Dizzy

The right side of my head feels tight, like it doesn't quite fit with the rest of my body. I run my fingers along my neck and find the tight knot around C4. Yes, I know my cervical vertebrae. The tightness centers right behind my ear, and I rub small circles deep into the spot, hoping for relief and finding none.

I now pay for 3 storage units - over $350 a month - too much. I haven't been to one of them in over 5 years, $3000 ago. The lock is rusty and won't work. After much shoving and pulling I get it open, then the metal slide won't move. After much shoving and pulling I get it to move, then the door itself won't open, and the plastic cord gives me splinters. After much dusty pulling I lift the plastic door about 4 feet up and bend into the unit. Boxes of my three children's books, dusty, some destroyed, a box of cassette tapes (does anyone have a cassette player anymore?), a silk plant, an ancient broken sofa, not mine, and I think, so THIS is what $3000 of junk looks like.

I just can't do it anymore. I just can't. I am beyond my breaking point as I tell my husband to bring back 9 boxes each of the books, and figure out what to do with the rest of the unit. I won't pay anymore after the end of this month. I've got 5 days. No more, as the Winnebago Man says, making a moving X with his hands in front of him. NO MORE! Only it's funny when he does it, angry all the time, swearing, calling flies "jackasses". It's not funny when I do it, and I find humor in absolutely everything I can.

I've got to get the Bismarck house cleaned before I can get it painted before I can rent a U-Haul to move some furniture out of the storage unit and back to Bismarck so I don't have to pay for the unit anymore. Dizzy. I can't do much of anything else but manage this mess. And I try to remain optimistic. At least there's no MORE stuff to handle - just THIS stuff that sits in my garage and my kitchen and my front room and my sunroom and my library and storage units. Just a few more hundred hours and I'll be through it, then what? It's always something, isn't it?

At least I'm not buying MORE things. Maybe that's good enough for now. I've stopped the flow but still have to clean up the damage the overflow made. Yes, that's it. Keep going, keep your eyes on the new, on the Light, chin up, make a joke, spend time with friends, lighten up, Susie - things could be worse, you know. I know that, yes yes and more yes. But right now the mud has gotten churned up from the bottom of the lake and it's hard to see the bottom. And I don't even want to be cleaning weeds in the lake anyway - I want to be sitting on an air mattress looking up at the warm sun, one hand dangling into the cool water, listening to the crazy loon calling to his mate.

Give me a break (or two)

I pull up my socks, lace my shoes, stretch, and walk out the door. Movement is good. Forward movement is very, very good. Is there such a thing as TOO much forward movement? Le duh. We apparently are in the midst of one of the greatest energetic times in the history of the world. How do I know? Okay, maybe it's just me, but look around you - isn't almost everyone you know in some kind of turmoil? Had some kind of upset? Going through major change? Maybe it's just me - I don't think so.

I have never surfed, but I've seen surfers. They keep their balance, toes gripping the board, leaning forward to get their balance, all while riding on top of huge waves that threaten to smash them into bits or drown them if they don't know what they're doing. I got sick, my 11 year old got sick. He missed 5 days of school out of about 10. I left him home sick to go help my daughter with her blood clot she got after her knee surgery. I came home, my son got better, I felt better, and life seemed to be smoothing out.

I bought my son a longboard because we thought it would be fun. We bought a helmet because we believe in safety. I walked beside him so he could get his balance. Good good all good. But when I turned my back to load my car for yet another trip to Bismarck and cleaning up that house, he went to the school parking lot and broke both of his wrists. Now he sits, casted arms propped up on two pillows, watching "American Dad" while I type.

How much is too much? How much overwhelm can one person take? How do we approach stressful events so we don't totally combust? I don't know. I think I'm doing all right. But I don't play cello anymore, or learn Italian, or read. I still see clients. I wipe the dog hair off the stairs, and vacuum the living room, and do the laundry and dishes and cook dinner. And now I help my son put on his shoes, and get him ibuprofen, and put on his sweatshirt (both arms down, sleeves on, then arms up, put over head and pull down), and on.

