Tuesday Cucumber & Key Lime Margarita

This will make you want to dance! I wasn't sure how cucumber margaritas would taste so, I made a very small batch. And I regret it as I gaze at the empty blender in the sink. The skins could have been bitter (they weren't) the flesh could have been full of seeds (it wasn't) and it might have just tasted too healthy or too green or too something. In any case, I just didn't want to make a full batch and then end up pouring it all down the garbage disposal. Tonight was a time when I was so happy that I  was so wrong. Something about the newborn size of the cukes and their freshly picked status gave them an intense, cooling sensation, which would have been wonderful anytime. But today, with the heat index at 115, it was like the most incredibly insightful gift our beloved Mother Earth could bestow on her children. The tartness of the key lime, the fragrant jasmine flowers mixed with green tea and a sweet touch of raw honey were the perfect companions for those newly picked cukes. Some fresh mint, leftover from Mondays' creation, were next to the cukes in the refrigerator. I tossed that in at the end, right before I added the heavy whipping cream to adjust the glycemic index. Garnished with a slice of cucumber and flowering oregano, this is the perfect foil for a day like today. And if it weren't so blooming hot I would never have tried to concoct something with cooling properties like this treat. As I sipped the liquid cucumbers through the sea salt on the rim I was reminded of the cold soups of summer I have eaten over the past 50+ years. Which led me back to the cucumber fields of you youth. My father insisted we plant acres of the darling and sell them to Gedney to make a fortune. My siblings and I were not nearly as compliant, or as enthusiastic, as he had hoped. 95% of his babies grew as big, and as orange, as small pumpkins before we managed to harvest them. By that point we couldn't even give them to Gedney and they ended up in the pig trough.  We loaded a few bushel baskets, mostly full,  in the dusty  Ford family station wagon and drove them to Winthrop. Arriving at the drop off site for Gedney we emptied the baskets into the sorting machine and the attendant turned it on. As the bed of slats rocked back and forth the smaller cukes fell through the openings onto the conveyor belt. But the larger, orange ones stayed right were they fell until they were swept off and fell into the large barrel with the other rejects, on their way to the pigs. We were only paid for the smaller cukes and it was just about enough to cover us at the Dairy Queen if we got the cheapest things on the menu: dilly bars or single dipped cones. Luckily, I had money from my babysitting business and we also stopped at the Lyle's Cafe for pie. We sat at the counter so we could see the pie lady, Mina Peterson. I loved watching her roll out the crust, studying her technique and imagining how wonderful it would be to spend all day making pies. No one was in a hurry to get back to the hot and humid cucumber patch. As far as we workers were concerned the grasshoppers, crickets and spiders were welcome to claim the produce, we had better things to do: swimming, reading, drinking cherry cokes. On the drive home with tummies full of blueberry pie, cherry pie and Dairy Queen treats, we joked about our Dad's "get rich quick" scheme and plotted how to avoid his pickle patch picking plans. By the end of our "pickle summer" of 1970 he realized his expensive mistake. He told us that we were ungrateful, and spoiled rotten, just like the soft orange cucumbers left on the ground. He said he bought the tractor and planted those seeds for us, so his kids could make some money, be independent and have something to do over our summer vacation. And then, after telling us we didn't deserve the opportunity he had provided, he solemnly vowed it would be a long, long time, if ever, that he would try to do something like that for us kids again. And, so far, thank you, Jesus, he's kept his word.

Monday Mango Margarita

Oh, yes, it's a heat wave. After sweating it out all day it is so time for some thing salty, icy and full of beta carotene, with just a hint of fresh mint. Something that says, "I love this life-no matter what!" When pressed for time I go for the frozen mango's that you can find in oh-so-many freezer cases in oh-so-many stores. I would rather pick them off my own tree, like I did with the sour cherries, or buy them from a local grower but that just isn't happening until I move to the tropics. I like drinking my margaritas out of a martini glass which some people will find offensive. But I honestly haven't found any margarita glasses that feel right in my hand. They are either too big, too thick or too ugly. I almost passed on these striped glasses but once I actually picked them up, held them in my hand, and closed my eyes I was sold on them. That and the fact that it was the 4th of July week, a week of fireworks and streamers. They are festive and I want a stronger sense of celebration in my life. This recipe is an original combination of fresh lime, lemon, calcium added orange juice concentrate and frozen mango cubes. I love using frozen fruit rather than ice as it is just plain more flavorful. I was generous with the sea salt around the rim, as I felt I needed to replace the electrolytes I lost during the sauna-like weather today. My secret ingredient: extra strong jasmine tea. I made enough of this batch so that I have some left-over. Tomorrow morning I will add Greek yogurt and drink it for breakfast. Or pour it on top of granola and enjoy the complex flavors which will develop during the night. On an increasingly rare occasion such as an engagement party, wedding or job promotion I might add a shot of tequila or dark spiced rum. But the sugar rush and the caffeine are my drugs of choice.  As I placed the half full blender in the refrigerator I noticed a hand-full of lovely fresh cucumbers from yesterday's trip to the Kingfield Farmer's Market. Consequently, I am leaning toward cucumber/lime margaritas tomorrow, which means chopping the cukes and freezing them tonight. Check back here for the results. 

Brioche with plum jam

There is a common human habit of noticing what's wrong with our lives, the painful things that suggest we're bad people, or maybe just plain stupid, undeserving. The world is misperceived as an unfriendly place filled with all kinds of dangers we need to avoid. We start to think that with enough planning and plenty of caution we can prevent painful things from happening. Yet there is plenty of evidence to the contrary, if we are willing to look clearly at everything that is around us. From the fragrant, flowering plants along our paths to the fluffy clouds overhead, we are surrounded by the living manifestation of lovingness. The relaxed ease granted to us during these warm summer months is just such a blessing. I personally get caught worrying about my financial instability and hope that it is a temporary situation for me. Trying not to worry, I set out for a morning run. Then, as I pass Patisserie 46, the little bakery on 46th and Grand, I notice an older Chevy camper and it abruptly interrupts my "worry pattern." I realize that, if necessary, I could sell or rent my house and live in something like that vehicle. I could travel, write and be very inspired. I became so absorbed in imagining my new writing life in the back of a vanagon that I forgot about monthly revenues, assets, and profit and loss reports. I started to select which campsite I would use when I got to Wright's beach on the Sonoma coast. By the time I reined in my imagination my cells were flooded with dopamine and other "feel good" hormones. I realized that my financial status is a small part of my life, necessary, but more of a puzzle than a curse. As I turned back toward home I stopped at the bakery to purchase one of their signature baguettes. Entering the tiny space I was enveloped by the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries. I was reminded of LaDuree and the time I spent in their London location. The image of an unforgettable, cold and rainy afternoon eating pastries with my daughter and her boyfriend popped into my memory. But there are a fair amount of people living in Minneapolis who never think about LaDuree. There are probably some people who even think LaDuree is over-rated and pretentious, not worth the trip or the effort. And, considering my current financial resources, I am happy to find myself carrying baguette and an unplanned brioche with creme fraiche back to my kitchen. I eat the Brioche with sweet butter from Hope Creamery,  home-made plum jam and Mrs. Kelly's hot Jasmine tea. And I remember that everything in life is amazing, sometimes painful, but undeniably blessed.

