(06.08.24)

A pop of color in view. Vivid red. Umbrella, large, across the way. She was closed for the day, but waiting. Someone had tied her shut in case of winds. As i sat watching, no longer actively seeing, the humingbird came to see me. Sitting squarely on the feeder, it slurped up the sugar water at dusk. I could fall asleep here, on the veranda, cozy on the teal couch. I had stopped writing/seeing/living, just to breathe/survive but I realized that just breathing wasn’t enough to live.

(04.02.24)

Covid spiraled so many of us like ping pong balls leaping off the table in random trajectories, into space (into the dark). Some of us were lost behind the cobwebs, hidden in dark crevices. Some of us were lucky. Picked right up, back to the table to play. Others, somewhere in the middle. Laying in plain sight but out of the usual game/space. Blessing? Curse? Both?

(03.23.24)

The house on Emerson was perfect. Old Victorian, quaint,vibey. She stood stoic on strong bones with some battle scars and she wore them well.

We lost that house. Traded her in for mid-century modern with no soul.

Emerson was outfitted with character to suit her; classic dark leather, heavy woods, deep wool rugs. Pops of color. She wore them all well.

I remember dressing each room; foyer with deep reds and black, dining with dark mahogany and blue greens, kitchen of sea glass and white.

Perfected tones to catch various emotions and temperaments of the days.

Fragments of that home still remain. Looking for a towel tonight in the closet, I stumble across the beautiful pillow cases and Pottery Barn duvet covers that had been thoughtfully choreographed in to the equation. Each playing their role to fit into the space, perfectly. Just as my house/vision had been.

Like a house of cards, it fell. Albeit slowly. (Even the wind tried to keep it afloat. . . . for years.)

So much beauty had existed. Hate to see it fail.

A’las, here we stood/fall/are.

I remember watching the ‘bubbles’ that came from the ‘joy’ soap in the kitchen as we washed the vegetables from dad’s garden - the suds would ‘pop’ up from the suds in the sink - floating upwards to the sun until breathe caught them and carried them back down to earth - and “pop!’ without a sound. Suddenly gone.

(03.20.24)

It’s like when the glass is not quite half full.

The chapter in the book you love is almost over.

The sweet morsel is only one swallow away from forgetting the taste.

Hmm.

Those moments. Like the last long run I took from my dad’s place before he moved out. I had run the neighborhood as in year’s past and around the church, into the new pockets of neighborhood comfort in Cottleville.

The trail I came across was quiet, I recall. No one using it. On a Wednesday am, maybe Thursday, prior to the big “move”. The weight of the transition sat heavy yet hushed in the house in those remaining days; we had tried to eagerly anticipate it, viewing only through a positive lens. There is much to do when you move, and all the activity helps mask the emotions. Easy to lose sight, blurred vision, as we scurry around. The run had helped me refocus.

Like the red aprons I had spied in the drawer, reminders lay upon us. So many burried treasures in this home.

I shook myself awake.

“This is it, Cristy.” “This is the last, long run, of this chapter.”

How I’d loved this bittersweet chapter of my life. Yes, I’d lost my mom during the read, but I had also found so many other jewels in the chapter - most importantly, my children (my magic to/fron the universe).

The chapter didn’t/doesn’t wind up quite as I had thought/hoped/planned.

It’s still a good read (I hope).

Things that seem too good, usually (always?) are. I should try better to remember this in the next chapter (life).

(03.18.24)

There is the Wizard’s Chest. A magical place in Denver where - if they were real, they’d visit -my kids loved to peruse when they were younger. Me too. A magical place where there were nooks and crannies to sink into, like my old TV house/door/space.

Tonight I thought about that space - how we’d bring the kids there to explore, imagine, create, experience, be, learn, and grow.

What happened?

Tonight I was bit by Bacon, our sweet, yet feral, cat at the Stanley. She broke my skin. I washed it well with hot water, soap. My sweet sister, Ryley, got me a banaid and some antibiotic to layer on. (I think she, Bacon, had some shots at some point, so not too worried?)

Like the rest of the day, it fell in suit.

Layered guilt, angst, sadness, pain, longing, and tired took the stage.

Bacon was ready. On point. She knew/knows what the day had in mind.

“Cristy.” “You have failed me.”

“Cristy.” “You have admonsihed me sufficiently, not worthy.”

“Cristy.” “You have fabricated my/this story.”

Hmmm.

No, I have not fabricated. I have told my truth. I have told what I see/feel/hear/understand/believe.

My story, my version.

It’s not for everyone, I know.

I never meant to hurt anyone, especially the kids.

We are all worthy of love.

Right?

(03.11.24)

I took the train from Madrid to Barcelona late. That first leg of the trip, I had paid for a shared bunk of random four. Climbing into the top right available cabin space, I nestled my purple backpack between me and the wall. Chocolate (Toblerone), water (Perrier, maybe San Pelligrino) and digestive biscuits (of some sort) in tow as dinner. As I feel now, desperate for a wink but I wondered if it was safe to sleep. I questioned how vulnerable I really was. I recall wrapping my pack to me, holding it close as a pillow/friend of sorts, until day break.

The sun eventually poked through the small window of the cabin and the smell of coffee on a cart rolled by, reminding me that a new day had indeed come. I (and my pack) had made it through the night. Braver now, I left my pack for a moment - granted the other ‘roomies’ had already left - to jump down into the alley that faced the world of La Sagrada Familia. In the other direction, beyond my small cabin room, an internal pathway; a central line of couplers connecting the cabins/seats/cars of the train in one isolated, yet dotted line.

Like dominos, the train cars find means to couple as they navigate the line/track. They lock/fall together once knocked. If the line holds by it’s intended mechanism, draft/draw gear in place to support the train’s acceleration or slowing (as inevitable as it is to the journey) the stress is absorbed.

Like riding a runaway train now, I am trying to have faith in the jointed system, hoping she holds and hoping for a view outward.

(03.10.24)

“So many stories of where I’ve been. And how I got to where I am. But these stories don’t mean anything. When you’ve got no one to tell them to.” Love your lyrics, Brandi Carlile.

The lines on my face. Repeated trail runs.

The crack in Jack’s favorite coffee cup (purple, Estes mug, with a bear) had been coming. Like my old favorite, black simple latte mug from Les Bourgeois bistro. I am waiting till it breaks. Like it all does.

I loved the vineyard, the bistro, the people. A family to love, to sit with. Drink, eat. be. I remember my mom and dad coming out to see me on a Sunday’s drive, past Columbia, for brunch. They were delighted as was I (at their presence). I relish that coffee mug in my morning, afternoon, and eve. A simple reminder of our shared love of each other. Every day I get the chance to drink from it, makes me merry.

Today, this week, was hard. The simple reminders of why I am doing what I am doing are heavy like spring snow (you know it’s necessary for growth, but damn).

There was the accusatory ‘hook up’ since I fell asleep on the couch with Erik (my cat) after two long shifts on Friday. Cologne? No. (I wish.) I curl up on the same space tonight with Erik to my left after a long shift at Stanley tonight.

Then there was the “you do not spend enough time with your son” accusation. Hmm. Maybe I work too much. AND (as Amy would say), why is that?

Deep breath. Onward. Chin up, buttercup (now channeling my old KP peeps, Bre and Erica).

Maybe one day soon, I can find a space; a Plaza Mayor, with books, to visit/sit/be/drink coffee/share stories?

Will you/life just break me in two so that the other half can run away?

(03.07.24)

I saw the monstera to my right. Sitting on the small off white loveseat. Small mid century modern table at my feet. Yellow throw next to me. I can make this space work! A little green, a little yellow, a black cat (Erik), and a pillow. I don’t need much more. Just my can of bubble water on the table to fall asleep with.

My dear friend, Jen, reminded me of my authentic self. Where had she/myself been? Where did she sometimes go/hide? Our midwestern roots poked through at times. We were raised to cover them up. Dark or grey, not good/sure enough. Need to recolor, refresh, refine.

Rehearse.

I keep rehearsing things that I think I need to do , say, be - even at this age. (What’s even ‘appropriate’ at this age?)

Lucky, at my age, to have only a couple strands of grey- and one eye brow hair - that poke through on occasion until I (forcefully) pluck them.

What’s the balance between coloring our roots and just going grey (when the time comes)?

AND. What if I don’t want to go fucking grey?!

I don’t.

(03.06.24)

When you’ve been alone for so long. No matter.

2nd nature. Got this.

Easy to do.

But.

I don’t want to do this any longer.

I want a chance at a new vision/opportunity/ (even) mission.

God damnit.

Where are you? ()

(03.02.24)

I climbed the hill, in the remaining sun. (In my flip flops, of course.)

Amy was with me.

I walked the gravel path I normally run, and sat on the bench at the top of the hill as the remainder of the day’s sun set, graciously, upon us.

Today was kind of hard. Big shifts (glaciers).

My legs, bones, were tired today. Long, repeat shifts of physical nature sat next to the mental/intellectual/emotional hours on the clock. All in tow, I had no choice but to carry them together. I couldn’t not walk in the sun, weary no less, after my shift. I switched my shoes, grabbed a sweatshirt and took off up the hill with my feelings in my pockets. The wind was no competition to the sun’s gentle warmth this 2nd day of year’s March to summer’s heat. Face forward, slightly bent down in armour against the beating wind against me. Eyes open, carefully navigating the worn, loose gravel trail that waits for springs rains to even out the ditches and foot steps carved into the swollen dirt.

Anxious for spring at this point, I am looking for any sign/ hope to indicate I am even on the (a?) right path.

My friends heard my beacon call (thanks to my Klara) and met me for dinner tonight. Dearest, some of my oldest, friends (family) to sit with over a meal; they (Heike and Hans) help me digest my reality and refocus on the tasks at hand. Onward, up that hill. Wind and friends at my back, pushing me forward.

(03.01.24)

That transition, from winter to spring, can be quite harsh.

I had woken on the couch, again; cold, alone and not quite sure what time it was (at 12:12am).

Like so many moments in my life when I’ve needed white noise and warmth, I’d turn on the hair dryer now if I could just to sit, craddled and warmed for a bit. I crawled upstairs to find my toothbrush, but had found my laptop, instead.

Plugging in my phone, I wondered how safe it was to leave it charging as I crept back down the stairs, fingers and mind now awake to think?

As a kid, I would often find myself curled up next to the fridgerator vent, spewing warm air over me low to the ground, cold tile, in our quaint, small, tourquoise and white colored 70’s kitchen in North County, Saint Louis. I’d grab the ‘funnies’ from the Sunday Post and lay on the floor in the kitchen next to the vent, usually with dad and mom and Michele at the kitchen table for breakfast. Eager to read the jokes to seek out those I found funny (not too many, I recall; Doonesbury maybe, rarely Blondie).

I loved that warm space. Similar to the cavern I created behind the T V ‘door’ in the living room, from the tv console where the TV lived at night, I would unfold the door to bend outward to create a space next to the wall - or Christmas tree in the winter months - creating a pocket of space for me to sit and read and be and sleep for a bit as though hidden from the day/night, love/pain that surrounded me.

I knew it was make believe; just a small ‘private’ space to sit it for a bit, kind of like my apple tree. Nonetheless, it held me, alone, in those moments, giving me amnesty.

Pulling up my hoodie, I crawl up under the blanket on the couch past midnight, I find that protected, quiet, space again.

I carve it; sit.

It is possible.

Just need to greet these minutes when I recognize them now.

(02.29.24)

The crunching of the pages as I turn them backwards in my notebook. Like crisp sheets that hang on the wire in the wind - whipping, snapping, in the forceful air. I was looking for my notes, my memory of what I needed to do, my words to calm/ground me. I kept going backwards through the pages, unable to find what I thought I needed to find. Sure, there were some words that made sense; some words of ration that helped me compartmentalize the day.

The day was just another.

I stopped looking backwards; granted, some of the words were a safe harbor to hold me for just a bit. No use now, the wind had taken any blanket/warmth I had held on to for too long. Desperate to be warm again, I garnered the strength to stand up, naked once more.

On my two worn feet. I stood up.

Fuck you, wind. I got this.

(02.27.24)

The clanging of the dishes in the sink. At least we are all together. The kids (including Sam), were on the couch. Watching - still! - Wheel of Fortune. I grew up watching this show (and Days) with my mom. I’d come home from school and she’d be on the couch. I’d plop down for a bit to solve a puzzle with her (or watch the daily Soap). My mom was always up for solving puzzles - literally (we’d have a large table puzzle out in the winter months, and often a tangled necklace that needed undoing) and, figuratively, as she’d help me navigate the more sharp and jagged edges of my world until she passed way too early (for me).

Now, with my own kids, I try and do the same. I hope to be here for them as long as I can be, navigating the more difficult pieces of life.

Some pieces more difficult to place than others. The long term outcome, we hope, is satisfaction - completion of the full picture. Unlike the box, we do not have a full picture of what to expect. We can only envision, hope, plan (pray). As Judy says, “We don’t write the script.”

I’ve done/tried to do all the right things things, not knowing the full picture, or script, to help guide my kids down a healthy/happy/safe/confident road toward filling in/learning the gaps. But, what if we lose a piece? What if the box was simply incomplete, no doing of our own? (What if the directions I wrote/found/believed in are wrong?) Now my life (and, somewhat, their own) is upside down.

Pineapple anyone? (I do like a good cake..and would certainly love to do a puzzle - any life puzzle - with you now, Moma). Miss her so.

(02.25.24)

It was a full moon. I couldn’t sleep at 4:50am as she peered in to see me, equally distanced between the blinds. Awake when I should take advantage of no alarm clock. Downstairs now, Erik is also awake and eager to eat. I find that now, working too much, the free hours are desiring more from me. I try and squeeze in as much as I can.

Hmm. More like squeezing out, actually. Like the wet washcloth I use at the Stanley. Too much water and it’s a soppy mess, unable to clean away, refresh, revive, and get the task accomplished. And, if not wet enough, then the surface is left wanting. Might need more of a balance of late.

Erik finally settles down next to me on the couch, and we both close our eyes now to try and squeeze in a few more winks before the house wakes.

(02.22.24)

Every summer I attempt to grow herbs and vegetables on our upstairs patio. It’s been rough. Large pots with fresh soil each year are not sufficient. I like to think I grew up with a green thumb. My dad’s large garden, a retreat from inside our home; creativity and growth and diversity was abundant. The potential was endless. Dad would grow everything he could- row after row - new strains each year, new flavors (new ideas of what was possible). I’d pick the weeds away early in the morning, chase away the corn spiders in the afternoon, and seek out what was calling out to be picked/loved/eaten in the eve.

I loved my summers with him and my sister, Michele, in the garden; running through the attached fields of conservation in the city. We’d pick the greens, tomatos, cucumbers, carrots, for our salad. I’d run in for a slice of american cheese and some french dressing on top. Sitting in the sun, outside (always), I would munch on my summer salad. I loved these days in the sun. I loved the dirt under my nails, as I still do, reminding me of how connected we all are to earth. I miss these now infrequent moments. The shallow dirt in the pots on my patio are not enough (hasn’t been deep enough for years). I know now that I need to dig deeper, nestling into the dark for a bit. Maybe a reprieve for regrowth? Ready to dive in. To the dirt.

Hmm.

Can I just sit in the dark for a bit? Not ‘be’. Not ‘do’. Not ‘see’ all the pain around me? An encased seed in the winter months, harboring spring in its dreams.

I think this is called hibernation. Sounds perfect (and some sleep/rest to rebuild/rebirth - God, what would that be like?).

In all of this, I’ve learned that love bleeds together - even the pain of love. The joys and pains from yesterday, the hurt and healing that finds you today, and the longing and sweet whisper of a song for tomorrow - it’s all in the same vein. What magic we have at our fingertips.

(02.17.24)

I got off early. Work was not too busy this February afternoon on a Saturday. What to do?! Shift drink in hand. I had some space/time to relax. I went to the mall to eye and try on a bikini I had seen there a month ago. It was still available! Estatic. I tried it on. It fit. I bought it (well the top, anyway, as the bottoms need to be mailed to me in my size). Our girls spring break trip to Tracie’s Florida with the kids was coming! I left. Home, but first a quick stop at my daughter’s work to surprise her as she got off her shift. I was on the phone with Alise, a sister, when I saw K walking toward me. She smiled and said “Hi” to Alise on the phone before she hopped in her car and went to buy flowers for her boyfriend and their 1.5 year anni. I went home. The house was unusually empty (very rare). I hopped in the shower. K popped in to say hi/bye before she left to go see Sam. Still alone. I took a hit off an old friend and crawled in bed.

