ElephantSoap Shorts

I did not wear a coat to work today because I did not need a coat.

We are officially selling our camper tomorrow.

My brother celebrated another year of living this week.

My brother and sister-in-law are visiting this weekend.

I got a two temporary crowns put on some teeth that are two close together yesterday and I’m happy my mouth doesn’t hurt as bad today as it did yesterday.

The tulips are beginning to bloom.

Michael and I got to see Hamilton.

Josephine and I made it out twice this week for morning walks.

I have a burned out spot on my retina. It happened years ago from aligning an HBO bulb on a microscope. I didn’t even know about it until I finally visited an eye doctor six years ago. The spot is in the lower right quadrant of my left eye, not really in my field of vision. The only time I notice it is there is when I have closed my eyes. My eyelids are not blackout curtains. So I see this kaleidoscope of tinted colors of darkness with the exception of one teeny tiny speck of complete dark, black, nothing. It’s like noticing a couple of pixels are out on the TV. That burnt spot on my retina is the best thing about closing my eyes. It becomes a point of focus during meditation. It is the center of my very own everything bagel and the second I close my eyes, I tune into that tiny speck of nothing.

Last Friday, my schedule opened up and made it possible to attend one of Roze’s yoga/meditation hammock classes. I got to class feeling like my brain was hot and staticky from some last minute issues I had to fix at work before leaving for the evening. The whole week had been a mental challenge of dealing with people who acted like they’d never seen a microscope before. I found my hammock and was chatting with Sarah and Leigh. At one point I said “Man, I wish I’d taken this stupid bra off before I came to class.” and Leigh said “Take it off. No one cares. The bathroom is that way.” I said I don’t need a bathroom and then proceeded to take off my bra without taking of my shirt and then I sighed with relief. I spun the bra around the top of my head like a lasso as all the women cheered. We all had a good laugh and then settled into class.

Roze started us off with some gentle movement before getting us comfy for guided meditation. I snuggled down into my hammock and pulled my blanket up over my face. I closed my eyes and focused on my void of nothing spot. Then Roze started playing with a rain stick. When I first heard it, I thought it was a car crashing into the building and I almost yelled out “THERE’S A CAR CRASHING INTO THE BUILDING!” But I didn’t. I told Roze this story a few days later and she responded with concern. I assured her that it was fine. I told her that the second I realized it was the rain stick, I started giggling. I told Roze “I laugh at fear.” which she though was a ‘juicy’ response. I don’t know if it’s juicy or just instinct.

I’m not condoning running out and burning spots on to your retinas. We just were not as concerned about lab safety fifteen years ago or at least where I worked was not that concerned. Robin and I wore flip flops and climbed around on cabinets to reach things on the top shelf. That behavior would be highly frowned upon today, but I file it into the same folder as ‘before seatbelts’ and ‘bicycle helmet?’. I learned to walk on hard brick floors with pointy edges all around me. My car seat was sitting on the armrest between the driver and passenger seat of my mom’s car. Mom’s arm was my seatbelt. Safety gear was not a thing. Many of you reading this can probably relate. We all grew up, flying down a hill while balancing on the handle bars of a sibling’s bicycle. Our childhoods did not have soft padding and it didn’t stop many of us from being the one to volunteer for the handle bar seat.

I have so many scars, so many markings of being broken and healed. Some of these scars are visible, but many like the one on the inside of my lip and the spot on my retina are scars just for me. The secret scars that I don’t have to explain or answer questions about. Good lord, you should see the scars on my heart. Those hidden ones on my heart are my favorite ones. They were earned and received just after great bouts of laughter and joy.When Chris was sick, we were terrified, but still joking about the tortilla chip stuck in his liver. The last time I talked to J, we were joking about Dad’s haircut. The last real visit with Dad, he joked about Michael and I’s living situation. In fact, I am positive if the wounds that led to those scars had not been proceeded by a ridiculous amount of laughter, those scars would barely be visible to even me. The loss of sources of great amounts of laughter and joy leaves the deepest scars.

Michael is on Spring Break this week and instead of the two of us going on a vacation, I became his driver for his first ever colonoscopy on Monday. This also meant that on Sunday, I could eat what ever I wanted because Michael was on a clear liquid diet. I made the most delicious pot of beans with kale. Michael looked over my shoulder while I stirred in the kale and said “You can have anything you want to eat and this is what you choose?!” He walked away in disgust, but I’m going to tell you that hands down, this was the best batch of beans I’ve ever cooked and because it was beans, I ended up eating it for lunch on two days.

I wasn’t mad about it.

