GARY - Inked

September 18th of 2009

I always have tattoo ink on me, my fingers stained, my pants smeared from wiping my hands. Shirts? Fuhgeddaboutit. Dots, splots, speckles and spatters. Take a picture and you can play the Rorshach game with it. I think I see a wizard holding a glass . . .

I do all the work it takes to set up, to prepare to get ready to put ink on the skin because I love it. I love creating something on someones skin and hearing them say, "I love it."

I got stories for a hundred and one-teen American endless nights. They all end up with me having ink on me, stained beyond removal. We all end up with ink on us. It's the cost of doing what we love. Mostly for who we love.

B.B. [King] said he did what he did because love came to town. Amen O-G {means 'original gangster' as initially used by true gang members; now it can also refer to a pioneer and master in any given field}. Amen.

Why in the hell isn't there a complaint desk somewhere? Somebody to tell me why? Scratch that. I'll tell you why. The reason is we wouldn't have time to do anything else. We'd be at that sucker every damn day.

Those of us who have people who actually listen to us, well, words fail miserably when it come to explaining what that means. It means the difference between choosing life over death, to the other option.

So, like, I used to be just a recovering addict & convict, but now I have mentally diseased tagged onto the end there. Kind of like a tail on a kite, blowin' in the wind, string broken, flailing at each gust of wind. So, yeah, I'm what you call a triple threat. A guy's gotta have a repertoire, ya' know? {He put after this sentence: Don't even check the spelling, just ride with it.}

There's a certain freedom that comes when you've just laid down the last little piece of security-blanket- bullshit-lies you've been telling yourself & the world forever. "This is me. I'm all the way me. Dinged-up, cylinders misfirin', oil leakin', primer-red, rust-bucket me."

I'm thirty five on November 26 this year. Fifteen years in prison, jail, and now I'm off to the place where they give you fancy white coats that save you the trouble of using your own arms, like a sucker, when you could be sucking your meals thru a straw and living in a clean, white, soft-walled cubicle. Mmm . . .

But, seriously, it beats prison with a huge stick. I believe I'll retire the old J-21474 tag on my handle, thank you very much. {That 'tag' was his identity in prison; any letter sent his way without that number was sent back. When he was released last October, I was over-the-moon with the idea of never writing it again. I've actually had to train my brain NOT to write it on letters now; it's not required on the county level. I want to keep it that way!}

Close your eyes (after you read this) and remember . . . remember your first kiss, your first broken puppy-loved heart. Think on the people & moments what made ya' who ya' be. Think of all those terrible, painful moments in your life that put one more solid, true piece of wisdom inside you, never to be shaken out of the great basket of unchanging stuff in life.

The true, the real, the loves & honesties are gonna be the same for eternity, like it or not. Might as well just accept those ink stains as the price of admission. It's well worth all the other stuff that comes with it.

It's been a long time since I've written anything like this. {I guess he doesn't consider his incredible letters to me, so expressive, so open, so very THERE, in that statement.} Something that actually flowed out of me. It's nearly 2AM & I have court at 10AM. I got the rest of my life to sleep, right?

I phoned my sis (the one who so graciously zapped this to you after typing it out) at 10:30PM last night, 12:30AM her time & asked her to explain to me [that] this is real and not some big game where they take it back at the last minute and send me up for six hundred years.

Yeah, prison-hardened me, callin' a girl to give me a phone hug and tuck me in for the night. {Gee, when is the last time I was referred to as a girl? But, I often call him a boy.} Funny thing. I'd do it again right now, if I could. {Funny thing, I'd give fifty phone calls just to tuck him in for the night in person right now.}

There is no moral [here]. No hook. No poetic justice. No ironically genius epipharrific jazz. Just remember to appreciate the ink stains on your life & self. Rub some off on some deserving soul near you. Here, come a bit closer. Let me flick a drop or two on you . . .

You're the lead actor in your movie. Be a good thespian & ham it up a bit. Don't take any of this shit too serious. Nobody leaves this world alive. Enjoy it 'cause it's unbelievably short.

L8R, -- Me

My brother needs to get his stories out there. As long as he wishes, I hope for this blog to exist as a forum for that necessary expression and expulsion of demons, episodes, memories and events. I don't care how he writes those words, in what order or array, as long as he just does it as the old Nike adage goes. (GRIN!)

On the subject of tucking in -- a short revelatory history: I did not read this post before transcribing it. It came to me new as the sentences entered my mind via my eyes, did a short circuit through my heart, and found its way here from the rote action of my ten digits. This morning during my walk while listening to "The Count of Monte Cristo" on my IPOD, hoping against hope that Monsieur Morrel would not do the noble thing and shoot himself to preserve his family honor, I found myself clutching my hand to my chest as a flashback from my precious time with Gary during his freedom last year hit me hard. The emotion overwhelmed me with its tenderness and its ferocity of feeling.

We enjoyed several late nights and early mornings of endless chatter, catching up and laughing and just being. At the end of these nights, I sank into Brother John's couch with my comforter while Gary pushed his air mattress as close to the couch as it could go without actually becoming one with the piece of furniture. When he was snuggled in, with his eyes covered beneath his t-shirt out of sheer habit - guards shining their flashlights into the cell at all hours of his sleeping cycle for years on end - he would reach up to find my face and lightly, quickly, so earnestly trace my features to reassure himself that I was, indeed, there. To ensure I was not an apparition dreamed up by his fevered and lonely mind. To prove his freedom a real and solid thing with a new cast of characters of his own choosing and hoping. Once reassured, he would either hold my hand for a time or simply rest his arm on the couch until we both nodded off, with him experiencing some of the most relaxed sleep he'd ever had since his early childhood. To point, he really was as a child in these tender moments. It both broke and boosted my heart.

Can you imagine?

Fall-l-l-ing

Fall has arrived. This year the acorns are enormous and picture-perfect. No, Martha Stewart perfect! I would enjoy admiring a bowl full of them on my dining room table. It's easier than attempting to fit the entire oak tree in my home. Much like the turning leaves in hues of browns and reds and all manner of earthy shades in between, acorns for me signal the changing of the guard. I've been their biggest secret fan since I first laid eyes on them in Seattle, Washington as a small girl. The tree-lined streets in older neighborhoods offered a visual feast of the squirrel snacks in clusters along the branches and in dizzying array at the foot of their parents. They stir my desires to wear long-sleeves and jeans; to sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg atop the foam on my chai lattes; to place lovely pumpkins of all proportions on my porch and patio; to light a blaze in our outdoor fireplace and watch the flames with my family; and . . . to handle the damp and malodorous football clothes in my son's gym bag after football practice.

Sc-r-r-r-r-a-a-t-ch-ch-h-h the needle on the record! Hold up a red hot minute! Why are his rank jerseys and socks making their way into my personal musings about the greatest season of the year? Can't anything, ANYTHING, just be about me? Must this intrude upon my inner sanctum, my woman-cave, my, sigh, blog?!

As I was saying before my olfactory senses suffered a PTSD attack due to my earlier laundering this afternoon, autumn is here. It was officially welcomed earlier this week. The TODAY show even announced it to their entire viewing audience in between world news updates and make-overs with Kathie Lee and Hoda. I must confess to a warm tingle which suffused my entire body with the innocent pleasure that only crisp cool air and the scent of homemade baked apple anything could inspire. Speaking of inspiration, there is a poetic appropriateness to the changes which take place as summer surrenders her last breath to possession by autumnal airs. The same air upon which hordes of blackbirds and gaggles of Canada geese take flight en route to their winter addresses. A winter address? I have a winter address and it is identical to my spring, summer and fall address. I wouldn't mind winging it to hang out for a few months with my avian friends in other parts. Maybe I could set up a temporary P.O. box. Then, I wouldn't concern myself overly much with the first report cards of the school year, wondering why that 'A' looks suspiciously like an 'F' with a slight alteration on its right side. There would be no fund-raising e-mails from the baseball booster club or magazines to sell for the middle school to neighbors up to their eyeballs with unread issues from last year's orders!

