If anyone's looking for me, I'll be on the corner with my cardboard sign up and hand out

Balance. It's not something that I'm wholly acquainted with on the outside. But on the inside, I try to have balance. I believe it requires restraint, steadiness and consistency. It means living the truth. What I do, what I see, and what I talk about not only indicate but dictate what I get from life. If I shortchange, I'll get shortchanged. If I scheme, I've no doubt that time will equalize that as well. Living the truth means staying away from smoke screens, keeping my eyes open, and trying to keep all the factors in balance. We get what we give - good or bad. I understand that. And I believe it, so I try. Everyday I live awareness of it and I try.

So, I'd like to ask the dark cloud that is seemingly intent on shadowing me to get off my ass because I think you've got the wrong girl. But just in case you don't, let me tell you that I think I'm doing very well in this storm you've dropped on me. You're not going to knock me down. I know what I'm made of. And these things that you're putting in my life, I'm dealing with the emotional ones, got it? I'M DEALING WITH IT ALL. And you know what? I'm getting stronger every day. But the others, the ones that require me to pay out the same ass that you keep trying to kick to the ground, the ones that are hitting me so hard and fast that pawnshop has actually slipped through my mind and into my vocabulary several times, well those have to stop. I'm asking nicely. Seriously, because my last name, it is not Rockefeller.

Use three sprinklers, two times a day, for one hour, and repeat as necessary

This is the scene in the newly landscaped yard. Oh yeah, lots of this going on. Happy grass.

The scent of the flower lingers on the giver's hands

A week or so ago, I wrote about being afraid of myself and the world. I wrote about realizing that I hadn't gone beyond necessary movements in my life since losing my father. I was realizing how a loss of such magnitude freezes you and makes your life stagnant with grief and fear.

Fear is a lion stalking your path, with steady breathing on your heels. The lion is my imagination; the breath my own. Fear is my enemy - trying to numb my pain, it will numb my mind, my spirit, my life.

This past weekend, I turned around on that lion, said "Boo," and watched it slink away. I had no intention of helping myself this weekend, that wasn't the goal when we tackled the yard. Nonetheless, that's what happened. It happened when I stopped thinking and started working. It happened when I pulled weeds by their roots from the earth. It happened each time I wiped the sweat from my brow. It happened when all it took to satisfy my need was a drink of water. It happened when I patted the moist dirt around the base of the newly planted plants. It happened when I fell asleep Sunday night with an exhaustion that was physical rather than emotional. It happened when I stopped looking inward, and started living outward.

I've learned enough about grief the past four months to know that this will circle back, my fear of living in a world without my father has not really been abated. But this weekend, I also learned that oftentimes the best medicine is to go on living.

We've been waiting all day for this moment, what do you mean their flight is late?

Their flight was late, their bags checked, and they had to drive their friends home. With each bit of information we received that told us they'd be a little later than we thought, we were all as let down as the discovery of no Santa Claus. We'd anticipated this moment since yesterday, imagining their reaction, knowing they'd be surprised but wondering if they'd like it. After what seemed like forever - during which time each of us picking up this stick or that leaf as if we were polishing the darn place for show - they finally arrived and we finally got to see their faces when they saw our work. To say they were surprised is a bit short of the mark. But they were. And they were happy. And so were we. There were all kinds of tears and hugs going around.

After the lovefest was over, we were very clear to them that we now owned their yard and we expected them to treat it with the best care, plenty of water, fertilizer, weeding, etc. Or we would just have to take it back. Because we will be keeping an eye on it. Acting like a bunch of possessive moms, we were.

The dogs that ruined the grass that revealed the dirt that Sharon wanted to turn that led to the surprise they'll get when they get home

A couple friends, C&J, went to New Orleans for the weekend in celebration of C’s 40th birthday. While I'm sure they've had a great time, I want to say right here and now before the entire internet world that I don't care how great a time they had, it will be NOTHING AT ALL compared to the surprise we have in store for them when they get home.

