39 is creeping up fast.

How on earth is it possible that I will turn 39 years of age in two weeks?

When did I stop being 12 years old?

But here's the thing: I'll take 39 over 12. I will take this time in my life and be grateful for how I got here. I wouldn't trade it or time machine zap myself back to the 80's.

But I would also like to stop getting my own way. That would be a good step for 39.

To be brave and sit up straight and carry myself tall when I walk down the street.

To be brave and set up the computer and sit down and write a little, or a lot, now and then or all the time.

To be brave and up my pace and RUN.

To be brave and give myself time with horses. To make that happen.

To be brave and treat my body, mind, and spirit with love and goodness. That means not eating a lot of chocolate to semi numb out. That means putting on lotion after I shower. That means doing more than just superficially taking care of myself.

A little step is big, but it necessitates more little steps. It doesn't give permission to step aside and simply say, look, now I've taking a little step.

Not. Good. Enough.

RUN. Leap, dance, skip, SMILE. Stand up tall and sit up tall and BE here. Breathe deeply and be here. Shift the fear and hesitation and reserve and fully step up to this slickrock plate in front of you.

You say, "I love it here." Well, then - love it here. Show up and be here.

Live 100%. Not 63%.

If you think that anyone is going to be anything other than enriched because you show up? Think again, sister. Show up fully and see what happens.

39 is only once. and next is 40. Time to kaboom.

November

November of last year, on one snowy chilly night, I drove 90 minutes to a borders and met one of my idols.

Embrace the feeling of that. Spent almost 2 hours sitting, talking, laughing, just being there with these people, real people now, a family, not just words on a screen or page and images. So, write, she said.

November of this year, on a relatively warm night, I walked 5 minutes across my new town, from my new home, and met my capital I Idol.

I met her. I shook her hand, I spoke to her, I scooted down and crouched at her table to be closer to her space, to try to spin out that moment and be right there with someone who amazes me. She touched my arm, she told me I had gravity about me.

November of eleven years ago, a beautiful amazing woman who would have been someone's idol, without a doubt, danced away in the night.

Feel the ache of her loss, but also grasp tightly to the gift of her energy and love and zest for life. How she would use the word, "yummy." How she wound glitter ribbon around the buns in her hair. How she moved with such grace and presence.

These three women, quiet and gentle on some levels, fierce and passionate on others, not afriad to show the universe the inside of their heart.

As I sat there last night in the large audience, I wondered, how long will it be before I know people here? Before I say hello and offer hugs and chit chat and catch up and share support and just see familiar faces? Before I am a familiar face?

Find the thing you are passionate about and do it, one is told. One is invited, encouraged, nudged along to embrace.

Be brave and throw arms wide, reach out, scoop up life and hold it tight.

Carry on with sparkles of the one who left.
Carry on with laughter, insight, willingness to put yourself out there, and just write like she said.
Carry on with an embrace of your gravity, root down deep into your new place, bedrock yourself with this community, look into your passions, speak your mind, be brave.

and so it is august now

August already. Mid-August, at that. The summer is nearly over and yet it seems to have barely begun.

I've lost track of forward motion, on many levels. It didn't take much to effect that. Specifically, an energy- and soul-sucking week of absurdly hard work to wear me down, followed by a dose of gluten wrapped in the guise of a special, made just for me treat.

Well, one can continue on the path of meh and blah to the land of crap. Easily, in fact.

Or, one can keep saying, nope. I don't want to do that.

Saying this doesn't equate to changing things, not really. I am still floundering in the land of crap, with mostly open arms if I am honest with myself. But the nope lingers, it nudges just a bit at the back of my mind and says ever so softly, I'm still here, saying nope.

Because I don't want it to be a big deal if I dry my hair and style it a bit. What the heck is the big deal about that? Well, if I do it, it says that I am trying to look better... but then if I don't look better I just feel stupid, and feel ugly, and feel like I've wasted time and people will look at me and think I am rediculous for trying to look good.

Amazing how the sentiments of a childhood self still linger with roots like miles when you're an adult.