Stop! Halt! Cease and desist! Or, should I say cease to persist?! For the love of all things seasonably mild, THIS again? Is it absolutely necessary to drag outsiders into this otherwise charming rendition of Gloria of Sunnybrook Farm? For just the littlest of whiles, can't I be Heidi of the hills, living with her grandfather and his goats, at one with nature and peace and simple happiness?

So, like I mentioned before intruders stormed the gates of my hideaway fortress and forced me to bare arms, er, bear arms, that interim period between the extremes of heat and cold has gained entrance into our weather once again. The next few months are ripe for harvest moons and corn mazes - not to be corn-fused with maize. Hearty sojourners will point their cars to higher altitudes and gaze upon the new deciduous foliage wardrobes before their wearers go naked for winter. Hot steaming cider will give new life to old mugs previously hidden behind sweet-tea glasses. Brothy soups brimming with chicken and vegetables and thick stews replete with chunks of beef and potatoes will find their way to the dinner table. Rakes will replace shovels and weed-whackers. Scarecrow men will adorn front lawns, and garden patches with just-about-ready jack-o-lantern candidates will entice excited children to bring them home. Halloween, with its orange and black motif, and trick-or-treaters with gobs of mini-chocolate bars I'd like to heist, will offer the backdrop for the 20th birthday party for my first child. Yes, I'm whipping up an intense three-layer pistachio cake in green and black with a rich chocolate ganache frosting. We'll fork over the cash for her and then turn right around and do it all over again the following weekend for my middle child. As brilliant as we were in spacing them three years apart, where's the genius in birthdays separated by a mere week ?!

Huh? Excuse me, but I'm doing WHAT again? Wandering away from the theme? Rambling off the beaten path? Digressing from the main? Ohhh, I give up. They win. They are my theme. Fall is only the briefest of sidebar plots in the big story. Perhaps I'll try again in the winter. Everyone will be in the froze, with blue lips and mock- turtlenecks and Ugg boots, hoping for egg nog and gaily wrapped packages. Maybe they will be too distracted to butt in to my mental meanderings. But, until then, somebody please pass the candy corn.

How Are You? He's Fine.

A gentleman approached me the other afternoon with a question. That most standard of all questions. "Well, Gloria, how are you?" Now, we were at a tailgate party for the middle school football team. He was the president of the booster club. We had spoken casually several times over the course of setting out watermelon, cooked meats, cold pasta salads, packaged cookies, and those rather large orange Thermos beverage dispensers full of lemonade. I figured since we had covered the everyday greetings in those earlier chats, he must intend for me to answer honestly as opposed to politely: one being how life really is treating me; the other being the locked-in "I'm good, real good, and you?" that falls so easily, so inanely from the lips of so many.

Before I progress, I must tell you I often trip over this popular greeting phrased as a question. When I find myself giving the standard reply, I internally administer a good swift kick! My close friends know this about me. It is a mindless social pleasantry -- I truly, really, wholly detest thoughtless, executed-by-rote social pleasantries as a practice. I don't, however, detest being pleasant. Nor do I dislike the sparing art of being social. But this one question sticks in my craw -- so ubiquitous, empty and bland. It's like me eating one of my rye crisp crackers without almond butter and grape preserves; not worth opening my mouth over. No one truly expects a mindful answer. In fact, a mindful answer produces looks of dismay and discomfort in the one doing the querying. They are conditioned to speak it; others' ears are conditioned to receive it and regurgitate the common reply. Period. End of exchange. Though I realize this is the expected modus operandi, I don't subscribe to it. Maybe this speaks more to the rebel in me, mellow though it may be, who chafes at the expected. But, it seems to me if such words as to one's true state are put out there, one ought to feel the freedom to answer and actually see the listener's ears visibly perk up.

But enough soapbox expounding.

The gentleman with the seemingly earnest question? Remember him? Well, I fixed my eyes upon his ears and gave him my answer. "You know, I'm about as good as can be expected. I have my ups and my downs. But, I'm plugging along, doing the work, expecting things to get better as they usually do." As he knows about my brother, Gary, following the story by e-mail somewhat along since early fall of 2008, he threw in the follow-up, "Is that because of your brother in jail?" And, being socially adept enough to realize I could not possibly hope to, nor did I want to, relay the full import of this past year's developments to this man I barely knew, with skirted cheerleaders running around us, Oreo cookies in hand and their breathless stories about the boys in helmets and uniforms falling from their lips, I said, "Yes."

Because he continued to stand there, in front of me, positioned to receive more news, I went on. I updated him on Gary's upcoming transfer out of the prison system and into the state hospital system. I explained why that was good news. I touched upon mental illness and treatment. I mentioned the rebirth of my brother's faith in Christ and his yearnings to remain in the fold. As I spoke, I discerned a subtle shift in my fellow booster club member's features. I noted his eyes wandered past me, taking in the clouds and the football players as they marched across the field into the stadium, though he continued to nod and comment in the affirmative. When he reengaged, he opined as to the wonderful fact that now, with Gary's faith restored, he could clean up his act and work on those things in himself that needed fixing. He could be strong and emerge from his brain fog and make better choices and live out the rest of his life with purpose. There was a bit more. It was all peevishly positive, much like the encouraging speeches he intones at the beginning of football season to all of the parents; much like the group prayers he leads before we eat our common meals during our months together as parents to middle school athletes. What he lacked, however, was true understanding. And, any ability to see that he should try and understand beyond the accepted stance that being active in Christ will make us all happy and healthy. He left no opening for a mental illness diagnosis to exist. Gary's difficulties were rooted in weakness and an inability to function under God's grace.

What I say is this. It is that very attitude, so heartfelt and righteous, probably without vanity but also without discernment, which allowed Gary's intolerable situation in this life to go for so long without being recognized for what it was. Mental illness was not a thing said aloud or given any space upon which to walk or room in which to spread its wings. Whatever was wrong was all in his control to change. Totally and completely. His unwillingness to surrender to what God had for him was his downfall. Everyone tried to help and he pushed them aside. Everyone was blameless. Their role in aiding Gary was over because he did not accept their plans and ideas on who he was and what he was to become. Yet, no one took the time to try and know him and understand his pain. He was a boy in severe crisis. The general answer was to drag him to church. (Not that I downplay the significance of the body gathering.) Get him rededicated to the Lord. Show him the error of his ways. Put him in a program and get the scripture pumped into his head and heart. Convert him from the way of the black sheep of the family and enclose him within the ranks of the accepted and the expected.

If it had been discovered that a tumor resided in his brain and was to blame for his behavior, that would have been all right. There would have been prayer for healing. Trips to the surgeon. Books on how-to-cope. An actual surgery to excise the invader. Physical therapy to recuperate him, to make him whole, to reconnect the synaptic connections within his gray matter.

As it turns out, there WAS, and is, a tumor in Gary's brain. Insidious and invisible to the naked eye, thus allowing it free reign and room to develop for hundreds upon thousands of days: bipolar disorder, compounded by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his childhood. It has been detected and traitor! we know your name! My brother can learn about the differences in his behavioral and thought processes which cause him to stand out from average folks. No longer must he agonize over what is wrong with him and wonder why he does the crazy things he does. He won't need to rely upon street drugs or alcohol to self-medicate. And, all on his own, by his lonesome, even with a relationship with Christ, he could not simply will his way through the complex chemical processes which are active and present in his physiological being any more than he could have willed away a brain tumor.