Sharon would tell you that it all started with a hoe. But really, it started with two particular dogs running a path in C&J’s back yard so regularly that the grass had long ago vacated the idea of living there, and in its place was a long dirt patch of nothingness. As Sharon was house sitting for them, on Friday she had the idea to turn the dirt a bit and, while looking for a hoe, she connected it with the idea to get some sod to fill in the dirt patches. Before she could say what the heck have I gotten myself into, she found herself on the phone with a guy in Rosenburg, giving him directions to the house so that he could deliver the pallet of sod he rightfully convinced her she'd need. So she spent her Saturday single-handedly putting down the sod. The back yard looks fantastic, and very green.

Let me say right here that, in and of itself, that would be a tremedous surprise birthday gift. But then, a few of us could not leave well enough alone and had to join in the yardwork fun. So, Sunday found Jacqui, Carrie, Teri and me (and of course Sharon) at C&J’s house in about 90 degree heat with not a breeze to be felt, weeding, pulling, digging, uprooting, and trimming. And let me tell you, were we ever sweating and did we ever get DIRTY. And by dirty, I mean to say that we were covered in dirt, head to toe. Well, except for Carrie's toenails which apparently repel dirt. But that's another story.



Then it was off to Houston Lawn & Garden where all the plants were half price, so all of us went wholly nuts with the blank-slate potential for the three beds we'd cleaned out. We opted for Hibiscus and Mexican Heather in the back yard bed, and for the front beds it's Esperanza, Cannas, Caladiums, Vincas, Zinnias and Mexican Heather. And 12 bags of soil and mulch.

Back at their house, we embarked on planting, potting, raking, bagging, edging, sweeping, mowing, fertilizing, and watering. At this point, we were the kind of dirty that when you were little your Mom would stop you at the back door and make you take your clothes off right there so that you wouldn't track dirt in the house. That dirty.

But we were also smiling. Because doing this felt amazingly good. It felt good to be working beside each other, and to be doing this for our friends. And for me it felt cleansing - even though I was covered in dirt (by now you should be clear on just how dirty we were). It felt good to have my hands in the earth and not much thought in my mind. It was a relief for me to be working on something constructive, to weed and plant, to nurture life. And if felt real good to every so often get absolutley fizzy with excitement knowing that they had no idea that five of their friends were together at that moment landscaping their yard while they were sipping drinks at Pat O'Briens. No idea at all!

Their flight lands at 5:00 tonight. We're going to be waiting for them at their house. Not one of us wants to miss their faces when they drive up and see this:



Oh, and Teri, Jacqui and Carrie installed their outdoor stereo speakers as well, which really is another story, except for the fact that it involved climbing through attic space, which as you can see in this photo secured that Teri win the dirtiest bird of the day award. And please give a round of applause to Sharon for that lovely grass in the background, the grass that started it all.

The blue ribbon I won tonight

I've done this before, the insanity of trying to convince someone to live. But never before my mother. She doesn't want to go on. She won't admit it, but she has a multitude of problems, and she needs real help, but she won't accept help. She's in pain. So much so that she tries to numb herself nightly with a hefty dose of Scotch. She has no idea what she's saying anymore. But the thing is... I DO.

And I told her as much tonight. I crawled out there on the edge of conversation and dropped a few things... how can I help her? I can't. What can I do? Nothing. Does she know how much it hurts her children that she speaks this way? She wonders if we know how much it hurts her to be without a car? Um, excuse me? She says, if you want to help me, get me a drink. It will your eighth since I've been here. I don't believe that, who is counting? I am. Well, are you going to get me a Scotch? I guess so. I just want to die. And after several more hours of the bitterness that is her tongue, and the craziness that is her mind and our conversation, she is finally ready to go to bed. And I help her there, tuck her in, kiss her cheek, turn down the lights.

And then I crack.

I go to the kitchen and pull out the knives, testing them for sharpness. I glide each one across my calf imagining what it would feel like, what color red is just beneath the skin. I select one. It has a long blade that glistens in the lights. I prop myself on the counter, look at the knife and look at the target. And I think, NO WAY.

