Flavor Blasted Goldfish

For over two years, I had a steadfast companion: Gardetto's snack mix. Sounds crazy, I know, but for the first year after my father died, that was all I could eat. The second year, they were always around in the house, and almost like a safety net; I went to them when I was sad or stressed, which was most of the time. They sat next to me in the TV room in case I needed a handful. Although, I never ate them by the handful but instead one at a time, focusing on the individual textures of each. It was a time of focus away from the reality of my father's death and frankly, my own feelings. You might think I gained weight from eating such awful food; in fact, because it was the ONLY food I ate, I lost a lot of weight.

For over two years there has ALWAYS been a bag of Gardetto's in the house. Last week I noticed the bag had been opened for a long time, sitting in the kitchen cabinet. I had been moving it around to access other stuff. And by now, I am sure they were very stale. It seemed a momentous, important moment when I took them out of the kitchen cabinet and threw them in the garbage. I stood there, not sure what to feel for minutes after. Memories of the comfort they provided, the relationship we shared, the role they played in helping me with grief. I remember reading in Joan Didion's book "The Year of Magical Thinking" that she ate the same food every day for weeks, maybe months because it served a purpose.  Reading this helped me a lot; I didn't feel so crazy that I had my Gardetto's. Karl always knew that there had to be a bag in the house. He watched out for me, and through his observations at this time, realized these snacks were a big deal.

When I threw away the half -filled open bag, I felt a shift in me. Perhaps part of my grieving was over. It wasn't a celebration or even a moment of happiness. I stood there, wondering why I no longer needed Gardetto's to be in the house. What was the shift? What was my next step in the grieving process if I no longer had a sort of ritualized food? How would grief affect me next?  For a couple of days I thought about this, trying to see a pattern or a new path, or a new understanding.  GRIEF DOESN'T GIVE  A LOT OF INFORMATION WHEN ASKED.  And so I began getting comfortable without my ritual food. I cooked a few meals. I tried different foods as substitutes to my ultimate comfort food. Whoopie Pies. They are fattening. OUT. Hot chai? This stays. I have one every morning at home as I get ready for the day. And now there are FLAVOR BLAST Goldfish. Ah, now I've found the replacement.  Does it mean I've taken a step backward, needing the crutch of a particular food? And WHY CAN'T I CRAVE FRUIT? WHY DOESN'T FRUIT DO IT FOR ME?  I have no answer.

I have my father's picture in my bedroom, and in the TV room; two places I am often in. Several times in an evening, I look over to his picture--the one of him outside on a Saturday morning, after taking my sister and I out for a hike on our property--his smile, his eyes, that knit cap he wore make his presence so real to me. In my bedroom, his picture is the professional portrait used at his job--suit, tie, confident smile. Every time I enter and exit the room I say out loud, "Hey, Dad." And when I leave, usually after I've dressed for work, I say, also out loud, "Well, I'm off, Dad. Love you."

I am functioning well, having good days at work, keeping focused on what needs to be done. I enjoy teaching, and am thankful it is my profession. It is when I come home that I unravel...not to the extent I used to, but I shed the day quickly--taking out contact lenses, taking off make up, putting on pajamas or sweats. And I head into the TV room, where I inevitably search for three things: both cats, for cuddle opportunities, and the picture of my dad. It's a safe space. And while I do not keep my Flavor Blasted Goldfish in the TV room, I often bring some in with me. I eat them slowly, one at a time, literally savoring each one. I listen to the sounds made by my cats' dreams; I hear their breathing, slow and deep. Peaceful. I look to my dad's picture and smile at him.

There is still virtually no social life for me, and I am still comfortable with it. Perhaps the real me, the introvert, has come fully to the surface. I don't have the strength to push it away, or play over it. It takes so much energy to be at school, interacting with so many people, and leading my students, I have nothing left over for more socializing --and that's okay. I work at home, reading emails, catching up on Facebook, watching fine films. My husband, a social butterfly, is getting hired, a lot, for gigs in the area. He's now playing a month-long run of a musical theatre production--he's gone most nights until after I go to bed. I am not saying this to garner any kind of sympathy; I like the quiet time to myself. The quiet is no longer a void being filled by crying. It is now a soothing time, personal time for me reflect on the day.  Sometimes my aunt and I talk on the phone, catching up. We are both still grieving. We both answer the same way to the question, "How are you?" "Okay, not great, but okay." She's not reaching out to her past social life, either.

