The Power of Now

Had a dream last night I was driving without my headlights on. Suddenly realized the night was dark, and I couldn't see a thing. Even during the dream I was alarmed that I hadn't realized they were off. Still not sure if the symbolism is:

A) I didn't turn them on, and preferred being in the dark

B) I was able to drive along not knowing where I was going

C) I realized I could shed light on the subject anytime I wanted

D) All of the above

So, that about sums it up around here. We are in a period of unknown, change, transition, uncertainty, in more than one aspect of our lives. It's hard for us Planners, the Type A'ers, the ones that thrive on efficiency, and execution of a well-prepared plan. 

I am having to remind myself daily, sometimes hourly, to stay in the moment, stay present. Breathe. Let go of outcomes after doing my best. That being loving is more important than being right (or heard). That some karmic ties and stories just have to play out, despite any efforts on my part to change that.

"Unease, anxiety, tension, stress, worry — all forms of fear — are caused by too much future, and not enough presence. Guilt, regret, resentment, grievances, sadness, bitterness, and all forms of nonforgiveness are caused by too much past, and not enough presence" Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

Enough to Go Around

It is my great and sincere honor to tell you about my friend Tanya's latest book. Tanya's first book, Slip, came out after I'd already become a fan of Tanya's writing, and an appreciator of all the good work she's done to spread awareness on the topics of autism and bipolar disorder. I was given the opportunity to be an early reader of Enough to Go Around. The book was sent to me as an e-mail attachment, and I damn near got carpal tunnel from scrolling, scrolling, scrolling for hours on end, as I was unable to "put it down." Below is a short interview I did with Tanya, about her latest work. Enjoy!

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PROCESS OF WRITING THIS BOOK:

Enough to Go Around has been a process of discovery and a labor of love for most of my life. As a child I would go to my paternal grandparents’ home for various holidays, and while sitting around the dining room table eating traditional Slovakian food I would listen to many stories my grandparents told about their growing up years in Czechoslovakia and their immigration experiences. I was intrigued and often entertained by these stories, and when I was assigned a genealogy project in seventh grade, I brought a tape recorder and a notebook to their house and listened intently while they retold their stories. It was then that the idea of writing a book about them came into being.

Years passed – worked my way through college, became a single parent – and the story began to take shape although there wasn’t much writing time. Characters evolved, a video was given to me of a trip my dad took with his sister to Slovakia, and I borrowed books from my dad to use for research. My initial idea was to create a fictional account of my grandparents’ experiences (because there were a lot of facts and details I didn’t have), but I also wanted to weave the stories of the past with a present-day extended family and everyone’s lives. I spent years jotting down extensive notes and writing at least a dozen different outlines.

In 2007 I was blessed to take a trip with my father and my sister to Slovakia to do research and meet relatives. It was an amazing and emotional time. We saw the villages where both of my grandparents grew up, visited the graves of my great-grandparents, and met relatives we didn’t know we had. 

My life with my two sons, one of whom has autism, influenced me to write Slip, my first novel. I set Enough to Go Around aside for a while (which at the time had a different title, one of five over the years). My life was deeply entrenched in the world of special needs and that was where my mind was for several years, so I focused on that subject matter.

But a few years ago I was very happy to get back to the story of my family heritage. I wrote the first full draft during NANOWRIMO in 2008. Since then it continued to evolve into its present state. I am privileged – and thrilled – to be able to share it.

WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT YOUR READERS TO KNOW:

Enough to Go Around focuses on the theme of family life – its complexity, troubles, and rewards. I wanted to share my family’s heritage, of course, but also other elements of life, such as mistakes, regret, love, loss, and forgiveness. I wanted to foster awareness about bipolar disorder, which one of the main characters has, and how it can affect family life. For this I draw on my personal experience of bipolar, as well as the pain of losing a close family member to cancer, another element of the book. (Sadly, my father died of colon cancer in 2011 and did not see this book come to fruition.) Life is messy, families are fragile, and there are no easy fixes. But sometimes you can sit around the dining room table at Easter and tell jokes and stories and laugh and look around the table and realize that your life may be far from great, it may be really hard at times, but you have these moments to hold onto, these – and other – moments of grace that are just as much a part of that life, and perhaps even more important.

