Because Constant Fear & Shame Sucks #yesallwomen

Since leaving LA, I've grown more and more attached to the glittering city that was once my home.  I feel its heat, its hurts, its majesty from across the country, largely through on-line communications with West Coast friends. So althoughtI live atop a western NC mountain, the shooting at UCSB hit close to home and heart.

The #yesallwomen twitter string opened up even deeper wounds, as I read the brave flood of ugly truths that poured out.  Women everywhere revealed tales of abuse and shame at the hands of misogynistic society.  As I read, my own bitter stories began to bubble to the surface, but I could not find the words or strength to add my voice to the call for change.  As I speculated on these thoughts, I became aware that the longer I hid them, the greater my shame became and that by hiding behind other brave voices, I was in my own way contributing to the problem.  So here I am now, trying to get naked in words. 

I started bartering my sexuality early.  I knew there was power in it, knew I housed some wanted commodity and that attention and "affection" could be bought with a well-timed glance and seductive smile.  And hey, I like sex, so I figured it was a win-win situation to use what I had to get a moment's good feeling.  However, I made poor choices often and frequently the interactions left me not feeling loved, but used, empty and ashamed.  As a wounded soul, I attracted abusers and addicts like moths to a flame and I put out many times to avoid physical threat or angry confrontation.  Not exactly consent, but not what I would call "rape", for I did have some choice in the matter, even if my choices were sometimes made under duress.  I blamed myself when I got hurt, for I knew that I was playing a dangerous and stupid game.  Then came THAT night.

I was at a weekend event, in my college town, with a group of role playing/re-creationists.  In that environment, if you are female, you can have all the attention and alcohol you desire, and I was at home being the belle of the ball and having my pick of flirtations.  This was only a small gathering, around Winter Solstice, and the holiday energy was high and playful.  A male friend of mine kept my cup full of one intoxicant after the next and before I realized, I was beyond drunk.  It is one of the few times I can say that I drank to black out and beyond.  My unconscious form was taken to my cabin, on the outskirts of the campground, where I was staying alone, and my friends took shifts watching over me, as my body heaved out the poisons.  There was a man, never before seen at one of our local events.  No one knew him prior to the weekend, but he seemed a convivial fellow, harmless even.  So when he offered to take a shift watching the unconscious girl, my friends (who were also intoxicated, sleepy and no doubt tired of babysitting a drunk) let him. 

When I came to at some dark silent moment of night, this man was on top and inside me.  Bile rose in my throat, not just because of the alcohol.  "I'm going to be sick," I managed to croak out, and he took one hand off my hips and turned my head to the side so I could vomit off the edge of the bed, all while he continued his thrusting.  He told me that I was beautiful, that he'd watched me all night, and that I needed to let him finish.  I "owed" him that after being "such a tease" all night, when he was "kind enough" to take a shift watching over me.  Weakened, incapacitated, ill, I had no choice but to comply.

When he'd had his orgasm, he pulled out, redressed, was "kind enough" to make sure I wasn't going to fall asleep again (and I wasn't...at that point, I wasn't sure I would ever be able to sleep again) then he took his leave.  I crumpled to the floor in a puddle of my own filth and shame, and cried.

I told only a few of my closest friends what happened, and even then, a close female friend, while angry for me, commented that hopefully, I'd learned my lesson about drinking too much. 

No one urged me to take legal action. 

No one, not even me, called it rape (at that time.) It was just what happened to pretty and promiscuous girls who did dumb things. 

Did I make bad choices that night?  Hell yes, I did.   Did I "deserve" to be raped while unconscious?  No, I did not... but I didn't come to that truth for many years. 

I take responsibility for my actions that night.  I understand that I contributed to the events that occurred, BUT  being pretty and flirtatious is not consent.  Being unable to say "no" is not consent.  Having a vagina IS NOT CONSENT. 

No... #notallmen would have made this choice.  But the fact that one did, and NO ONE around me (including myself) fathomed the whole disgusting injustice and impropriety of those actions speaks of a sickness in our culture.  #Yesallwomen have the right to decide what happens to their own bodies.  #Yesallwomen deserve to live a life free of constant fear.  #Yesallwomen should proudly call for change.  The dark time of living in shame for being female needs to stop.

 #Yesallwomen have some similar sad story. This is just one of mine.  But if we are to cure this illness, then the stories must be told.  The dark must be brought to healing light. 

I will not live in shame anymore. 

Lesser than...

My competitive spirit can at times be a blessing.  It pushes me past that first wall of "I can't" and tells me that many others can, so why don't I sack up and become one of those.  It makes me want to excel at work and be the best in my job that I can.  It makes me want to be the best daughter I can, so that I will continue to be the favorite, over the dog and cats (who have much easier jobs, lower expectations of performance and cost a lot less to feed than I do...  And yes, I am so neurotic that I do have sibling rivalry with the parents' pets.)

But sometimes, that urge to compete just leaves me with the overwhelming feeling of having the wind knocked out of my sails.  Sometimes, no matter what I do, I can't help feeling like I can never tow the line being set by those around me.  Every "not good enough" button gets hit and I collapse, defeated.

That's where I am these days. Mired in "not enough".

I understand that "not enough" is the bane of most human existence, that we all battle those demons regularly. I comprehend that there are many "tools" to help fight those feelings.  Writing, talk therapy, meditation have all been suggested as healing (although the last one is a mine-field for me.  I suck so badly at meditation, stilling the monkey mind chatter.  When I try to meditate, I fail so miserably that it only exacerbates the "not enough".  I begin to focus on how completely inept I am at meditating, and it becomes an exercise in self-flagellation. )  So here I am, writing, in hopes of performing some exorcism and coming out the other side with a sense of self again.