It will be three years since my father's death when the new year strikes. That will mean that according to the experts, I'll be more than half way through my five year grief period. Looking back, I have come a long way since that phone call from the hospital.  But, to this day, I shiver when the phone rings. I want to shut off the ringer. I don't answer if I don't know the number. So much bad news has come through this phone number, it's a fearsome thing when it shrieks.

Flavor Blasted Goldfish are delicious. They are small bites, full of cheesy goodness and salt. I drink more water than I have in years. This is good. I did make chicken soup from scratch this week, and it turned out great! I also made a couscous salad with dried cranberries, almonds, and chicken. Tonight will be a dinner, too, because Karl will be home tonight. I have resolved to cook and eat fresh food when Karl's home for dinner. It's a step, a big step. It's the Next Step. The next step toward the feeling whole again. I don't know if I'll ever again experience it, but at least I sense the possibility. :o)

My niece had an assignment in her 4th grade class: Who inspires you? She had to fill out a form of sorts, describing why this person inspired her. She chose me. ME. This little girl, who I held non stop for the first three weeks of her life, called me her hero, because I always tell her I love her, I send her a lot of cards, and I send her presents. I've also taught her "a little about planes." (I've always tried to show her where I live and how I am able to visit her, through flying in planes).  This bright, shiny, articulate little girl attached herself to my heart the moment I held her for the first time. And now I know  I am a part of her heart, too.  I sense the possibility of feeling whole because of my niece.

I might send her some Flavor Blasted Goldfish in her next care package, along with more addressed and stamped envelopes/cards, and a recent picture of me. It's easy to do because I'm head over heels in love with this little fairygirl, and I want to fill the void of our losses. We've lost the same people.

Part of my grief abating is that I am focusing on people that are here. I am needed. I am loved. And if Flavor Blasted Goldfish are my accompaniments through this next bit, so be it.  <3 p="p">

I am on vacation, back in beloved New England. Mountains, green everywhere—both deciduous and coniferous. And the smell of balsam is everywhere. My sweet husband is here for the first time, and I love seeing the wonder I his eyes as he sees this landscape for the first time. I won’t ever grow complacent about it or his wonder. The glassy lakes, the mountains, old mountains, covered to the top in trees so that as high as one looks there is green:  A cradle of trees to embrace me as I head out each morning.

Yesterday we went down to the ocean, thank the gods. The sea, la mer, is a holy place. The beach is its altar, and I worship without reservation and with total abandon. Again, I am breathing in the perfumes of my childhood, and they are sweeter and more abundant than ever I remember. And K is here with me, perhaps not to worship, but to love---that in itself is a religion. Our religion. Coming back here—the last time I was here was the week after my father died—and many times and years before, always brought a sense of home; sights, scents, sounds. This year, here with K, now two years after my father has passed, nostalgia has threatened to overtake me with Unexpected Teary Moments, and even physical longings to speak to my father. Memories, of childhood, of my time with him that semester, the things he did for us as kids…silver queen corn from the farmer’s stand…impromptu trips for fresh soft ice cream after dinner…the smell of fresh warm fields mixed with the scent of freshly washed kid-hair. I have spoken of my father often during this trip. More than I have in a while. K’s been very patient, often chiming in with a memory or two of his own.

With each visit home, it is inevitable that I voice my desire to live here. And yet…I am simply not sure if I can live every day with so much nostalgia and so many memories conjured around each corner. It’s so beautiful here—the Plains of the Midwest are sad, brown, fallow fields by comparison, even in their fullest growth. Perhaps I am sad, brown and fallow on the Plains. This is more likely, since many people around me, including K, extol the virtues of said Plains.  But it’s not that soil in which my parents are buried. Not there where I grew up in every way. Not there where I feel watered and nurtured. 

I am there because my job is there. A job. It sounds so cheap. In my heart, it’s a crappy reason to be in a place; my head knows full well the fuel a job brings.  As I get older—and I have aged in body, mind, and spirit since my parents died—I feel a job is a lame excuse to stay where I do not flourish. This seems not a wise notion but a childish one. However, I do know the wisdom of children, and the simple, pure knowledge they possess. I want to follow my heart, but I don’t think it’s healed completely.  Pretty close though. I’m not entirely sure how much healing will happen---if there is any left to do. I think my heart will always be injured, and it matters how I work around it, succeed because of it, and care for it.  <3

Blogging on Vacation: Got more than I bargained..