When the nurses called me back to Michael in recovery, he was yelling “Lorraine”. I quickly discovered that Lorraine was his recovery nurse, except Michael didn’t seem to know this. When I told him about it later, he said “Who’s Lorraine?” Then I had to explain to him that Lorraine was his recovery nurse. Michael was slightly more alert when his seventeen year old doctor came in to tell us about the procedure, what they found, what to expect. They removed a few polyps, which was enough to make Michael a bit nervous. So when the pathology report came in on Wednesday with all good news, there was a bit of celebration. My back feels so much better this week, with only an occasional twinge. Michael received a clean bill of health. The cat is on the mend. Josephine, who’s only issue has been inhaling all of her food at once, is now mindfully eating from her new puzzle bowl. The Cabbage seems to be good. Right now, in this very moment, we are all healthy.

Wednesday morning, my friend/coworker Amanda and I walked over to the nature center across the street to collect pond water. Amanda’s built a microscope for taking out into the field. We call it the Planktoscope and we needed to make a video of it working for a presentation our boss is giving next week. It was a damp and foggy walk. The air was chillier than either of us had expected, but the walk was pleasant. We hadn’t made it far before I noticed the first tulip bud and said “we need to stop.” I snapped some photos and then looked at Amanda. “This is the hazard of walking outside with me.” I said. Amanda smiled and said “Strolling is my favorite form of walking.” I stopped us three more times on our little pond water collection adventure. It was enough to shine some light on my inner creative parts that have felt a bit dormant lately.

Today’s gratitude comes in the form of health. Both physical and mental. My yoga practice is slowly returning to normal. I feel like next week will be a good week to get back to the morning dog walks. Michael installed a rack and storage case to my bicycle this week and I’m truly looking forward to riding my bike to work soon. Like, my heart says ‘yes’ to this, which is unusual for me. I won the lottery for Hamilton tickets and we’re going to see Hamilton for $20 next week! The camper dealership made us a really decent offer for our camper and now we don’t have that to fret over. These are little things worth celebrating.

Albus tends to shy away from strangers. He will walk through the pet door, through the kitchen and turn the corner into the living room. If he sees unfamiliar faces, that means six more weeks of winter. If our visitors have dogs with them, we won’t see Albus for the remainder of their visit. That is why I was surprised to see him stretched out on my bed Saturday night when Chad and Jess were here. Albus’s ear had a cut that was actively bleeding and a scratch over one eye. This is typical. We’ve seen this before on him. Michael went to move Albus from the bed so I could go to sleep, but I stopped him. “No, let him stay in here with me and Josephine tonight.”

Usually, this is a big no. I will say that Josephine and the cat do less arguing about who is going to sleep where these days, but two pets in the bed is bit much for me. I always wake up in the middle of the night, sweating because one of them is pressed the length of their body to my right side and the other has pressed the length of their body to my left. Which is exactly what happened on this night. Nothing unusual. The next day, I saw Albus laying in various places around the house. This too is normal. At bedtime the next evening, I noticed Albus curled up in the dog crate that is in my room. This is also normal. The crate is right next to a heater vent. This time, Michael put his foot down and went to remove the cat from the crate, but when Albus got up, we could see that he was walking with a serious limp.

Michael did a thorough check and nothing seemed broken or out of place. Albus was able to hop up to his food. He could hobble out side. The next day, he had even hobbled down to the basement. Monday evening, he hobbled over and got into my lap. I gently petted his head and asked him a string of questions that I wish he could answer. “Were you hit by a car?” “Were you attacked by a coyote?” “Was it an altercation with a raccoon?” “Can you tell us what happened to you?” He blinked and continued to purr, refusing to answer. When I moved the fur around on the back of his neck, I could see scratches. He acts like none of it bothers him, yet I have fretted over that dummy for days. I hate the not knowing, but I’m pretty convinced he was in an altercation with a big dog. I can imagine the wounds on the back of his neck was from being shook like a rag doll.

Today, I’d like to celebrate the relativity of time. I know there is a lot of love/hate feelings regarding Daylight Savings Time and the idea of ‘loosing an hour’. My alarm is set for 5:25 AM (yes, it’s a specifically weird time to get up, I have my reasons), but for the last month I have been waking up at 4:25. This totally screws up any notion of getting up at 5:25. So, I thought that the time change was going to work in my favor.

It did not. Still waking up at 4:25, except now with serious low back pain.

Yay!

Thanks to this whole pain situation, I am constantly moving my body and have had the most consistent yoga practice that I have had in months. Stillness invites pain.

While everyone was celebrating Pi Day, somewhere in the Metaverse, Chris and I were off celebrating our twenty fifth wedding anniversary. It has been twenty five years since we graduated undergrad. I have had my Yoga Teacher Training certificate for fourteen years. I have lived in Kansas City for twelve years, one of those years was with Chris. A year and a half of that time was spent alone. Michael and I have been together for ten years this June. The Cabbage turns thirteen in September. All of this feels like yesterday. All of this feels like now. All of this feels like the future.

All of this is relative.