Whether or not modern-day healing takes place, which I believe it does, it is ignorant to hold the mentally ill responsible for an illness they did not choose, when they have not the knowledge or treatment to corral it and correct it, just as it would be ignorant to put blame on a person born with cerebral palsy or an individual who contracts a serious illness later in life. This is an imperfect and fallen world. Biblically, the Lord did not state that the sick need healing but the mentally ill can pray away their dementia or throw memorized verses at it and receive deliverance. I think a case can be made for differences between mental illness and demonic possession if there are those who wish to take that stand. Infirm is infirm. All who suffer and bear the weight deserve our empathy and our understanding. If one is not in the know, either get in the know or hold your tongue lest it inflict permanent or long-lasting damage. And, think as to whether you would desert your spouse or child or good friend in the midst of a protracted battle with a physical affliction. As tough as it can be to hang with them in the down moments, should we then cut our emotionally ill loved ones from our lives? I, for one, say no, we should not.

Do YOU Enjoy Being A Woman?

Each time I step into my shower, I'm told to enjoy being a woman. No, it's not some odd well-wish by my husband. And, no, I don't own a parrot. Nor do I self-administer a pep-talk before taking up my body puff. What does come into play here is my habit of reading labels. Specifically, the back of the 'SUMMER'S EVE Feminine Wash' bottle. Right there, printed in navy blue letters against a strip of pale green are the very words 'Enjoy Being A Woman' accompanied by the website address for the product. Invariably, I ponder this directive, unsure as to how the use of this hypoallergenic gelatinous goo can induce me to celebrate my femininity.

Well, today I finally surrendered to my curiosity. I visited www.summerseve.com in the hopes of illumination on the subject. I might as well have clicked on ESQUIRE magazine dot com for all I got out of it; at least at ESQUIRE, the glossy photo-spreads are pretty clear on certain well-recognized womanly attributes which are happily delivering joy to inboxes and P.O. boxes all around the world! Still, here's what the C.B. Fleet company has to say at their URL about the enjoyment of womanhood. Point by point.

First, their mission is to help me enjoy being a woman. That's a bold mission statement so rife with expectation that they are sure to disappoint right out of the gate. I don't recall filling out a questionnaire or answering a series of queries by phone solicitation. There was no representative at Wal-Mart in the personal hygiene aisle to chat me up as to my likes and dislikes, wants and hopes, problems and issues. Already, I sense false advertising.

Second, to accomplish this goal, they provide solutions which will keep me free from worry. They even offer multiple options so I can pick what's best for me. As I have yet to emerge from the shower worry-free during my long-standing acquaintance with SUMMER'S EVE, I thought perhaps the Internet site harbored the stress-reducing options not found in the bottle. I searched and searched for 'how-to-dumb-proof-my-kids' or 'healthy-dinner-menus-for-a-year-so-your-husband-won't-ask-WFD-by-text-every-cotton-pickin'-day' or 'take-care-of-my-mother-and-mother-in-law-for-the-rest-of-their-lives' or even a 'world-peace/secret-to-looking-like-Linda-Hamilton-in-TERMINATOR 2' combo. Nowhere. What DO they offer, you might wonder? The assertion that feeling fresh and clean in either sensitive skin formula, Berry Bliss or Morning Paradise will do the trick. Balance the PH levels in your nether regions and life will roll along in a most relaxed and joyous state.

Third, they know that men and women have different standards of freshness. Therefore, it is to my exacting and specific requirements that their line-up has been created. What is it, do you suppose, that I desire in personal cleanliness which differs so dramatically from the wants of a man? (Other than I have no special wish to be told that I smell like an 'Irish Spring' or exude eau d' 'Red Zone.') Odor-free and squeaky clean, jelly bean, will do just fine by me. Is THIS how I enjoy being a woman? If so, then do guys strut around not caring whether they stink and grow layers of grime in their special places and in this reciprocal way enjoy being men?

Finally, harsh ingredients are avoided in their formulations to ensure safety and avoid irritating reactions. Hmmph. Safety they say? In my entire bathing career, aligned with SUMMER'S EVE as I have asserted all along, I managed to get pregnant THREE TIMES. Maybe I didn't rinse thoroughly enough? Oh, and I've slipped on the floor more than once or twice. As for irritating reactions, my husband would vouch for a myriad moments of perplexed snarlings and baffling attitudes emanating from my person, both before and after showers. Perhaps I used more than the recommended 'small amount poured onto hand or washcloth?'

I notice now, examining more closely the fine print on my gynecologist-tested intimate cleanser, that it specifies FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY. Well, smack my forehead and pass me a V-8! My visual acuity must be dimming with age or perhaps my memory slipped on the wet floor, too. The answer WAS on the bottle. That's the reason I'm yet overwhelmed with worries, feeling unsafe and irritated, and unable to be the ultimate girly-girl. I've been slamming shooters of feminine wash! Heck, I'll shove those shot glasses to the back of the cabinet, immediately. There's still hope for me to enjoy being a woman after every thorough cleansing.

I'm off . . . to shower the right way. Thanks, SUMMER'S EVE, for the encouragement. Feel free to use my testimonial on your website if you want.

From My PURSE-sonal Collections

"Some days I'm ready for weird, some days I'm not."
-Val, on 4/11/08 at the now defunct coffee shop out in the boonies

"Every damn thing is your own fault if you're any good."
-Ernest Hemingway, GREEN HILLS OF AFRICA

"I'm talking, and I'm ticked!"
-my Sarah, on 11/7/07 after a particularly trying evening

"One can never consent to creep when one feels the impulse to soar."
-Helen Keller, from THE CONFESSION Part One (opening quote)

"You're a thinker . . . thinkin' and submittin' to the Old Ways don't mix."
-author Beverly Lewis, THE SHUNNING pg. 192

"Might would be . . ."
-Gayla, said 6/10/08, but just one of numerous times

"I don't like to have my thighs encased!"
-Gloria, me, on 7/2/08, informing Melissa C.

"Kids have a unique ability to figure out how to make things their fault."
-Dr. Phil, to Oprah on 9/16/09, concerning painful events in a child's life

"The words are too small for what you feel inside."
-Mother on EXTREME HOME MAKEOVER per gratitude over her new home

"You boys go out in the street and blow 'em!"
-Aunt Donna, 4th of July 2009, to all boys with firecrackers

"A teeny tart: a tartini."
-Musing of Miss Melba on 8/8/07

"Remember those who are in prison as though in prison with them."
-Hebrews 13:3, ESV New Testament

"People that aren't convicts are intimidating."
-Brother Gary in letter dated 12/26/06

"It was the best frickin' fried chicken I'd ever had!"
-Librarian at Linebaugh on 2/13/07, relaying personal food story to me and the kids

"Do ya'll sinners have your Bibles?"
-Ashley, my eldest, on 2/17/07 to her friends, Mallory and Patrick

"I notice cooks on TV whose upper lips raise to one side when they talk. Paula Deen, Giada DiLaurentis, Rachel Ray. Jimmy teases me about my lip. Perhaps it is the sign of a good cook!"
-Me, self-musing 1/21/07

"Having resentment is like taking poison and hoping the other guy dies."
-Susan St. James, 12/3/04, on the sorrow of losing her 14-year old son in plane crash

". . . anytime I've stepped in my own footprints again, I haven't felt renewed."
-UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN pg. 15, read on 9/7/02

" 'You think too much,' said Paul simply. . . 'Talk a lot too . . . ' "
-FIVE QUARTERS OF THE ORANGE pg. 303, read in 2002

"Time flaps on the mast."
-Virginia Woolf, MRS. DALLOWAY pg. 37, read 1/22/03

"Yes! Thank you, Lord."
-My husband, on 7/24/08 as he pointed up above in victory, after hearing the news about a house for Gary

"My life is shitty."
-scribbled on a public restroom wall painted the color of Pepto-Bismal, read 8/23/03, Colorado

"NOTICE! Communicating or attempting to communicate with inmates is prohibited.
C.R.S. 18-9-117 P.C.S.O."
-sign on railing in Lamar Courtroom, 8:30AM on 11/29/04, court hearing for Sister Rebekah

"I'm in the froze."
-Ashley, my oldest child, defining her physical chill back in 2002'ish

"You have this freak flag. You just don't fly it."
-THE FAMILY STONE, brother character to SJP's character, at theater 6/2/06