Do I long for a vacation? I don't know. It's okay, really. I DID want a break, but this isn't what I had in mind, but as usual I don't believe in accidents. So what, then, could possibly be the point of all of this? I'm still not quite sure - release of control, loving detachment, acceptance, patience, fortitude, forbearance? I don't know I don't know I just don't know. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, mindful of where I am, mindful of my balance and body position, trying to stay on top of the wave as it continues to build. I only know I don't want to be smashed into the coral or caught in the waves as they pound pound pound. I trust that won't happen. But if anyone's out there listening, I really WOULD like a break, not a bone break, just a nice coffee, or warm sandy beach break, for a couple of weeks. Then I'll go back into the fray, I promise. IF you can find me.

23 1/2 Totes

They are lined up in my kitchen, some open, some closed. My sisters are sitting on chairs or standing. We open one tote. Mom's diaries. She kept each year in large three ring binders, and included cards, magazine articles, notes. I look at her spidery writing and miss her all over again. I don't think I ever DON'T think of her and miss her these days. It is all fresh.

1978. My hands open the book and start thumbing through the pages. I just like to see what's in the books, what's in everything. I am committed to touching every single piece of Mom and Dad's lives before I throw it out or give it away. The pages keep zinging by and I can't read any writing. I don't know what I'm doing but I keep leafing. Then my fingers stop and I look down. I read.

"I'll quote from my first letter to Susie; 'I felt sad Wednesday night, saying good-bye to an important role of mine for the last 30 years, being mother of at-home daughters. How lucky that I could have that role, that God gave me five talented and beautiful women to help raise. I'm proud of the job both Dad and I did, and I'm ready to put that energy into other areas now. The whole point of raising children is readying them to meet the world, and still standing by with support and nurture when needed. So you are on the start of your launch into the world, dearest fifth and youngest daughter. My love and my hopes, my support go with you. Most of all, my prayers. The start of the empty nest stage, a new step for us. I love you heaps, Mom'."

How can I move on from that? I hear Mom's voice in my head, telling me this message of support and love. It's not the first time it's happened. She's still here. But she's not in the tote boxes, or the needlepoint pictures, or photos, or knickknacks, or the furniture, or any of the thousands of things still left to sort through. I close the notebook and put it into the 'keep' tote. I'm keeping just one tote box for all of us to go through in the future, preferably over a bottle or two of wine. There are just too many paper things to look at.

Renewed, I look at the six huge totes that have been sitting in my kitchen for the past 6 months, and I look at them with fresh eyes. In just 1/2 hour I have salvaged just a few things others may want. The rest of the totes sit, ready to be taken to the dump. These are just things. They aren't even memories. They can spark memories, yes, that's true- and it's precious for me to be able to read my mom's words, but now that I've read them, I have them. And I don't have to pay storage fees for them, I don't have to dust them, or clean them, or maintain them, or worry about them getting lost or stolen. They're here, in my whole body, every cell, every breath, all around me.

Lighten up. That's what we tell others we think are too serious. I've heard it from my husband. I get intense, competitive, serious, sensitive, overwhelmed, and he comes lightly into my consciousness with a shoulder rub and a squeeze, a whispered reminder of how much he loves me, and I think, yes. That's it. The rest? Garbage. It continues to be swept out of my life.

Demons? Maybe I need to eat red meat again...

I sit here. I breathe. I see the swirls of worry like greasy smoke at the corners of my vision, black, like dementors ready to suck my life force. I listen to what the woman tells me this morning, and I know it already. I hear it. Yes yes and more yes. I listen to what the other woman tells me this morning and panic starts to sour my stomach. I become afraid of what she tells me I already know. I'm afraid to pull aside the curtain and see the little man maneuvering the knobs around, speaking into the microphone. "PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN..."

So the question now becomes: whom do I choose to pay attention to? The man or the Big Voice? Reality or what I want to see? What I know or what I tell myself I want. I don't know. I don't believe in the concept of demons or hell or evil blah blah blah. I think everything is on a continuum of light, no matter how dark it may seem. But if there WAS such a thing as demons or evil, it would be this worry.

I worry about my kids, I worry about the house, and my dad, and my friends. I even worry about my dog! I know, I KNOW - it doesn't help to worry. It leads to anxiety, which is another form of the demon of lower light. Yes yes and more yes. I know that. I realize that. Now what to do? What's the next step to move inaction into action? What gets us off our butts, off the proverbial couch and into movement? I don't know. I think I'm doing everything 'right' (aside from that whole Missoni incident of 9.14). I'm still not eating red meat or pork, but I've lost my light. Maybe I left it on too long to show others the way that my battery's gone dead. I don't know. I've lost myself somewhere along the line, and the woman this morning says that's the intent. Dim the light of the Bright Ones. Well, it's working, I say in a singsong, silly voice.

