Yup, Life is Complicated

Posted on 06/09/2021 by maeveala

I won’t ever forget the date: January 12, 2000. I had moved two and a half years previously from Boston, Massachusetts, where I had spent ten amazing years; getting my degree, becoming a part of a vibrant community, and really growing up. I moved to Boston from a small town in Alberta, Canada, where I was born and spent twenty years, to go to Theatre school and realize my childhood dream of treading the boards on Broadway.

To this day, I’m not sure of the exact reason that made me want to move to Los Angeles, California. There were a lot of factors – relationships, jobs, opportunities, but when I vacationed there for a week in June 1997, I made a decision, and by that November, I was back permanently.

Even though it was not a move to a different country, it sure felt like one. Culture shock hit me – I needed a car to get anywhere. I knew only a couple of people, and so depended on them for introducing me around – a lot of pressure for them – and had to find a job that would pay the bills but still be flexible enough so I could audition and take classes. No problem, right?

The pond of Los Angeles turned out to be enormous for this little fish. Getting acclimated to the traffic, the culture, the weather – it was the hardest transition I’ve ever made, and I’m pretty good at geographics, trust me. I managed to find an office job, get set up in an apartment by myself, and made a couple of close friends; I even started doing work in theatre as well. I was in my early 30’s, and though I was depressed that I had not met my self-imposed “Goals by 30” (Husband, Kids, Broadway), I was doing OK. I had my twelve-toed Calico cat who made the journey West with me, thrift store furniture, a used Honda, and a clunky computer to surf the internet on (what internet there was fifteen years ago was fledgling and slow), and, feeling extremely alone, and lonely, I set out to meet someone, using brand-new dating websites like Spark and AOL.

I’ve always been drawn to the bad boys. I don’t know why. The ones who never quite commit, that always leave you hanging, but have that broken, chewy caramel center inside their hard candy shell. I struck up a friendship with one such Lost Boy on that fateful January 12, 2000. Isolated and missing my Boston community, and a walkable centralized city, we wrote back and forth via e-mail for a couple of weeks before meeting in person.

I should have listened to my instincts, the ones that said, “Nope. Don’t do it. Just keep walking,” when we finally saw each other. But I didn’t.

He had hair down to his waist, with a Kool-Aid-colored goatee, a lip, eyebrow, and nose piercing; wore a hockey jersey and mid-calf cutoff jeans with white socks and black Converse hi-tops, and a black watchmen’s cap.

But those eyes.

Piercing and blue, they were full of rage and love and hurt and pain and soft and hard and need, all at once. I was hooked immediately. We hugged a little awkwardly, and headed out to dinner at Spoons Restaurant, chowing on onion bites and draft beer. We drank a bit more than we probably should. My resistance was low, I was lonely, and my self-esteem was non-existent. We had sex that night for the first of only – maybe – a half a dozen times; and I got pregnant.

When I saw that “+” sign on the ClearBlue test, it was like a Hitchcock movie. I saw my face in the bathroom mirror, and my focus dimmed, feeling like I was in a tunnel – reality moving away from me as I stood still. I cried and didn’t stop for about two weeks.

I told him a few days later; I’m pretty sure I had already made up my mind about what I wanted to do, but I wanted to hear him out. He threw out the “Hail Mary” and I bought it. “I love you,” and, “I want to be with you,” and, “I just don’t think it’s the right time right now for either of us,” and, “in the future,” and, most importantly, “after we’re married.” I nodded. I was relieved. I had never felt so stupid in my whole life. I had been a good, Catholic girl most of my life. The judgment I had rendered on so many others now fell hard on me.

But, I listened, to my inner voice, this time. It wasn’t the right time for us; I didn’t know if that time would ever be right. He had a problem with alcohol – his blackout drinking continued, and after the abortion, we only slept together once more, even though he kept saying that he loved me. He finally admitted that he wasn’t in love with me. When we would go out, he would drink till he passed out, and I would put him to bed and sleep on the couch.

After a few months of that, through a weird “six degrees of separation” coincidence, a co-worker asked to speak to me, and when we were alone, told me that her friend knew a friend of his – and that they were “together.” I was hurt, but somehow, I think I already knew.

As if this wasn’t humiliating enough for me to stop seeing him, or answering his calls, I answered his phone once while he was in the shower, and got an earful from that girl he was seeing, where somehow I became “the other woman” and “in the way of his happiness.”

This went on for almost a year. I am ashamed to admit that. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t focus at work. I lost almost all of my friends, because I couldn’t stop obsessing about him, and what he was doing, and who he was doing it with, and most importantly, why he wasn’t doing it with me. I thought so little of myself that I couldn’t see how bad this whole situation was, and didn’t have the courage and self-esteem to say, “enough.” I didn’t know who I was going to be, without him, and I didn’t want to find out.

I came home from work every day, and immediately turned on the TV. It was on for noise, not for content. I didn’t care what it showed, I just couldn’t stand the silence in the apartment. On the way home I would stop at the grocery store, or the convenience store, and buy two large bags of junk food. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was big, and crunchy, and bad for me. I would stand in my kitchen, over the sink, listening to the news, or whatever program was on the station I had randomly chosen, and look out the window at the green hills over Burbank, eating everything that was in those two bags without being conscious of it. Sometimes afterwards, I would throw up. It was pretty much the only thing I was eating – I couldn’t concentrate at work; I was sleepwalking through my life.

I don’t know why the next set of events fell into place in exactly the way that they did, but as I look back it seemed like sheer providence that they did. I had gone to a St. Patrick’s celebration at a bar with him, and he drank heavily. I decided to try and keep up with him, drinking everything he did. As we walked back to my apartment, I collapsed on to someone’s lawn and passed out. He left me there and continued to my apartment. Fortunately, my next-door neighbors were walking home shortly after and found me, helping me up and getting me home.

The next morning, he was gone, and I struggled to get up and go to work. But I did. I thought all morning about how I could commit suicide and make the pain stop. Nothing was working, so to me, logically, suicide was the next thing to try.

The window by my desk at work looked over the 134 Freeway, at the Central Ave. overpass. I had a floor to ceiling view of the mountains in Glendale that day, swathed in mist, lush and green, as a late winter rainstorm slaked the parched earth. I turned my desk chair towards it, and just stared. I felt contentment for the first time in many months. I felt I had lost my faith since all of this began, and I sighed heavily as tears threatened to leak out of my eyes. “If you’re there, if anyone’s there, in the Universe, tell me what I’m supposed to do! I’m so lost and so unhappy. What am I to do?” I said quietly, the green of the hills and the overcast clouds calming me. The cars on the freeway below made sluicing water sounds as they splashed through the puddles on the asphalt. I sighed one more time, and as I blinked away the tears, a rainbow came into my sightline from the west, translucent, vivid. I held my breath as if afraid that my breathing would blow it away. I blinked twice more and it was gone.

