It was never any secret that I love animals. Always have. Probably always will. It's ingrained into my identity and personality to such an extent that it may very well be impossible for me to survive as anything else. I save little lives. I save big ones, too, if opportunity presents. I nurse wounds. I cuddle. I pounce. I wrestle and play tug-of-war. I discipline and teach. I call command, I reward good behavior, and I have relied on them with my life. I've even saved other human beings with their help. (That one's for another time, if ya'll want.)
It's not an exaggeration to say I've always been this way. One of my first words - according to my mother - was "bug". There was a fat praying mantis on the wall, just chilling out, right above my crib. I've never been anything shy of obsessed with horses from the time I knew what they were. And of course: cats. Cats forever. Always. There is a cat shrine in my heart. There always will be. Everyone who has ever met me for more than an hour knows it.
So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised.
It was a typical day in high school. I was in Mr. T's history class. I loved that guy. He was this eccentric old guy with a great sense of humor, and he had a gift for making history interesting. If my memory serves, both my older brothers had him as a history teacher. I know my oldest brother did. I digress. I'm sitting there in class, watching "Stalin". We were studying the end of WW2. All of a sudden, over the entire school loudspeaker, my name gets called.
"Ms. W., would you please come to the front office? Ms. E. W., to the front office please."
... which of course made everyone turn and look at me wondering why the hell I'm being called in.
Some context: I was NEVER in trouble in high school. The only time I ever got sent to detention was for not having my PE clothes with me. Add to that the fact that this was a small-town - and my high school wasn't exactly huge either - and my reputation preceded me as 1.) being the youngest sister of the Smart Guy at the rival high school, 2.) the kinda scary girl in tie-dye clothes on top of the theatre hill at lunch who hung out with goths and underclassmen, and 3.) the weird chick who got along better with teachers than she did her own classmates. (All true, for what it's worth.) Me getting called into the front office was like someone investigating the Dalai Lama for saying cross words to a small child. The number of faces with the confused expression of, "... the HELL?" was oddly flattering.
I looked at Mr. T with my arched eyebrow and ducked head - if you know me, you've seen it: it's my silent request for permission. His face bore the same, "wtf?" look. I would have laughed if I wasn't so self-conscious. He gave me the nod, and I quietly ducked out of class.
Walking down the eerily empty hallways of the school to the front office, my mind raced with possibilities. I obviously wasn't in trouble... at least, it was obvious to me. Hell, the staff knew me well enough and liked me well enough where even if I HAD done something, I could have gotten away with it. So it was pretty well impossible that I was in trouble. But then why call me in? Questioning? Had I see something recently, or noticed anything out of place? There were fights at school sometimes, maybe they were going to ask me if I'd witnessed one and could place names to faces. But I surely wasn't in trouble. What on earth could it be?
I walked in, a bit apprehensive, and quietly approached Ms. I. She blinked at me kindly through her tiny wireframed glasses and smiled. "Oh good, you're here!" she said happily. This only confused me further.
"Uh, yeah," I said, "what's up?" (Give me a break. I was a teenager.)
"Oh, nothing major, but we have a request."
A request? I thought to myself. I really hope they aren't going to ask me to volunteer for something. Ugh. I hate saying no, I mean I'm not sure HOW to politely decline, but I really could care less about-
"See, Mr. S is getting married, as you may know."
I did know. Mr. S was the principal, and, well... like I said. Small town. Everybody knows this sort of thing.
"It turns out his soon-to-be stepdaughter is terribly allergic to cats. He has a cat. We were wondering if-"
... oh god are you serious?!
"-you'd adopt him, because nobody wants him to go to a shelter and we don't know where else to ask."
Turns out, word around town included that I was a big fat softie. Anyone who had pets knew about the County Shelter. I KNOW those people are doing the best they can with what they have, and as a state shelter they don't have the option of being no-kill. But having been in there... all it takes is one visit, and you'll cry even thinking about that place. The terror, the loss, the heavy sadness weighs down on you the moment you park in the lot. It lays like a blanket over the entire establishment. I don't know how those folks work there. It would break me. I would never allow an animal to go there if I could help it. Stray kittens were adopted out personally. Dogs were re-homed through friends and family. The shelter was never brought up... unless we were going out to adopt a new animal.