Do I want everything to just be magically 'better'? And what does that even mean? Of course I do, on the one hand - doesn't everybody wish for that? But practically speaking, of course not - it's not realistic. Only WE create the change in our own lives, then it impacts everyone around us. And I AM doing that. I am. Every day. Every moment. But I'm tired right now. Gosh - I bet if I picked up one my journals anywhere from the last 30 years you'd read the same thing. So what can we do that's new? Fresh?

Hmmm... go for a walk? Meditate? Stretch? Done that done that done that. Breathe? Do that. Let go of the illusion of control? Work in progress. What do I think of the demons, and how can I make friends with them? Be the Light, I hear my small, still voice say. Be the Light. So I get up, search for the batteries so I can recharge and shine again. Maybe this time I'll remember to shine a little of that Light onto my own life for a while. It's kind of dark in here right now.

Another piece of carrot cake, please?

1983. I've found the best carrot cake recipe in the entire Universe and have already slivered off the equivalent of a whole row of cake. I can't stop. Its moist sweetness calls me from all corners of the house, seductively whispering my name. I can't stop. I scoop more walnut/pineapple/coconut/cinnamon goodness into my mouth, feeling it water as it hits the lemon tartness of the cream cheese frosting.

I've just lost 20 pounds and can't gain it back again. I've made a vow to practice self-control. I scoop the carrot cake into a baggie and walk it out to the garbage can in the alley behind our house. There.

10PM. I can't stop thinking about the cake. I think of it in that garbage can, all by itself, lonely. I take my flashlight, make my way through the backyard to the garbage can, lift the lid, and...

I have not spent any unnecessary money for almost two months now. No clothes, books, purses, shoes, jackets, soap, makeup. Nothing. Nada. Nobody can believe it! I DID dogear that cute faux fur vest in Nordstrom's catalog, and Hubby even said I could get it. He encouraged me, even, but I valiantly said no, I'm not buying any more things.

The phone rings. It's Shirley.

"Missoni's out at Target - better get there fast - it's almost all sold out already."

I panicked. MISSONI! I'd forgotten! Crap! I LOVE MISSONI! Why? I don't know - why do people love to breathe? Those funky zig zags, those crazy 60's knits, all of the overpriced stuff you don't need - what's not to love?

"Buy 2 of everything" I frantically text to her as she's zooming to Target to see if there's anything left.

We discuss sizes and desires (no velour hotpants, please), and hang up.

"Okay, there's a cute blue skirt that would look really good on you," she says.

"GET IT!" I scream into the phone. "Don't put it down! Somebody else will take it away!"

I'm sweating now, nervous - there are still two scarves left, thank god, because I can't live without a Missoni scarf - I'd DIE! My Yeti feet won't fit into their shoes, so that's almost a blessing, really - one less product to think of buying. But there's a cute dress she's found for me, so by the time it's done, she's picked up two skirts, one dress, and a scarf for me.

I'm relieved, exhilarated, excited. We got our piece of history - we got some Missoni! But wait - she just spent probably $150 on clothes I'm going to pay her for, although technically the sneak part of me justifies it by pointing that I didn't buy anything unnecessary - SHIRLEY DID! No, won't work. I failed. Ate a row of carrot cake.

My daughter looks at me and says, "This doesn't mean you have to eat the whole cake."

I tune in to my body, and feel the whole opening in my stomach again. "What's the use? It doesn't matter anymore. I may as well just start buying things again," only I don't want to. Ironically, my daughter and I are now at Target, and I see the rows of Burt's Bees and makeup brushes and body washes and feel a tug, but I take a deep breath and keep walking to buy copy paper for my son-in-law. I have successfully not bought anything for myself at Target, but I still feel like I've failed, somehow.