Of course, I fear that these words will be used against me.  That my ex will read these pages and use them as some bolster to his delusional "holier than thou" attitude of pity he has towards the fact that I'm still angry at him (and thus in his mind, a lesser person, incapable of healing and moving on.) I worry that people whose opinions I do care about will read this and thing "Jeez, that Teece is a pretty fucked-up little cookie.  I had no idea she was so broken or neurotic. Seriously?  Sibling rivalry with pets?"  I am concerned that my mother will read this and try to put band-aids on gangrenous soul wounds by sending a sappy and well-meant text message about how much she and my father love me.  (Seriously Mom, don't.  I love you, thanks for the thought, but don't.  Ok?  Thanks)

So why am I writing here?  In the blogosphere where everyone can read this?  Who am I writing for?  Me.  Then why not just journal?  I did... didn't help.  Why put it out here?  Because, I cannot hide.  Writing words where only I can see them is tantamount to covering my feelings in a veil of shame, and it leaves me ... hollow.   I am who I am and while I may not always love it, I sure as shit don't want to get in the habit of hiding it.  Because demons, like mushrooms, grow big and bold when left covered in shit and hidden in the dark.  And I am a fan of neither demons, nor mushrooms.

This is part seasonal-depression.  I know that, on some cerebral level.  It happens every February and has for decades now.  Hell, all of January - May can be a fairly toxic time for me, but I've been working on it for years, and I've usually got it shortened down to just February, maybe March.   It also doesn't help that work is becoming wretched and that I feel stalled out, if not completely thwarted, in pursuing my career.  Add to that the fact that the extreme cold and precipitation have kept me from exercising outside as much as I would, and I'm now dealing with more (and nastier) migraines as well as an uncomfortable layer of wintery body fat.  This is a perfect storm of feeling crappy and lesser than, and since I have the ability to see that, I should (in theory) be able to say "Fuck you emotional black hole, I will not fall into you."  But that's not how black holes work, people... they have an intense amount of gravity sucking action and avoiding them is damn near impossible (unless you are on the USS Enterprise and Scotty is in the engine room, in which case, you have just the last minute burst of speed to be safe.  Darn you Sci-Fi for building my unrealistic hopes of redemption.)

So what do I do to combat the "lesser than" of my everyday life?  Well, when I finish writing this, I will take my ass outside where it is lovely and sunny and the hiking is incredible.  I will try to fill my quiet moments with nourishing food and loving thoughts, or at least interesting books.  I will look for new jobs and try not to be overwhelmed with the reasons why I probably can't have them. And I will just keep showing up, I guess.  At the journal, at this blog, at the daily occurrences of my life. It is a damn slow and boring way to move forward, that has no magic, no instant gratification, no "great transformation."  It leaves me feeling ordinary and unimpressively human, but it is the only tool I have right now, the only way forward I can see.

I don't know when I got so boring, so mundane.  Somewhere over the last 7 years the powerhouse giggling magic girl disappeared, and I miss her so fucking much. If she were here, I think she would know what to do.  So I guess, I'm just going to go outside looking for her.  Wish me luck.

Time Marches- a general FYI update

Been missing my blog, and so I popped on to re-read and was horrified to see when I last wrote.  How have this many months gotten away from me?

Since last I dipped into these pages, life has incurred the inevitable ups and downs.  I will try to briefly sum up.

Ups:  I found a job working at a vet's office in a little college town in the "high country".  Was able to move out of my parents' basement and into an adorable little place of my own. It's two bedroom/2 bath, built into the hillside of a mountain in a beautiful but tiny resort town that is only a few miles away from where I work. This is all just right off the Blue Ridge Parkway, where the hiking is stunning.  I am currently experiencing my first Winter ever of living in a land where it snows... often.  The cats have coped well with the move, and enjoy being able to watch deer and bunnies feeding in the yard.  There is light in my windows, fire in the fireplace, and gorgeous scenery outside.

Downs:  The vet's office job is not really highlighting my skills, teaching me anything new or completely paying all my bills (I still have so much debt from my life in LA that I'm trying to pay off, on top of all the new costs of living.) Additionally, the office has a lot of politics and is getting to be pretty uncomfortable.  I'm still strapped for cash most of the time and were it not for my incredible parents' generosity, I'd be starving most weeks.  Snow, while beautiful to look at when it falls, is not always fun to drive in, and when it begins to get slushy and muddy, it's just plain nasty to deal with.  Plus, a large part of my job is walking dogs during the course of my day... which means being outside, in temps that have gotten as low as -45 ("real feel" temp with wind chill factor.  The actual temp that day was only -12, if I remember correctly.)

I have made one real friend here.  She too has a love for marine mammals, has an interest in educational outreach, is terribly over-degreed for the job we share (she's got a Masters in Marine Bio) and has spent time living in Hawaii. Not to mention that she has a wonderfully dry sense of humor, and a fondness for paranormal romance novels, wine and margaritas.  We keep each other sane at the office.

After 6 months of celibacy hiding out in my mountain retreat, I also figured it was time to stop avoiding all men and put myself back out in the scene.  I began attempting dating again.  I really was just trolling online for my usual cougar fodder, but ended up meeting someone quite unique.  He was raised in So Cal, shares my intense passion for the ocean, and he's *gasp* older than me. That's all I'm willing to say on the matter at this time.  Given my history, I'm playing this hand closer to the chest... but I will say that I'm smiling more, and enjoying being wooed.

In short, I am in all ways, back in the game.  Moving forward.  Seeking strength in self and the energies of the dark winter forest that surrounds me.   May 2014 be a year of positive changes and re-imagined dreams for us all.

Hey Subconscious, WTF?

Last night I had a dream.  Sure, we all dream every night, so this alone is not a significant fact or even an interesting blog, except when looking at the content.  Last night's dream is mostly hazy, except for this crystal clear bit.