Feeling stronger than I had in a long time, I turned to my computer screen. I vaguely remember someone mentioning Al-Anon to me. I can’t remember if it was a friend, or a stranger, but I am completely in their debt for it. I found a lunchtime meeting right down the street from me, got in my car, and showed up. I was so afraid to go up the stairs to the meeting room, but my legs seemed to go of their own volition. I listened to people share the same feelings, and hurt, and hopelessness that I felt at that moment. A kind woman came over to where I was sitting and introduced herself to me. She became my first sponsor. I told her a little of why I had come, and she gave me her phone number, and said, “call me tomorrow.” So I did.

We talked, she listened, and she didn’t judge. I laughed for the first time in many months, and she invited me to other meetings, even picking me up, and when I balked, she said gently, with kindness in her eyes, “get in the car.”

At the meetings, I met other people who had similar experiences, and different ones, but we all felt those same feelings of hopelessness, worthlessness, despair.

I worked the Al-Anon program really hard those first few years, as if my life depended on it; because it did. I learned so much about myself, and about the disease of alcoholism. I slowly started to regain my self-esteem. I started to trust again. I became a better employee. I was just a worker among workers, person among people. I was able to contribute to society instead of just taking.

It took a lot of time, and writing, and tears, and soul-searching, to come out of the severe depression and hopelessness I had been in. When it came time to make my amends, of course my ex was on the list. I was able to take responsibility for my part in that relationship, ask for forgiveness, and ask what I could do to correct it. He did not want to hear it. But I was able to say goodbye to the person I had been, that had in some ways, thought I deserved to treat and be treated the way that relationship was.

It was the last bit of cleaning up that part of my past. It had been four years since I had dated, and through listening and watching others, I learned what that really was about. How not to fall into the physical part of it so quickly – to talk and laugh and learn about a person before giving my deserving heart, and my beautiful body. Because looks and libido will always fade over time, and if you can’t have a conversation with someone, or make each other laugh, it’s going to be a really long slog.

I was terrified to date in L.A., but my friends and my sponsor helped me navigate those uncharted, and often stormy, waters. I continued to work my program, and met a sweet, kind, generous, lovely man who gave me butterflies when he smiled at me. We were married two-and-a-half years later at City Hall in San Francisco, quietly, with two witnesses, and the love bursting out of our eyes. Eight months later we held a big reception in a friend’s backyard, so that we could share our commitment to one another, and to say, “thank you” to the people who had held us up, protected us, loved us, and strengthened us.

The day wasn’t perfect, the marriage has its troubles now and again, but it’s been ten years; almost fourteen since we met. I look back at that person I was seventeen years ago, and I know the she is nothing like me now. Marriage is hard work. Life is hard work, too. But the rewards are so unbelievable. I wouldn’t have it any other way, truly.

I am still sad sometimes, about the decision I made in terminating my pregnancy. I would have a seventeen year-old, going on eighteen now. But without a shadow of doubt, it was the right decision for me, at that time. It was the catalyst, for me, to a new way of living. If it hadn’t happened in the exact way that it did, I know I would not be where I am right now.

Was it a pyrrhic victory? I hope not. Life is not always wonderful; and I’m not always happy, but I am a better person, in all ways; I am more useful to God, my friends, and my family than I was that lonely night, January 12, 2000, when this was all set in motion. I continue to grow and give away what I have learned, even though the price exacted was enormous. But you know what? If I could go back and do it differently, I don’t know that I would. That’s how much this journey has been worth to me.

The Caterpillar and Me

Posted on 06/09/2021 by maeveala

The disease of Alcoholism is insidious. It cannot be cured, but it can be arrested. You can’t ever stop moving forward with recovery from it, because you won’t be standing still; you’ll be moving backward. Those of us affected by it, in a relative or friend, are in a similar situation – we must always strive for that daily reprieve from our character defects and “stinking thinking” – or the feelings, the defects, and the self-loathing return, most of the time worse than they were before.

I’ve been struggling the past couple of years with program. Since I’ve moved to Altadena, I don’t attend the same meetings I used to, and I miss being part of and having people around who know my whole story. And, while there are some good meetings in my area, they are not just the same. So I judge the meeting and the recovery that is there. I don’t give of myself to offer my perspective on my 16 years in program. I look at it as a burden, not a gift, to be sitting in the rooms.

So, this weekend, at the Women’s Retreat I go to every year in Santa Barbara, I was hoping for some answers. Hoping for a Louisville Slugger upside the head (because sometimes that’s the only way I can hear) about what to do with my program.

The drive up was busy, as usual, and I honestly don’t know how people commute long distances/time each day. I have such a defect of “right and wrong” that when someone acts like a jerk while driving it sends me over the edge. “Why would someone DO that? He just screwed over EVERYONE!” That type of deal.

When I pulled in to the lush, peaceful grounds two hours and forty minutes later, I just needed to decompress. Those who had been up there for hours before already were peaceful and in great moods. When one of them went to hug me, I balked. Because of the drive and I was uptight, but also because I’m not great with hugs. If I’m situated in a place and have my bearings and feel safe, I’m more likely to hug and be hugged. But mostly I’m like a caged cat, scratching and hissing and just trying to get to a dark corner so I can acclimate and let the knot in my stomach unclench.

I thought it best not to subject anyone else to my attitude, so I grabbed my camera and started walking the expansive grounds. The light was so amazing right then, I knew it would be beautiful with all the trees and flora and fauna about.

I started to calm down just seeing how the light was playing with the trees, and the statuary, and the tiny breeze making everything change every few seconds. I could feel myself relaxing with each click of the shutter.

I headed toward the labyrinth, a type of meditational maze laid out on the grounds, that I have walked several times and always felt better after doing so. I met a black, fuzzy caterpillar on the stones at the entrance, and stopped to watch him motor along, doing his own thing. The pamphlet at the wooden box refreshed my memory about how to use the labyrinth to most effectiveness.

