It's All About the Journey

There I am, on my knees in front of the refrigerator, scrubbing...what may be a dried puddle of celery remains, from the bottom after taking out the drawer, washing it and all of its contents and spraying this crusty, bourbon-colored sludge with something that smells of grapefruit. And I'm doing a fantastic job. None of that scrubbing too hard or I've not got enough paper towels or I started in the wrong part of the mess and I'm just spreading it around nonsense. Honestly, this feels like one of the wins of my week. Then for absolutely no reason I can explain: tears. I've reached a new level of pathetic. I'm not scrubbing in absolute fury, I'm scrubbing in absolute helplessness. I realized that my scrubbing is like someone else's self-sabotage. I do these things so that I feel like I have an ounce of control over any situation right now. I do not. And I am absolutely doing the best I can. I wonder if it could be the new anti-anxiety med I'm taking. Gener...

Yesterday was my first class of the UGA grant writing certification course I decided to take. I've thought about learning grant writing for a long time. It always appealed to me because you need both the brain and the heart. I am a whole mess of both. It's rated one of the top five in the country. I am up to the challenge. I was asked if I'm a veteran. No. But my father was a Vietnam veteran. And then that banana moment of near-vulnerability. I have no idea what my eyes said. What my face said. All I know is that moment of pity. When I tell. Goddammit, I hate that moment. That moment is why I don't tell. And it wasn't even the whole thing. I just said "rather tragic personal experiences." The whole room made that sound. I'd die happy without that sound ever again in my ears. I think that is why I ended up here, in this place I belong. In the same way people hollowly pity me, they thank these men for what they've sacrificed. Except it's hollow w...

Today is my favorite anniversary. Nineteen years ago, I became. And he became. Two people were born that day, my only child, and his mother.  I still wish for another day with that baby. With the little boy. With the almost-man. I never dreamed that he would be my whole life. I’ve never really been an adult without a child. At the time, it seemed like a monumental task, like my whole plan had been derailed, deferred. We all know now that the universe will make its own plans and all we can do is “lasso brighter futures, let it drag us both behind.” I know birthdays are about the born, but as selfish as it seems today, I think they’re about those who bear too. About bringing out the very best in a very ordinary thing. A thing that happens every second of every day. 11:38am, April 13th 2005, my only baby was born. An ordinary moment, but never an ordinary boy, from the very moment he breathed. The nurse held him up in the bright lights of the operating room, eyes wide open, not makin...

I so rarely remember my dreams. For some reason, it's usually on nights that I don't sleep well or don't sleep long enough. Last night was both. I went to bed by 10pm so I could get enough sleep and still get up and wash my hair. At 3:15, I awoke to some rather loud thudding that I was unable to identify but could hear over my white noise app. It continued. I knew that the boy was the source, so I called him. He says he prefers calls to texts. At 3am, I prefer a quick death. Apparently, he had loaded rocks in my dryer and then left the laundry room door open, just outside my bedroom. I asked him to close the door. He did get up and stop the dryer. Bless his sweet self. His sweet, oblivious, 3am self. I laid there, sweating and trying to fight the sheet over me and under the huge cat, with my back aching. I got out of bed at 4 and wandered down to the coffee maker. It's well made and strong this morning, thank dog for small blessings. I lamented often recently that with ...

Some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia. Fuzzy-socked feet, green ottoman. The old standard.  I started the day waking up a little late because I went to a show last night. Josiah and the Bonnevilles will always have my heart. He's what we hope musicians will be when we go to see them. He is so happy to be on the stage. He's humble and gracious and energetic and engaged with the audience. I think he almost teared up when he mentioned that they'd left up his marquis because they'd needed to add "SOLD OUT' underneath his name. He's been chasing this dream for twenty years and his big break was the pandemic. That's when I found him. Maybe he just needed time to become the musician he is now.  I sang so loudly, I should have been told to shut up during "Jersey Giant" at the lyric "Lord, I loved to hear you wail./ High and lonesome, hard and strong/ even if it was a little out of tune." I got all teary. I felt like he looked right a...