Order your copy here!

Shelia's

On another venture out of seclusion, I go in search of an ice cream cone. I don’t have to go far before I see a tiny pink building with BJ’s Ice Cream on it. I pull in, and a man appearing to be the owner, pops up from the single table in the place, occupied by what appears to be two of his friends, and welcomes me warmly.

“See anything that looks good?” he asks, “Need a taste of anything, let me know!”

“I see something I know will be good,” I answer, and I don’t need a taste, I’ll have a junior cone with cappuccino fudge.”

He starts to very carefully scoop the ice cream, it’s obvious he’s in no rush, and neither am I, for once in my life.

“Where you from?” he asks.

“Portland,” I reply.

“Oh, then no need to show a passport,” he jokes.

I ask him if he’s from around here, and he says he’s from Lexington, Kentucky. I learn he moved to Oregon when his wife had a job in Eugene. I tell him I used to live in Eugene, too. Turns out we lived very near each other, at the very same time.

“My wife was from England, loved to come to the Oregon Coast, reminded her of the weather in England. When she died, I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself, so I bought this little place and named it after her.”

“BJ?” I ask.

“No, BJ is the type of ice cream we sell, see the little sign next to it, the one that says ‘Shelia’s?’”

“Oh, yes, I see it,” I say.

“Gonna get a bigger sign made, “ he assures me, and I nod indicating my full support.

With each careful scoop of the ice cream scooper, the man honors a woman from England named Shelia. A woman he loved and lost.  A woman who loved the Oregon Coast because it made her feel at home, and now this man makes others feel that way.

Eye-to-Eye

I am away at the beach for three days with the sole purpose of sensory deprivation. I want less. Less sound. Less vibration. Less text alerts. Less of anything and everything that lets me know someone wants something from me.

Two days in, I’m so bored I’m climbing the walls. There is no Wi-Fi. I’ve received notice on my phone we are about to exceed our family data plan for the month. I’m “cheating,” checking e-mails, getting on Facebook, sending a text, making a call.

I’m bored and lonely and I never thought in a million years I’d be bored or lonely.

So, I drive the couple miles into town, and by town, I mean town. First stop is the local convenience store, which promises free Wi-Fi, espresso, used books, some videos for rent, and other sundries. I grab some saltwater taffy, light bulbs, a 6-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, pay and ask for the password. 

I sit down at one of two two-person tables with a vinyl sea-patterned tablecloth, and get to work. I reply to emails, I write a quick blog post, I “like” several things on Facebook.  I’m about to order Wil’s graduation pictures that the professional took of him sort-of shaking the principal’s hand, when a woman wheels up next to me on a motorized scooter.

“Do you mind reaching in the back of my chair and getting out the charger? I’m heading over the bridge, and don’t want to run out of juice!” She is a large woman, spilling out over the chair, gray hair in a ponytail, a face that could be 40, 50 or 60. “The community all chipped in and got me this chair. Great community. I’ve only had it since February. Medicaid is buying me a new one in August. It’s great, now I’m not housebound. I can get out.”

I find the charger, and plug it in directly above my left shoulder. It appears we will be neighbors while her chair charges, as there is nowhere else for her to go, and the cord is not very long.

“Don’t let me bother you,” she says, as she sings the oldies songs that come on the radio, picks up the rocks that are 4 for $1.00, loudly expressing pleasure with each.

It’s clear that whatever nonsense I’ve got going on my computer screen is nothing compared to the story that this woman has, and so I venture in. “Are you from around?”

“I’m from everywhere. I’m Native American. I’m from Montana, I’m from Colorado, I’ve lived all over.”

“So, this community chipped in to buy you this chair? You must be well-loved by the community,” I offer.