Quieting my mind, and opening my heart, I entered. I followed along the rock-edged layout, aware of where my thoughts were going and how I felt. I began to notice that even though I switchbacked through the labyrinth, I kept moving forward. Sometimes, it felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere, that I was moving backwards, but I always kept moving. I started to understand: this was my journey. I make the choices about which way I go. I don’t have to do it the way everyone else is doing it – that’s THEIR journey, not mine! I am lucky that I have a sponsor who, if I came up to her and said, “I think I need to stand on my head at meetings, so the blood rushing there can help me think,” would say to me, “Sounds good, honey, just don’t wear a skirt!” Because she, too, understands that it’s my journey, and no one else’s. What works for someone else might not work for me, and vice versa. And that’s why we share so openly and honestly about what is really going on for us. It’s the only way to help ourselves, and to help others on their journey make choices about what works and doesn’t, for themselves.

Exiting the labyrinth, I felt lighter, present, and more centered than I have in ages. I headed back to the main meeting room, seeing my fuzzy black caterpillar friend again, this time in the middle of the road. I worried that he might get run over, or not be able to get back to his food source again. I stood there and thought about “helping” him for a long time. A couple walking a dog gave me some very strange looks as I stood there, but whatever. I decided to try and pick up the caterpillar and move him to the grass. I tried to pick him up, but he tensed up, and the spiky bristles on his back made it difficult to get him. So I let him be and continued on back where the rest of the women were.

I realized that the road may not have been optimal, but in the end, the caterpillar had his own journey too.

There’s Power in Aging Ungracefully

Posted on 11/22/2013 by maeveala

I get Miley Cyrus, in some ways. I truly do. Discovering the power of your sexuality, and trying that out, not caring about the consequences – we’ve all been there. Women are powerful, and not just sexually, at all ages, but unfortunately it’s been stamped on and shamed on and controlled for so long that we have no clue how to just… be, most times. Unless we make ourselves attractive and have a powerful man standing beside us we feel naked, incomplete, irrelevant. Unless we act the way that society says women should, the way that men say we should, we are labeled – feminists, ballbusters, lesbians, bitches. I understand, I truly do, why youth is so appealing, why we celebrate it, worship it and try to hold on to it as much as we can – younger spouses, cosmetic surgery, staying current on trends. But where does that leave the rest of us? I’m not in my 20s or 30s anymore, and I feel a bit like I’ve been cast aside, that my opinion and my person no longer matter. And most especially, now that my uterus is no longer fertile and I don’t want to spend endless hours preening and slaving to fashion and makeup, I feel… dead, sexually. Undesirable, in every definition of the word.

I drove home the short way a few weeks ago, which I rarely, if ever do, because of situations like I’m going to recount. It was a lovely Southern California day, the windows were down, and the sun was going down, angling low across the sky, making it a backlit canopy. On the two-lane stretch of Woodbury where I was driving, the speed limit was 40 mph. People were going slower than that, and it did annoy me, only because I had to be somewhere, but I wasn’t driving like a jerk. Trust me; I know when I’m driving like a jerk. I’ve done it for a long time and I am UBER-aware of myself tailgating, getting frustrated…this was not one of those times. (I have tried to curb my aggressive driving tendencies, and I think for the most part, I have succeeded. LA is a difficult town to practice Zen driving in, believe me.)

I changed lanes to the far left and fell in behind an old, red Honda. He was a couple of miles below the speed limit, and I crossed over Washington behind him, as he zigged into the right lane, I followed, and had to stifle a chuckle when he passed a fire truck on his left and stuck his hand out the window to wave and give a solid “thumbs-up” to the riders. The fireman on the passenger side raised his hand slightly and gave him the smallest, briefest of waves. The red Honda then pulled ahead into the left lane, and I followed. At the next light, he slowed to get into the far left turn lane. And I mean, really slowed. Trying to piss me off slowed. The light was still green and I braked, turned my wheel hard to the right to get around him, and then hard again to the left to straighten out, but missed the light. He crawled up beside me to my left, rolled down his window and tossed the opening salvo – “You’d better be careful there, girl, tailgating like that!”

Where do I even begin. Do I feel flattered that thinks I’m a “girl,” not a woman? (He was under 60, therefore not old enough to play the age card) Do I mention the tortoise-like (read: controlling) maneuver of his that precipitated the event? Do I laugh it off and ignore him, turning my music louder? Well, unfortunately, the answer is d) none of the above. I was so annoyed with him a) being distracted and waving at a fire truck like a 5 year old, b) purposely slowing down and trying to control others (namely, me), but mostly… mostly, I was hot that he had called me, “girl.”

Listen, I’ve had a great fucking life so far. I really do not have anything I can complain about that I wouldn’t feel ashamed complaining about. I did what I wanted to do, for the most part, and made a life for myself in another country, even while being illegal there; I was gorgeous in my young womanhood, and I knew it. I drank and smoked and cursed and fucked with the best of them, and men loved it (well, most men anyway, the kind of men I liked back then). It’s looked on a lot more favorably when you are 25 than when you are 45 (and quite a few pounds heavier than you were then as well). I know now that some of my affections, and my actions, may have been misplaced, but I really do believe that particular truth is given to us at a time when we are most open to receiving it.

So, in that bohemian, independent spirit of my youth, I laughed under my breath, turned to face ahead of me again, and muttered, “Fuck off.” To which he looked taken aback, and said, “What did you say?!?!” God, will this light never turn green???? Is what was going through my head, but, not turning to him, I responded, without malice, or intonation at all, “you heard me.” There was silence, except for Def Leppard vaguely playing in the background. Then, after a few moments, came the kicker. The retort that comes only when you can’t think of anything else to say and are pissed off enough to want to hurt.

“You’re a fat pig… aren’t you!?” The last bastion of the witless. Although it’s probably true to some extent, I’m heavier than I’ve been in a long time and certainly not the looker I once was, but how does someone even know that, seeing you from the shoulder up? Are my jowls really giving me away? (I’ve got to look into that Lifestyle Lift.) And really, there were so many adjectives that flew into my head to counter with (balding, ginger, pockmarked, to name a few), it could have gotten much uglier.

The light finally, FINALLY turned green, and I stuck my long, manicured hand out the window and flipped him off hard, like Jennifer Aniston showing her boss her “flair” in Office Space. I gently pressed the accelerator in my Prius and silently headed home. Oh, it hurt. Believe me, it hurt. I’m no longer as adept as I once was at sloughing off the slings and arrows sent my way, back when I was gorgeous and didn’t care, about authority or much else.

But what gives him the right to say that to me? I’m a big fan of men, I love them, have always been around them; I feel their plight as they head into this brave new world of metrosexuality, 24/7 porn, and women fucking like men, and can understand their bafflement. I see that they too feel irrelevant, out of touch, unnecessary. But I also know the surest way for a man to control a woman is to make a dig about her appearance. This jackass is one in a long line of social fuckwads that has said something blatantly ridiculous to me in the hopes of hurting and showing his power and control over me. Now that I’m older, I see them as sad, pathetic, lacking in confidence, no self-esteem – and I can have some compassion.