"Focus this month on BACON! We lost over 1,000 pieces last month!"
-bulletin board at Church St. Mickey D's, summer of 2006, seen while cruising the drive-thru

"There's more to you than there is of you."
-from the movie THE PRODUCERS

"I threw a ball and hit a baby."
-Tim Baker, preaching at CP on 9/3/06, after tossing out a foam ball to the congregation

"Lost in thought. Send a search party."
-a t-shirt slogan seen on 9/11/06

"That scared me bad! . . . I've lost visual of the road."
-Melissa C. on 9/16/09, maneuvering a winding, narrow, 2-lane road with four passengers

"Shake it off, big boy! Get out there and knock him down!"
-Grandpa-fan to hurt lineman-boy during Zachary's football game, 10-12 year-olds, 10/23/06

"I do because I'm a worm keeper."
-Little Izzy, our one-time neighbor girl, on a Sunday morning, 8/21/05

"I got pretty fingers."
-Brother John, said 6/19/05, upon the successful cessation of his habitual nail-biting

And, finally:
"If there's an author of my life, I wish they'd [he'd] get to the feel-good part."
-Brother Gary, quote from letter dated 4/24/07

When I Walk

Things happen when I walk.

Last month, as I made a left turn onto Jamison Place Road from my corner of Marilyn Court, a man on his bicycle rolled on by. This, in and of itself, is not unusual. Rather commonplace, really. However, the fact that he wore a safety helmet, rode without using his hands, and and casually balanced a ceramic mug of steaming coffee in the process -- I swear a wee cloud of vapor was visible -- all the while appearing as comfortable and serene as he would at his breakfast table with newspaper and same aforementioned mug, was exceptionally unusual.

I needed that. It lasted me the entire week. I still smile when I recall the amusing spectacle he afforded my eyes. I wonder what he did when he reached the busy intersection just two blocks down. I didn't look back.

Last week, a woman and her senior yellow Labrador dog were slowly ambling around a wide corner. The owner displayed affectionate patience with her charge, who was exhibiting the belly girth, tottering gait and gray mantle typical of older house-bound canines. Curious, I offered a cheery hello and wondered after the age of this matronly mutt. "She's thirteen years old. I take her out when I can. She still loves to get outside though she can barely make it home." I commented on her sweetness of spirit and went on my merry way. My Husky-mix dog is thirteen years old, too, with no extra fat around the middle, and though she has mild arthritis in both hips, she can jauntily trot a mile in hot weather and two miles when temperatures cool down. In conditions both moderate and extreme, dry and wet, I've walked her almost every day for over twelve years. I experienced a moment of pride in realizing I had done good by my Panda-girl despite my many worrisome thoughts that I didn't spend the kind of time with her that I did with my other dogs back in my childhood.

I needed that. I've kept both of us healthy and active and with shiny coats, er, hair, to boot! We love our daily meanderings though I don't necessarily enjoy sniffing urine stains and scat with the same enthusiasm as does she: her morning newspaper, I call it. That IS time I spend, and spent, well with woman's-best-friend.

This week, my friend and neighbor, Betsy, shot me an e-mail, wondering if I wanted to pound the pavement with her. Overcast skies threatened; rain had continually entered and exited all morning. "Let's go!" I typed back. We grabbed our shoes and our leashes -- for our mutual furry friends, not one another -- and ventured forth. Our first mile was dry; we dropped off our pets and headed back out as a fine drizzle began to descend. Within a quarter of a mile, we were soaked as showers increased and decreased in intensity. For the next two miles, we wandered a wide circuit which pulled us along familiar streets and past recognizable homes, but everything felt different. Fresh, alive and alert. Our conversations, those intense back-and-forth exchanges which momentarily disassemble and reconfigure the problems of our worlds and a few in the outlying solar systems - you know the ones - were punctuated by outbursts from commiserating clouds which cried down over us, soaking our fronts and dampening our behinds. Upon reaching our respective driveways, the sun scattered the heavenly waters and daylight broke the spell. We returned to our domestic duties, exhilarated and thankful.

I needed that. Moments before Betsy's request, my goal involved beating the rain to the punch or opting for a recorded exercise DVD. How very dreary and isolating that would have been. Much better to have connected beneath the benediction of raindrops and revelations with a lovely woman as much in need of companionship that morning as was I.

Tomorrow, I will pull on my Nike sports shorts and a matching top, perhaps the plum or the pink. Don't know yet. I shall rub foot cream on my tootsies before donning socks that will, yes, complement the rest of my ensemble. In my ears, tiny stud earrings will sparkle because I can't venture out with empty lobes. Goodness, no! And, they too, will be of a shade in keeping with the overall appearance. My already-worn, two-and-a-half-month-old, pink and silver Mizuno running shoes will be affixed to my size 9 1/2 feet, ready for yet another domestic adventure measured in sidewalk cracks, favorite yards and stretch stops. On my face, I will slather 55+ SPF sunscreen; my eyes will be shielded behind huge Jackie-O's (as the girls fondly refer to my sunglasses). I may or may not have the I-POD with audio book egging me on. Perhaps I'll partner up with Maggie this time. I might go a tad extra with Panda. I should go a might longer for me. And, I'll be ready for whatever comes my way.

Things happen when I walk.

The Need To Reset

Somewhere along the way, I made a trade. Somewhere along the path of my life, I drifted at an intersection and was not aware enough to correct the route. Somewhere along the journey, I set down my own gear and picked up that which was not meant for me. From this unknown point of origin, I went about filling my needs based on what I thought was mine to need, all the while depriving myself of that which I truly did need. Though it is often a lonely travail, I know I'm not alone in this misguided deception. There are others -- living lives based on what we think we need as opposed to living for what we truly need.

I've wasted a small fortune in life's coin over my almost forty-year span on this earth thinking I need to fix myself. Thinking I need to repair my chinks and cracks, and those major fault lines. I've believed all holes need to be sought out and filled before they posed a danger to others. Believed I must tear down and rebuild in an endless cycle of construction, deconstruction and reconstruction, so that I might be more useful and pleasing to myself, God, the humanity within reaching distance of me. I've labored to no end, expecting no end, wishing for an end, in an attempt to be more right than wrong. Labored in vain, deceived by the trade-off, by the drifting from my own road, by the contents of a vessel that were never intended to be carried by me.

But I'm coming 'round. Touching tidbits of an overheard conversation between my Uncle Zan and my Brother Gary, conducted within fifteen confining yet timeless minutes on a jail-phone connection, yanked my attention to front and center. (It was okay to listen in.) The advice proffered, in a nutshell, was this: though God will show us the areas where we need work and then endeavor to assist us in completing the work, it does not mean there are not other areas where His work is completed and acceptable and wholly worthy of attention. Immediately, those words struck my soul and were recognized as truth. Improve but don't neglect to recognize the already improved.

Self-improvement has its place. Yes. And, this is decidedly the era of such. Self-help books abound, multiplying like bunny rabbits in the spring with each and every epiphany to be had by individuals eager to share their personal growth and happen to possess any minuscule bit of talent for taking pen to paper or keyboard to screen. For many, myself included, a faith-based belief system requires a discipline of identifying internal blockages and removing them in order to facilitate a 'closer walk with Thee' -- as the old spiritual lyrics go. To an extent, this internal excavation is all well and good. Beneficial, even, when wielded with guidance and a plan of some sort. And, when not adopted as the only play in the playbook of life, for Pete's sake. No man is a machine. The mind are body are simply not constructed to mechanically search-and-destroy ad nauseam. There must be rest. There must exist a mode by which we step back and absorb the whole as opposed to nitpicking the parts.

Enter self-appreciation: the ability to modestly admire what is good and sound within and without oneself. Ohh, it sounds awkward to me. Painful, even. That's how I know I need it. It is uncomfortable and a tad foreign to entertain this notion, but it is not absurd. It would be absurd to discard it after realizing that the old ways just aren't working as expected.