So, yeah. Of COURSE they went for an easy target. One who wouldn't let a poor, healthy, no-fault adult male cat with almost no chance of being adopted from a shelter, go to meet his untimely end in the cold confines of the state's cages.
I... probably never told my parents this, so I apologize if you're reading this mom and dad - I agreed before I even discussed it with them.
Did I mention I hated saying no? I must have. Read back a bit.
The relief on Ms. I's face was immediate and genuine. I don't remember the conversation after that, since I was then scrambling to find a way to present a case to my folks that we needed ANOTHER cat when we already had like three at the time. My teenaged brain was going over the scenarios in rapid-fire possible outcomes, first mom (I knew she'd be easier to win over, so I'd start there) and then dad (who thought cats were about as close to useless as you could get). I went back to class, still trying to figure out a way to argue for the cat's life when I'd already said yes.
Going for mom first was the correct choice. She stuck by me when I presented the case to dad and - being dad - relented in the face of two confirmed cat-lovers. I can still see the rolled-eyes, hands-in-the-air capitulation. I think at this point he was kind of used to me bringing home everything under the sun and might not even have been surprised if I'd tried to adopt a stray rhinoceros. And so, my principal came by some while later to drop off "Cougar" (named after our school mascot), whom we promptly renamed Tom Cougar Mellencat.
Oh shut up. It was awesome.
So the next day I was of course accosted by half a dozen people asking about what happened. Most of them actually didn't believe me at first, but then they remembered that this was me they were talking about and DUH they would call in Nature Girl to come adopt out the principal's cat. I mean, obviously. Who else would they call?
It's a fond memory, if silly. It makes me giggle still to think that the staff felt it necessary - appropriate, even - to call me in from class on the PA system, letting the WHOLE SCHOOL know. Tom lived with us for many years, turning from indoor-only to strictly-outdoor by his own volition. He never did learn proper hunting, and eventually developed a nasty habit of biting people. He also had a weird proclivity for running up to people, even total strangers, and throwing his entire weight into their legs in an... affectionate? rub. It was the most aggressive affection I'd ever seen from a cat. It was like he wanted you to love on him but also wanted to knock you onto the pavement to split your skull open.
Weird cat. But then, with a back-history like that... who can blame him?
May 02, 2012
April 18, 2012
Memories: Installment 1
I've been itching to get these out, so I'll start with the one that's been screaming the loudest to be free.
When I was a child, I was plagued with a variety of nighttime issues. The majority of them were innocuous things brought on by the simple process of growing rapidly, things like bone-deep aching pain in my calves as the sinew stretched and lengthened in the quiet evolving hours. These would send me creeping softly to the corner of my parents' bedroom door, where I would cry barely audibly in hopes that I would wake my mother (and only my mother) for help. She was a light sleeper, dad was not. And dad was much more surly when woken at odd hours. But I digress.
What I liked the most - if I can say honestly that I liked any of these things - was the inexplicable wakefulness that occurred every few months. No reason or rhyme to these episodes: I would be peacefully asleep one moment, then suddenly I was as awake as if it were noon. Sometimes it would happen a few times in the same month, sometimes I would go nearly six months in between. But came it did, without cause or provocation, like an old friend sneaking in through the window to take you out on the town.
In the winter time, there were often fires in the fireplace. I would creep from my cozy flannel sheets to tiptoe into the livingroom, where the soft glow from the dying embers would cast dim shadows to dance on the furniture. I would tuck my knees up inside my long (and usually hideous) nightgown as I sat on the brick hearth, trying to thaw my frozen feet. My feet were always bare, even in the dead of winter, and the fire was always a relief for numb toes. I would dreamily watch as the last remnants of flame snuggled into the coals, not really thinking about anything in particular, simply enjoying the hushed silence of the house surrounded by a sleeping world.
Other times, I might simply sneak to the refrigerator. My family had two growing boys and my mother often bought large quantities of things from Costco, like chocolate syrup, maple syrup, whipped cream, and sour cream. All things I coveted jealously and would gobble up without hesitation or second thought. So, knowing I oughtn't, I would pad lightly to the kitchen as stealthily as my bare feet could carry me, and gulp down highly sugared and fat-laden foods like a giant invading mouse. Nibbling a bit of cheese here, a pastry there, drinking syrup straight from the bottle, and eating sour cream by the spoonful. A can of soda, a half-eaten candy-bar, even a few of my favorite vegetables weren't safe. Then, having gorged myself, I would almost always wash it down with several gulps of cold, creamy milk, and furtively make my way back to bed, half-blinded by the refrigerator light.