The only good news that came from this encounter was that I’ve started taking the long way home again, even though it adds 5 minutes to my already ridiculously short 15-minute commute. I didn’t fall into depression and hate the world for being so mean, as I would have years ago. I didn’t carry it with me, because even though I may have been unwise to “poke the badger with a spoon” and tell him to “fuck off,” his response was completely irrational and uncalled for. And one of these days, I’m going to really be able to say that I don’t care about what people think of me. And I will believe it. And the fucking roar that will issue forth from my mouth upon that happening… well, that will be something, won’t it?

(Expansion by Paige Bradley)

Hut! Hut! Life’s Little Lessons…Experienced Through Football.

Posted on 09/19/2013 by maeveala

I love football. I just wanted to put that out there before I said anything more about it. I’ve loved it since my Dad and I watched the Edmonton Eskimos from the “new” Commonwealth Stadium, in the late 70s. He got season’s tickets and we would huff and puff up those cement stairs, to our seats, on the aisle, about three rows from the top.

“Geez, Dad, how come we can’t get tickets a little further down?” As I’d collapse into the seat (and take off my oxygen mask and crampons).

(Google Earth snapshot of the stadium, and where our seats were)

He’d just smile, light up a cigarette (you could do that in the open air stadiums back then), and say, “No, hen, then you couldn’t see the PLAYS develop. Up here you can see all of what’s going on. I don’t need to see their faces, I’m interested in the big picture.”

So there it was. I learned to watch the Offensive Line shifts, the audibles, the shotgun, the fantastic way the CFL is that the Wide Receivers can be in motion towards the line of scrimmage before the play starts, and the intertwining of routes making their way down the field. It became more about the team, and their progress, than individual efforts.

Of course, the Canadian playing field is 10 yards longer and almost 12 yards wider. It really does avail a more wide-open game. And just 3 downs to get the job done? Difficult. Really difficult. 1^st down, you get a few yards, 2^nd down, you don’t quite make it, you’re a yard or two short? That’s it, you gotta punt or try for a field goal. Your offense has to be a little more effective and on the ball (pardon the pun). Even my husband has been brought over to the CFL side and marveled at its expansive, fast-paced beauty. (That is, when our provider actually decides to show the games on its Canadian affiliate).

And don’t hit the goal posts! They are positioned at the front of the end zone (which is 20 yards deep instead of the NFL 10).

Commonwealth Stadium is also where my Dad taught me about sportsmanship. Like any eleven or twelve-year old, I had developed deep loyalty (read: crushes) on many of the players on the football team and would defend them to anyone. One year, during the Labour Day (and yes, it IS spelled with a “u”, thank you) series between the Esks and bitter provincial rivals the Calgary Stampeders, on a glorious, prairie Fall Sunday afternoon, with a huge bright blue sky above, I nearly had smoke coming out of my ears at one of the more vociferous, and quite drunk, Stampeder supporters.

He must have been, maybe, eighteen (at least, because he was drinking a stadium beer and the legal age is eighteen), lithe, shirtless, hairless (his chest), with the feathered/banged dirty blonde shoulder-length hairdo popular then. He was tanned and had sun crinkle lines on his face that made me think he worked outdoors. His team jersey was tucked in to the back of his jeans, and the red shirt hung past his bum crack and down to his knees.

Any time, and I do mean ANY time, the Stamps made any kind of good play, he would stand up, beer in hand, and turn around to the crowd above him and just gloat, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a “mmm-hmmm!”, while his other hand displayed an index finger jutting skyward in a “#1” motion.

It was about all I could stand. I wanted to throw my pop at him (pop being my Coke, in a big plastic cup). My Dad saw the steam coming out of my ears and said, “What’s wrong?” I answered, “That dumb guy is making me so MAD! I just want to throw this at him and show him how WRONG he is!”

My Dad’s eyes softened and he made that funny little noise he made when he was amused, that wasn’t quite a laugh, but a hard outward snort through the nose (I’m pretty sure it’s a distinctive Scottish trait, but I could be wrong), and said to me, “No, wee Neecy, he paid his money just like everyone else for his ticket, and he’s allowed to cheer for whoever he wants to. You’ve got to respect that, and don’t let it get to you. Just enjoy the game, even if your team isn’t winning.”

I was a little too young to grasp the gratitude he was expressing for, again, the big picture. The aforementioned beautiful day, spending time with his daughter, surrounded by people who were (mostly) on the same side cheering. Glorious. I was a lucky little girl.

The intent of this particular blog was to talk about how difficult it’s getting to watch American football every week – with the rage, the injuries after practically every play, and the poor sportsmanship shown a lot of times by the players – having to humiliate and subjugate the other player that they’ve tackled, or ended up on top of. I find it really crude that after a play, the defensive guy will pretty much get up from the feet of the player he’s tackled, and walk OVER him to make sure that the player on the ground sees defensive guy as the Alpha Male, and gets a face-full (or facemask-full) of his obviously superior junk. Why don’t you just pee on him too? (Would that be a penalty? How many yards?)

But, I will leave that rant for another day… I have too much of a good feeling going on now, thinking about those truly halcyon days of watching football with my Dad, the lessons I learned from him, and from the game, and strolling down memory lane.

To me, that’s what professional sports should do – unite the people of the City and show us how alike we all are, and not focus on the differences we have. Go ahead, you may say I’m a dreamer.

My Arizona Road Trip

Posted on 08/14/2013 by maeveala

I took a day off of work on Friday to drive to Prescott, Arizona for a women’s conference in the pines. Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big driver. My parents and I used to drive on vacations every summer (mostly because my mum was terrified to fly), but also my parents thought it was important that I got to see so much of the country, and I actually started to look forward to it every year. So I thought nothing of driving 6 hours to get to another state to see some friends and be high up in the Pines to be without TV or any other media for a couple of days.

As usual, it started with the 134 to the 210, with a quick detour to the 57 and on to the 10. This would be my highway for the next 233 miles. Once I got past Palm Springs, it was all new to me. I had never taken the 10 E any farther than that. Thankfully there wasn’t a lot of traffic and I was able to put the cruise control on and enjoy the scenery without having to worry about people around me too much. It was hot, so I had to turn the A/C up a notch – I don’t like air blowing directly on my face – my next car is going to have those nifty cooling/heating seats, I don’t care what the cost is!!