Rather than finding ourselves in everything, we are challenged daily to find everything in ourselves, till being human is evolving inwardly in the likeness of everything, shaping ourselves to the wonders we find, unlike birds, who have known this forever, we too make song at the mere appearance of light. - Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

Recently there was a video put together at work to celebrate International Women’s Day. I did not participate, but I watched and listened as a number of my colleagues listed all of the different hats they wear besides the scientist hat. I thought about my own hat collection and how we are all more than just one thing, how often we are challenged to be more than just one thing. I love all of my hats or at least most of them. There are some hats I would not own if time was different. There are hats in my collection because time is different. I do have one constant in all of this relativity. An hour ahead. An hour behind. Years ago and years ahead. In the right now. I have always greeted the day in search of light. It is not naivety, but self preservation.

There’s a joke I’ve been told a few times and every time I hear it, I don’t think it’s funny. I’ve heard it told two different ways now. The first telling I’ve heard goes something like this: A woman is in a grocery store at the checkout line. She’s placing her items on the checkout belt. Things like a salad kit, rotisserie chicken, some fruit….usual items. There’s a drunk man standing in line behind her watching as she unloads her basket. The man slurs as he loudly says “You must be single!” The woman turns, and asks “why do you think that?” The man, swaying on his feet, looks at the items the woman is purchasing and then back at her and responds “Because you’re so fucking ugly.”

It took me some time to really unravel what it is about this joke that I don’t find funny. It’s more than I just don’t think it’s funny; this joke makes my skin crawl. It’s because this is not a joke, but is a true story. Ladies, please raise your hand if you have ever had an unpleasant interaction with a drunk man. I can’t see you, but I suspect we are all raising our hands right now. I can’t help but believe that this ‘joke’ started out with one woman recounting the horrible experience she had while grocery shopping to a friend and then like a real shitty game of telephone, the story got passed around until it found a group of sorority boys who turned it into a joke. This so called joke then got passed around through the man-vine and became the antidote for every time a woman didn’t give them the desired attention they were looking for.

A joke can be used as a weapon.

This joke is the reason why women feel the pressure and need to always smile and please and placate. We have learned from experience that the drunk guy most likely will not stop at “you’re fucking ugly” but will continue to harass her all the way out the door. He may even follow her down the side walk, hurling slurs and attempting to touch, or grab. The drunk guy is dangerous. In most every situation, the drunk guy is dangerous. We are either tolerating the unwanted attention with a fake smile plastered to our faces or we are fighting off the unwanted attention, fake smile still in place because we are still trying to placate the drunk guy. Not because we are interested. We are never interested or charmed by this behavior. We do it all for our safety.

Not surprisingly, I have never heard a woman tell this joke because we all know the drunk guy in that story and we’ve all had relatable experiences. In fact, I wonder how funny the joke becomes when the circumstances are flipped. Recently, I heard a retelling of this joke. In his version of this joke, he’s the one the drunk guy is talking to, he’s the one the drunk guy calls ‘ugly’. The man telling this version of the joke did it so well that I didn’t even recognize it as being the same joke. His version was self deprecating, but also he had nothing to fear in this story. The man who told me this version is physically imposing. It took me a minute to see that this version did make me chuckle because there was no threat here. This version didn’t make me feel threatened.

Wednesday was a lot. It was dark and dreary and rainy, but when I came down the steps at work to walk towards the coffee machine, I was greeted with a bright, beautiful mandala that had been made in celebration of Holi, the Hindu Festival of Colors, Spring and Love. Wednesday was what would have been my Dad’s eighty fourth birthday, but at the same time, it is also my sister’s birthday. So it was a little bit sad because there are days when I really need my Dad and I miss him, but at the same time I love my sister and want her to know that every year she survives is one worth celebrating.

Wednesday was also International Women’s Day. It feels like a forced made up holiday, which it kind of is. Then I watched a TikTok of One’s CEO Gayle Smith discussing Women’s Day and she said that International Women’s Day is not so much a celebration of women, but a commitment to support women every day of the year. This is an idea I really like. In fact, it is a mindset I can apply to many of these types of celebration days. I’m generally frustrated with months that celebrate the history of cultures that should have just been included in my history lessons to begin with. So instead of being frustrated with limiting ourselves to a month, I can channel that energy into committing myself to the continued learning of Black History or Hispanic History or Women’s history or you know…ALL history.

Gayle Smith threw out some pretty yucky statistics regarding women and the pandemic. There was an increase in domestic violence and abuse, an increase in child brides and more women left the work force. During the lockdown, many women took on the roles of child care provider and teacher all while attempting to work remotely. Many of us were burning our candles not just at both ends, but by setting the whole thing into the fire pit. When the lock down was over, there was an increase in women not returning to the workforce. As a woman, it feels like every day is a little bit of a battle for equality, but I never felt like I was on a losing side of this fight until 2020. Since that time, the punches have gotten surprisingly harder. We’ve lost the rights to our own bodies. Missouri House of Representatives just this year passed a law that requires women to “cover their arms” while in the House. The law details a specific dress code for women without any mention of how a man should dress. One would think that the Missouri House of Representatives would have more important things worry about, but apparently not.