If I was ever in a position to purchase the old farmhouse of my dreams, I would not then attempt to transform it into a new creation by removing and repairing every blemish and fault it held. It would cease to be the old farmhouse. The sweet little homesteads I have visited charmed me with their character; their character resides in the lines and cracks and chinks. It is the very existence of these aged and wear-altered homes, continuing on despite their imperfections, actually taking on beauty and stately attributes due to time's passage, which stirs appreciation within me. Knowing they have withstood tornado and snow, birth and death, countless footsteps and creaking stairs, bats in the attic and snakes in the basement, arouses my sense of admiration. Never have I wished for them to stand as anything other than what they are. Outside of any obvious hazards which might keep the house from safely enfolding its inhabitants in sheltered comfort, I would add only those things which would accentuate the structure and its personality. I would allow the home to shine and be exactly what it's original builder intended it to be.

To that means to an end, I'm settling. I'm settling for me just as I am. For now. I'm checking myself out from another vantage point. Accepting my construction and foundation. Exploring my basic layout and design. It is similar to looking out over my yard from the window of my son's second-story bedroom and finding that I am enchanted by the view of the trees from above and afar. I'm unable to discern the minutiae and therefore cannot habitually focus in on the Bermuda grass invading the herb bed or the lower branches of the redbud in need of trimming or the empty bird feeder in need of filling. I don't sense work. To my naked eye exists no obvious 'to-do' that might mar the present pleasure. All that I see is a bird's-eye perspective of beauty. An expanse of nature's flora which has been purposely planted and lovingly tended. I reset in that moment where my landscaping duties are concerned. In the same way, I'm hoping to reset in a major moment where my person is concerned.

No more deprivation. No more exchanges of 'who I was made to be' for 'who I think I need to be.' No more parallel journeys on a path not meant for my feet. No more luggage tagged with a name other than Gloria. And, by the way, that would be the Gloria - so designated at birth by her aforementioned uncle - whose very name means Glory-to-God.

GARY: A Good Night

I find the following to be applicable for us all. -gsv

Thursday - September 3rd, 2009

Gloria, Gloria, Gloria . . . what the heck . . . get some sleep sister. . . It is worrisome for me to know you're burnt out.

. . . . you take care of your body, eat right, sleep right, exercise, etc. Sleep is important, too. Relaxation, prayer, meditation, etc. REAL down time.

When I'm free again, I'll force you to chill. Until then, I'm askin' you to please take better care of yourself. . . staying super muchalot busy ain't gonna help you . . . I know about anxiety, evasion & all that f-ed up stuff. I'm facing mine, every day.

I want you to have joy. Joy from God, inside. Not happiness, which is dependent on circumstances, but unconquerable Joy. [Me, Gloria, saying "Wow!" This is the nature of a relationship with Christ. So spot on.]

I love you, I miss you, and I pray you feel peace from above, every chance available.

God Bless you sis,

L8R, Love, ME

[Good night to all of you. Peace out.]

Gary - Not Going Back Part 2

Wednesday - August 26th, 2009

Crazy guy's meanderings continued.

So, it's official. I am now a ward of a different department of the great State of California. Change . . . worry . . . Will I be ready to face it? What about when they tell me I'm ready to go out again? Will I be homeless? Broke? Stressed out? One of those people who wander the streets, zoned out, afraid, talking to myself, pushing a cart full of junk? [As his support system, we will work with his treatment team to create a viable living plan when he is eligible for release. The moment he transfers and completes the intake process, he will come into information that will reveal a panoramic view of his life, past, present, and future. With this, he can begin to understand the potential for enormous change and growth. He will take charge and outline an attack instead of wallowing in worry and fear.]

What does one's life out there develop into once they've found they cannot completely trust their own mind? The seat that commands the rest of the body has been known to shoot bogus information and cause the very problems I'm supposed to be avoiding.

It's too much. So I'm leaving it alone. If everything implodes, at least I'll save myself the added stress of trippin' on in beforehand. What the hell can I do about it anyway? All I want to do is live life, in the meantime. [Gary doesn't know how to pace himself; he's been an all or nothing kind of guy. Fully in or fully out. Not able to ride the fence. I'm eager for him to learn how to take himself in chunks, examining aspect by aspect, allowing for success in this area even while another area remains under construction. Much of his stress and duress can be alleviated with this technique. Compartmentalize.]

The people I meet get their ears blown back when they learn about my history and current status. They don't understand how I can be smart, helpful, comfort others, and have been in prison so long, and now . . . crazy. Hmmm . . . [With therapy and knowledge, I believe Gary will be able to look at himself as something less than crazy. It's such a generic term. Right now, he has only the diagnosis side of the mental health equation; the treatment side is yet an unknown quantity. He is unable to step outside of himself and view his mind from an external perspective. Presently, he is completely immersed in a lifetime build-up of brain decay.]

That must mean there are real people with gifts, hopes, and dreams in prison. In institutions. Wasting away . . . Hmmm . . . [Gary has close friends still behind the gray walls with their own stories and potential. Untapped. Institutionalized. Blind to what real life can and should be. Brainwashed into accepting mediocrity or worse.]

Everybody seems to like my haircut - cops, females, males. [He has a mohawk; conservative Brother John says it actually looks GOOD on Gary.] I can't think about cutting it now. Not until sis gets photos. [I definitely want photos! Don't you?]

I shall try and remember things better, in order to chronicle them. Tonight, for instance, a bunch of cops dressed up in black jumpsuits with all kinds of tasers and guns and shields (gadgets representing taxpayers' $), kicked in the back door, made us all lie down while they crept around like little toy soldiers to the bathroom, yelled "Clear!" and then left. [Shakedowns often occur with little warning in the hopes of discovering contraband. But, there are those incidents which are little more than disruptions and bullying. It is all too simple to look at this system and assume checks and balances are in working order. That they ensure inmates are guarded but not molested. It is a vulnerable position in which to find oneself as a ward of the state with other men in a position of authority of you. You are expected to trust their training and moral code upon first sight. Prison is not intended to be fun and easy but it is not intended as punishment or torture. Correction and rehabilitation are the supposed tag team. Supposed.]

We're already in jail, mind you. But hey, it's so much more fun and easy to mess around with us and make our time more difficult. In the eyes of the law, you're a guilty piece of $h!t from jump street. Trust me, I know. [Gary has mind-boggling recounts of incidents he and other inmates have witnessed and endured over the years. Some are humorous; others are far less so. I hope to coax those out of him for the blog readers.]

Cops have an 'us' & 'them' mentality. The reason a nice cop is so easy to remember is because they are so rare. I believe I'd hesitate to call one even if a crime were committed against me. [We are aware there must exist a distinction between inmates and protective staff. And, all guards are not criminals themselves. But, a great many in significant places are bigoted, cruel, judgmental, importing drugs and such from the outside. One man in power over a great many with none is not the system upon which we founded this country and its institutions. Prisons are microcosms of a greater ill in society at large. BUT I digress.]

Big brother is real, and he's watching . . .
________________________________

Gary's entries will become more cohesive with time and familiarity. He has requested that I tender suggestions, and I will. If any of you have queries or ideas for him on his experiences and thoughts, feel comfortable enough to let me know. I'll pass it on.

GARY - Not Going Back Part 1

For those of you not in the loop regarding Gary, my youngest-of-five brothers, there are previous entries you can access for background information. In a nutshell, he has spent 15+ years in and out of the California State Prison system for incidents stemming from habitual drug use and the resulting behaviors. He did not rape or murder anyone. He was never an abuser of small children. More than anyone, he hurt himself. He was abused. Almost raped. Practially murdered. His childhood was difficult and he ran away from home various times, starting an alternate life-cycle of street-living, foster families, and juvenile facilities. He has struggled with suicidal ideation since he was a boy, never understanding the turmoil within his mind, forever struggling to control it while all the time it gained further control over him.

