????????

My Lyme’s been all up in my business this week, which is why I haven’t kept in better touch. I hate what Lyme does to me. I think of funny stories to tell you all day, but when I get a minute to sit down at the computer, I can’t find the words, or the heart, that this writing job requires. I know that some of you enjoy stopping by the blog to find out what I’ve been up to, but I also know that others need me, depend on me to show up here and keep writing. That is such an honor. I just want you to know that when I don’t show up, it’s not because I have something more important to do. There’s not much that’s more important to me than writing to you. It’s just that I can’t sometimes. Lyme puts me in survival mode.

The good news is that when I’m Lymie, I get even more generally confused. This makes for some good stories.

Last weekend was Craig’s birthday. I surprised him with a night in a hotel, because nothing says birthday romance like wearing flannel pants and watching prison shows in a DIFFERENT bed.

When we checked in, the young man behind the desk said:

One king sized bed or two doubles?

Since it was Craig’s birthday and all, I replied, “King, please.” I thought this was quite sexy of me.

Then the young man behind the desk looked me right in the eye and said:

How many kids do you want?

I paused for a moment, shocked, and then look at Craig. He stared back, completely unperturbed.

I thought: Ooooookaaaay. Weeeeeiiiird. I haven’t been to a hotel for a really long time, so I considered that perhaps this front desk small talk was a new way of making the hotel experience more personable.

I said, “Wellllll…..we already have three at home…and I’m sure we’ll have one more. Craig would like four, but I can definitely see having five. Five would be my limit, I think. I guess we’re not totally sure.” I smiled.

The desk man seemed completely unsatisfied with this answer. He stared at me. I stared back and waited. After a very long awkward silence, he said:

Well. Could you make up your mind please? Would you like four or five?

I looked at Craig again, who was clearly trying not to laugh. He actually looked as if he might explode. I was NOT trying not to laugh. I was trying not to yell.

“Listen. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what’s going on. I’m not ready to decide right now how many I want. Does my uncertainty mean I can’t stay at your hotel?” I pointed toward the bar. “Maybe my husband and I could go in there and talk it over for awhile and then give you a better idea.”

The man looked at me like he might be ready to call the police. Craig started shaking, unable to control his laughter any longer. I continued to be baffled.

The desk man took a deep dramatic breath and said:

Okay. I’m just going to give you four. Then he looked down at his little computer.

WHAT THE HELL . . . I thought. WHAT THE HELL???

And then the annoyed desk man handed me four keys.

Four keys.

So.

I looked at Craig. He walked away in hysterics. Neither the desk man, nor I, nor the twelve other people waiting in line who had heard the entire interaction were laughing. They were all staring at each other in silence.

I didn’t figure out what the hell had just happened until I got to the elevator. With my four keys.

Craig broke the elevator silence by daring to say:

“Context clues, honey. You’re not really big on noticing context clues, are you? We were checking into a hotel.”

I glared at him. I said:

“If I weren’t too embarrassed to, I would march down there right now and ask for the room with two double beds.”

Craig said, “I know you would, and it’s okay. That was the best birthday present I’ve ever had. BEST present ever.”

Me: “Wonderful. You do realize it’s the only one you’ll be receiving, right?”

Craig: “Yep, I know.”

Me: “Lovely. Let us never speak of it again.”

Craig (still grinning): “Okey Doke.”

Me: “Flannel pants time, then?”

Craig: “Yep. I’ll make the popcorn.”

Birthday snuggles.

*If you need another laugh: please reread the hotel conversation from the desk man's perspective. I can't yet, too embarrassing.

Happy Weekend.

Love, G

.

Transcendentalist

My children were very bad yesterday, because of all the candy, obviously. After lunch, I insisted that their teeth were going to fall out and no more candy ever ever ever. The problem is that I love candy. So I tell them not to eat it and then throughout the day, I hide and eat their stash. Yesterday I was putting the clothes in the dryer (Really? * We can send people to Mars but we can’t create one machine that washes and dries? C’mooon…they both spin!) and I found a pack of mini-Twizzlers in Chase’s pocket. They were all gummi and jacked up from going through the wash, but this was not a strong enough deterrent. Because: Twizzlers! I ripped it open and started chewing. Joy.