I was shopping in a mall, when I came across a toy.  She was the latest from the "Pretty Little Princess" line.  About the size of a Care Bear, with a face reminiscent of a Fraggle (and if you don't know what either of those is, fuck off... you are clearly too young to be reading this blog.)   She was a beautiful blend of lavender and teal. 

Her name was "Princess Battle Sword" and she came with a purple plastic long sword strapped in a sheath on her back.   You could put back her arm (oddly enough, she was a lefty) over her head and her built-to-grip soft plastic hand would click into place around the hilt of the sword.  Then with a press of a button, her arm would thrust forward, unsheathing the sword and holding it aloft as her little song played. 

"You must die

Die on your sword.

Glory in the battle

is the highest reward

You can kill

for what you believe.

Honor, Might &  Power

are what you must achieve."

(it's a catchy little tune.  I awoke singing it.  Am singing it still, disturbing as it is.)

I also remember noting on the box, that she was "For Children, 3 - 6yrs."

WFT, night brain?  No, seriously.... What.The.Fuck?

Relocating Me

The ever changing patterns of life, like a summer storm, blow all directions.  So when everything bottoms out in life, it is not uncommon to find yourself shifted to someplace new.  Sometimes this is metaphorical, but in my circumstance, it is quite literal.  After 17 years of life in Los Angeles, of supporting myself as best I could, of living alone or living with a love, I now find myself living in the basement guest room of my parents' home in North Carolina. 

There is rich comedy gold in the imagining of that road trip.  Me, My Mom, a 16-ft rental truck, my CRV and 9 cats riding shotgun (between the two vehicles.) More comedy in the imagining than in the experience itself.  However, we all survived, and I'm here to say that Motel 6's, in addition to being pet friendly, are usually pretty pleasant.

The "high country" (as they call it) is breath-takingly beautiful.  Dramatic mountainscapes drenched in a lush and living green that I had nearly forgotten existed in nature.  Clouds hang thick and low amongst the trees, like a lover nestling in your hair to whisper in your ears.   It has rained every day since I got here, and as a girl raised in hurricane country, who lived the last 2 decades in a desert, I couldn't be more pleased.  The locals keep apologizing for the "monsoon summer" but I revel in the hardy splat on my skin of each gargantuan drop.  And the nights... oh, there is something so familiar about the way a southern summer night presses against my skin, a wet heavy blanket of cloying sensual comfort.

But aside from the scenery and weather, I am basically in hell.

Gone is my sense of achievement, or independence.  Vanished is any confidence or shred of self-dignity that I might have had after the break-up.  My animal career is non-existent out here. My heart is hollow, brittle and angry.  I despair and am god-awful to be around.  I burst into tears hourly, have trouble making eye-contact with anyone, loathe myself and what I have become...  and because I tend to view time like a dog (1 moment = FOR.EV.ER!!!), I have no confidence or faith that "This too shall pass"  (no matter how many times my Dad quotes that.) I have completely lost the essence of who I was, and I mourn the passing of that vibrant fighter of a girl who lived in Los Angeles once upon a time.

I am "supposed" to be putting together a daily practice, a ritual of affirmations, grounding and journal writing.  But inner resistance is a mother-fucker when it grabs a good hold, and that depressing bitch has sunk her claws deeply into me.  My affirmations sound weak, false and hollow.  My journalling is erratic. It is very hard to find a quiet, good place to sit and write. My little room has a fold-out bed, a cat tree, a giant litter box and an armoire.  No chair.  Also, no natural light, as I'm in the basement. I had not truly realized till now how dependant I am on the light, for energy, hope and renewal.  If it weren't for my parents walking into the room to retrieve me, I would not get out of bed.

On my good days, I do some searching for where ever it is that I've gone.  On my bad days, I take pain pills and drink beer, checking classifieds for a place that will rent to a girl with 9 cats and bad credit, all between bouts of sobbing into a pillow.  I've cut off most communication with friends, because honestly, I'm embarrassed for them to see what I've become, and I'd rather they remember me the way I once was.

I am lost.  Have you seen me?

Little Things You Learn on the Internet

I recently found the Twitter account of an actor whom I adored, (and yes, it is a verified account, not just someone pretending to be him.)  This actor is ruggedly handsome.  The characters he plays are quirky and challenging, but humorous, and lovable in their faults.  I smiled at the thought that I might be privy to his occasionally charming witticisms. I even fantasized about sending a direct message that spoke of my decades long crush, sending him my number, perhaps cajoling him to a coffee date.

So, I clicked "Follow."

For the last 24-36 hours, my twitter feed has been practically held hostage by this man's rants.  He is aggressively anti-abortion, and was on that soapbox until Boston yesterday, at which point he began to spew racial fury and intolerance.   While I personally support the right to bear arms, I don't agree that any individual citizen carrying a conceled weapon would have avoided the unfortunate tragedy at the marathon.

I completely respect the fact that his twitter is his place to voice his thoughts and opinions on the political atomosphere in our country.  But on a day like yesterday, when the sadness of the state of our society is weighing heavily on me, I am uplifted and healed by messages of comfort and caring.  Tweets that address the immediate problem of finding missing loved ones, or opening your house to those who find themselves stuck in Boston unexpectedly.  I want to hear about humanity banding together to help make each other strong in the face of overwhelming hatred and fear. 

I mourn, selfishly, that my little fantasy is shot.  I pout (slightly) that not only will I no longer carry a torch for this handsome stranger, but that it will be more challenging to enjoy and care for his quirky characters.  But the knowledge of who this man is, what he chooses to stand for, is something I cannot ignore or forget.  There will be no more imagined coffee dates, no more fantasized witty flirtations, for who I am and who he is should never been in the same room together, lest there be a very vocal confrontation.

So, I clicked "Unfollow."

