Sea Glass

I was 35 years old the first time I laid eyes upon the ocean.

I understood, in theory, what I was looking at, I suppose. I mean, I've studied the oceans in geography class, done reports on sea life in elementary school, learned about tides and lunar pull and shipwrecks. Upon seeing it, however, I could not grasp its enormity. Even just standing on the edge of that gulf, looking to the horizon, knowing full well the distance to another shore, I could not imagine such a vastness. I felt small and lonesome and shaken.

Lying on the beach was a small piece of glass. I picked it up as I looked for a shell, a rock, a memory. It was plain and brown, probably just a piece of a broken beer bottle. Nothing special. A remnant from another person's history. Time and tides had dulled its edges some, but it sliced my thumb as I wiped away the sand. Not dulled enough to be safe to handle, I dropped it, and stuck my hand to my mouth on instinct. I left that beach with the taste of pain, coppery and salty, on my tongue. 

I love the water. I always have. To swim, to splash, to float. My mother has always been terrified of it; always forcing me into life jackets, looking away as I plunged in. It was one of the few things I was unafraid of. I felt confident and weightless in the water. I could tread longer than anyone else in my swim class. I floated instantly, releasing all my worry into the sky and sun above me. But I had grown up on lakes and pools and creeks. Always, I could see the edge. Always, I knew there was an end. It was only as I stood in the waves, holding the tiny hand of a child, staring out into the ocean, did I first feel the unease. The sense of danger from a riptide and the unknown. It felt too big, too much, too powerful. I calmed myself by digging my toes into the sand underneath. Relief comes from connection, from standing on solid ground.

But there is a certain irresistible beauty in panic, and I waded deeper still. 

For the past decade, there have been what I call the "small deaths" -- the "first times". When he stumbled. When he stopped driving. When he moved to a wheelchair. When he could no longer talk on the phone. The delusions. The hallucinations. The anger. When he could not brush his own teeth or shuffle cards or finish a game of dominos. When he could not recognize me. When I could not recognize him. Each moment a wave. Some were ripples, barely noticeable. Others, a tsunami. With each, I panicked more. With each, I kept wading deeper, marking each buoy as I passed, knowing, logically, there was an end I could not see just over the horizon. 

I fooled myself into thinking that my father's death would bring me back to dry land. It has not. My grief feels like the ocean, big and powerful and unfathomable. I cannot see the shore although, logically, I know it is there, somewhere. I am adrift right now, alternating between treading and floating, between surviving and living. I am aware of what I can do and what I cannot. I watch the sky for search planes each day. I look for lighthouses. I am afraid of crashing upon the rocks, of hitting an iceberg, of wrecking my ship. I find myself without a compass, using the stars on clear nights to guide me.

I think often of my mother and her fear. How she lingered on the shore or in the safety of the boat. How I might be struggling against the tides now but how I've never been afraid to plunge in and feel the saltwater upon my face.

It is a gift to feel. 

The shoreline is faint and hard to see. But I know it is there. No ocean goes on forever. Their waves meet and mingle, trading pieces of debris -- love notes from a distant land, pieces of a broken dish from a sunken ship, or even just a plain brown beer bottle. I have not forgotten the feel of the sand between my toes. I will recognize the solid ground of the ocean's floor one day, and I will dig in and hold on and haul myself back up on the beach. I will comb its edges for seashells and rocks, digging out memories, and smile. 

And perhaps I'll find a piece of sea glass, once broken and plain, now beautiful and weathered, its jagged, sharp edges smoothed fine by the pounding waves. 

The Hurt Locker

I have a kid in one of my classes. She's a good kid, mostly. She has a good heart. She wants to be successful, deep down. But she's a kid I handle with care. Not like I'd hold a newborn baby or a crystal vase. More like how I might handle an explosive.

In fact, in my mind, I call her "Hurt Locker".

If you haven't seen that movie, here's a clip. It's disturbing and beautiful and bizarre and heartbreaking.

Some days, she's a firecracker. Snappy but celebratory and slightly terrifying. But only slightly. If someone were to light the fuse, the damage would be light. Unless of course you try to grip it too tightly. Then you're bound to lose a thumb, but that's on you.

There are days when you can see all of the trip wires. They lay there exposed, clumsily hidden, just waiting for some dummy to stumble across them, detonating the blast that leaves the rest of us covered in the blood and guts of the moment. Shocked. Gasping. Alive, but glad to not have been caught in the blast zone.