But then I bit down on something hard. Weird. I examined the messy gob and found a tooth in it. A TOOTH. Upon second glance, I realized it was one of my crowns. I was terrified. It was like having one of those dreams in which your teeth are falling out and you wake up so relieved it was just a dream except that my teeth were actually falling out. No waking up. Tish walked in and I showed her the tooth and she started crying. I thought she was worried about me, but no. Not Tish.

Tish: What’s that red stuff in that tooth? Are you eating candy without me????

Me: Yes, Tish. I was.

Tish: And your tooth fell out???

Me: Yep. I told you.

Tish: UH-OH. WE BETTER ASK THE COMPUTER WHAT WE SHOULD DO.

The computer is her third parent. Actually, maybe her first parent.

So I ran to the computer and Googled: WHAT DO I DO IF MY CROWN FALLS OUT? Got some good info. Thank you, Mama Google.

Craig was at soccer practice with Chase and so after my Google consultation I tried to create a plan that would not include telling Craig. Craig is a total dental goody-goody. He goes to the dentist every six months, on the dot, and he flosses every day. Twice a day, often. I do not floss. I have no idea why not. I can do other hard things, but not this thing. I’m just really tired. This makes Craig insane. He leaves dental floss by my toothbrush every night. He sends me annoying links about gum disease. He buys me fresh toothbrushes every few months. He panics every time I open a package with my teeth. It’s exhausting.

Craig is the poster boy for dental hygiene. I mean this literally. There is a mammoth poster of him on the wall at our local dentist, smiling his huge lily-white, healthy gummed smile, mocking all of us terrified, sweating, miserable anti-dentites. The entire dental staff adores Craig, and he loves them right back. GUSHES about them while I glare at him. When he visits they treat him like their son who’s just come home from college. They ooh and aah. When I visit, they just eeewww. They raise their eyebrows. They look at my bleeding gums and then shoot each other glances and say to me: You’re not flossing. You’re still not flossing. And then they get some dental floss out and they give me a flossing lesson. Every time, another flossing lesson. Like I’m five. And the thing is that I have to listen and pay attention and act like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone floss because my only other alternative is to say, “JESUS - I KNOW how to floss, I JUST CHOOSE NOT TO.” Which seems worse. So like an idiot, I watch them carefully and I say, “OOOOH, I SEE. THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE. I USE THE FLOSS ON MY TEETH. AAAH….THAT’S WHERE I WENT WRONG. I WAS USING IT ON MY ELBOW…..I SEE NOW. AHA. YES. I SEE. LOOKS FUN!” It is always so uncomfortable and infuriating and humiliating that when I leave I vow to floss every day. But then I don’t. Because I get tired again. This time I planned to floss for the two weeks before my annual appointment, to trick them.

But now I have to go there today. To have them put my crown back on. And I didn’t have two weeks notice. And I’m scared. I’ve already bitten off all my nails. BOO.

In other news, I’d like to thank you for your love during the past week. The comments: they were overwhelming to me. I work so hard on this blog, because what we are doing here seems so very, very important to me. But every once in awhile I wonder if I’m being ridiculous. Every once in awhile I wonder if the magic is in my head, if I’m silly to spend so much of my time and heart here. The responses to the last post helped me put that fear to bed. This place is important, and you are thankful for it. I am equally thankful for you.

During the past two years, readers have often asked when I’d send my writing to an agent. Craig and I had some serious talks about that, and in the end, we decided not to. I can’t give you any practical reasons because as usual for me, it came down to: it didn’t feel right. I don’t want to be overly ambitious. I don’t want my Monkees to ever feel like they are means to an end. I don’t want my writing to be a means to an end. Writing helps me heal everyday and that is quite enough. I don’t want to ask any more of it. I decided that if my goals for writing are to make a difference, to heal myself and help others heal – it is already a success. Magic was happening right in front of me, no need to overlook that in search of more, more, more. Always needing more really can be the kiss of death. So Craig and I decided together that what we have here, at Momastery, is more than enough. We would not pursue more. But we’d keep our eyes open for invitations, and if the world offered us one, we’d respond.