There were a lot of places I started to pass that I’d heard of, most notably the Salton Sea. I remember the movie with Val Kilmer and thought of it as this exotic place, like the Dead Sea, that had some miraculous power to heal or something. That was until I read in the paper that the Salton Sea is so toxic and full of sulfur, millions of fish regularly turn up dead on the shores when the wind blows across it. And also that it has a huge Meth problem. Not that exotic.

Once past Indio and Coachella, I settled in for the drive. It’s a two-lane highway and I found myself playing a pass-and-move game with another car – he would pass me and move in the the slow lane ahead of me, I would catch up and do the same – this went on for about 40 minutes. The landscape started to shift; the earth turned a coral color and it was really barren and flat. For some reason it looked like huge planks of salmon with dill trees sparsely stuck in them. The wind made impressions like the sections on a filet. Weird image I know but it really did.

I had never been to Arizona before so I didn’t know what to expect. I thought it would be desert and sand, with not a lot of vegetation. When I crossed the state line, the town of Blythe was verdant and lush – there was a suspension bridge across a huge wash that was brimming with water. The vegetation was darker than California’s, especially on the mountainside.

I switched over to the 60 and it really got rural. RV parks popped up everywhere, no trees for shade, just vast acres of land with these white and metal trailers dotting the landscape. It was hot. There was lots of scrap metal and other items strewn about in front of houses and businesses – like it was too hot to get it to where they really wanted to bring it. I kept going, even though I needed to stop and stretch and get some gas. A sign said, “You are now leaving Hope behind.” I “hoped” it was just the name of the town and not a fact. I kept going.

The 71 was next; more flat landscape, although now there were those typical-shaped mountains in the distance. Not as pointy, more flat and red. The cactus growing there all seemed to be giving me the finger, which seemed rude to me, how did they ever expect visitors with such a welcome?

I finally stopped for gas in Aguila. It had just rained, poured in fact, and the air was heavy and thick with wetness. People were just starting to come back out on the streets. Gas was $2.99 a gallon, so much cheaper than California! There was a feeling I got from everyone around, like they were trapped in this town, like cats poised to jump into any vehicle and see where it took them. I paid for my gas and hurried back to the highway. It got hotter.

The road was so flat the heat caused mirages. I could see maybe 200 ft ahead of me, that was it. The heat sat there on the road, fat-bellied and corpulent, shimmering the air above the road so violently that I couldn’t tell which way the road turned till I was almost there. It was a bit like “the Twilight Zone.” I wished I had someone I was driving with to talk to, to break the tension and laugh a little. But it was just me and the CD collection.

I pushed the cruise control to eighty and turned my “Gomez” CD on. I needed to hear some happy music to counteract the chilliness I felt on driving alone. I kept on going down the 71 till I got to the 89 and turned North towards the mountains. The clouds came back and covered the sun enough so that it wasn’t as toasty in the car. A few fat drops of rain spattered on to my windscreen and I turned the wipers on and off quickly. For some reason I started to smile, at last relaxing a little and really being humbled by the beauty of the landscape and having some time off to see it. I turned the air conditioner off and opened up the sunroof – instantly my car was filled with moist, warm air and the smell of pinon. I took my hair clip out and let my locks swirl about in the wind. It must have looked a sight as the pressure from the sunroof being open made all of my hair stand on end and get sucked out the roof! It felt amazing, like a massage from tiny fingers.

I got to the base of the mountain on the way to Prescott and prepared for the drive up to my destination. I was a little worried about my ears as my vertigo was not completely gone, but I took it easy on the accelerator and started up. It was not too winding at the beginning, and I was really glad it was paved. Each direction was on a different part of the mountain, so no chance of running into another car that was careening down the hill and coming round the corner at you.

It was getting a little claustrophobic now, the road wound round and snaked back and forth, the pines were enormous and created a canopy above, and the sides of the mountain were solid rock and really close to the edge of the road. Thank goodness there were look-outs every few miles – I made use of them to pull over, get my dizziness and nausea under control and then get back driving. Motion sickness only ever happens when I’m a passenger, so this is all new to me, and I’ll tell ya, I don’t like it one bit. Haven’t tried any other method of transportation but I’m hoping I don’t get the symptoms then too. Vertigo has changed a lot in my life.

Prescott was waiting at the top, and I felt relieved that I was almost there. My back was aching from all the sitting and my legs were starting to twitch and jump from lack of exercise. The town was nestled in tall trees and had all the entertainment offerings of a much larger city. They even had two Wal-Marts – a fact I found disturbing in that it would be nicer to see more community-oriented mom-and-pop outfits than chains – especially chains that were so underhandedly dangerous to America as a whole. But I digress and that’s a subject for another blog.

Copper Canyon Road carried me up to the camp where we’d be till Sunday. The roads were unpaved and pocked with canyons where the wash had eroded away the earth, and I had to really slow down to make sure my little Mazda didn’t bottom out going across them.

It was so quiet and so beautiful when I got to the upper lodge, I just stopped and sat on the ground. The clouds were roiling across the sky, in every shade of grey imaginable, looking like big handfuls of minty cotton candy; there were birds screeching in the trees and darting through the sky, and small animals ran from corner to corner, checking the new arrival out and perhaps hoping for some food.

My two days in Arizona were so relaxing, so fulfilling, and truthfully I did nothing! I can’t remember the last time I laid in big Adirondack rocking chair and let my imagination tell me what the clouds were. I became so aware of the absence of noise, and acutely aware of sound. There truly is a difference. Even the screech of a mountain cat in the dawn wasn’t frightening, it was more exciting and almost brought tears to my eyes.

I left on Sunday with the thunder clapping and the huge raindrops hitting my car and a heart that was so much lighter than when I got there. I decided to try the shortcut down to the 89 that I had noticed on MapQuest and headed out Copper Canyon Road the opposite direction than when I arrived.

Bad decision. The rain was causing fast washes across the roads, and I was terrified my car was going to get stuck. I put the gear into low and tried not to brake too much, as when I did, the road skittered out from underneath me and made the car fishtail as the tires clung on the dirt roads.

I kept going, and going, and going down the mountain. There weren’t any road names anywhere and no where else to go, so I just kept on going. I prayed that the road didn’t dead end, as I knew there was no way I was going to be able to get back up the mountain with the road as slick as it was. I came upon a truck ahead of me, and flashed my lights to him to let him know I wanted him to pull over. My stomach stopped flipping and I relaxed a little as I pulled up to his driver’s side window. His license plate said Texas, and he was as reserved of strangers as I know a lot of Texans are.