And then there are days when she is an IED, disguised and waiting. Full of the shrapnel made from pain and bad choices and broken promises. Designed for maximum damage. 

Other times, she has the blast pack strapped to her chest. She believes in her cause; she's willing to sacrifice for the fight. She sees herself the hero, the martyr. She's ready. Others might get caught in the immediate explosion, but she will sustain the most damage, done willingly, with reckless welcome, to herself.

Each conversation I enter with her, I find myself suiting up. Helmet, gloves, chest pads to protect my heart. It's not much protection, thin as it is, but it's something. It's my job to disarm her, to decide which wire to cut. 

Red or black? Yellow or blue? Each is wired differently; no bomb seems built the same way. Red or black? Yellow or blue? Why is this wire green? When did we start using green wires? It seems there should be some sort of manual to follow, but with each attempt to simplify the disarmament, it seems a new trigger is introduced. 

The countdown clock does not stop flashing. I can envision the blast, feel its ghost heat upon my face. I shake with its strained energy. 

For a moment, I consider throwing myself upon the blast, absorbing the shock, saving everyone else. But that won't stop anything. There will always be more bombs along the road. And with one less person to defuse them. I lean, with my back against the wall, bracing myself. "I can do this," I reason.

Instead, I hold my breath, steady my hands, and speak a prayer for the color green.

With a snip, I look to my left and see us both still standing, still breathing, still clean.

In her place is a crystal vase, fragile and clear. 

And I wonder, stunned, who in the world leaves something so delicate in a place such as this?

A Post-Spring Break Analogy

How I would describe the first day back from Spring Break:


Sometimes you're in control of the laser pointer.




Sometimes you're just not.

The House Always Wins

I love to gamble. For someone as cautious as I am, it seems illogical. But I come from a long line of chronic gamblers, and genetics are a bitch with a tight, tight grip.

My best childhood friend, Haley, and her MamMaw took me on my first big gambling trip when I was 19. Haley had turned 18, and in Santa Fe, the legal age was about to change. MamMaw Cherry decided that it was her civic duty to teach us the ways of the casino and, consequently, the rules of life.  It was a magnificent time.  Because it was an Indian casino, there were few table games, but this did not matter to us. It did not matter that we could not drink or smoke or go buck wild. What mattered was that we had money in our pockets and a willingness to let it go.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #1: Don't play with necessary money. If that $500 is your rent money, you quickly shall find yourself homeless.

We milled about, feeling quite important and grown up. Loud and brash and obnoxiously hopeful, we played slots and video poker and keno.  We nickeled and dimed our way to hours of fun.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #2: Breaking even is a win. Don't question it. Don't get greedy.

But with every jingle jangle to our coin bucket, our confidence grew. By dawn, Haley and I had begun to strut around, claiming even our smallest victories and inflating them in our heads. We were up $50 and feeling our oats, dabbling in the dollar machines. Haley, feeling extra saucy, sauntered over to a $5 machine and won another $50 with one pull.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling #3: Don't leave with empty pockets. Save something to at least buy yourself some pancakes on the way home.

It took us less than 10 minutes to be down to our last $10. As quickly as our hopes rose, they fell just as swiftly. Completely ignoring Rule #3, Haley decided this money qualified under Rule 1, and we didn't come here to break even, so she put in our last ten bucks. Haley grabbed the handle, shouted "All in!", and closed her eyes. Haley has always been an "all-in" kind of friend, and I have always loved that about her.

Thirty seconds later, we were on our way to the hotel room, broke and pancake-less.

MamMaw Cherry's Rule of Gambling # 4: The House always wins. Always.

She said this one with a sly smile. She had saved it because she knew we wouldn't listen the first time, and this would be an important -- the most important -- lesson of all.

I thought a lot about MamMaw Cherry today on my way home from work. Today was an interesting, although wholly unsurprising, day at work.

As gamblers, we can't resist breaking rules 1-3.  As gamblers, we go for broke. We spend every dime. We ignore every red flag. We believe in superstition and  Lady Luck and changing machines. We believe that big moves will always equal big pay-offs. We play with rent money and then wonder why we're out in the rain.

But we never, ever stop to think about what would happen if we just didn't go in. We don't think about what would happen if we didn't ante up. Because we wouldn't be us if we didn't sit down at the table to play. And no matter what hand we've been dealt, we play it all the way, even if we lose, knowing that the House always wins.