“I am,” she smiles. “I’ve got a lot of health problems. I’ve got lupus. I’ve got fibromyalgia. I’ve got arthritis, the kind that’ll cripple ya. I’ve got epilepsy. I’ve got heart issues. I’ve got a lot of health issues. I'm going to give this chair back to the community when Medicaid gives me a new one. It's important to give back, pay it forward. My mom taught me it's important to give back. I like to help people."

She sees the Portland Marathon shirt I’m wearing and asks me about it. It feels cruel to go into too many details of my marathoning, while listening to her long list of health issues.

“I was only supposed to live until 21,” she says, “but I’m 48. I’ve defied the odds. I was a congenital twin. When we were separated at birth, by brother died. I’ve had issues ever since.”

I learned she lives in Section 8 housing with a care giver and the care giver’s husband. “Three’s a crowd, I’m moving out into my own apartment in August.”

I’m ashamed for the few minutes I buried my head in my non-important Internet “needs” while ignoring this woman who so clearly needed human connection.

“It’s not nice here very often, I try to get out when it is. I don’t like crowds much, but I don’t like being in my house all the time, either. “

I learn she takes 20 pills with breakfast, 10 with lunch and 30 with dinner. I learn she technically died three times just last month. “If you have something to say to someone, say it. Don’t take tomorrow for granted,” she wisely shares.

I learn that the life I thought I needed a break from, is a piece-of-cake compared to so many lives riddled with pain, suffering, poverty, isolation.

I learn that sometimes a need for connection goes beyond the tap, tap, tapping of the keyboard, straight into the eyes of a stranger.

“I think my chair is charged up, would you mind unplugging it, rolling up the cord and putting it in that pocket in the back?”

I do so and she asks, “Is my wallet back there? It has a dream-catcher on it. I want to make sure my caregiver put it in there.”

“It’s in here, “ I say.

I hope she catches her dreams.

Very Busy

Graduation is over.

I would tell you all about it (and I will, eventually), but for now, I've very, very otherwise occupied.

Centering

I think Wil may be right, we may "need a divorce." When you've managed not to swear at your child, let alone drop the F-bomb in almost 19 years, and then you do, merely because he adjusted the knobs  and buttons to control the heat/defrost in the car (AGAIN), something's got to give.

But, I ask you, is it too much to ask that the person driving the other person day in, day out, essentially wherever and whenever said person likes to go, have some control over the internal temperature of the car, and be able to see out the windows?

A lot of emotion going on and a lot more coming our way before it's "over." We've had a family member in the ER, there's a funeral coming up, there is way too much to do and way too little "reserves" to do it. But, the days are numbered and long days of nothing will be stretching out in front of us in no time.

Isn't life like that? Feast or famine? Too much or too little? Too fast or too slow? Too packed or too boring? The "controls" too "hot" or too "cold?"

It all comes back to the Middle Path, moderation, the gray, the center. And returning to that which we can control.

Our attachment.

Our responses and reactions, or lack thereof.

Our breath.

Amen.

My Better Half

Wil has two weeks of school left. After today, only 4 academic days, then he is done being the student, sitting in the chair, being asked to do the last thing on earth he wants to do, forever.

He's a bear every year at this time, but this year it's bear squared. It's allergies. It's spring. It's being done. It's had-enough-yet-can't-get-enough. It's endings and beginnings and transitions and the great unknown. It's being left behind and wanting to spread his wings. It's needing help and wanting to be independent. It's being almost-nineteen in body and about half that in most other ways.

We're both fried, overly emotional and easily upset. In general, we're quite companionable and when we do get on each other's nerves, it's brief and we move on almost instantly.

The last several days we've been at each other's throats. He's being so extra defiant, bossy, demanding, difficult, that it brings out the hard ass in me. Wrong combo.

Yesterday, I picked him and his friend up from school and we were driving home. I asked some innocuous question along the lines of, "Do you have your phone?" and he lost it. Maybe it was reminding him of what he needed to do when we got home. Maybe it was asking that when he take a shower, he remember to wash his hair. Whatever it was, he was not happy with me, and I was not happy with him.