I certainly don't NEED Missoni, and there will always be something else sparkly and glittery and once-in-a-lifetime right around the corner. I guess it's okay this one time, isn't it? If I brought everything back, 100 women would be grateful for the chance to buy buy buy. And what would that mean to me? Maybe I'll wait to see what she got. Shirley's got exquisite taste, dang her. Maybe one row of carrot cake isn't that bad. But if you see me getting out the flashlight to head to the garbage can, be prepared to stop me. It won't be a pretty sight.

stripped

I'm naked. I don't like it, so I put on an undershirt and underwear. Then a t-shirt and skirt. Then a sweater. Then a scarf. Then my black glitter Toms. Then my mom's wedding ring and my favorite Pyrex ring. Then my Michele watch and the silver bracelet Missy gave me. Layer upon layer. I feel safe. Identifiable. In known territory.

The phone rings. It's my daughter. Bad news. I feel the bracelet slip off, then my watch, and rings, then my sweater and scarf, quickly followed by t-shirt and underthings. Stripped in one phrase. I'm naked. I have nothing left to identify me, nothing left to cling to. I don't want anything - those things feel heavy to me right now, and anything even beyond what's in front of me is too much to even think about. How could I ever have surrounded myself with so much excess in the first place? How could I think that heaviness would be helpful to me? Help ground me or something?

I mentally shake my head and feel myself in a free fall, but it's not unpleasant. It's wide open, this white light place I'm falling toward, and I think it has to do with letting go of control, and of the illusion that things give us. Things aren't real. Nothing really is, if you think about it. Everything is just empty space, when everything is broken down to its base component. I think then - if all of this is stripped away, what is left? I look around, and all I see is white light. Maybe that's the answer. I guess we'll just have to keep falling and wait to find out more as we go.

Buy a handbag? Hah - give 10 away. I don't care anymore. Anyone's welcome to most everything I own. I open my doors to friends and family to look over everything - anything catch your eye? Because I'm pretty sure I can live without it. I'm pretty sure it would be good to live without it. It's just too much.

Waking up. I feel like Neo in the "Matrix." They said you can't wake people up after a certain point because their brains just can't make sense of the difference between their waking state and reality. I feel it. But I know it's not too late for me. Or for you. For us. Timing is everything. It's all perfect. But this waking up? It's just not what I thought it would be, but it's okay, I think. Just difficult. But who said difficult was bad? It's just... difficult. Stripped bare. Down to the White Light of the All That Is. Back to the Center, Home, my soul. Where there are no things, no separation, and no illusion.

Squirrel Time!

Winter's coming. Okay, sorry, that's depressing. Fall's coming. I see the squirrels hopping around the front lawn. Doing what? Gathering nuts for the long winter? Hence the phrase, squirreling away... I think of our huge family, four sisters and two parents, and our basement full of boxes of kleenexes, paper towels, napkins, soaps, soups, gum - lined up in neat rows so all we had to do was run down to the basement instead of to Warehouse Market when we were out of something, and we were almost always certainly out of something.

I inherited my parent's pioneer spirit. You should see my pantry - full of cans of crushed tomatoes, dried beans, pastas, raisins, honey, you know, the basics. We won't starve. For about three years. In the midst of all of this clutter shuffling, I took a long look at exactly HOW much extra foodstuffs and soaps and spare toothbrushes and everything I'd stored up, and I don't know, but I'm curious to see how far we can go before we have to buy anything new. So I'm doing the Seinfeld. Do you remember the episode when Kramer takes the car out into the country to see how far it can go on "E"? It was like 200 miles. It was an hysterical episode. Why am I remembering that one? Because I want to see how far we can go on "E", but the E doesn't stand for Empty, it stands for Extra. How much extra do we have, and how does it feel as that extra padding, that cushion, that safety net, evaporates into the here and now, the current, the present?

It honestly makes me nervous just thinking about it all. I think we can go until spring with the soaps and most of the larder. Gees, larder - see? Pioneer spirit, I'm tellin' ya. Pioneers say 'larder'. Also probably root cellar, I'm not sure. I stored our extra potatoes in the root cellar.

What is the purpose of this exercise? It's an ongoing thing, my friends - this whole "what do you REALLY need, and how much extra do you need, and WHY?" My friend Melissa says she buys one handbag at a time, then wears it out, then buys another. I turn my head a little, trying to comprehend what she's saying. I never USED to have so many handbags, until Kari got me started on rotating handbags and the importance of having several at a time. But I'm NOT a several handbag girl, either. I don't know how to 'do' that. Likewise with too many pairs of shoes. I'm pretty good at the whole jacket thing, though, if I may be honest. So maybe just as I can only use one handbag at a time, I only use one soap at a time, and don't need 25 bars in the cupboard to make me feel safe. I counted around 70 bottles of my mom's perfume as I cleaned out her bathroom cupboard. I am down to 7, and that still feels like too much. I will not buy any more perfume until all of my perfume is used up. I have four bottles of lotions. Same thing.

