The falling tree makes no sound

Some times, a lot of times, actually, I really, really want to write, to create something inspiring with language, to take letters and form words, sentences, thoughts, etc. It is one of the most therapeutic things I've ever known. 

And yet, most of the time when this urge strikes me I really don't know what to write. It's not that I don't have a topic, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many topics and have a hard time picking just one or two to conquer in that particular piece. I have so much to say, but, as with everything else in my life, doubts quickly begin to surface. 

For one, so many of the things I wish to write about are things you could not understand. Not in the sense that you are not intelligent to "get it," but in the sense that you have not lived some of the things I have lived, just as I have not lived some of the things you have lived, so if I were to write about those things I would be essentially be talking to myself. 

Also, I have some very strong opinions about a few things, and I really don't want to offend anybody. More than once I have wanted to write about religion, but we all know that anything written about religion is immediately attacked and/or praised, which leads to nothing more than people arguing back and forth about something that ultimately no one understands. Sounds productive, doesn't it?

Wise old owl

A few nights ago I found myself in a small Mexican village. I had been traveling in an RV and it had broken down nearby, so I wandered into town to find some help.

The townspeople were milling around and going about their daily lives, going to the market, chatting with friends — the storybook picture of a small Latin community.

There was a town square, and next to the square there was a very large and very old structure. It was made out of brick and was about three stories tall. It had a wooden, shake style roof. It resembled a church or government building. It was by far the biggest structure in town, and, although not ornate in anyway, it stood out against the rest of the town’s small shops and homes.

As I was passing by I found myself glancing up at the roof, pondering the use and age of the structure. A large silver and gray owl seemingly appeared from literally out of the blue, swooped down and landed on the roof. She was not a normal sized owl, she was large in a way that would make you believe she’s come from the “Jack and Beanstalk” giant world.

Library of souls

I have a really cool writing app on my laptop called Poe. I really should use it.

Last night I dreamed that I went on a cemetery tour. Well, it did not really start out that way, I was walking along a dark path in a kind of wooded area next to a canal in a city. Kind of like where the homeless people would walk along to find a place to sleep in the bushes, it was one of those sketchy kind of trails.

After I walked for awhile it seemed I had a small group with me. There was a woman, she was really skinny with stringy, dark hair. She was sad, she wanted to tell someone her story, she wanted people to hear her.

The path eventually led into a cemetery. So many of my dreams are in cemeteries. Weird, I know, maybe it is the Goth in me. All of the graves were fairly new, it was the most recent part of the cemetery, and there were people of all ages buried there. There were people visiting, some were walking and others were driving slowly by on the gravel lanes with the two tire paths and grass in the middle.

We sort of hung back and did not interact much with the mourners, we were not there for that purpose. After awhile it felt like the coast was clear, and we all loaded up into a van and drove to the older part of the cemetery. We drove down a road and through a tunnel . . . the older part of the cemetery was completely isolated from the newer, modern part. The graves there were the same ones we had seen before in the new part, they'd been moved there to make room for the new graves. It seems like the plots in the new part were constantly being recycled. Only the newly deceased were buried there, and after a few weeks or months the caskets were moved to the old part of the cemetery. It was almost like a retail store that is constantly switching out its season merchandise on the front racks.

Who I am

I have been asking myself the same question that I think a lot of people ask themselves -- who am I? You think you know until you have to think about it, or until you confront something that makes you do some self research, that makes you wonder what's going on inside you mentally.

So I decided to sort of document my thoughts, both good and bad, about myself. Not really for anyone in particular, but for myself, to figure it out, to  be able to actually look at it, if that makes sense.

I'm a bit of a tom boy, I grew up fishing, camping, hiking, hunting, riding motorcycles, snowmobiling, building forts, playing in the mud. I remember catching frogs in the river bottoms behind my parents' house in Blackfoot. We went to Island Park once with some family friends, and myself and another kid caught a frog and put it in a box and then put it in my dad's truck. . . it got out, so we tried to find it to no avail . . . I honestly don't know what happened to that frog.

My dad gave me a pellet gun when I was a kid, and I used to set up soda cans on a table in the backyard and target practice. I never shot at any animals, I'd like to note.

