Morning Mourning

I'm seated in the sun with my feet propped up and casually crossed on a stylish thatched patio chair. I'm just as aware of the spreading warmth of morning against my skin as I am the feeling of the soft over sized grey sweater draping from my exposed shoulder. My toes feel each breeze first, as a half second warning to my neckline: Prepare to be touched softly by a flirtatious chill. I hear a bird sing its love, lust, or loneliness, and think suddenly, "I should buy that bird book, and learn more."

Lily is laying next to me in her best imitations of a Phoenix as Corky casually licks his paw. A large clump of leaves plunges to the spongy earth from the towering oak tree behind me. The clouds in the distance are varying shades of white and grey, all happy, all fluffy, and all accented by brilliant splashes of yellow, green, and burgundy rising from the earth; Mother Nature greeting fall with splendor.

It is from this place I will share with you this experience.

This morning I woke slowly, feeling the puffiness of my eyelids in the strain involved in opening them. In that moment, what I had blissfully forgotten in thankfulness for my first conscious thought of the day, was remembered. Glimpses of last night returned, making the long bouts of silence, the audible cries, the hurting of my heart, sadness of my soul, and momentary dimming of my spirit suddenly a reality again.

He's gone.

I sat up suddenly, with my back straight and head high. I sat there for a moment, completely still, then broke. The lines crumbled, and I slumped back down helplessly to the purple comforter, and buried my face. No tears came. My eyes were tired. Too tired to be anything but sandpaper.

I walked directly from the bed to the hot tub, stripped off the same sweater and tights I'm wearing now, and climbed in. The heat enveloped my hurting body, and as the steam sat quietly above the still water, I looked over the fence, towards the trees and open sky for countless minutes. The trees stretched, with branches long, reaching towards the clear skies; I imagine, in celebration of the beauty of all things natural.

It was a pristine morning. Absolutely beautiful. The sun hadn't strayed or lost its way in sadness. The clouds still bumped and played lazily, the birds still sang songs unmistakably open to interpretation, and life continued. It continues, although he's gone, and my heart that has found no relief from the tightening hurt as my body did from the steaming water. I thought of this, and realized suddenly that while years ago I could easily have seen this day and considered it an ironic mockery of my position, as just another of Mother Nature's blatant insults to my mourning, I couldn't see it that way today.

Today it was Mother Nature's kind but blatant reminder that each moment is a blessing to exist, and (dammit) I need to never forget that. Life is fleeting. That each moment could be my last and to continue to keep my heart and mind open no matter the injustice they have endured. I turned this idea in my mind upside down, downside up, sideways, over and under, and found no flaws.

I must have been lost in these thoughts, and only barely connected to the reality of the hot tub in Portland, because Klover startled me when she asked in her funny little way, "Rita, what you is thinkin' of?" Startled, I met her large, questioning blue eyes. She is the most transparent child I've ever met.

A four year old, searching for an answer in my vacant gaze. How could I tell a four year old what I'm thinking? I mean...He's gone!

I had a million thoughts in that moment. I must have...but the only one that came to mind was this one:

Yesterday a human being with a heart full of love for their son in Afghanistan was at the place they call home. Maybe they were cooking, watching football, gardening, or stuck inside in the snow, doing something exciting or mundane...it matters not. What's next will happen regardless.

A vehicle rolls to a stop and this person goes to the window just in time to see the doors open and two somber men clad in olive Class A uniforms step out, their black and silver shoulder boards reflecting the sun high in the cloudless sky.

Just in time to see their worst nightmare begin to come true.

How can I explain to a four year old that I was thinking of the internal immobility towards reality betrayed externally by locked knees and the sudden intense need to scream to drown out the truth of what's to come. That I was thinking I could feel their energy panicking, struggling to make the truth unreal. "Tell me I didn't outlive my son! Tell me he's still alive! Tell me I'm asleep! It's a dream!"

It's not a dream. He's gone.

How can I explain to her that he's not coming back, he was alive yesterday, dead today...and for what? Money. Hatred. Judgement. Cruelty. WAR.

I thought these things, and in an effort to be authentic, simply said, "I was thinking about my friend who...went away." I watched her process this in her naturally transparent Klover way. She crawled up the sides of the hot tub and sat on the edge, drawing her little pale legs towards her chest and wrapping her tiny arms around them as if chilled by the autumn morning, though I knew it wasn't the breeze that chilled her.

She looked up at me under a worried brow and said softly with a slight pout, "I miss my friends too. Them home and I miss them."