We got an invitation last weekend. I’ll give you the details soon, but for now I’ll just tell you that I have been spending four hours a day fine-tuning fifty essays to send to an agent. I’ll finish up this week and send it all off. We will see what happens. When I hear back, you’ll be the first to know. Maybe the seventh to know, actually. Craig, Sister, Tisha and Bubba, Chase and Tish will be first. Then you. I’ll tell you before Amma. She’s on my last nerve- that one. It’s Ammageddon at our house.

For now, please know that what happens with this agent is not of huge consequence. I did my best, which is a good feeling. But the outcome is out of our control, it is up to God. What is of huge consequence is what we are doing here. Taking care of each other, laughing together, stretching and comforting each other. Offering the world a safe place to land. Keep offering yourself, your thoughts, your fears, your love. It’s making a difference. We know that.

And for today, please pray that there is somehow an entirely new staff at my dentist’s office, none of whom are familiar with my dental reputation. And for God’s sake, no flossing lesson.

Love,

G

* P.S. Craig just read this essay and said that in fact, no one’s been to mars. Whatever. Go brush your teeth, buddy.

Join the Fam

Lovies - I need your help.

Would you please leave a comment and tell me which Momastery essays have been your favorites and why?

And if you like it here but you haven't yet registered as a follower, would you take a moment to do that?

It's important. Things are happening, maybe. More soon.

Love, G

Fifteen

If there is one thing I’ve learned from the writing of this blog, it is this: I don’t know anything. That might sound like a distressing discovery, but it’s okay. I think it might be the most important thing to know. It seems to be more than a lot of people know, anyway.

Knowing nothing does become tricky, however, when readers who have mentally ill loved ones ask me about it - about the whys and hows and whens of addiction and other mental conditions. I wish, so badly, that I had answers for you. When I read your messages I can actually feel your pain, and I want to heIp. I want to offer you hope, I want to give you the answers for which you are so desperate.

But the truth is that I don’t even know my own hows and whys and whens, so I can’t know yours.

But I’ve been thinking . . . I do know the who.

I can introduce you to one of the whos of addiction. I can take you into my heart and show you what is there and pray that it might build a bridge between your heart and the heart of the imploding one that you love.

These essays on this topic- I am going to continue to write and write and then publish. It seems important not to revise, not to edit. So here goes.

There are some who can sit through a movie that makes them uncomfortable. And there are some who can’t. Or won’t. Those people actually have to get up and leave the room.

We addicts, we mentally ill are the Leavers.

We just can’t stand the movie that is showing for some reason. And we are unable to fake it or tolerate it. We have to get up and walk out.

We don’t leave to hurt you. We leave because we believe that it is right to leave. And just as you wonder how we could possibly leave, we wonder how on Earth you can stay.

But please don’t blame yourself. Often, we were just watching the movie together. You didn’t make the movie. The movie is the whole world.

All of the comments after Fourteen sung to me like a lullaby. Except for one. One struck such a sour chord that is has been echoing in my mind since I read it. And I think it illustrates the chasm between the addict and the ones that love us. It shows how we misunderstand each other. How we misfire when we talk to each other. So I thought maybe we could unpack it. I would never, ever do this to a reader unless the comment was anonymous. I hope it will not cause the commenter pain. I know, absolutely, that it was meant with good intentions. I want to thank the commenter for it. It has helped me think. Here it is:

*It’s very hard to imagine where, with the idyllic childhood you had, that this emptiness originated. I hope that your relationship with Jesus healed the hole for good.*

When we are labeling other people and their life experiences, we must be very careful with our words. These words - idyllic, emptiness, healed the hole for good - are not careful words. They presume knowledge. And do not describe me or my life at all. Not at all.

I read this comment to mean: You are, are at least were, empty. And anyone with an idyllic childhood should not be empty. I hope you turned out better in the end.

First, I can’t imagine that there is anyone on Earth who is more pleased with how she turned out than I am.