I remember one year that I had a lot of credit card debt. This was a long time ago. I decided to just 'stop spending money' and in the course of a year, I was not only out of debt, but had managed to save $14,000. I remember not feeling the difference in that huge amount of spending difference. I don't remember feeling deprived during that year of spending less; I don't remember thinking, "Gosh, I didn't get this, or get to do that..." I felt the same. So I didn't NEED to spend that extra money. It wasn't about the money. Just like now. I like the feeling of knowing my checking account balance is the same yesterday as today because I haven't spent any money. I don't need to. There's nothing I need right now. Groceries, yes. Gas, yes. That's about it.

Will this all make a difference in my life now, billions of years after the whole big spending debacle? Yes, I know how to spell 'debacle' - I don't know if that's a good thing or not. I think it is already making a difference. The energy once reserved for swirling catalogs and fashion websites has now moved over into the larger picture of my life - am I happy with my home, with my work, with myself? No? Then I have time and space to do something about it all, and that is worth every not-buying-another-handbag to me. Sifting through the piles of lotions and soaps is clearing my path for the new in my life. I'm letting the extra go, and letting the new come in. I like it. I like it a lot. Squirrels are cute, but not that cute. Time to pick another animal for my totem. I'll get back to you on that.

The Plane Truth (yes, it's related)

The dream happened 25 years ago, during a particularly rough time in my life. In the dream I'm walking across an open field and I look up into the sky only to see a giant plane headed right toward me. I know I'm going to get hit, so I stand tall and wait for impact. I feel a bump, then watch myself get smashed into a billion bits that fly all over the ground. Then I watch as piece by piece I come back together again until I stand where I am, only this time I'm bigger, and stronger and invincible. I walk away with light emanating from all around me.

That dream gave me courage to do some very difficult, but important things, and because these are big, important times right now, it didn't surprise me to have yet another plane dream last night (I have a LOT of airplane dreams, in fact).

One of my sons and I are in the body of the airplane, and it is emptied out of seats and everything. I get the feeling we're about to land, so we walk up to the cockpit and look in. One of my other sons (I don't remember if my 11 year old was flying the plane, or my 24 year old son). My daughter is the co-pilot. As I look through the windows, I see that we're on a steep, fast descent and about to crash. I realize the crash is imminent, so I say, "WHITE LIGHT" and look at all of my children and say, "I love you." Then everything goes white.

It wasn't until a friend of mine posted that my dream scared her because she has a lot of airplane dreams. I said, "This is a different take on a dream I had 25 years ago," then something inside of me clicked and I totally got it! This WAS the same dream as the one 25 years ago, only WE are the ones INSIDE the plane that HIT me 25 years ago!

My feelings in the dreams are the same in both - fear of total destruction followed by resignation and peace, and an even better outcome BECAUSE of the total destruction. Life is shifting at an almost unbelievably fast pace. I watch others zoooooooom by me, some in ecstasy over the changes and some in complete panic with the crumbling of foundations and approach of the unknown. Me? I feel both - almost always peaceful and expansive, clear and calm inside, but almost always fatigued and overwhelmed on the outside. It's hard to explain. I'm glad I'm off the low frequency of the red meat and pork - I know that's helping all of this. I'm glad I'm not spending any extra money - it's calming down a lot of dust that used to keep me confused and swirled up. I'm glad my life is shifting and changing, even if I don't like change. I'm glad the plane is crashing... again.... I trust that this is the complete circle that needed to happen - me as being the recipient of the new, and me AS the New that's smashing the old.

What does it mean? I have some clues, but I'll keep my theories to myself and choose to just keep making Gypsy Soup and double chocolate gourmet brownies, because in the end, it's the ride that matters, even if you see yourself ready to crash - the crash isn't the end - most likely it's only the beginning.

I Say Potato, you say Sodium Benzoate - say WHAT?

"What shall we have for dinner?"

"Let's use the last of the organic bison."

"K - what else? Oh, we can eat up this box of potato salad I got from the store."