Also when I was a kid my dad taught me how to bait a fishing hook and cast, and I always baited my own hook, fish guts and all, and I always caught the first fish.  . . it was an ongoing joke with my family for awhile . . . "Jenny will catch the first fish!" And I did, every time.

Learn to take a compliment

I have had some pretty amazing experiences in the last couple weeks, things that have made me wonder if everything falls into place, that nothing that could be attributed to coincidence actually is. Some things, some people, some experiences just fit. Stop second guessing it and let it flow.

My biggest issue, by far, is the way I feel about myself, particularly on the outside. Honestly I am not sure how to change that.

But a few weeks ago I was walking across the gym parking lot and I look up to see a guy holding the door open for me. I was still quite a ways away, so I started kind of jogging toward the door, and he hollers "You don't have to hurry!" I get to the door and it is this sweet Hispanic guy, probably in his 50s, and I tell him "Thank you." And before I walk in he asks, "Do you know what they call your hair color in Mexico?" To which I reply, thinking I'm smart and I know exactly what he's going to say, "rojo?" (red).

"Canela," he says, and paused a moment for effect while I tried to figure it out, "cinnamon." And then I am sure I said something super corny, I can't recall right now, but he just smiled, and as he started to walk away he smiled and said, "it's beautiful."

Now, if you know me well, you can imagine what that meant to me. Going to the gym is rough for me, I can't really wear a hat there, and there are so many beautiful people there. I damn near have a panic attack just thinking about going there. (But I am determined to conquer that fear, so I continue to go, but that is another entry for another day.)

It was sweet, and it was sincere. Of course I have had friends and family tell me I am beautiful, but c'mon, your friends and family are not going to tell you you're ugly, by association they kind of have to spare my feelings, no offense to those who have told me that, I know you mean well, and I try to believe, I really do! I promise! But this guy had no obligation, no reason to stop me and say that other than sincerity. It was just such a nice gesture.

I wish more people were like that, kind, honest . . . can you imagine how much better this world would be if we all gave a complete stranger a compliment once a day? Or just randomly did something nice for someone else with no strings attached?

And ladies, learn how to take a compliment. If a guy tells you you're beautiful, don't immediately think he is a creeper or that he is hitting on you. Chivalry is not dead, women just need to learn how to not think all guys are assholes or want to get into their pants.

Will walk for art

Boise is a cool town. Sure, it's in Idaho, a state known for its ultra-conservatism and bathroom toe tapping politicians, but really that's not what we're all about. Really.

Mike and I went to the state capitol this weekend. We attended a concert Saturday —Filter, Coal Chamber, Combichrist and American Head Charge if you're curious — and then spent Sunday morning simply walking around down town.

As far as cities and state capitols go, Boise really is not that big, but when you are from a really small town like I am (Blackfoot, if you're curious), even little 'ole Boise is awe-inspiring. One of the first things that struck me as unique were all the people who were just hanging out, sitting outside coffee shops, not just soaking in the free Wi-Fi but the company of others and the peace of a Sunday morning as well.

There were so many little shops — restaurants with foods from most every ethnicity, night clubs (not bars, night clubs, and yes, there is a difference). There was a little hang out in a basement that featured an array of 80s arcade games. There was even a peanut store. Seriously.

There is a blend of history and modernism in Boise — hipsters and vegans sitting on the steps of a building that is well over a hundred years old. And it works.

People have preserved the history here. The city hall building has stone remnants from the original building on display, and the original offices of The Statesman (Boise-based newspaper) still has the small tiles spelling out it's name in the entry way.

Clouds in January

I have so much to write, so much to say. And yet, I hold back some times. I don't tell everything. Some things I have to keep just for myself.

I'm being tutored on training my brain, practicing to be calm, to breathe, to relax. Things we all take for granted and maybe don't even realize it. It's a beautiful thing . . . to take a step back and view the world. Not to think too much, not to make assumptions, not to pretend, just be. To listen . . . not speak, not simply hear, just listen. Words with similar meaning all too often have completely different connotations. Such is life, it should be so simple and yet little things get in the way and make it complicated.