We are in the mother fucking trenches, ladies.

But ladies, there is no better company to be in the trenches with.

When you’re a woman, everything is political

- feminists cite millions of women in public and private conversations as the phrase's collective authors.

I think it was during the lock down when Talaura sent me a link to a soundtrack and told me to listen. It was the soundtrack for the musical Six and that soundtrack made its way into my daily listening playlist. It got played so often that the Cabbage discovered it in our shared Amazon music account and they started listening to it. So when Six was on the touring list for Kansas City this year, I bought tickets for the two of us. My first instinct is to tell you that this musical is like Spice Girls as the wives of Henry the Eighth, but that is a true simplification of the underlying fuck the patriarchy story that this musical tells.

It all starts out as a competition to decide which one of Henry’s wives had it the worst. Of the six, there were two divorces, two beheadings, one natural death and one survivor and history has not been kind when telling the stories for these six women. Because history is generally unkind when it comes to telling a woman’s story. I’ve heard a number of historical recounting in which at least three of Henry’s wives are described as manipulative and conniving. For sure, it was all of their own faults for whatever fate befell them. Even history lessons tell us that woman are asking for it, it’s the victim’s fault.

While The Cabbage and I sat waiting for the show to start, I overheard the two older ladies behind us discussing these women.

Isn’t one of them Anne Boleyn?

Yeah, well she angled for him for a while before he finally went for it.

What is not so funny about what I over heard is that it sounds very similar to an article I read with historian Hayley Nolan, author of Anne Boleyn: 500 Years of Lies. Anne Boleyn left court for at least a year to avoid Henry the Eight’s advances. Yet he still pursued her with written love letters.

The historians who do acknowledge this say it was a calculated tactic and sexual blackmail — the ultimate example of ‘when a girl says no, she really means yes. - Hayley Nolan

There’s a word we use now to describe his behavior. It’s HARASSMENT.

History has highlighted the so called faults of these six women. Temptress. Tease. Unable to produce a male heir. Didn’t look like their portrait. Conniving. Manipulative. Let me remind you. These women were Queens. Anne Boleyn was influential in passing the Poor Law which would require local officials to find work for the unemployed. Not to mention she birthed a daughter who would become one of the most powerful and longest reigning Queens in history. Catherine Parr, Henry’s last wife, was well educated and pushed forward education reform for women. Which one of them had it the worst and was asking for it?

The answer is none of them. None of those women truly wanted to marry Henry the Eighth. He treated his wive so badly that he made sure history would too. Henry the Eighth was the original Harvey Wienstein, except he was worse. Not only did he ruin reputations but he was a murderer of women. He’s the historical figure that should be forgotten. The patriarchy wants to pit us women against each other because it distracts us from the injustices they are doing to us.

Monday evening, Michael and I picked Chad up from the rental car place at the airport. Then we picked up a to-go order of too much BBQ, took it back to our place and ate too much food while talking about all of the things. The next morning, I made Chad and I breakfast and we sat on the couch talking about even more things while Michael left for work. Chad had to be in Blue Springs at 10:00AM that morning to get training on and pick up his and Jess’s new camper van. I drove him out there and we unloaded all of his gear into a waiting room where we sat and talked about his workshop until an employee came in to discuss paperwork with Chad. Then Chad and I had the weirdest, most awkwardly rushed goodbye. We cried in front of strangers and then I practically ran from the building.

I had taken the whole day off from work because I didn’t really know what the plan was going to be. So when I got home, I cleaned the salty tear streaks from my face and made a lemon meringue pie. Because when life gives you lemons, you make lemon meringue pies. I had promised my coworkers a lemon meringue pie for Valentine’s Day and never delivered. This was me keeping a partial promise. I don’t make this pie but maybe once or twice a year. There’s just more work involved in making it then there is to quickly throwing together an apple pie. Ten of the eggs have to be separated, six lemons have to be zested and then those six lemons have to be juiced. I don’t have a citrus juicer and all of this has to be done by hand. The pie crust has to be made, baked and cooled before you start building the custard. And then making the filling requires me to stand at the stove with my bowl set up over a pot of simmering water, just constantly stirring until the contents of the bowl starts to thicken. That takes about fifteen minutes. The meringue is the easiest part. I start off in the double bowler, heating the egg whites and sugar just until the sugar melts. Then it gets transferred to the mixer and I can take break.

But the end results are worth it.

I thought about our rushed, weird goodbye as I stirred pie filling and thought about other times I’d had to say hasty goodbyes to those I love. Nothing tops that one time Talaura put a giant cookie in my hands, said “Iloveyoubye!” and shoved me off the bus at LaGuardia. I don’t remember ever really saying goodbye to Chris. I remember when he stopped making any sense and being overwhelmed with not being able to do enough to ease his pain, but I wasn’t home when he died. The nurse called me ten minutes after I got to work. Chris didn’t even give me a cookie before shoving me off the bus and this is not where I planned for this post to go, but here we are.