Queen of Trailer-land

When my mother sold her trailer she gave up a garden she had spent many years creating. There were hedges of bridal wreath, every kind of spring bulb, day lilies, peonies, ferns, magnificent prehistoric looking hosta and unusual iris. But the queen of this paradise of the trailer park was this golden lady slipper, gleaned from the boggy woods near her son's lake "place." It thrived in her tiny lot and was the envy of the area. She had planted it close to the trailer so that it was protected from the winds and uninvited eyes. It seemed uncommonly happy even though the soil was primarily clay. Plant thieves were known to visit the park where her trailer was situated. As she looked for new homes for her treasures the lady came to me. I replanted it in a somewhat shady area in my back yard and marked it so I would know where it was and avoid mistaking it for  a weed. Sometimes plants rest for a time in their new homes, sort of recharging their batteries and adjusting to the different combinations of moisture and sunlight, at a new time of the day. In any case, when I looked for it in late April, it had not appeared. May came and went without a trace of my mother's favorite. Her pink and white trillium flourished, as did her hostas and mock orange. I grieved the silence, the disappearance of that beauty and calculate the odds it may reappear next spring.

sour cherry margarita

My friend D lives in Margarita-ville. I want to visit her there, but I don't drink, which means that I actually live in Slurpee-ville, or Smoothie-ville, or maybe just Icee-ville, depending on your childhood tradition. I pretend it's a margarita or a daiquiri, and with that sudden rush of sugar, I feel like I'm bouncing off the walls. I tried adding whipping cream to slow the sugar rush, but that was simply too decadent. Now I'm back to straight fruit juices in a blender, occasionally adding a scoop of protein powder or a little tofu. Not very romantic, but I am "overdrawn" at the romance store. It did not serve my purposes in the long run. Like worrying, romance is over-rated. And seriously,  it's not something which will pay my mortgage. When push comes to shove, we call it domestic violence. How do we learn to recognize the various and subtle forms of domestic violence? For me, it was only by wading out into the middle of the pool.  And the deeper it got, the more I tried to ignore it, until I was drowning. Lucky for me, someone threw me a line and pulled me back to shore. Now I sit on the deck, overlooking my backyard, sipping my wanna-be Margarita and smile. It is quiet except for the sound of the wind in my cherry tree. The flowers are reaching for the sky. Summer is in full bloom and will be over before I'm ready to say good-bye. Nearly the middle of July, I wonder if it is too late in the season to get a bike. Many of my clients are on vacation, nearly all of them at the same time, leaving me with a lot of time on my hands and no impending deadlines. The trial for my latest GAL case has finished and we are waiting for the Judge's decision. I feel like I am at an intersection, wondering which path to try next. I ponder the options: which direction will be the most interesting,  and the least unpleasant? The sun shifts and I move my chair ever so slightly, following the shade. In another hour the mosquitoes will take over my back yard. I will be forced inside to preserve my blood supply. Thinking about dinner I try to remember what I saw in the refrigerator. It is too hot to cook anything so I focus my attention on the selection of eateries in the immediate neighborhood. I am fortunate to have a generous selection of options with a variety of price ranges. I decide on Singapore Noodles and call it in for "pick up". I'll treat myself to a new color of nail polish and those blue foamy things to hold your toes apart while the polish dries.  Last week at this time all I could think about was the trial. Following this family for over 13 months, I made myself ridiculously available to the Mom, hoping she would be able to organize herself so that her child could be returned to her safely.  But it never happened, and now,  I had to testify, leaving my opinion on a public record for eternity as to the best interests of her child. I didn't look forward to being on the witness stand, and had lay awake at night, going over the information in my reports to the court. I wondered if I had missed something. My compulsive perfectionism reared it's head with sharp, poisonous teeth. There are few guarantees in this world, and people make mistakes, but to continue to make the same mistakes, hoping the results would be different is madness. It could cost this child his life. The Rescuer appears, yet isn't clear regarding who is actually being rescued from whom. Now it is out of my hands, and I am relieved that the trial is over for me. The boy's case isn't closed until he's re-united or adopted, and I will stay with him until then, learning everything I can from his situation. Obviously, I intend to accept another assignment in the future, but this time I will not rush. I will wait until I am recovered, both emotionally and financially. This case has me well over budget on both levels. I have learned how easy it is to be drawn into someone else's panic while developing some skill in staying present to someone else's panic without mistaking it for my own. I have learned not to over-react, getting absorbed, over-identified really, by the adrenaline present in the situation. And there is no other way to figure that out than by wading in, and standing in the middle of it, watching and listening, for as long as it takes.

thorns

Roses the color of the cardinals grace my garden. My peonies and mock orange are finished allowing space for the roses to move into the spotlight. These are not expensive, fancy roses with a guarantee. These are simple roses for the working class, purchased from bulk bins where they are stacked willy-nilly in their plastic bags. I found them on my front porch one clear, sunny Mother's Day as a tribute to my devoted mothering. I opened the card to discover they were from the "celebrity" husband-who-cheated-on-me, to cover his adulterous sexual activities. After I discovered his duplicity, I was tempted to burn the three offending bushes or chop them into little pieces and dump them in his gas tank. But mainly I hated myself for believing his seductive lies of contrition and his vow to stay with me, as long as it took for us to reconcile, working through our differences "even if it were ten years." It only occurred to me recently that believing his lies was not an indication that something was wrong with me. He has seduced more people than could be counted with his deceptions and half truths. It is more about him than it is about me. The compassionate, wise words of a friend convinced me to put the plants in the ground, water them, and to love them into life and abundance. My earliest childhood memories are of roses, and I have always loved them, especially the yellow varieties. I planted expensive bushes of Peace roses when each of my children were born. Each year I tend these bushes reminded of the bittersweet nature of our meeting. Like the darkest chocolate I savor their lesson without forgetting the circumstances of our first encounter. They bloom for all to see. Without judgement or demands, my roses provide inspiration for me and hiding places for birds, squirrels, slugs and worms until the day they drop their petals and sleep.