I am on vacation, back in beloved New England. Mountains, green everywhere—both deciduous and coniferous. And the smell of balsam is everywhere. My sweet husband is here for the first time, and I love seeing the wonder I his eyes as he sees this landscape for the first time. I won’t ever grow complacent about it or his wonder. The glassy lakes, the mountains, old mountains, covered to the top in trees so that as high as one looks there is green:  A cradle of trees to embrace me as I head out each morning.

Yesterday we went down to the ocean, thank the gods. The sea, la mer, is a holy place. The beach is its altar, and I worship without reservation and with total abandon. Again, I am breathing in the perfumes of my childhood, and they are sweeter and more abundant than ever I remember. And K is here with me, perhaps not to worship, but to love---that in itself is a religion. Our religion. Coming back here—the last time I was here was the week after my father died—and many times and years before, always brought a sense of home; sights, scents, sounds. This year, here with K, now two years after my father has passed, nostalgia has threatened to overtake me with Unexpected Teary Moments, and even physical longings to speak to my father. Memories, of childhood, of my time with him that semester, the things he did for us as kids…silver queen corn from the farmer’s stand…impromptu trips for fresh soft ice cream after dinner…the smell of fresh warm fields mixed with the scent of freshly washed kid-hair. I have spoken of my father often during this trip. More than I have in a while. K’s been very patient, often chiming in with a memory or two of his own.

With each visit home, it is inevitable that I voice my desire to live here. And yet…I am simply not sure if I can live every day with so much nostalgia and so many memories conjured around each corner. It’s so beautiful here—the Plains of the Midwest are sad, brown, fallow fields by comparison, even in their fullest growth. Perhaps I am sad, brown and fallow on the Plains. This is more likely, since many people around me, including K, extol the virtues of said Plains.  But it’s not that soil in which my parents are buried. Not there where I grew up in every way. Not there where I feel watered and nurtured. 

I am there because my job is there. A job. It sounds so cheap. In my heart, it’s a crappy reason to be in a place; my head knows full well the fuel a job brings.  As I get older—and I have aged in body, mind, and spirit since my parents died—I feel a job is a lame excuse to stay where I do not flourish. This seems not a wise notion but a childish one. However, I do know the wisdom of children, and the simple, pure knowledge they possess. I want to follow my heart, but I don’t think it’s healed completely.  Pretty close though. I’m not entirely sure how much healing will happen---if there is any left to do. I think my heart will always be injured, and it matters how I work around it, succeed because of it, and care for it.  <3

Dreams Help in the Healing Process

I dreamed last night, after thinking so much about the past, and what I've lost. In my dream, I lost my leg (don't know how) and was in a rehab living facility. Working through the exercises, making friends with other people in transition: there was a jock, a younger woman, and me...that kind of thing. I was working hard to get used to the new me and opening up to others there in a similar situation.

Late one afternoon, my father shows up. Smiles and hugs, but all business--he was there to do a job. He helped set up a system of checklists that would document our improvements and progress each week while at the rehabilitation facility. He then went about interviewing each of us (there were three), asking us questions, making notes. My mother popped in to see if she could help, but the force of my father's focus on the task at hand kept her hovering at the perimeter...but she was there.

The goal was getting us through the correct number of improvements so the rehab facility would allow us go to a football game by ourselves---our first independent outing as amputees.

My dad wore his old blue windbreaker; he'd had that thing since I was a kid. He came out to the garage, where the facility had put together occupational therapy exercises, and watched me go through the series. I was sweating with exertion, and he was smiling with pride.

Then I woke up. And had a realization. My dad is still here to kick me in the ass when I feel sorry for myself.

DAMMIT, I am a person in transition, working through this world that is different than before, with new characters, new flaws, new strengths. Much stronger than I was before, but still with sore places that deserve some attention.

I am taking today off from writing that textbook, and enjoying the sunshine. xo

So it's been a while.

The holidays, winter, spring all swung by. I was aware of some things, mostly things with deadlines. It was, though, a season that will probably never replicate itself in the amount of work, focus, excitement, anxiety and thrill. And as always, humanity comes blundering along making a mess out of a carefully articulated, organized plan. To schluff off holidays and seasons is no mean feat; preparing a debut a New York's Carnegie Hall while teaching a full time schedule were my two focuses. There was no time to focus on how I was feeling in the Grief Process. And it felt right, to fully focus on what was upcoming, rather than suffer the past again and again, dulling the colors of life--the colors where I live in the winter and early spring are a) grey, the sky b) brown, the skeletons of trees c) black, the long nights.