"Uhm..."

The bison is delicious, topped with organic tomatoes, onions and lettuce, no bun. Still gluten-free. I don't try the potato salad. My 11 year old takes a bite.

"Ew, it makes me sick," he says.

I look at the side of the box (never look at the sides of grocery store boxes - just don't). Hang on - let me grab the box out of the garbage can. I'll be right back... okay, ready:

Ingredients: potatoes, salad dressing (water, soybean oil, corn syrups, vinegar, modified food starch, egg yolk, salt natural flavors (?), garlic, lemon juice, paprika, disodium EDTA, mustard, sugar, onions, red peppers, citric acid, sodium benzoate, and potassium sorbate.

No - not on my watch. I take out the eggs, peel the potatoes, and put them all on to boil. I cut up three stalks of celery, half an onion, and cut up some carrots (all organic). When the eggs and potatoes are done, I slice them all up and put them into a bowl, add the vegetables and squeeze some canola mayo and organic mustard over the top, add a splash of fresh horseradish, some Celtic sea salt and some freshly ground pepper. There. My ingredients, ready?

My ingredients: potatoes, eggs, celery, carrots, onions, canola mayo, mustard, salt, pepper (all organic, except I'm not sure about the pepper).

It's hard to be humble when it comes to my potato salad - I have never tasted anything better than it. It's not rocket surgery (as we always say), but it IS homemade and fresh, always. That's ALWAYS better, in my opinion. I whip up a batch of egg salad for Bill's lunch, and call it a night. All told, I've spent another hourish in the kitchen making more 'good' food. Then I think - I could make a big batch of my Carolina soup - fall's coming - I could make a double batch and freeze some in smaller containers to have ready quicker in case someone wants some soup and feels like reaching for that Campbell's chicken noodle (don't even ask - it was a HORRIBLE fight between me and Hubby over that soup - oh, and Spam).

Am I willing to spend maybe another hour a day in the kitchen, making sure we have all fresh food in our fridge, nothing out of a box? Let me reiterate - we do not have that much processed food in our house anyway. Yes, some chips - we like our Lay's - well, my son and hubby like Lay's. Uhm, that's about it - Hubby eats honey granola bars and organic licorice. That doesn't count, does it? It's organic. Still junk food (sort of), but still healthy ingredients.

Yes, I'm willing to do that for the health of our family. Not only that, for the TASTE and GOODNESS. That is a bigger motivator than anything, I think, as I remember my dear son's face as he bit into the yellow blob of 'potato salad', and him saying, "ew, this makes me sick." So not worth it. If I make the time, we'll have the food. NO sodium benzoate to be found. I don't even KNOW what is - I don't want to know that is, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't belong in food. Ew, this makes me sick." Yes, sweetie - me too.

Hamming it Up

I don't think about it much anymore, but sometimes it creeps in there. We were at the lakes all weekend, and buying groceries was uhm, interesting. I turn my back and see five bags of chips in the cart. I turn again and see two giant bags of trail mix. I turn again and see a mini-keg of root beer.

"Okay, you guys - let's kind of calm down on the snackage, please?" Pretty much all of us can stand to keep being mindful of our girlish figures, can't we? But it's vacation, I hear. Sigh. I won't be the big bad meanie mommie, I promise. We walk by the meat counter. Organic chicken? Organic turkey? Organic anything? It's Park Rapids, for crying out loud. Wait - yes - organic chicken - Bare - I wonder if that means it actually IS organic, or just trying to SOUND organic? I don't know. One dinner down. Organic hamburger? Sigh. No. No cows. Then Hubby spots it - organic BISON? Yes, PLEASE!

$400 later (hey - it's 48 hours with 6 of us, after all), we're at the cabin, unloading. One child walks in. "What's for dinner?"

"Bison burgers," I confidently say.

He wrinkles his nose and says, "I'm going into town to get something to eat."

I take a deep breath (I seem to be doing that a LOT lately) and say something about somewhere in amongst the $400 worth of groceries I'm certain he'll find something edible, which he does. Am I mean? Was I mean to put back the can of processed cheese spread and one of the trail mixes at the grocery store? Does making healthy food choices for the family always need to feel like I'm pulling teeth or slogging through mud or fighting World War III? I try the "be an inspiration" but it doesn't seem to be working. They just look at me cooking the stirfry while they munch their giant blueberry muffins from Starbucks.