I looked at her, fully aware of her innocence of age, and thought suddenly how simply it could be in this moment to send her down a path towards peace instead of war. How easily we could guide most children down that path by simply planting a seed of love and tolerance. My second thought was focused on her energy shift. How contagious was my sadness? This little girl went from happily splashing in a hot tub to hugging her knees with a pouty lip in a matter of seconds, as a direct response to my energy. I appreciated her transparency.

I immediately moved to make things right in the Universe again for this little girl. Pointing out all the great friends she had here, and the nice weather. She smiled again, slid off the side of the tub and went inside with a smile on her face. I stayed in the tub a while longer and embraced the pain in silence while appreciating every single sensation my mind and body offered.

He's gone.

I. Hurt.

And. I. Hurt. Bad.

But.

That means I'm alive and in tune, and for that, I'm grateful beyond words.


Dedicated to you, SGT Cullers, gone but never forgotten.

A Classically Catastrophic Cancer Called Katy

Hiding under a careless facade, she's surprisingly small, loud but timid, bold but meek, laughing but silently whimpering for more than fleeting attention.

She's average. Small frame, large teeth, slight mustache, but has beautiful, even stunning windows to her soul. Except an average passerby may miss her soul completely, distracted by the layers of gaudy makeup marring the view.

She commands attention with her presence, though not her poise. Negative attention will suffice when admiration is absent, and she demands it in a loud declaration of negativity. No matter the subject. No matter the location. People gawk, in awe, though not positively impressed. So small, yet so crass. Startlingly obtuse, yet completely unaware of her condition.

A raindrop is a thunderstorm, a bright day too cold. A smile froth with condescension, a glance full of contempt. She repels most, but attracts a needy select few and to them she clings, a cancerous tumor. Stealing their individuality, she monopolizes their time, cutting them off slowly from outsiders, filling their heads with fresh new negativity, metastasizing faster than projected. The life expectancy of former relationships is cut short by her erratic growth, and her host is left utterly alone, save for her malignant company.

When her host finally recognizes her cankerous presence as the cause of pain, solitude, and angst, it's too late. No amount of intensive care will revive past connections, since severed, shriveled, and decomposed. Suddenly alone and aware, her host is trapped and unhappily disconnected from those that made her smile in the past. With nowhere to go and nobody left to turn, the host is faced with a painful decision. Extract the negativity from her life and begin anew with the involved treatment or continue down the same path knowingly and resign herself to fate. Awareness has changed her perceptions, however, and now the loud, bold, crass, attention seeking facade has ceased being attractive. Now a blaring embarrassment, it has become hard to ignore.

Choosing the operation over certain death of character, the recovery is long, painful, and slow, as the cancer tries again and again to relapse, begging, pleading, lashing out, attacking, harassing, grasping, always threatening. As the host gains her strength of personality back, she is emboldened by the positive change, and finds herself rejecting the dejected tumor more easily than ever. She revels in appreciating a raindrop for its properties of renewal and cleansing, a bright day for the sun's warming effect on the soul. A smile is taken at face value, as a glance is met with a smile of her own. A smile that reflects her renewed health and joy.

The classic catastrophe, however, is in the disease, who sees not what she caused or created, but only her role as the victim. She laments the loss of her host and creates a cacophony, wondering to anyone who will listen why there are so many thunderstorms and cold days in her life. That is until, feeling her pain in a moment of vulnerability, her next host reaches out to her with an unprotected heart.

Living Life on Lover’s Lane: Likely a Legendary Love Story

Often times with technology as an excuse, individuals go day to day walking hurriedly past people with whom they would truly connect if they took a moment to communicate. Life becomes a race from one goal - one achievement to the next, all motivated by status and a longing for recognition. Left behind in the settling dust of unbridled ambition are decaying skeletons of relationships. Shadows of what could have been.

I met two people over the course of three days in the smokey saffron light of MJ's Coffee House that I knew would change my life, if ever so subtly. A man and a woman. In speaking with the man, I was reminded that there are still people in this world that believe in achieving their dreams. There are still those willing to fight the good fight to ensure they don't dry up like a raisin in the sun. Or fester like a sore - then run (I adore Langston). This man said things to me that I have written to others. We shared laughter, not like strangers meeting for the first time, but like close friends reuniting after months apart.

The world turns, and if allowed, kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances, random bits of serendipity -and in a moment, it is clear they will be a part of each other's lives in some capacity forever, whether as a sweet memory, a fleeting acquaintance, an active friendship, or unconditional love.

And so, that being said, I recall the woman. Tall and lean, her beauty commanded my attention as she sauntered through the glass doors, passed the old piano, and stepped onto the raised, carpeted level of the cafe, where I sat. I tried not to stare at her long, blond, twin braids, resting on her slender shoulders. She and her two male companions passed me with a friendly nod and sat at the table behind me. As they began chatting, I recognized an unfamiliar accent in her English. Immediately curious of from where she hailed, I found myself focusing less on Call Me Stupid, and more on her conversation.