Still alone. I know. Granted I am more content than I have been in many years. The prospect of my being alone is so enthralling. Like sitting under the apple tree of my youth. The branches reaching out, long and firm, and stretching horizontally toward the ground. Creating a secret room (low ceilings, mind you) to sit in. A safe space, alone, to be.

Maybe that’s all I need? I recall the tree ‘house’, that Michele and I lived in back on Claudine Drive - our yard full of fruit trees (dispersed with some snakes and turtles), and a large garden to boot. I loved that space. I had a rock garden, thanks to my grandparents who’d bring me back various rocks and stones from their travels. I would catch the insects and ‘house’ them in my dad’s old cigar boxes. If I could walk back there - see and smell- what once was, I would. I’d sink into it and sit for a bit.

The phone rings (). I happily answer the call.

One day, under the apple tree, maybe 7 (alone, I might add), I was stung by a bee. (I believe my first bee sting, actually.) It hurt so bad - I recall screaming as I ran inside to my mother- literally, about to pass out. I was so scared by the pain.

It hurt, but it didn’t end up killing me. You see, I’d pick the early green apples, like the bees - enticed by the oozing sweet nectar- too young to be eaten without a stomach ache. I’d do it again back then. So eager to taste their sweetness, even when they were not ripe enough. When do we learn?

And (as Amy would say).

Maybe it’s not too late to squeeze all those [missed] years into what’s left? Even after the bee stings? Maybe those bee stings/tummy aches (that we are/were fortuanate enough to live through) create a path/knowing to help us navigate our tomorrow, as not to be(e) so painful.

I hope so.

(02.13.28).

I made a play list. SUPER cheesy, I know.

Like sweet dreams forgotten, the lyrics; memories of my youth and wishes for my tomorrow. So many year’s in the dark, envisioning the sun to return.

1. How it Ends - DeVotchKa

2. Breathe Me - Sia

3. Clearest Blue - CHVRCHES

4. Shallow - Lady Gaga, Bradly Cooper

5. Hello, My Old Heart - The Oh Hellos

6. Whisper - The Deer Hunter

7. Awake My Soul - Mumford & Sons

8. Somewhere Only We Know - Keane

9. To Hell & Back - Maren Morris

10. Stay - Rhianna, Mikky Ekko

11. Make You Feel My Love -Adele

12. lovely - Billie Eilish, Khalid

13. Glitter in the Air - Pink

14. Here with Me - Dido

15. Come Away With Me - Norah Jones

16. I Hear a Symphony - Cody Fry

(02.10.24)

I opened the book. Held it close to my face as I thumbed through the pages, hoping to smell the book (). Sadly, no scent. The book was too new.

I recall going to the library in North County, STL My mom would take Michele and I frequently, especially in the summer months, to be a part of the ‘summer book club’. I remember getting stickers and stars for the number of books I would read over the summer months. I would gleefully pick out as many books as the librarian would let me (I think the limit was 10 each visit). I’d pile them up on top of each other for check-out. Sitting on the floor in the aisle at the library, often the sun peeking down upon me through the skylights. Chilly in the AC inside; the hot, humid Missouri air was trapped beyond the windows. I’d bring a sweater. Pulling each enticing book off the shelf to review. Looking inside, turning the pages; the book’s scent would find my nose. Often the older books carried a musty, sweet smell. The newer books smelled fresh and wanting - waiting for their pages to be turned, ruffled (like my hair) and even torn/loved. No matter old or new, I LOVE books. Their escape. Words to fall into and get lost.

Maybe even saved.

(02.08.24)

“Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air? Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, “I just don’t care”? It’s only half past the point of no return.” -Pink

I threw a fist full of Klara’s hot pink glitter in the air before I left town. I had found the vial of glitter under her bed when looking for her sewing kit. The glitter blew back on to me in the wind and scattered at my feet.

Tonight, after a very long drive away from loved ones, I climbed upstairs - both emotional and physical - forcing myself to prep for bed without just falling into sleep. Task at hand. A speck of the pink glitter caught my attention in the dim light. Washing my face, there she lay between the bathroom tiles. A sweet reminder of the pink crystals I had tried to release into the wind, but it had decided to stay close. Like specks of sugar and salt that often land in small pockets, nestled away from their intended outcomes, found again in the light. Sweet and savory reminders of our existence and the unknown.

(02.07.24)

She came ().

The bright sun hit the winding roads through the back woods of Missouri, and I ran through them in my daughter’s new old car- cracked headlight, no worry - to go see my dad again before I head back to Denver. Winter cradled the trees, keeping them in tow until spring arrives. 97 now, my dad remains a force to reckon with even in his advanced age. Wit (almost) as fierce as it was when I was a child. You never know what you will get with him. On my toes, each visit, which is part of the pleasure and the pain of going - always grateful to learn from him and be with him, but a reminder that these moments, even the painful ones, are wanting soon. I love him so much. My dad’s been my craggy rock for so long, and a safe space with dark caverns to crawl into when needed.

She came to a new space today - my tomorrow had unfolded in a way that I had not expected (though had envisioned). Sitting squarly in front of me.

A door, which was at least cracked open, if not more. In my haze, it was hard to see clearly, much less hear (what I believe to be) music playing. My heart raced. Was this not a dream?

No. I had been living in a dream for so many years, convincing myself that I was alive. I had come to believe it.

Now awake. My stomach turned, over and over, my head spiraling, trying to find solid ground in this new reality.

I softly landed, hands behind me now (). Reloved and understood.

(02.06.24)

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

(02.06.24)

I missed my sister’s exit. Generally, I know where to turn off the remote highway after passing the large transmission tower. Tonight I couldn’t see in the dark (I had secretly hoped it would have some lights or shadow off the highway to alert me on where to turn) and my head was spinning. I kept going, having the inkling that I had passed the road (I had). The letter W called out to me as the next possible highway to turn me around to where I needed to go. I knew this letter as a means to get to my sister’s house and figured I’d start on W and find my way through the alphabet of remote roads back to their house. I turned. The W highway was headed in the right direction (south, I might add), and I was tossing and turning as I made my way in the dark - literally, the road was very curvy and the left over food from the night’s dinner was haphazardly tossing in the backseat. Like playing Scrabble, the roads were abruptly left, then right, four letters then nine, in their distance. I rolled down my window in late midwestern winter to take it all in. The air was cool and crisp, not too cold. The smell of magic hung in the air; like springtime when the rains fall heavy for almost too long and you feel like you are drowning, and then the sun makes everything come to life - and it smells/feels/tastes of life again, as if you had not forgotten what that was like (which I had). I had lost my phone in the car, along with my barrette I might add, but had sufficiently found the bluetooth connection on the dashboard of my daughter’s ‘new’ car (so I knew my phone had fortunately made it into/stayed in the car). I think Miley was playing? Then there she was (maybe it was a he). Eyes wide open in the middle of the black, back highway as I drove maybe 6o mph at midnight. We locked gaze for a second and I thought to myself she must know to move. I got a second closer, and she stood there, stoic in the dark. I slammed on my breaks. Too close now. I hit her; damnit, knocking her down on the pavement. She hopped right up and lept into the field. All I could think was whether or not she was hurt. She seemed sturdy/okay/not hurt (at least not too bad) -placing her gallent effort into rebounding off into dark. I thought about getting out of my car to check on her, but it was late and I was alone, not sure of where I was. I started driving…more slowly. I finally made it to a gas station that I recognized, just a few miles more down the road after the encounter, and pulled over to find my phone, which had ended up under my seat (I found one barrette, the other still missing). Hesitantly, I went to the front of the car to assess the damage. Surprisingly, it looked spotless. No viewable damage fortunately/oddly, that I could see (at least from under the harsh, incandescent, blinding lights above me). This made me feel better about the deer - hopefull! Maybe she’d be/was okay? But, not sure. The vision of my car slamming into her made my heart hurt.

From there, I looked at google maps to find my way home. I drove the last 11 minutes, feeling grateful that I had not damaged my daughter’s car, but worried that my deer’s fate was more painful than my own. And what to do about that? An absolutely beautiful and bittersweet day - the twists and turns on the roads today lead me to a safe space (). Then I missed the turn home. Surely, I wouldn’t hit another dear. Right?

As I turned into the driveway, I hadn’t hit another deer, but I could have. They, my dear, are everyone…um, everywhere.

I am ready for new adventures and the roads that lead me, even in the dark. And, not but, I want to be mindful and careful as to not hit the deer or other creatures, like tonight’s beautiful deer, who seem stuck on my path, unable to move. I need to drive carefully and make the right turns.

(02.04.24)

Skin. A living organ. No longer 30, or even 40. It is worn, like an old sweater that you go to on the cold days when you can’t get warm and you don’t care if anyone sees what you are wearing. A few stains, some holes, a tear. The fabric not smooth like it once was, pristine, clean. I recall wearing it well, not thinking much of it at the time, just knowing it fit well and was new. Then time went on. I forgot about it for the most part, and took it out on occaasion as though it would remain fresh, clean, new.

It did not. Tucked away for a rainy day, the moths found it. Bit by bit. Bites here and there, like the innocent ‘kisses’ that my sweet cat, Erik, gives me in the night. Purring gently next to my face - often, too, my sweater - and then the little nips come, reminding me that he needs me/wants me to feed him at 4 am.

It’s almost unfair though, I think. My acne had been so terrible at a kid - leaving me deep marks in my skin, even after treating it with accutane not once, but twice. I paid that price. I had taken great care in my young adulthood to take care of my skin. Not just my face, but my body in total.

It is beautiful, but worn. Scarred, but whole.

It is still the same skin. Just a bit older. And wiser, I hope.

(01.25.24)

[edited]

(01.31.24)

I’m not ready to write. Too much has happened. Amy died. I did get covid. A colleague committed suicide. I asked for divorce. Those are the big ticket items. There are less costly items too, but I’ll save you from my heartache and verbosity.

I also loved the past few months. I remembered who makes me laugh. I remembered who makes me cry. I remembered where I come from. I remembered where I want to go. I remembered why I do what I do. I remembered why I can’t do what I am doing.

[edited] I’m done hiding.

(09.24.23)

[edited]

My anxiety could no longer hide. There she was. The little girl who’s mom might die at any moment. The young woman who’s father could not refrain her. The woman who’s love was codependent since she knew nothing else. The mature woman who’s past - still waiting, still scared, still alive - shouted from the depth of the deep, dry well- a well, once with life (water), hope (sun), and youth (energy), now recognized it’s own mortality and fate. The woman must either crawl out with it’s last strength or die with only the memory of what she had wanted/loved for/believed in.

she took a deep breath. she started questioning all that was/was not. she stareted climbing. It was hard. the rocks that were once solid, strong, and grounded, were now crumbling beneath her light, less agile steps. the upward movement left her breathless and winded, with only steps upward to the hope for light as reprieve. Looking back, down into the darkness, there was nothing left to see. Her only option was up, even in the dark, as she climbed.

(09.05.22)

All that love. Bottled up. Years.

What happens to unrequited love? Does it sit still, waiting? Does it become angry, harboring. Does it dissipate, forgotten, forgiven? Maybe it isn’t even love, since it was never whole. Maybe it was just a dream, a hope, a whisper. But what happens when you hold on to that wish and years pass. How do you let it go, fully? Is it even possible? How do you move on? And when is it too late to let go?

(05.26.22)

There are certain things that still work. E.g., my printer (while I can still get the cartridge). Tonight I helped Jack print his 8th grade Capstone (who else did this in 8th grade?…) and I found myself grateful that my printer here at home still had ink. There are more reminders lately that things are dwindling. Like at the local Walgreens. K and I went to pick up a few last minute prom makeup needs like body glitter and lip gloss and the bare shelves were depressing. Neither of us said anything, but deep down we felt it and seeing it made it all the more painful.

(03.06.22)

What must it feel like, to hold that much power? Literally, families trying to escape your narsasistic wrath - shot, killed, on point. And by who?! Russian “soldiers” who didn’t even know they are at war? Children - all of them, all of us - just trying to raise our heads above the water to look around a bit since the pandemic. But no! Dictators, tyrants, evil ‘lords’, who think ‘control’ even exists and now is a good time to attack given the vulnerabilty. Control over what and over who? Just to go back to what you thought you had or what you believed in.

I guess this is human nature, no? To believe in what we thought we had or should have or should be…then let’s all hang on, tight!

Ha. NO.

Time doesn’t move forward that way - by bringing the past along - at least, not in a healthy way. Sure, we can try and hang on to our dreams, our desires, our romantic visions of what “should be/should have been”.

Granted, it is hard to move past that part - that page - often just a sentence - in our story that we feel so vehemently for or against.

What now? The world could be on the brink of WWIII (think nukes) - shifting, quite quickly, like the glaciers - cracking, breaking, melting, and rapidly.

Hold on.

(03.05.22)

It’s those things you don’t think about in the moment. The A&P aprons in this case. My dad, who had worked at the (now, non existent) A&P grocers, had several in his dresser. Bright red, as old as they are, tailored, and very retro. I took one. Tonight as I washed it (hoping it wouldn’t bleed in the laundry), I thought to myself how stupid I was for not taking a few - one for each of us - for my kids to have to share with their grandkids some day.

It’s those things. The little things that you know matter, but you get so caught up in the ‘big’ things that you miss the moment, or miss parts that you didn’t even think you’d possibly miss. Like an old apron.

I had an epiphany this week.

(02.10.22)

With the “boat in tow”. That is what I previously said. Well, I sold the boat to a friend who actually has the right circumstance, frankly, to have it and use it on a regular basis. What was it about the safety - the “safe space” - I said with regard to sailing?:

“…need a safe space. A safe space to try it out, to explore, to adventure, to fail, and to pick yourself back up even when you are afraid. A safe space to thrive.”

Hmmm. To thrive (that word, ‘thrive’ - I have to think of my past home of Kaiser, who I still miss). I am trying to remembet to thrive, but I must admit it has gotten so much harder to juggle this “thrive” ball with all of the other mandatory life ‘balls’ at my age. Sadly, I feel that the pandemic truly has knocked the wind from my sails. The worse part is that I don’t feel like I have the skills to lift the sails much less find the wind. Good ol Google says:

“If there isn't enough wind to move your boat in the direction you want to sail, here are six ways you can get yourself sailing:

1. Use your motor.

2. Pump your rudder.

3. Use a fan.

4. Row your boat.

5. Use the physics of weight distribution.

6. Be patient, relax, and enjoy the moment.”

(10.21.21)

Over a month later. Do you ever wonder what your moment is? A single moment, maybe, that gives/gave you purpose in life. Do you think there is such a moment? Is it moments, maybe? Or only if we are lucky to feel like we had one or many? Does everyone feel this way?

I have a favorite photo (and maybe I have mentioned this before, apologies), but it is of my kids the first time they went to the beach. They stood there, in awe of the ocean. I stood there, in awe of them. So majestic, both the ocean and my kids. That moment in time, in my mind - a moment I hope to never lose - is my favorite, my best. I am so grateful. I remember parking the car at the hotel we stayed (and still stay at), grabing a beach towel as our room was not yet ready after the 16 hour drive, and being anxious and excited to see thier faces as they walked on the warm sand, smelled the salty air, and felt the depth of the ocean if only on thier toes. THAT moment. When you both realize how insignificant you are, and how magical the world truly is (and YOU are a part of it!). Whoa.

My friend Heike tells me that many happy moments add up to a lifetime of happiness. I am not sure I will have more happy moments than sad ones, but I think that is the case for most, if not all of, us. Granted, I tend (or trend, according to my statistical friends) to the dramatic.

Today, I had a happy moment for which have been few lately, so I wanted to report!

My uncle Lawrence, who turns 91 tomorrow, was told this week he likely has pancreatic cancer. He was worried (of course, HELLO!), and not sure what his course of action should be; for life, for his love (whom he still cares for at 97), his two dogs, and his grandson and family. He was not sure about a second opion and how to get it. He worried about the time line on when to sell the house, find a home for his dogs, when to let his grandson and family to know when to say goodbye. The happy news was that I was able to speak on a threeway call with my uncle and his nurse to confirm that it was actually more apt to be a benign cyst than cancer, and we scheduled his MRI to confirm (and we did, and it was okay, thank God).