Goodwill: Duluth

  

It was so cold in Duluth and we hadn't packed for the rain. So as we passed the Goodwill for the fourth or fifth time, I pulled into the parking lot, as close to the front door as possible. We ran to the front door through the rain shivering, looking for warm sweaters and sweat pants. But the first item my eyes fell on was a sugar bowl matching the Noritake China my mother gave me so many years ago.  It was elegant and lovely without a flaw or chip. I held it delicately as my memory moved back to my child hood. We rarely used that china. It was reserved for special occasions which never arrived. Graduations, funerals, marriages, births all passed without the special china gracing the table. When she passed it on to me I was determined it would not be hidden away. I had a special display case built with glass doors and spot lights so I could catch a glimpse of it every time I passed. And we used it often, holidays, Sundays, birthdays, special teas, children's accomplishments. new friends for dinner. And at one point a guest recognized the dishes, turned over a plate to verify it's origin and then insisted I reset the table with something more ordinary. I pointed out that they were dishes first and forever, and that we were celebrating our new friendship, but she wasn't convinced.  When I read her obituary, detailing her long, slow dance with ovarian cancer, I took out one of the paper thin porcelain Noritake cups and a matching saucer, filled it with jasmine tea and drank it slowly, thinking only of my friend and celebrating her life.

http://www.noritakechina.com/

http://www.goodwillduluth.org/shop-locations.htm

a recovering life

What I'm really interested in is recovery. How do women move on after a violent marriage crumbles? How do we learn to trust, to love, to allow myself to be vulnerable again after the man to whom I devoted my life and my dreams disappears? I  remind myself, over and over, that I can trust myself and my life and m journey. I didn't deliberately, consciously choose someone who would beat me up, and leave my son locked in the car during the winter. It wasn't on his CV and those kinds of questions never occurred to me during courtship. Even if I had asked them he wouldn't have been able to answer honestly. And, like all his other women, I was swept up in the romance of the moment. The possibility of happily ever after, seduced me, still does. We all grew up on that fantasy and it simply never dies. And I loved him. I believed in him. And I believed the stories he told me of our future together. I always said yes, until the cold winter day he left my son in the car. First time I said "no" to him. And it nearly cost me my life. It did cost me life as I knew it. Were there hints of his violent nature? Red flags? Hindsight is so interesting and memory plays tricks with us...I saw how he treated other people, but I thought I was different, and that he would never treat me with that cold arrogance. His unshaken sense of entitlement, he allowed himself to behave inappropriately no matter who would be hurt, even his 2 year old child. It was difficult to live with him, but it was even more difficult to break the spell woven by my desire to believe his words. I looked at his actions with disappointment yet magical thinking convinced me that it was just a matter of time and that we were a work in progress, learning how to communicate. I waited, at first patiently, and then my patience wore thin. One day he began screaming at me, slamming chairs around the room.  I was grateful that it wasn't our kids he was throwing against the wall, as he had in the past. And I still had hope, even when I requested that he live somewhere else, temporarily, while he sorted out his issues. I said "anger issues" because I had learned that the term "domestic violence" was a trigger for him. Insane, but not a deal breaker, yet. In fact the whole time we were separated I continued to believe he was in outpatient treatment and working hard on his program, his case plan. And I had a copy of "Assessing Risk to Children From Batterers". The July 2006 Newsletter of the Commission on Domestic Violence. I was still more concerned about the effects on my kids than myself. And I used the check list: assessing change in batterers. There are 8 points on the list, none of which ever changed as far as my observation was concerned. 

empty bench

Either he was lying then or he is lying now and either way he ends up a liar, and living a lie for the convenience of not having to be uncomfortable or grow up and look at his dark side. On the other hand I end up living in the dark, the secret that must not be explored. The first time his fist hit my face my glasses went flying across the room. Suddenly I couldn't see and I felt indescribably vulnerable. I tried to cover my face and upper body, to tuck my chin so the following blows would land on my head rather than my face.  He advanced as I tried to back away and avoid the impact of his fists. Tripping, and catching myself, I looked down at the floor. Our 2 year old son had managed to get between his Dad and I. He was pushing against his Dad's thighs as if he could stop the assault. His Dad didn't even notice that his son and daughter were in the room. His total concentration was on my face. I dropped to my knees and grabbed my son. It was enough of a surprise to give me an opportunity to run out of the room with my children and shut the bedroom door, locking it in shock. I felt numb except for my throbbing head. I had no idea where my glasses were and with out them I was nearly blind like many with nearsighted vision. How had this happened? I reached for my daughter and son. She was shaking with silent sobs wrapped around my waist like a python. Younger, not much smaller than his sister, my son was sitting on my lap wrapped around my neck. I rocked them, sitting on the edge of their bed. There was no sound from the next rooms as I tried to comfort and reassure them. I had no idea what had just happened, but I had watched my parents violent struggles enough to imagine how my children felt. I was shocked as the truth sunk into my awareness: I was living with a man I couldn't trust. I had left my children alone with him all day while I was at work. And he had left our 2 year old son alone, restrained by his car seat, in the car, in the Minnesota winter, indefinitely. Visions of child protection danced in my head as I took their shoes off and laid down in bed with one child on either side of me. They were exhausted, it was very late and as I quietly sang their favorite lullabyes they fell asleep. I waited until they were soundly asleep before creeping out of the bed, I covered them as usual, as if it had all been a bad dream. When I had watched my parents struggle, I vowed I would never stay with a man who hit me. It was a no brainer as far as my younger self was concerned. But I was totally unprepared for what had just happened. I had spent the past two years traveling with a newborn and a 3 year old to follow my husband's dream of artistic success and celebrity. I was unemployed, isolated from my friends and estranged from my family. I didn't know where to turn. My world had become a black tunnel with no sign of light at the far end. Nothing was broken beyond my trust as I shut the bedroom door behind me. He was in the other bedroom, the one we had shared until tonight

Ladies Tea

When you don't get out of bed, here's the kind of opportunity you miss: a high tea fundraiser for Community Emergency Services. Of course, you can always just send them a check, but you'll miss an opportunity to savour goodies provided by the ladies of Bethlehem Lutheran Church. The lavender cream scones were rich and flavorful. You could eat them alone or slather them with whipped cream and strawberry jam. The cranberry scones were a different texture, moist and sandy with a crunchy sugared top, also perfect for cream and jam. But, of course, we started with the sandwiches: cucumber topped with a large prawn and dill, or cucumber with a creamy garlic hummus, chicken salad on white triangles, and a cream puff filled with ham salad just like the ones my Mom made for my graduation reception ever so many years ago! There was the traditional sandwich loaf and last, but my favorite, olive rolls. We were encouraged to take be generous with ourselves, and most of us followed the suggestion. It is so easy to be a little more brutal than necessary with ourselves and it was liberating to be supported in our attempts to be more gentle, more loving to the one we see in the mirror every morning. The poppy seed bread was the perfect balance of sweetness, the lemon curd tarts were the kind that puckered your lips for a second, and the flakey pecan tarts were filled with chewy caramel and nuts. Brownies melted in your mouth. Fresh strawberries were dipped in milk chocolate. Cherry filled cheesecakes,  more selections than I could fit on my plate. Many women had dressed in vintage dresses and accessories with hats and white gloves. We looked like a flower garden of colors and textures. We had a special black tea flavored with black currant to accompany our meal and a musical backdrop. People took turns with a portrait photographer to remember the day, we all left the tables with smiles on our faces and happiness in our bellies. 