Because I want to feel good.

Because I want to wake up and smile, not have the expression and sentiment each day that's essentially, "crap."

April to August, one would hope for change, progress, renovation. Not so much, really. Same story. It's getting old.

Why, then?

Why is it that when one reads about someone dying, too young, too special, too unique, too marvelous, too influential, the kind of person who makes you laugh louder and breath deeper and hug more fiercely - why is it that this story crushes me? Makes me so profoundly aware of how un-alive I am, even now?

The sensation of wading through high thigh deep water - that's my life. That's all I am doing. I am going through the motions, most of the time, of living a life but I'm not really, truly living a life. I'm just alive, kinda sorta. Thousands upon thousands of dollars of therapy - even really good therapy - makes me more aware of the lack. Makes me go, "oh, gee" when I have some moments of connection and joy, thinking how much I like this, want more, want life to be like this always.

But what the hell blocks me, then? What? Why does the pervading wisdom cling so tightly to ugh, blah, boring, stasis all the time?

I am so angry, really, about "my life," and I will chalk it up in part to that. Angry about where I live. Angry about giving up things I love. Angry about surroundings that I don't nestle in to. Angry about feeling alone, disconnected, lost, not at home. Angry. Profoundly sad, too, but mostly, seething with a quiet anger that I just do. not. let. out. Ever. Well, maybe once in a great while, when alone in my car, it seethes slowly to the surface and then explodes out with such ferocity I scare myself. I can shout like that? Who knew.

But I wasn't always this way, was I? Tendency toward depression, awkwardness, disconnect? Well sure, yeah. But sad, dozed out, neutral, not alive? Not really, no. I had some zest in Vermont, I know I did. I know it's not all rosey memory. Some of that emotion, that remembrance, is real. I had some spunk, some spark. I shook my butt down State Street with the girls. And I loved it. Shyly, but loved it. And I spoke up, spoke out, spoke my mind. Had people, had places to go, routines, things I liked, things I loved. Community, of sorts.

It is so, so past time to get the hell out of here. Here where I don't belong. Here where I don't fit in. Here where I'm barely alive. Here where I have no friends. Here where my passion is squelched. Here where the greatest truths of myself are slapped aside time and again and the core of me is ignored and unacknowledged.

Go forward, they say. I sure want to. I want to live. More importantly, I want to LIVE. To live my life, to be alive and flourishing, to be smiling, to enjoy the day to day dance with the universe. Not this wading through ocean waste of time waste of life nonsense. I want to have a spark again.

I don't want to fade away never having lived well. Never having mattered. I want to live a life that makes people say, she lived well. Not in a superficial way, but in a way that matters - that helps the community, that shares love with others, that cares, that nurtures, that gives, that sparkles.

I need, so desperately, to wake up and come alive and just be. Be here. A here of my own design, a here where I belong, a here where I have a community, where I can count and share and make a difference and joyously LIVE.

unstuck

Just because you are feeling stuck in the mud? Write a blog post. Do not wallow in self sustaining sad feelings of loserdom. Nope. Log in, type some words, strive to get the hell over yourself.

Boredom. Disconnect.

At least there is a good meal and a good movie later, right?

Gray and hazy doesn't help. Hershey's kisses doesn't help. Neglect and poor self care doesn't help.

Okay, I threw out the rest of the bag of hershey's kisses, so at least I won't eat any more of those.

Figure out the budget so you can get the darn sports bra for running.

Positive forward motion beats negative stagnation.

but deep down, a reset button is not the answer

The feeling that you have when you wish powerfully for a do-over? It's draining. Or perhaps, not so much a true do-over, but rather a second try. Or the ability to see an alternate course. The strength to say, TURN. Change. Try. Think differently. I have been making the same complaints and voicing the same concerns for a decade but the STOP. Now, go. moment has just not really truly happened.

When will it happen? When I sell my house I never really felt at home in (and for a huge loss, of course; the joys of the market)? When I decorate and paint my 'new' house? Will I feel at home there? Will I feel like I've found my place there?