I asked him where the 87 was, confusing the highway numbers. He said, “you mean the 89?” I said, yes, the one that hooks up with the 60 – totally forgetting the connector 71. He looked confused and said, “Where are you trying to get, what’s the name?” Los Angeles, I said, and I might as well have said Mars from the reaction he gave me. “You missed that I think,” he said. No kidding, I thought. “How the hell’d ya end up here?” Too long a story. He told me to keep going down this road and it would t-stop at the 89. He took off ahead of me and I kept him in sight, barreling down after him, afraid to lose the humanity I’d found in all this wilderness.

I came upon a religious family – not sure what they were, but they were dressed plainly, maybe Hutterites or Menonites, but they smiled and waved as I passed through their small town. “Skull Valley” was painted on the side of a building, and I panicked ridiculously and thought, Oh geez, it’s “Deliverance” and I’m the one with the pretty mouth. Los Angeles has never felt like “home” to me, but I was so desperate to blink my eyes and be there right then.

Finally, the highway came into sight. I actually started to cry as I took off towards the way I knew would lead me to home. I’m better with markers than directions, and being so happy on the way up here, I didn’t really take into account ones that would help me on the way back. It wasn’t till I saw the on-ramp to the 10 E that I really felt calm again, knowing I was only a few hours from a hot shower and soft bed.

Moral of the story: although there is something to be said about traveling alone and the peace and divinity you can experience by yourself, road trips are a little more fun when you have someone to share your insanity and panic with. And in cannibalistic Deliverance situations, there’s a 50/50 chance they’ll pick your passenger and send you on your way!

I Won’t Be Muzzled.

Posted on 06/11/2013 by maeveala

I won’t be muzzled. I won’t be leashed and held to heel. Having spent the better part of my 20s and 30s thinking that I wasn’t a “nice” girl, having to swallow my anger so much that I blew up like a blimp, so that every time I experience the feeling of anger, I cannot even hold on to it, instead I dissolve into tears. I no longer want to slowly kill myself with food and unfelt emotion. I’m tired of watching life pass me, thinking how glorious and shiny everyone else’s life is as they achieve goals, try new things that frighten them, put themselves out on the line, while I sit in the corner and hope you don’t notice me.

It’s simple, but it’s a difficult concept to grasp. I know. If you don’t like me (and that’s OK), feel free to change the channel. If you don’t like the words I write, don’t read them. Believe me, they’re not about you, or trying to hurt you. They are simply me, trying to understand, me.

I no longer have to be a people-pleaser and throw myself into despair knowing that you don’t like me. I can’t grovel on the ground or hide under a quilt while you assert your dominance and superiority over me. I’m tired of putting my energy into trying to make you like me, rather than spend that energy on those who really do. Those who, time after time, have been there for me. Have opened their hearts, their homes, their lives, to me and mine; have never told me that I’m disgusting and that I should be ashamed of myself.

This immense globe that is my home, I want to see as much of it as I can, with the person that means the most to me, my husband. If that means that I’m flying away from the nest, be happy for me. Wish me success and happiness and love as I traverse it, and don’t be sad or resentful that I’m away from you. My journey may not necessarily be your journey, or more likely, the journey that you wanted for me. But it is distinctly and utterly mine. I do not regret a millisecond of it. All of it has made me who I am today, and you know what? It’s pretty amazing. And, maybe, the choices I made have made it difficult to stay in touch, to know me, but instead of looking at that as a defect, why not look at it as an asset? An old Chinese proverb says that sorrow shared is sorrow halved; happiness shared is happiness doubled.

So, I’m different than you. I believe different things. I do different things. They aren’t Canadian differences or Scottish differences, or American differences… they’re just differences. Does that make me less of a human in your eyes? Or less worthy of your love and your respect (if there ever was any there to begin with)? Because I have not lived my life how you lived your life, or believed what you believed, there is no room for me in your consciousness? I can’t live on crumbs any longer. I am not satisfied to get what you give me and call it manna from heaven. I can’t be. The world is beautiful, and huge, and ugly, and scary, and beautiful again, and I want to taste it all before I die. And I will die, just as everything on this planet dies. What can I do in between now and then? I can love. I can live. I can accept myself exactly how I am and where I am right now. And then, if I want to change it, I can. But I cannot change without first seeing myself as I really am.

Why must you seek to rein me in, like I am some thunderous wild Appaloosa who just needs a tighter bit to champ at in her mouth and the spurs dug in a little deeper to her sides?

Do you think I do what I do for spite? To hurt you? Do you really think it’s about you?

That couldn’t be farther from the truth.

A junior high teacher wrote as a comment on a paper I had turned in, “Why settle for the Moon, when you can reach the stars?” I’ll tell you why: because the Moon is closer, and all the people I know are there, and it’s safe, and known, and most of all… it’s not as lonely as being in the stars is.

But there comes a time when you know you must leave your Moon home and head off to your rightful place among those points of light. The journey’s beginning is easier that second time, because the pull of the Moon is nowhere near as strong as the pull of the Earth.

Really? A 10-Page Form Is All You Got, USCIS?

Posted on 05/29/2013 by maeveala

I just finished inputting ten pages of information into my N-400 Application for Naturalization request/form. Some of the questions elicited, “well yeah of course” while others got a snort and a teeny, smidgeny burp of indignation.

Part I: Your Name
What do we call you? And what does everyone else call you? And then is that different from what you were called at birth? And is that what you want to be called? Seems to me this is a vast improvement from what happened at Ellis Island – Name? Wladimir Brunckywisckeicz. OK, welcome to America, Walter Brown. But what is this large box to the right? “Remarks” for use by USCIS only? What are you going to put there? “Seems sincere” or “name suits her” or something like that? I hate the word remark. And yes, OK, I understand you need ALL the names I went as, but I really don’t like to even write it anymore. It’s painful.

Part II: Information About Your Eligibility
Well, we’ve got three options here: 1) lawful permanent resident of the US for five years. 2) lawful permanent resident of the US for AT LEAST three years, AND I have been living with and married to the same US citizen for the last three years, AND my spouse has been a US citizen for the past three years. Or; 3) I am applying on the basis of qualifying military service.

…Those are my only options? Be a resident for five years, or be married to a citizen AND a resident for 3 years? And it has to be the same citizen I live with and married? OR… join one of the Armed Forces and hopefully make it out in one piece and not ruined with PTSD and guilt.

See, right there, there has got to be some give and take. This nation is huge, and there should be alternative methods about how to qualify.

