I ponder those. As the last one drifts away likes the other. There was no saving it.

I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it-the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.

And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understands my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest.

I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What to do in a crisis in a school-not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.

there is no regret in wearing a dirty shirt to watch baseball at a bar

hello friends- thanks for stopping by. enjoy the double whammy of the world series and halloween. if you live in san francisco it is most definitely on. . . all my thanks-always!


There should be no regret in being a sports fan. No there shouldn’t be. But a few weeks ago when this all started and I donned my bright orange shirt woman’s make in the mission I stood alone. Except a few rogue guys. There is something about the mission that had made its residents think that being monolithic included not caring about sports, but the arts, and fixies, and coffee you pay 4 dollars for, and the next foodie food cart. But the reality is you can rock the mission lifestyle with a giant’s shirt as a female. There shouldn’t be regret in that.

And now now with the change in the climate. I am not alone but in a sea of orange and black. People strangers yell at me go giants and the score without me asking. I am not alone. I stand with the others in the sea of the underdogs. The abyss of my family’s team, the history of the forced games I watched while growing up and dating now by I watch by choice. By choice I have sat at a bar by myself to watch. The history of my father sneaking in our very own hot dogs in a thermos to save money but taking us to the worshipped game. And explaining the ins and outs. I still call him to clarify when I am confused. Sometimes I might know more than my male counterpart bar neighbor- only in the mission- only with the band guys.

But there is a strange sense of community that brews in feeling connected with strangers, with neighbors, with people you might never have high 5ed or picked up or spoke to. Isn’t it strange to believe in a team that dances around dirt and grass and slides and jumps and hits and breaks enough to make us forgot ourselves for a moment and remember we in fact are connected? Connected we always have been. Community in not just the orange and black but everyday, everyday but now we wear our uniforms and say our hellos and I just don’t want it to stop. To have everyone return to looking down at their personal devices or talking loud about nothing or just pretending not to see those next to them.

My own fashion has suffered- I have two giants shirt in rotation and wear my shirt clean or not every time they play. People talk to me. And sometimes there is an edge to their words. Sometimes the go giants especially after a 4 hour game and more beers thrown down their throats slows down and tries to be a come-on. Go giants in this sloppy sultry eyes staring attentively- go giants they say. Those guys outside of the bars. The number one pick up line is go giants for now. The mixture of winning and belonging and beer makes them want to score too. A man tried to exchange numbers with me through a closed window of my car. Go giants. I have been shocked by the ability for the homeless folks to have giant’s gear and wear it on the right game days. Impressive to say the very least.

My city has changed. Maybe only momentarily. But enough for me never to regret wearing dirty shirts to watch baseball games at bars by myself. By myself I won’t be for long.

the real nanny diaries- they don't call me the help, they call me family

hello friends- all i can say other than the lovely post below is i believe in you giants!!!!

Learning how to love someone as your own and care in ways you didn’t know possible. Changing your schedule just to pick up a forgotten guitar, for there will be no lessons without that guitar and there will be no surprise and hug and run around the school yard, thank you, thank you, I love you Kate, you are the best.

Somewhere along the line I forgot this was my job. I do things because I want to not because their parents pay me. I go to their plays and talk to their teachers about their progress and their friends know my name and to their parents about how to negotiate in the task of raising kids. Raising kids together. We are learning how.

Because with one house with mom and another house with dad and me in between I am learning how still how to be just their advocate and their foundation. It is not a role that is foreign. Because there once was me in the middle of my parents not in the same way. Between houses. But between them. While they were married. While they fought over us. While I bounced from one relatives house to the next. We never got to the back and forth between houses part. No we skipped that.

Learning how to be there and welcome the attitude I might get from the almost tween. No I am not saying goodbye. Or when the 7 year old refuses to eat his food without coaxing. I know, I am learning that this is part of what happens when you move from being the help to being family. You see more and get more both the good, the bad, and the ugly. If they never said an unkind thing to me they would show me they loved me less. Because in being real, you might not be sugary sweet like the food they desire daily.

I know that when I pick them up after a long day of high school of highs and lows of being a teenager, of heartbreaks, and how to get into college, or how to be a NCAA athlete. Do you want this apple Ms. Bueler- one students offers. I don’t take their food- I give them food- because they usually are hungry. Hungary for so much more than I can give. Than I can give with these almonds or strawberries or z bars. I know that when I see these two faces. I warm up with happiness and the day whatever happened drifts away. Away for a bit. I am there with them. There right now. Right then. Just skipping down the street or chasing the next snack or adventure or game to watch. Or how many of their meal worms have made it at school.

I know, I am learning that they know they are loved. Loved in a way that all children should feel. So when Y states don’t worry Kate will protect us. She is strong. And she would never let anyone hurts us. I am learning, still learning, to love someone as my own. And learning her safety she feels with me might be the greatest gift of all.

the arrival of a brief love affair with my new eye doctor. . . during our appointment

An arrival of a new but brief love affair occurring between the hours of 2:45 and 4 pm on Saturday afternoon. Warm but not too warm. I wore my jeanskirt and v neck American apparel tee. I walked to get exercise. This love affair was short lived. It was over before my departure out the door into the real world. With eyes wide open. Dilated they were. No sunglasses to block out the sun.