Because in truth, that's all I really want. My place. My place in my home, my life, my community, with my friends. Room for my joys and interests, room to give of myself and be a part of things, room to laugh and feel at home.

Ten years lonely, ten years sad. For what?

But how to I turn my course - that's the problem. I can express, I hate it here, with more volume and energy than I knew I possessed. But that doesn't move me an inch in a direction of any kind. It just digs me deeper.

And in truth, I do mostly know that this is not it. Ten years of this is not it.

And now, I really don't care about taking a loss on the house. I don't care.  I want out of this place, out of this reality not of my choosing, out of feeling like a square peg surrounded by people who don't get me and don't want to get me. A place where I cannot be myself in any capacity. A place where I am so very, very alone and have been hurt so very much.

Some days I want to tear down buildings and trees and pull my hair out. You cannot really see that, though; I keep every ounce of hope and saddness and anger and frustration and disappointment and wishing and desperation carefully bottled up behind my mask of a face, because there is no damn room for any of it. Shut up, deal, take care of everything, and give up.

How do you move forward when you feel like you've given up everything at 38 years of age? When you won't get one single thing of substance you wish for? When you will never get to be yourself, feel relaxed, feel happy, feel at peace? Never?

reset, right?

But not really, going back eliminates the experience of ten years and the power to recognize the NEVER AGAINs in my experience. As well as the things that matter, even if it is mostly by the pain of their absence. So, not a do-over. But a turn, change, energize, do it freaking NOW.

but how, right? If I knew that, I wouldn't be here.

april is a long time after february. it is also national grilled cheese month.

This afternoon, I read a journal I kept my freshman year of college. It was during the first semester, as part of a requirement for my bio class (oddly enough). It is mostly filled with longing for home and friends and animals and family. And comfort food. It is easy to see why the freshman poundage most definitely found me - "had frosted mini wheats and a blueberry bagel for lunch today." Seriously, 18 year old Jen, you really did?

I was funny at times. I can recognize that. I was also probably quite lost and sad, that shines through. I can see where I elected to simply not touch on the most traumatic experience of my young life (my horse died). A passing mention, that's all - too difficult to deal with.

As I begin to creep toward my 20th class reunion, it becomes increasingly compelling to take some stock of myself. It's an interesting process. I recall sitting alone at lunch in high school, ditched by my friends, embarrassed, picked on by the cool kids a the table who wanted the seats I was saving so desperately. My story to myself for 20 years - well, of course they ditched me. Weirdo. Awkward. Ugh, her. Let's sit here, she didn't see us. Right? The guy says he would have just been pissed off at the ditching friends. The therapist says, could there have been another story?

So, could I perhaps try to shift more and more in the direction where actions of 17 year olds have really little to do with who I am at 38? I like that notion.

I said in my later journal pages such glorious phrases as "righteous babe" and "wildwoman."

Live up to 24 year old hopes, babe.

the silver platters had it right

When it's time to change... then it's time to change. Right? My voice won't crack like Peter's did but maybe I can make some changes that are equally significant in terms of life flow.

Two days with running this week feels terrific. Aiming for a third on Friday to feel awesome.

Better sense of humor about the universe this week feels restful. Trying to get ahead of the curve and laugh before the thing goes wrong.

And why can't I buy a pair of socks instead of candy? If I can let myself buy candy then how can I say I cannot affort socks?

In the end, it really does not require 2 siblings and 3 step siblings and a recording booth to make adjustments.

when life throws you sub zero temperatures and snow, make lemondade

I'd like to think that maybe, perhaps, I have finally figured something out. As in, through the process of digging in to myself, my mind, my coping mechanisms, my fears and worries, my flip-flops of emotion and my big questions about my life, perhaps I've made some simple connections and understandings this week that can serve to carry me forward.

The biggest thing is to just do it. Not like the shoe company - but to simply step into it all and go. Live. Be present. Make the choice that is loving, respectful, and caring of myself.

