Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow and Next Week walk into a bar . . .

Yesterday told me that I could have done better. Her visits always seem to go by so fast. It seems like she was just here and now she's gone. She'll be back.

Today is in my living room, sitting up straight, watching me to see what I'll do next. She's tall, patient, simple, but satisfactory. She's calm and has an air of meaningfulness and wisdom. I should work on paying better attention to what she says.

Tomorrow is knocking on my front door, excited to show me what she's brought. She always rushed my visits with Today. I welcome her visits, but it seems there's never enough time for Today. Just give me one more hour, I'm not done with her yet. Tomorrow is giddy and impatient. She thinks she's better than Today, I know she does. 

Next Week is calling me long distance. I'm not sure what she's like yet, I haven't met her. I think she'll be kind. I'll be optimistic this time. She tells me that she'll be here soon, probably sooner than I think.

I have treated them badly. I have shunned their persistence. I have pushed them all away, told them flat out that I did not care to see them anymore. And yet the continue to visit. Perhaps they see something in me that I don't. 

At times each one has been very unkind. But on others they're nothing less than sweet and full of life. 

Though our relationships have been at times strained, each has taught me something and helped to form who I am now, who ever that is. Maybe I'll meet her next. 

The passion of fear

Franklin D. Roosevelt once said "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance."

Fear is a natural part of life. It keeps us alive. Without fear we wouldn't wear seat belts or life jackets and a lot of knife-throwing circus sideshow acts would have to find new professions.

But fear is too often paralyzing, debilitating. It takes more than it gives. Fear convinces you you're not good enough, that you shouldn't even try. People who achieve their goals have somehow learned to silence this fear, or at least calm it enough to be manageable.

Fear has taken too much from me. 

I need to take it back. 

I want to learn Spanish and I want to learn how to play guitar (I'm working on both, by the way). I want to write a book (I've been doing research and writing a rough draft). I want to know who I am (I've traced my family history all the way back to the Mayflower). 

As challenging as those things are, the things I struggle with the most are not seen and are rarely spoken of. We shouldn't fear fear, but what if you fear yourself? There's a movie plot for ya. 

It's 10:51 on a Friday night. I'm pleasantly sober and clear. I enjoy these fleeting moments of clarity. Having open eyes does not necessarily mean that you truly, really see.

I'm more than what I allow myself to be. It's there. It's what's kept me going. Passion is more powerful than fear.

The Art of Childhood

Back at the beginning of the school year, a flyer came home with parents asking for anybody and everybody to volunteer to teach an art lesson to the class once a month. 

As I was dropping Devin off at school the next day I stopped and chatted with his teacher about the art lessons — what a great idea it is to have art offered to the kids, especially at such a young age, how important it is for their developing minds to be creative, etcetera and so forth. 

His teacher approached me a few weeks later and told me, in a  bit of a panic, that no one had volunteered. She went on to say that if there are no volunteers there would be no art lessons for the kids. And, since I was the only parent who had expressed any interest in it, would I please, please volunteer to teach art. 

Well, yes, of course! Children going without art in their lives breaks my heart. 

I am not one for getting up and speaking in public, even in front of kids, but I remember my mom coming to volunteer in my classes while I was in elementary school. I remember that it meant a lot to me. And, I had volunteered in Aria's kindergarten class too, helping kids learn how to read and count. I certainly want to carry on that tradition with Devin. 

Death and forgiveness

Warning: Long post ahead

I am a firm believer that everything that happens in your life is meant to teach you something. It may be a major event, the worst or best day of your life, or something that does not make sense until decades later.

This last week was very emotionally trying for a lot of people. Death is difficult for anyone to deal with -- the ultimate unknown and finale in a life that you want to keep forever. When it happens suddenly and seemingly without reason to a person who seemed so happy, so talented, so fun -- it seems impossible to rationalize. You begin to hear that person's voice in your head, remember the last time you spoke, become tempted to call him just on the slight chance he'll answer, wonder what you could have done to stop him from making his final decision.

This last week I spoke with and hugged people I had not seen in 17 years, Death brings people together, reminds you to tell people you care about them, It makes you question your own mortality and reminds you to never take anything for granted.

Everyone has a mortal enemy, someone whom they'd wish would just fall off the face of the planet. Mine happens to be, ironically, the best friend of the person whose death brought everyone together. This person, who shall remain nameless here, was obnoxious, arrogant, spoiled and just all around mean. He made his dislike for me very well known. Whoever made up the phrase "sticks and stones . . " was never publicly degraded nearly everyday for four years.

He never really did give me a good reason for hating me, though I know that a large part of it was the fact that I was a little different, I wore Marilyn Manson shirts and put blue streaks in my hair (back then putting color in your hair was not cool), and he, being very, very LDS, thought that meant I was a devil worshipper and should be made to feel as inferior as possible. I don't think he knew that I am actually, technically  LDS, it's just not something that I bring up in typical conversation.