"That's it! We need to break up! We need to spend some time apart! You don't need to worry about me! You worry too much! You don't need to know all my business! We need a divorce! "

His friend chuckled from the backseat, "Wil, are you guys married?"

"We're not married!" he shouted, raising an arm with index finger extended for emphasis, "we're sidekicks!"

Friendship Bracelets

In a city known for it's weirdness, there are areas that are weirder than others. The Hawthorne District is certainly one of the best if weird is what you're after, and although Wil isn't, he's drawn to that area over and over again. In particular, The Gold Door. I have no idea what enticed him into that store in the first place, as it's heavy-laden with incense and stuff, totally over-stimulating and he's not a shopper. But, into The Gold Door we went, and back again and again have we been. He now knows one of the shopkeepers by name, Ariana. Not Ariana Grande, he's quick to point out to all whom he drags with us to The Gold Door. The Gold Door has one of those Zoltar machines, like in the movie "Big." He insists all our guests get a reading as his treat, and they are eerily dead on.

He has bought different rocks and stones, purchased earrings for friends, and bought a little bag to put the treasures in, which he keeps next to his TV watching area for easy access. The last time we were in The Gold Door, we took two of his student assistants with us. We first went to lunch, then to froyo, then to The Gold Door, where he decided the three of them needed friendship bracelets.

And he was right.

They needed friendship bracelets. Not because he will ever in a million years wear his, but because it's a physical tie to two people about to leave and move on to college and exciting and promising lives beyond that.

"I love our friendship bracelets," he told the girls as we were walking out of the shop.

"I love our friendship," one of them said.

Me, too.

             Photo: Gold Door Jewelry & Art by: Yogic Traveler - Courtesy: Gogobot

Top 10 Ways to Avoid "Prama"

For those of you not living with a teen, you may not be familiar with the apt term, prama, or prom drama.

For those of you not living with a special-needs teen, you may not be familiar with the additional angst, while at the same time, the freedom, from all things prama-related.

For those of you not living in prama-land, let me tell you the quick and easy way to avoid it, and dare I say, have a great time at prom:

10. Have a really great human tell you and your special-needs teen a year in advance, that they will be attending prom together

 9. Hold them to it

 8. Pay for everything

 7. Get a favorite teacher to chaperone

 6. Get said favorite teacher to drive one of the school-owned mini-buses, and take a group of kids to prom

 5. And dinner

 4. At Spaghetti Factory

 3. Make sure said group is made up of kids that are unlikely to create, or take part in, prama

 2. Make the picture-taking session super-brief

 1. Just go and shake your booty and laugh with your friends, then come home, no after-prom nonsense

The Lottery

Apparently, a lot of people have been asking Wil how he was going to fund his RV. He finally came up with the rock-solid plan that someone would give him a million dollars. When making a list of the millionaires we knew that were likely to give him a million dollars, we came up short, so he revised his plan: he would win the lottery.

For him to play the lottery, I had to, and I have never so much as bought a "scratch-it." Our friendly neighborhood 7-Eleven proved just the place, and as luck would have it, we got the nicest clerk in the world, who made it his mission in life to help us navigate the world of Quick Picks vs. selecting your own numbers, and choosing from a variety of lottery options. I had no idea.

$3.00 later we walked out of there with what he felt sure, were the winning numbers.

They were not.

We've since been back a couple more times to try our luck again. Because he's so weirdly good at predicting things, I half expect to win. Because I'm so weirdly one to project the smallest thing into an impending catastrophe, I've got myself into a total state of how my life will change for the worse, when we win the lottery. Because life is so weirdly full of no accidents, I also know if we are meant to win the lottery, we will, and if we aren't, we won't.

In the meantime, plans for life inside the RV continue to develop. He will shower at 10:00 PM and go to bed at 11:00. He will watch a lot of bad TV and pretty much do whatever he wants, whenever he wants to do it. He already has a roommate lined up, and they are both super excited to live in the RV, where there are no rules and nothing but all their favorite things in and around it. Plus, Care will be right next door, to "get it," whatever "it" is.

The plan is sounding better and better to me, too.

