Oh, I do so often feel as if I am behind my peers.

I also feel as if I have wasted time and my talents by not having more to show as a writer.

Now that my life is a little more stable and I am not currently in the midst of a whirlwind of drama, I have committed to writing more – and bigger. It’s time for me to get serious about writing a book.

Shit or get off the pot, Honey; if you’re not going to do it now, then quit pretending that you’re ever going to do it.

But, here’s the kicker with that:

Writing about my life means sifting through all of the past pain, remembering every little detail of every little (or big) hurt.

And as my writer friend and I bonded over yesterday, writing about the trauma is traumatizing. Asking oneself to relive brutal moments takes a serious toll on a soul.

I cry at the drop of a hat. All I want to do is watch tv and check out.

I’m mad, all over again, at anyone who has done me wrong.

I feel lonely and scared and just fucking exhausted.

My tank is empty. The reserves have dried up.

Did I mention that I cry all of the time?

And yet, as impossible as this all feels, as much as I want to give up, maybe even check myself into a psych ward for a while, some really good writing is coming out of it.

That makes it all worth it.


It really is all in my head

I used to live next door to a gal with a TBI. She had to write everything on post-its.

Brush your teeth

Turn off the lights

The market is two blocks down and one over

Your boyfriend’s name is Scott.

So I know what a brain injury can do to a person. And yet, when I find evidence that my brain no longer functions quite right, I am surprised.

And disbelieving.

And the last concussion was a really bad one but I hit my head on day one of the eruption of my world four years ago, so I never paid any attention to it.

I know it contributed to how I handled things then. I literally did not have my head on straight.

So in complete denial about any concussion repercussions, I googled, “why is my spatial awareness getting worse?”

Which translates into, “why have I become such a stumble-fuck?”

Like, seriously, it has become problematic and quite embarrassing. I fall down ALL THE TIME.

I get boats stuck on rocks every time I get on the oars. I used to be a good boatwoman.

I was a trail runner and a climber and a telemarker and mountain biker and a dancer. And now I can barekly trust myself to walk across the kitchen.

I tripped over a tent cord and ate shit in front of a couple of people who jumped up with, “Oh my god are you okay?” One of my boys’ best friends was also witness to this and sat back laughing and said, “This is her normal.”

It has gotten progressively worse over the years. My spatial awareness was never great, but as a child, I thought I just didn’t have great eye-hand coordination. It was not problematic, especially since I never wanted to play field hockey anyway.

But now, like I said, I fall down. Eat shit. Land on my face. Skin my knees. Twist my ankles. Stub my toes. I have bruises that I can’t account for, scratches and scrapes on my shins, my back, my face.

I break things because I put them down too close to an edge. I can’t park my truck any more. I’m 4 feet from the curb on average.

I got pulled over in Idaho for cutting someone off on I-15. I didn’t see the car AT ALL. I then took back roads through Utah because I didn’t feel safe driving on the highway.

It’s bad. It has seriously gotten worse over time.

What did Google tell me about my problem?

Well Lady, it could be the result of a head injury.

Well shitdamn, I never thought of that.

Which, I am beginning to think is a result of the concussions; I have lost my ability to see the obvious.

When I was maybe 3 or 4, I jumped up onto the kitchen counter and head my head full force on the cabinet above. It was painful enough that I still think of it today.

When I was 6, I went through the windshield head first. This was before we knew about concussions or chiropractors.

Or seatbelts for that matter.

When I was 40-something I hit my head on the ground skiing (or falling really).

When I was 50-something I hit the top of my head on a beam above me and lost consciousness for a split second.

A little more reading showed me where the stumble-fuck control system lies in our brain and, yep, you guessed it, I’ve hit it right on the noggin, so to speak, at least twice, most likely more than that.

They say that once you bang your head, you are more likely to do it again and again…because you lose spatial awareness.

So, why did I have to do a google search to figure out what has happened to my grace and poise. How did I not put 2 and 2 together?