These are the ways we grow and learn.  These are the silly lessons of the internet, where we must face the wide range of human opinions and decide with whom we will stand.  I will offer support and love.  I will send my energies out to the spectators and cheerleaders who were taking a day out of their lives to encourage the runners, and the hundreds who, after the explosions went off, ran towards the danger to offer a helping hand.  It is a small thing I offer, this intangible message of love from the other side of the country, but it is what I have to give... and I belive it to be a wiser, more compassionate choice than standing on the bodies of the fallen, ranting for further legislation or retaliation.

Snow on the Mountains

I think the hardest part about the end of a relationship is that everything reminds you of what is gone.  Puts an exclamation point at the end of "EMPTY!"  And the urge to share the little commonalities doesn't stop just because the person is no longer there.

Yesterday, driving home from work, there were think low lying clouds obscuring the mountain tops to the East.  I wanted so badly to call him.  The boy loves snow boarding.  So much so that for one Christmas, he bought me gear and took me to nearby Mountain High.  After a daunting hour or so of abject failure on my part to surmount even the tiny 10ft of "bunny hill", I fell, cracking my head hard on the ice below me one last time, and tearily declared myself "DONE."  I sat drinking in the resort bar while he took a run down the mountain side.  We did ultimately redeem the day overall, and the picture I took of him at dusk on the mountain is still one of my favorites.  However, we never attempted to teach me snowboarding again.

Each year, as the snows hit, he would talk about "definitely getting out there this season."  And each year, whether it was lack of money, time or follow through, the snow remained unseen, the mountain unvisited.

When we broke up, one of his complaints about me was that I had no interest in sharing snowboarding with him (while his new "friend" was making her Christmas list of the gear she wanted, so she could hit the slopes.)  I thought it was an unfair complaint, as I was NEVER a snow girl, and he knew that when he moved in with me.  (I was raised in FL, people... I don't speak snow.)  Yes, there is valid complaint that I gave up without really trying much.  That I refused to take part in something that was important to him.  However, I was raised in a family where separate interests (even separate vacations) are considered a plus, not a minus.  So I was fine with him doing it without me... I WANTED him to make snowboarding friends, hiking friends, extreme sports friends.  I just didn't expect him to fall for one of them.

The view of the mountains brings all that back to me in a quick instant burst of thought, and yet still I long to call and say, "Have you seen the clouds?  There'll be snow on the mountains tonight!!" For I know that thought would bring a smile to his face, and I do so miss his smile.

It is a million little things, you know, that seem hollow without the sharing.  When I see a husky come into the shop, when our favorite TV show is on, when I rent a movie at RedBox, when I hear "Brown Eyed Girl" all punk-style... my hand reaches for the phone, to call, to text, to connect.  Having to still my own hand, find the inner strength to resist the drug I want so much, lands deep in the core of me, a rock tearing through my heart, thudding heavily in the pit of my stomach.

Many people, dear friends, tell me that I should feel happy, lucky even, that I no longer have an unfaithful, untruthful partner.  But all I can feel is the cold grey of those mountain clouds and the loneliness of unseen snow.

A Lone Reflection

a·lone:  adj  Separated, apart or isolated from others

lone·ly  adj  Affected with, characterized by, or causing a depressing feeling of being alone; lonesome.

Alone is a state of being.  Lonely, a state of mind.   They should be easy to differentiate between.  They should be two separate things.  But sitting here, on the ending side of a 6+ year relationship, I cannot always find a way to separate the two.  

This time last year, I had completed the Spartan Sprint in Malibu, and felt empowered and invigorated.  This Saturday and Sunday, that race once again took place, but I could not participate.  I needed to work and make money, but to be very honest, it is more the fact that I cannot yet run it without him, and I'm certainly not in the place to run it with him (even though he participated both days and invited me along.)

I lost a lot of myself over these last years.  I feel like a shell of the vibrant girl I once was.  Reading some of this blog's archives, I hear her sweet laughter and confidence bubble forth through her tales, but she seems a stranger to me now.  Where once, I dreamed of being unattached, proud of my independence, now I sit in a dark quiet room with cats and a computer for company and I dread the empty silence.

I do have moments.  Crystalline insights and moments of connection where I feel that vibrancy start to cut through the clouds.  This morning, I was feeling exhilarated and alive as I drove to work, promising myself that the worst of the darkness was passing and that I was well on my way to survival.  But somewhere, in the dreary smallness of my day, amidst forced holiday retail cheer and a million commercials about kissing and "forever love", the bubble burst and the tears and confusion settled in like the storm outside.

I used to be ok being "alone", but I have not yet conquered the deamons that accompany "lonely."

So here I am, trying to connect with my age old touchstone, writing.  Perhaps this blog and I will once again be on regular conversational terms.  Perhaps I will return to my keyboard and let my fingers express the snippets of thoughts as they pass through my cluttered brain, purging feelings and fears, hopes and heartbreaks, leaving what is no longer needed here on the page.  Perhaps bit by bit, I'll uncover that courageous girl with the sparkling giggle and a glint of hope in her eyes.  And with her for company, how can anyone feel lonely?/ˈloʊn li/ Show Spelled

Honoring the Temple Gaurd (repost from 2005)

Was just telling a friend this story the other night, so I was quite pleased to come across this old blog post in which I captured it more clearly than I can now.


Honoring the Temple Gaurd
written May 27, 2005

Once in a while, someone will come along in your life that you just “KNOW”. I don’t know the way you all think, but for me, this is experience is what I call “Knowing your Tribe”. We recognize our own.