Snack sized Hershey bars at lunchtime today - not loving, respectful, or particularly fraught with self-care. But I know that fully in the bellyache and dull headache and feeling of, "see? you know that wasn't a kind way to be."

The honey-mustard, apple, arugula, and brie quesadillas reheated for lunch? Those fit the bill on all counts. Delicious. Fun. Good for me. Warm. Yummy. Satisfying. Veggies, fruit, fiber (brown rice tortillas), protein. Okay, protein is always better when it is wrapped in the guise of soft French cheese, but still, protein is important.

Small little steps of love and respect. Hard, hard to shake old patterns, hard to step back from being cruel to myself. Mistreatment. Abuse (chocolate can be abusive).

But here's the thing that helped me click it all together this week and want to make a shifteroonie. Twentieth class reunion this summer or fall, it is happening. And I know how I want to feel when I go to that event. Used to worry how I'd look, that's a 20-something's worry. Now, I just know how I want to feel when I am there. I want to feel healthy and vibrant and alive. Present in myself, available to the experience. Glowing and sparkly, gosh darn it. Okay, maybe "look" plays in, because sure, I'd love to look fantastic. Not because I've suddenly grown into someone I am not, not in a superficial way, but in a "you look GREAT" way that is rooted in peace and health in body and mind. Yes to that.

One of my persons of inspiration was written about this week and encouraged to try a free online yoga class. I am thinking that maybe I could check that site out, myself, and try to find one or two days a week when my morning is transitioned from rest to action through gentle movement and breathing and focus. Sounds darn good.

So, it's Friday. Feeling at a far different place than Monday. That's good. I'll take that. Bring on the weekend. Time to come alive.

florals? snow. frustration. and bacon.

Success: painted my headboard white. Got a pint of olympic no voc paint, started mid-day Sunday, got two coats on and it was dry enough to put everything back together enough by bedtime to sleep. Has an "it's always looked like that, right?" kind of quality to it. Versus, a "wow! that looks GREAT!" quality. Much like my haircuts. I say, let's cut it shorter. Stylist (she is a gem) says, how fun, let's! Then, no one notices. Thank goodness I am not that vain... just don't want to feel ugly and awkward and all that. But maybe I was hoping for more shazzam from painting the headboard than I actually accomplished. Kind of like cutting an inch of length off my hair. But alas - it looks better. No more stained teeth, now it is freshly white strips looking white.

Did find a fabric I loved for my stuffed animal pillow. And fabric for shams. They were bold. He hates it. So, compromise but not collapse is my modus now. Try to find my way to feeling okay on both sides, but not give up my self-expression (yet again) in this particular situation. So, this weekend I may have to take a gentle stand and make the one pillow-like concoction out of the fabric I still love. It's my little pillow, after all.  Finding a path to expressing one's creativity when it has been utterly squashed for a decade is interesting work, to say the least. It feels a bit like flailing about, grabbing onto something dramatic, perhaps to make a point? Who knows. But, in this particular instance, it was less than successful. Sham fabric = hated completely. Equals hurt feelings, squashed self-expression, et al. SO - regroup! Make the one pillow out of the slightly less hated, and cannot really argue with how perfectly it matches everything fabric. Re-visit the idea of new fabric for the pillow shams. Neutral color. Plain. Dare I say, boring? Ugh. Oh well. Middle ground is the goal, but middle ground I am comfortable on. That is the key.

Key issues: fabric was dark (chocolate brown, gorgeous to my eye); and most critically, it was floral. Floral? Huge crime.

Enough about that, though. A day of greasy snow and slow roads, and day to leave work early while it is still light out and driving is a wee bit safer, and a day to stop at the store on the way home for bacon for supper. Bacon, humanely raised bacon (well, more accurately, from humanely raised hogs), roasted with maple syrup brushed on it (thanks barefoot contessa).

That'll do.

to sleep. perchance to, well, sleep.

What to I wish for when I imagine "time for bed?" I wish for: a sufficient quantity of quality, restful, restorative sleep in a snug, warm haven where I feel tucked in like a little mouse, all cozy and happy and peaceful. Not too much to ask for, right?