Words left unsaid

It is hard to describe how I’m feeling right now. Sometimes I just need to pour my thoughts out onto a page with no rhyme or reason. It does not have to make sense, I just have to have this release. It is the best therapy I’ve found thus far.

The last few days seem to have stood still, or perhaps I’ve been asleep and I’m about to wake up. There’s a numbness that I can’t seem to shake. An old high school classmate decided to leave this earth last week. We were not really friends in school, but we did not dislike each other either, we just spun in different circles. He was artistic, I remember that about him, and he was a class clown, always making people laugh and just generally being a goofball. He got along with everybody because he was nice to everybody.

He became a very talented artist. He had a unique style and method that I’d not seen before or since. A couple of years ago he emailed me and asked if I would write a news story about him to try to get a sponsorship to exhibit at the Eastern Idaho State Fair. I agreed to write a story, but told him that I had to focus on his art rather than the sponsorship.

We chatted by phone, it was great to sort of catch up. I interviewed him, got to pick his brain a bit and ask him about his inspiration. I don’t know if he liked the article, I never heard, but that year at the state fair I did stop by his booth to chat and watch him paint.

His death is stinging more than it should, I know. It’s not like we were best friends. I wrote “happy birthday” on his Facebook timeline every year, I watched the time lapsed videos he made to show his paintings come together.

The dreadful afternoon spins

It seems that something has not been right with me for a little while. Or, if you've known me for  a long time you might argue that I've never been quite right, but that's another entry for another rainy day.

I know that my medication has some influence on how I feel throughout the day, both good and bad. I turn into a different person when I'm not on my meds, I'm an angry, emotional monster, and that is putting it nicely. So, though I resisted for quite a long time, I finally made the decision to take medication. It calms me, makes me relax, chill. But that makes me tired, but it is a different kind of tired. It's a listlessness, a sort of physical weakness. It's being drained all the time.

But over the last few months something else seems to be going on. I get really dizzy and nauseous in the afternoons. It feels like the entire room is spinning, like I just stepped off one of those wild rides at the state fair. And the nausea is terrible. I have not quite lost my lunch on my desk yet, but I've been damn close.

And the fatigue has been out of control, I feel like I can barely move most of the time.

I don't understand . . . I have been exercising, it's been almost a year since I started going to the gym. I've been eating well and I drink tons of water. I try to get enough sleep but I have kids, so, well you know how that goes. So what the hell is going on? I feel awful!

It has gotten progressively worse, I have even asked Mike to come pick me up from work early because I just can't focus when the room is spinning. Last Friday was the last straw . . . it was worse than ever.  I have put off going to the doctor for a long time, I mean, I thought it would pass. Also, I am used to just sort of pushing through when I'm sick. If I have a cold, a sprain, whatever I still go about as usual, I don't let stuff like this get to me normally.

I'm probably just rambling now, I guess that's part of this whole deal, I just can't think straight for more than a moment or two. I've been leaving my keys on the counter when I go out to start the car, and I've been zoning out quite a bit too. Someone will be talking to me and I try to listen but it's like my brain just shuts off and the words, the sentences don't click. I hear it, but I don't understand it.

I'm only 35, so what does this mean? Stress? That's a give-in.  I'm going in to get checked out Thursday.

Mystery in the dark

My drive to the gym takes me, in part, past a little mini-mall on the north side of town. By the time I go to the gym it is thoroughly dark outside (thanks, Winter Solstice) and the stores are closed, because, you know, why would any business want to stay open later than 7 p.m., right?

With the lights out (it's less dangerous?) the building blend into the scenery. Combined with my frequenting the route it has become little more than a landmark that tells me I'm almost at my destination.

But I've found something to look forward to here. 

Most nights, with the exception of particularly frigid ones, an old man stands in near complete darkness on the west side of the building. He wears a thick blue coat and his hands and protected from the biting cold by black gloves. He also wears a dark blue hat, the kind with the little flaps that fold down over your ears. He holds a cane in his left hand, looking out toward one of the city's busiest intersections —watching? Waiting? 

We have made eye contact more than once. I see him only for a brief moment as I turn right onto the road that passes his side of the building. Sometimes he is walking across the parking lot as I pass, heading toward his post.

He seems to be a gentle soul, the deep lines in his face tells me he's been on this earth more than most. 

He does not appear to be homeless, but there are not really too many houses nearby either, which baffles me. Where does he come from?

I have so many questions. A part of me wants to stop one night and simply ask him if he is Ok. Does he have a warm place to sleep at night? Does he have enough to eat?

But then there is another part of me that enjoys this mystery and weird connection that we share (and, like I said, he does not appear homeless, his coat, hair, etc. are all clean as far as I can tell. If he appeared homeless there would be no question to stop or not).

He appears to be reminiscing, thinking, watching, but what and why? What is his story? Why does he stand there nearly every night? Is he lonely? 

Now each night that I drive by I make it a point to look for him. My inner child plays with the idea that maybe only I can see him. Maybe he's some sort of earthbound spirit. I'd like to know . . .  or maybe not.