The love affair was brief with my new eye doctor. I was pleasantly surprised when he would be the one to look into my eyes and say one or two. One or two- clicking the lenses between good and better. I am going to push you. Can you read this line? Our faces next to one another looking into one another eyes but separated by his contraption to get the look underneath the green coral shell eyes to the surface. Of things. I did the standard look subtle for a ring. Nope. I was okay. I was laughing. He was laughing. This was the best first date I had in awhile.

He talked me into things like dilating my eyes. And was so sweet when he broke the news- my eyes were finally different and there was a beginning of the astigmatism in one. He gave me tissues as I teared up. Back and froth. There was banter of more than a doctor or patient. An arrival of possibility. Growing inside of my chest and my stomach. My eyes opened and closed and glistened. As he looked into my eyes or didn’t. Oh you are a April baby too. Making small talk beyond the typical or so I thought. I kind of have a soft spot for smart man who is bilingual and donates his services. It’s kind of like a gold digger finding out she is panning in an unlimited place on the river.

Dr. Gonzalez * wants to see me again and soon. I repeat the words to receptionist. He leans out perfectly framed by the door and says. Call me Jose*. I smile. I wave. I skip. Yes it has to be soon. He says the man of fixer of eyes. Before Saturday. Saturday I am getting married.

The arrival of the possibility died in the time span of doctor’s appointment. It might be a world record of potential and ending so quick. Of course. Typical. So very typical. How else could a smart, attractive man, who does charity work not be taken? I am an idiot. Arrival of disappointment. Because all I have in my grasps are potentials. Even if it is a school girl crush where the police might sing don’t stand too close. I try not to skip a beat. Congrats. And just to add to it. He is marrying a woman with my name. My name. Come on. I don’t know what to say except. One day if I do it- I am going to get a taco truck at mine. Funny thing- we are doing that and it was my idea. Keep going the arrival of my idiocy now frosted on my own cake. I let him talk me into things like different eye solution and contacts and the dilation of my eyes.

I walked out. With a smile on my face. Face full smeared laughter of disappointment and potential. The light hit my eyes and I couldn’t see. It is what happens normally when I crush on them. I can’t see. See more than I want to. More than the potential of them. More than I should. I couldn’t see.


* name has been changed to protect the identity of this eye doctor as well as my own embarrassment.

you haven’t lived until you go barefoot on a city street

Going barefoot. I am barefoot right now as I sit upon my pillow-lined chair placed there by me in my emergency dress bought in the OC but really it was a nightgown. Who knew? It was the cheapest thing to buy at the anthropologie. I have a hoodie around me to keep me warm in this newfound fog not forgotten for long. But I am barefoot. Barefoot with my two feet resting on each other. My left in the crease of my right finding a home between my big and second toe comforting each other as they do.

The other day as I walked across the street to my car. I was going barefoot. And in that moment as I walked across church street I remembered how nice it felt. How nice it feels. I wasn’t looking for memories of days past as I walked down my wooden stoop softly patting my way to the sidewalk and then braving the street slightly diagonal. I walked pausing for each train track-one and two-and then I reached my car. See I crossed the street without shoes, going barefoot I was, but I did it because I left my shoes in the car.

In the process of a move-your shit is scattered everywhere- quarter of my wardrobe was in my house in noe, the other in my new place, and probably the other half in that car or lost somewhere in space. But as I walked across that street-that street that was mine for awhile-I borrowed if it for awhile. I felt the coldness of each material as I walked in the morning. The freshness that is exiting on this city street. In the morning. While going barefoot. The texture of the wood of my stairs warmer than the sidewalk but not as icy as that asphalt of the road. But if felt good and refreshing and it reminded me of going barefoot.

I used to do it all the time. Through my neighborhood, through my house, I even tried it at school, the park wherever. Going barefoot until my black feet of my travels could be seen by all. There is something to be said for the safety of walking barefoot, barefoot in a city and not being scared. Scared of what is to come. See you don’t remember how it feels or how it felt and how it was part of you until you wrap many layers on to hide away from feeling the ground under your feet. I wish I could walk barefoot more often maybe always. But if I did I would long for the feeling of newness that I have forgotten.

I will reserve it to my bed-the two feet rest on each other as lovers, my house as wood of the old house pushes back on me as I walk on it, at yoga against my mat as I hold the poses and stretch my toes wider than when walking, at the park on my blanket and maybe brave the grass dampness of dew or city sludge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have the perfect manicured feet, the nail polish greenish like a mermaid now rubbing off. I take off those shoes. When I can. When I want to. Going barefoot.

the real nanny diaries: purple or otherwise- go stomp in it

this is being blogged from martha & bros. coffee- one of my second homes, a cheers of sorts, everyone in deed knows my name. check them out they are around the city and all owned from the decents of the same family. and family they will treat you as there own. 10 minute quick write for the word- disorder-written after a good few days of rain. kind of how i feel in this fog. 3 days in a row of sun. please universe send me one more day. i need it. there are no puddles to stomp in.