I know my family appreciates the healthy food; I think I know that. My almost 12 year old just said "sometimes" he appreciates the healthy food in the house (I just asked him as he was walking up the stairs). My husband says, " of COURSE" in that voice of his. Oh, this was supposed to be about HAM!

So we went to the logging camp this morning. They brought out a huge plate of eggs, ham and hashbrowns, and another plate of pancakes. I looked at everything and wondered what would be the best choice. I had some scrambled eggs, two small pancakes and a dab of hashbrowns. I looked over and saw one of my family members eating slice after slice of ham, and I got nauseous. What am I supposed to do? Remove myself from society? Never eat out? I can't say anything to anyone - they're in charge of their bodies.

It gets so tricky, this eating thing. If I make it difficult, will they dig their heels in and eat MORE crappy food because they're mad at me and feel like I'm bossing them around? I didn't say anything when they bought those two pies, did I? I even had a forkful of each, even though they contained about 20 chemicals and ingredients I couldn't pronounce. I'm not a total dweeb. Just a sort of dweeb, I think. I don't know what else to do. Drink some more purified water and call it a night, I suppose. I'm sure there will be more food dilemmas waiting for me tomorrow.

No Moos is Good News?

"I'm making beautiful organic steak for dinner." We're in Bismarck, about to head up to Dad's for the evening after a productive day of decluttering our new home.

"That's great, Dad!" I brightly say.

Beautiful tomatoes, corn, carrots, potatoes and beets. And two beautiful huge t-bone steaks, ready to broil in the oven. I look at Shirley. She knows about the whole no cow thing. I think she's wondering if I'll cave in and eat steak with my dad. I could. I only promised to go one week, and it's been over a month. And I kind of wanted to, I won't lie. But when I looked at the steak and asked myself if I honestly wanted to eat it... I still kind of wanted to eat it. But I decided to not. I went to the fridge and looked around. Three slices of organic deli turkey. Mkay. Not organic t-bone, rare, chew the bone like a dog kind of meat, but doable. I'm lessening my animal protein, but I still find myself really ravenous and craving substantial food sometimes at night. Okay, I'm almost always ravenous these days, and I'd heard that not eating red meat would make you lose weight, but I am most definitely NOT losing any weight. Sigh.

I quietly put the turkey on my plate and Dad cut the steak and I put some on Shirley's plate and some on his. If he noticed I wasn't eating any he didn't say anything. It's no big deal, but for the first time I worried that I may offend someone by not eating what they'd cooked. It's my dad, for crying out loud. I love my dad more than anything in this world, and he's a perfect eater! All organic fruits and vegetables and salmon and nuts and yogurt and stuff. He's almost 89 and in perfect health. He's amazing. So when he's eating the steak, I remember his famous life motto: everything in moderation, and I'm thinking about my whole no animal protein thing I'm leaning toward.

I used to love eggs, and now I haven't eaten one in two weeks. I only eat chicken and turkey now, and only a few meals a week. Mostly beans. I need to learn how to cook them ungassey, I think. And up to 15 fruits and vegetables a day - it's astounding to me! And THAT all feels good. It's just this feeling that came up of "you mean I can NEVER eat any of this stuff again? What if I WANT to?" And I think I'm just going to have to keep working with that as I go, dealing with it as it comes up, staying curious and open and flexible about it. Making choices day by day, one step at a time. Let go and let god? Hmmmm... maybe that's the alcoholic's motto, I'm not sure. Maybe they're interchangeable. I wonder what's for dinner? There's leftover corn, stir fry purple cabbage and organic chicken and rice, Bill's potatoes and some organic lettuce for salad. Yes, that will do. Again and again.

Super Warrior Biatch to the Rescue!

It started on Monday evening. Remember the restlessness? Well, fully paralyzed by 7PM, I took a few deep breaths and looked at my options. One: stay paralyzed and keep complaining about life's difficulties and unfairness, or Two: summon all of my inner Warrior Biatch to come to the forefront. I got interested. Maybe I'll try number Two. I dropped all of my previous feelings about overwhelm and messes and garbage and sorting and put on my mantle (or it mantel? Am I a fireplace?) of Zena imperviousness. I already know how to ululate, so I'm that much more prepared already.