Let me take a moment to explain some portion of my cosmology. I do believe in Past lives. I believe that we, as our ‘highest selves’, chose/design some aspect of our current lives, and this includes some say so in what souls we will encounter. I do believe that certain ‘souls’ show up in repeated lifetimes. (and by soul, I don’t mean that I am the exact same entity who was in a previous life time. My theory- and it’s only my theory - is that, in a universe of finite matter and infinite time, the mathematical combinations of particles of matter and energy will begin to repeat, or come together in similar combinations. These combinations, carrying with them a “cellular memory”, would account for “past life remembrances” or “deja vue” or that feeling of “knowing someone before”. The flaw in my theory is that the “timeline” of my memories vs. the amount of matter/span of time, would have repeated or similar combinations happening in a regularity that is inconsistent with the mathematical probability of such.)

Wow… I really didn’t want to get into all that, because it’s not really the point of this post.

This post is about ONE person I’ve met in this lifetime. At a party… about 3 years ago.

Friend’s birthday party, out in Marina Del Rey ( a portion of town I almost never go into, because it’s far west and south of where I usually like to drive). I didn’t know most people at this party, but that hardly stops me from being a social person. The bottom floor of the gorgeous house had a dance floor with DJ, so naturally, I spent a great deal of time there.

Occassionally, I would come upstairs to the kitchen to refresh my drink. On one of those trips upstairs, I began to notice a tall, dark, handsome stranger. It’s not so much his looks that attracted me as the fact that he was constantly manipulating a pair of those metal charm orbs (I think they are Chinese in origin- you probably know of what I speak. Metal, about an inch in diameter, and people typically have both in one hand, moving them around each other in a meditative sort of way)

He was approximately 6’4”, my guess is 270lbs. Dark dark chocolate skin. Enormous eyes. Bald, except for the very top of his head, where two thin, long braids sprouted and draped down the back of his head. He oozed an aura of unquestioned authority and strength, but at the same time, seemed infinitely gentle. He didn’t seem to be talking to much of anyone, but watching everyone. When I looked at him, I could see him, in another outfit, standing against a brick wall of heated mustard brick (does anyone else have those moments, where you see someone, not as they are right now, but perhaps as you’ve seen them before? You blink, and the image is gone.) then suddenly we were back in the kitchen, and I smiled at him. I trusted him instantly. In my head, I dubbed him “the Temple Guard”

I went up to him, commenting on the ever moving orbs in his hand. We talked about meditation and focusing the mind. Always he referred to me as “My Princess”. I laughed and pointed out that I’m a Priestess, not Princess. And he smiled and said “Of Course, My Princess.”

Over the rest of the night, we would pass each other occasionally, and finally both ended up on the dance floor, where he again, stood guard (it’s the best way I have of expressing that). I felt protected, I felt watched over. He danced with me at one point, fully holding my weight with one arm, while never missing a beat with the Chinese orbs in the other hand. By the end of the night, I let go of my vision of myself as priestess, and for a moment, truly felt like the Princess he saw in me.

We left that night with no exchange of numbers ( I can’t remember his name, although I do think he told me at one point). He called me “My Princess” and I called him “My Guardian”, and we understood in those names there was an endless amount of love and respect.

I think of my Temple Guard often; remember his quiet strength, and wonder where he is, in the vastness of this Universe (and LA). Today, I’m wearing a headband that says “Princess”. To me, it’s more a joke than an attitude… but for one moment, in the mirror today, I saw the word, and thought of my Guardian, and wondered if somewhere, he was smiling.

Pondering Past Thoughts

So much has been happening in my life lately, and it caused me to reflect on a post I wrote back in 2005. So I went serching through a million locked down livejournal posts till I found it.

Heroines for the 21st Century
written March 8, 2005

Motivated by my own comment to mamaluna about the new breed of Amazons.... i sought some guidance/comfort in the wisdom of the tealeaves.

Reading No. 16
Every man's life is a fairy tale, written by God's fingers. ~ Hans Christian Anderson

You are the hero of your own life, not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived. It's not the agony of the quest, but the rapture of the revelation

My own hero..... my own true Amazon warrior (with 2 whole breasts). Can it be a call I answer happily? Rise to the occassion and embrace? I see all these wonderfully empowered women, each of us smart and savy. Able to look at what is going on around us and say "This works" or "This is unhealthy, and I don't want to play that game anymore." We are healing and moving forward at what soemtimes seems to be a lightening fast pace..... and while we have each other, we simply cannot find a "partner" that will move at that pace with us.

Perhpas it's not meant to be. I've theorized before that as the human race moves forward, we step further and further away from monogomy (a state i believe has been trained into us by society and is not genetically what we are designed to do). Perhaps as we leap and bound away from accepted roles of wife and mother, we continue evolution, returning to the warrior state.

You know, all i've read by the modern gurus & elevated minds, they talk about the higher self, being a being of love..... but they don't really focus on marriage, or even life long partnership. There is an element of Bhuddism that seems to be the enlightened but unattached state. Unattached to material things, unattached to wants and desires. And what is a life long relationship, if not built (on some level) by wants and desires.

which takes me back to my longing for a new Avalon, for convent life..... unattached to the material, embraced only by spirituality.... tending gardens for the goddess.... each silent day a testimony to balance and bliss.

can we be on the path, returning to the Temple Priestess.... sacred in body and mind. sexual, sensual, yet sacred? Unhampered by earthy drama. And if that's where this is headed, then I shouldn't be upset by it. I should embrace it. Dance with it. Rise above the daily bullshit and see that this is the path put in front of me, and walk it with dedication and joy.

Alone,
Unhampered
Unattached

A Spartan Thanks

Yesterday, I ran The Spartan Sprint. This is not the place to go into what it is, or why I ran it. No, this is a letter to a single woman whom I encountered.