And I realize that my bleeding cannot save her, and in the end, it will not release the pain - hers or mine. I can't transfer this problem to my leg or hurt myself into understanding her, and it will not take away the pain of living in a world in which every day my mother tells me, "I want to die," or, "I'm calling to let you know that I'll be dead tomorrow."

I've spent five hours tonight trying to convince her to live, and I'm not sure I've done any good at all. I am sure that she won't be able to recall this tomorrow. But I also know that I didn't slay myself over it. And for now, that's an accomplishment.

It seems like a thousand days

I have a necklace that I wear, a silver locket. It holds a piece of paper with my father’s words to me, “I love you, Dad," cut from a note he’d written me and folded over small. I’ve developed the habit of fiddling with the locket when I’m talking to someone. Anyone really, a co-worker, friend, sales person, pharmacist. Doesn’t matter. I’ve never been a fiddler before. I can’t keep still for long, that's a fact, but that's about getting up, not fidgeting. I don’t tap pens on the desk, or tap my foot on the floor. I don’t twist my hair. And I don't fiddle with my other necklaces, just this one. Although it may appear that I'm fidgeting in a sort of absent-minded or nervous way, I'm actually focused on the action. I’m very aware that my fingers are on a piece of silver that contains my father's message that he loves me. I'm very aware that if I remove the silver and the paper, that it's that love I'm after. That is all.

Talking to the walls

All the photographs I have of my father are not enough. The photos are all imperfect. The images on paper or my mind are not him, but a link to him. They resemble him but are in ways reminders that his presence is not here, just as his presence isn’t really in the photos, just as the photos are not real. They have their use, photographs, and I love their construction, the camera, the image, the print, the success of capturing what you see or saw, or what you were. But they also tell me always that the moment is captured and gone.

I talk to my father’s photos now, one in particular in the hallway. I stop before it in the evenings, look into his eyes and say out loud that I love him, or I’m doing my best, or I miss him. What have I made him in my mind? A piece of paper with the memory of his face imprinted on it, that can hear me as if he is in the same room as me, as if he is going to respond. Or perhaps I do so to have that exchange again, to hear my voice speaking to him, saying “Dad” to him again. Although one-sided, it is comforting.

I've been here before

So many roads lead my thoughts to him. He was my father, my teacher, my friend, my Captain, my leader. All the roads have led to a grief that has opened up again; the desperation, the fluttering in my throat, the unreality of my own presence, the wallowing in vacancy. Nothing stays still in grief. Grief is round and there is always another phase around the bend, and yet everything seems to repeat. Grief does not progress, it circles. And I’m on the cusp of accepting that each phase is not a graduation from the previous, but a reacquaintance and reintroduction to the arc.

A ghost in the fog

It’s taken me a while to realize this, but truthfully I’m afraid of myself and the world around me. For the past week I’ve been more and more aware of a fog I’ve been living under since losing him. Maybe it’s wrong to call it a fog, as if it's temporary and will roll past. Maybe the fog is my life now; it’s different when the changes around you are the forever kind. It’s new to learn that love cannot save. It’s new to know that time runs out and all the memories you have are all you’re going to have. But I’m still here. And so are my eyes. And so is my camera. We have to connect again, my camera and I. I have to face my camera. I’ve waited so long and I’m not solidly sure I even want to. And yet, I know I need to put it back in my life, back in my hands.

I don’t have to wonder why I’m afraid, why I haven’t gone beyond the necessary movements the past several months. Life without him is new, and not what I want. As much as I think I’ve plowed through my heart and my mind, there is still so much of me that cannot fully accept it. It is the part that does not know where I belong, that lives between not wanting to be alone and not wanting to see a soul. The part of me that for a flash of time wants to share something with him, and in an equally quick flash, remembers that I cannot. It is the part of me that feels that if I take new photos, photos beyond digital snapshots, then it will be official. I really am here and he really is not – that is the same reality that is shaped for me by the camera that stands between my eyes and what I see. I see it, I feel it. But I am not part of the picture, and I cannot reach it.