Goodbyes are hard.

Chad and I had less than twenty four hours to pack in all the words and laughter, to actually look at each others’ faces while we told each other as much as we could about what has really been happening since the last time we saw each other or talked on the phone. I always want more time though, which adds to the difficulties in saying goodbyes. Today, I am concentrating on the time we were gifted and not the goodbye.

In the late afternoon on Saturday, Michael drove me an hour and half north to see hundreds of thousands of birds. And it was spectacular. I did not see a single Canadian goose for once. Instead, we saw swans, little ducks that I think were surf scooters, eagles and so many snow geese. There was a grass fire and hundreds of thousands of snow geese flying around which made for some dramatic shots. I took a lot of pictures, standing outside, hanging out the truck window, standing in the sunroof. We also passed a number of other photographers, often set up on tripods in various places on the driving loop.

This is when I realized that I am not a wildlife photographer. First of all, I don’t have the gear for it. I could easily spot the photographers who specialize in wildlife photography by the size of their lenses and how they were camped out with plans to be there for a while. I saw one guy remove a lens from the back of his SUV that was the size of a bazooka gun. I was not envious. I was just as happy taking a picture of a lone dead tree in a mostly empty marsh as I was taking pictures of birds. I also really lack the patience for it. I’m not one for camping out for hours to get the “perfect” shot. I’m not mad about any of the pictures I took, but I am not delusional enough send anything off to National Geographic.

And I am perfectly at ease with this knowledge.

I didn’t plan this excursion solely on photography. I wanted to see a million birds in one place, which we did. Every time Michael stopped the truck and we got out so I could take pictures, the thing that hit me was the sound. The honking and chatter of geese was the only sound to be heard, but there was so much more. You would be standing there, mesmerized by a white sea of geese, all noisy and then suddenly the sound would stop. The honking would be replaced with a ‘whoosh’ as all of the birds would lift up out of the water and take flight. There would be almost an absence of sound as they all flapped their wings. It was if they were pulling the sound up and away with them. They would swirl around in the air for a minute or two before they would all land and settle in, sound returning to honks and chatter. It was a complete sensory experience. We left the wildlife refuge and stopped in St. Joseph for dinner at Cajun restaurant, where went in with low expectation. I mean…St. Joseph is a little too far north for southern cuisine. We were seated at one of the best tables and served fired oysters that were breaded and fried like how my mom would make them at Christmas. They didn’t have an extensive list of daiquiris or Abita beer on the menu, but we were happily surprised by the authenticity of their dishes. We left with happy full bellies and then we were home in time for SNL reruns.

When we finally made it back home, Michael asked me if I had a good time. I responded with ‘yes’, but then flipped the question back on him. He said that he had really had a nice time and then he said “More of this, please.” I wrote something in my book club journal yesterday when I was trying to write down responses to “I’d ask _ for a _.” We were supposed to be asking men we knew for something and like many of the women in my book group, I was struggling to think of the men I know/knew and what I’d want from any of them. I finally gave up and started writing my thoughts.

Michael will do anything I ask him to do. He may not do it without grumbling first or with an open heart, but he will do it. I just have to ask.

As predicted, the weekend was everything that was needed. There was talking, listening, laughter, tears, more laughter, new games, a drunk trip to Walmart where I purchased a stuffed, fluffy chicken and some food. It was everything we needed and we made promises to do it again next year. On Sunday morning, Deborah made us breakfast and we ate our last meal together. Then we packed up our cars, but before we headed out in opposite directions, we squeezed each other tight. I told Amy that I would come down for her graduation (she’s been working sooooo hard towards a Masters in Library Sciences). I told Deborah that she’s going to get into grad school (she wants to go into speech pathology and taking classes to make that happen). We drove away from each other, still waving and grinning.

Then our weekend together was over.

I decided to take a different way home when I left Wichita. I chose a country highway instead of the turnpike even though it was not the fastest route. I have been using the weather as an excuse for being uninspired and unmotivated in getting out my camera. The weather is part of the problem, but not the whole of the problem. I thought that by taking a slower road, I would be less hesitant to stop when I saw something interesting. The first impulsive stop was for a windmill in a field of wind turbines. The concept of impulsive stops was too new to me and I rushed myself. The second stop took me down a gravel road to an old school house. The school house, while isolated and alone was at least kept mowed so that you could walk around the school. The building, itself was boarded up though. The field it sat in was quite except for the chattering of birds that I could not see. I spent more time here, listening to birds and judging the angel of the light. Eventually, I returned to my car feeling lighter and satisfied with what I had just done.