She was talking to the men, who were completely enraptured by her every word, about a holistic healing class in India. I found myself hanging on her every syllable, musing that everyone in the cafe should be sitting cross legged at her feet, waiting for her next story like children used to do with their grandparents before video games stole the intimacy from the modern American family. Then she said it. Ice climbing. How absolutely intense it had been! How beautiful!

I couldn't hold it in. I turned around, met her eyes, flashed her a knowing smile, nodded, AND threw in a Shaka for good measure. Immediately, she returned my smile, and with a sparkle in her almond hazel eyes, invited me to sit and chat with them. In the next several moments, we discussed ice climbing, rock climbing, hiking, travelling, life, healing, and love.

You see, she was married to one of the men with whom she shared the table, and the other was helping to translate her book from Hebrew to English. Yes, my question was answered. She hailed from Israel. She spoke of her husband often, and when she did, I could feel...yes, palpably feel, the love between them. It tingled the hairs on my arm, the sensitive skin around my collarbone, the small of my back, behind my ears. I felt their love in the air, on my skin, inside my soul. It lifted and cradled my spirit, coursed through my veins on a mission to infect my heart, and my heart, in turn, pumped it to the far reaches of my being.

I stared in wonder at the couple as they told stories of their cross country cycling trip they took together, 18 years ago. I smiled as he looked at his adoring wife, matching her enamored expression with one of his own. They discussed the long distance hikes they had done all over the world, the crazy adventures they had experienced together, and I couldn't help but smile to myself. It's out there. It exists.

The book she had written is based on healing through walking, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself, and learning to grow healthily. The book I am writing is based on healing through running, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself and learning to grow healthily. We had much to discuss. We agreed on the inherent goodness of humanity, the willingness of strangers to feed, clothe, and share with the road worn traveller, the value of a story unfamiliar, the amazing way people can come together to help one another.

I left MJ's that evening with a smile on my face. Kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances and open minds and hearts; random bits of serendipity. In a simple conversation, we came together, sharing experiences, stories, and tidbits of wisdom picked up along our travels. We shared moments together, smiling back fondly on memories past, current passion, and future potential. I tasted an unconditional love between two pure hearts, and basked in the ambient light. I was reminded that it exists, and to settle without fighting the good fight would be to waste an invaluable gift.

Live, laugh, love - with pure, raw, unadultered emotion or don't do it at all.

Palpable Perceptions: Positive or Pessimistic?

She feels she has lost everything. It's been three years since her husband left. He walked out the door without looking back, leaving bitter words hanging in the stagnant air of loneliness, and what's worse, he took everything but the furniture. He left her with the furniture. What's a chair without the matching painting? A grandfather clock without the accompanying oriental rug? What used to be their home has since become a shell of her house. Three years it has been, and she has clung to the things he left behind as reminders of a love that once was.

Recently her employer told her she was no longer a necessary asset to the company. Granted, she didn't enjoy her job, but everyday she had been faithful to it, as she had been to her husband. Yet it, too, had betrayed her. 4 more weeks would she have an occupation, a paycheck, an excuse to get out of bed in the morning and face the day. 4 more weeks of dreading the sedentary day, but dreading more the quiet, empty nights in the shell of her house.

Her children would rather be with their father, that's obvious enough. Two of them are grown already, and refuse to come home for holidays. She still decorates the tree every Christmas with their traditional ornaments, bits of memories from the good times, in hopes that one or four of them will drop in to visit. She feels fully and utterly alone in an infinitely cruel world. The bank is threatening to take her home, since she has had a hard time keeping up with the payments after he turned his back. She has sold everything she could without making a visible dent in how she was living. She still eats on the fine china, although she disagrees with the blue swirly pattern slightly, and sips from their crystal wine glasses (a wedding gift) nightly. She and her husband had known the mortgage would be a challenge for the two of them, but when it became just one, it was simply impossible. Three years of defaults. Three years of scrambling to stay above water. Three years of misery, and she would soon have absolutely nothing to show for it.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~
He woke up this morning to the crisp fresh air of another Christmas morning with nature. His breath formed small puffs of steam in the chill as he yawned, quietly taking in the soft pastels of an infinite sky moments before sunrise. To him there was nothing like seeing the first rays of light peeking over the sharp silhouette of a distant snow capped mountain, and he waited with the anticipation of a child listening for the click clack of reindeer hooves on the roof Christmas eve. This was his reminder that there was a world out there yet to be explored, enjoyed, and that he would be free again soon enough.