yellow robe

She woke to the sound of dripping water and smiled. There was a chance it was inside the house, but it was more possible that the ice dams on the roof were finally melting. Winter, her least favorite time of the year, appeared to be winding down. But today, when her Mom's name came up on the caller “identicus,” She assumed the worst: cardiac arrest, broken hip, probably not a car accident unless she had been hit while walking. Not that her Mom walked outside much in the Winter: too darn cold for her old bones. It was surprising to hear her voice. Her mother called rarely, she couldn't remember the last time, and was rarely in a friendly mood. Expecting to hear the voice of a nurse or EMT, her mother's voice bubbled into her ears like a pleasant brook in springtime, full of melting snow. In fact, it was her opening remark, “Is your ice melting?” Neither woman was fond of Winter. They agreed it was better than nothing, but it certainly wasn't as enjoyable as Spring, or Early summer. They were both avid gardeners although neither had all the time and inclination once at their fingertips. Each gardened more in their fantasies, and a few small containers, enjoying other people's efforts, as much as they had one time enjoyed their own. Their relationship had never been easy, her mother preferred her sons. She had grown up with the message-on-a-loop that her brothers came first, that they could do no wrong, and they were exempt from certain responsibilities. Yet her older brother grew up to be a single Dad and could cook, clean and sew with the best of her sisters. Yes, their relationship had always been turbulent as long as she could remember. Maybe they were just too much alike, consequently her mother tried to prevent her daughter from repeating her mistakes. But the mistakes had made her who she was: courageous and fiercely protective of her children. And Jill had lived much of her life wondering what was wrong with herself. Not realizing that the turbulence, the disagreements were evidence that something was very right with her. She was right on track, exactly where she needed to be to become the person she was meant to be since the day she was conceived. Their relationship had brought every out-dated, useless belief they shared into question and at the same time provided a foundation for pushing away from each other. A platform to launch themselves into this next stage of their lives. Now Jill was sitting on the lower stairs as they chatted, about 5 feet away from her new piano. Her new, used piano was a “hand-me-down” from her singing teacher. Now, they could meet for lessons away from her teacher's eccentric, hyper-active bulldog. Her mother had been J's first piano teacher. And she had lobbied the high school choir director to take Jill back into the group after she had stopped showing up for rehearsals. Her mother encouraged her singing; even insisted that she sing. When she wanted to buy a guitar, after saving her babysitting money for weeks, her mother supported her. Her mother was an accomplished pianist, organist for the Catholic Church and choir director. She had grown up in a small town in North Dakota, a few miles from the Canadian border and played piano from childhood. Her mother had given all her children piano lessons. A little heavy handed at first, but by the sixth child, a boy, she had mellowed. And when they didn't want to take lessons from her, she paid teachers for the ones who agreed to practice. She started playing simply for herself, her own enjoyment the main concern. There was a long period of time when they didn't have contact, didn't speak at all. Her mother was silent, disapproving perhaps judgmental. And maybe just down right scared. There was a time Jill was convinced something horrible was wrong with herself. Not just that she lacked significant value, enough to justify her existence, but that she actually had some sort of negative value, as if her assets could never measure up to the expense. One of her earliest memories was of a delicate yellow bathrobe, trimmed with lace, satin ribbons, and pearl buttons. As the oldest daughter she got new clothes, the other girls frequently received her clothes second hand, and many times, before she was done with them. The pain of handing her favorite dresses over to her younger sisters, and watching them spill, stain, and tear was difficult to bear. And she cherished the yellow robe, feeling like a princess when ever she wore it. She was tempted to save it for special occasions, so it would stay crisp and clean. But she had already tried that clever plan. she grew out of the special item, and had to hand it over to the next sister in line before she was ready, simply because it was too small for her. After she started buying her own clothes, she was allowed to wear them until they fell apart. Her flannel shirts and denim jeans were soft form many washings, in the days before pre-washed was available. Perhaps the yellow robe sticks in her memory because she was wearing it the night her older brother called Grandma and Grandpa to stop their parent's fight. Their Mom and Dad were downstairs screaming. She could hear the sounds of hitting, slapping, and punching even though she was all the way upstairs with the door partially closed. Her sister was in the next bed, silent, but definitely not asleep. Then her Mother was standing at the bottom of the stairs, screaming for her brother to run to the telephone, behind our Dad and call Grandma Mary. He was fast, and did it without hesitation, without thinking. Then he flew back upstairs into bedroom his sisters shared. He was shaking, and appeared terrified. Crying, he begged his sisters to come into his room, to his bed, a place he normally guarded as unquestioningly off limits to girls. His explanation for this unusual request convinced Jill, the older sister with the beautiful golden bathrobe. He was afraid their Dad would attack him for making the call for help. And he knew he was safe hiding behind his sisters. His Dad never hit his daughters. So, there was the big brother with one sister on each side, crying, scared, confused. And Jill, wrapped in her precious robe, as if it would protect her from harm. Eventually they heard sounds of their Dad's parents' voices drifting up the stairwell. Both Grandma and Grandpa had come to break up the fight. Then all three kids were crying in nervous relief, as if they had woken from a very unpleasant dream. Jill called out loudly for the comfort of her Grandma, the woman who brought them fresh hot home-baked carmel rolls every Sunday when her Mom was playing organ for the early service in church. But tonight Grandma was occupied with her violent son, and their more reserved Grandpa appeared in her place. He took the sisters back to their own room, quietly, calmly assured them they were safe and tucked them into their beds. Exhausted, they fell asleep.

