The Know Ledge*

Have you ever been loved? I bet you have been loved so much and so deeply that you have become blasé about the enormity of the grace it confers. So let me remind you: To be loved is a privilege and prize equivalent to being born. If you're smart, you pause regularly to bask in the astonishing knowledge that there are many people out there who care for you and want you to thrive and hold you in their thoughts with fondness. ~ For Her Scope

* A beautiful place to bask.


Be You. Be Full.

A life worth living is one that is filled with valleys and great mountains that soar to the heavens, the jagged peaks of experiences that reach the sky. ~ Ships of Song



was Why Am I Not Surprised? before sleep and a few revisions:

After writing about my dreams, I get a call from my paternal aunt whom I've not talked to since her brother-in-law's death (my uncle). Kat, is that you? I love her voice. It sounds like my grandmother's. We talk up a storm. I've been missing her. Naturally, I ask her how my aunt is doing. She begins to fill me in on everything. I'm not surprised when she begins telling me of the dreams my aunt is having about him. Both my aunts are prone to believing that it's Jesus' way of comforting them. I tend to think it's direct communication and, since we're all connected, it makes sense we're all just talking to ourselves anyway. ANYWAY. It was a wonderful opportunity to share with her my experience with my uncle or with Jesus or Om-ever upon returning home from his funeral.

First, my uncle dubbed me Katastrophe because every time I walked into a room something would fall over, spill or break. It was this weird but true phenomenon. You know how your parents gather around a table playing cards or drinking with old friends and family as they tell all those stories about when "the Kids" were little. Well, that's MY story. I was klutzy, too. You can imagine the heights of my self-esteem. He never called me anything else. For the longest time I DETESTED that name. The whole, Do I have to see uncle Mike, I hate when he calls me that!

As the years pass, though, it became a term of endearment. Particularly, as the years afforded me more grace. Later, when I would see him in fits and spirts, he would make something fall over and wink at me. Ha! But in between teasing me when I was young, he would sit with me and tell me fairytales. My favorite was The Princess and the Pea. He said I reminded him of her. Later, I realized he knew me much better than I thought he did. Yikes...

Some very early memories are of going to see boxing matches with him and my dad. I wasn't even in Kindergarten. I don't remember anything linear just sounds and images. Shiny shorts. Laces. Swimsuits and high heels. The sound of the bell. Sweat. Profanity and cheering. Anyway, he'd been a regional Golden Glove champ for his weight division. I heard he was really good as that was also table talk when the stories of "the Kids" ran low. Anyway...

I went to his funeral. I cried. I hugged people I didn't remember who remembered me "this high" and I ate with a priest...a first for me (who spilled his water, come to think of it...OMG...I just made the connection...too funny). Then I spent time at my aunts, caught up with my cousins and drove home. Home was a little under 5 hours away. The whole way, I thought of him. I was wondering what kind of sign I'd get because I make up everyone that crosses tries to "ring" you up to say: Hey, I made it. You can relax now. It pains me to think they can't get through or, worse, they got hung up on...so...I was on the look out.

I didn't have to look hard. Shortly thereafter, I see in the middle of Main Street a boxing "ring". I'm like WTFreak? So, I park and get out to ask what's going on. I'm told they're having regional matches with particular clubs. Which clubs? My uncle's old club. The one he rep as a Golden Glove! So, of course, to celebrate money is swiftly exchanged for tickets and beer and the fight is on! Now, if giving me a boxing ring wasn't sign enough, his club walked away with the trophy. Ha...yeah, rub it in. You're even a badass in Heaven.

It takes grace to be a prize fighter. It's painful choreography. Looking back, he probably thought I was a lost cause. But he was always in my corner. He fired me up more than once. And he had me on the edge of my seat with story after story of happy endings. Even while shaking his head at another folly of mine, he never stopped smiling while giving it to the chin: Oh, Katastrophe. What am I going to do with you?

I guess that question, at best, will remain rhetorical.

I think I can sleep now. Maybe, I'll dream.*

*I didn't dream. I was completely knocked out!


Emotion's Pictures

I dream of houses. Everyone does, right? When I was very young, I had a scary reoccurring dream. I am in the basement of a large old house. The floor is a burial site, basically, of dirt with row upon row of open graves. My senses are alert in the dream. It smells of old people and it is damp and clammy. There is darkness and silence except for my footsteps. The goal is to walk around the maze of graves from one side of the basement to the other. My fears, with each dream, mutate from that of dead people coming out of the graves to get me to walking the maze and not falling into the graves of said dead people to the relief of crossing to the other side alive...my own kind of undead. When I finally made it, the dreams stopped. It would be years before I understood the significance ~ there is life after death ~ but to an 8 year old, it was just pretty freakin' scary.

Later, I would go on to dream of my childhood home. The dreams were also reoccurring. Each time the house is a little different. My mind creates extra rooms. Remodels like Martha Stewart. Sometimes, I am locked out and can only look through the windows. Because it was common to find scorpions in the basement, I dream of them at the doorway not allowing me to enter, yet, knowing everything I treasure is behind the door. In one dream, I create an attic that is straight out of Architectural Digest. In it is every possible item I can remember owning and loving. It's more like a museum. I am told to choose something. Too overwhelmed, I chose nothing. I can't surrender the words right now of what it's like to lose a home but I actually love these dreams. They are, ironically, memories my mind refuses to release framed in letting go.

Then there is the dream I have only dreamed once. I am on the steps of an old beautiful Victorian home. I sense that all of the rooms are a collection of various disciplines. There is science, art, music...there is even a hair salon...all things are housed here. As I walk up to the door, I hear her laughter. While walking all the hallways and peeking into all the rooms, her laughter grows louder and louder. As I climb upwards, I begin laughing, too. As I make it to the top room, she greets me with hugs and kisses and my tears just pour and pour to the point they've crossed over into the waking world and I'm forced to open my eyes...and there, smiling at me, is her namesake, my then 2 year old baby girl, who has been lavishing me with hugs and kisses while I sleep.


Shock & Rah!

I am
loving my new friend. She's so vivacious and strong. A woman full of love and ferocity. She's completely in tune with me. She senses where I'm hording and releasing energy and she is so good at facilitating balance. Believing we create those in our lives, I must say, I did pretty damn good when it came to her. She seems ageless though she has a good 20 years on me. She makes time to see me every week and it's become ritual to hear her thoughts as she manipulates my body and the space around it. She's a wonderful mirror that allows me to open up and safely reflect parts of myself I have not wanted to look at let alone openly share. Together, what I see as ugly, we make beautiful.

It's a trip...

...or is it just the journey?