Dear Spartan,
You may not remember me. I am quite sure that I did not factor into your race the way you factored into mine. I was the woman sitting crumpled in the mud at the foot of the last obstacle, crying quietly. You asked if I was ok. I lamely replied, "I'm just tired." It was an excuse befitting a 3-year old child, and I apologize for it. I was not entirely in a clear-thinking place. Had I had more wits about me, I would have said this:

"I'm so goddamn tired... tired of not showing up to my life. Tired of having lofty dreams and goals that I'm too lazy or terrified to pursue with the vigor they need. I'm tired of failing. I did not train for this the way I should have, and yet through some grit and determination, I've made it this far...to the last obstacle. But I'm not sure I can climb this wall. And I'll be dammned if I'll quit within site of that finish line. Each time I rally the physical strength to attempt it, and fail, sliding back down to this muddied grass, I waste precious energy. And I'm not sure where that energy is coming from, or just how much more I have. I'm overwhelmed by the frustration, ashamed that I'm sitting here, and just before you arrived I took a particularly spectacular face and chest plant on the wood that knocked the wind out of me, so I'm in a fair amount of physical pain as well. But all that is nothing compared to the screaming voice in my head that is telling me over and over that I shouldn't have even tried becuase I ALWAYS FAIL. That voice is so loud that I fear you can hear it, even over this cheering crowd."

So thank you Spartan, for being one person out of hundreds who stopped to ask if I was ok. Thank you for taking time out of your experience to check on me. Please excuse me that moment of human fear & frailty. Know that after you left, I took a breath, regrouped and climbed that wall a 3rd and final time, and finished my first Spartan race. I hope your race was an amazing experience. I hope you had fun, but also that you found within yourself a place of power, of strength. I hope you surprised yourself with all you could achieve. I know I did.

Trying to capture the new, in just a few words

Hello all. Don't know if anyone still reads this. Don't know that many people who did to begin with. For a while, I had a stride, writing well and often. But life has a way of changing and this blog no longer fits me.

I haven't worked with a feral cat community in quite some time, and I've been dating the same guy for... eek.. 5 years this May, so the "Catch Neuter & Release" moniker isn't really appropriate anymore.

I don't sit at a computer, so my writing time is limited but now special to me. I left the entertainment industry and dreams of becoming a star (or at least a working actress) far behind. Now, after several years in school and internships, I'm considered part of the animal welfare industry (I know... shocker for a cat lady such as me.) I'm different. I'm quieter. Some times I'm heart broken and resigned that I left the life long dream behind me. Other times, I'm still and smiling, believing that this new path I've chosen in is fact my soul's true work, and while I don't have a clear direction in front of me, my internal compass has me moving forward in the right way.

I'd like to start journaling again, start blogging. Putting thought and belief out there to the Universe. I've had that feeling for months. But I'm always stopped when I try to contemplate a new title. Something catchy perhaps, easy to remember (or at least, easy to google). Something fun, which in a few words, captures who I am, who I am becoming, and what I face on the path.

defining oneself is never easy work.

Brief Reflection

The 5 year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina has just passed, and that made me want to reflect on my thoughts and blogs from that incredibly painful time.

However, I was delighted to find that in addition to those introspective moments of pain and suffering and hope for a brighter future... I also had a lot of funny, entertaining tidbits of life that I quipped upon. I had a fiery and brief love affair that was documented as it grew, and I was actually enjoying my day job (which later became insufferable.)

If you've got a few moments, perhaps you too would enjoy trolling around in my 2005 posts. The link to the archives is just over there to the right (no.. not there... down a little bit. Yep, there.)

Enjoy.

Long Time, No Hear

Back again, returning to the blog after losing the last 22 months of my life to the Exotic Animal Training and Management program. Ok... I didn't "lose" my life. I gained unbelievable experiences and knowledge. But now, here, on the other side of graduation, I feel lost. For 22 months, I knew where I had to be when. I knew generally what each day would look like. And now...

*sigh*

It's Saturday night, and I'm sitting in a Coffee Bean using their free wi-fi because we lost connection at the house. On facebook, classmates talk about how they went out last night, or are going out tonight... or about how their new jobs are amazing, or about how their lives are amazing. I understand that some of them are making it sound more glorious than it is. I understand that many of them are younger than me, and therefore what they find "AMAZING" would not likely occur the same for me. Still, it makes me feel small and a teensy bit pathetic.

I'm trying to take on challenges in my life. I'm running headlong into old patterns of behavior and trying to turn over a new leaf. Take the opportunity that disappearing for 22 months has provided me to cut old ties and bad baggage and try to begin again with a clear road. It's not easy. It's not fun. Change, improvement, rarely is. I'm trying to keep the things that worked for me. Like writing in journals and blogs. Like thinking out loud. And so, I find myself here. Dropping a few words onto the cyber page, akin to dipping a toe in the pool, the first day it opens in the spring. It's daunting. But sitting here immobilized with fear and sadness is infinitely worse.

A few quick notes: (1) Just saw "Sex & the City 2" Wow... I wasn't expecting much but high-fashion and a brief glimpse of Aiden. However, I have to say that I feel the brand has lost the thing for which I most enjoyed it. It used to be a call to arms for single women to feel fun, empowered, and less alone. But now, it's a backslide for women with self-esteem that seems to cry out "It's not ok to grow old," "It's not ok to feel frazzled when you've spread yourself too thin" and worst "If you feel uncertain in your relationship... be sure he gets you a nice piece of jewelry." I used to feel that I could relate to the SitC ladies, but now, if I were an American travelling in the Middle East and I saw them out, I would embarrassedly apologize to those around me that not every American woman is that rude or that desperately in need of attention and validation. Ugh. (2) I've managed to spill HONEY (of all things) on my keyboard, causing my "z" key to stick. ARGH! I'd do much better if I found a cyber cafe that served alcoholic drinks instead of coffees, teas and overly sticky cinnamon buns.