Migraine

Her migraine woke her up. She lay in bed wondering at the intensity of the attack. Her migraines had steadily declined and disappeared since she had left her violent husband. Yet here it was, back with pain beyond her memory. She was convinced it must be a brain tumor. Judging buy the location it must be in her frontal cortex. There was nothing in the occipital area or perhaps it was simply less intense and consequently less noticeable. The old feeling of “I-wish-I-was-dead-so-the-pain-would-stop” came back to visit. She lay there trying not to move, trying to will it away, trying to relax and release. All the new age articles she had ever read came back to her as she tried to figure it out: where it came from, and how to prevent it from happening again. Slowly it dawned on her that she could stop wasting time blaming herself, telling herself that she was a bad person with a million things wrong and get an ice pack, eat some yogurt and take half a vicodin. Every muscle in her body hurt and her skin itched as she lowered her feet to the floor. That wasn't so bad, she decided. Slowly she made her way to the stairs. Descending step by step, trying not to jar her head, she noticed the waves of nausea reminding her of the Japanese tsunami she had watched before falling asleep last night. Could they be connected? It didn't matter, she still had to deal with the pain. Opening the refrigerator, the sun streaming through the eastern windows, she grabbed the non fat greek yogurt. She held the first spoonful in her mouth until it seemed safe to swallow. The last thing she wanted was to start barfing on an empty stomach. It was staying down. She tried another spoonful of the creamy, thick goo. How do they get it to taste so good without fat? It was staying down, so she cautiously swallowed the vicodin left over from her car accident two months ago. Remembering the ice, she selected a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and wrapped it in a tea towel. In slow motion she carefully flopped down on the kitchen window seat just for a moment, with frozen peas draped across the top of her head, hoping to feel the vicodin to kick in. 10 minutes and no relief yet. She shifted the pea pack slightly to avoid frostbite. She made her way back upstairs and rubbed peppermint oil on the worst, most excruciatingly painful areas. Reaching for her phone she canceled her plans for the day. What if she had to cancel the whole week? What if she had to cancel her trip to the West Coast?! Although, if it were a brain tumor, maybe this would be her last chance to do something like travel with her daughter. Convincing herself that the migraine was indeed symptom of a brain tumor, or worse, perhaps an aneurism, she planned how she would use her remaining time. She really didn't want to pass during the Winter, that was just too depressing. Late summer would be good, as there would be all kinds of fresh produce available for parties and gatherings. Her daughter would have a break before the school year started and she went back to work. Her son would be available as he was working part time in August. As she fell asleep, thanks to the vicodin she reminded herself not to give attention to dying least she created it as reality. Images of her grandchildren's birthday parties flowed through her dreams. She saw herself in her BMW convertible driving them to the lake for swimming and the roller garden for skating, packing snacks and sipping tea outside Turtle Bread Shop. When she woke, a few hours later, the pain was gone. The heaviness was still there between her ears, but she was pretty sure it was NOT a brain tumor. Listening closely she could hear her son downstairs, probably doing his laundry. An avid ultra-marathoner, he worked just enough to allow himself ample time to train. This left no money to wash clothes in the laundromat under his apartment, so he spent Sunday evenings using her washer, dryer, soap and water. At 23, she reminded herself he was a man. His Dad was married with a baby at that age! She cautiously made her way downstairs where he was sprawled in the dining room. In a great mood, full of self esteem, he had run 15 miles and was treating himself to a pizza. Drinking a glass of water and listening to his description of his morning run she was relieve that the migraine seemed to have disappeared. Her schedule for the week could remain intact. She might even eat some pizza, and drink hot tea. The day was mostly gone, but it was the first day of daylight savings so the sky was sunny and inviting. The snow had melted around the edges, and cardinals were clustered around the feeding tray. The pain was gone, but not forgotten. They went to pick up her taxes, she asked him to drive as she was still feeling dizzy from the vicodin. It was silly to take chances when she was pretty sure she didn't have a brain tumor, or even an aneurism.

Krakow

She was in the next room, nursing their baby when she heard him hitting his mother. And she realized he wasn't the man she assumed he was: gentle, loving, devoted to his beloved mother, incapable of such an act of violence. She heard her mother-in-law's door wrenched open and then slammed shut. He burst into their room, face flushed, breathing heavily. She hesitated to speak, the baby had been nearly asleep, but was now anxiously sucking, wide awake with round eyes darting around his mother's face. Their 4 year old daughter was playing with her favorite dolls in the safety of her brother's play pen. At 9 months he was a skilled crawler and clever at figuring out how to get his sister's interesting toys and books. Consequently, the play pen was a place she could safely entertain herself with worrying about his intrusion. She had stopped dressing the dolls and was sitting quietly, while listening to her beloved Babcias's quiet sobbing from the next room. No one spoke.

"Did you hit your mother?"

"She wouldn't stop talking," he defended himself.

"It's her fault, she was asking for it. I told her to be quiet but she wouldn't. She got what she deserved."

The woman was shocked at his lack of regret, and his conviction that he had done the right thing. He busied himself at the piano, shuffling through papers without noticing their daughter

watching him. She was nearly motionless, simply listening as if invisible. Her mother caught her eye and held her gaze. How many times had the girl been told not to hit her brother, even when he tore the heads off her dolls. Even when he grabbed her toys and destroyed her doll house. Wasn't that why she had set up her things in the play pen, originally bought to contain the male toddler.

"I'm not convinced that hitting your Mum was your best option."

"She's not hurt. She probably didn't even feel it through all her layers of fat. All she had to do was stop talking. She was asking for it."

The woman spoke softly, gently, hoping he would calm down, and notice the child listening intently.

"An apology seems like a good idea."

I'm not sorry!" he snapped slamming musical scores down on the piano. "And it wasn't my fault: I warned her to stop talking."

"It will be a long time before she talks to you again."

He looked up, directly into his wife's eyes, "Good, then I've accomplished my goal."

Silence.

He left the room.

The little girl with blond ringlets crawled out of the play pen, away from the dolls and her mother scooped her up with her free arm. The baby was drowsy, nearly asleep in spite of the drama unfolding around him. These two children were her whole world. Homeless, living in Krakow with her mother in law. Confused by the language and the customs, her children were her refuge, her precious jewels, her chance to confirm the value of her existence. Until they entered her life she had passions, dreams mixed with self doubt and more than a little self hatred. When she first held her daughter, all her self doubt melted away, leaving only love and devotion. This amazing creature enchanted her, made her want to be a better person, more gentle and kind. She was determined to be my conscious about parenting than her own parents had been with their opportunity to parent. She shifted the sleeping baby to the old sofa and took the girl on her lap, enclosing her in her arms. She was shaking. Sensitive from birth, she appeared to be able to read her mother's mind. Rocking her tenderly, the girl gradually relaxed and closed her eyes.