Not wanting to go to bed, not falling asleep, not sleeping soundly, not feeling rested, and feeling perpetually tired is just plain too much. Enough. Ugh, years of this nonsense. Exhasted. Exhaustion leads to all sorts of other unpleasantries, as well. Crabby pants. Sad pants. Tired pants. I'll just eat some more candy pants.

What is within my power, what can I re-think, what can I simply re-do?

First: I hate the way my bed looks. Hate it. So sick of those damned red striped pillow shams set just so on the thing every day. So sick of the color scheme. Of the not-big-enough comforter that leaves the metal bed frame exposed at the bottom. Sick of the dull, marked up, drab-assed beige painted headboard. Ugly. Not an inviting, welcoming, restful looking haven. Rather, an annoyingly unattractive and unappealing thing.

SO: Between now and Saturday morning, I will - measure and determine how much fabric I need to make two new shams for the big pillows; measure out for fabric and plan to make a little "pillow" safety chest of sorts, to tuck my Bashful in (a stuffed animal dog I have had for 32 years. Will not get rid of him. But, he looks like a 32 year old stuffed animal on my bed. Had the brainstorm to create a gorgeus, lovely small pillow of sorts that I can tuck him in and add some soft stuffing around so I know he is there but he's not so evidently there, you know?). Then, when fabric store opens at 12, I will go and procure said amounts of two fabrics, one that I love for the shams and a coordinating one I love for the bash pillow. Next, I will go to target and if need be, darn it, I will go to wall-hell and get two flat sheets in a coordinating neutral tone to make a new comforter cover out of. Next, I will go to Lowes and procure one quart of a semi gloss no voc paint in an ever so slightly bold tone that matches and goes well, to repaint the fugly headboard. None of this will involve teamwork. Rather, it involves me saying ENOUGH, I know what colors he finds appealing and have a sense of what he'll like well enough to make him feel at home too, and he sleeps well anyway, so there. Right?

So, I cannot afford a new mattress which I do need, but I can decide to make this investment in myself so that when I look at my bed I think, ah - cozy sleepy place. Instead of, ugh, I hate this bed and I hate my room and I don't want to go there. Enough of that. Sleep is a necessity, not a luxury, not a treat, not a self-indugence. It is necessary and I deserve to sleep well.

The revolution begins with pillow shams. Look out.

write. just write.

Today, it is brutally cold outside. Not in a North Dakota cattle ranch danger of imminent death while throwing hay to steers freezing to death on their feet kind of way, but cold enough. Dammit.

I want to run. I only got to run twice last week. I am missing the activity, the routine, and how much better I feel. Instead, I feel the wiggles and the clogs in my head and how stagnant my whole self is. Snap, cold snap.

I saw Terry Tempest Williams. It was amazing. She is beautiful and inspiring and you feel, you just FEEL, that this is a very, very special human being you are in the presence of. Awestruck. Her voice is gentle and yet powerful - you must listen to her. Her emotions are present, right there to see and feel. And you wish, so very much, that you could join her for an hours-long gentle hike, to talk and to silently enjoy the landscape.

I would like to do that some day. Go for a gentle hike with Terry Tempest Williams. Maybe it could be.

Her push of the notion of place and community as a driving force within - this shoots right into my heart and mind. I don't have my place, my community, my driving force, because I am somewhat blobbing along as this nebulous thing in my current space and time. Oh, how I want that root, that rooting, that place and community that sets fire to my heart and soul and lets me do no other than be authentic and present and passionately alive. Moab, slickrock, red sands and stones, ahoy. Yes? Yes. Somehow, oddly, strangely, yes. No longer gold and red and russet leaves against green grass and wooden fences. Instead, this smooth rock that hugs my boot soles and carries me safely up slopes that look impossible. This red dirt that gets into your socks and pores.

So now, back to nestling into positive routines and rituals. Run. Write. These are good things. Chocolate? Not so much.

Reconnect, recharge, respect yourself.