When I was only in my 20’s, I got a call one day from my mom (it may have been my dad, actually). My cousin, Lawrence (my uncle Lawrence’s only child), had died suddenly. He was only 39. When I turned 39 I thought of him - cool red BMW convertible, fantastic parents who loved and doted on him, degree from a reputable, private college, military background, and fun spirit. I am still not sure why he died. The family didn’t/doesn’t talk about it. I was in grad school and didn’t make it back home for the funeral.

I sent my aunt Dottie, his mom, flowers for mother’s day that year.

The years past. I went to visit my aunt and uncle last time I could, earlier this spring, when I saw my dad. My aunt was about to go into a nursing home (as it became too much for my uncle to care for her). My uncle’s grandson also lives out of state.

(09.15.21)

Tonight I wished I could crawl into the green bedroom. Not the pink one. The blue one would have sufficed. My grandmother, Margie, would tuck Michele and I into bed in the green room. Michele preferred a back rub while I preferred a back scratch.

Years later, I would live with them in that house. In the pink bedroom where I learned to study, carved out some closet space, and would watch the nightly traffic on Canfield Drive light up the West then South walls as they went past, like a video game of frogger, the lights hopped from side to side of the room. My grandfather had built this house. It smelled like them, looked like them. It was a (mostly) happy space that I loved to sink into. If I had that space today, I would run to it. I would stay there and absorb it for some time until I felt renewed, regenerated, reloved.

(06.01.21)

I ran by your shoes today. They were white hightops, like my daughter has. Your lightly colored pastel trucker cap was there too. Funny, the children’s menu handouts were brightly colored, just like I imagine Rio de Janeiro is. You, or someone had taken time to fill in the lines and color precisely the Rio graphics filling the entire piece of paper.

Graphics and papers that lay next to the cold metal door - open at 6:45am - that leads down to some cavern that I suspect was a part of the old Stapleton airport hanger. The ladder was still there, along with a chain, some ropes, a wire, and part of a tent. Maybe you had taken shelter and then crawled out after the rain? I apprehensively looked down into the dark hole, not sure of what I would see - just water 15-2o yards down.

But you were there, next to me, on the ground above with the children’s coloring menus along with your back pack, trucker hat, and some clothes. Your black jeans pushed up to your knees and your Tupac t-shirt tucked in, belt on. I envisioned you sitting at the Rio having Tex-Mex and a marg with your friends, happily coloring. Or maybe you were there coloring with your nephews or your kid and laughing.

I hesitated on my run when I saw your legs in the long grass, but kept going for a few seconds. I had to take a double take to confirm what I saw. I couldn’t not spy on you sleeping. Over many years as a runner, I have passed people just resting, passed out, confused, alone, high and one who I could not save. I turned around on the trail. Not to startle you, I stepped in the mud as to not make a sound. I got closer to check on you. No others around; no tent like I often see. I took a long look at your chest, and another. No movement. Fuck.

Closer now, moving up to your face. Your eyes and mouth were partially open. Eyes glassy, mouth frothy. It had been too long to take a breath. My shallow breath was no use to share. It was clear you were gone too long to try and bring you back to where we were in that moment on the dewy grass where you lay in the sunshine.

I called 911. The voice on the phone sounded methodical, robotic, and I said roughly where I was (thinking it was a recording). The actual woman on the other end of the call snapped at me - snapping me forward to the conversation asking specifically where I was, what I was looking at, and how I knew you were gone. I had to run to a street corner to even know where to direct help. While I waited for the paramedics, she asked more questions, more details to confirm you were gone, if I knew you/had seen you (I didn’t/hadn’t), and so I went back to you, giving specific details on the contour of your face, lack of breathing, your position.

Your position. There, laying in the wet grass, black jeans pushed up. I think I saw track marks that would indicate you were shooting heroin or something. I also saw a kid who simply had a rough moment in his time.

This time! Why now? Just as we are getting out of the COVID haze of the past year and a half. Damnit. He looked like a nice kid. (My own kid gets his second ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ vaccine shot this Thursday, gratefully.) Would they find his identification? Would they know who to call? I couldn’t leave him. He was maybe 24? Someone’s little kid. The paramedics arrived quicky, within a few mintues, and confirmed he was past saving. There was nothing more for me to do. They said I was “free” to go. The cops would call me with any additional questions at home.

Home. Did he have a home to run to? Had that inviation expired? Was it - all of this - just an accident? Was he free to go too?

Did you know you were loved? Did you want to die? Did you know you had options? The cop did call and said forensics would have to review the case before anything was touched or examined to help determine his identification. I just hope his mom and family are informed so that they aren’t just waiting for him to come home. I took off running. I embraced my babies hard when I got home. We lost one today.

Tonight my Klara and I went for a bike ride at dusk. Over to the trail, to his things, to his memory where I had found him only today. Needless to say, he was gone - along with his shoes, hat, back pack, clothes. The entrance to the cavern had been closed, though not sufficiently locked I might add. The children’s “menus” as I had thought them to be were more like coloring sheets upon further observation - his colored pencils and crayons strewn across the grass along with multiple coloring pages of cities like Barcelona, Savanna, Rio de Janeiro and dozens more. Were these places he had been? Places he had wanted to go to? Places he dreamt about?

A few lighters lay in the grass next to the papers along with face masks, peanut butter, dried coffee, and remnants of the day before. The sun was setting. We hopped on our bikes to ride home. Seeing some baby ducklings in the local drainage ditch/surrogate pond that had become home to geese and ducks during this harsh spring, we stopped to say “Hello”. We tried and catch a closer glimpse at the ducklings as they scattered about from our intrusion. We walked closer to the water, taking gentle steps as to not startle them. They stayed close to their parents for the moment. Ready, in the wings, to fly away one day. Just as he had.

(03.31.21) What are we low on? I step into the garage (aka pantry, storage, gear, recording studio, and… um, garage). Nothing really, besides the ever needed vegetable stock now that both my kids are pretty much vegetarians (don’t tell my dad).

It’s been awhile, I know. The mundane life I lead hasn’t gotten much more exciting, I’m sorry to report this. Yup, essentially we are all still on “lockdown.”

Though, spring is in the air, I still have a job that I love, and my kids are resilient. They are, so far, okay. Thank God. (This, alone, keeps me going.) Not to mention the vaccines, of course.

i am still here, somewhere, and running a lot of miles trying to carve out “me” time. I am still holding on to hope, I think, to get past this virus. My dad, 94!, literally just got his 2nd shot today. My husband gets his second shot on the 19th (if he goes) and my 16 year old gets her 2nd shot on the 14th of the next month as well (I am so f-ing grateful we could get her in given her past health history). My son, 13, will have to wait a bit, but maybe not too long (first thing I do every day is check the NYT updates, and the big news today was the Pfizer vaccine research that shows efficacy in adolescents - can I get an AMEN). Yes, reason to be optimistic that there is a light.

With light, there is darkness. As much as I have sought the light over the past year, the darkness has presented itself to me. I have grappled with the darkness, which isn’t new, but I have also had to fight harder to see the light. It certainly has been more of a battle than I would have hoped.

I step into the garage. Boxes of year’s past, equipment for adventures, food to fuel, and machines to make music and art. All of which I am grateful for. But, something is missing. I keep looking for it, but it isn’t material. It is that spark that starts the fire. Where has it gone? Is it burried? Still here, smoldering, somewhere? I don’t know. I hope so.

I hope I find it, and it sets me free.

And, I just reread my last post about guppies. LOL, I did the curbside pick-up and was sent home with another “couple” of guppies - STOP.

Gupplies breed. ALOT.

Word to the wise, just get males OR females, unless you want baby guppies. This was a new experience to me. The female had about 20 babies, which K and I were able to catch and keep in a separate tank SO SHE DOESN’T EAT THEM and then she had a 2nd round about a month later! Needless to say, I found a new home for mom (who I think was grateful for the rest) and the 40+ baby guppies!

(11.16.20)

If it were any other time in the 21st century I’d just go to the pet store for a couple of guppies and a betta to jazz things up a bit. We all know that it isn’t that simple now. My poor little guppy. The other one died last week after just buying a couple more (curb side pick up) this summer. The betta died too. Oh, and the large golden snail. I am down to one algae eater, one small snail who has outlasted all of the others (small is good?), three rasboras, and one lonely guppy (let’s call him Gus). They are groupie fish, the guppies (the rasboras, too), like me. I like groups as as much as I have tried to provide a group for my guppy - well, let’s just say, like 2020, it has been difficult to be in a group or find a group or want a group. I looked online for fresh fish delivery (no, not for me to eat), but for the fishtank. It’s $30 to have fish delivered, even though the pet store is about 5 blocks away. Damn. Can the guppy join the rasboras? Or wait until spring (vaccine- light-tunnel)? Or maybe curb side pickup again? Hmmm.

And yes, the election is “over” though Trump won’t concede. Nope. He has opted to have a tantrum, stealing away any extended celebratory moment of hope that we might have to look to as a sign of rest, peace, and faith that humankind isn’t that bad. I am not surprized by his action, nor the action of his followers and all of those who enable him. But, that is the scary part, the fact that about half the country still believes in him, his policy, his dictator ways. So disheartened.

(10.05.20)

I’ve wanted a sailboat since I was 13 or so. My family would go visit my aunt and uncle in Ohio. Atwood Lake, where they had a cottage. Their property backed up to the lake where they had a pontoon boat and a Sunfish. My uncle Rit taught me how to sail in a day. My dad and I went out several times, tipping only a couple of times, and enjoying the sport. Those memories have stayed with me ever since. My love of water - ocean, lake, pond, stream - doesn’t matter how long , how fast, how cold. I love water. I always wanted to instill that love in my kids. (Granted, I have a lot of loves, so maybe the love of water didn’t stick as much as I had hoped it might.) Nonetheless, I realized something today about this love; any love, really.

You need a safe space. A safe space to try it out, to explore, to adventure, to fail, and to pick yourself back up even when you are afraid. A safe space to thrive.

I bought a sunfish this spring. I was idealistic, thinking it would be easy to “pick back up” after 30+ years. I only went out a few times this covid summer. I thought about selling it for profit. This evening, after being reminded that I am still me (all my faults in all), I thought about what I have dreamt about - taking my little boat to the lake of the Ozarks (Yes, somewhat motorsportsville) where there is a cove I know and love. The winds will be strong enough somedays; enough to carry me out to try, learn, fail, learn, succeed. And these waters are safe. If I fall, I know there are those watching who will know that I am struggling. If I can’t turn the boat (my life at the moment) back over, there will be those who will come help me. If I am hurt, those who will get me home safely. The drive to the lake will be long, maybe somewhat risky with the boat in tow, but it’ll be an adventure; one that I am prepared for and, frankly, seeking.

Next summer.

(09.22.20)

Does anyone else kinda hate their life right now? The only thing that matters to me right now are the kids. We have been too careful not to get sick - no fun, no adventures, no travel, nothing to look forward to. It is like this vaccine will be the Messiah, which of course it will not. I think it is too late to turn this around. The family has drank the cool-aid. I to, apparently. I just want out.

(09.14.20)

Damn. We are still in this shit.

Sometimes when I rent a move - not a movie, a “move” in my headspace - on Netflix or Amazon, I am given the option of seeing the “alternate” ending(s). You know, the ending that the producer and diretor opted not to go with for their movie release. I think my life’s story “release” is more likely one of those alternate story endings; not as digestible as others, not as sweet to view, and not as easy to navigate.

I think I know where my fear stems from. No, not my husband. My childhood. My mom was so ill. No, not just occasionally. She was ill, like always. I grew up in that fear - fear of losing her, not taking care of her, not doing things right, not sure of what happens next. I didn’t want to live that way, sure, but I also didn’t want to take too many uncalculated risks that might throw me out of the equation of life. I grew up in this perpetual protection mode, if you will. Always trying to save the day, the family, the life. I know this sounds really dramatic, but seriously.

We are in this thing like 6 months now, right? Six fucking months and likely at least six plus to go. Does anyone else reading this also pretend or actually think this is real, like REALLY real. Yes, most of us realize that this COVID19 thing is real to some extent - depending on your exposure, where you live, what you chose to do (social distance, mask up), etc. - life experiences driving what you chose to do. I get it, honestly. We need to live, work, live. As a scientist and pubic health person, I am all in. I get both sides. I want to protect my family, others, our universe. But…

It’s like the flu, but a potentially, really bad flu. The thing is that I am not sure how I will do with this thing, which is not the flu, and I don’t want to take that risk. I told my dear friend it was like being exposed to the smoking area at the local diner. Remember when Denny’s had the no-smoking and smoking areas? You could dine in the non-smoking area, sure. (I don’t know about you, but I still smelled the smoke.) I don’t want to be exposed to second hand smoke if I don’t have to be. It’s not like not wearing a seat belt - that is your choice, in your car - being exposed to second hand smoke is not just your decision. It effects me too if I am around you.

Anwyay, this whole thing still sucks and I am doing my best to get through it, not judge, and still be optimistic. The real zinger for me is how it is impacting my kids. Most of my friends and acquaintances are social distancing to some extent, but they are still SEEING people/DOING things. My family, to a great extent, is NOT seeing others/doing things. I worry most about my kids - how will this impact them socially, emotionally, developmentally - AND their confidence? I know this is just a blip -”a speckle”, as one NYT reporter said - on our radar of life, at least I hope it is, but I do worry that the ultimate outcomes are weighted in anxiety and sadness for many of us who have read or seen the more negative version of the book/movie. I just pray and hope that my kids - who may have sadly seen the optional, darker endings of the story - are more apt to see the potential outcomes and silver lining endings and good that can and will come from this period in our history, aka their life. I am their parent, at the helm of the story, leading the way for a short time. I just hope my light and my (muted) optimism is enough to get them through these dark days. I believe in the light in the darkness, the beacon, but the smoke is heavy - literally and figuratively - as is my heart and eyes. The light of the new day, rain to fight the flames, and belief in the good is needed to stay the course. Onward we go.

(06.06.20)

Winds of change are upon us;

(05.28.20)

I was about to write. Life. I havent been writing lately, since my birthday. It’s too much right now - too much work, anxiety, sleeplessness, anxiety, and work. I decided to try and write, tonight, when the kids were playing frisbee golf with their dad after dinner, and so I went and got my laptop. It took awhile to get my account open to write (it hasn’t been that long!), and then my lovely family walked in. So, here I am. Feeling guilty, again (damn Catholicism). Trying to carve out a bit of time to be in my own head for a moment, and not consumed with the life and beings and work required around me. I told Jack I was sorry that his last couple of frisbee disk throws didn’t go as planned for him. He said that I didn’t need to be sorry and that I say I am sorry too much (yea, yea, Amy, I know). Well, I AM sorry - sorry that this whole thing has turned out the way it has, the whole f-ing Covid thing. Damn. It’s going to be a w h i l e….awhile until we have a vaccine, treatment, and life somewhat remotely similar as to what we knew before.

I hear our neighbors outside laughing, which is great to hear in theory. Like I heard K after her bike ride today, singing, after she spent some time with her old friend, Elin. Jack runs upstairs, asking for help on his last remote learning school semseter assignment for 6th grade. I had been offering to help all day. It is now 8:30pm. I told him to ask his dad.

(49)

There was a spark in me to write tonight. Just one, but it was enough for me to drag myself out of my bed after a shitty week. I had already turned off my hot, tired machine, which had been in overdrive all week from zooming and furloughs and venting. And I was still behind on work, on friends’ emails, and actual fun reads/articles/things beyond Covid or work. Nonetheless, I find myself sitting in my bathroom with the fan on - something that we have grown used to over the years; a white noise to fall asleep to. It’s all so mundane. I am trying to get used to this “new normal”, but I find myself looking forward to my dreams that can actually take me away to places outside of my current reality, at least for a moment in my sleep. Daybreak inevitably comes, and I am grateful for the new day though lonely in its similarity from the day before. It’s like we have a guest over and over and over. Conversation wans, laughter becomes harder to find, and the routine of things is oddly comforting and miserable at the same time. I find myself thinking about thoughts, things, places, and people that I had forgotten about. Like the neighbor’s yard where I grew up in St. Louis, just two doors down, which had a large space and backed up to the field behind our house. I don’t recall who lived next door, but I see the space very clearly in my head. The space I have now is very small, and I am trying to adapt to it. I do feel trapped, but in a new way. Physically and mentally stuck, which is literally forcing me to explore new sides, angles, perspectives, and fears and placing a spotight on my lifes corners- what is swept under the rug? what is lurching in the shadows? what is haunting my dreams? what is giving me hope for tomorrow? what really matters? Right now, my head leans toward the bed - calling sleep, a welcome reprieve for the week’s heartache.

