One Thing I Love About Vacation

There's a big difference between getting up to an alarm at 5:00am - WRRNK WRRNK WRRNK - versus waking up to Stella bouncing around on the bed and tucking her snout under my neck, pushing me out of bed at 7:30am. It's not just the hour difference, it's the way the day is greeted. With the alarm clock, the day is just - BOOM - thrust upon me. I mean, even Stella doesn't like the alarm clock. But over vacation I get to wake up to my little furry friend all happy and excited and rarin' to go.


For those of you that don't know, Stella is my rescue dog. And I gotta say, I'm not sure which one of us has done more rescuing. She makes me smile countless times a day. Whether she's body-butting dogs that are twice her size, conning them into a fake chase by pretending she's seen something worth pursuing, looking at me like I've grown a second head or any of the countless other personality quirks she exhibits, Stella never ceases to entertain. What better gift could anyone give? Anyway, last July I decided it was time to get a dog. Big life decision for me. I mean, I'd have to be responsible for a life other than my own. There were important considerations, first and foremost, could I afford the regular medications for heartworms and fleas and the vet visits and anything random that may come up in regard to health, I had an adoption fee and I had to get her spayed per the contract within a certain amount of time, food and treats and toys, etc. I also thought of all of the responsibilities that came with the need to establish a schedule for the dog. This was a hard one for me, my work schedule would sometimes necessitate longer hours. If you've ever had to train something where to pee and poop, you can understand the need for a habit building schedule. (Yes, the potty training also known as housebreaking was a big con for me.) I knew I could give a dog all the love and affection it desired, but could I actually take care of one? I weighed this commitment heavily. (Is there any wonder I have no kids?) The day arrived that I would make my trek to the animal shelter. And that's exactly what it was: shelter, no more, no less. As I approached the squat concrete building, I could hear several different dogs barking, but there were no dogs in the runs. I walked into a ten-by-twelve panelled room that served as the front office and as the exhibition area for an abandoned parrot. I told them I had come for a dog and they directed me to was through the door with the huge stop sign. Upon oepning the door my nose was met with the unmistakable odor of dog, and, of course, poop. It's not that the shelter wasn't clean because it was. It was just like the smell had seeped its way into the concrete and no amount of bleach would get it out. As I walked up and down each aisle, I had to numb myself to the anger that I felt that so many helpless creatures are abandoned. But I'm not gonna get on that tirade, cause that's not what this story is about. I searched the aisles repeatedly, trying to make myself invisible to the animals that I knew weren't the right fit for me. I wanted to take them all home. But I couldn't find one dog that I knew was just "the" one. Nope. I found two. The first, a black mini-german sheppard pit mix with who knows what else, the second, a smaller, daintier mix with the features of a coyote. (Pronounced ki-ote by the lady with the wiener dogs at the vet. As in, "My dogs don't like them ki-otes. She looks like a ki-ote.") How did I solve my dilemma? Hmm..... knowing me I'm sure you've deduced I gave them both a home. My Gerti and Stella. I got to raise Gerti for a year before she passed. I'm still not sure whether I recovered quicker than Stella. It took us both awhile. (Gerti is another story I'll have to tell one day.) Luckily for Stella, my mom and dad had a dog that we could visit and she could play with often. Stella has boundless energy but can still jump up on your lap and take a snooze. She wears a quizzical expression most of the time and holds her curled tail so high it reminds me of my great grandmother's pinky finger when she would sit drinking tea. She can be fully alert and in what seems like a second, her eyes are rolled up and she's sound asleep if you rub just that right spot on her tummy. She almost always lays at my feet while I'm at the computer. She's always happy to see me, even if I don't have a treat for her and she'll come to the only whistle that I can do. What more could anyone ask for, hmm?

Now, if humans were just as easy to get along with as our canine friends, maybe the world wouldn't be so screwed up. I mean, I can do without the smelling each others behinds thing, but a nice neck rub never hurt anybody, right?

A Pleasant Kind of Crazy

Does everyone have those pivotal moments in life when something that happened in real-life history echoes familiarly with the rumblings of their own, internal gravity? Points in life where the concrete buckles and you either jump and learn to fly or trip, fall flat on your face, and sprain your ankle? Well, I've been thinking about these moments of personal significance, perhaps because some unseen power is guiding my musings or maybe just because I've set this blog as a goal for myself and I'm really trying to live up to it. It's funny that I should be someone that is rarely at a loss for words, yet when I face the blank page my mind is wiped clean. Anyway, perhaps I am awakening to a new interpretation of some parts of my own life experience,or perhaps, in my case, my brain synapses are misfiring and little dendrites aren't making friends. I'm apparently still avoiding the beginning, because after I decide I'm gonna try to fly over that chasm in the asphalt and get a good bird's-eye view, I tend to get leary of the fact that it's too easy to to fly too close to the sun and fall for what feels like forever. Especially for me.