Part III: Information About You
Yes, it’s all well and good, my name, birthdate, social security number – those are pretty commonplace. But now you’re asking about my birth country and nationality? What if they’re different? Is that good or bad? And my parents’ citizenship? My marital status? It’s good, actually, every marriage has its peaks and valleys and right now we’re at a high point. Oh, right, just “married” is good enough. Sorry. And no, I’m not requesting a waiver of my civics test based on anything. I would love to show I know enough about the country and constitution so that you would WANT me to vote or be on a jury!

Part IV: Address and Telephone
Wait a minute… see what you’ve done there? You snuck in an “e-mail address” line too… yes, I guess that’s an address…but are you going to stalk me? Check out my correspondence? Trust me, you’re going to be very bored. I LONG for some good SPAM.

And here’s where it gets INTERESTING and/or HUMOUROUS…

Part V: Information for Criminal Records Search
I start to sweat, even though I don’t have a criminal record. Parking tickets? Traffic offenses? Calling 911 to report suspicious activity or a neighbor’s loud music?
Gender, height, weight (is that criminal?), Race (and there is a separate question for Are You Hispanic or Latino?), hair and eye color (do I go with my Bride-of-Frankenstein-Paulie-Walnuts-striped salt n pepa or the usually coiffed dark chestnut brown?) (And are my eyes hazel? I consider them green, with an amber ring around the pupil, but there isn’t a checkbox for that.)

Part VI: Information About Your Residence and Employment
Where have I lived for the past 5 years? Good thing this wasn’t 20 years ago in Boston… seriously I changed addresses like underwear. It wouldn’t have looked very good. Right now, it’s only three places in five years and just thinking about THAT exhausts me.

And another good thing that the Walt Disney Company encompasses many different divisions – 8 different ones in ten years – I would have needed an extra sheet.

Part VII: Time Outside the United States (Including trips to Canada, Mexico and the Caribbean)

Imma stop ya right there. Anyone filling out this form who DOESN’T THINK ANY ONE OF THESE COUNTRIES LISTED IS OUTSIDE THE UNITED STATES should not pass go or collect $200 or your certificate of naturalization. That is all.

So, yes, including the last, big, sad, wrenching trip… 42 days outside of the US, all to Canada. Weird, when you add it all up like that. I have got to get me a travel agent and start doing the trips I’ve dreamed of. Got to. No offense, Canada, but there’s a whole world out there. Literally.

Part VIII: Information About Your Marital History:
How many times have you been married? Were they a citizen? Were they married before you and was it to a citizen? Annulment, Divorce, Death? Hey now, marriage is hard enough, I don’t need to put the whole citizenship/which side of the bed do you sleep on with it. (And PS, these sets of questions were two out of the ten pages.)

Part IX: Information About Your Children:
Next.

Part X: Additional Questions (Sections A-H)
Section A: HAVE YOU EVER (now this is getting like a weird game of Truth or Dare) (most of them tax-related or claming royalty titles, etc.

Section B: Affiliations – do you belong to any parties, clubs, societies, Communists, Terrorists, Nazis, Tea Party (no, that wasn’t really listed, I just added Tea Party) No. I have no life.

Section C: Residence (YES!!!!)

Section D: Good Moral Character (Oh shit… I’m out).
Habitual drunkard? Prostitute (well now, wait, does that include acting?)? Arrests, Probation, Parole? Drug Smuggler, Bigamist, Gambler, Alimony Shirker? (Considering the number of people born here that do these, shouldn’t you be applauding me by now?)

Sections E, F, G: Deportation, Military Service, Selective Service Registration (Wait, there’s still a draft?)

Section H: Oath Requirements
And here, this is where I get choked up and teary. Because, yes, I do support the Constitution and form of Government of the United States. I understand the Oath of Allegiance and of course, would take it. I have concerns with, but would bear arms for the protection of the country and would perform non-combatant work in times of war. I will protect to my best this country from all enemies, foreign and DOMESTIC (sorry, did I shout there?) Because I really do believe that united we are absolutely indivisible, and that there should be liberty and justice for all. This country has given me a lot. If that means I’ve got to register to vote and sign up and do jury duty…hells yeah, I’m there.

It’s just going to take a little while stumbling around in the dark, barking our shins on the coffee table, before we turn on the light switch we always knew was there.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Change

Posted on 04/12/2013 by maeveala

As hard as we try not to change, we are doing so every minute, every second of our lives here on the planet. Trying NOT to change is the worst feeling in the world. Change is natural. It might as well be a synonym to evolution (oh wait, it is).

This is a picture of my hometown. Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Coming up Connors Road, past the Muttart Conservatory, toward Strathearn and Bonnie Doon.

It’s in my rear view through a mirror, because Edmonton is forever changed for me now. This picture was taken in September 2012. I was home visiting my parents, the third such trip that year, because I was worried sick about my Dad. It’s the last time I saw him.

Edmonton is a great city. It was an amazing place to grow up – safe, comfortable, expanding, a little hick, a little slick. Living there requires a certain inner strength – particularly to get through the winters.

That last trip there, I borrowed my Dad’s Chrysler and filled up the tank, and just drove. I remembered all the places I used to drive with him – Jasper Ave. to pick up my Mum after work; 17^th Street where he worked; 109^th Street where Grama used to live; my sister from the CN tower, where she worked. I’d go everywhere with him. He had a little bit of the Traveler in him, and thank God I inherited it.

Dad taught me to drive – again in a Chrysler, this time a burgundy LeBaron – after getting me set up with Driver Training the summer I turned 16, I would be anxious to go with him, and this time get behind the wheel. Dad was an assertive driver – some would say otherwise, in not so nice terms, but I am forever grateful to him for helping me with learning the privilege of driving. And learning how to do it well. In thirty years of driving I’ve had two infractions – one for pulling a u-turn trying to get out of traffic on the way to my Dr’s office when I miscarried and was bleeding so badly I had to be hospitalized; the other, driving my husband’s car, and being behind a jerk who was texting and talking on his phone, and when I briefly honked to get him to go (as the light had been green for a few seconds), he went, then stopped short again, and not knowing this car as well as my own, I slammed on the brakes but couldn’t stop, and barely tapped his bumper (even though he harangued me and was verbally abusive, and got a whole new bumper and paint job out of it).

Lots of people are intimidated in the car with me. I do admit, I’ve had some anger issues, and swore a lot, and maneuvered my Mazda as if it were a Porsche, but I don’t think I was ever reckless. I’ve been in cars with drivers who are worse – not confident, unsure, so scared of getting into an accident that they’re actually a liability on the road – and I’d rather be a passenger with my Dad. I don’t think I was ever frightened when he drove.