(05.09.20)

We discussed going somewhere remote on a nice family drive today. Pawnee Grasslands, I proclaimed. Klara was all in, but Jack couldn’t remember much from the desert plains where he first camped when he was only three and Klara six. I recall it well. We had gone camping with our dear friends, Heike and Hans, in early October. The day sun was still warm that fall, around 80, but dropped into the thirties over night. Jack and Klara were so sweeet in their sleep, all bundled up and cozy next to mom in our small tent with multiple layers. We hiked during the day, finding a rather large tarantula-looking spider, some odd farm equipment, prong horn antelopes, and, thankfully, no rattlesnakes! I have a photo from this camping trip framed in my office today. It’s one of my favorite days, the first time I exposed my kids to one of my all time favorite activities in life! I have a photo from another, similarly beautiful day, when we first took the kids to the beach (Laguna Beach, California). One of our most magical spots. The photo from that day sits on my dresser, another favorite life moment of mine.

I laced up my running shoes. Drop Kick Murphys Rose Tattoo was just the note I was seeking - rough, messy, anchored in life’s bittersweet memories: “I had these memories all around me so I wouldn't be alone.”

I got home from my run, and was trying to look forward to the day - an outing, someplace new, laughter with my family, nice wine to celebrate tonight. The longer John and I talked about going somewhere remote, I realized that it wasn’t going to happen. Safer at Home meant less than 10 miles from the house, and there wouldn’t be an easy way to stop and go to the bathroom if we needed to. We’d have to pack food, water, maybe get gas. Then, when we got to a remote place, what would we do there? I tried to express my romantic memory of the camping experience all those years ago - the beauty in the rugged buttes, open space, blue skies, vast landscape in which we could fly into, away from our current cage, if even for an hour. It was too risky, it seemed. We settled on a drive around town for the afternoon.

Driving past our old house downtown was unsettling. Few people out and about, empty, closed parks and scattered open signs, and tent cities around several corners even though extra homeless shelters had been established at the dawn of Covid. The city felt rough and messy, and I tried to recall earlier, vibrant memories of running around in Denver’s limelight only a few months ago.

“You'll always be there with me
Even if you're gone
You'll always have my love
Our memory will live on” — Drop Kick Murphys

John asked me how I felt about heading into my 49th year. How do I feel? Angry and sad, I said. I had worked and planned so hard for this year, as so many of us had. Advancement in my career, international travel with my kids for the first time, new adventures and opportunities for my kids to thrive in - but, no. All gone for today. I couldn’t even see my best friend, Corina, for a walk today without disrupting my whole “safe” universe at home. “Safer at Home”. Safe from what? Covid, I guess, but safe from insanity, lonliness? I’m not so sure. My head was my only safe space, but I am doubting this now too. I’d better pull it together. Tomorrow’s a new year.

(05.08.20)

Pre-birthday zoom with colleagues this evening. My sweet boss, Judy, surprized me with a carrot cake on my front steps as my colleagues sang happy birthday. It was such a sweet gesture, and I was genuinely touched. And, um, nervous. Really fucking nervous.

When I realized what was happening I scrambled to find a mask to put on. I immediatelly started worrying about whether or not she’d expect to get close to me and what John would say when she pulled up (he and Jack were in the median playing catch). I started rambling to my zooming friends about how I hadn’t left the house in over 7 weeks (besides to run), and some of them seemed to think I was crazy. I explained that John has underlying autoimmune issues and that we are doing everything we can to not get Covid.

I think Judy could feel my anxiety (heck, she probably saw it in a dark aura hue surrounding me). She smiled, left the cake and drove home. I went and sat back down in the garage with my laptop to continue zooming with my peers, like nothing had happend, and even had a tasty piece of cake. Though sweet and touching, the experience truly had me shaken. I felt bad and silly about worrying so much; trying to rationalize my fears in front of my friends as I frantically walked around the house with my laptop to greet Judy at the front of the house.

When you have a rush of adrenaline and your mentally and physically exhausted from it afterwards. The whole cake drop off felt like that, like a dream. I was completely consumed during it in my head (where I like to hide out so much lately), and it’s like this other person went out to greet Judy to get the cake. I felt like I was hiding behind this other person who was brave enough to go out and face her, without getting too close or coming off rude or ungrateful, and I just peeked out, around this other, brave individual.

After the work zoom, John and I had planned a zoom call with other dear friends, Alicia and Dave, who thoughtfully also remembered my upccoming birthday. They lit a chocolate cupcake and sang me happy birthday after we discussed what we wouldn’t be doing over the summer. They talked about outdoor social distancing gatherings that we could do, but it seemed too far off to me to consider. Hmmm, maybe mid summer once we know if a resurgence is likely? You know, sometime late summer before fall’s pending doom hits. Sounds about right.

(05.07.20)

Okay, okay, it is Thursday. And, NO, I have NOT felt like writing this week, until tonight (thanks, Gary). Well, fuck, our dear friend, Gary, has the Covid - and 40 days! so far -after, um, having a brain tumor earlier this year. That’s not right, people, NOT RIGHT. We LOVE Gary and Kristin, LOVE THEM. To hear what they are going through on tonight’s ‘ol Peter, Paul, and Gary zoom show breaks my heart in so many ways. Gary quarantined in his room and lovely Kristin somewhere else in thier NOLA home. Hmm. NOT okay. Not okay, people, not okay. We share the pain, people, we share it. LOVE you Gary and Kristin. Hang in there loves. Lots to do when this has passed. LOTS of hugs and touching. xoxo

(05.06.20)

wednesday.

(05.05.20)

tuesday.

(05.04.20)

monday.

(05.03.20)

Happy birthday to you, sings my sweet son to his friends (twins) on their birthday zoom party this afternoon. Klara is upstairs practicing her audition for her high school show choir class for the fall semseter. Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. Ha, à propos! I sure hope so.

(05.02.20)

Today was hard. Woke up from nightmares, fearful of the year’s prognosis, to a cloudy, cool day. Trying to keep my chin up, but the weight of the worldly unknown is too heavy on my head and heart. There isn’t much to do to bring joy to my children, or me. Today there is food, shelter, and comforts, yes, but the unknown of my work, health, family, sanity, and future are fostering a dark head space today. I am struggling. I rally half way through the day to clean (something in my control), and the sun peeks out for a moment for me to relish in.

(05.01.20)

The father and daughter walked down the sidewalk with their frail, skinny dog on a leash. Was the dog a rescue dog? Maybe he is ill? The side of the street was in the shadow of the sun, but they smiled as they walked by. Erik and I sat near the front door as they passed, smiling too. It is a lovely warm evening and the week has been long with talk of furloughs. The family neared the alley where the setting sun peered through to greet them, and they walked into the light away from the shadows of the day.

(04.30.20)

There has to be a happy medium even in this chaos. It can’t all be black and white. In our attempt to compartmentalize, I feel many of us do this - we seek smaller conversations that are easier to digest; simplier portraits of understanding to what is happening to us individually. It saves us, our sanity, really. It makes things simplier, even for the moment, to believe things are more refined than they are.

(04.29.20)

In our attempt to be safe, we are all compromising for each other. Maybe this is another lesson (In all of this pain? Fuck, isn’t that lesson enough?). More lessons. As my dear colleague, friend, and mentor at work, Judy, would say - the gift of uncertainty. We do not, cannot write the scripts - beautiful at times, heart wrenching at others.

These hard times are forcing us to compromise in new, painful, uncomfortable ways. My dad told me that we had been lucky, before. We had not gone through the depression. We had excess, resources, easy times to be grateful for. Not until now, I said. He agreed. We are certainly all going through a depression now. However, we are all still very blessed and lucky in many ways, I’ll admit.

So grateful for this horrible, rotten, no good, very bad day.

(04.28.20)

Furlough. I had heard of the word and knew, roughly, what it meant. Until now, fortunately, I had never had to give it much attention. However, now this thing, this “furlough” is facing me, my team (aka my people!). I love my team. I love my self, my family! I am worried now as it seems that a furlough is knocking on my door.

Okay. Deep breath. Scramble to understand what this means, how it works, who it will impact the most. Is unemployment an option with furlough? Benefits are still covered, I believe, up to 6 months. Then what happens?

I hear the bellowing, the howling. It’s 8pm. Like Matt Moneymaker, “Bobo”, and Cliff Barackman in Finding Bigfoot. The kids join in screaming, more than howling off the patio, as the cat attempts to escape the cage we live in, jumping down to uncharted, newly fertilized grasss below. Klara grabs him by the front door (there is another cat under a car, across the street, and no fighting allowed tonight! Remember. Erik, what happend last time? Um, surgery?!). She brings him in safely as he snaps at her to leave him be. I understand him. Leave me be! I want to be free. We all do. Damnit, but there is a knocking on the tree in the distance (social bigfoot calling, anyone?). Warning us that it is out there, waiting, and knowing we seek to run wild.

(04.27.20)

The birds chirp. It’s maybe 3:30am. I wake up. My cat, Erik, laying next to me on the bed starts meowing to go out (and eat things). I lay there in the dark and silence (except for the birds), awaiting the sun to rise. The chirping birds give me solace, reminding me it IS a new day, bittersweet as it is. There is some hope in the new day, I must admit. I can hear it, feel it, and want to believe in it. Even though days are dark, the morning reminds us - me - that the new day has come. I am reminded that we can take steps to get through each day: 1) wake, 2) take care of ourselves, 3) take care of our loved ones, 4) find joy, laughter, and peace in things when possible and embrace it, and 5) do it all over again. All over again, each day. The sun will rise. Will we rise to greet it?

Okay, sure, I can do this. We can. But, for how many days? Like a month? Maybe three? What? Maybe 6 months or longer? Hmmm. I thought I could do this thing. I mean sure, I can do this. I have to do this. I have children. I still have a job. I have a cat. I have bills. I have friends. I have faith…right? I have faith that I can get through this. Klara washes her hands after dinner for the thirtieth time (smart girl!). I have faith that sonehow this will all work out.

(04.26.20)

Weekend update. Brad played Fauci, which was cool, nicely done. Made us feel like we were somehow under control and can do this. Not so sure about that, but nonetheless so nice to see and feel that way for evcn a fleeting moment. #SNL #Fauci

Do you seriously not see me? Us? I’ve noticed this more on my runs. People ignoring one another like we are literally not there. This evening I went to the mailbox off our pad, and walked about 12 feet from a neighbor who I pass often when I am out for a run. Granted, I don’t believe we have ever spoken per se, but he knows who I am. We were so close tonight, as he cleaned up his garage, and I went to the mailbox (literally across from his garage), but nothing. I said “hello”, and he simply chose not to see or acknowledge me. Then, Erik, my kitty and I were sitting out front; Erik in the mulch, hunched down under the bird feeder in our small front yard, and me, sitting on the steps near the front door at sunset. A woman and her dog were walking about 20 feet from us, in the median, she with her mask on. Then, only a few feet ahead of our house, they cross back over to the sidewalk in front of our house and get on the sidewalk, a mere 10 feet from me. Erik stays still as I sit still on the step. Nothing. No acknowledgement. She literally looked at everything around us, but not at us, oddly. Almost like she chose not to see us. I could have said something, yes, but I found it so odd that she didn’t look at me, at us. Similar to the gentleman in is garage, it was a choice. In both occasions, I was looking at them to make contact somehow. What is COVID-19 doing to us, to me? What will our ultimate outcome as a society be? What will we become because of this? I am worried, especially for our children, as this new world order is informing their norm, their expectations, and their opportunities, limited for the time being, damnit.

When I go on my morning run, I have my mask. I do not use it until I see someone, and I pull it up to be proper, safe. I still make eye contact and /or wave as to say “hey there, I am friendly and just trying to be cool”. I hope they see me, and that I see them. Ah, but how can we really see each other through this? We’re all so confused, scared, mad, lonely, sad, and not our normal, pre-COVID selves. Maybe that’s it, maybe the rawness is real - finally - and now that we have no other options; we’ll all face it and allow it and feel it. Then, we’ll allow others to feel and see it too from our perspective and then maybe, just maybe, we’ll start to understand one another better and - heck - love one another better too. God, I hope so. I want to know my neighbors. Well, most of them..I think.

(04-25-20)

The novelty has worn off. The honeymoon is over. The howling at 8pm no longer entertains. Today when I saw one of my best friend’s daugher, M, face timing with my K, I started to cry out of nowhere. I miss her. I miss them. I miss things. I miss life. Life as we knew it will never be the same, even after COVID has run its course. I had the feeling that I would have PTSD the rest of my life, just because. Just because things will forever be post traumatic from this. How could it not be. Seriously. I don’t think it is possible. I keep thinking about our kids and our elders. How especially dire, I think, for them. I worry about how this will impact my childrens’ ability to socialize like “normal”. Though, what is normal, really? There will be a new normal, soon, I anticipate. Once we know how bad this will get before it eases up. It’s going to be a few months, I believe, and even then there may be another hard hit later in the year that we can’t fully know until it comes, like Colorado weather - they can try and forecast it, but it has the final say in the matter. I zoomed with my college roomies again tonight, which was lovely. It was so wonderful to see them and reminisce about the past and happy, easier times that we took for granted without even knowing we were taking things for granted. It’s clearer now. Will our kids, the younger generation, see it this way as well - that things were took for granted? Or will they only remember this period of time as odd, a one off, not the norm and just a phase that they went through. I wonder.

(04-24-20)

It’s Friday, but that really doesn’t mean much these days.

(04-23-20)

Tonight the desire to jot down my thought won, and sleep must wait. I wrote all day, literally, for work until just about 20 minutes ago. The desire, albeit need, to write and prove my worth in the coming months is evident now more than ever. With all of my colleauges, peers, friends - we are all in the same boat. Funny how that sounds. Frankly, it feels like a boat we are all in; a lonely sea, dark, unknown tomorrow, and storm to boot. On my faculty conference call today, it was as if we were all on the ship’s deck and then rushed to our cabins to check on our familes. Tonight I feel as if I am in the cabin, but the dark waves are crashing all around me - around us - as we brace for the next thud and crashing wave. I’ll be glad when the sun comes up tomorrow and the seas are calm again….oh wait, tomorrow it is suppsoed to rain. Guess it is going to be awhile before calm seas again. Now, I’ll crawl in bed, wait for my Erik to join me, and curl up knowing that my family, for the day, is safe and sound. Grateful for the day. Grateful for my family and friends and work. Grateful for the sun that hides behind the clouds on occasion. Grateful that I have a ship to rest in, even amidst the storm. I am sound in my surroundings, simple as they may be. I am sound in my people, who understand me. I am sound in my faith of tomorrow’s sun.

(04-22-20)

Sinatra sings “You make me feel so young” on Pandora. My mom used to sing this song to me as a child. She had the sweetest voice, and I loved to hear her sing. I was literally in a freak out moment when the song came on Alexa. Deep breath, Cristy. It’ll p r o b a b l y be okay.

04-21-20)

I suck. I lost last night’s blog somehow, and I mistakenly had the wrong date in my calendar for a deadline. I won’t say for what, but the deadline is May 1, not June 1. Ugh. I may have screwed myself. No wait, not just me, but my entire family. I won’t elaborate, but between the stress of juggling home school, my work, and suppressing fear of life and the future…well, I just messed up. I hate COVID-19. Fuck.

(04-20-20)

There are things that seem simple: brushing our teeth, feeding the cat, turning on the light. We’ve become accustomed to certain things that we do each day. Things that make us feel good, normal, on point. There isn’t much, today, that makes me feel that way, even the “normal” things. On my run today, things felt surreal- almost dream like. I had my ear buds in playing an old Snow Patrol song, Run (2003), and had to literally shake myself to wake up. Get out of my head! The weather was warm and sunny with spring’s eagerness in each blade of sprouting grass; nothing to complain about on the surface. Some things in life are not that simple; not black and white, on and off, as much as we hope they would be. Like love, which we paint as easy, gentle, and pretty on the canvas. Love is messy at its root. In love, like war, there are multiple facets to examine and try to understand to paint a fuller picture of its depth, its meaning. The virus calls to us like that of love, of war, forcing us to go inside our deepest selves, desires, wants. In our fight to maintain some sense of our norm, we grasp what we know, both the beauty and the sorrow. We seek to feel alive and safe, and real, in all of this. Some of us pretend, even believe, better than others. Some of us do better, know better, feel better somehow, which makes all of this crap easier at times. I think love is like a silver coin - one side is shiny, polished, perfection and the other is tarnished, run over, and dirty. We can see our reality, our future, past, and present, in each side of the coin; each side reminding us of our moral code depending on the light of day and how it shines on us. I think there is beauty and wisdom to be seen on each side of the coin, and lessons to be learned.