In and out of the rehearsal process, my father would come to mind. Am I working hard enough? Am I giving enough time to my classes and my students? Don't twirl. That's a family saying for don't spin out of control.  Surprisingly enough, I was so busy, that I kept things going forward, dividing my time between practicing and teaching and grading. I was able to set aside my grief because I had not choice, but it was a good--no, it was a great feeling. Life was blossoming. I splurged on a bespoke gown and met a friend in designer Garo Sparo. Mind you, Trio Lorca usually performs in black... with all that's happened and ALLLLLLLLL the black I've been wearing, I wasn't going to wear black. Garo chose a hematite, a steel grey fabric, liquid in the way it falls. He wanted to know how I got the gig at Carnegie which ended up including my recovering the deaths of my parents so recently. We made a connection.

After a few quick trips to NY for fittings, all was well in that department. I became okay about the price of the gown and the symbolism behind it. The actual trip and concert itself was a breeze. It was a thrill, and I felt part of myself open up again, like a flower finally getting watered. I stepped into my old personality, the one before my job stomped it out of me. Floating on stage at Carnegie, singing my ass off, and then meeting our audience and friends at a club across the street. I had invited a lot of people to try and take the place of my parents. My father's closest friends were there and made me cry with gratitude; friends from high school, those who were inseparable from me during the dying and death of my father. My husband, a tower of love and strength then...was beaming in the audience and radiating afterward at the after party. My beloved aunt and uncle, along with cousins were also there.

Of all the people that travelled to celebrate and be with Trio Lorca, there were a number of people noticeably absent--absent in the entire process, from beginning concerts to supportive elements, to even a casual Facebook message to attending the Pre-Carnegie concert.  These were the people formally our tight circle of friends, our urban family.  Its spiral to nothingness began slowly but honestly. When I decided to stop drinking alcohol, these friends responded as if they hadn't heard, and kept on with their usual practices and hangouts, topics of discussion and by the end of the night, mind-numbing talk about nothing. I got the impression they thought my change didn't affect them, except "please don't use our nice wine glasses for the coke you brought." Karl and I continued for a while to gather with our friends, sit and listen to talk about all things wine and spirits, until the time came for me to let Karl know I wasn't gong to go anymore, but he certainly could. He went for a while. They seemed to accept his presence but never asked about me.  And then my father was dying. These people backed away so fast they knocked their chairs over. No messages of hope, thinking of you, how's your sobriety with so much stress? My childhood friends were there to help me stand up, to function, with words of support, funny cards, group breakfasts. Just what I needed when going through two major life changes at once. While Karl occasionally posted info to our former circle, no cards were sent, nor messages or even phone calls on the lonely nights I was in the hospital with my dying dad. What a devastating time. To fight staying sober, to lose a ten year old circle of friends, and to be with my father as he dies. When he died, no flowers or cards came to the service. No phone calls to Karl. I cut my ties to those people at that moment, when I had needed them the most they played dumb.  I lost my parents, I lost my friends. And there I was, trying to figure it all out. I give my childhood friends the credit for saving my life--they offered their homes for me to stay, let me be a quiet extra family member in some cases.

Now these former friends have celebrated the birth of two babies. And the weird thing is, I see pictures on social media. I recognized the homes, the smiles, the people... All so happy without me and Karl there. Not invited to baby showers, but seeing the pictures. I ran into one of these folks and with a big smile on her face, said, "We should really get together for dinner sometime!" A friend, a close friend I though, was at the most recent baby shower, and she never told me she was even in town. Do they ever wonder if they should invite us? What would that whole thing sound like?

Am I whining? I don't know. I'm trying to figure out why they were incredibly insensitive at these major turning points in my life. And why, when I tried to explain where I was coming from, inviting them over to dinner to talk about it....everyone declined my invitation. That was the moment for me when I had to let them go.  I thought I'd come to terms with this loss until this weekend when the new baby was born. Do I want to go and attempt some sort of reconciliation, to try to recapture an earlier time? I think not. I too have grown; away from boozy parties, now exclusive. Grovelling to be let us back into the group that excluded me ? mmmm. No.  I have found a newer set of friends, while a very different make up and a distinct lack of babies, i can be exactly who I am, and not be treated like a naughty child (don't use the nice glasses for your coke).  In addition to my childhood friends back east the friends here don't see me as a victim but as a strong woman who's overcome a lot of difficulty, and who's triumphed by making my debut at Carnegie Hall and am contracted to write a book.  Maybe I'll never know why, but I sure do need to let it go. Easier said than done.