Shirley and I drove to Bismarck Tuesday morning. We stopped at Staple's and picked up 10 boxes, then went to Dan's County Market and bought 10 tote boxes, then went to Captain Jack's and bought a bottle of wine. Fully equipped, we went back to the house. As we looked around at the piles and piles of stuff, we made a plan. I knew what needed to be done, but didn't know quite HOW to get it done. Shirley started talking. It's interesting to me that at that point I was looking right at her, and I knew she was talking, but I couldn't comprehend anything she was saying. I think my brain just shut down with the sheer mountain of work facing us. Our house is beautiful - almost 3000 square feet on the river - high ceilings, high countertops, lots of light and open space. I could retire there. And it was inevitable that I'd have to sort through Mom's makeup, Dad's computer equipment, family archives and documents, papers, furniture, pictures, and everything else accumulated in 88 years of living.

Two piles: Dakota Boy's Ranch and dumpster. 200 garbage sacks. Go. We worked straight for 7 hours with nary an extra breath. At one point I remember telling Shirley that I'm channeling my inner princess because I most certainly know how to point and give commands, but I'm not so keen on the physical labor part of it all. We moved quickly from the kitchen to the front room to the master bedroom to the master bathroom. I opened the cupboard and there it all was. Mom's brush with her hair still on it, her favorite lipsticks and perfumes, all lined up in neat rows. I ran my hand over all of it, closing my eyes, feeling her presence. I felt my energy shrinking inside of me and I leaned against the sink, whispering, "oh oh oh". Shirley walked in, took my elbow and said, "Let's go out to the deck and have some wine."

I wanted to save Mom's brush with her hair in it, but I knew I had to shove it into the garbage sack and let it go. Let her go. Is it even possible for us to get through the entire house in 24 hours? Most definitely not. Let's go. And go and go. We finished the master bathroom and moved upstairs to the loft and the hundreds (thousands?) of books in the bookshelves, the back storage room full of documents, Dad's computer stuff and files. Go go go go go go. Off to lunch, then Shirley has to head back to Fargo. I take a deep breath and walk into the downstairs office, the last of the beasts, piled 6 feet high with furniture, tote boxes, pillows, books, photo albums. Go go go. I remember Warrior Biatch and call upon her, emptying dresser drawers, looking through every single piece of every single everything. Go go go go. Make a pile for my sisters, another pile for my dad to go through, another pile for me. Go go go. The movers are coming at 5 to transfer everything out to the garage. I have almost all of the garbage (hey - there's only one extra letter in the word 'garbage' than 'garage') put into bags, and all of the giveaway in boxes. The doorbell rings - I look up, glazed and dazed; my back is frozen, I can't stand upright. I can't walk. I take a deep breath, try to get centered, and look around me. The office is done. I can't believe it. In 24 hours we managed to do the impossible, and Shirley tells me she's impressed, but I think she's more shocked than anything. She admitted that she thought she'd have to pry everything out of my hands, yet she found herself pulling out the swirled glass water pitcher for me to keep.

I kept three mixing bowls to take back to Fargo because mine are all broken and I don't want to buy more. The house is totally empty except for a bed in the master bedroom, a futon in the front room, and the dining room hutch we never moved. I saved two small dressers for the basement so we could set up extra bedrooms for the kids. I saved some books for my sisters to go through later, not wanting to haul them all to Fargo. The moving men packed the entire back of my car with things for my sisters, and piled the rest of the house into the garage.

Exhausted, I decide to sweep and mop the floors before I leave. Sure, why not? One hours later, I find I can't stand up again. I crawl to the futon, let the sun hit me in the face, and drinking my water, feel the silence and the openness all around me. This is work well done. I want to stay overnight, to rest, to have silence, but family obligations pull me eastward and I'm home by 9:30. 2 1/2 hours, 85 miles an hour, no stops.

I won't tell you what happened at our house this morning, but I will tell you that if I ever thought I'd catch a break, or get to rest one second, I apparently am mistaken. Life continues to squeeze at me and I get to continue to figure out my responses. Apparently I am some warrior biatch because I keep getting opportunities to kick butt. But if I am honest with you, I would rather just sleep right now. I would rather get on an airplane and fly to a spa, where I would get massages, and mint juleps, and foot rubs and facials, and disappear for a while. Yes, that would be nice. Even warrior biatches need breaks, too.