“Slower, slower

We don't have time for that
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads

Have heart my dear
We're bound to be afraid
Even if it's just for a few days
Making up for all this mess.”

(04-19-20)

I didn’t like to clean when I was younger. My room was always a disaster. Michele and I had to help dad clean the house, which we did, but my room was a bloody mess. I finally got a bug for cleaning when I went away to college. I remember the very first time my dad and mom came to visit me at university. My dad was so impressed with my clean room, and our house, in general. Then, when I went to grad school out of state and they came to visit - again, he was impressed by my cleanliness (seriously, I think he choked up). I think he felt like maybe something he had taught me had sunk in, almost like osmosis. As an adult, when I had little ones running around, my dad would come visit us and, yes, clean. I mean really clean, and he was no spring chicken. When the kids were small and it was harder to keep up with things, my dad’s visit were a welcome reprieve to make me feel sane (um, clean) again. He would literally get on his hands and knees (he was in his 80s, mind you) and clean the kitchen floor, wiping the baseboards even, those specks of dirt I hadn’t caught in my less careful, hasty cleaning attempts. I had tried to keep up, but failed at my best given too many competing demands - kids, work, life. I don’t know how he did it. He had done it his whole life, I guess, with his family and then my family given how my mom couldn’t do as much as most moms. We didn’t have a cleaning lady. My dad didn’t think it was necessary. He knew how to clean, like his mom had taught him to do, and like he had taught me how to do. You just need to get on your hands and knees and scrub a bit. You have to do the hard work sometimes, and it isn’t always fun, like life (it is nice to have a clean home though). The reward is worth the effort, I think. Sometimes the repetition is needed, good even. Soothing ritual maybe. Regardless, I am grateful for my desire to clean today albeit a bit concerned about my level of detail; almost like the more I clean, the more fine tooth comb I become, the less I am at risk, but I am too smart to believe this. I am in the weeds this weekend - the details of this f-ing virus, but no better for it. In fact, I may be weaker for it, I fear.

He is too old to clean my home now and struggles to clean his own. It is now up to me and my family to do the hard work. I hope I have trained them well enough. Hell, I hope I have enough strength to keep at it with them. Thankfully, today was a good day. My house is clean.

(04-18-20) I ran today, Saturday, and it was lovely - the streets were not too busy with people or dogs and the middle of the road was a welcome direction. I could run in the middle of the street in many parts of the neighborhood like I owned the roads. I usually only pull up my homemade face mask when I see people or cars coming, which makes me feel better about the situation somehow. I tried to stay positive, and show ‘cheeriness’ in my eyes as I run by, my smile hidden under my handkerchief. I try to stay positive, in general. There are things I can do to feel better. Today was a cleaning fiend. For those of you who don’t know me well, I LOVE to clean. I really do. It’s mental health therapy for me. I feel satisfied, content, and, well, clean. I grew up in a VERY clean house. My dad did an excellent job keeping our house clean. My mom was pretty weak from rheumatoid arthritis so dad did most of the house chores, in addition to working a lot. My grandmother, Sybilla, a German who lost her mom after birth, was apparently raised in a very strict household by my great grandfather. She and my grandfather, Rolla, a French Canadian, were very stoic and stern. I remember little about them, unfortunately, as they died when I was little (my dad was considered ‘old’ when I was born, in his late 40’s). I don’t recall much from my grandparent’s home in St. Louis except that the furniture was covered in plastic, the baking was on point, and the family was large; Catholic and a lot of good food. I wish I could go back to a dinner at their house and sit in on it now. I’d observe and hear the banter, which was flavored with spirited antics, arguments, and laughter. Maybe their hearty conversations would make me feel a part of something larger, even safer today, like a weighted blanket, when I feel so small.

(04-17-20)

Zoomed this evening with my college roomies, Amy, Alice, and Tracie. Lovely to see their faces and reminisce of our days back at Mizzou. Our families are across the country, but our hearts are still secure from our days on Wilkes St. We had a LOT of animals - dogs, cats, fish, iguana, mice, a goat?, and slugs. Yes, slugs. They lived in the astro turf in the basement’s squishy carpet next to the bathroom and laundry area. It was nasty, especially after a good rain. And they weren’t small, maybe 3-4 inches? Tracie’s cat, who’s name escapes me, would be down and ready to pounce. Yuck. My cat was more of an outdoor cat, kinda like Erik. Bobinsky was a beauty - long, sleek, bobcat-like features (hense the name). He literally had spots on him, like a leopard. I loved him so much. I was out of town one weekend, likely back in St. Charles to see my parents, and he fell ill. Really ill. They called the vet who talked them through CPR for cats: one was on the phone with the vet to learn what to do, one was doing compressions on his heart per the vet’s instructions, and one - I believe Alise was the brave one - did mouth to mouth on Bob, my CAT. They tried desperately to save him. Sadly, he didn’t make it. They saved his body until I returned so that I could say goodbye and bury him. That’s it. That’s all I need to say about these three lovely, beautiful, smart women who helped inform who I am today. They helped me become me in so many ways. We supported each other as family, as sisters, and dear friends. I am so grateful to them for being in my life then and today.

(04-16-20)

This is the last of it, I hope: winter. It snowed all day, bitter cold, and the finches, doves, and robins sat in our sad pear tree, all missing spring this year. They came in, close to the house, on the near branches just under our porch likely to escape the blowing snow and feel the warmth shining through the window panes. I heard the male finch, who just last summer nested with his mate in our summer ferns on the porch, successfully raising three babies. It was magical. We were so worried that Erik would be ready to pounce the moment the young finches tried to fly, and so we anxiously awaited for them to get out of the nest successfully. We were so relieved after the all made it out safely. We think the three young finches still come by, sitting on our tree with their parents on occassion, like they are visiting with us too. Today, we just saw the mom and dad; their children not in view. The male sang a beautiful song, with his down feathers fluffed like a brown and red puffy coat. They are waiting, as we all are, for spring to stay with us and warm our souls and bring summer’s freedom and fun.

(04-15-20)

So when do we go from young to old? From dreamer to memory? From today to tomorrow?

I thought I knew how to step into tomorrow, into the future. That glass half full, chin up, smile on face. I can do that. I think most of us can, but when does it make sense to not fake it anymore if we are not feeling it? Be real. Be true. Be honest. None of us know what tomorrow holds, even without the pandemic. We can pretend, be positive, be real (or fake). The tree, I love, in my front yard is a male pear tree that blooms these sweet fragrant blooms in the spring; you feel alive, young again, and renewed somehow. The cold this year took them just as they were starting to bloom, so the fragrance lasted only a few days on a few blooms who were lucky to spring alive. I knew the spring snow storm and cold temps were coming, so I took a few deep breaths each day they lived to soak in their sweet blossoms and remember them by. The snow and bitter cold came and wiped the rest of the infant blossoms out this year, as I expected, as they followed suit along with the year’s bitter taste. I am sorry and sad for those unseen, unrealized blossoms of spring - the lacking sweet scent in the air, white blossoms turned brown, and halted spring until the storm passes; seems a propos. Spring this year is oddly an old soul - so sweet to know it is still struggling to become, so bitter to know the loss it has already endured even in its - our- youth.

(04-14-20)

The sun is out. Amen! The last couple of days have been difficult. Easter kinda sucked. I mean, yes, of course I am so grateful to be with my family, safe, and healthy, and we zoomed with family and talked to friends to celebrate the holiday. Just not the same, not okay; missing embrace and touches and physically seeing faces and smiles. Then, yesterday, it snowed ALL day and was literally the coldest April 14 in Colorado EVER recorded. Today I zoomed for HOURS and only broke free over lunch to run for 30 minutes, which saved my spirit for the day. Tonight, the kids and I were lucky to speak with my dad, which makes me SO happy even though he is grumpy. He’s 94. I can only imagine how strange this is for him and all elderly who have already lived through so much - good and bad, sad and happy, alone and together. Even though we are all in this TOGETHER, we are also very much alone - like my dad and elder relatives who live alone, and now need to fear to be with others, even loved ones.. and those on their death beds alone (shhhhh, but I think this is the worse of it - alone, dying). I shiver as I write these thoughts. They are too dark in today’s sun. I am sure they will revisit me tonight as I lay there alone. I’ve decided that writing words in ALL caps helps me express my angst. I think that is fair to do these days..the all caps things, as it (ANGST) is so loud in my head and my attempts (e.g., sleeping, running, working, cooking, eating, etc) to temper it is superficial at best.

We learned today that one of our favorite Denver institutions, The Market on Larimer, with its blue and white awning, is offically closing for good after 37 years. This place is..was..a food/treat haven. It has a huge wrap around deli, coffee shop, dry goods section, bakery, and petite tables and chairs for intimate conversation. I can only imagine what it would be like to sit there today, knowing all of this - what we would go through (thanks fucking COVID) - face to face for young lovers at a small table in the corner, eating sweet treats, gazing into each other’s eyes, losing themselves in each other for a moment in time. It’s funny, now painful, how we often don’t know those moments when they are there. Those magical moments in our lives where we are so entranced by life, by love, that we don’t recognize how special the moment is. I think when we get older, and wiser, we begin to see those moments more for what they are, extraordinary really. Like today. I am here with my beautiful family, so lucky to have them at my side (literally), as John makes scratch pizza and the glorious sun sets.

(04-13-20)

Didn’t officially blog today. I realized this as I crawled into bed at 11, and thought about rebounding to save the blog of the day and make it happen. Sweet sleep was calling my name, an escape of another kind, and it won the competition in my head. My head hit the pillow hard, and I immediately fell asleep. Most nights I wake up, thanks to kitty terror as he starts nipping me (gently at first, then more aggresively depending on how long it has been since he’s been outside), and he screams (aka meows very loudly) at me to get up and let him outside. Lately, sadly, the kitty has stopped begging me to let him out; he’s succumbed to my lack of response, apathy really (the heavy sweatshirt I wear helps, as his nips can’t get through to my skin as much). Erik is depressed, like the rest of us, and we are all trying to find our way out of the day (though grateful for this nice prison we have) and into a new day; a new reality of hope for our world, our community, our family, and our loved ones.

(04-12-20)

Infomercials. They still exist on channel TV. Interestingly, recently, both my dad and my aunt, Naomi, made mention of items that were too hot to pass up. For my dad, it was a skillet of some kind (two for one, of course), so he called the 1-800 number and ordered one for he and my sister, Michele (apparently, it is waiting for her at his house). Today, I called my aunt Naomi (in her 80’s), to check in on her and wish her Happy Easter. Worrying about her, my dad, and all my elderly aunts and uncles, family and friends, alone, on Easter. What can I do for you, Naomi? Anything on Amazon or Amazon Fresh? “No, honey, thanks, but what I really need is a hose". A hose? As in a garden hose? “Yes, honey”. Apparently, there is this ‘silver bullet hose’ on sale (and, yes, it is buy one and get one….discounted, not free). I grab my laptop, and sure enough. “No winding, no coiling, no wet muddy messes”, and lightweight to boot. Hell yes, sounds good. I order her two, 50 footers.

We zoomed with our Fern Hill and Durango family today. It was lovely to see everyone, but lacked the usual merriment. Well, not entirely. We were talking about uncle Clifford making fresh bread lately, and cousin Paul asked if he made any dill bread yet. Clifford responded, “I don’t have that type of dough”. Ta da boom….tsssss! That is the love I am talking about. Silly laughter that we are missing up at the Fern Hill farm today. Sally purportedly even made her lemon rice today. Damn.

The kids bit the ears off their Russell Stover bunnies in full form today. I made scratch scones, and we all relaxed today before the big Easter dinner. John is prepping the pork tenderloin, making scratch stuffing with a Cajun mirepoix, and lemon and garlic sauteed green beans. John’s pandora station is playing, Massive Attack ends and Sound Garden is next on the lineup. Paulo, our sweet parakeet, starts singing along LOUDLY. He’s a rocker. Who knew?

Such a strange Easter. “Love, love is a verb. Love is a doing word.” - Massive Attack.

(04-11-20)

I grabbed only two squares of toilet paper to blow my nose as not to waste this sacred commodity.

When I was getting my doctorate, and the kids were little, I would occasionally lock myself in the upstairs bathroom (well, not really lock, since the lock in our old Victorian didn’t work any longer). I recall turning on my hairdryer and sitting on the floor, as it warmed the space, crying into the room. The room was small, so it wasn’t hard to fill with my greif, anxiety, tears, exhaustion, and the running heat from the hair dryer (yes, I have gone through a lot of hair dryers over the years; something oddly soothing to me). One time, Klara was probably 6 and Jack around 3, they barged into the bathroom as I sat sobbing on the floor with my hairdryer blowing hot air. There little arms were filled with stuffed animals, and they burried me in their love (aka stuffies). It was so lovely and sweet, and made me feel heard and understood in a weird way - like they knew stuffed animal love would absorb my grief and pain somehow. I am not kidding, dozens of stuffed animals thrown over me that day - bears, coons, squirrels, elephants, dragons even, filling up the small space up to around 4 feet. I sat on the floor with the stuffies, cried into them, and they caught my tears. Things were heavy then, as they are today, but in a different way. Juggling small children, full time work, and school was too much on some days. Some days are like that, and they get the better of you, so it is best just to let it out and let the love around you absorb your grief.

Today the sun was glorious and warm, and we soaked in it as best we could until the snow comes tomorrow. Colorado spring - warm, wet, cold, repeat. I thought I was ready. I played (ran) in the sun this morning (like playing Frogger as I cross the streets strategically), then rode bikes with the family this afternoon, again playing Frogger in the streets. This afternoon, I succumbed that today’s sun, warm winds, and open windows were more apropps to clean the house than tomorrow’s winter. I started vacuming, windexing, wiping, spraying, and, yes, crying. I looked out Klara’s window. The neighbors, a sweet, young family, were outside with their Easter baskets, girls dressed in Spring party dresses, and smiles; a pre Easter celebration.

For my family, tomorrow would nornally be at Fern Hill Farm, our family’s fort where battles have been won and dearly lost. We’re zooming at noon. We will be missing each others embrace, Aunt Sally’s lemon rice, and so much laughter and love. LOVE. Easter I LOVE EASTER. Growing up, it was a true holiday - large family gathering, treats, laugher, good food, and love. The kind of love I recall when I think of Easter is the stuffie kind of love - the love you can curl up in, cry in, sink into, embrace, and remember fondly in your life’s best memories. I have tried to instill that level of love in my kids, and my little agnostic family (okay, not completely agnostic, I hope). I can only imagine that God is weeping for all of us this holiday, our Earth, ALL religions and faiths, and all our living creatures.

Tonight as I cried in my bathroom, I was grateful for living. And oddly grateful for having the opportunity to feel the pain of loss - loss of Easter gatherings, family embrace, and, mostly, missed memories to be made. My attention to the simpler pleasures in life is more raw than before this whole mess. I am so grateful to have my sweet family home, safe. I am grateful for the roof over our heads and my job. I pulled myself together, no stuffed animals needed, and headed downstairs to check in on our Easter instacart order. The order is underway. John has been texting “Jean”, our Instacart shopper, as I cleaned, and he was working on swapping out/replacing alternative options. Seeing our neighbors with their Easter baskets reminded me tht my baskets will not be out on our table tomorrow at sunrise as usually occurs, like all holidays (birthdays included), as I set out holiday treats for us to wake up to and celebrate. Tomorrow will not be, feel, the same. No holiday spirit here tomorrow as in year’s past. Realizing this, I text our Instacart driver and ask her/him if they might consider looking for an Easter bunny for the kids for tomorrow since I haven’t been able to get out myself. Immediately, they respond, and start looking. They take pictures of the leftovers, optional bunnies - Reeses, Hershey, off brand - but no Lindt or Dove to be found at such a late hour. Alas, there are Russell Stover, Milk Chocolate, bunnies still for sale. Amen! (Probably tasty, right? We drive by a Russell Stover factory on the way to St. Louis, so I am all in!) The Instacart driver, Jean, proclaims “Ready! I put the gifts in a double bag so that the children can not see it and it is a great surprise”. Seriously, this is what they said. They are risking their lives to shop for me and my family (and took the time to especially bag the Easter bunnies). Jesus. I ask for an Easter treat for my kids and this is what they say, Do, ARE. They deliverd two milk chocolate bunnies, doubled wrapped in King Soopers grocery bags to hide the bunnies, which are now securely stored in our garage until tomorrow’s rise.