Why I love the Internet

There is so much drama, so much strife perceived in every day life. Each day an economic struggle. Every argument an insurmountable disagreement after which nothing will ever be the same. And like a whirlpool, all this flows over my head with overwhelming force, and I struggle and drown and get sucked down into the very heart of the maelstrom.

Winston Churchill spoke of his depression as a large black dog that haunted him, growling and stalking and keeping those he loved at bay. If Mr. Churchill was right, and my maelstrom image fits too, then it might be best to say that for the last week or so, I find myself at the bottom of a roaring ocean, flailing and drowning, with only a large black dog to hold on to... and he bites.

Then a Sunday afternoon comes along which has some spare time and a bright sun peeping past the clouds. The blue sky seems unreal in its electric vivacious coloring, and it glistens behind the Griffith Observatory in a shot any cinematographer would glory to claim for his own. I see all this, but only in passing, temporarily blinded by all the ocean water and dog hair in my eyes. I return to my apartment and do some homework, and access the web, to check accounts, and perhaps peek at a few blogs (a pastime I rarely get to indulge anymore.) And a without realizing it, a life preserver falls neatly draped around my shoulders as I read the words of my tribe.

It doesn't take much to find people who mourn their losses, who sink into despairs. You can find someone bitching in front of you in line at the grocery store.... but until the vast Internet and blogs became a part of my life, I often believed myself alone in trying to persevere. But you... wonderful people you... so many of you speak of hope and joy and invigoration. You have weathered hardships, and have tremendous moments of great doubt, but you keep stepping forward, and I really do love you for it.

It is so easy and so popular to become resigned. Those that try to move past it are often called blind, ignorant, naive. They are mocked by those who secretly covet their indomitable spirit. And that mockery, if well-timed, can suck the wind out of renewed sails and drown barely afloat hopes. (good lord my metaphors are all over the place today... and I'm rambling.) My point is that I have a hard time keeping going. I get lost. I get overwhelmed. Sometimes I tell myself to go on. Sometimes I hope for more, then feel foolish for doing so. But the Internet has shown me that I'm not alone in these courageous charges of perseverance. If anything, I have seen that not only are there many out there who trudge ever forward... but MANY who seem to do it better than I. Who have ideas I haven't tried and wells of energy I haven't tapped into. They comfort me and inspire me and after 30 minutes or so of reading, I find myself possessed by the need to be outside, smelling the air, fascinated by blue sky and overjoyed at the feel of the breeze. I see the beauty in dandelions that grow between cracks in the sidewalk, and I'm blown away by the sound of bird wings as a flock of pigeons take flight.

Thank you Internet. Thank you heart-filled bloggers who express hopes and fears so honestly. Thank you, my dear tribe, for hopeful words, beautiful pictures and communities full of courageous passions. You open me to inspiration.

A Moment of Calm

Is it the cold? The damp? The holiday? Or just the odd free moment in my hectic zoo schedule? I don't know for sure, but I'm feeling sublime and nostalgic.

As I walk across this campus, hood up in a weak fabric attempt to keep myself dry against the light Autumn rain, I can't help but think back to my early college days. As I was pass the Music building, I remember a 17 year old me, listening at practice room doors for my roomie, playing her clarinet scales and cursing loudly at mistakes. I remember nestling into the covers of my tiny twin bed, with a warm cup of cocoa, overflowing with mini marshmallows, listening to the Florida rainfall compete with loud hissing and clunks coming from an antique radiator. I remember the wet stillness that falls across Murphry Green when all the students are hidden away in rooms, or gathering in hallways.

I remember feeling so young, still stunned to already be in college... and yet feeling so old, mature and jaded to be out of high school. Laughably, that same conflicted arrogance is what can vex me so in my younger classmates. There are moments where I cannot tolerate it, and others where I jealously remember being so blissfully self-involved.

Course... here I am, blathering on about my life and my memories in my blog... as if anyone in the world could really possibly care. LOL. Self-involved is apparently a stage I haven't quite grown out of, if anyone really can.

In the library today, there is a warm silence that smells lightly of moist mulch and growing things. The rainy season in Southern California is also the time of growth, and I enjoy watching plants bud, or grass turning vibrantly green. The media/learning lab area is alive with keyboard clicks and IM pings. Laughter behind me as young women mock Myspace fotos and post with friends. Whereas only moments ago, I felt as if I were back at FSU, these new noises now make me feel as if MUCH has changed since I was in college. It was another decade... hell, another century. Wow... I'm crazy old.

I came to the library to work on my final project for Wildlife Education, while staying dry and warm. B.E. Projects were turned in today, and Diversity finals start next week (well, the first of 3 will be on Tuesday.) However, despite those pending assignments and anxieties, I sit fairly calm and composed, reflecting on college and the rain. It is a good day.

When I do find these moments to post, I have half an urge to ramble on about school: its woes, its dramas, and of course, the animals. Big rubber dairy boots and a shovel full of poop seems to all fade into the background with a 300+lb lioness watching you work. Her amber eyes entrance me and all manual labor seems easier when she's nearby. The coyote seems to trust me more than most others, and although I cannot work with her yet, I think about her often. This week, my assigned area of cleaning is Parrot Gardens. I'm admittedly not much of a bird person, but when a kookaburra breaks out into that long exotic call, even jaded ancient me can be impressed.
In short, school is school.... with all the good and bad that every college experience brings with it. But on rainy days full of memories, it is pleasant and playful and lovely to enjoy.

Wishing you all a great grey Wednesday, and may your Thanksgiving, however you experience it, be full of good friends and good food.

Standing in a New Place, looking Forward

I've never been one to participate in politics. I'm not the girl you find in line at most polling places. I have little faith in our legislative and judicial systems, as they are currently practiced. My experience of politics has been 101 promises, 99 of which are broken (and one is reworded to exploit a built-in loophole). Why would I need to vote when I could get that sort of abuse from any number of previous relationships? Deeply ingrained in Generation-X cynicism, I embraced apathy... for it was easier than expressing and channeling the fury that our world's current state aroused within me.