He scanned the rest of the hilltop, as he quickly thought through past Christmas celebrations he'd enjoyed. Scenes scrolled through his memory, all of them focusing on smiles of loved ones, moments by the fire, the beauty of being alive and comfortable. Back in the world of reality everyone was still sleeping soundly, save the four who were scanning the surrounding valley for any movement through their scopes. He glanced at his bag, black on immaculate white; a stark contrast.

He blinked away yesterday. He had seen the eyes of a man, full of hatred, full of murderous intent. A man at the far end of an AK-47, dressed in black, with an equally black, stony gaze. Half of the man's tight expression had been hidden by an apple tree, but he saw enough. The muzzle flashed, and in a moment he was in a river bed, screaming to his brothers around him, ensuring everyone was responsive; returning fire. They had made it up the hill, the one from which he was enjoying the quiet moments of predawn light, and only then had he realized how close he had been to not being around another day.

In his bag, there had been a plastic bottle of mango iced tea, a few choice bits of MRE, changes of socks, and a sleeping bag. Tied to the outside had been two mortars. Tired from the excitement of the day, he reached into his bag, only to realize his iced tea had spilled on everything. Pulling it out, to inspect the carnage, time stood still for a moment. There were three holes in the bottle. Upon closer inspection, he realized there were also six holes in the bag. The mortars escaped unscathed and so had he.

That was yesterday. Today if the snow holds off there would be an air extraction, and he would be able to get a shower and hot soup. He smiled thinking of a cozy night in his warm tent. The first rays of light crawled over the jagged peak, and touched his face. A gentle, warm caress in a bitter cold. This morning he was alive and being warmed by the sun's first light. Life is a gift.

The snow stayed at bay long enough for him and his team to get lifted from the landing zone they set up in a nearby clearing that afternoon. He returned to the Forward Operating Base, hungry and exhausted from the firefights and ground they had been covering over the course of the week. Upon entering the chow hall, he was greeted with the sign, "Well come to Christmas!" He couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Far from everything, disconnected from home, alone in Afghanistan, and laughing. Life is good.

As the evening wore on, he decided to get into line to use the computers for his allotted half hour. He wrote his mom as often as possible to let her know he was OK. After an hour wait, he finally got to the computer. The homepage took a full 90 seconds to load, and he sighed as he worked his way to Facebook and GMail simultaneously in different tabs. By the time both had loaded and he was ready to begin communicating, he had 22 minutes remaining.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She had written him an email on Facebook. They had been friends for years, since high school. The bank was threatening to take her home, her things, what she thought of as her livelihood, and she was threatening to take her life. She believed God had taken everything from her, and she saw nothing but dark. No light. No exit, just the darkness of a perpetual tunnel with round disorienting walls.

She, in her warm three bedroom house, decorated with Christmas ornaments, was emailing him from Florida. He, who had just almost died, ate dry turkey on a bench in a tent, and wanted only to curl up by a fireplace with his dog anywhere, just received an email from her. He stared blankly at the screen in disbelief. There is so much good in the world. He knew it existed. He even knew that underneath the hateful facade of the man in black, there was a loving son, brother, or father. There is so much for which to live, but how could he explain this to a woman who couldn't see it through the thick veil of her own tragic portrayal of self?

She was torn apart by an obsession with a man who hadn't wanted her for the last three years. She had pushed away her children because they reminded her of him, and was now losing everything she held dear to her. Her house, her furniture, her car, her status. He didn't understand how she couldn't see this as an opportunity for growth. He began to respond to her email, trying to explain to her that change is not a detriment, but an opportunity for growth. He alluded to self worth, and acknowledgement of such. When you know what you are worth, your need to try to convince others of it fades. If he doesn't appreciate you, you can do it better yourself. Love yourself, people are drawn in by that love. You do not need a fancy car or a big house with nice things to convince people how great you are. Your soul shines through your eyes, your smile, your actions, and in this world, the people worth being in your life see those signs as clear as day.

He was concluding the email, expounding upon her positive qualities, reminding her of her kindness, her intelligence, her ability to love, when the moderator made an announcement.