Anyway, I got in Dad’s car, and I eased onto the roads I had once known like the back of my hand. Edmonton is a growing city, and the vast open fields and spaces, on the roads into it, from my childhood were virtually non-existent anymore. Yes, it was from growth, but also a little from that weird realization that everything was bigger, farther away, took longer to get to, as a child. I remember my Western Civ teacher telling us the one way to really realize how much time had passed and how we’d grown was to reach for the doorknobs in our childhood home. That perspective of eye level triggering memories was the harbinger of seeing how old you were.

So, with the car as my eye and the rest of the city as my doorknobs, I set out to see how much I’d grown. And how much it had changed; but mostly, how much I had changed.

The trees were so much taller. I’d been around when a lot of them were being planted, slim trunks roped to iron bars to help keep them upright – now towering above me and their canopies full and lush.

The Walterdale bridge, close to the river and the water plant, still hummed as your tires went across it, but it was much quicker than I remembered.

The High Level Bridge, by the Legislative grounds, sucked the car in to its narrow two-lane tunnel, and dumped me out right where I had my first kiss from the man I went to Boston for – the High Level Diner. Wistfulness and sentiment washed over me. I turned east onto Whyte Ave., and had to pull over. The tears were streaming down my cheeks. On my left was Gordon Price music – a favorite hangout of mine while at Grant MacEwan in the Theatre Program – I would spend many a Saturday afternoon flipping through sheet music there.

It’s also the last place I saw my Grama. We had spent the morning together, shopping, doing errands for her. I told her I wanted to go to the music store and look around, and would she mind waiting? She said, no, you go on, I’m close enough to home, I will just walk back. I didn’t want her to, but she insisted. So I hugged her tightly and gave her a little kiss, and went off to search the aisles. A few minutes later, I saw her, putting her face up to the plate glass front window, her hand shielding her eyes so she could see in, and I waved to her. She saw me, waved, and smiled that wonderful smile she had, and blew a kiss, and walked with her little boots and mink coat, home.

If I had known…

How many times do we have to say that to ourselves before we learn? Before we say “I love you” so they know. Before we look one last glance at them so we’ll remember them.

So that’s it. Edmonton’s changed. I’ve changed. Life’s changed. It’s forever colored with the memories of all these lasts. Yes, there were a lot of firsts, too, which I do remember, but it’s the lasts that are breaking my heart, that have so much of me tied there. When did it change to that? From the place of all my firsts, now just a place of my lasts? It’s painful. Maybe that will change too.

The Inside Job, or Bird With French Fry

Posted on 03/20/2013 by maeveala

Indeed! I think that happiness is a choice. Sure, there are circumstances that would challenge even the hardiest of souls, but that feeling of oneness with the universe, the rush of feeling good hormones, why wouldn’t you choose that on a daily basis if you could?

I’ve been getting these prompts from the Daily Prompt, on subjects to write about. Truthfully, I haven’t felt much like writing these last few weeks. There’s been a lot going on and I could not focus enough to really say what I wanted. Unfortunately, I am not one to just put a few lines together and publish. I like to have a good discussion on whatever topic is buzzing in my head.

So, why happiness as a topic? There’s already been so much written about happiness, how to obtain it, how to nurture it, medicate to reach it… but it really is elusive. It’s also an inside job. Nothing you can buy, sell, eat, or do will create it (although a well-mad apple fritter… comes pretty darn close). It’s about searching within to express it. Things start falling into place when you are humble and grateful, and willing to learn.

I am a firm believer that we are not in control of anything in our lives, but our own reaction to it. We can pray for something not to happen, or to happen, we can think about how we want our lives to be, and then try to manipulate it to happen that way, but really it is not up to us. The greatest thing I have learned about the quest for happiness is that you have to be completely divested from the outcome.

I applied for a job where I am now, because someone else thought I would be really good at it. I’m happy where I am now and wasn’t really looking to make a change. But I did it because I respect the person who told me I’d be good for it. What did I have to lose? I made a decision with my Higher Power that whatever the outcome, I’d go along with it as the correct one. Since I didn’t have any interest in the outcome, I was free to just be myself and answer the interview questions honestly and let my personality and experience come through, instead of worrying about the answers and second-guessing myself into wondering what the correct answer was that would get me the job.

Well, I got the job.

I was as surprised as anyone that in 2½ years here, I’ve been promoted, and extremely well-compensated. The last company I was with, I was there for 10 years, and hadn’t had a raise or a bump in position in 6 years. Not even a cost of living bump. And yet I was afraid to let go of the “tenure” I had there, and the perks of working there. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Something happens when you’re not afraid to be happy. You’re happy. And while some think that focusing on what you have and being grateful for it will do nothing but keep you at that level, I believe that being grateful every single day for what you have in your life keeps you open for more good things to happen.

Now, I am not saying that “bad” things will never happen, only that with a change in attitude and gratitude, they don’t seem as awful as they once did, and you can move forward from them a lot sooner than if you let it get to you. Last night, I nearly (probably) died. I’m certain that would have been the outcome. I was at a t-intersection, made my stop, and was continuing on to make a left turn, when a truck ran the stop sign, at about 50 mph. I literally almost blacked out from the anticipation of the crash, but somehow, managed to slam on the brakes and honk. The other driver didn’t even try to look like, “Oops! Sorry about that!” or anything showing that it was unintentional. He just didn’t give a shit. Meanwhile, I’ve got tears streaming down my face, my hands are shaking, and the driver of another car came up to me and asked if I was OK. I was. Shaken, but OK. Years ago, I would have ruminated on this whole experience for weeks! Brought it up, chewed on the cud for a while, swallowed it, and then brought it up again just to make sure I’d gotten all I could out of the experience, and repeated. Last night, instead, I went home, hugged my husband, kissed my Pug, related what happened, thanked my guardian angels, and went about preparing dinner. Then I got into gratitude for my wonderful home, my loving friends, the great weather, etc… I just didn’t let it go any further. I did not let it occupy any more of my time because there just isn’t that kind of time. I would rather spend it on those aforementioned things that are important.

So for today, just make a choice. Be happy. Even if the laundry’s not done, your boss is a jerk, you don’t have time for lunch, the dog just peed on the floor…whatever. Choose to not be angry, and reactive. Choose instead to laugh (inside or out) at the circumstance and move on. Don’t give it a moment’s more thought. Choose to spend your energy on things you have control over. Your reaction. Your helpfulness. Your smile.

I’m telling you, sometimes it IS just that easy. And if not, well…

Kind of. For now, anyway.

itsmaevealous

Writer of alcoholic family exploits, the zeitgeist of today, and things that make me laugh. Plugging along, mostly wrong, but happy. Oh, and I swear too much.

Tag Archives: Gratitude