Last October, he was released from a 12+ year stint. Institutionalized as he was, our efforts and his were not enough to keep him from attempting death-by-police to end the voices and ideas in his head. Observations I made during our two weeks together led me to believe he was suffering from an undiagnosed mental illness of some kind. Subsequent evaluations supported my thoughts: PTSD from his childhood and incarceration along with Bipolar I disorder with a propensity for a mixed bipolar state, whereby he is both manic and depressed at the same time. Psychosis - hearing and seeing things that are not there - and suicidal tendencies are inherent with this diagnosis.

Due to the highly unusual nature of our childhood, our ability and willingness to accept and absorb behavior outside the 'normal' behavioral and social parameters made it difficult for us to discern a root cause for Gary's lifetime of acting out. It took dealing with another family member's tragic bout with post-partum psychosis, including a court trial, media coverage, and placement in a state mental hospital, to bring me to a place where I was able to view my brother's actions and attach a medical significance to them. This pains me on too many fronts to express at this time.

Gary is presently awaiting transfer out of the prison system and into the state hospital system. He's trading out, but we feel he is trading up. This is the first real victory he has ever been handed in his legal history. The past 10 months have been exhausting. I believe we are all yet in shock and a bit numb to this latest development. The actual physical act of leaving behind the torments of prison life and taking on real help in a mental rehabilitation facility seems way-y to good to be true. But, I know it is true. The judge said it himself in open court. It is a decision so rare that the procedures and paperwork are not familiar to the principle players in this judicial drama. Rare. Rare. Rarified air that we now breathe. Our lungs are adjusting.

Excerpt from personal letter to me from Gary:
Friday - August 28th, 2009

Gloria,

It occurred to me earlier this evening while showering: I'm not going back to prison. I'm . . . not . . . going . . . back . . . to . . . prison.

What will my life be like? Where will I live? How will I live? What will I do? Will I get to talk to you all and see you?

My mind can't even wrap around this stuff right now. Just thought I'd share. G'night.

**********************************
Excerpt from personal letter to Brother John from Gary
Saturday - August 29th, 2009

John,

Hey bro! Yeah, I know . . . this has been a tough row to hoe, for all of us. When I heard the judge say those words, on the record, it was surreal.

[later in body of letter]
I'm grateful for you coming to court for me. It made me feel good, seeing you there. When the cop was joking, it made me proud, for him to know you're my brother.

**************************************
Wednesday - August 26th, 2009 FIRST WRITING FOR THE BLOG by GARY Part 1

This coming holiday season, and my November birthday (#35), will be my seventeenth consecutive away from family and world. All the rest were spent in prison though, and it looks as if this one may well be in a hospital.

In my heart resides almost no will to live. Living has never been any great joy for me, at least not enough for me to want to keep sticking around.

When a racehorse breaks a leg, they shoot it. What about when it's heart breaks? I've been in the criminal justice system a long time now & believe me when I tell you I have been treated with far less humanity than Sea Biscuit. Many times I would have given anything to be taken out and shot.

I've been going into this same courtroom for ten months now and I've seen at least a few people actually try to find some true justice for myself. A completely foreign new experience.

A convict's life is full of 'nevers'; never seen, never been, never heard. You live through stories from news guys, letters from home, TV, etc.

I'm trying to embrace change. Got a mohawk haircut, in honor of my little homeboy in prison; study my Bible every day; share my faith, my story; and listen, listen, listen.

It's not easy to try and find words to truly express so many important parts of me, of my life. For my big sister's effort at this blog-thing, I will. I got different stories and different ways of telling them, but they need to be told nonetheless.

For now, I wish it to be known that, were it not for aforementioned big sis, I would not have bothered to stick around for this new & positive development. It may sound like a cliche-Oscar-acceptance-speech-line, but it ain't. Death, for me, is a welcome end to a lot of pain and disappointment. [Let me, Gloria, insert here that he refers not just to his own allotment in these areas but what he feels he has heaped on his loved ones and others.]

Being told you're actually mentally ill, enough to be sentenced to a hospital by a judge for having a psychotic episode, is a strange thing to assimiliate, much less explain.

You've [just] read a crazy guy's meandering creative outburst. Hah! G'night.

Part 2 can be read TOMORROW: Trying to make it easier on you, dear reader.

Eat, Eat, Eat For The Home Team

I find myself in Tullahoma, Tennessee at the Babe Ruth field in Waggoner Park. Never been here before. It is merely one in a succession of fields where Rutherford County middle school boys meets to play ball . . . baseball. Me and this Chevy Silverado extended cab pickup are a means to an end for the next two months. Already I am irritated. My highly responsible 13-year old son wore the wrong uniform for this game. His coach is strict and very verbal in his displeasure with his players. The drive out here may be for nothing more than a stiff chewing out. What I paid in gas to get us here warrants more purpose than that. The outside temperature is too chilly for my sweater-less form; it seems I neglected to don the proper attire, too. I chew out myself since my mother is not around.

Sitting in my parked truck-cum-taxi, snug but isolated, I attempt a snooze session despite the intense glare emanating from the stadium lights. When this effort fails, I try repeatedly to make out my son's number and position from my disadvantaged point because I think the coach actually allowed him to play. It's no good. I'm restless. Just killing time in agonizing one-second increments. In my mind, a miniature American Indian medicine man executes a complex series of movements with his hands and feet, chanting all the while, begging his God for a thunderous, torrential, earth-shattering rainstorm to drop down from the heavens and end it all. "Wow," I chastise myself, "some baseball booster mom YOU are, Gloria!"

Shifting in my seat, I turn my attention toward the crowd of parents on the other of side my pseudo foxhole, braving the stiff breeze of this early spring night out in the cold metal stands. Though there are several die-hards glued to the action at homeplate and beyond, many mothers and fathers entertain themselves with chit-chat, cellphones and . . . oh . . . and fo-o-od. That's it. I need something to gnaw on. It is time for a food intervention, er, intermission. I can leave the comfort of my cab for a cheap game burger with mustard. It actually warms me just to entertain the notion. Now that the idea has taken root in my mind, I really need to fork over a buck for my very own foil-wrapped grill-marked patty-package, ASAP!

I crave ball park fare now and again. This does not gel with my flax seed and brown rice, fruit and nuts, fish and chicken eating-style, but must everything make sense? Perhaps the crack of the bat, coupled with the announcer's droll monotone coverage of the action, both wafting along in the crisp evening air, stimulates some inert, previously suppressed appetite within. Perhaps just under my exterior there lies an all-American patriotic devotee of all things connected to baseball, edible and inedible. I don't know-w-w, but I refuse to take up any more time contemplating such unknown and unimportant quantities. I've got a burger to catch, er, order.

I arrive at the concession stand and wait while a cluster of players hurries to purchase snacks and drinks before their coach notices their absence. I note they ask for cheeseburgers and hot dogs along with all manner of gummy, chewy, hard, and chocolaty candy, and brightly-colored sports drinks. No worries. My turn is fast approaching; I am a paragon of studied patience. After all, I am an adult example to our precious youth. Finally, the last gray-panted and cleat-footed boy leaves with food in hand. I smile and open my mouth to request my heart's desire just as the man behind the counter makes an announcement, "No more cheeseburgers. Sold out. We've got plenty of hot dogs and BBQ, though, and lots of candy!" Grrr. Just for the briefest of moments, I want to throttle the scrawny neck of a precious burger-hogging youth.

Well, hot dogs are definitely out. I must draw the line somewhere - the intersection where chopped chicken parts collide with chopped pork and beef parts seems a good place for that line. Checking my change, I shift mental gears, wishing for a Snickers bar and a salty bag of oiled popcorn, neither of which are anywhere on the menu. After accepting a sample for my consideration by the truly friendly cashier, I opt for the pulled-pork BBQ sandwich @ $2.50 a pop - ouch - served up on pristine white Styrofoam plates which offend my deeply embedded proclivities toward recycling. I almost back out of the deal, my initial enthusiasm - so heartily developed back at the truck - now dampened at having to not ONLY alter my selection but also being forced to ante up double the money AND accept the most disgusting piece of ubiquitous plastic I can think of! However, my appetite has asserted itself as master and commander of this bodily vessel. There is only one true choice realistically available to me.