Second, there is no such thing as an idyllic childhood. Let us not be silly. I had a good childhood. I was lucky as hell in most ways. I was the center of my parents’ worlds. But people are not mathematical equations. Love + Education does not necessarily = Smooth Sailing.

Third, I do not relate to the word empty. We addicts, we mentally ill…we are a lot of things, but empty is not one of them.

Fourth, Who On Earth is Healed For Good?

Here are some things that we are:

Some of us are born with an otherness that we feel right away . . . awareness of our otherness is often our first memory. We have this feeling that maybe we were dropped off in the wrong place, because nothing seems familiar. The people in this strange and harsh and confusing world require us to play role after exhausting role. We are afraid of things that don’t seem to scare other people. Friendship, love, commitment . . . these things seem so big, so important, so murky and confusing and dangerous…how could we dare enter into them? We decide it would safer not to. We see that other people seem comfortable taking these risks, but we feel different. We feel more aware, and less capable. We rationalize that maybe others take all of these risks because they don’t foresee the pitfalls that we see. We decide, subconsciously or not, that we are different. And we are so full of this knowledge of our difference that we must find a way to relieve our fullness. We are like volcanoes with no exit for our hot lava.

But we are young, usually, and don’t know much about creative relief strategies. So we create our own little world to hide in. This world is our bulimia or alcoholism or drugging or cutting or whatehaveyou. And this little world is a relief, because it feels safer. We are directing our own personal movie now. We are in control. We are not deficient. We are not empty. We are actually quite perceptive and resourceful and creative. We are just trying to cope. We are like albinos who protect their skin by staying inside.

And the thing is that our strategy works. Our cutting or binging or drugging does relieve the lava pressure, for awhile. It just causes too much collateral damage it make it a sustainable plan, they tell us. At some point they tell us that the lava is actually burning the hell out of us on the outside, and spilling out onto you.

But please don’t call us empty. We’ve never been empty a day in our life. We are full to exploding. But we tried to implode instead of explode…because we are usually very kind. It wasn’t a perfect plan. We’d love to find a different strategy. But now we’re addicted to our original strategy. And it’s really hard to quit. Try quitting sugar and caffeine cold turkey and then multiply that feeling by one million. And it’s really scary and risky to quit, because we don’t have another plan. And so we need help. But we need respect, too.

Because here is the thing. We know we chose the wrong way to relieve our pressure. But that lava inside of us, it defines us. We love our lava. We must find a different way to relieve it, yes. We know.

But that hot lava, that otherness, that awareness, that sensitivity- we were born with it and we will die with it.

The pressure of the lava is what led me to food and alcohol and semi-madness, yes, but it’s also the same lava that woke me up at 4:30 am this morning to write to you even though I’m sick and exhausted. The lava is what compels me to dig deep into myself and pour myself out here to women all over the world and to actually believe that it will make a difference. The lava inside me is what loves my children and parents and Sister and husband and YOU with a ferocity that borders on animal. My tenderheartedness, my sensitivity, my rebelliousness…my refusal to accept the world as it presents itself to me – my belief that I can change the world…it must be changed! got me in trouble for a while. It almost killed me. But it’s what keeps me ALIVE, too. It’s good now. It’s good now. It’s always been good. I just needed to learn how to use it. It’s like how nuclear energy can be used to destroy or to create. My lava is what I will use to save the world, or at least my little place in it. It’s why I walk through every day with my eyes wide with terror or awe. That lava is my fire. It’s my light. It’s the reason you return to this blog.

It’s my favorite part of myself. It is myself.

We addicts, we mentally-ill, we don’t want to lose our lava. We don’t want to lose ourselves. That’s why we fight you so hard.

I have found better ways to relieve the pressure of my lava. Yes, I have. I burn fewer people. I don’t burn myself as often. But I still feel the pressure, every single day. Thank God.

Love, G

Tina Fey's Prayer For Her Daughter

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

-An excerpt from Tina Fey's new book -Bossypants, 2011

"Fourteen?"

Last week I read A Million Little Pieces and this week I’m re-reading I Never Promised You a Rose Garden and The Bell Jar. All three are about mental illness . . . and so it’s been a theme for me, these past two weeks…insanity. In truth, it’s been a theme for me these past few decades.