September 11, 2001 was the day I wrote on my calendar "the day the world crashed down". This event I refer to as 9/11, usually, because that simple phrase somehow bears the significant weight that can be borne on the human spirit while carrying simultaneously the painful rebirth of a nation that happened that day. Self-preservation is a bitch that sticks around long after the immediate threat has gone away. She clamps her mangy maws into the psychological jugular and flops you around like a slobbery old chew toy that's lost its squeaker.


As our post-terrorism-on-U.S.-soil phase of national identity was inaugurated, so too was a new personal phase of existence. I found myself defined with a new label which I had to integrate into my perception of myself. Once I arrived home to rebuild my life in Georgia, I started to lose focus and became overwhelmed by the choice I had made (leaving NYC and my life there). I didn't regret the choice, but I felt torn between two vivid realities: the one I was living in and the one I had just left. It was still so real to me it was palpable, tangible. Living in my new reality became difficult and I retreated into my own mind, trying to figure out answers to questions I hadn't even formulated yet. I had temporary work, and even that seemed oppressive. I became depressed, although I had no idea this was a clinical reality. I just thought I didn't deal with life as well as other people. I had downward spiraled before, visiting the abyss, and always I had returned and moved on. I had no idea this was not normal. It didn't register as anything that would come to define me. I had yet to incorporate the notion of this cycle of ups and downs as particular to me.


That's when I was diagnosed with a major depression and shortly thereafter Bipolar Disorder. BPD for short. This diagnosis in and of itself may not seem too significant; however, there are many other aspects of this disorder that complicate the understanding of it. First and foremost, I had to deal with what it means to have a mental illness. That term has such negative connotations that I skirted around it for, oh, well, years, I guess. I raged against it first. I remember that. But what I was really raging against were my own previous notions of what mental illness meant to me. I had always thought myself open-minded, but for some reason I rebelled against this label with a ferocity of a she-wolf protecting her cubs. There are boundaries by which we define ourselves, and learning to accept that this was no longer a boundary I had a stake on was destabilizing in and of itself. Not a great place to be when you've just been told you're not predisposed to psychological balance. Then there was term mood disorder with which I had to contend. Mood does not create our personalities, but it certainly affects them. So I had to learn how not to "be" my disorder. There is a vast difference, psychologically, between saying "I'm bipolar" and saying " I have bipolar disorder." Moving from the first instance to the second requires intense soul-searching and, quite frankly, a cocktail of elixirs manufactured by multiple pharmaceutical conglomerates. My personality in a bottle. That's another aspect of the disorder that I had to integrate into my daily life. It's a strange feeling to know that you live with a chronic, potentially fatal disorder. I don't say that with self-pity or angst, mind you, it's simply a fact that I've had to accept and learn to live with. I have to take medicine every day for the rest of my life. I have had to make that commitment to myself in order to be healthy. Quite frankly, even after 7 years I still find it to be a pain in the ass. Every time I reach for one of my prescription bottles I am reminded that there are some choices that aren't really choices at all. I could refuse to take medicine. And I could wind up as a statistic. You see, untreated bipolar disorder is a progressive disease. This simply means that the cycles between highs and lows become more intense, the lows getting worse each time, same with the highs. And on and on until I die by my own had or have a psychotic break. I'm not a fan of either option.

When I was first diagnosed and medicated, I was speaking one night to my sister about my treatment. "How are you feeling?" she asked. Thinking about it for a moment, I responded, "We all have 5 senses. I feel as though I have lost one." It's still the same, really, time has just made the phantom perception of my lost sense less vivid most of the time. Perhaps I have not yet fully learned to integrate this loss. My life is defined by cycles and red flags, by constant self-analysis and spectrum checks. I have to live my life as if I know the location of the pendulum because if I don't, I can't move at all.