A New Year Approaches

Friends, I have had a very quiet and peaceful holiday season. Now that Christmas is over, I've begun to have dreams of my parents again. They were silent leading up to the holiday.  I am sure they wanted me to have time to sort some more things out, figure out some ideas for future holidays. As I wrote a few days ago, my mind was blank and my heart was empty. I wished my parents had come to me as they often do, in dreams. I wouldn't mind their input! My mom was shy and my dad outgoing, so I'd get ideas from both personalities.

I realized that by cooking the Feast of the Seven Fishes, I was honoring not only my father, but my mother as well. She cooked as well as my Nonni and Ro-Ro. I grew up eating the most delicious food. In that way I was certainly spoiled by her. Funny, as an adult I love the magical realism in Mexican literature, "Like Water for Chocolate," a movie that espouses food contains the emotions of the one cooking it.  Relating that to my life, perhaps this was a way my mom showed us her love. Of course, I'd love to know THE answer, but I'd like to think I already know it.  As I unfold, I am seeing more and more of my mother in me. I am recognizing traits that I'd never seen in her or me. I feel like now that my mom's in her most pure form in the afterlife, I can see her true self more clearly. And it is much easier to see these things in myself, unobstructed by alcoholism, regret, jealousy, and diminished self-worth.  With the clouds clearing, I love many things about my mom; the things my father loved about her.  Her intelligence, her shyness, her desire to please people, her funny --though brief and far apart-- spurts of hilarity, her desire to look pretty, her desire to entertain and make people happy.  What sticks out the most to me is shyness: both hers and my own! It never occurred to me that she was a shy person. It has taken me many conversations with people who knew her and the artifacts from our house to divine her shyness. As far as my own goes, it's taken me my whole life to figure this out. And to accept it, to allow it to be my truth. All that partying I did was an attempt to compensate for something I felt was a weakness. Perhaps it was the same with my mother. I do not feel "less than" because I am shy. It is refreshing not to feel the weight of my costume!

I am a self-admitted fashion addict. I love to dress well and take pride in my appearance. I always thought it was to keep people from finding fault with me--I was not a fashionable kid, (but it was the late 60's early 70's!) I was very short (that hasn't changed) and had glasses (still do, but contact lenses, too). And lastly, I have my mother's blue eyes and love to play with make up.

It has taken me almost four years to sift through the wreckage of her late life and then her death, to find where she and I met; to see where I was like her. I love my mom's spirit, her heart; I was unable to see those things during the last years of her life. I craved her affection as a child and never got it. That was because she never learned how to give and receive affection by her family. Now I see it, I feel it. She felt trapped by getting pregnant; she had to leave college and then marry my father--I'll never know if she wanted to get married (although my father was crazy in love with her) and have kids.

I see who my dad fell in love with. This is a great gift. One of the greatest gifts I could receive.

As you can see, this time of year I begin to wax poetic, even more than usual. But through writing, I am finding myself, finally seeing my mother clearly, and loving my dad even more. And yet, they're not here.

And so, it is time to revive memories and savor them.  Think about what to include as 2012 approaches. Say goodbye and close the door on experiences and people that have served their purposes. Embrace old friends and welcome new ones.  Run toward the sunshine whenever possible.

My resolution: to laugh more. It's been too long!
Happy New Year, 2012.

It’s the second holiday season without my dad.  Last year, we ‘ignored’ Christmas by escaping to Key West. It was a good thing to do at the time. This year, it was time to face the holidays. My husband is a true gem, but even he wanted to celebrate, neither escape nor evade. 

Thanksgiving will always mark the beginning of the holiday season, but it also marks the beginning of my spiritual journey, my dad’s journey toward his death. This was the day he realized he could no longer live the way he wanted, and his ruse of “being fine” was officially over.  He could not lift the turkey from the bathtub (where it was defrosting in water, easier to access than the sink) to the roasting pan.  And then could not lower the roasting pan to the oven.  I say he “couldn’t,” but he did.  He called his sister and they brainstormed how he could do it with one arm. The other arm, the shoulder had a grapefruit-sized tumor on it, and was unable to bear any weight.  My sister and family came the next day, none the wiser, and they had a “really nice” Thanksgiving, my dad said. I’m sure it was.