Disorder. I forgot about the disorder of the rain, the raindrops, the disorder of cabin fever of the young. I used to get it all the time when I was a kid. That feeling of both nostalgia and crazy into one. You want to run outside and jump in the puddles and get wet. Lift your eyes up into the air full of rain. The moisture feels good at least at first it does. It does. But then you get too wet or someone doesn’t let you outside and then you are stuck indoors for hours -sometimes days. I forgot about the disorder caused by rain until today.

Today when I walked into Kid Space a place for occupational therapy, therapy kids style. The type that most kids with extra privilege learn how to grow muscles and multi-task and hold a pencil. As I walked into the waiting room, I remembered the disorder. How I had forgotten? All these kids, kids were losing their shit. You could feel the energy of the raindrop disorder everyone is miserable-everyone crying visually or with looks in their eyes. Everyone wants something they can’t have. Have. They long for either a run outside, a stomp, or just a juice box, or a game of heads up 7 up. They want their parents to stop talking and telling them what to do. I am sick-they say. Give me fresh air- they mouth to me. Let me jump in a puddle-they sign. Bring out the sun lady. Because this raindrop rain cabin fever disorder makes you batty, makes you crazy, and the adults around you don’t know what to do. To do.

So I looked around the room and I remembered. This disorder will only last so long and soon these kids and these adults will be normal. Again. Normal. The disorder only strikes when we aren’t walked properly or watered enough or sun hasn’t shone on our roots. There is no way to get rid of it. Rid of it. Except the disorder will pass, pass like many of the disorders I study. Have studied in myself, in others, in strangers. I try to understand the order of those around me. The disorders of those around me. We name them, we say them, they pass, they come back. But what are we really talking about? About.

With the rain, it’s about freedom of the air. Freedom itself. But the other disorders might not be very different. The freedom to not worry about about the ills of life and what you have inherited or your childhood or your love life or any of it. Maybe the disorder is trying to organize it all perfectly. We can’t stop the rain, we can’t stop heartache, we can’t stop the laughter. The disorder might be the controlling. Instead let us let the drops fall down on our heads. Cabin fever is our enemy and the air of rain filled cloud our friend. Some might call it a disorder but it might be the only order I have ever known. Splish. Splash. I say.

my father knows recipes by heart

My father leans over our family home’s kitchen sink as he cuts the raw meat into pieces. The flesh raw and bloody but I know with some tlc and recipeing it will be soon the tri-tip I call home. He is cutting away. As he listens to the pounding of the television against my ears. The beloved fox news. It is always too loud. It is always too o’reilly. It always is. Fucking annoying. He cuts the meat and attentively stares at the tv yelling at certain times. Then asking me questions about things I don’t know about because I stopped watching the news. I stopped watching the news after the doom of the economy the sky was falling was my reality so I no longer needed to read about it. I am learning a lot and nothing from these stories.

My father just got done. Just got done showing us his legs that are swollen. Swollen from we aren’t sure what. But they are turning black and blue. My father once a marathon runner, once a all night over time worker supporting his family of four, my father who was a father- a single father at one time- who used to ride his bike from Sonoma County to Marin to work- has a host of the al a carte of residual issues due to two work related injuries. Injuries he was lucky to survive. But with the cocktail of medicine of the morphine and the codeine and the oxycontin, his body doesn’t operate- it doesn’t work as it once did. His legs are swollen we think due to salt. But he hasn’t even had much salt. At least not today. Have you drank water? she asks him. Have you rested your feet?

My father stands there hunched over full of remorse for a body that has betrayed him. I chime in when appropriate. Because who wants people telling you what to do to get better when all you want to do is get better. Better. He is hunched over in the doorway between the deck where P and me reside and his room. The phone rings interrupting our family meeting time of how to get healthy once again. If it is for me. Tell them I am dead he sighs. I start laughing not my snort laugh but my quiet non-dorky laugh not of my ancestry but my own. I can’t stop laughing. I don’t know why I am.

Until P explains her voice lightly to the person on the other line that my dad is supposed to be dead but she thinks he can take the call. The call for a potato recipe, his potato recipe. He is awakened again and breathing and reciting the potato salad once his mothers but now his with the dashes and spices of his own make. His own liking. Then I am shaking. Shaking with the laughter because my dad said he was dead but is alright with the potato salad recipe giving. Giving. I guess we all trying to give enough but we don’t know how. And sometimes the humor. The humor of self-deprecation and total defeat is our only solace. For now. For ever. As he hangs up the phone, You can’t give that recipe to anyone, unless they pull out your finger nails out of course. I sit on the deck and look through the sliding glass door the tv into his world. He starts to cut the meat. A smirk of a cook who knows. Knows the recipes by heart.

my own version of rehab

hope you all have a great weekend! i am heading to float down a river and drink some beers.

here is my posting from creative caffeine, my teacher's quick write website, http://creativecaffeine.blogspot.com/2010/07/cleaning-up-kate-bueler.html written from the prompt cleaning up. enjoy and thanks so much for stopping by and sharing in my words.