It must be the brain tumor.

and so it begins…

summer in the desert

a switch flipped and I have become nocturnal

I haven’t been home for a couple of days

it’s cooler out there in the rest of the world

all day today I have been sluggish



I went for a walk in a total fog

each step a challenge

couldn’t eat

couldn’t do much of anything

I despaired over the to-do list pushed aside

but now the sun is behind the canyon walls

the evening breeze is rustling the leaves of my ash tree

the colors are muted





now I am ready to start my day

Well that’s just fucked up


One of my favorite fragrances in the entire world is blooming russian olive. It’s right up there with fresh lilacs and ocean air.

Turns out, that I am viciously allergic to blooming russian olive and am suffering greatly as the scent wafts into my house. My head is so fucking clogged up that I can barely remember my own name. Everything itches: eyes, nose, throat, scalp, skin, hair follicles.

As my boys would say, I feel like ass.

It makes waking up tough. TAM makes waking up worth it.

But to wake up to this shit…


When I worked at the alternative high school in town, I had a student who was deeply troubled; he had a really rough family life. He was smart and always respectful with me. I’d say that out of all of the teachers there, I was probably the one he opened up to and trusted the most.

He was also the dark brooding type that would have gotten me into a LOT of trouble in high school. But since I was old enough to be his grandma, the brooding was just annoying.

He lived in my town and I often saw him around. Once I watched him make a purchase in front of the local meth factory. He didn’t have a car, he hitchhiked often. I always picked him up when I saw him.

I figured that it was better to stay on the good side of the local crackhead.

And then, he pulled his shit together. Cleaned up his act. Got a job, bought a truck, had a seriuous relationship.

We’d run into each other at the City Market or reach out on Facebook and catch up, maybe once every couple of years.

He has messaged me a few times this week (out of the blue after at least a year) – just saying “hey,” but something felt off and I hadn’t responded.

Periodically, I’ve wondered if he was flirting with me and then I’d brush it off as ridiculous. But I was never 100% sure.

Until this morning’s text:

“Good Morning. Me thinking about your booty is a great thing” followed by some self-satisfied looking emojis.

We can all guess what was happing on his end of things. Morning wood and all.

I feel so violated. I feel nauseous. And shakey. And grossed out. And, and, and…

I feel unsafe. Like someone used me for sex without my permission.

(Nope, not in crisis. I’m okay – just feeling icky. Going to take a shower.)

And of course, as a teacher who thought she’d somehow helped a kid, I feel like a big fat idiot.

I’ve taken all of the appropriate steps to block him, but…

What the fuck?


Celebratory dinner with my child and his girlfriend. They begin their new lives on Monday. I’ve been trying to soak up as much time as possible with them before they go away. I am also trying to make that time good. We have had such rough years, where every interaction ended in conflict, and we have finally turned a corner, so I am not going to fuck it up by starting shit, especially about their father.

I’ve learned my lesson about reacting to his bullshit around the boys

So at dinner, we were reminiscing about something, a time in our lives, and my child conveys what his father has said about a certain situation. The kids were young and they participated in something with lots of their friends and in hindsight, (years later we discover…) some risky shit went on. And it doesn’t matter the subject, or the situation, or the words that their father spoke. The problem is in the message he sent to my children which was,

“That moment was the beginning of the end for me because your mother knowingly put you in danger since she cared more about her friend than she did you.”

  1. I HAD NO IDEA. So “knowingly” is a lie. And he knows that because he didn’t know either. No one knew. I found out 15 years later. If I’d had any idea I would NEVER.
  2. It had nothing to do with friendships and everything to do with what I thought was a great thing for my children.
  3. If he had such a problem with it why didn’t he ever say so? Not. A. Peep. EVER.
  4. If that was “the beginning of the end” why did it take him SEVEN more years to finally do something about it?

And because I am determined to make these last few moments together really good ones, I didn’t say, “Your dad’s a dick,” or anything else along those lines.

But I sure wanted to.

I created enough mess in their lives that needs to be cleaned up. I can’t tackle another mess that he created for me to clean up.

Asshat (Thank you for the word, Susan)

What the fuck?


I have created a little oasis in my yard for the songbirds. I provide food, water, shade, and flowers.

They provide entertainment.

Finches, sparrows, redwing black birds, collared, mourning, and white wing doves.

Cowbirds gurgle while quail chortle and hummingbirds dive-bomb my pink sunglasses.

