Writing week. Thursday.

I’m sitting at a car repair place again, this time, a dealership, because evidently that is the only way forward. hundreds and hundreds of ways. the man behind the counter is handsome and i’ve already glimpsed at a naked ring finger.

yes, that makes me sick, too. I will not take another step, just sitting my ass down, maybe not facing that direction.

i’m starting to feel a little bit like dating is work. and thats no good. weary and curious cannot exist in the exact same space.

but here i am, in the car repair waiting room. and i smell coffee but can’t find it, and thats maddening. it is not for me? is it not for me?

it was a big day yesterday. I had two ‘very important’ new things. (virtual via zoom, both of them.)

  1. a meeting with a spiritual director. she is an old, virtual friend of mine, though i have actually met her in person and even shared food. she’s finishing a program in spiritually directing people and i am a rambling, distractable seeker. Seeker. yes i am. we talked a lot about how to ritualize some of my daily tasks, imbue them with my feelings about the divine.
  2. a meeting with a potential new therapist. she uses a similar modality to the last therapist I liked, called IFS (Internal Family Systems) which encourages and allows all the different voices we hear in our heads, in our body. For example, the voice which tells me I’m doing just fine with the kids, in contrast to the voice which panics internally any time there is the smallest hitch in their happiness levels. Defensiveness, aggression, shame, pride, all the things are just fine, and working together to protect and defend my inner golden core. I’m good. I don’t need quite as much protection as they think I do, so its a matter of going in, diving down to see what my pieces are doing in there. it suits me very well, and I think we’ll be a match. Its amazing how explaining myself to someone can make me feel shame, and how much that is exactly why I am there.

Go get yourself a therapist. Everyone should have one. Yes, I mean you.

I also had another first date. Will let you know.

The waiting room is playing Sarah Mclachlan. Never fails to make me feel teenaged angst. Hello Dawson, its me… get off my fucking roof. Its not my favorite re-do, I’ll tell you that.

Did I tell you I’m 47? I am. Deeply.

love love,

me. ( i found the coffee!)

toddler wearing floral dress holding doll
This means something. How are you facing things today?
Photo by Саша Лазарев on

Comfort levels.

I had a whole post about shyness and isolation and how I can’t go to PTO meetings because I’m shy and its exhausting to think about listening that hard.

And i erased that mother fucker.

Sometimes I just want to shout about how fucking content I am.

I’m eating a RingDing right this very second.

Well, okay, its gone now. But there is one more waiting in the wings.

And, there are four books within reach right now. And I’m typing on a laptop that doesn’t need to be upgraded right now, in my quiet kitchen, my dog and cat are both curled up nearby.

Second RingDing is going down, and I’m going to write all morning.

I go to the farm to bask in brilliant farm light after lunch. I will bring gloves, a hat and an extra sweater.

I’m incredibly lucky.

Yes, I’ve got issues and worries and loneliness. But goddammit. Look at what I have.

Week of writing, reading commences now. Seven days. Every day.

I’m going to be writing for a week, a full seven days. Whether it ends up here or not, I don’t know. I’m going to concentrate on reading too, and I’m dropping my phone on the floor many times, so that it stops alerting me to stupid shit.

Love you much.





You read something, it lights you up. Sweet.

You realize there’s a vacancy where your pain used to be. Sweet.

Your kid has a big first. You watch a milestone unfold. Grace.

You say no without much guilt. Deliverance.

You just don’t pick up the phone to answer that person. You just don’t. Small choices, big relief.

You take care of the new application for health insurance coverage (so many things to copy and prove) and don’t even choke when they need all your ex’s information and you don’t know it and they say you can’t insure the kids on your own. You just know it will work out. Blooming faith.

You clean the cat room. You can’t believe people allow litter boxes in their lives, again. You just do it because you are the grown up in the house. This one is slowly sinking in, at 47.

Little ones, big ones.

Its where I’m at, friends.

love love,


road landscape nature sand
Photo by Magda Ehlers on

Touch the past. No? Me neither. But then sometimes, there is no choice.

Cynthia Lee, at it again, as my prompt-ess. Sigh. I’ve got bones to pick, and i’m no hoodoovoodoo goddess. (although i can see myself that way at any given moment.)

She said this: Today, let us touch the past. Let us allow our moving through our what is now to connect to our what was. (my italics there.)

I feel like there are bubbles of the past around my house that I walk into by accident, and am transported. Or maybe they are spiderwebs, and i’m caught off guard by memory in a way that has me swinging wildly at the air around me. It is not just a bad marriage or what I did to myself during that time, its more than that. it’s the ability to fall down a hole of recrimination, negativity, hopelessness.  I am asked to straddle the past and present and I do, but it’s a horse, and it takes me places that it wants to go. I do not feel in control. No fencing here, not stable, immobile straddling.

And not pleasurable. Let it be known. I do not like horses, animals that big scare me. Don’t even get me going about cows. (almost terror)

So what is it I can touch? that is just calmly faced, recognizing and not reacting or reliving? I see cardinals and think of my dad and that is a good feeling, sad but I don’t linger there, just miss him and wish him well and thank him for the bird. Touched, I guess, is how I feel. And I live in a place where there are a pair living, so it happens not rarely.

Another part of cynthia’s prompt says that she sits at the end of the day and writes her noticings, and I think I’m incredulous that there is an ‘end of the day’ that holds that space, and I look at my life and how I’m just thrown around by the lives of my kids, and that’s fine, its what I’m in, but I wonder if I can massage it into something different.

I’m just finally this month, sleeping by myself, guys. Really. The 8 year old is in her own bed every night. Last night, I had a thirteen year old with me, who had a massive headache and needed medicine. the medicine of snuggling with him mom after ibuprofen. But alone is the new normal.

And since I’m choosing to go cold turkey on men, again, alone is the new normal there too. No fiddling, no faddling, just sitting. reading books.

soon, in this next 30 days at least, i’m going to make fires again.

and while i’m there, i’m going to think about the end of the day, and how i can make it mine.

thats the plan, man.

love love,


Someone went thrift shopping, and didn’t buy this. For shame.


Football is Romantic

Really. Keep the faith. Anything is possible.

Try hard. Work as a team. Cheer each other on.

I may not like Tom Brady very much (which is very inexplicable to all people who live within a hundred miles of me) but I do love the Patriots, and I love to watch them and its insane and i know that you and i are shocked that i’m typing about football.

So there. That is my post.

Go out there and give it the old college try.

Throw something. Catch something. Try hard.

Love love,


selective focus close up photo of brown wilson pigskin football on green grass
Photo by Jean-Daniel Francoeur on