But best of all was the summer.
The summer time was hot, even at night. There were days when the lowest temperature of the day was still in the 90-degree range. And sometimes it was humid along with it, forcing us to kick off our covers and sleep with the fans on. On the nights when I would suddenly wake in the summer, it was as though the very air was beckoning me outside. And so - in bare feet - I would make my way through the house to the back door, where I would sneak outside to our enormous back yard. Often as not, the moon was brightly shining, and I would walk onto the wide grassy lawn, often wet from the sprinklers, enjoying the cool sensation on my burning soles. I would look up and wave. I don't know why I waved at the moon. I do it still. And then I would dance.
It was only dancing in the loosest term. It was more like holding my arms out and spinning, face turned to the heavens, dipping and weaving with imaginary music. Sometimes I would hum little tunes, or make up lyrics on the spot to a song that didn't have any flow or rhythm to it at all, but always quietly so I didn't wake anyone. Sometimes the dog would join in the dancing, slowly and sleepily, having been roused by my sudden appearance. The wet grass would coat my naked toes, which was always a challenge to wipe off before going back inside, to avoid arousing suspicion.
But even better than dancing in the moonlight involved the water.
The pool was respectably sized, though not the largest by any means, and deeper than I was tall at its lowest point. If I was awake when everyone else was, and it happened to be dark out, the underwater light would illuminate the whole thing. But for some reason, with the light on, I held this terror that an impossibly-sized shark lived in the deep end and would chase me as I got to the shallow end. As a result, when I went to exit the pool - even if it had been a perfectly relaxing swim to that point - I would race through the shallow end. It terrified me, this irrational and non-existent shark.
But if all the lights were off, there was no threat of an unseen imaginary shark. And so it was that - sometimes, just sometimes - I would slowly wade into the dark waters. I only did this on starry nights, when there was no moon. I would move slowly, secretively, feeling the cool water caress my skin where the hot air kissed it only just before. I played a little game to see if I could get into the water without making ripples, feeling almost guilty about marring the glass-smooth surface. And then I would turn, floating on my back, and fall into the Milky Way.
There are no words to describe proper night swimming. It has to be quiet, soft, and tender. Oh, certainly, there is skinny-dipping and other night-aquatic activity, both innocent and risqué. But there is a sacred art to the night swim, wherein the breath becomes a hymn, and bouyancy a prayer. There is truth beneath the surface that will bear you up, and an echo of the womb sleeps in the depths. The stars would rain down on me in their eternal dance, sheltering me like a canopy and yet being as wide and far and welcoming as only they can manage. There was never a coldness to them, only a silvery journey across the endless sky. It was me, the water, and the stars. Nothing else existed. I might as well have been floating in the constellations myself, just a little speck in a quiet, dark river.
Now, the night sky is often hidden by the harsh glow from street lights, and I seldom have the time to indulge my old night-time habits. But somewhere deep within me, there is a little girl, still floating in the starry sky, still dancing in the moonlight, still sitting by the firelight, and who still loves sneaking foods from the fridge. I wonder sometimes if one of my own children will do something similar. I want to be able to give them that gift. But I cannot explain why I would wake in the middle of the night, and cannot predict that they will also. Perhaps this gift was given to me only.
I feel sorry for the world if I was the only one to share in the joy of the gentle night.
When I was a child, I was plagued with a variety of nighttime issues. The majority of them were innocuous things brought on by the simple process of growing rapidly, things like bone-deep aching pain in my calves as the sinew stretched and lengthened in the quiet evolving hours. These would send me creeping softly to the corner of my parents' bedroom door, where I would cry barely audibly in hopes that I would wake my mother (and only my mother) for help. She was a light sleeper, dad was not. And dad was much more surly when woken at odd hours. But I digress.