Plate in hand, I hand over my cash and perform a sideways shuffle to the condiments situated at the left end of the counter. I load on several spoonfuls of a thick red sauce marked HOT -- one will not suffice as I'm certain these people don't understand what hot is -- along with a few spoonfuls more of the thin brown MILD sauce. The visual contrast is pleasing to my experienced foodie eye as is the satisfying seep of the sauces into the white doughy bread beneath the heaped pile. Per the pre-knowledge afforded my curious palate, I know the pork to be tasty, smoky, not the least bit dry, with the telltale deep pink edges of a well-roasted meat. I am salivating, all thoughts of landfills and clogged waterways erased by desirous, insidious, all-invasive hunger.

With my first bite, I realize I've spooned in error. The HOT sauce should come equipped with a fire truck, complete with red lights flashing and sirens screaming! Hiccups - my physiological reaction to intense spicy heat - convulse my diaphragm almost immediately. I try my best to rescue the pricey protein portion, ditching the heat-soaked bread. I chew furiously between wracking guttural spasms, swallowing too quickly, as I realize nothing is gonna' stop this train from barreling down the tracks full force. I beat a hasty return to the food stand for a Caramello candy bar with which to coat my tongue and quell the burn as ice cream is unavailable. This works with limited success that will have to suffice. My lesson is learned - absorbed right along with the radiating warmth yet running rampant in my mouth - to absolutely trust the simple labeling to be found on condiment containers at foreign venues. Crud. This would never happen with a burger. Yellow mustard is yellow mustard. Nothing to discern there. Tried, true, and familiar.

Still, I want to be fair. This fire-in-the-piehole mishap not withstanding, I appreciate the time-honored preparation and classic rich flavor of my porcine selection. And, for a middle school booster-sponsored concession stand, it is a unique option for the hectically hungry and harried hordes of fans -- A.K.A. parents, siblings, relatives -- who loyally flock to these gatherings to support their young sultans of swat. I can honestly report that I wholeheartedly recommend the pulled pork sandwich to all visitors at the Babe Ruth baseball field in Tullahoma, Tennessee.

The best time to try for this: March. Though Whitt's Barbecue is responsible for smoking the meat and NOT some sweet country mee-maw using a very old, and very secret, family recipe, it just won't deliver a home run without the presence of adolescent boys stamping their feet on the diamond of America's most beloved and classic game as that first bite satisfies the stomach. Trust me.

I'm a fan.

Estro-'grin' and Bare It!

All hail estrogen. "Hail, estrogen! Yoo hoo, over here!" Picture me waving frantically, both arms high and wide in the air, a painful rictus of a grin on my face. I want it to pull over to the side of the road so I can pop all four of its overblown tires. I want to puncture its gas tank and witness the gushing bleeding-out. I want to keep it off my highways and byways. Even the frontage roads. I want signs posted everywhere, reading: ACCESS DENIED. TURN AROUND, FOLLOW THE FALLOPIAN ROUTE, AND RETURN TO THE OVARIES!

An extra generous dump of this female sex hormone in the body causes a nightmare of chemical connections and disconnections, functions and malfunctions, itches and glitches, all of which masquerade under a ubiquitous and misunderstood abbreviation: PMS. Or, as we affectionately refer to it in our household -- 'pre-,' 'present-,' and 'post-' menstrual syndrome. (I've also heard PMT -- pre-menstrual tension. Yup, tension sounds about right!) It's the natural gift that keep on giving long past the intended season! Doctors state PMS occurs roughly 3 to 7 days, or 7 to 14 days in studies, before the onset of menses and leaves the scene right before or at the start of the cycle. Technically, that may be correct, but based on years of information I've gathered in the field since the age of 10, I'm asserting it dominates right on through to the other side. The mind, body, and family check-in for triage and recovery after the initial assault.

If the typical cycle rotates around 28 days, then mine is slightly atypical. My little friend (think Al Pacino here) blasts onto the scene every 21 days. In my twenties and early thirties, I was most fortunate to have it hit ever 17 or 18 days. However, I changed one or two practices related to this topic. These modifications slowly altered the schedule in my favor. Whoo hoo! My husband is fond of noting, "Okay, so let me get this straight. If I hear you right, a woman has roughly one week of PMS, one week of period, and one week of the body prepping FOR the period. On your schedule, that leaves you with . . . approximately one or two good days out of each month!? Am I getting this?" Obviously, this is a gross exaggeration . . . I'm not that bad . . . really? . . . am I? . . . maybe only sometimes . . . in February?

Let me state emphatically for the blog that I applaud the 60% of women out there who avoid this issue by virtue of superior reproductive system conditions. I'm happy for you. All of you. Each and every last one of you. Better to have not than to have in this case. You don't want your ugly innards laid bare to the world around you with such confusion and alarming frequency.

But within that blessed number of free-from-furious-flow'ers are those special few, the ones who, because they never bit off their spouse's head and had to sew it back on; never cried unexpectedly when watching Kelly Rippa of 'LIVE With Regis and Kelly' dance in her little blue spandex number with the Laker Girls; or never shifted suddenly from sunny skies to heavy mental fog within the space of minutes, are quite smug in their annoyance with their fellow women who act as if their period symptoms are anything other than what every woman throughout history has had to face. (Should I mention the women who were told 'it was all in their heads' who went away to visit relatives forever or recuperate in an asylum due to their delicate nature back in the day? Should I mention the husbands who made the going-away arrangements and found younger, less-affected spousal replacements.) "Sop it up and suck it up, you wimpy specimen of the female species!" their eyes seem to say as they investigate you with all the curiosity of a dog inspecting a stink bug on the sidewalk. Goody, goody, goody for you, too! Oh, and I have a pair of size 9 shoes if you ever want to walk in them for a few bloody days.

I'm not whining. Really. Other women suffer far more than do I. And, then there are the men. We have three women in our household. Each one of us transmogrifies into an alien creature roughly once a month. A lovely little trinket I managed to pass down the line. Our men orbit around us, caught in our gravity, wary of the pull, eager for release. My son is educated far beyond his 14 years on the physical and emotional needs of the menstruating gal. One day in the not too distant future, he will be able to prophesy, as his father before him, as to the exact date and time of impending household doom and, with a survivor's instinct, respond accordingly.

Though I write tongue-in-cheek, all of this jesting can not detract from the fact that PMS has the ability to severely impact the days and lives of select women. I'm contemplating a tantalizing array of options to limit the impact of this syndrome on my schedule and the accompanying periods which pick and choose when to reduce me to crawling along the carpeted living room floor, my face pressed into the fibers, crying and questioning the intelligence of a womb putting me into labor on a monthly basis when there will be no damned baby at the end of the agony!

1) cauterize by laser the inside of my uterus, knowing it won't last forever and other methods will be necessary at this point
2) take medications to suppress my emotional responses, irritability, mental fog bank, and mild-depression, realizing they may also make me lethargic, apathetic, and feel distant from God, oh, and cause weight gain
3) add varying hormones to my system which could work and also cause significant weight gain
4) remove one or more major members of my reproductive systems and hope for the best or possibly for early menopause
5) continue as I am and rely on the selective short-term memory malfunction of peri-menopause

The skie's the limit. Certainly this isn't the time of the month to specify an option. Right now, I'll continue to limit my verbal sparring with family members (and apologize when I don't), refrain from making major financial purchases or decisions, lock the refrigerator and pantry doors (so no one else can consume my salties and sweets), stay away from loud sounds, heavy scents, strong vibrations, and bright colors, keep reading materials and laptop and movies on tap for sleepless nights, ingest 800 milligrams of ibuprofen every 5 hours while I can (stomach has been protesting the past six months), and remind myself that my one good day -- maybe two if it's timed right -- is just around the corner!