I don't quite know any longer where I'm going with this, so I'll wrap it up. I believe I began this post by asking questions, so I'll end as I began. Does everyone feel the rumblings of their own internal gravity? Does everyone else soar over the chasms? Does everyone else fall through the pavement when falling on their faces? If so, I'd certainly like to know that's the human being part of me, too, and not just the BPD.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Well, Thanksgiving was yesterday and for as long as I have known that means one thing: the beginning of the 27-day holiday that precedes Kris Kringle's visit is now upon us. I'm not talking about the fact that every public building will now be festooned with tree carnage and huge bows and smell of gingerbread and pine candles. I'm not talking about the near hedonistic frivolity of a day-long Black Friday retail slaughter. Nothing says Christmas more than the rows of gaudy, garish decorations and too cheerful discount signage (aways check the finer print). But I'm not talking about any of these things. No, ever since I can remember, this day has beckoned forth the true epitome of the holiday Christmas spirit: the Johnny Mathis Christmas Album (now on CD, we've modernized). I was just a wee tot when Mr. Mathis introduced me to the Little Drummer Boy and my life forever changed. "I have no gift to bring," he said. Then he offered forth the most genuinely generous thing he had - his own gift. Profoundly simple, if you ask me. (And Mary's the one who nodded permission. Righteous woman, that Mary.) But it does tend to harken some questions, as in, what gift do I have? And why does it seem that to answer that question is to indicate a lack of humility? Why is it considered haughty to talk about our own strengths? Why do we indirectly apologize for weaknesses by publicly masking ourselves in humor and wry wit? Does this unspoken etiquette make life easier? Well, I don't know about anyone else, but sometimes I just wanna say fuck it and rock the face off the status quo.

A Day of Gratitude

Another Thanksgiving passes and I'm ebullient that I'm not a turkey. Spent a great day with loved ones in a home where the dog to human ratio was almost one to one. We are an animal loving family, thus the irony of our carnivorous buffet was topped only by the fact that my dad and nephew left for the hunt before the dishes made it to the sink. I began this post yesterday, with all intents and purposes to actually post it. Yet when I finished it seemed somewhat corny and awkward. So I've begun this day wondering why it is that it seems so difficult to be sincere and not feel like a putz. Is all sentiment hokey? So I've decided to just put myself in a true, Pilgrims and Indians style, mindset and take an inventory of reasons why life is good. Here it is: I am grateful that I have a father that is gentle enough to ask a dog "did you miss me?" while at the same time be able to hunt and kill to put food on our table growing up. I am grateful to have a mother who can outwit the logical irrationality of kindergartners while at the same time run a household with near atomic precision. I am grateful to my sister, who has taught me that life goes on after the fairy tale ending while at the same time being an archetypal woman-mother who is ferociously kind-hearted. For my nephews, who remind me of the raw energy of youth while at the same time remind me how to live in each moment and find in each its unique joy. For Stella, who has enriched my life in infinitely more and more profound ways than I can possibly offer her in return. I am blessed to have so many people in my life who have made such contributions to it that I carry them with me always. They are part of who I am today. And I would be remiss entirely if I did not give thanks to the fact that I'm still learning and I have not lost my sense of humor along the way. My friends, new and old, have seen me through sprained ankles, first crushes, learning to swim, learning to drive, new apartments, culture shock, breakups, reunions, 9/11, moving, the crash, diagnosis, recovery, my discovery of teaching, etc. I'm missing many swings of the pendulum but those ripe memories are simply too vast to be named. Perhaps most of all, I am grateful for the potential to make more memories and meet more kindred spirits with whom I can trot a ditty in this jaunt we call life.

