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There’s a rhythm to the seasons that I’ve gotten used to over the years. When I crest a mountain trail in late September, the leaves are just a smidge past their prime, the brush is burnt orange and desiccating and my hair is the dried grass, my eyes the crisp of a blue autumn sky. I am in step with this life’s rhythm.  Having moved, further away, to lower in altitude, I miss the timing by a quarter of step. Fifteen or 20 days off now, I am left nostalgic for other falls when I crested the same hill I have for 8 or 10 or 15 years. Missing the familiar way it caught my eye and inspired my heart. Yet it weighed me down too. I couldn’t keep doing the same things over and over again. So I moved on. Reminded myself of my gypsy soul and how I’ve always yearned to keep my feet moving, keep living new places, breathing new scents, seeing new wildlife, drinking in new vistas. Stagnating so long in one beautiful place, I have forgotten the fearlessness of new places, the exhilaration of chasing
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I like turtles

 Gavin got his adenoids out today. When the wooo-whoo meds hit, I was like, "Gavin, you're going to tell me all your secrets now," as a joke. He had that misty, dazed look and goes, "I'm gonna tell you my deepest darkest secret." He pauses for dramatic effect and then whispers, "I like turtles."
Sometimes when I want to read, I can't. I fill with distaste and disdain for each book I pick up, because none of it is Maya Angelou, or Toni Morrison, or the literary meal I need to sate my soul's craving for meaning and a cosmic guide for that moment in life. The problem with the book I’m reading isn’t the story. It’s the problem of my living. The rote nature of it. The sentences– simple declaratives, the tasks –things that get struck from a list, done and redone. Remember? See it? Done. Life. Life is not merely written down like any other list of things not to be forgotten, but witnessed so never forgotten  even after memory failed to hit record,  because a day was witnessed at its onset is the answer. It’s the lack of feeling mornings, not the story of what happened. The lack of witnessing. Mornings, that time of awakening at t he birth of the world watch an egret’s legs in water, slender limbs glistening beneath a cool tide pool surface barely moved in the stillness of a d
Rob was talking about how a presenter at a conference he was at hadn't seen him until she was mid-slide. She interrupted her presentation and said, "Hi Rob. You still look young even with the gray hair." The kids picked up the rope and Gavin argued, "Mom looks way younger than Dad." Magnus whispered, "she has more wrinkles though." "That's cuz she smiles  more, no offense Dad." I've always known I'd have great laugh lines because I smile a lot. And now I do.
Rumi said to treat each morning like a new arrival to ourselves as if we are a guest house . A day may bring darkness that sweeps us of our furniture and destroys parts but doing so makes room for another guest. Another morning.  I wonder if we treated this life like a Meow Wolf exhibit imbued with fervent curiosity, would that work just as well? Here wonders expand us and allow our minds to be at once separate yet converging on a moment of experience.  You are here.  I will die.  We are here.  We will cry.  Not denying the fear of death/misfortune/endings but not avoiding either.  Enthusiasm and curiosity, a drive to see and touch and feel the bright colors drives forward. It all compels you too. Forward from room to room. Open the sky.  Treat each moment like an experience that has a place and allow it to expand us, to be curious about it. Where does regret live in my body? Does it have weight or zip? Tendrils or a forcefield? How does it vibrate my body to bits or shake me to feel h

Silver Hot Pink Christmas

 For Christmas, I found my first silver hair, then more and more and more of them. They're hard to detect in the ash blonde surrounding them, but they're there. I saw them in the fluorescent hotel bathroom in Mexico. I have two reactions. I am elated at the idea of winning the hair lottery with first a beautiful color of blonde hair followed by the best color of gray.  And I am thrown by the idea of not being blonde and the way it chucks my identity around like I've just found myself in a rock tumbler. 10 years is what it takes to go gray. 10 years bouncing around, aging to old.  What if you don't recognize me or think I'm beautiful anymore? What if it means you don't know me? And the most bizarre is the idea that I don't know this self I am set to become. I'm the person who still jumps off cliffs and dances and blares music.  How do I reconcile that concept of self with a silver haired woman? I'm not cute and quiet and docile. I don't bake cooki