I made one more stop before I hit Emporia, a place called Cottonwood Falls with wobbly brick streets. I took some pictures of the old courthouse and then spent too long in search of an owl that I kept hearing. I found myself well off of main street before turning back and driving on to Emporia. That feeling of satisfaction stayed with me the rest of the day. I stopped to go through the Burger King drive thru in Emporia. Michael’s put Burger King on the banned list because they always get his order wrong. I had low expectations when I ordered my impossible whopper. The teenager working the window handed over my order and I found a piping hot sandwich that exactly the picture with crisp lettuce and onions. It was the most perfect Impossible Whopper I had ever seen.

It felt like a reward.

The next day over breakfast, I told Michael about how good that drive felt and that I wanted more. He said that he was always willing to stop if I wanted and I winced. There have been a number of times when I have asked to stop and Michael’s response has had a tone of inconvenience to it. It happened enough times, that I have stopped asking. It wasn’t easy, but I told him this and I told him that I was no longer going to allow this to happen. I am going to ask to stop and I will no longer let him make me feel like I am inconveniencing him with my request. It was not an easy conversation to have, mostly because he didn’t realize he’d been speaking in a way that would make me not ask for something I want.

Effectively communicating wants and needs is difficult.

I devised a plan to ease into the asking by scheduling us on an evening trip up to a wildlife preserve just north of St. Joseph. It was surprisingly simple. I sent a link to the preserve along with a date and time I want to be there. It has been reported that the preserve is currently filled up with snow geese and I want to see them, photograph them. I received an immediate response of ‘yes’ and then we made dinner plans in St. Joseph. I find that I am excited and looking forward to doing something other than our usual Saturday evening thing of couch potato soaked in gin and tonic, but I also learned to stop caring about the reaction I might get to an ask. Because I want more of that feeling lighter and satisfied feelings.

I am going out of town this weekend. Not for a solo adventure, but a weekend with two people I ave known and loved for a very very very long time. Late in 2021, I sent out a text to Amy and Deborah requesting a weekend getaway for my birthday. Then we dispersed to consult all of the calendars and star charts to find a weekend we would all be available to “getaway”. The three of us all agreed on a weekend in February of 2022 and gathered at a lake house in the Grand Lake area. It was spectacular. Deborah was going through a really difficult life event (still is, really) and Amy is always burning all of the candles at all of the ends. We spent the weekend lamenting difficult life events and what eventually happens when candles are burned. We laughed and laughed and cried a little. We drank and ate all the foods. By the end of the weekend, we all agreed that this had to be a yearly event for us. This weekend will be the second annual Women Who Have Loved Each Other Since 1995 Weekend Extravaganza.

I might need to shorten that title.

It dawned on me some time last week that our extravaganza weekend is the same weekend we were having Chris’s Celebration of Life service eleven years ago. There is something fitting about all of that. We are not close. We were closer when Chris was with us. We do not text each other every day or even every month. The intention is there for us to be close, but the challenges of navigating just the day to day life crap is hard enough. The lack of the amount of contact we have with each other has not lessened the amount of love I have for these women. I am so proud of us for making a commitment to spend a whole weekend with each other. And Thankful.

I put on a tunic shirt that reminds me of an old fashioned valentine doily card and then I took Josephine to the groomers’ for her 7:30 AM drop off. We were the first in line. I handed Josephine off to her wonderful groomer, Wade, and turned around to be greeted by two golden retrievers. I loved on both of them and then squeezed past to get out the door. Right out side the door, I was greeted by an enthusiastic golden doodle who also received some love and baby talk. Then I looked to my left and there was a line of dogs waiting their turn to be dropped off and for a moment I wondered if this was heaven. It was like a scene where the heroine runs down the hallway high-fiving all of her classmates. In this case I was the heroine and the classmates were fluffy puppies. I replaced the high fives with pets.

This is how every day should start.

Then I got in my car just in time to hear the end of a story from a woman from The Midwest Transplant Network about donating her husband’s organs after her husband died. When the story ended, they played one of his favorite songs which happened to be Remember Me from Coco. I pulled into the parking lot at work a sobbing wet mess and once again reminded that I have never been a fan of this holiday. But then I got to go pick Josephine up from the groomers’ and that’s my favorite part of grooming day. First of all Josephine is so excited to see me that she nearly drags the person put to the task of bringing her out to me. It almost feels like I am saving her life. Then there is the added bonus of Josephine looking her absolute cutest right after she’s been bathed and groomed. I just want to squeeze her and smoosh up her little face I LOVE HER SO MUCH!

On the way back to work after taking Josephine home, the radio started playing The Luckiest by Ben Folds which made me a little weepy yet again. In many ways I am the luckiest, for meeting Chris when I did and having our time together. Some people spend their whole lives looking for that thing we had. I’m not the old wife that dies two days after her husband though. I am the luckiest because I entered into my next relationship with a good foundation of what healthy relationships look like. I am the luckiest because I know that I was loved and that I am loved.

I have a whole lot of (unpopular) thoughts running around in this noggin’ at the moment in regards to the Super Bowl. I love the enthusiasm this city has for their football team, but I have a hard time summoning up support for the NFL as a corporation, ethically speaking. So instead of ranting on about how the commercialization of sportsball has contributed to the systemic racism prevalent in this country and the perpetuation of glorifying violence, I’ll talk about something less controversial. Red Light Therapy.