It's just no fun to eat pancakes by yourself.

Thanks for the lesson, MamMaw. It has served me well.

Consider Yourself Lucky

I'm a nice person.  I really am.  I am kind and generous and generally well-behaved.

So if this is what you believe about me, I need you to stop reading.  Truly.  Just stop.  You may not like me after this.

****

I dedicated a large portion of my life and attention to a specific organization.  I trusted with all my heart that it was filled with wonderful people who believed in their own mission.  I loved showing up, for long stretches of time, and seeing the changes in our clientele from year to year.  I adored my staff -- even some of those who didn't make great choices -- because their heart was truly and totally devoted to it.  Many had grown up in that organization, both literally and figuratively.  I was honored -- privileged -- to work alongside people who ate, slept, and lived that organization.  And when I say this, please note that I am not exaggerating even the tiniest bit.  They gave (and a few continue to give) every last ounce of love and dedication to that place.

You'll notice that this post is in the past tense.  The past.  Not the present, and most certainly not the future.  Because you see, that organization that I believed so strongly in wasn't very honest with one of my dearest friends.  They weren't very responsible with the information they shared or the half-truths they told.  They weren't very respectful of her or me or so many of my darling staff, and the way that they shut all of them out certainly wasn't very caring.  Fail.  Fail.  Fail.  Fail.

Way to live what you love, jerks.

And that was their choice.  I'm a big believer in choices.  Make it.  Live with it.  Move on.

But it's hard to move on.  There are so many precious memories associated with that job.  There are so many beautiful experiences I had with the people I worked with so closely.  I recognize the fact that the actions and choices made by a big, faceless organization do not always reflect the feelings of some of the worker bees within it -- a worker bee's gotta work after all -- but it's pretty damn hard to separate the two.  And a couple of those worker bees didn't give a buzz about what was happening.

Fine. They made their choice.  Live it.  Move on.

I made mine, too, and I was okay with that.  I'd made my peace with it.  I hadn't heard a peep from any of those people for 10 months, and truthfully, that was fine by me.  It didn't shock me in the least that the very next cut was me.  Expected and acceptable.

What isn't fine by me, though?

Tonight, when after 10 months of ignoring me, you call me FOR A DONATION.

You call me, for my hard-earned money -- money I did not earn from you because apparently everything I did for your organization was JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

You call me, asking for help, when you didn't have the DECENCY OR COURTESY to even say thank you for all the times I did help you for absolutely nothing in return.

You call me, expecting me to be honest and caring and respectful and responsible, when you so obviously were not.  And then you start calling all of MY FRIENDS?  Newsflash: they didn't give TO you.  They gave FOR me.  And maybe they're more decent than I am and will continue to give.

Call 'em.  It just might work.

(By the way, is it hard to walk around with balls that IMPOSSIBLY HUGE?  Because you've got a gigantic pair to keep my donation card in that stack.)

You call me, hoping that I'd forgive and forget, I'm sure.  BECAUSE I HAVE PROVEN TO BE A REALLY NICE PERSON IN THE PAST.

Well, that was the past.  Not the present.  Certainly not the future.

Here's how I wanted to answer the phone:

You have obviously called the wrong house.  I AM a nice person, but I'm no doormat.  Yes, I was very -- brutally -- honest in my displeasure at your inept handling of the situation, but I kept that as private as I could, trying hard to maintain a professional and polite attitude in public.  And I WAS willing to forgive until you turned your back on kids who had dedicated their entire lives to you, not even allowing them a courtesy call.  I will continue to care about all of those kids I helped raise, and I will continue to give responsibly to organizations that appreciate what little money or time I can give.  But I'm done being respectful.  

Maybe I'm being petty.  Maybe I'm the one being a jerk right now.  Maybe I am letting my pride and anger get the best of me.  But if I give you my money -- no matter how noble the cause may be -- I am also telling you that how you treat people -- how you treated MY people -- is okay by me.  And, frankly, it's just not.  Maybe I'll get my karmic comeuppance, but hopefully so will you.

By the way, is it hard to walk around with balls that IMPOSSIBLY HUGE?  Because you've got a gigantic pair of watermelon balls to keep my donation card in that stack.

I got a great many gifts in my time with your organization.  Certainly more than I ever expected.  And the best thing about them?  They don't call me when they need my money.  They call me when they just need me.