The faint hum of the coffee grinder came from the kitchen, followed by the fragrance of freshly ground coffee. The whistle of the tea kettle sounded next. The late afternoon sunlight faded and she quietly sang her children's favorite lullaby, wondering, and praying they were safe.

run, run, run, as fast as u can

He did it! He cut 11 minutes off his best time! What an accomplishment! It is so easy to feel good about out successful "doings" and completely miss the value of our being, our "not -doing". I noticed this everytime I sat soaking up the sun in my swim suit. I felt like I should be exercising or swimming or exploring, horse-back riding, eating lovely things, buying a car, in essence: doing and getting things done. I didn't notice the sound bite on the billboard until I uploaded my photos, I was all about the man running, his hair, his joy and ease. Later I realized that parts of me which chronically hurt, didn't hurt so much and others not at all. I realized I had pretty much caught up on my sleep. And that I am chronically sleep deprived, dependent on caffine to keep me going. I relaxed deeply, and trusted that it was enough for me to just be outside, with minimal clothes, smiling at the "no-snow" parts of the trip.

christmas eve

This is the first whole Christmas eve I spent with my kids. It felt enchanted, healing some part of me that was grieving. A part of me that had been silenced for too long. I remember when they were younger and sent to a friend's house so my ex-husband could have my complete, undivided attention. And without considering what I wanted, I always agreed to that plan. After all, I reasoned, when others were happy and satisfied there would be time for me to consider my own happiness and satisfaction. I was wrong: guilty of self-neglect I have only now, this year begun to ask myself: what do I want? what makes me happy? what fills me to the brim and overflowing with joy and gratitude? Slowly I realize that I was just surviving. Focused on the dreams of other people around me, I had lost touch with my own dreams and possibilities. They had all morphed into the familiar habit of wanting to please other people, people I wanted to love me. When I talked with my kids about our celebration we shared our ideas, and tried to imagine all of them happening at sometime during the weekend. We wanted to allow time for plans to change if necessary or desired. And we wanted to allow plenty of space for simply "hanging out", being quiet together. Time to say good bye to last years nonsense, and resentments was included. We want to start the new year as light hearted as possible. Remembering how much freedom we have in our worlds. How much joy and space for growth. All the opportunities open to us, the value of our contributions to our communities and friends.

paradise happens

Imagine: you're exhausted right down to the insides of your bones, but you keep plugging away over-riding your natural inclination to stop. And imagine that you do not injure yourself, so that when you say "thank you" and "good-bye" to the last patient there is a space in your life that stretches out and feels like the Grand Canyon. You can do anything you want with the next 36 hours before you start the whole week all over again. And you have a car, the snowy Minnesota roads are clear and dry, and the sun is shining full of promise. I headed to the Landscape Arboretum. And realized as I pulled into the parking lot that I have never been here alone. Walking into the building I melted into a crowd of people I had never met, looking through items in the gift shop, sitting in the tea room, watching the wild turkeys, preparing for a wedding, laughing, fighting, missing their naps to look at the gingerbread house displays...The fireplace was inviting and I plopped down on the empty couch just for a moment to decompress. 3 hours later I was still curled up with a book, a cup of tea, and thinning crowds. Stretching my legs I wandered into some areas I had not explored on previous visits. Finding myself surrounded by blooming orchids, I gazed at the colorful birds of paradise. There were two blooms right next to each other as if they were dancing together, mirroring movements in flight. Seeing them growing with their leaves in a generous pot was stunning to watch. Easy to see where they acquired their names. I felt like I was in paradise especially after spending so many hours with patients living with chronic pain of auto injuries. It surprises us to experience such excruciating pain, yet listen to a doctor reading an MRI or X-ray report confirming that there is no significant damage: no broken bones. One starts to feel a bit crazy as the pain moves around, and there is no relief in sight. Prescription drugs simply mask the symptoms. Desperation quickly sets in. Various options are explored and discarded. With luck their auto insurance covers massage, bringing them to my services. Thus my exhaustion. And my devotion to self-care. Being around plants, out in nature, watching the critters, or curled up with a pet are all effective tools of self-care. Just the simple act of walking around the block, noticing the changes in landscape, gardens, and creatures jump start my process of rebalancing.

milestones

Some milestones are easy to recognize. The first tooth, first kiss, first steps, first haircut, first day of school, graduations, driver's license: all are noted and celebrated and become a part of one's identity. On the night my ectopic pregnancy ruptured, my past life didn't flash before me, but my future life, the one I would be missing if I bled to death, my daughter's milestones I would consequently miss, flashed through my consciousness. I was overcome with a longing to be part of her growing up, graduating, flowering. I wanted to observe her creating her life, holding the reins and riding her journey into her future. It was delightful to sit in the waiting room at the Southdale DMV as she registered her first vehicle. With new confidence, new competence we celebrated with another first: Happy Hour at "Salut." As a Virgo, it is possible my daughter has as over-developed sense of perfection. And no matter how valuable this aspect is when she is writing or editing it seems to cause her some anxiety in other areas. How does one recognize and let go of the less helpful, unreasonable expectations, yet maintain the high standards necessary to succeed in one's area of professional endeavor. And pay the bills, to produce the revenue to explore one's creative process? To integrate abundance with discipline is not an easy task. It requires practice. Perhaps lifetimes of practice. As I watch her explore cross her milestones, I feel my heart open a little wider with longing and gratitude.

companion

Dark chocolate cake: not the best, not the worst, but the one with me today. Indulgence, or necessity, I hadn't planned on this purchase. But the shop was right next to the hardware store where I bought 50 pounds of "ice melt." AIt was a kind of indulgent gesture of enjoyment in the face of my changing, aging body. Am I doomed to die thinking, "whoops, I wish I had eaten more cake"? So much of my life has been spent counting calories, working out, pumping iron and a lot less has been simply trusting my own longings, and intuitive desire to taste, to savor for my own personal enjoyment. And I am trying to teach myself something new: a healthy enjoyment of the opportunities I have in my current situation for expressing a moment of sheer delight, and minimizing the guilt. An opportunity to short circuit my sense of shame around the circumstances of my current life to deal directly with my inaccurate belief that I am a bad person for eating chocolate cake on a icy Monday afternoon in November...and that bad people don't deserve pleasure. Or that I am a person who still hasn't managed to follow the rules or use her common sense when it comes to my family history of heart disease and diabetes. I brought this piece of cake back home, where my son was working on his MacBook. As we shared it, he commented on the pleasing moistness of the creation. I explained that this was the first piece cut out of the cake, so naturally, we could expect it to be moist. That's when I noticed the cake itself, instead of being caught in my emotional baggage about eating cake for lunch without any explanation, excuse or justification. I confess: it was an impulse buy, totally unplanned, shared with someone I love, who loves me...on the first day of the week of Thanksgiving, after teaching an inspiring Yoga class, and before working for the rest of the afternoon. And I am so grateful for that opportunity, with a full set of my own teeth, and the ability to taste the subtle flavors, to smell the aroma, to look at some of my own issues again, with a measure of compassion and gentle humor, perhaps healing some part of myself that is overly, unnecessarily identified with an obsolete past. I hugged the man who is my son. This man who is so carefully respectful of waiting until I have the first bite. And then I went back outside, to sprinkle kosher salt on the icy front sidewalk and steps, as fresh snow drifted around my Sorels.