Towhees, black-headed grosbeaks, kingbirds, blue heron, and a peregrine falcon.

They all make distinct noises which blend together to create a backdrop of music that plays all day and well into the evening.

It is my joy, my serenity, my sanity.

The soundtrack of my life.

Last night there was a newcomer perched on a dead branch of the doves’ favorite tree. I couldn’t see him well – it was dusky and he was just far enough away that I couldn’tdetermine who he was.

I zoomed my camera lens in on him and saw that the 15 or so different bird calls I was hearing in the moment were all coming out of his beak.

He sat on-high chirping, twittering, chortling, cooing…


He alone makes my yard sound like an aviary; the hundreds of other birds are the choir.

I love him.


We all know how much I adore my mother. I rave about her all of the time. Call her my very best friend.

She’s driving me up the fucking wall and I’m not sure if it’s me or her.

She’s always been critical and judgmental – of everyone, but mostly of me. Somehow I’ve learned to let it all roll off my back. I haven’t always been good at it but with the grace of age, I have not let it bother me at all.

I also think that with the grace of age, she has been less bothersome.

When it’s just her and just me, we have so much fun. We see eye to eye on so many things, laugh at the same moments. We’ve even been able to talk politics just a tiny bit.

Until we get to say, borders, BLM, and whether or not Jesus had blond hair and blue eyes.

But lately, I’ve been feeling like she has an opinion on everything that isn’t consistent with mine and there is no hesitation in telling me mine is wrong.

Let’s talk about my hair; the hair that my thrifty father, on his deathbed, paid to have cut off. “Women of a certain age don’t wear their hair long.”

The reality is, I like my hair long. I can pull it back, or up, or wherever it goes after 3 days of not showering. TAM likes my hair. I’ve got great hair; hair that “women of a certain age” don’t often have. I’m going to grow it out.

But that’s created great consternation on her part and her consternation is causing great annoyance on my part.

Yesterday I mentioned TAM and me visiting a (best) friend on our way to visit her. Her response, “You don’t want to do that.”

Or, “You don’t really want to live with the snakes and conservatives (two different things – in this conversation), when are you going to move back to M-town?”

She still hasn’t asked anyone to read my 7-page essay to her.

She disagrees with my decision to give up her china because it’s going to cost me close to $1000 to get it from Florida to Colorado.

A THOUSAND DOLLARS for some plates?

No. Just no.

My job? Helping (mostly men of color) find justice? “They must be guilty of something or they wouldn’t have been convicted.”

Lots and lots of snorts and not-comments about my children and their life adventures because…

Those adventures do not currently include college.

Both are in amazing, successful, supportive relationships. One just bought his own business and the other one is moving and receiving job offers left and right because he is so good at what he does.

The third child is living independently but still needs guidance and direction. “He’s got to grow up sometime and quit depending on you.” Which he doesn’t. He just calls to say happy Mother’s Day.

I don’t understand why her words seems so offensive lately. It feels as if the pandemic has somehow exacerbated the issues.

Has she had too much time alone? Is she getting old and bitter? Is this grief?

Or is it that her filter is broken?

I don’t know but it is impacting my fondness for talking to her. We normally talk every day-ish, but lately, when I think of picking up the phone to call her, I hesitate.


Because I know that as soon as she picks up the phone she’s going to tell me that my landline sucks and “Don’t (I) want to move back to town so I have better service?”

the difference between my mother and me

or at least one of the differences

I was speaking with one of my clients the other day. He is an inmate in Michigan who claims total innocence in the murder for which he was convicted.

I believe him.

Whether or not he’s actually telling me the truth remains to be seen, but I honestly believe he shouldn’t be where he is. And he’s there for life. And he’s 33.

His co-defendant is a different story. I’m not so sure that he’s guilt-free.

That too remains to be seen.

So my client and I share a birthday. While we were talking he asked what I did for my special day.

I actually had an entire special weekend complete with boating and hollandaise, and bloody marys, and hot springs, lots of fabulous sex, and a lemon chiffon cake.

I felt so uncomfortable answering. I felt guilty.