RV= Real Victory

Moving On

Her hair was a little more grey, her face had a few more lines, but the rest was the same as two years ago. Same glasses, same smile, same tiny little body. When our pediatric eye doctor of 13 years (17 years at that clinic) came in, it was like seeing an old friend. She knows Wil and laughs at his jokes. She knows what he can see, and how to get him to respond, even when he says with conviction, "I can't see a damn thing!"

We'd been through the rig-a-ma-roll a million times. When Wil first started there, he was non-verbal and had an eye that crossed (he still does). We had to go every three months, then every six months, eventually every year, and the last time we were there she said we didn't need to come back for two years.

We've had countless pairs of glasses. I've held him down and forced eye drops into his good eye, to make the weaker eye work harder, a billion brutal times. Three days before Wil's eye appointment he started getting very anxious, "There are going to be tears! A lot of tears! I am going to cry when they put the eye drops in my eyes!"

The whole thing is traumatic and PTSD-causing for all involved.

We'd had horrible traffic and then she was running behind, so the eye appointment was taking up our whole morning. We'd left our house at 8:15 and Wil "needed" to be back to school at 11:00, and it wasn't going to happen.

Anxiety increased. Irritation was high. General I-have-got-to-get-out-of-here was through the roof. For both of us. As I looked around the waiting room of young mothers, young children, toys, videos for preschoolers, I knew that neither of us could take it one more time. We'd originally planned to stay until he was 21, but I knew this would be it. This would be our last visit with our beloved friend and doctor. We were moving on.

Even when it's time. Even when it's your idea. Even when it's obvious and necessary and the only thing to do, moving on is hard to do.

Announcements

Spent all morning preparing Wil's high school graduation announcements. Had to clear the calendar. Had to clear the mind. Had to clear the distractions. Had to decide this was how I was going to spend my morning, and get psyched up for it.

Today at school, Wil and one of his assistants, will pick up his cap and gown, and the assistant will lovingly and loyally, make sure it gets in his backpack. I'll receive an email later asking if it made it home.

I had to cut off the list of people to send the announcement to, because I could send it to hundreds. His list of friends and family, neighbors and parishioners invested in his education, his path, his future, are innumerable, but number them I did.

While expressing how hard this season is for me, and how I'm dreading graduation day, one person suggested I treat it all as a celebration.

It is a celebration. There is much to celebrate. A whole book's worth, and in fact, that book has been written. But life is a paradox, and the impending graduation punctuates that fact all too well. While a celebration, it is also the closing of a long chapter. A chapter that has been, at many times, an uphill battle, but also one that has offered sanctuary for him, and respite for me.

To announce is to make a formal statement of fact or intention. The only way I'm going to get through the graduation is to focus less on the former, and more on the latter. What is my intention for this next period of life?

The intentions are not any different from any other time, when you think about it:

* To remain open
* To see the good
* To have a positive expectancy
* To believe in the kindness of others
* To remain loving
* To believe and move as though there are no accidents

Happy Mother's Day to All Whom Mother

Wil sits beside a wonderful woman every Saturday night at 5:30 Mass. She is not, technically, a "mother." She is, however, a Mother. She nurtures and gives, hugs and holds, advises, stands behind, and doesn't flinch. She makes me laugh. If you can do all that, you're a mother, in my book.

 (Happy Mother's Day love Wilson I love all the things we do

together thank you you make me laugh love Wilson)

(From STM)

I raise my glass to all of you that mother. All of you that make others laugh. All of you that are inspiring and inspired. All of you that give and give and give some more. All of you that love mothering and all of you that don't. All of you that wish you had one more, and those that wish they had one less. All of you that have lost and grieved, been denied, and mourned. All of you that got more than you bargained for. And less. All of you that have been teachers and have been taught. All of you that got your asses handed to you and all that have been blessed. And both. All of you that wouldn't change a thing, and all of you that would change everything. But can't.

Happy Mother's Day to all whom mother.