Sunrise. Easter. Hope. Faith. The Instacart drivers arrive, masks on, lovely young Latino couple. They made my , our, Easter available, able, here. Here, like it CAN happen, even in all this chaos. They sacraficed so that we could have “our” Easter. As we plan to zoom with our family tomorrow. I hope our Instacart friends can be/zoom with their family too. I think and pray for those without zoom capabilty, like my 93 yead old dad-probably the first Easter he’ll be alone. We’ll call him, of course. We’ll rise tomorrow, on Easter, grateful for another day, another sacrifice, and another moment to love one another. Happy bittersweet Easter everyone. I think tomorrow calls for some nestle toll house cookies, actually maybe scones for breakfast, to have on the table next to our chocolate bunnies. Sounds perfect.

(04-10-20)

There are things about us that we do not like whether or not we admit it. Traits, genes, behaviors. Things that just are; part of our personality, our genome, our mannerism, our world view, and, ultimately, the picture of who we are. Things we show the world at some point, welcome or not. These dark days, I believe, bring those things out; we hid them during the sunny times, the laughter, and the merriment. But, in the darkness they are still there, hiding or maybe just waiting for their time. We know they are there yet we often do well just to ignore them as best we can; too painful or prolific to let out of the cage. I am beginning to wonder if it’s too late not to just let things go. If I hold on, for what? Tomorrow’s plan is not the same as it once was, so perhaps the worry and anxiety won’t be the same as I expected or planned for? If I let it go, there is no expectation in outcomes, no longer a planned course of action. It’s so odd. I can no longer worry as I did, as we are honestly not sure what we have to worry about, nor can I let worries go for the same reason as I simply do not know what I have really to worry about (and so perhaps I should worry!). So strange. Tonight was a beautiful evening. Sunset, raindrops, rainbow, easy temperatures around 60. Air is clean, wet yet crisp, and the clouds hang low on the horizon. I see a distinct line between earth/ground and dark blue grey, cloudy sky. The painter has tried to hit the right tone in tonight’s landscape painting, but the light captured underneath the low clouds is a trick and we know it. Yes, we can still see in the dusk an outline of our plans, steps, goals for tomorrow, but in the falling darkness of the night, we are left only to have faith in what we cannot see or know, our worry and even our hope is undefined. We cannot know for certain what the risks are that we truly face, but such is our days even in the brightest sun! We may hide behind the sunshine or the laughter or the work or the wine, but it is just a facade. Maybe this moment in history is to remind us of this; the architecture of our lives, which hides the truth inside all of us until walls come breaking down, if we are lucky. The bell rings, it is 8 o’clock and we people are out and bellowing on our balconies; howling in the dark as our world sets for a new dawn. The birds chirp along in solidarity for tomorrow’s sunrise. We are all in this together, I hope, as I have more faith in nature now than ever before.

(04-09-20)

West Palm Beach. My uncle Bob lived there for some time, and we would go to Florida to visit him and his family in the summertime. The humidity in Florida is not like we had in St. Louis growing up. It is wet, salty, heavy, and somehow more vivid, drenched in color, and even musty at times. Tonight when I took my shower and dried off, my towel smelled like the dank, sunny, and odd shaped pool enhanced motels of my Florida youth (okay, okay, yes I do my laundry). I stopped, closed my eyes, and even took a deeper breath into the musty flavored towel. Why would I do this? It brought me back for a moment to a childhood picture of being with my grandparents, parents, and sister, Michele. You see, my mom had really (REALLY) bad rheumatoid arthritis and our family vacations were a group effort; my dad and grandparents in tandem to pull it off. I never thought about this being because my mom was sick, but now, looking back on these trips, I do think it was likely because we all needed a little extra help. Michele and I were good kids, always trying to help out, but we were still kids and my mom and dad needed a little extra hand, I think (mostly due to me me, yes). Those trips to Florida were magical on many levels - the sea, the snorkling, the intense southern sun (um burn, anyone, Nivea?) - and just being together on such long road trips. Yup, we drove. Not that Florida is that far from Missouri. Maybe 13 hours to Panama Beach, and then another few to Ft. Lauderdale (and when we were lucky, the Keys). The drive was almost as much fun as being on the beach. I would load up on a dozen or so books (in English) to have in the car to read, with my head in grandma’s lap for a nap on the road (yes, we did that in the late 70s, even 80s), and her amazing ground Bologna, sweet pickle, and mayo sandwiches (did anyone else ever eat this?!). Sounds horrific, but I LOVED her sandwiches accompanied by the cheese balls…remember those too, in the long cylinder container? She’d have a cold pack, in her clear plastic tote bags that had a spash of color, along with her homemade chocolate chip pecan cookies and, of course, a carton of Whoppers. No, I do not (yet) have diabetes. We ate well, with bouts of hedonism thrown in for good measure (everything in moderation, right?). Tonight, after an Instacart order gone awry, we have 10 lbs of masa (nope, not sure this falls under ‘moderation’ measures..sopapillas, anyone?). So, what to do? John and Klara made homemade corn tortillas for the first time ever, and fresh enchiladas with scratch sauce. He’s such a lovely cook, and I love how he is teaching the kids this trade. The aromas from our kitchen surely make our neighbors envious. My hope is that our kids recall the heavy smells from John’s kitchen projects like I recall the damp humidity of my childhood trips and the weight of the adventures that ensued from simple times with family in small confined spaces (think car and motel room). I sit here tonight after the lovely enchilada dinner, as Jack does his remote school homework, reading his Spanish book “El asesinato de la profesora de lengua“. Jack summarizes ‘the murder of the language teacher’, which is a story about a teacher not being listened to, and in the teacher’s frustration and desperation, she says she will kill one of the students if they cannot listen to her and do their necessary work. Kind of like Earth today, no? We have not been listening, at least not close enough, and she is frustrated and infuriated with our limited efforts or, for some, their naive or chosen lack of awareness. We need to listen more closely. We can use this confined time, in this confined space, to learn and to hear more closely. . . and maybe even rectify some of our mistakes. There is a LOT to do on our end, and I am so proud of my children - our children- who, undoubtedly, will help lead this global effort for tomorrow’s future for all of us. What a heavy weight to bear. I take a deep breath for them, for all of us, in this musty memory of life. Let’s hope the memory is a good one.

(04-08-20)

Happy Pesach! Sadly, it doesn’t feel much like Passover or Easter these days. Like time - traditions, celebrations, rituals - has stopped. (Plus, has anyone else noticed that there seems to be a lot of deaths reported, and not just from Coronavirus?) Our cat, Erik, lays happily, yet sleepy, in the window sill this evening, perfectly content with the pandemic. The lighting, I’ll give you, is lovely - warm, enlightened, calm. My shirt, however, captures how I am feeling we actually need to be: strong, warrior, badass. Just to get through all of this.

Easter has always been one of my favorite holidays. Granted, I grew up Catholic and we celebrated Easter a LOT. The Easter baskets full of candy (remember those strange marshmellow candies shaped like rabbits, and eatting bunny ears first?), large family dinners with deviled eggs, slaw, mostaccioli, garlic bread, and German chocolate cake (thanks, grandma Sybilla). My mom, Betty, always had a pretty Easter dress, shoes, and purse for Michele and I to show off at Easter Mass. My grandmother, Marjorie, often made our dresses from hand and, frequently, our matching outfits, which we would launch during the spring catwalk. This Sunday we’ll be missing our annual family gathering up at the East Greeley family Fern farm - sans bunny suit (Paul!), potato gun (Norman!), rocket launching, lemon rice, lamb, ham, Beth’s carrot cake, and four wheelers - and no family, fun laughter (miss you Sally and Clifford!). Dammit. This reality - no Easter - is sinking in. I have so many memories of Easter with our family and friends. Easter egg hunt at Whittier, my dad out for visit, egg dipping, and the promise of summertime fun in the air. Springtime; time to rejoice, renew, reassess, relive, remember. When I ran this morning there were egg decorations on trees, bunnies hung on doors, and Easter decor around the ‘hood (including an elephant staue with bunny ears and a facemask….next run, I’ll get a photo). I have not done anything for Easter; no gifts, no chocolate bunnies even (sorry kids). I am most sad about missing out on the promise of spring - will we be able to have a “summer”? I honestly do not know? My kids asked me when we were out on our short, too infested with humans, bike ride this afternoon. Will the pools even be open? Forget Laguna, the Lake, (and long forgotten Mexico). Bueller? Bueller? Anyone. Will we be able to show ourselves frolicking in the summer sun? Or will we be running to escape things, like we are today? Does anyone know? I am planning to reschedule our Laguna trip for September or October, in case we CAN actually go SAFELY to Southern California. John is making scratch pizza dough after the fresh dough we ordered via Instacart was not fresh. John tried to make a pizza for us tonight, which he later threw in the trash as “poison pie” since the “fresh” dough was sour. Thankfully, we had a packet of yeast. The pie is coming together; it’s scratch, improvised, and hopefully will rise. We’re all hungry. Sometimes the food - um, like life - is worth the wait, but I have never been very patient. Maybe there IS a lesson in this all. God, I hope so. Whoa, wait, it is supposed to be Seder (um, leavened bread?). Maybe that’s why the dough was bad. Maybe our attempt at making scratch dough is too late? I hope not. Regardless, friends, Chag sameach! However you celebrate, we celebrate a new tomorrow. We’ll rise stronger together!

(04-07-20)

It’s messy, hard, and unorthodox. All of this. The remote schooling went pretty well okay today. I know the teachers and school admin have been working so hard to pull this off; first time in history, and I am so impressed and grateful. Our kids are experiencing something that no other generation has experienced, like all of us. After school/work, we sat in the garage, our very messy garage, and cleaned our dry goods off with a wipe. We talked, laughed, and soaked in some sun as we sat in our camp chairs, which actually still slightly smell like a camp fire from last summer. It was a wonderful reminder of what we did last summer, every summer, until now; gather our things and off to camp or travel or ‘adventure’ somehow. That human condition of adventuring is an aspect of what makes us human, I think. We want to experience and learn things, we want to feel new things (good and bad), and we want to live fully (it’s inherent in us). My garage is like my head; full of some junk, yes, but also reminders of what I love and where I come from and where I want to go (e.g., camping/outdoor activities, pictures, university books and papers, and what I aspire to do/be). I had purchased some nice snorkling gear, “water” socks, and waterproof phone holders for Mexico, which Amazon said I can no longer return, and it’s all in this nice tote bag sitting next to my snowboarding gear in the garage, ready for our trip to Mexico. I hid it at work, initially, to surprize my kids with the activities planned for Mexico over springbreak, but then when the travel became less likely, I brought things home to prepare for our trip, as if when I brought things home they would be more sacred, safe, and actually happen. I showed Klara first, to have her try on the snorkle gear and make sure I was on point. Of course, the trip was canceled…and Jack never even got to see the snorkle gear, and it is too late to return it to Amazon, like I mentioned, and it is stuck in this bag in my garage, hiding..waiting..hanging out in our messy garage as Jack outgrows the snorkling gear that I purchased for a child. Like Klara, Jack will be an adult size by the time I can take them to Mexico again. I am going to leave these things in the garage, in the clean, closed, somehow sacred tote bag, and wait; knowing full well, that I will need to upgrade my sizes, my purchases, my truth; simply waiting until we can leave our home, our state, our country again. whcn I will open the tote bag and reassess what fits, who needs what, and what really fucking matters. Yes, I think the work ‘fuck’ is one of my favorite words - it is crisp. short, simple, and to the point. This whole thing (aka COVID) sucks, and the word “fuck’ nicely summarizes the emotions it evokes in many, if not all, of us.

(04-06-20)

Kids start online school tomorrow. Let’s be optimistic, Cristy. There are a few neighbors on our block who recently started evening meetings on the grassy median in front of our townhome; lawn chairs and bottles of wine in tow, couples spaced approximately 6-8 feet apart from one another. I am both envious and angry. I want to join, to socialize, to feel the warmth of the setting sun on my face as I laugh and sip my wine, but I am angry as well as they are giddy. The wine soaks in and they are happy with loud (spewing) laughter as they escape our collective reality for a moment. I sit on my raised patio, cold under a blanket out of the sun, as I talk with my best friend about her COVID test (results pending). That’s it (I feel like Rose Castorini in Moonstruck)! It IS collective, this reality. We are all in this thing, this beast. I hate IT. One report today said the Colorado had hit the “apex”, but my colleagues on campus disagree and it sounds like, perhaps, another two weeks until we hit the motherload. My kids are trying to be normal as we all are. We exercise, talk with friends and family (though, tonight, my dad - bless his heart - did suggest “a Biblical end of times” given all that we are facing, yay!). Ok, well, I regroup as we all do after moments of impulsive fear. I go inside to my lovely, little, safe family, as they watch Polar Express. I mean, Tom and Rita Hanks (Hanx), right?! If they can do COVID, so can the rest of us! Tom is a National treasure, people. I mean, we CAN do this. We have to do it. I am all in (like I have a choice)! Why Jack chose this movie, I do not know, but I love it. It’s perfect for tonight. Just hearing Tom’s voice makes me/we calm somehow, like we ARE all in this together and have each other’s backs. I pray this is the case, and that even for those who do not make it out of this storm, we will all be stronger and more gratious and awake than before. My husband, the ever, amazing, cook, burns (and I mean BURNS) the tip of his finger as he cooks dinner tonight. Blister forming and tremendous pain, so we research what to do. Don’t pop the blister, take the pain (for a bit, like 3-7 days, really?), wash, salve, and wrap gently. We can do this. Let’s nurture this burn as best we can until we heal, which we will. “One thing about trains, it doesn’t matter where the train is going, it just matters if you decide to get on it or not”. We need to ride the train, people. The bell will ring. I just need to believe we’ll hear it when it does, which I do (thanks HANX). Godspeed my friends.

(04-05-20)

People were out today in masses. Skating in the park, biking, jogging with strollers, scooters, dogs (on leashes for the most part), and walkers all alike; sun, glorious sun day, and warmth to boot. I saw my neighbors across the way invite a family over; getting out of their foreign car, the unfamiliar dad looked around to see if anyone was eyeing him (I was), before they were ushered inside for hours. Who am I to judge? I ran again this morning without a mask and had my daughter alongside skating next to me. Again, about a fourth or maybe a third of people out and about had face masks on, but it was early before people came out for Sunday Mass. Even Erik, who has been pining away to come outside for more than a second when he jumps the banister to escape our townhouse, knows there is something up. He was stalking the second floor balcony, awaiting for the moment when he could carefully align himself to jump safely over the railing to the ground to soak in the sun, roll in the mulch, and look for a fresh kill. I suddently stop him from leaping - those days are on pause, sweet kitty! (Um, first of all, you just recovered from an emegency surgery from an animal attack and finished your antibiotics. Second of all, we know do not know if the coronavirus can live on grass or outside surfaces for how long, so no risk taken for having my feline friend out all night on the prowl walking and stalking in god knows what!) Even Erik on his escapades today knew that he shouldn’t risk jumping overboard into the unknown. He came on to the 2nd floor balcony to eat and roll around for his happy hour (catnip) before darting back inside. Later this afternoon, I was out front of the house trying to glue back together an old Italian statue that John and I bought shortly after being married - an angel playing the violin - who’s instrument had broken year’s ago, but we desperately tried and tried to fix. The glue I had was old and did not hold, similarly the door was cracked and Erik escaped our fortress. Alas, he simply rolled in the mulch next to the house, took a piss, and enjoyed the sunshine as he munched on the small bunch of grass, which hopefully the HOA has not yet poisoned for the season. He was so satisfied as was I; so happy he was able to embrace freedom for a few minutes before K grabbed him and brought him back, safely inside. I felt like we beat the beast for that moment, as if we out tricked it, and I lived vicariously, gloriously through Erik. We were able to play, free, again, in the sun. Even those moments, minutes only, seemed magical. Later, when we retreated upstairs to the other balcony (and way too far for him to jump from), did we both relax in the sun (well, Erik perched under a chair in the shade as if the sun was too hot and risky) and we relished in the satisfaction from those earlier moments in sunny mulch. The fucking sunny mulch, lol, which is something I would not have thought to be so special a few weeks ago. It is special, such simple pleasures. Maybe that is what this is to remind us about? Maybe the Universe and God is simply trying to remind us of how special this really all is. Maybe, if we are lucky, we will live through it and remember this moment (and not just retreat to our selflish ways as humans do) when this is over. I sit here, after a glorious day with my family in the sun and our friends via facetime/zoom who remind me who I am, and where I have been and what matters. My kitty, Erik, now stuck inside from this 2nd floor patio room as I type sings a sad song of meows for freedom fro inside. My family, listening to muffled Tom Waits radio on Pandora (perfect for the mood, yes, but also feeling cliche), eatting fresh yummy nocci (thanks John for your beautiful cooking skills), and drumming on the table are complementing his sweet and sorrow meows in this bittersweet moment. They too want out, Erik, as we all do. I can only escape into the moment of typing. There really is no where I can go to get away. I am scared about my family, friends, and loved ones away from me at this moment. How will I or can I keep us all safe? I cannot. I can only be grateful for the moments we have together, as I am now, even trapped in our house, our town, our world. We are blessed beyond measure, beyond comprehension really. Your sorrowful meows remind me of this, as I am happy to hear them though sad for us all.