What I liked the most - if I can say honestly that I liked any of these things - was the inexplicable wakefulness that occurred every few months. No reason or rhyme to these episodes: I would be peacefully asleep one moment, then suddenly I was as awake as if it were noon. Sometimes it would happen a few times in the same month, sometimes I would go nearly six months in between. But came it did, without cause or provocation, like an old friend sneaking in through the window to take you out on the town.
In the winter time, there were often fires in the fireplace. I would creep from my cozy flannel sheets to tiptoe into the livingroom, where the soft glow from the dying embers would cast dim shadows to dance on the furniture. I would tuck my knees up inside my long (and usually hideous) nightgown as I sat on the brick hearth, trying to thaw my frozen feet. My feet were always bare, even in the dead of winter, and the fire was always a relief for numb toes. I would dreamily watch as the last remnants of flame snuggled into the coals, not really thinking about anything in particular, simply enjoying the hushed silence of the house surrounded by a sleeping world.
Other times, I might simply sneak to the refrigerator. My family had two growing boys and my mother often bought large quantities of things from Costco, like chocolate syrup, maple syrup, whipped cream, and sour cream. All things I coveted jealously and would gobble up without hesitation or second thought. So, knowing I oughtn't, I would pad lightly to the kitchen as stealthily as my bare feet could carry me, and gulp down highly sugared and fat-laden foods like a giant invading mouse. Nibbling a bit of cheese here, a pastry there, drinking syrup straight from the bottle, and eating sour cream by the spoonful. A can of soda, a half-eaten candy-bar, even a few of my favorite vegetables weren't safe. Then, having gorged myself, I would almost always wash it down with several gulps of cold, creamy milk, and furtively make my way back to bed, half-blinded by the refrigerator light.
But best of all was the summer.
The summer time was hot, even at night. There were days when the lowest temperature of the day was still in the 90-degree range. And sometimes it was humid along with it, forcing us to kick off our covers and sleep with the fans on. On the nights when I would suddenly wake in the summer, it was as though the very air was beckoning me outside. And so - in bare feet - I would make my way through the house to the back door, where I would sneak outside to our enormous back yard. Often as not, the moon was brightly shining, and I would walk onto the wide grassy lawn, often wet from the sprinklers, enjoying the cool sensation on my burning soles. I would look up and wave. I don't know why I waved at the moon. I do it still. And then I would dance.
It was only dancing in the loosest term. It was more like holding my arms out and spinning, face turned to the heavens, dipping and weaving with imaginary music. Sometimes I would hum little tunes, or make up lyrics on the spot to a song that didn't have any flow or rhythm to it at all, but always quietly so I didn't wake anyone. Sometimes the dog would join in the dancing, slowly and sleepily, having been roused by my sudden appearance. The wet grass would coat my naked toes, which was always a challenge to wipe off before going back inside, to avoid arousing suspicion.
But even better than dancing in the moonlight involved the water.
The pool was respectably sized, though not the largest by any means, and deeper than I was tall at its lowest point. If I was awake when everyone else was, and it happened to be dark out, the underwater light would illuminate the whole thing. But for some reason, with the light on, I held this terror that an impossibly-sized shark lived in the deep end and would chase me as I got to the shallow end. As a result, when I went to exit the pool - even if it had been a perfectly relaxing swim to that point - I would race through the shallow end. It terrified me, this irrational and non-existent shark.
But if all the lights were off, there was no threat of an unseen imaginary shark. And so it was that - sometimes, just sometimes - I would slowly wade into the dark waters. I only did this on starry nights, when there was no moon. I would move slowly, secretively, feeling the cool water caress my skin where the hot air kissed it only just before. I played a little game to see if I could get into the water without making ripples, feeling almost guilty about marring the glass-smooth surface. And then I would turn, floating on my back, and fall into the Milky Way.
There are no words to describe proper night swimming. It has to be quiet, soft, and tender. Oh, certainly, there is skinny-dipping and other night-aquatic activity, both innocent and risqué. But there is a sacred art to the night swim, wherein the breath becomes a hymn, and bouyancy a prayer. There is truth beneath the surface that will bear you up, and an echo of the womb sleeps in the depths. The stars would rain down on me in their eternal dance, sheltering me like a canopy and yet being as wide and far and welcoming as only they can manage. There was never a coldness to them, only a silvery journey across the endless sky. It was me, the water, and the stars. Nothing else existed. I might as well have been floating in the constellations myself, just a little speck in a quiet, dark river.