The Back Story

Rest assured, talk of the RV continues and the plans grow more elaborate by the day. For those of you that live in my neighborhood, don't you worry. The RV isn't going to be in the backyard anymore, it's going to be out in front so you can all really enjoy all it has to offer.

One faithful reader was curious as to the back story on the required pawn shop in the RV. I have been negligent in reporting Wil's long and strong fascination with the show, "Hardcore Pawn." He loves Les, Seth and Ashley, whom he calls, "Debbie Downer." Whenever I dare to tell him no, he calls me "Ashley." "Stop being like Ashley, stop being a Debbie Downer. Just say yes." I've been forced to watch a few episodes of the show, and that's plenty for me. However, Wil cannot get enough, and in his true spirit, has recruited several people to watch the new episodes on Monday, and report back on Tuesday. There is zero chance of them forgetting, as he reminds them via text over and over and over, and whatever they originally had planned for 7:00 PM on a Monday, has since been rescheduled.

"Care, how are we going to get things for our pawn shop in the RV? I've been thinking about it. I think we need to find a pawn shop that's going out-of-business, and buy all their stuff to sell in my RV."

The whole question of "back story" has gotten me thinking. Really, isn't everything we think, do, believe and act on, based on a back story? What we want? Don't want? Need? Don't need? Seek? Avoid? Work towards or run from? All are due to the back stories we have.

When one spends hours going through their crap, one's back story is quite evident. I used to value this. I used to fear not having this, "in case." I used to believe someone I know and love would want this because it was of value to me. I used to believe that what and who I am, is tied to the possessions in this box. I used to believe my back story was represented by concrete items, and not the intangible.

What is my back story?

How is it serving me now?

What is my future story?

How do I move towards that in a loving, healthy way?

Top 10 Things the RV Will Include

10.  Table tennis

 9.   Bouncy house

 8.   Bowling alley

 7.    Four TVs

 6.    Guest room

 5.    Four bunk beds

 4.    Couch with built-in refrigerator

 3.    Swimming pool

 2.    Creek running by

 1.    Pawn shop

On a Lighter Note

Top 10 Nice Things that Happened Today

10. Called SSI, and the person I was calling was in, and answered the phone!

 9.  Was told, "You are right, we were wrong. Go ahead and shred that." (So many things right about that.)

 8. Wil went to the dentist and has, miraculously, no cavities.

 7. I sat in the waiting room and read bad (by bad, I mean great) magazines.

 6. To celebrate, Wil and I went out for an early dinner - so early, we were still in time for the lunch special.

 5. At dinner Wil told me all about his plan to buy a three-story motor home, and move into it, in our backyard.

 4. He said, and I quote, "I'm thinking way outside the box here, Care." His RV will be multi-colored, multi-level, and will require his permission before entering. I'm to live in my own house, and leave him alone.

 3. The pass code to his new digs will be F-A-R-T.

 2. When we got home from "linner" (lunch/dinner), I found a lovely card and flowers from a secret admirer.

 1. Now I'm on my way over to Nancy's to watch more bad (and by bad, I mean great) TV and have a few (laughs).

The Inspection

Had a dream last night that my cousin, Emily, and I, each had received mysterious notes telling us to arrive the following morning at some designated location, and that there would be an "inspection."

Now, I am many things, almost first among them, is punctual. In the dream, I was dragging my feet, purposely stalling, intentionally not making it in time for the "inspection." I found Emily, she needed to use the bathroom before we could leave. I was happy for the extra time that took up. On and on the dream went, until we eventually got to the mysterious site - very late.

All kinds of people were there that we both knew (including her mother and two sisters). First thing said to me was the event went until 8:30 PM. 8:30 PM was news to me, and I wasn't having it. I proceeded to spend the next while doing more stalling, hovering around the perimeter of the gathering, watching from afar, all under the pretext of having to make arrangements to stay that late, as I hadn't arranged for anyone to be with Wil that long.

I never did join in.

I never even found out what the point of the gathering was, and what the attendees were actually doing.

I successfully avoided the inspection.

I'm certain that was not the point.