Ironic, right, when talking to a convicted murderer. But yes, I felt absolutely terrible telling my guy just how much fun I had while his day was another shitty one in confinement with no choice of meals, no homemade cake, no lounging in hot water under the sun while birds and bunnies and bears wandered around 20 yards from where we sat.

I felt insensitive going on about it so I just told him that I went rafting.

It’s one thing to say to Ted Bundy that I’m enjoying my freedom. It’s another thing completely to tell an innocent man whose entire life has been ripped out from under him because of a flawed system that I’m going out and having fun when he should be doing the same.

His response, “Fuck, I can’t wait to be free so I can try something like that.”

And my heart breaks and I am more determined than ever to help this man.

And then I think, “Well, maybe when he gets out (fingers crossed)I’ll take him on the river. Wouldn’t that be an amazing way to celebrate his freedom.”

Then I think, “Wouldn’t it be cool to put together a river trip for a bunch of exonerees?”

How fun would that be?

And I picture myself rowing a raft through a canyon, with a bunch of very large tattooed black men who have never done anything like this and have barely been outside for most of their adult lives. And I think it sounds like a total hoot.

And wouldn’t it be so healing for them?

So here’s where my mom comes in.

When she and I talk about my work, she asks, “How do you know if they’re telling the truth? Anyone will say anything to get out of prison.”

“What if you get the wrong person out?”

“They wouldn’t have gotten convicted if they were innocent.”

“They must be guilty of something.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“You don’t tell them where you live do you?”

As if any murderous felon from across the country would be able to find me lost in the canyons.

When I say that I really like one of my clients, she purses her lips, shakes her head and says, “You’ve always been so easily persuaded.”

As if any person who tells me that they are innocent is lying and I am just a gullible fool who fell for someone’s bullshit once again.

She thinks it’s dangerous for me to be communicating with killers, but I’ll take a murderer over someone like my ex any day. Way less dangerous.

She would try, no doubt, as she is still my mommy, to forbid me to go on this river trip. She would fear for my life.

Is my he’s-lying-through-his-teeth detector fully functioning? Could I possibly be wrong about someone’s innocence? Is my client truly a cold-blooded killer? Hopefully, maybe, maybe.

I tell my mom that just because someone has been convicted of a crime doesn’t mean that it has actually been undeniably determined that they pulled the trigger, so to speak. Those lips purse again, the head, almost imperceptibly, moves back and forth, the eyes roll; she is cynical while I want to believe the best of everyone.

I begin with the premise that they are, as they claim, innocent, until it is proven to me, in no uncertain terms, that they are guilty.

Wait, that sounds kind of familiar…

more on friends and friendships

I spoke the other day about navigating friendships and wanting to be a part of a group. I’m not and for whatever reasons, probably never will be.

So, it’s the individual relationships that deserve my attention.

One of the things that many of my female friends are saying these days is, “I want to choose a few women who I really value having in my life and nurture those relationships…consciously, carefully, and with love.”

I don’t know if it’s an age thing or a pandemic thing or just wisdom speaking, but the women who have declared this as their truth are the women who inspire me and make me feel complete in who I am.

I am accepted and loved.

The funny thing is that these are primarily women who I aspire to be like, yet feel as if I’ve got a very long way to go to achieve that aspiration; I am not in their league.

The writers, the healers, the teachers. The women who move through motherhood with grace while also accepting their parenting failures with honesty, humility, and humor.

These are the women who feed us all, fight for the planet, for our community, for our children.

They love their children and the earth equally and unabashedly. Some even share my passion for the desert.

They are my Red Dirt Girls.

Well, except for one. She declared a few years ago, “I don’t care about being near wilderness – it’s not my thing. Give me a park with some grass and a bike trail and I am happy.”

To her I say, “You be you honey and I love you all the more for NOT fitting into the mold.”

These women are wise.

These women are compassionate.

These women are kind, ethical, integrous, and passionate.

They are willing and able to be raw, vulnerable, honest, and exposed.

They are funny; in a lighthearted way and, in a laugh-at-the-funeral sort of way.

Some of them know each other. Some of them love each other. Some have no idea who the other is.