There was no more pretending he was fine, as he asked us to do for the past two years—as he himself did to keep going, to keep positive.  The tone of my Sunday morning conversations with Dad changed. As always, I let him lead. Deeper things. His anger showed; he was not ready to leave, he did not want to leave. 

That was in 2009.

This year, 2011, I agreed to mark the holidays with Karl because he asked. I love him enough to let that kind of pain sting me.  And this pain is part of my grief, still tender. And I must keep walking toward it, to come out whole at the end.

I made a traditional meal, set a nice table, and I lit a candle to invite my dad to be with us. It was a very lonely, somber Thanksgiving. And even still I noted the many things for which I was grateful.

Before I knew it, it was the last week of classes.  Christmas began to shake its fist at me.  Karl asked if we could have decorations. It was fine with me—little did I know he expected ME to do it! Shithead. With each little tree I bought and decorated I became less engaged.  But I kept buying all different types of Christmas trees: ceramic, glass, beaded, tiny fake-looking, medium fake-looking, even a clear one whose internal lights reminded me of the aurora borealis.  Each is decorated differently in themes, harkening back to my mom’s beautiful themed trees. And there is a tree honoring my mother, father, and Karl’s father, all of who have died.  It’s not the most beautiful tree, but it is decorated with symbols: three angels, three birds, three snowflakes, and teardrop ornaments.  That’s it.  It makes sense to me that it's the most sparsely decorated, yet the most important. Every day I walk by that tree, all 14” of it, and smile.

It was suddenly final exam week, and while I was busy, I needed to be as busy as possible,  so I did all of my Christmas shopping in two days.  Packed it and mailed it in another two.  It was like I couldn’t get it done quickly enough, to get it out of my house fast enough.  In the stores, I lingered and wandered to find the cool gifts, which was the closest I felt to having fun, but there was a desperation to it that dimmed any happiness I felt.

I had done a pretty good job of looking like I was in the Christmas spirit; a decorated house, Christmas shopping done and mailed. Christmas cards done and mailed. But I felt blank inside.

Christmas Eve was busy, too. The Feast of the Seven Fishes, a great Italian Christmas Eve tradition.  I felt like a robot even while wearing silly reindeer antlers on my head.  Planned, cooked and served each course—just Karl and I—and the candle I lit at the table. I felt dead inside. Same is true on Christmas day. Made my calls to Ro- Ro and my sister. Ro and I talked about food, and both agreed to feeling “okay.” That was as far as either of us would go, simply because it was too painful to go any further, and would dig the hole deeper.   Called my sister, left a message, and haven’t heard back.

Unlike many other times, when the pain of my dad’s passing has been so deep I could barely breathe, this time, and now, I feel nothing. Not really sure what this is. Maybe this is the way it will be at Christmastime.  I feel completely disconnected from the spirit of it all.  Perhaps it’s not time yet for me to feel. Too much, still, to process. Maybe my soul is protecting my heart, or vice-versa.

The new year is approaching, and this brings me closer to the epicenter of pain; the anniversaries of both parents’ passing. January 4 and January 13. New Year’s Eve has been difficult since my mother was in the hospital. My dad had called us—we were at a friends’ house—and told us she was back in the hospital.  Happy Fucking New Year.  And then, just a blink of time later, I was sitting in my dad’s hospital room, staring out at the full moon, trying to take in the impending, deafening, shattering new year. A time that I am broken.

Today, there is anger welling up in me. I used to love the holidays, and now I don’t. This is the first time, writing this, that anger has consciously raised its flag since my parents’ deaths.  I’m angry that my parents were both so ill and then died right around the holidays.  It will be something I wrestle for the rest of my life.  My husband will have to live with my ambivalence.  I am bitter that I cannot feel joy during a time that embodies it.

As with all things, this too shall pass.  The anger that has recently surfaced will work its way up and out, I will birth it as I have the others, and see myself turned inside out once again.

I am curious about 2012 and the newest part of my journey. It is a year of karmic gifts, of shifting energies, and the year itself will be the result of internal searching, working, and renewing.  Another year of birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and celebrations. My wish is that I feel them all, that my heart is open and willing.

Here’s to a new year. xoxo