I Haven't Been Called One In Person But I've Seen One On TV

Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey come to mind. Patti LaBelle, Aretha Franklin, Barbra Streisand, and Celine Dion. Taking broader strokes, one can brush-in Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer; Oprah Winfrey and Whoopie Goldberg. I'd go so far as to add Katherine Hepburn and Meryl Streep. I'm talking about diva-hood. Being a diva. Diva-licious. D-I-V-A: a woman who inhabits the space about her with a rarity of presence, an outstanding sense of her talent, the ability to own who she is despite what the world or anyone else dictates. The women I've suggested are examples from popular culture for the most part, both present and a bit further behind us, but they are not the only players on the field. They just happen to receive a lion's share of the exposure in the world.

Divas come in a range of shapes, sizes, and colors; they cross socio-economic boundaries and exhibit gifts and fineness of character beyond mere entertainment value. Divas are the 'every-woman' who manage to engage life beyond the parameters of just 'any-woman.' The word 'diva' comes from the Latin 'divus' which means 'divine.' Dictionary.com defines the basic sense of the term as "goddess" or "fine lady." Though it once narrowly defined a phenomenal operatic singer, often with the negative connotation of being difficult to handle, the word now enjoys regular use by all manner of people on television, in the workplace, between women getting together at Bunco or meeting for their kids' play dates. It has evolved into a handy and simple tool for empowering sister-friends in their daily lives as they try to recall what it is they want to do in the midst of what they have to do.

I've personally never been accused of being a diva. Never been labeled as thus. Not had the term used to tie my unique personal aspects to my talents and drive. Until recently, that is.

You see, I am an 'Earth Diva.' Well, maybe in-training. Me and three other truly fine and phenomenal women of high caliber in the faith, character, and strength department. I consider myself to be a junior member at 39, lower in the pecking order but not loved any less nor considered any less significant. My lack of seniority is a measurement device of my own making to allow for the growth curve I've yet to experience in relation to these gracious and gregarious gals. I don't deny that I've gained considerable knowledge from the events of my life - in many large and small ways I'm an old soul; however, I've yet to pin down that elusive be-still-and-let-it-stick quality which each of these women seem to possess.

(My children, all teenagers, God love 'em, don't grasp the finer points of my status as an Earth Diva. They balk, guffaw, and roll their eyes in amused exasperation at what they perceive to be a bunch of ageing ladies attempting to be cool. Any time I actually verbalize our name, my middle child puts her hand in the air - a veritable STOP sign - and exclaims, "Mom! Don't . . . stop talking. That is so gay!" **'Gay' has undergone several wardrobe changes in its history; kids today intend 'gay' to reflect an inherent level of stupidity associated with a person, action, etc.** I'm not in the least offended. If they understood it, what would be the point?)

We met in the most traditional of Southern institutions, the Baptist church, albeit a very non-traditional branch of the Baptist church - perhaps located on the outer edge of the Baptist umbrella. (This makes the 'divine' origin of diva most appropriate in my mind.) During the standard ladies' retreats and picnic outings, we found ourselves gravitating one to the other. (Two of the E.D.'s were close friends, as were their families, years before I ever set foot on the doorstep of the church.) Before long, we began scheduling outings to discover out-of-the-way coffee shops with photogenic sweeps of lush Tennessee landscape; we visited farmers' markets to admire and purchase lovely fruits and vegetables, all the while chatting it up with the sellers; we packed refreshingly creative lunches to suit our individual likes and needs as we explored how best to treat our bodies, delving into the dark world of darkest chocolates, health food stores, goat's-milk cheeses, and herbal teas. After one particularly memorable day - I seem to recall a green sea of potted plants spilling from the back of one vehicle - all of us a bit wilted in body but energized in spirit, our most exalted artistic member suggested we adopt a name for our motley crew. As our interests - gardening, food, health, family, faith - seemed to stem from a desire to learn how better to care for the creation around us and within us, it didn't take long to agree upon a moniker . . . and the Earth Divas were born. We snapped a group picture to commemorate the occasion.

After almost two years of communing with nature, ourselves, and our Lord, we graduated to a somewhat regular practice of meeting at a fantastic local coffee shop with terrific ambiance and an upbeat, granola-ish owner given to wearing long flowing gypsy-like skirts and wavy cascades of naturally gray hair. Once there, once breathless hello's and gushes of mutual admiration flow from our lips, once we settle our initial beverage purchases and pick our seats around the small square table, we prepare for a world where CRACK is used often and safely; PUNGS, CHOWS, and KONGS rule the roost; and, DOTS, BAMS, and WINDS play peacefully, albeit a touch clackingly, with FLOWERS and DRAGONS. It is the new-to-me Asian game of Mah Jongg, where I look forward to having my wind pung-ed as often as possible!

We don't keep score. Not yet anyway. Though we are able to congregate for several hours, oft times attempting to make an entire day of it, we lack the concentrated intensity, discipline, focus, and competitive spirit necessary to parlay a few languid and lo-o-ong hands into an actual full game or two or three. Depending upon what rules are used, up to 16 hands must be played before a game can be considered done! Good golly, I say. We stop in between hands, during hands, to take photographs OF hands. We stop for potty breaks, food breaks, discussion breaks, visitor breaks - our various children have made guest appearances as have curious onlookers wondering what, pray tell, were we up to? - and I can count on maybe one or two fingers if I'm honest, how many times we plowed through one entire hand. The game is splendid in its own right, but it is a vehicle, really, for the perpetuation and practice of further Earth Diva-ery.

These women, this trio of ladies, they are a solid addition to my stable of lifelong friends. They fall into that category of people one meets in a lifetime who would continue in the heart and mind if ever a physical move facilitated the break-up of the group. I would remain sure as to their admiration and affection for me if ever a time came where we did not enjoy this customary coming-together, so confident am I of their devotion to friendship and the sisterhood of the divinely inspired. Being a collector of words, especially keen on possible clever and quirky titles for books, poems, chapters of books, articles, etc., I have an eye and an ear for the unusual, the unexpected, the unbearably humorous. Mannerisms and speechisms enthrall me. In my purse, there is an ever present notebook for scribbling and scrawling as the spirit moves me. Much like a good book or a memorable movie, these women have me pulling out the little spiral bound quote collector more often than not. They are just THAT good!

Besides inspiring today's title, my bevy of gal pals and their generous exchanges spark other festive utterances which engendered ribbons of inky happiness for my pen and paper. "Bust A Funky" (courtesy of other friend's actually being quoted by the E.D.'s) and "Hoebags and Hoecakes" come to mind. Of course, the confabs from which these word collections spring are the true stars. But, we don't have all day in this blog to dig into those delicious dishes of dialogue. Suffice it to say, we cover the deep and the wide, the shallow and narrow, the pain, angst, suffering, confusion, joy, wonder, awe, and a myriad rainbow more, well enough, thorough enough, just enough, to get us by until next we meet.

I am sustained by the faces of my fine ladies and the aspects of all women which they so brilliantly, and very naturally, convey via their earned diva-hood: my chic and elegant lady of the soft spoken Southern drawl and gentle nature, most beautiful bookworm of fathomless empathy; my matter-of-factly, oh-so-exactly, problem-solving, deliverer-of-dry-humor, tell-it-like-it-is aficionado of desserts, mysteries, and the theater; and, last, but certainly never the least of these, my patron pixie muse of the arts, gay-giggler and onetime 'radial-kay-er' (inside joke - think hearing-impaired misinterprets eager cheerleader), in-house-visual-whimsy-specialist. As to my own aspects, how they would encapsulate me is unclear though methinks 'special toothpicker' might show up somewhere. How I was ever allowed into their ranks is beside the point. That I am there is everything. It is one of those sure things which tells me there is a God and He most definitely loves me.