love this time

"I chose to love

this time

for once

with all my intelligence"

We are deep in transition what was and what will be: between knowing what is coming, totally unable to control it. Last week I longed to be outside, running in the loving sunshine, knowing it would be gone. A fierce wind has replaced those sunbeams shaking every last leaf from the trees. Last week I ran through a fairy forest of gold and bronze, today I am inside looking out. Rain comes down in sheets and it is difficult to love this time. I dress in layers, but my nose is still cold. My monarchs are gone, enjoying the warmer southern climates where temperatures are more inviting. There is a sense of grief that permeates the cells. An inconsolable grief I am unable to comfort with promises of spring. Can I love this cold wind? Can I find glory and gratitude in it's efforts to sweep away the illusions we harbor of a mild winter, and a seductive autumn. I rely on the collective intelligence, far more knowing than the puny intellect. The intelligence intrinsic to my very being and loving in it's ferocity. The same intelligence which repaired my ankle and M's collarbone and turned my backyard into a jungle paradise filled with butterflies. What is the wind talking about? Is it clearing the way for another season of wonder? Normally I would crank up the heat, check the airfare to warmer places of endless summer and resist the place I'm in, resist the wind, and pretend it isn't happening. I would chose to disassociate from the event and my feelings. But today I refuse these givens, these old habits and patterns born from an instinct to survive, to individuate. I chose to be with this fierce wind because it is here and now, rather than live in the memory of last week's sun or next summer's butterflies. This moment is enough time, the perfect time, to love in glory and gratitude.

Splittings

Splittings

from The Dream of a Common Language

by Adrienne Rich

1.

My body opens over San Francisco like the day –

light raining down each pore crying the change of light

I am not with her I have been waking off and on

all night to that pain not simply absence but

the presence of the past destructive

to living here and now Yet if I could instruct

myself, if we could learn to learn from pain

even as it grasps us if the mind, the mind that lives

in this body could refuse to let itself be crushed

in that grasp it would loosen Pain would have to stand

off from me and listen its dark breath still on me

but the mind could begin to speak to pain

and pain would have to answer:

We are older now

we have met before these are my hands before your eyes

my figure blotting out all that is not mine

I am the pain of division creator of divisions

it is I who blot your lover from you

and not the time-zones or the miles

It is not separation calls me forth but I

who am separation And remember

I have no existence apart from you

2.

I believe I am choosing something now

not to suffer uselessly yet still to feel

Does the infant memorize the body of the mother

and create her in absence? or simply cry

primordial loneliness? does the bed of the stream

once diverted mourning remember the wetness?

But we, we live so much in these

configurations of the past I choose

to separate her from my past we have not shared

I choose not to suffer uselessly

to detect primordial pain as it stalks toward me

flashing its bleak torch in my eyes blotting out

her particular being the details of her love

I will not be divided from her or from myself

by myths of separation

while her mind and body in Manhattan are more with me

than the smell of eucalyptus coolly burning on these hills

3.

The world tells me I am its creature

I am raked by eyes brushed by hands

I want to crawl into her for refuge lay my head

in the space between her breast and shoulder

abnegating power for love

as women have done or hiding

from power in her love like a man

I refuse these givens the splitting

between love and action I am choosing

not to suffer uselessly and not to use her

I choose to love this time for once

with all my intelligence.

Lite Bleu

Is it a coincidence that it's the same color as her first bike? I remember how she struggled to master the two wheeler, with her Grandmother's encouragement and guidance. It seemed like she would never get the hang of it, find her balance and master her fears. High expectations stood in her way. And at 26, after breaking her collarbone and 2 near brushes, she has graduated to 4 wheels and 2 gas tanks. A truck with room to spare. Imagine her, with canoe on her rack, headed for the BWCA. It wasn't an impulsive decision, there was considerable research, like a well crafted paper. Pros and cons turned over and over before falling asleep. Encouragement from outsiders, input from friends, until it became as easy as falling off a log. And once she was behind the wheel, she melted. We never forget our first car, our first truck, our first kiss. The look on her face as she took me for a ride, as she offered me her keys was unforgettable. An obstacle removed from the journey to her dreams. New responsibilities in exchange for freedom, comfort, and convenience. Another great opportunity for growth.

Swaddling the roses

A day for deep healing:

went to the arboretum with M, to run a little,

picnic a little,

and say good-bye to the roses.

Those beauties are all wrapped up,

ready for hibernation,

yet it hasn't frozen yet

and they are all still blooming.

M compared them to swaddled babies...

A is excited about the Phoenix Marathon

on 1/16/11.

I will plan to go with him

and hope for some sun and inspiration.

He is moving out on November 1st,

not far, maybe 5 blocks.

We had brunch together this morning

at Lucia's Bakery

Not St. Honore but, decadent chocolate cake.

Until today

I could pretend winter would skip us this year

Now it's pretty obvious it has us on it's list,

closer to the top than comfort allows.

The heat is on and I will fill up the humidifier before I fall asleep.

dead heads

Is it too late? The truth is : we don't know when it will freeze, snow or how much more blooming will happen before cold occurs. All we know is that the mums and asters need water and that they still have buds-just like the roses-and they are not afraid of lower temperatures. I move through my day, hoping this is not the last, refilling the birth bath and removing the faded flowers, the dead heads, the make room for the new buds as they unfold. My feet are saying good-by to summer as I crunch through the leaves piled on the sidewalks and take note of my neighbors decisions to drain their fountains for the new season. I watch as they bag their leaves and plant next Spring's tulips. Like my friends, I add new bulbs, a ritual for me that turns my attention more firmly to the future. I imagine myself on the other side of our Minnesota winter. Yet I look forward to the magical landscape of ice and snow. I savor my plans to eat roasted root vegetables and buttery squashes, the fragrance of harvest filling my cozy kitchen. I plan to take longer, leisurely lunches with lovingly prepared food and a glass of crisp chardonnay, as if I were my own private chef preparing a meal for my beloved child. Dreaming menus, shopping in my imagination, relaxed and at ease in my own body. After years of restricting my food consumption to maintain performance weight, I am so grateful to be at peace with food. No more weird diets, senseless self-denial and tasteless empty calories. Gratitude and joy are my guidelines at the table.