I spent some time in a mental hospital during my senior year of high school. I’d been a horrible bulimic for eight years and therapy wasn’t helping, especially since I spent most of my therapy sessions discussing how fine I was and how lovely the weather was. And one day during my Senior Year, I ate too much at lunch, and I thought I was going to die. Because to me . . . full =death. But I couldn’t find a place to throw up. And so finally, right then and there, in the middle of the Senior Hallway, I decided I was not fine - not at all. And I walked into my guidance counselor’s office and I said: “Call my parents. I need to be hospitalized. I can’t handle anything. Someone needs to help me.”

Here is a picture of me that was taken the week before I was hospitalized. I'm there in the Blue Suit.

I was a student government officer to a class of close to a thousand. An athlete, too. Relatively pretty. Smart. Seemingly confident. My Senior superlative was “Leading Leader.” In this picture I was co-hosting the Homecoming Pep Rally for the entire high school. Wearing the corsage to show I'd just been nominated for Homecoming Court. People who need help sometimes look a lot like people who don’t need help.

And so that counselor called my parents, and they came right away. And they found a place for me to get help. I often think about what that day must have been like for them. Maybe they desperately wanted to say No, No it will be okay! Not a hospital! We are your parents! We can fix this! But they didn’t. The moment I became brave enough to admit I needed help they believed me, and despite the shock, the pain, the stigma . . . they gave me the exact help I asked for.

I’ve never written about my hospital stay before, because a whole lot is fuzzy, and I can’t get a real grip on the memories. Back then not many specialized eating disorder hospitals existed, so the one I went to was a real mental hospital. There were only two of us on the unit with eating issues, the others were there because they were mildly schizophrenic, drug addicted, depressed or suicide risks. Many of them had violent tendencies. I do not remember being afraid of any of them. I do remember being afraid, in one way or another, of most of the people in my high school.

There was one man on our unit who spoke only in numbers. I ignored him at first . . . it’s hard to know what the appropriate response is to “Twenty-one ninety-six forty NINE?” But one day I decided to take a guess. “Fourteen?” I responded tentatively. I remember his facing changing from empty to surprised to happy. Then back to empty, quickly. But I definitely saw happy, for a moment there. That taught me to try, at least once, to speak each person's special language.

There was a sandy haired girl who always hung her head so low that I never really saw her face. I do remember what her arm looked like, though, because it was sliced up like a pre-cut ham. I saw it up close because I held her hand once when she started crying during a therapy session. She pulled it away at first but then she offered it back to me a few moments later. I remember that her hand was very cold, but it warmed up after a while. I don’t remember her name. I do remember her story and it was very, very sad. She was right to be crazy.

There was my roommate. I will call her Mary Margaret. Unable to speak with my little Sister, I allowed Mary Margaret to take Sister’s place for the weeks I was hospitalized. We whispered long into the night, every night. Mary Margaret was from a tight knit, fiercely loving family too, and we wondered aloud for hours how we ended up in that room together. One night, very late, we wrote vows that said we promised to take care of each other forever. We both signed the vows, with crayons because we weren’t allowed to have pencils. Mary Margaret made me promise not to eat the crayons. I told her maybe she should. We laughed. Mary Margaret was eighty pounds during her stay. She used to hide her food in her huge sweatshirt at lunch time and sneak it to me when we got back to our room. Mary Margaret and I saw each other once in the real world and then never again. We did not honor our vows to take care of each other forever. I’ve never looked for Mary Margaret, I’ve never even Googled her name. I’m too afraid. I know the survival statistics for anorexics.

There was art therapy and dance therapy and group therapy. It all made sense to me. The things the other patients said made sense to me, even though they weren’t things that my peers in my real life would have ever, ever said. Everyone had to listen to each other. There were rules about how to listen and how to respond. There were lessons about how to empathize and where to find the courage to speak. All the lessons made sense to me. I enjoyed them much more than my high school classes. They seemed much more important to me. We learned how to care, about ourselves and about each other.