A New Day Dawns

My realization has yet to make itself known to me so I'm just gonna switch gears for awhile and tell a story. It all started on a dark, dark night on a dark, dark road in the middle of nowhere. I shit you not. It harkened back to the stories of youth about the couple stranded in their car in the middle of the woods when they heard this scraping noise. Skrreek, Skrreek, on the roof. Only I was a single white female, all alone on a deserted road in the middle of nowhere, and the only sound around was the voice of my car refusing to start. It had all begun only moments earlier, when, as if trapped in my own X-Files episode, my car decided that it was time to take a nap. At 45 miles an hour Bessie, that's her name, was overcome with sleep like a narcoleptic at an Enya concert. Try as I may, I could not rumble her from her slumber. With a dead cell phone and nary a house nor car around, I decided after about 20 minutes of wishing Bessie back to consciousness that it was, indeed, not going to happen. She was lost to me, exploring dreamland as deeply as Stella, my pooch, does when she's chasing moles and squirrels in her slumber. I made the decision: I was going to walk for it. There was a gas station that I knew of not too far away. All that rested between me and the saving graces of a pay phone was about 3 miles of sheer woodsey darkness, full of shadows and bobcats and whatever human predator that may happen to find his or her way to my particular location. I found myself wondering if I should wish for a car to come and offer help or if I might be better off on my own. It was an odd feeling, being simultaneously elated and struck with potential dread when I saw lights around the bend after about 15 minutes of walking. I had nothing to fear from this driver other than avoidance, however, because even though they saw a lone female walking down the side of road in the middle of nowhere, their feeling of threat was obviously more heightened than my own. I can think of no other reason why one would speed past the sight of someone in obvious need of help. I know I was seen, because the car could not have gotten any closer to the opposite side of the road. I was the potential bully in the alley, apparently. Four more cars passed with the same result. I found myself wondering about what kind of world we lived in that we couldn't help one another anymore, or ask for help, without fear of negative results. An awkwardness invaded me, did I want someone to stop or did I want them to keep going? Will I know a good samaritan when I see one, or will I fall for the wolf in do-gooder accessories? The spell of my ponderings was broken by a steady "beep, beep, beep, beep." While I was lost in my head examining the possibility of walking on this road for the next hour or so, a large white truck had passed right by me from behind. As the truck approached I had the uncanny urge to run for the woods. I had heard too many stories that started like this. Hell, the news loves them. I thought perhaps I'd leave my shoe on the road before I darted just to give them that news-at -five lone-shoe-on-the-pavement shot. A modern take on the Cinderella story. Anyway, I quickly dismissed that scenario out of sheer desperation. I just wanted to get home. I decided to throw my fate to the gods. Hopefully this person was sent by the right one. The first thing I learned from this stranger is that there is, indeed, an etiquette to being a good samaritan that is picking up a strange woman on a dark and semi-deserted boondocks road. Step one: the minute you reach your damsel in distress, have your window down and your lights on in your cab. Step two: Make no sudden moves for the door and make sure that your entire face can be seen. Perhaps I should discuss it no more, I wouldn't want to give any ne'er-do-wells the recipe for gaining trust. Back to the story. I found myself staring into a jolly smiling face, a chocolate Santa Claus had come to my rescue. I immediately felt safe. Then, of course, I wondered about the sense in that. Discussing my car breakdown for a minute, I discovered that Toby, that was his name, was a mechanic on his way home from work. He lived one street over. He would be glad to look at my car for me, if I wanted. The look on my face must have told him everything he needed to know. "You ready to get off this dark road and out of the woods?" he asked. I didn't realize how true that statement was until he said it. Now, normally I love the woods and anything nature, but I like it by choice. I clambered into the huge white truck and we set a plan for the gas station, where I would call home and get a ride. Toby immediately handed me his cell phone, and I fell in like with him even more when the numbers appeared as if written by magic quill and ink. "I let my daughter program it," he said. But it was too late, I already knew that here was a man with a kind heart and a good imagination. It only took me a cab flooded with light and a cell phone with Harry Potter capacity to realize that there are good samaritans out there. Sad to know that, in this day and age, we can't consider that a given. Strangers are potential friends, but to ignore the fact that they are potential enemies makes us easy prey. Luck had found it's way to me in a timely and faith-building way. This all occurred two days after the election of our new President. The first man of African heritage to make it to the White House. The new most powerful man in the world. And here I was, a white female in a black man's truck, in the middle of nowhere, late at night, in an area that's not known for positive racial interactions. The significance of the moment did not escape me. It didn't escape either one of us. It's just as hard to offer help nowadays as it is to accept it. Somehow, the two of us both managed to be in the right place at the right moment for something miraculous to occur. At the gas station, after thanking Toby profusely and wishing him good karma in the future, I realized that in many ways change has come. And that in the most important ways, it is the small actions we perform every day that will make sure that change continues to happen.

On the Verge

Pronounced jay-el. As in J.L. My initials, clever, huh?

So. Here goes the blogging.

I spoke recently with a friend about an "a-ha" moment I feel is lurking on the horizon. I feel it there, waiting to illuminate, but my head's apparently still to dense to get a bead on the glow. It's like when I know my life's about to be different, only not knowing how or when it's gonna be. I've outgrown my boots and worn through the sole, gotta shed some soul-skin in order to grow.

How? I don't have a clue yet. But I'm confident I'll get there soon enough.