"Commo blackout, guys. Sorry. Say goodbye and shut it down," bellowed the young soldier. He froze, with his finger poised above the mouse, ready to send the email. How horrible to lose somebody on Christmas. Never is there a good day, but on Christmas...It broke his heart. He changed his mind and added another thought before hitting send: Tomorrow's not guaranteed, my love. Live this moment as well as you can. It will get better. I have to go, there is a commo blackout. He knew she would understand what that meant. The family of the soldier who had been killed would have to be notified before he would be allowed communication with the outside world again. They would get visited this Christmas not by the jolly fat man in the red suit, but by two somber men in immaculate blue and brass.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She received his reply the next morning when she ambled from the bed to the computer to seek empathy or even just some sympathy on Facebook. She read his mail, and suddenly felt foolish. She began to sob, asking herself why she had been so blind. He was her best friend, and separated from his family constantly. He lived in a tent, and looked forward to nights that weren't spent in a sleeping bag on the side of a desolate mountain. She looked at her California king Temperpedic mattress, framed by her cherry oak headboard, and decided to retake control of her life. If the bank wanted the house, they could have it. She chose that moment not only not to take her life, but to truly live from that day forward. She would sell those things she had clung to as lifelines but actually held no value in her life. She would take off her wedding band and would not allow the bitter words she had tasted in his departure to remain in the stagnant air of loneliness one more day. She would make loneliness her home, embrace it, and get to know herself once again.

She decided to get out and job search, but this time, she would only do a job she enjoyed, even if it meant a pay cut. She would strip her closet of the endless throngs of stilettos, slingbacks, and clogs, and replace them with satisfaction in her naked self. This would be the first day, the first step of a journey to self love. She responded to him in an email saying such. He was her angel. He opened her eyes to the world, and she was eternally happy to have a friend like him in her life.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
The afternoon of the 26th, the blackout was lifted, and Morale Welfare and Recreation room was unlocked. He entered to check his email once again, and write to his mother, who was probably beside herself with worry by now. He received his friend's response, and relieved, couldn't help but smile yet again. Hers was a soul too bright to be dimmed by the cruelties of accumulation, and the worship of inanimate objects. He closed his eyes, seeing clearly his mother's loving expression, hearing her light laughter, and for a moment, he was back in her warm home, enjoying a cup of chai by her side with a movie playing and the fireplace roaring.

He opened his eyes, wet with memories, and began his email to his mom: Hi, mom. I love you. I'm one day closer to coming home today. Merry Christmas.

Close Calls

Driving down the highway, the rain's intensity continued to increase. Turning down Jack Johnson's strumming, I focused all my attention on the road ahead. I was poised to react to hydroplaning. I was tense on the steering wheel. My knuckles were white, and my forearms began to ache along with my shoulders and traps.

This is how I drive when I'm not on a clear, clean highway on a bright, sunny, windless day.

I tried to switch to the far left lane, but I realized it was flooded. I tapped the brakes and returned to my lane. Moments later a small, dark sedan impatiently passed me on the left. I began to think that maybe the conditions in that lane had improved, and maybe I could also switch back. 20 seconds later, that car spun out of control. I saw headlights facing me then turning swiftly to my left as the tail lights of the SUV in front of me started swinging to the left. Faced with the broadside of an SUV in my face, I had two options, try to brake before I slid into it at 65 MPH or cut right after barely breaking.

I chose the former.

I pumped the breaks and realized quickly there would be nowhere near enough time to stop before broadsiding this vehicle. Panick started to well. I abandoned my choice quickly for the latter. I moved to the right after releasing the breaks, holding my breath, both hands on the steering wheel. I maneuvered onto the shoulder, and passed the SUV by inches, just as I heard a sickening and deafening crunch to my left.

The car behind me hadn't been so lucky.

Everyone says we are here for a reason. Things happen for a reason.

What's "A Reason?"

It's a way to legitimize sad circumstances. We laugh off decisions we made that helped us avoid close calls by saying, "I knew it had to have happened for a reason!"

I've started counting my close calls. I've been in 2 serious car accidents, a hairy climbing situation, struck an IED in Afghanistan, was shot 3 times through my backpack in Afghanistan, and just barely missed a pileup on I680 N heading up to Lake Tahoe last weekend, which I just described. I chose breakfast with my friend from Washington instead of cliff diving with friends in Big Sur, and it just so happened the water was too low. My friend died hours later of brain death, right around the time I was having my midday snack at a Latin and rock festival downtown. Knowing me, I would have taken that first jump. My mother was a drug addict, and didn't think it was necessary to go cold turkey just for something as silly as a pregnancy, and lastly, I tumbled down the U-Haul stairs as a toddler, landing squarely on my head. Cold, hard concrete against soft, bloody skin.

So, what's a reason?

Why was I the one dialing the 911 call, shaking, and unable to relax for hours? Why wasn't I the one strewn across the highway in the torrential downpour, staring up through glistening raindrops and distorted beams of light with the realization I'll never walk again?

Hoping for a quick, painless, quiet death.

What's a reason?

I'm searching.

Searching hard.

As soon as I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.