I recall a moment today when K and I were in the garage trying to find something more to clean, throw out, discard, etc. when a new car pulled up, unfamiliar man in a face mask, and I made eye contact and said hello. The car stopped. I ushered K inside the house. You see, there is a time of day when our garage door does not close properly due to the sun hitting the mechanism quite right and the sensor does not allow the door to close on demand. This was that moment. I thought frantically about what to do. I could close the door by hand, unlatched and unlocked, but closed and then retreat inside and lock the door to the garage, but this would leave all of the things in our garage susceptible. I stood there for a moment deciding what the best move was. The new person sat in his still car in the alley. Just then, the neighbor behind me in our alley opened his garage door - Was he or his wife watching this happen? Did they notice the fear in my face? Suddenly, the unfamiliar person drove away. The neighbor came out to take his young daugher on a bike ride, and closed his garage door not noting anything unusual or odd. I stood there, as K came back outside, and we finished what we had been working on. I kept an eye on new traffic in the alley. The neighbor came back a bit later and went inside, as did we. I was able to lock the garage door safely. Just now, typing on the 2nd floor balcony in the dark, I am lit by the background of the laptop. I look up and there is a man with a dog down below on the sidewalk, walking toward me. He wears a face mask. The trust I have in the moment, frankly, is that he is walking with a dog. He is watching me on my lofty porch as I type. My heart skips a beat and reminds me of earlier today. I immediatey want to know my doors are locked, so I step inside to check on my family (and my doors). They are secure at the moment.

(04-04-20)

Swinging from a swing set; as a child, it was magical. Up and down, high to the sky then back down to the ground. Grounded. As I grew older, I loved twisting in the swing; risking hitting the side of the swing set, then leaping off as high as I could. When I was an adult and had my children at the park in tow, swinging was a bit more tricky. I mean there was the part when I worried about my child falling out of the swing and going too high, and the part when - after I became more sure that they could hang on - I would join them and swing along, becoming more dizzy the higher I went with them. I finally stopped swinging with them, but I watched and laughed with them in their happiness. Today I was able to run outside after two days stuck inside due to cold and spring snow, and it was glorious in the sun. Yesterday they called school off for the remainder of the school year and they also suggested face masks for all when out and about. I ran today without one. About a third of people out and about had one on, including runners. I ran rethinking what my run might look like tomorrow. The thought of tomorrow, like swinging on a swing, is up and down and much more swift than I like these days. The rise, as I run and I see the snow-capped mountains, gives me peace and warms my solitude. Gravity greets me and swiftly my fall comes next, as I physically feel like I am falling (and failing in life). And the sense that I am actually going down over takes me. Kind of like the feeling one has in the swimming pool after doing a somersault in the water, falling to the bottom of the pool; dizzy, disoriented and confused. I am all of those things. The sun warmed my rising soul today, but as it does the fall came next as it does and there was nothing I could do, but hop off the swing after coming down. The sound of my father’s voice soothed the anxiety of my fall this afternoon. I tried to rebound up, high again in the promise of tomorrow, but I was too afraid of the impending fall, so decided not to play any more for the day.

(04 - 03 - 20)

Nothing matters. Okay, so not true, though we just said it outloud to the kids. Then we retracted it. John is pissed about missing a ‘real’ dinner, though he just made some smashing baba ganoush. The kids and I ate left overs after our “happy hour” with our dear Apple friends, who we love. It was actually kind of fun. We talked shop, serious yet stayed light, and decided to do it again next weekend. Sounds great! I zoomed ALL day again, and as such I look forward to not zooming again until Monday when then kids go “back go school”. Lol, all of these colons and semicolons are driving me crazy. We are a parody to ourselves. I hate it. I mean, I am so grateful to be writing right now. But, I hate the fact that we are scrambing this hard to make sense of this madness. THIS is happening people and we DON’T know the outcomes…Damnit. Fuck. Seriously, none of the cuss words really even help right now. Gosh darn it. I told myself I would write early today, as to be fresh of mind, present, and not too worn out from the day, so that my post would be brighter, easier, and more optimistic, even crisper. Then the alarm went off this morning - there was a new T1D onset case - and the day ensued, and we were off to the Zoom races until about 5pm..no run again today, damnit. It was cold and snowy yesterday, and then today, again, cold and not so great weather…so, coupled with the onslaught of work emails and texts, patient/ study participant worry, and well, suffice to say, I stayed in my running clothes all day with no run to speak of. Well, that isn’t completely true. I did run. I ran from my worry, and into my work, and I ran from my anxiety, and into my family, and I ran from my reality, and into my wine. Hmm? The happy hour with our friends helped tonight. It was SO GOOD to see them and laugh and reminiscence about old times and what we are all facing today. Sweet memories. My grandma always said that - that we have our memories - and now, finally, I really get what she meant. I didn’t understand before, really, that we sometimes can really only have our memories and NOT what tomorrow holds. I never thought that way before. I always envisioned tomorrow, you know? Not now. I mean, God willing, we get tomorrow and can make more memories, but what if not? What if our memories really are what we have to hold on to. What does that even mean, if we cannot find our dreams in tomorrow’s promise? And there is no promise in tomorrow? I honestly do not think I have ever thought about things that way. I always plan for tomorrow. Today I had a couple friends sign my make shift will, as witnesses, in case John and I both (God forbid) die from this thing. Tomorrow is the weekend. Yay. Doesn’t even matter. Online school starts Monday for my kids. That's something. Oh, and love matters, as you know. There is that. Thanks love.

(04 - 02 - 20)

Today was a barrage of zoom meetings and calls like the day, week, (soon to be) month before. I thought the zoom/ MS teams video chats would get easier. They are exhausting. Laggy connections, frozen screens, and reverb as EVERYONE is working/schooling from home. Silver lining of the day, I connected with a couple of colleagues out of my normal circle, and it was therapeutic. They shared stories of their covid experience - how it has impacted their family, mostly - and it hit a home run really (yes, missing spring training). We all know what matters most to us right now.

My dad was so dark today. He’s 93, alone, and sad to be spending some of his last days on this glorious earth in this predicament. I am pissed for him and so many others. My work colleague shared that just two weeks prior to the quarantine, her family had to put her elder aunt in a nursing home. They care for her like she is their extended mom, as the aunt has no children. Her aunt does not facetime nor use social media. Phone is pretty much the best option to connect with her. In addition, this colleague’s father, who experienced a stroke awhile back, can no longer speak so she has her brother facetime with her dad to simply and beautifully see facial expressions. The words are secondary, “streaming consciousness” as she said given her dad can no longer speak. Isn’t it beautful? Life, even as convoluted and complex and difficult and messy as it is right now. It is fucking beautiful and I am so grateful for it. They teach us these things in our history classes, movies (um, Life is Beautiful), and social media. Thing is, we are so lucky to have this connectivity today, unlike any generation before us. My dad was worried about us losing access to food today. I told him not to worry about food. We’ve got food. I worry more about the internet dying, seriously. what would we do? We’d take to the streets in a mass hysteria. I have been thiking about the old Batman (1989) movie, with Keaton and Basinger, and the deadly chemical that over takes Gotham. They are afraid to use any beauty products, remember? As I sit here and reread what I have just written, it all sounds so trite. I am actually trying to help me process what we are facing, yes, but none of the words really matter. There is nothing I can say to make things better. My sister went to the store today, wearing a make shift face mask, to get food for my dad. Michele is also a banker and has to go to work as a critical employee. My brother in law is a linesman, and is also considered criticial. He had stage 3 kidney cancer a couple of years ago and has one kidney. They are out there everyday like so many others. Innocent, lovely, caring people. It doesn’t matter.

(04 - 01 - 20)

30 (at least, but my guess is through June maybe July) more days of quarantine (aka social distancing) time. It’s cool. We can do this. I am sort of settling into a rhythm of at least 6 ft distance at all times (outside) as I strategically coordinate my running path - think Frogger for us ‘70s babes -, wash those hands, and maybe tonight’s DIY should be learning how to make face masks (?!). Tonight after work (just typing this makes me feel somewhat normal), I spoke with one of my best friends who wholeheartedly said she’d love my kids forever and make sure they have fun. I KNOW she would do this for John and me if we can’t. I am beyond grateful to have a friend like her. She GETS me. I am bouncing between my Instacart order and a draft “personal guardian” document as I start thinking about who can be my witness (I need two, if no notary, in CO). I ask two friends, and both agree to sign as a witness. I am so grateful! Okay, so I have the document that says our kids will go to our beloved friends if John and I do not make it, and so maybe I will sleep better tonight? I mean, we should make it, right? We are relatively young, good health for the most part, non-high risk factors, and working really hard not to be exposed. Okay. I really should take a deep breath and count my blessings. I am trying to stay positive, but also realistic. I hate the unknowns. I learned late last night that the priest who baptized K and J is on a ventilator. He is in his upper 70’s. All I could do last night was to pray for Father Don between my sleeping bouts. God bless him.

(03 -31 - 20)

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother what will I be….My work family checks in every Tuesday at 10 and round robin we ask on a scale from 1-10 (with 1 the worst amd 10 the best) how we are doing. I do not look forward to this activity. It feels kind of like mass. It makes us all confess how we are feeling about things. I am generally positive, too pollyanna in fact, but this whole pandemic thing has me more negative than I think I have ever been. Today I was still approximately a ‘5’, as were several others in our crew. Most of the team had been 7 or 8s the two weeks prior, but today we were prefaced with answering “what do we miss most” as our introductory question to go with the 1-10 thing…Hmm. Our team spoke to missing grown children’s birthdays, hugging others, being able to help others in tangible ways, going to the gym (Orange Theory in particular), how to console AND get our kids through remote learning, missing the human touch of our loves and family (especially our elders who we only see through glass now), and much, much more. And I am still pissed about Mexico. Damn Corona. Today should have been kicking off Spring Training for baseball (and snorkling in Mexico). John and Jack played catch to commemorate (I noticed other children and their parents doing a similar toast in the neighborhood as I ran through the streets today). We tried to be creative today as the sun was warm and spring caught our eager breath- to catch up on what is lacking in our world and praying the warmth of impending spring would help all of this chaos end. John with his lovely pizza creation, Klara with her rainbow construction paper snake hat, and Jack with his uncanny ability to rebound life’s balls so effortlessly as if today’s game of life was fun (I do like to think he gets that from me). I tried to be creative today, but my run was boring except for the strategy of running to miss being too close to any person, my work was simple, and my cleaning was necessary. That’s all I have today. I called my dad tonight (sadly, he didn’t answer), and I watched my neighbors out and about. It’s insane how many people are out and about! Most were 6 feet apart (the Denver police paroling helped). I noticed so many neighbors embraced each other in new ways - from porch to porch, in the median on lawn chairs spaced out, and many families riding bikes together “after work”. People I see every day on my run said ‘hi’ for the first time, and others who used to say hi simply ignored me. We are all dealing with this uncertainty in new ways, and it is okay. Sly and the family stone’s Que Sera plays gently plays on Alexa as I type. My mom used to sing the Doris Day version to me and Michele in our childhood. Her voice was majestic, her swan song as I remember. Will we have rainbows day after day…NO. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see. Damnit.

(03 - 30 -20)

Frontier flight #70. Denver to Cancun. I have (had) waited for this trip for me and my kids for years. I know, it was only 5 days in Mexico and not some European summer escapade. Nonetheless, it stings simply since it didn’t happen today like it was supposed to. I had meticulously planned the trip, taking great care in details to get the most out of our limited budget: teaching my children the joys of international travel, snorkling in a warm sea, and hearing the cacophony of cultures foreign to us - all gone for today. The trip meant a great deal to me. In the real scheme of things, it doesn’t matter one bit, but I still mourn what I had envisioned for my children. My heart broken for a moment until reality sets in. God knows when we’ll have the chance to travel again without worry. On my lonely run today, I took great peace in just simply knowing that my family was all together in our home and not ill. Funny, in the past, my runs were the only solitude I had during the day between family and work and my lists to do (e.g., pay Kaiser, soccer fees, groceries). Now, my lonely runs are a reminder that things have drastically changed, and we are all running alone, hoping to reach the finish line. I picked up my pace on the way home to them, embracing the strength in my legs and in my heart.

(03 - 29 - 20)

Getting back to my roots. Literally and figuratively as my dark blond roots shoot up like spoiling potato sprouts. I miss Lakshmi (she’s been my hair stylist for like 15 years). Things are raw and real. There isn’t much to do to hide reality right now. Things are simplier, yes, but not easier, and draw attention to our flaws. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have my family here with me, us - Klara. Jack, John, Erik, Paulo, and fish - together, during this existential crisis. We sit here at the table tonight. Beatles, Hey Jude, on our Alexa. Erik sits on the bench. Klara eats her tofu veggie gyoza and Jack eats his sweet potato fries along with his soy chicken nuggets (please don’t tell my dad that both my kids are on the road to becoming full fledged vegetarian). John made this amazing fried rice for he and I tonight. It has those lovely, Dawn clean, roasted, peeled polanos in the dish. They were lovely, hot, and full of flavor. Still, I added Sriracha. Today we went for a walk/run/skate as a family to the local wide space park. There were people everywhere. Lots of families, like us, trying to escape reality and entertain; little ones, babies in strollers, couples jogging, single people trying to get in a real work out, older people with canes, and lots of people out walking their dogs….no, I did not see any dogs off the leash today. We were on the open - seriously, when we showed up, no one was on it - soccer field, carving out our space to fly our new boomerang, and I called my dad. The ground was soggy from the recent snow melt and so I stood on a purple sprinker cover to keep my running shoes dry. Dad was gloomy, lonely, and asking where our Denver numbers stood. I really don’t know, Dad, I said (though I believe it was around 2k dead). I don’t really want to know. I will know when I need to, but not now. We talked for awhile as the people around us encroached. Not that they had any less right to be where I was standing (besides the fact we got there first). We were in the open soccer field, then a single man running took off across the field, so we redireted our boomerang, and then a family of three went to the empty soccer goal to play, and a few other kids took off running in the field. I stood still and stoic on my purple square. I felt like I did in grade school when we had colored carpet squares that we needed to stay on to be safe during the classroom game, but this was not game and I was not alone. My family was with me in this match. I stood still on my sprinkler cover as I talked to my dad; distracted by the number of people taking over my space, my family’s space in the park. I tried to concentrate on my call with my 93 year old, alone, father. I grew increasingly anxious. I recalled feeling similar in 2005 when Klara was only 6 months old, and we went to Our Lady of Mount Carmel’s annual summer bazaar. It was a hot, sweaty, July evening in Denver and the Italians (and other less notable parishoners) swarmed the streets to play their hand at the down low poker table in the back of the church parking lot along with the roulette wheel for fresh mozzarella, Italian dish wear, and balsamic vinegar. I had my new baby, Klara, in her stroller as the people flocked around me, oblivious to my need for some space and increasing anxiety. I couldn’t take it; I swooped in and picked her up from the stoller to hold her close to my chest, as John, Derek, and Lorena saw the bewilderment in my eyes and asked me what was wrong. Nothing was wrong at that moment, I assured them, but the pressure for space hung in the air like humidity and I just needed to breathe. I took Klara in my arms and told John it was time to go. I had enough pressure around me to keep my baby safe. We left. Today felt oddly similar. There was space for us to move. No one touching us. Room to breathe. But there were too many people risking my family’s safety. I got off the phone with my dad, rallied my troops. and we left to go home.