And then there's this.
I let our dog out to do his business in the morning when I wake up at o'dark thirty, and of course at night before we go to bed (and many times in the day too, but those instances are not as important). I take these times to stand out side, by myself, and just be. Tonight when I opened the door I was instantly  struck by the beauty of the sky.

It's been stormy, cloudy, and the clouds have been clinging more closely to the earth. It's been foggy, gloomy. Tonight it's very windy, and when  I stepped outside the clouds were lit up by the city lights, glowing, illuminated. And because of the wind they were moving very quickly. It looked like something from Hollywood, something created with on a computer with an expensive program. Surreal is the cliche word that comes to mind.

I stood there for a few moments and watched these glowing clouds race across the sky, watched the stars peek in and out, listened to the drone of engines on the not so far away freeway. It was peaceful, beautiful.

With so many moments like this each day, week, month . . . it should be impossible for anybody to believe that we are not living in a beautiful world. We're meant to see more than we do. We forget to see all the beautiful things happening around us.

Free speech in aisle 5

Yesterday I went to the grocery store, not the most exciting thing, definitely not my favorite thing, but necessary none the less.


I don't like going out into public too much, due to my unreasonable (so I've been told) view on how I look. Even the thought of going out and being "seen" makes my heart race and my breath get shorter. I know it seems silly, but it is hard for me.

As difficult as it is, especially on one of my "bad" days, I refuse to let it beat me and keep me locked in my house all the time. I force myself to be as normal as possible.


Through mostly trial and error I've learned little tricks that help me deal with my anxiety when I do go some where. My most important . . . never look anyone in the eye. I don't want to see their judgment, whether it be imagined or not.


But the second, I thought, is much more positive. I talk to people. Yes, strangers. I know that talking to people and not looking them in the eye seems like an odd match, but I've mastered it out of necessity. You can speak to someone while looking at them, but not looking them directly in the eye. I know where my comfort zone is.


Call it a nervous reflex, but if I am walking down an aisle and an opportunity comes to talk to someone, whether they move aside to let me pass by or we are standing next to each other in line . . . stuff like that. I usually say something stupid, like, "wow, we all came to the store at the same time" or something similar . . . I don't think I have ever said something intelligent in one of those moments.

I can't help it, I don't know why. I guess it's just another way to try to combat my social anxiety.  I tell people their babies are cute, I smile at old ladies.

This may surprise some people, but more often than not people give me a weird look and just look the other way. Or they give me a dirty look, as if to say, "why is this stranger speaking to me?" Every once in a great while I will get a weak, polite smile, and even more rare is the person who will return the conversation. Less than 2 out of ten are the latter if I had to estimate.

Yesterday my effort to be friendly and social was met with particularly thick indifference. When I left, and I feel like this often when I leave the store, I feel like an idiot. I feel frustrated and stupid. Why do I go out of my way to be friendly when people just think I am weird?

Why is it so strange and out of place for a person to talk to another in a public place? Why am I met with such awkward glances when I try to be social? I know that none of these people can have any idea how hard it is for me to reach out, so I can't hold that against them, but otherwise I don't get it.

Every time I leave the store I do the classic palm to to forehead "D'oh!" thing. Then I convince myself that no one wants to talk to me, I am just not pretty enough or cool enough. That's just how my mind works. But then every weekend it's the same. I can't help but smile at the cute little old couple holding hands, or tell the lady behind me in line that her baby is adorable. It's sad that in our world that is considered odd.

Every once in a while some lonely old man will sit and chat with me, about how much I look like his oldest daughter when she was my age, about how he remembers when groceries were so much cheaper. I like to think that we help each other, the little old man and I. We are each dealing with something that people who don't have it won't understand -- he with the loneliness and me with crippling social anxiety and low self image.

Those moments, having a conversation with a stranger and knowing they enjoy it, makes it better to an extent. Those are so rare though, that most of the time I leave questioning my sanity.

Should I keep talking to people, trying to be polite and friendly? Or should I learn to keep my mouth shut? Who knows. I guess I will see how I feel about the next time I go some where.