Saturday, I posted a picture of myself in the red light therapy chamber at my chiropractor’s. Then, I had a number of people ask me what I thought about the therapy. I will tell you that I went in with the most skeptical, this is bullshit attitude. My chiropractor suggested it after my adjust last week because my arm and shoulder was still causing me problems. I looked at Dr. Fran and I said “Is this voodoo?” To which she replied with a chuckle that it was not voodoo, but then she said the thing that she should not have said to me. She said “it works on the molecular level.” Don’t say these words to someone with a background in molecular genetics. Just don’t. Their eyes will become strained from the severe eye roll they give you. Even though I knew that this was probably total nonsense, I agreed to signing up for six sessions. I felt results after the first session. I didn’t want to admit it, but I felt surprisingly better.

So I did the thing that I do and went back to work to do a deep science dive on Red Light Therapy and it turns out that it is not voodoo. There are a number of peer-reviewed journal articles involved in the use of red or near infra-red light to reduce pain and inflammation, stimulate new tissue growth and the various diseases that could benefit from this treatment. It is believed that the red light is absorbed my cytochrome C oxidase in mitochondria which leads to an increase in ATP production and inducing transcription factors involved in cell proliferation, repair and regeneration. Dr. Fran was not wrong. It works on the molecular level.

I have completed three sessions and I can’t deny that it is helping. I am no longer waking up in the middle of the night with arm/shoulder pain or toss and turn in an effort to get comfortable. I still have some mobility issues where I am not as flexible as I used to be, but I can finally reach behind my back and unhook my bra again. I consider this a win. This doesn’t mean that I do not feel like a ridiculous white walrus while laying naked in the red light therapy chamber. On my second session, I accidentally knocked the head rest out of the chamber while I was flipping over onto my back. I whacked the headrest so hard that it shot out the open end, hit the wall and landed almost completely under the whole chamber. Then I had to army crawl my naked body to the end of the chamber and reach around to fish out the head rest.

It was not my most graceful moment.

Chris turned fifty three on Monday. I tried desperately to not pay attention or say anything about it, but spent the day continually checking his Facebook memorial page to see if any one had left messages. Then I swallowed my ball of hypocrisies and posted nothing, leaving it with plain old lurking. Today marks eleven years since his passing and it has always felt like an extra layer of cruelty that we celebrated his birthday and said our final goodbyes all in the span of one breath.

Tiffany asked me on Monday what age Chris is to me, like is he the same age as when he died, younger, older? In general, Chris is at various ages in my head. I am surrounded with pictures of him during our life together, along with pictures of a much younger Chris before me. Those images make an impression. Mostly though, Chris ages with each birthday. I imagine him now with a bit more gray in his hair, particularly around the temples. Chris, even though he had Lasik years ago, needs readers now and it has become a big joke about how often he loses them on top of his head. He’s a little thinner because he took up running. He likes to run up to the coffee shop at seventy fifth and Wornall and he spends half his day there typing away on his laptop. There’s a comic book nerd guy that hangs out at the same coffee shop with his computer and he and Chris have become comic book pals. Chris has settled in here, found a group of his kind of people. He’s taken to smoking a pipe, not really because he likes the tobacco, but because it is ridiculous. Sometimes he replaces the tobacco with soapy water. You can imagine.

Chris is still Chris.

This, these anniversaries, it is not any harder today than it was last year or the year before that. That doesn’t mean it is easy. Like a habit, missing him has just become a way of life. It is just like the parts of my body that now ache when the weather turns suddenly from tolerable to freezing. It is a dull pain like all the other pains that come with an aging body, that I just live with. This is how I am now. Like the other day at work when I was hot. I am always cold at work, but the other day I wasn’t and I said out loud that I was hot and I didn’t know if it was because the room was being heated or if this is just how I am now. There is gratitude in accepting the things that I cannot control or change. Because while I cannot change the fact that Chris is gone, I can still imagine a life where he is still with us.

Imagination: the ability of the mind to be creative or resourceful.

The number of times I have heard someone say to me “I just can’t imagine…” My reaction was always “why would you even try to imagine?” Now I wonder if imagining a life without Chris would have actually prepared me for the inevitable. I have become more creative and possibly more resourceful, but not delusional. I don’t go home at the end of the day and expect to see him sitting on the couch, Empire Strikes Back playing on the TV while he pokes around on his computer. I no longer keep a chat window open for our daily random chats. Because while I can imagine all of these things, I know it is all just a practice in creativity and Chris was all about practices in creativity.