(03 - 28 -20)

I hate flying. I mean, I don’t hate going places, just the act of being in a plane that I have no control over. My routine: vodka and oj on the way to the airport, usually by lightrail, sometimes by my family. Through security, on to the gate where I usually find another vodka tonic. No, I am not a drunk. I am a wreck when I fly people. I settle down when I hit my seat with a hefty pile of research articles to focus on. Usually, I can do this pretty well once the false security of the vodka kicks in. Vodka is good for travel. It’s doesn’t make me tired, just numb for a bit, until I have some coffee and rebound after I hop off the flight. Today felt like flying.

The Instacart person and I had a lot of back and forth while she was at the store shopping to keep my family safer in theory than we would be if I went… she was great, Patricia. She found almost everything I asked for besides King Arthur flour, tofu cutlets (and she got three packages of “firm” tofu…we’ll see, it’s usually not that firm), and no basmati available. Damn. Alexa told me I can freeze the tofu for a few months, so I hid it in the freezer (John will be pissed that I got three packages of firm tofu, when it isn’t the good stuff). Patricia pulled up with our order to leave it by the front door. I was upstairs on our balcony so leaned over to thank her for putting up with all of my text messages as she looked for the items we had requested. She was startled when I said “thank you, Patricia”, and she glanced up at me with a wild look in her eyes, which looked like fear to me; fear of who is at the door - who she can see and what she cannot - and yet she still is out there working to help her family and mine keep food on the table, literally and figuratively. Thanks Patricia. I went downstairs only to see the front door open, as John and Jack had been out front kicking the soccer ball, leaving the door wide open. I had to help her when I saw her with her hands full. Taking the bags from her as she sat them just inside our front door, I thanked her again almost to apologize for putting her and her loved ones in this predicament. Patricia left. I carefully carried the bags upstairs into the kitchen where I sat them on the floor and proceeded to wash with Dawn or Clorex wipe down each item (worried that I used three in total) as best I could. Brusquely, John says how I should not have taken the items from Patricia as he is sure it scared her to face me only a foot or so away. I explain that I only took the laundry soap from her, and let her put the other bags down on the ground until I carried them upstairs. I didn’t mean to scare her. I didn’t mean to scare us! I’m already scared, and I now feel oddly intimate with Patricia. My hands start shaking as I start washing off the poblanos, and I am over come with sadness and finally allow myself to cry. This whole thing sucks. God damnit. I hate it. My dear friend called late last night and confided in me that a friend of her’s had lost her husband to the virus. He was a husband and a father, about our age, with three kids. He had been fighting the virus for over a week from home. It just took him like it has taken so many. His flight crashed. I pour myself a vodka and tonic, put the rest of the clean food away (thanks Dawn!), and sit down to type with a new false security that I have actually cleaned my food well enough to keep us safe from the virus that could have snuck through the open door, and trying to have faith that the laundry soap transfer earlier today will not harm Patricia nor I in any way. I am desperately trying to have faith that this will pass, and we will be stronger collectively and individually for it.

My daughter, Klara, calls out to me to help her dye her hair a lovely teal color. The sun is out. John and Jack play with a new toy boomerang in the wide park space. We are so lucky to have each other -Patricia too! - in this. My flight lands and I pop up (no coffee needed) to seize the day again.

(03 - 27 - 20)

88 days. My husband said that a recent NYT article had an algorithm that calculated how many days we would ALL (globally) need to stay at home until the curve and virus settles down a bit. Our son, Jack, quickly quipped that it was 88 miles an hour that the Delorean needed to hit to get back to the future…..as we rinse the ‘Corona’ off the package of creamcheese as my husband and Klara make cheesecake, it certainly seems like we have ended up in some bad sci-fi B-movie (no, not what I am saying people..Back to the Future is an A in my book!). John delares that a little too much lemon is okay (for the cheesecake), and all I can think of is how to make lemonade out of lemons. So where is the sugar for this disastrous recipe? I’d say it is all around us - in the sweet gestures of strangers who are helping their elder neighbors, like my dad, Bob, back in St. Louis, taking his garbage out and bringing up his paper to his door. And simply in those smiles I see on my morning run whilst 6 feet apart. There is so much lovc around us, and I do think this scary time is allowing us to let more of it show than we’d normally be comfortable doing. I wonder if the love will remain when we get back to some sense of normalcy. God, I hope so. I wonder if the writers of Back to the Future, Gale and Zemeckis, thought about how we’d want to get ‘back to our future’ in this way. I definitely want to get back to the future. Right now the future seems so uncertain. Marty travels through time and unwittingly unravels his future. Marty ultimately manages to fix things and, actually, things end up better for him in the end. I am having faith that we’ll end up okay people..well, until Back to the Future 2 happens. Great Scott!

(03 - 26 - 20)

Blinding Lights by The Weeknd…I been on my own for long enough…I'm going through withdrawals….Takes me back to Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles, one of which is on the family movie playlist for tonight and accompanied by a light salad and leftovers. The exhaustion of trying to be normal - what does mean anymore? - today has succumbed all of my family, cat included. and we are all tired of the day. Though the sun is still out (before the rain and snow tomorrow), and I feel guilty that the sun and wine are setting in before I get back out into nature before dark. The hubby puts on Waiting for Guffman, and we are all drawn in as we watch for the Broadway critic to appoach and give some credit and validation to this effort. Like the COVID effort, which is the play of the season, the year, our life? I went to Curtis Park today to pick up Jack's school allocated Chrome book for when online school starts back on the 7th. Corky St. Clair from Guffman captures this odd rehearsal well in the film. We rehearse, we practice. we strive to do and be more. We try to fit in and be liked. I’m trying to pretend this is a rehearsal and that we have time to fix the mistakes. The tease of spring, with almost 60 degree weather, brings me a dose of optimism for our fight with COVID. Nature (thank God for nature - it’s raw, legit, and all around us and it has our backs, yes?). You can’t deny it. I can sink into it, and I can breathe it in for a moment. And then John puts on Breakfast Club, and I sink back into the fact that we are all who we are and where we are. It’s a nice escape for a moment, as I feel the breath of innocence laugh at me - at all of us - for thinking we knew who we are (or were), what we do, and how we exist. And the world, like Principle Vernon, laughed at us. As John Bender says, the “world is an imperfect place”. It is hard not to push back against this virus and the upheaval it has caused our world, and we get more detention…

(03 - 25 -20)

Tom Waits radio on Pandora about sums it up. Heart warming and heavy, more sweet than bitter (most songs, anyway), and Alexa playing as John makes some scratch pie from the King Soopers delivery earlier off fresh dough and a few toppings. We moved the bird, Paulo, downstairs today to sit with us as we work, play Fortnite (just Jack), do art, work more, cook, and clean. Erik is feeling much better, thankfully, like his old self as he meows at me to scratch behind his collar and attempts to be all stealth walking up toward Paulo’s cage (no, not very successful due to his post-op cone). I’m getting used to the Instacart thing, though they frequently do not have what we want or need, but ever thankful for the service (oh yea, Drizly.com too..vino!). They - today’s Saints, really - drop the order at the front door. John or I carry it upstairs and sit it on the floor by the trash can. We wipe down or wash everything we can without hurting the integrity of the food/item. This is just silly. Today Governor Polis ordered a statewide stay-at-home (aka LOCK DOWN) finally, effective tomorrow morning at 8am. Okay people, we can do this. Let’s stay home. Let’s stay safe. Let’s try and stay calm, cool, and did I say calm? We are trying to be calm and cool, especially with our kids, and currently sharing stories of clubs in Seattle (John lived there in the late 90s), describing neighborhoods that look like Halloween everyday, and free dental exams…really? No dental exams today, the dentist offices are closed (thanks COVID) except for emergencies. Emergencies. This IS an emergency people though the real emergency is in the hospitals today. Not enough beds, not enough ventilators, not enough time spread out between people needing help. COVIDactnow.org posted modeling (thanks, Kim, for sharing!) of what this looks like if we a) have limited action (encourage social distancing and improved hygiene), vs b) social distancing (with shelter in place for high risk folks), vs actual shelter in place (aka home quarantine), which is WHERE we should have been several weeks ago if we - and our government - were listening and paying attention. We messed up people. We waited too long, and I fear the repercussions…chin up, and on to the next story to share. Klara asks if we think we are reborn. I do, John doesn’t. I’m a young soul, John is old. Regardless, doesn’t matter, we are all being reborn right now. I feel like I am in a forced cocoon, damnit. Meanwhile my 93 year old father, who lives alone, has no more neighbor or sibling visits. My sister just drops the food off and runs, and even my 95 year old uncle, Rolla, has stopped coming over (he literally lives across the yard). What the fuck - even my elderly father cannot have visitors and, if he does, he may get COVID and die. Oh, but wait, if he gets it and ends up in a hospital, he may die alone in the hospital anyway…risk benefit ratio anyone? THIS is happening around the world. Next story..Jimmy Hendrix sings a solemn song as today’s a la cart Public Safety Alert notice goes off on our phones tonight with today’s STAY AT HOME order. At the same moment, chaos ensues as Erik makes his move toward Paulo’s cage - feathers are flying, cat is barking, and alarms are sounding - as Paulo tries to fly higher to get away from Erik’s (failed, amen!) attempt. We saved Paulo this time, ushering our kitty away, half grateful Erik feels better and is up to his old shenanigans, and half sad that Paulo is now on Erik’s radar (previously, Paulo had been quarantined in Klara’s room). Whoa…Paulo is safe in the cage, right? We are safe at home, yes? Is this stealth virus just waiting to attack us, at home, like Erik? Where can we go? For how long?! (Calm down, Cristy.) I can put the bird cage away in K’s room for the night and close the door. The cat cannot get through the closed door. Ah, but the virus can… and we only have so much room in our cage, our home, our community, our hospitals. Damn, the door is open. Now what?

(03 - 24- 20)

Day 3: Public Safety Alert (and Fireside Chat anyone?): City and County of Denver issued a STAY AT HOME ORDER at 5pm. So what to do?! Yes, take a bike ride at 4:45pm with my pseudo apple pods in only to hear the obligatory 5pm alarm go off on everyone’s cell phone; an official alert to stay home! Immediately - thanks to too many viewings of kid films when K and J were young - the Iron Giant’s PSA “duck and cover” message popped in my head. Effective through April 10, grocery and medication trips only okay (yup, they kept the liquor and pot stores open - thank goodness yesterday’s 1 hour prohibition was over!). In the empty Stapleton ala Rockwell streets, sidewalks, bike lanes, and trails were busy in my neighborhood; it seemed we were all out and about when the alarm actually went off trying to remember what yesterday was like before it was too late. One woman, soaked in the early spring sun and a good harvest of grapes, jumped out at me as I rode my bike by her exclaming that she was practicing a correct social distancing happy hour with her neighbors, wine glasses and laughter in tow (no, they were happily not actually 6 feet apart). The kids in the scene seemed oblivious to her banter, but I and the other adults on the street knew better. It was a happy hour of odd sorts - and celebration was in order - as the uncertaintly of tomorrow’s dawn and it’s consequences loomed heavy (apparently like the virus) in the air. Let us celebrate this sunset with cyclists like myself and my hubby out weaving our bikes in the empty car filled streets with young lovers holding hands on the path until they can embrace again, families video chatting with loved ones from afar and flying kites, as a young dancer prances pirouettes and a spouse scratches her husband’s back as I ride by them on the sidewalk. All of it reminiscent of us soaking in an ubiquitous sunshine….the sunshine that remained in those last moments before sunset today. Today. Today was choreographed, another ordinary day/list: run, work, call people….with an unexpected emergency trip to the vet to save my cat, Erik, who had been suffering from an animal attack (what’s going on!?) that occured mid last week. Poor baby. After seeming better over the weekend, Erik was so bad last night that I prayed he’d make it through the night. You have to understand, Erik has been through a lot (maybe 6 or 7 of his 9 lives), so when I say this with a heavy heart, well.. I really was a bit worried as he usually rebounds (kind like our old Nuggets coach, Dan Issel, used to). Anyway, he stopped rebounding over the weekend, completely sidelined (shortly after my own animal attack…hmmmm) and by last night we knew it was serious. He stopped eating, even John’s gourmet chicken. I took him in to the ER early this morning. His eyes pierced my soul on the way there as he looked at me with a fear that I had not seen in him since we picked him up from my dad’s after trying Omaha. A 7am drop off at the vet office this morning (closed to all but the patients), with the techs in their scrubs, masks, and gloves simply greeting me at the door (thanks, COVID). They just took his carrier and left me sitting in my car anxiously awaiting the news that I may not see him again. Sigh. As I sat there today (they told me not to leave until they called me with the diagnosis/prognosis/death certificate news), my sister, Michele, called me to check in on her way to the bank. She is considered “essential” as a banker (though the drive through is the only thing open now), and she is there every day to help the masses who are checking in on their money. I get it. The stock markets have lost this battle, I think. I understand why people are checking to see the banks are open and their money is safe - remember the run on American banks when people were afraid that money wasn’t safe in the bank during the Great Depression? - and taking out their money (not all of it, right?). I felt a chill, like I had checked Erik into the bank today. I left him there to be safe, sound, and cared for, like we do with our money …and our loved ones when we admit them to safe places (e.g. banks, senior care facilities, hospitals, etc). He was going to be well cared for, yes? I’d see him again, yes? Could I visit him? Um, no…

I did see him again! He is home after surgery today (albeit, a bit drugged and dodgy in his behaviour). Thank God. I love the little man, ‘tis Erik. He’s not just a cat. (And a big thanks to Sara H. on this fact who initially saved him in our home and secured him to our family in so many ways).

(03 - 23 - 20)

Day 2: I am trying to figure out how to do this blog thing. I thought “this will be fun and easy, take my mind off things” and after spending over an hour this evening with my husband who knows coding..still, it’s taken some time to get the blog formatting down. I am making progress though and learning something new, which is actually kinda cool. Work went okay today. Lots of calls and a few zoom meetings. But, something became pretty evident today. No matter how hard I try to make things “normal”, things ARE NOT NORMAL. For example, I am a daily list maker. These lists helps me accomplish things day to day like “go for a run”, “attend xyz meetings”, “call dad”, and “pick up cliff bars for the kids on the way home”. My lists over the last few days are weird. I still have things on them like “run”, “call people”, “attend meetings”, “write, write, write”, but they’ve become much more simple in just a few days. Maybe that is the point of it; boiled down to just the essentials in the “soup of the day”- Today’s simple ingredients include how a) to stay sane ( e.g., healthy dose of exercise and deep breaths), b) who do I need to connect with online and over the phone (include a healthy dose of sustained employment, laughter, and friends), c) add a spash of creative flavor (e.g., this ingredient is especially useful for focused writing …for my job!), and just a dash of reality (e.g.., COVID-19). And just like that I convince myself that I am in control. I have my recipe for the day - it’s measured, tasty, creative, and practical given my new reality. Yes, my lists are helping me get through this! At least I think they are. Then the gravity - we could call it gravy for fun - of the situation continues to expand, spreading out all over my proverbial plate of mashed potatoes and meatloaf, masking the flavor of the unique ingredients and making it all one mush (my sister, Michele, would HATE this - she always liked her food items separate on the plate). I kinda feel like mush (maybe Michele was right?). I know the individual ingredients I have placed into my daily dish are there - they are important and are contributing on multiple levels, but they all seep together in one big pile of crap. Okay, maybe not crap, but not gourmet either. My ‘daily dish’ isn’t that great today. My cat is sick, my kids are bored (and WAY too much on their devices), and I need to be writing more important things. Late this afternoon, Denver Mayor Hancock ordered stay-at-home effective tomorrow at 5pm. We knew this was coming, but as I heard the Press ask questions like “what about the pot shops and liquor stores closing?”, I had goosebumps (nooo, not due to the pot shops closing..maybe the wine shops though..).