But I didn't. I didn't even answer the phone.  I'm glad too, because you know who they gave my card to?  Some new little worker bee who doesn't know any better and probably couldn't give two shits as long as he gets his $1.27 per hour and his cafeteria dinner.  I've seen what those kids get to do, and the last thing he needs is my indignation.  He'll have enough of his own sooner than he thinks.

And I had a great day today, and nothing is going to ruin it.

Silver lining:  I was at least a little bit kind though.   My cat threw up on the donation letter sent to me from the last organization to screw over a friend of mine.  I folded it up, put it in an envelope, and sent it right back.

Consider yourselves lucky that I just chose not to take your call tonight.  It's hard to send cat puke over the phone line.

This is Water

A colleague suggested this video to me at 10:30 AM.  

I didn't watch it until 8:00 PM as I sat in my driveway, in my car, too exhausted to open the door.

I wish I had taken the time to watch it at 10:30.  Watch it now.  

We're in this fishbowl together, y'all.

Headache

The day started off okay.  By the end, this was me:

   

I hope this is true.

My head hurts.  I'm tired of banging my head on that wall.  I think I'm ready for a new wall.

Figuratively. Not Literally.

This is sort of how I felt today.



My frustration has been simmering on the back burner for a few days, but lately I've been feeling the need to rent a panda costume and turn over a few grocery carts.

Figuratively.  Not literally.

Literally would be just too weird.

Roller Coasters

The past three weeks have been very much like this:

Anticipation. Excitement. Fear. Regret. Panic. Indecision. Laughter. 

A little bit of nausea.  

A whole lot of swearing.

And, in the end, hopefully worth the price of admission.

Love, Shirley

One of my best life friends tagged me in this video.

It doesn't surprise me that she tagged me.  She knew I'd love it; she knew it'd make me weep. And, somehow, I needed it today.

Not just for the connections I've made but also for the connections I've lost.  For the connections that maybe I'll one day rediscover.

For those connections that broke me.  For those that strengthened me.  For those that sustain me.

But none of us can be without it and truly live.  We may survive, but we won't ever live.

For all my Jenny's, thanks for bending those bars.

Puzzles

My mom's latest obsession is jigsaw puzzles.  They keep her mind occupied and present the detail-oriented challenge that she always seems to enjoy. 

I hate them.  They're tedious and time-consuming.  They're not terribly exciting, and one too many times I've worked and worked only to find a piece missing.  And then, all I can think of is that missing piece.  I forget about all the hard work and effort I spent on the other 999 pieces and feel like a failure for the one tiny hole left in the picture.  Even in the completed work, I manage only to see the cracks and lines and rough edges.  I never take the moment to just enjoy its wholeness.

In the end, no matter how beautiful the image or how well connected all the parts might be, the puzzle must go back into the box.  And as it crumbles, I catch my breath at how easily and quickly all that work is undone.

Sometimes, A Thinly-Veiled Metaphor is the Best I Can Do.

Yesterday, as I was tooling along on the Road of Life, making my plans to finish out a pretty good day, it happened. Out of nowhere -- sideswiped. Actually, no real damage to me, and I guess that's lucky. Just shaken up pretty badly and stalled on the corner of Shit Happens and WTF.

But here's the truly crappy part. The person who hit me wasn't at fault. That person was going about their day, too. Making plans, dreaming about tomorrow, not knowing that shit was about to get serious.

And so how did all of this occur? Some a-hole in a big effing truck decided to change lanes. Without signaling. With no concern. No notice what-so-damn-ever. Then came the swerve. And the crash. And the carnage. And I'm pretty sure the fuckers never even looked back. Because that's what these fuckers do, see? They could give a shit as to who they're running into because that's what they have big effing trucks for. When you have a big effing truck, there's no need to worry about damage because big effing trucks absorb it and keep on going.

Of course, there are some who might argue that this truck (and the a-holes in it) was just trying to get where it's going. That it has a right to move over, and, as a defensive driver, you should be aware of what's happening around you. And you might have a point.

Just don't be in the next lane over. 'Cause there's a good chance you're gonna get wrecked.

The girl in the car? She'll be okay. She'll knock out the dents, dust herself off, and get back on the road. Of this, I am quite sure. But for now, for her and for me and all those who stopped by to help, we're left with our heads in our hands, wishing for a better tomorrow. Specks in the rearview mirror who aren't sure about traveling this road anymore.