Patisserie 46

Patisserie 46 was anticipated with delight. When Rustica left the neighborhood I felt betrayed and abandoned. I had come to depend on their scones to appease my longing for London. I know clotted cream will be more difficult to replace, but at least I had access to heavenly scones like the ones we ate in the basement cafeteria of the Tate Britain. Patisserie 46 held the promise of decadent pastries like the ones eaten at LaDuree on a drizzly evening ending a day of retail therapy at Harrods. It was the first full week of July that I noticed people sitting outside the south Mpls location, suggesting to passers by that it was open for business. I recruited my son to assist me with an initial assessment. The pastry case held a limited assortment of selections, but there were many breads from which to choose. I decided on a coconut cream creation with a traditional macaroon on the side. Sitting under the trees on the East side of the building was a welcome moment in my adjustment to the boot cast weighing down my broken left ankle. I swung my heavy metal and plastic contraption, secured with 5 wide bands of Velcro, up and onto an extra chair next to the rose colored impatiens. The metal running up each side of the cast hit the iron garden chair with a satisfying clanking not unlike a jail cell door slamming shut. Looking at my iron braced broken ankle propped awkwardly, I slowly leaned back to catch the sun filtered through the leaves on my face. Sipping iced mango green tea, sharing my maiden voyage to eat pastries in a new rival for my LaDuree loyalty, I listened to a man who loves me and relaxed. It is easier to let go of my resentment around Rustica's move when I have a choice like Patisserie 46. Perhaps that is the secret of letting go: noticing what you have now, in this breath.

crabgrass isn't crabby

A broken ankle slows you down. It changes your perception to the world, especially your world, and your activities. And the value you place on the things you do. Some are obvious like your gross weekly income and itemized expenses. The others are subtle, with value which is easy to miss, like watching the butterflies in the garden or releasing the flies that have gotten into the kitchen but do not know how to get out. They find their way to the screen and bang their bodies against the net until they are exhausted and drop to the sill. I can almost hear their whimpering, "let me out, someone, anyone, help me." I think poorly of them. Scornfully assessing their intelligence as less than the butterflies caught in my front porch. I notice that I am more eager to assist the hysterical creatures fluttering against the glass in confusion-and I do not blame them for their mistake. I'm just as convinced of their virtue as I can guarantee that those flies are up to no good, simply waiting for an opportunity to bite me. I have no photos of flies or their younger siblings, the maggots. I rarely acknowledge their value. Images of English roses, cardinals, monarch butterflies, French pastries all have space on my hard drive. Yet a broken ankle provides an opportunity to observe what has been unnoticed, not worthy of noticing, for so long-and to compare monarchs to houseflies, and roses to crabgrass.

Like a Bridge...

Each of us is a bridge spaning destinations. We are not the destination itself, although we may pause to catch our breath part-way across. But then we move on. I was quite fond of the story about the 3 Billy Goats Gruff as a child and never tired of hearing the descriptions of the horrible hungry troll perpetrator and the innocent goat brothers trying to get to the other side. The guardian ad litem program has crossed a bridge of it's own. No more independent contractors, and the kids previously assigned to contractors have been re-assigned to volunteers. Like me. The United States and Somalia do not recognize children's rights, and we have no plan to cross that bridge in the future. Kids in the child protection system rely on guardians ad litem to speak for their best interests. In the meantime, when they are lucky, their parents are willing to whole-heartedly work a court ordered case plan to prevent their parental rights from being terminated. And the kids receive services to help them recover from sexual abuse, violence, and neglect. Most people look the other way, missing impressive ability for resilience our children exercise. Our children, not those children, those people. These kids are my kids friends, they interact with each other they will carry the world on their shoulders together when it is their time. They will build bridges and maintain our communities. And they will find a place for the hungry, desperate trolls in our lives so that all the goats can eat.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Billy_Goats_Gruff

Broken Ankle at Chez Jules

"When I got divorced many years ago, I wondered whether I had just made everything up -- including myself."

And that's exactly what we do: make it up. Sometimes alone, but mostly our creations overlap other people's creations and these creations change at different rates and in a variety of directions. It feels little like "Calvin-ball", with the rules changing and no notice. And we make up our own reactions to other people changing their rules, breaking their contracts, wanting something more, or different. If this is true, then we also make up constipation, broken ankles, and child slavery. Sometimes it isn't intentional, it's just a side effect, but it can still be uncomfortable. Not a problem if uncomfortable is something to which you are acclimated. Take DV. If domestic violence is your lived reality from childhood, you will believe it is normal and perhaps inevitable, and make up a life that fits into that system. When you reexamine the belief you may replace it with something different. A broken ankle is a horrible thing, painful and inconvenient. Loss of income i rides shotgun. No one would want to make up something like a broken ankle. I wouldn't, and I didn't, but I did want the summer to slow down and seem to last forever. I wanted a stay-cation, to watch DVDs,and hang out with my peeps. I wanted fires in the fire pit, less time on the road, and daydreaming. I wanted someone else to clean my house, buy food, and make pitchers of iced tea. I wanted to read for fun, be in the garden without gardening, and go over my accounts without falling asleep. And I wanted a pilates personal trainer to tell me what to do for a change. I wanted to write for hours instead of squeezing it in between tasks on my to do list. I wanted to sit on the back deck and watch the goldfinches in the bird bath. And I wanted to be free of guilt, shame, and self-reproach.

Do we make up our marriages, our divorces, our relationships, ourselves? We certainly make up our own parts, and hope they fit with what other people around us are making up. And then, if they don't work together, if we are unhappily cast as a domestic violence victim, instead of a respected business partner someone's identity falls away. Usually some measure of pain is involved, like with my broken ankle. But, as usual, it could have been so much worse.

Crema Cafe Chocolate cake a la mode coconut

The day I broke my ankle I was on my way to Crema: June 20th, Father's Day was especially lovely. We were walking. As a single parent my kids celebrate both Father and Mother's Days with me. After sharing a meal we were on our way to dessert. Visions of cakes and a generous selection of Sonny's premium ice cream danced in our heads. There is something so right about dark, dense layers of chocolate cake held together and sealed with chocolate ganache. Some of us like the ice cream on the side, barely touching the cake, forming a pool around the slab as it melts. My personal preference is ice cream on top, so it soaks into the cake as it melts. Carefully moving the ball of frozen cream, eggs and sugar to the peak of the cake slab, I wait until it is soft enough to spread. It melts evenly, more or less, and is absorbed, and consumed slowly. After each bite there is a pause to notice the explosion of flavors, textures, temperatures. Five of six bites is enough for the moment. And, as I pack the remaining portion "to go" I bring my attention completely to the present moment. It is more than enough: sitting in the late afternoon sunlight, across from the man-boy who loves me. I relax, sensing the underlying value and truth of being. This experience is enough, we have enough, I am enough. It seems so obvious and easy in this kind of situation, but I am not always aware of my incredible privilege without comparing situations. Lucky me, I broke my ankle and discovered I am still enough. In pain, frustration, and limited mobility, I am still surrounded by sunshine, flowers, and

the people who love me.