As Within, So Without

Not only have I been on a purging-the-house-and-garage kick for a couple months now, I've been simultaneously trying to figure out what I'm eating and/or drinking, that has been causing me horrible reflux for months, and purging that from my diet.

It's been a much more daunting task than cleaning the house from what I don't need. I appear to be somewhat of a mystery. What seemed to be your run-of-the-mill GERD has not responded to treatment. It's not responded to me eliminating most of the things I love: coffee, chocolate, alcohol, tomatoes (actually, tomato sauce), onions, citrus, garlic, cheese, nuts, avocado. It's not responded to aggressive antacid treatment. It's not responded to buying and sleeping on a ridiculous wedge to keep me nearly bolt upright at night.

It's not responded.

It's shaping up to be food allergies that are causing the problem.

And stress.

Removing the causes of both seem impossible.

Saw an interview with Christiane Northrup, MD last night, when I couldn't sleep. She said that what we believe, is more important than our genetics. She quoted all kinds of fascinating studies of people proved what we tell ourselves about ourselves, what we accept from what our culture tells us about ourselves, and what we focus on, can dramatically change our health.

"Health is contagious," she said. "Everyone talks about disease being contagious, but health is contagious." She said that if one person quits smoking, the ripples go as far as four degrees of separation.

Last Wednesday evening I was just minding my own business, when I suddenly got "that" feeling that I might throw up. I'll fast forward to the end of the story: 10 violent hours later, I finally got into bed to rest, and stayed there three days.

When what you're doing isn't working, it's time to do something different. For me, for now, it's about eliminating what isn't working: junk in my house that bogs me down, foods and drinks that burn my body, stress that can be avoided, or at least better managed.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Exhale slowly.

Repeat.

CTSD

Through a wild small world and no accidents kind of thing, I recently had a conversation with a woman that had read my book, and shared it with a bunch of people at work. I then learned that she is a mental health professional, specializing in PTSD.

I came home from the encounter and was telling STM about it, and mentioned I would consider going to her, as I'm sure I have PTSD. "PTSD? That implies the trauma is in the past, that it's over. I have CTSD!"

"Chronic?" I asked.

"Current," he said. "I want PTSD for my birthday!"

Then we, of course, belly laughed, because what else are you going to do?

Wil was listening, and nothing makes him belly laugh harder than hearing others belly laugh (or watching them get injured, but that's another post).

"Well, I have ETSD," he quickly added, "Elmo traumatic stress disorder!"

By the looks of Elmo, I would say he's the one with the trauma.

Grounded

"Keep your eyes on the stars, and 

your feet on the ground."

- Theodore Roosevelt

When we say someone is "grounded," we mean they are sensible, practical, balanced, down-to-earth, low-maintenance, realistic, without pretenses or illusions.

To feel grounded, to be grounding, to ground someone -  all good things.

Even when a child acts out and a parent grounds them, it can be a good thing. A time when distractions and privileges are removed, and one is forced to stay and be "home."

Most of us are in need of more grounding.

Recently, someone I greatly respect and admire, who happens to have English as his second language, said, "Wil puts me on the ground."

And while there are moments/hours/days that he puts me in the ground, for the most part, he is my biggest grounding influence.

It's very difficult to be high-maintenance, full of pretense and illusions when you've got someone forcing you to keep it real all the time. If you think, for one minute, that it's all about you, or even a little bit about you, then you're welcome to borrow any number of special needs "children" I know, to get you over that, fast.

Have a friend who recently had abdominal surgery. From the time she was told she needed the surgery, to the time she had it, was a short period - not enough, probably, for her special-needs son to get used to the idea. Shocker: her surgery and recovery were not about her. Her son had one heck of a time with "her" recovery, the changes and disruptions to the status quo.

If you believe that you co-create your life with whatever/whomever you call your higher power, that you signed up for these exact challenges and opportunities to evolve your soul and learn whatever it was you came here to learn, then you have to accept that getting over yourself is part of it.

It's not about "you."

I believe that's because there is no "you," there is only "us," and "you" are not separate from the collective Us, You are  Us.

We are one.