There’s an exercise in this book on women empowerment that I am reading that asks you to fill in this sentence “If I were a bad girl, I’d…” It is an exercise designed to expose your desires. What would you do if there were no societal rules or the rules you set for yourself? I haven’t gotten any farther with this exercise than just giving it a tiny bit of thought. It is a little bit of an overwhelming question because of the infinite possibilities, but in a moment of stillness, I pondered this question and the first thought that came into my head was that I would quit my job and become a real photographer. I’d buy a camper van and drive out to the dessert to photograph all the different shacks and dwellings that break up the desolation. I wouldn’t worry about money because I’d conn some billionaire into funding my adventures.

The way the thought just put itself right there in that spot of my brain between my eyes was like having a cold cup of water splashed into my face. I mean, just two hours earlier, I’d had a wave of self doubt about my showing hit me so hard, I felt like I was drowning in it. But the pure selfishness of the thought itself felt like eating chocolate cake. I get that this is the point of the exercise. It’s not supposed to be about anyone else but yourself. It is your opportunity to be completely and utterly selfish. I also think it is supposed to flip your idea of ‘selfish’.

self-ish: (of a person, action, or motive) lacking consideration for others; concerned chiefly with one's own personal profit or pleasure.

So many of us women were raised with the belief of selfishness as a sin. We are taught to be selfless in all aspects of our lives. Your wants and desires come second to those around you, if they come at all. This, to me, makes those around us who subconsciously take advantage of our selfless acts the truly selfish ones. My bad girl request isn’t even all that “bad”, except the part about stealing. It does draw a pretty obvious map to some desires. This is the time of year when I come down with a case of wanderlust and want to be anywhere but here. I’ve talked about solo adventuring before but lack the amount of bravery required for me to (without guilt) load up and head out. It’s like I’m waiting for an invitation or permission.

Friday evening, Micheal, Phoenix and I travelled downtown to check out the art reception for the artist that is currently in the space where I will be hanging my photos in May. I also needed to measure the wall space. The reception was in the lobby of the hotel the Starbucks is attached to, so we walked in through the hotel. I froze immediately stepping through the doors because I was currently drowning in a new wave of self doubt. The current artist had tables and lots of merchandise. Handbag, backpacks, coin purses, watch faces. Anything he could print is art onto, he had it for sale. Michael took one look at my face and steered me directly into the Starbucks to measure the walls. I loudly in a panicked whisper said “I do not have merch!” Michael assured me that I did not need merch. We measured the walls and then I took a breath. I headed out into the lobby to introduce myself to the manager in charge of the art and the current artist. I asked questions. I socialized. I drank a terrible but strong margarita and we left.

I spent too much wasted time on thinking about possible merchandise options before deciding that I do not need merchandise. I’ll have postcards and prints. Michael made me templates of the walls with proportionally sized rectangles of my prints. I started placing rectangles and making lists. I curated the photos I want for the space and afterwards I thought “I am a real photographer.” Everyone else around me seems to know this better than I do. So my Bad Girl request, my opportunity for selfishness, is a request to do more to curate myself. Even my default Good Girl status can see that this is not a very Bad Girl request.

I’ve been having some left arm pain for over a month. It started with my shoulder, but after an adjustment the shoulder pain went away and moved into my upper arm. Before everyone starts yelling at me, it is not a heart attack. It’s my neck. Wonkiness in my neck is causing nerve pain in my arm. One of the ways my chiropractor is treating this issue is by making me wear a shoulder brace for hours at a time. The brace pulls my shoulders back, relieving some strain on my neck which has been working at keeping those shoulders up near my ears. When she first put it on, I though “Wow! This is great!” but after ten minutes of it, I felt like screaming. The thing about pulling the shoulders back, is that it also opens the chest.

Heart opening poses are great for physically stretching the front of the body. Mentally and emotionally though, it can be terrifying. Heart openers can make a person feel vulnerable. Lifting and stretching open the chest can release some emotions, emotions that have trapped inside a body for days or years. While releasing all of that pent up crud is good, it is also scary. Heart openers are an invitation to courage. You have to be courageous enough to be vulnerable. I’ve basically been walking around in a heart opening position all week.

The first day of my forced vulnerability made me want to shove all of the things away from me. I wanted to yell at people to tell them not to stand in front of me and not to look at me. The second day, I cried a lot. I couldn’t stop thinking about episode three of The Last of Us and if you haven’t seen it then you are missing out on the most beautiful love story in television history. The third day, I stood at my desk all morning, occasionally dancing. I didn’t sit down until I went to teach my chair yoga class at noon. After that, all I wanted to do was lay down under my desk and sleep.

Does anyone remember the Care Bears’ cartoon? They would rub their bellies until light a beam of light would irradiate out from their centers. I think Teletubbies do this too. This was the Care Bears super power for thwarting evil enemies and healing those corrupted by that evil influence. That’s what today feels like. I feel like I’m emitting a beam of light from my chest and I have the power to thwart evil and heal all emotional distress. I am no longer fighting the vulnerability or crying uncontrollably at my desk. That’s something to be grateful for, for sure, but also…super powers.