When I had small children, friendships seemed so easy, so effortless. Every day I’d get up, feed everyone, then figure out a way to share the day with other moms and thier kiddos. It made for natural intimacy.

But with time, the commonality of overwhelm-by-toddler shifts into football and jobs and carpooling. As paths cross less frequently and lives veer off in different directions, just “being” no longer feeds that intimacy at a steady pace.

One has to actually make the effort. A skill not readily at my fingertips.

It means phone calls and plans and driving and commitment.

All of which I am resistant to.

A lifetime of emotional turmoil of navigating relationships with girls, understanding loyalty and security, has given me insight into what makes for a good friend and what makes for a disposable one.

This insight must also be applied to me. I must impart this wisdom upon myself and act on it. I do not want to be disposable.

When the phone rings, I struggle to answer, but I am forcing myself to pick up the handset and say, “Hello.”

When someone tries to make plans in advance, I tell myself, promise actually, that I will not back out at the last minute. That one is surprising many who have come to expect that I will automatically be a no-show.

I am learning to say no to TAM sometimes because I have plans with one of my gals. This is a big one for me; I am historically the one who puts the boyfriend before the girlfriends. Fortunately, for the very first time in my life, I have a partner who supports these actions and doesn’t make girls’ night all about him.

As much as putting energy into freindships exhausts me, as much as reaching out goes against my natural inclinations, I am attempting to step out of my comfort zone because I understand that to get anything out of a friendship, I’ve got to put something into it.

And, be it pandemic or age or wisdom, I grasp that the time is now, because I am currently surrounded by women who are magnificent and inspiring, and if I want to continue to be surrounded by goddesses, I have to make them feel as if I actually care about them too.

Which I do.


And with gratitude.

Red Red Wine

I think I am going to get drunk and morose tonight

I’ve got a bottle of red wine that I picked up at the liquor store this morning at 7:45 AM.

Yes, you read that right: the closest booze to my house in the middle of nowhere is open before eight o’clock in the morning.

God Bless America

Anyway, I am feeling really sorry for myself tonight and wondering, as many of us have done when it comes to our families, “Why did I think it would be different this time?”

And worse, “Why can’t I get over it?????”

Why do I still need the approval, the kudos?

Why must I continue hoping to be seen, when it’s never going to happen?

Most of the time I can shrug it off. With love, forgiveness, and acceptance, comes peace. But every once in a while, something happens in my world that is so big and fabulous, (and not too left-leaning) that I think to myself, “Oh they can’t help but sit up and take notice now.”

But they don’t. There is just absolutely zero interest in my world. Nada.

Of course, my wonderful mom in interested in plenty of my world – that’s why we’re friends – but no one dares to go near the WHO that I AM.

Because I am foreign to them. To them, the landscape of my home and my soul is a frightening, uninteresting, sagebrush sandpile.

They don’t speak of connection to place. They don’t think of it.

They don’t speak of a lot of things that I do.

I am impolite society.

And radical.

As a result, no one in my family has ever read anything that I have written unless I’ve specifically sent it to them.

And sometimes, not even then.

They don’t think of me as a writer. Some might not even know that I can write.

And it bugs me.

So I finally get published. In a book. With a cover. With other gifted writers and poets. And my essay is only seven pages long.

And no one has found time to read it.


Working hard

I pay a lot of money to have an office one day a week. Thursdays are my power days; my phone works, I have high speed internet, No dirty laundry distracting me. I rock and roll in m office.

And then, like now, I’m just not feeling it. So instead I’m googling corgi puppy videos, Stephen Colbert, and Hilarious Wedding Fails.

This is what I found:

There are many things to spark a comment here, but I’m stuck on the fact that the gal that wears a prissy, virginal, all-covered-up wedding dress and angelic headband, WITH TENNIS SHOES is not usually the same gal showing off her knickers on stage at a party
SOOOOOO uncomfortable. Is there a Groom’s cake too? Who cuts into this? Murder or suicide? And lastly…where do you cut? Do you cut off limbs, a boob, or do you go full on and stab directly into the vagina rose?
The commentary focused on the chickens (a play on releasing doves for good luck), but not one mention of the dress. Really?


I love this man. I want to be friends with him

No words necessary