And so, when the pre-presidential flurry began to spin, I tried to ignore it. ALthough I live with a man who has been working to support Obama since it was a grassroots campaign in Chicago, I tried to ignore it. I fought being won because in the end, it all comes down to one vivid and sometimes toxic emotion... hope.

Hope comes with strings attached. Strings of expectation. Expectations leave gaps and opportunities for disappointment, when they remain unmet. And so many times, they do.

Yet somehow, in all the chanting for change, a tiny seed of hope crept in. Small as it was, I did my best to avoid it, and not let it run any major decisions. I did however, find myself willing to vote, for the first time in a long time. Not only for the presidency, but for many state propositions that are important to me. I cast my ballot by mail, as I wasn't in the county during any open polling hours. And once the envelope was sealed, I didn't give it much thought. In fact, inundated with animals and education, I actually forgot several times that today was election day.

But as I killed time between evening classes, dining with a friend and seeing the first peek at the numbers, I felt an overwhelming stirring in my gut. I recognized it at once. The aching butterflies in my tummy were the twinges of hope, gnawed at by the fear of unmet expectations. Momentarily paralized, I did my best to push the news report and the quivering tingles aside, and focus on class.

Time passes, events roll forward whether you pay attention or not, and by the time I was in my car for the long ride home, McCain's concession speech was being aired. Driving east on the 118, tears rolled down my face. Me... my face... the face of a woman who until now has never much cared for election results, who avoids political discussions, and despises the bickering two-party system. Face to face with the fact that I was emotionally invested, I turned off my radio and came to terms with my unexpected reaction.

Can we? Really? Can we Change? Human beings are creatures of habit and radical turns of events have never been well embraced by society as a whole. The best of intentions can still be stymied by fillabustering and stalling. Worse yet, promises may not be kept.... best intentions might not be brought to the table. What then?

Hope. It terrifies me. But I cannot help but fill tonight with it. To let it float like smoke in the air, resonate like the final chord of a piano concerto. It hovers tangibly, waiting for expectations to be not only met, but embraced and bettered.

Yes We Can..... I certainly hope so.

For a Good Cause

Hey folks! Clearly, if you've been reading my blog for any amount of time, you know that a central theme here is the rescue and preservation of all sorts of animals. Likewise, many of those folks who share my world are also concerned for our furry friends. That is why I would like you to go here. The blog belongs to SlackMistress, but on it, she will give you all the instructions you need in order to (1) Visit the fabulous Animal Rescue Site (2) Vote for the Bill Foundation to receive grant money for their work with dog rescue.

It is a simple task that takes only a few moments and can do a world of good. So please, make with the clicky-clicky and help save a dog. :)

Many many thanks!

Mourning

Paul Newman

1925 - 2008

Rest in Peace, great spirit. You were as inspirational as you were beautiful.

As talented as you were endearing. Thank you for sharing with us

all the honest, integrity and laughter. We will not forget you.

The First Update & the Urge to be More

Overwhelmingly overdue, this post really can't begin to capture the last 40 days. A ragged and runaway roller coaster, with all the highs and lows of a soap opera episode. I really can't think straight enough to put together a long cogent post, but I'll try to hit the highlights.

Of my 53 classmates, 52 of them are 10 years or more younger than me. That stings a bit. I mean, with all the demons I've been fighting the last few years, about being past my prime- too old, too fat, too.... well, being surrounded by skinny 20 somethings has definitely punched a few buttons. Then again, many of the conversations I've been privy to have proved to me that one really does learn and grow an AWFUL LOT between 24 - 36. There's just not enough money for me to go back to that time, and my years of experience have allowed me some leeway in staying above the flow of the drama.

Speaking of drama, it really is the worst part of the program. Sure, the hours are insanely long. Many days a week, I wake at 5am, to leave my house by 5:30. On Monday of this week, my alarm didn't go off, meaning that I was late... and thus docked points for the tardy. Still, that personal emergency, as emotionally taxing as it was, is nothing when compared to loves and betrayals and roommate tragedies that I have been made aware of. I remain confident in my decision to live away from other students, despite the long and tiring commute.

Some classes require public speaking and a taste for the theatrical. These are, of course, the easiest for me. Other classes require only that you attend, that you work hard while there, and that you are not ever even one minute late. Short of the "alarm clock incident", I have done well in those. Still other classes are heavy on science and memorization. They require studying and in some cases, comprehension (not just rhetoric). These are a little more difficult, although I've found some study buddies that are most helpful.

Until this week, I would have said that the class as a whole had not gelled. However, several times in the last few days, I have been doubled over with laughter as compatriots and I, delirious from fatigue, found humor and connection in our shared duties and hardships. As one new friend said recently, the early rising, the long hours, the filthy tasks, the stressful tests... they are stepping stones, not hurdles, for "we are exactly where we are meant to be."

As I sit here tonight, on a rare night without studying, and watch the movie "V for Vendetta", I reflect on its message, and remember how it moved me the night I first saw it in the theatre.

Frequently in Conservation class, as we watch another depressing video, I feel overwhelmed with sadness and despair that we as a people are doing so much damage to resources, to the creatures we share this planet with, to ourselves. It feels hopeless, most of the time. But the other night, there was a small stirring in my soul. I don't know why it was there, or how long it has been in there, residing quietly. But it was a part of me that believed in passion and purpose, integrity and making a difference, however small. It is the same part of me that cries a little each time I watch this movie. It is a part of me that urges me to be more, and that whispers to me, that whatever I may think, or even fear, the Universe has her grand design, and I am in fact "exactly where [I] am meant to be."