There was the field trip we took to the art museum in Washington D.C. We rode into the big city on a small bus, we mental patients. We had a special appointment time at the museum, our own private tour. Because there were other groups and we weren’t to mingle with the normal people. I remember thinking that was probably best. We had a rule that we would all need to hold hands. In a long line. Like an extremely motley and sedated Conga Line. Throughout our entire tour.

I remember wondering why Mary Margaret and I had to hold hands with the group. We were relatively well behaved. We’re people pleasers, we bulimics and anorexics. I thought maybe our therapists were concerned that I would run away and attack the diners in the cafeteria and that Mary Margaret might run away with me and stand there and starve.

Then I remember walking by the museum cafeteria, and seeing twenty slices of pie revolving around on one of those buffet lazy susans. And I remember suddenly feeling very grateful that my hands were being held. I felt safe.

That’s what we all wanted. Safety -someone or some structure that would save us from ourselves, from the strange real world that others seemed to be navigating so flawlessly and we just couldn’t, at the time, for whatever reason.

And I remember trembling the morning of my release. I remember knowing I wasn’t ready, and knowing I had to go anyway, because I would never be ready. Because inside the hospital was so much easier and safer and surer than outside the hospital. And I knew I could get much too comfortable. Much too safe.

Because it all made sense to me in there. And that was a little confusing.

I’ve never done this before, but I’m going to go ahead and publish this without editing it first. I’m afraid that if I edit it at all, I’ll edit out all of it.

Love,

G

Theology

This is what Craig does for fun.

Do you think Theo actually wants to go back to the shelter?

Spring

Last week was warm here in Virginia. The neighbors emerged, the kids got dirty, deep breaths of fresh air were enjoyed. And then - quick as it disappeared - winter returned. Lots of sassy pedicures are languishing beneath wool socks this week. The neighbors are all back in their homes and the kids are frustrated. The weathermen keep threatening snow. They live for snow, those guys.

Everybody’s complaining about the return of the cold, but I like it. It feels like a reprieve. It’s like the SPRING! alarm went off and God hit snooze.

I love spring, but fall and winter are more comfortable to me. My reclusive side, my writer side, my thinker side, my cozy side, my a-little-bit-selfish and nervous-about-the-world side loves weather that suggests staying home. Spring calls - Come out come, out wherever you are! - but I never feel quite finished hiding yet. Tough luck. Hiding in the winter is cozy and sensible and sweet, but hiding in the Spring is depression. So every year in April, Spring announces - IT’S SHOWTIME! and all of those parts of me that I’ve let go during the past six months… eyebrows, legs, teeth, stray facial hairs, clothes, feet, roots, personality. . .they’re all on display under the bright, bright sun. And all of a sudden, there are people everywhere. People, people, everywhere. And they’re not in hurry anymore, because the cold air isn’t forcing them back inside. So I must remember how to make small talk. And big talk, often. Not just write it, but talk it.

“I’m here! Hopeful, optimistic Spring calls as she flits around, weightless, and waves her sparkly magic wand."I’m back! Now Bloom everybody, BLOOM!"

Thank God for hopeful, optimistic Spring. If not for her relentless invitations, I’d stay safe and cramped in my winter cocoon forever. Nature’s rhythm helps me, forces me, to be a better person. Yay, God.

I’ve spent the last few cold days – my reprieve- decorating my house. I’ve never mentioned it before, but I love to decorate. Move things around, Craig calls it. It’s the homemakiest part of me. Mostly I love to decorate with old things, given-up-on things, discarded things. I like to find a way to prove they are still beautiful and still useful.

Like Spring.

Anyway, here is my family room.

I’d be happy to show you more of my home if you’d like, but I don’t want to assume you’re into that sort of thing. I, for one, am a bit obsessed with peeking into other people’s homes. So…two obsessions, I guess: gays and house tours. A-HA. This must explain my love for Mr. Berkus. He’s the double threat.

The sign was made by Kristi and I just love it. It makes me think of all of you and the good, hard work we’ve done here during the past two years.

Come closer and check out the sticky note I added.

Thanks for visiting me.

Love, G