Now, the night sky is often hidden by the harsh glow from street lights, and I seldom have the time to indulge my old night-time habits. But somewhere deep within me, there is a little girl, still floating in the starry sky, still dancing in the moonlight, still sitting by the firelight, and who still loves sneaking foods from the fridge. I wonder sometimes if one of my own children will do something similar. I want to be able to give them that gift. But I cannot explain why I would wake in the middle of the night, and cannot predict that they will also. Perhaps this gift was given to me only.
I feel sorry for the world if I was the only one to share in the joy of the gentle night.
April 04, 2012
The Long and Winding Road
This past weekend, I visited a friend in Bonny Doon. I crossed 17 (it wasn't anywhere as narrow and frightening as I remember), and wound my way through the mountains and trees with a strange reflex in my hands and feet. It was as though the corners of the highway still lived in my muscles, the anticipation of the banked curves, weaving through the living mountain like a river that had never been dry.
My heart sped up a little. I was reaching the end of Scotts Valley. A bizarre excitement swept through me. How to describe... but alas, there are no words for it, nothing in this pathetic human tongue to fully encapsulate the lightning that raced through me. Only feeling. A tightness of the throat, a pressure in the lungs, a fatigue in my quads. A shiver down the spine. A twitch of the ears.
There, in full view, burst Santa Cruz.
Some say a bell went off in their head when they first laid eyes on their soul-mate. Some people say that accepting a certain job that later becomes the career they were always called to do fits as comfortably and immediately as a favorite shoe. Here?
My immediate thought, like being smacked full-force with a gust of fresh air... was very simply:
"My god. I'm home."
A familiar buzz surrounded me, an energy with a mind of its own, the shadows shifting between the trees with the little spirits that I once called by name. The air itself was alive, whispering to me in a thousand voices unheard by the human ear. The branches of the redwoods reached out overhead like banners, waving to me as I passed by. The familiar windows, the old houses, the grumpy little shops, all smiling back at me through the rain. I found myself laughing out loud, almost insane, drunk with the feeling I never knew I'd lost, the feeling of being for once and for truly home.
I had reached the conclusion not more than three weeks ago that I could never go home again, for I had no home to return to. My childhood home was long gone, corrupted and changed beyond recognition. My heart broken, my friends scattered, my family living in some remote place that I had no real connection to and that refused whatever roots I DID try to put down. The very land itself rejected me, softly, gently, in that insistent but sad way someone who does not return your sentiments will politely decline your affections. I could almost hear the wind breathing into my ears that I could stay as long as I liked, but I would never truly fit in. And so, it was with a regretful determination that I shouldered the mantle of Vagabond, reasoning that I came from a long line of Wastrels and Nomads, surely this was simply a lesson to learn. And so, setting my jaw, I wandered to the Bay Area again, hoping that at least the familiarity would be some solace, the friends I could find would be enough to sustain me.
The shocks do not stop coming.
Not only are my friends coming out of the woodwork, and not nearly as far from me as I feared, but the land itself seems to rise up to meet me. The sun warms me with a friendly touch, the breezes caress my skin with what I can only describe as the tenderness of a lover, the earth laughs with me as I walk. And the profound loss I felt at being ripped away from the familiar was filled up to the brim and overflowing with a joy that refuses to subside.
And that moment hit me square in the chest, with all the force of a brick but yet with a fluid softness of a sudden deluge.
Home was here, the whole time, waiting for me to come back.
And my god.
Here I am.
My heart sped up a little. I was reaching the end of Scotts Valley. A bizarre excitement swept through me. How to describe... but alas, there are no words for it, nothing in this pathetic human tongue to fully encapsulate the lightning that raced through me. Only feeling. A tightness of the throat, a pressure in the lungs, a fatigue in my quads. A shiver down the spine. A twitch of the ears.
There, in full view, burst Santa Cruz.
Some say a bell went off in their head when they first laid eyes on their soul-mate. Some people say that accepting a certain job that later becomes the career they were always called to do fits as comfortably and immediately as a favorite shoe. Here?
My immediate thought, like being smacked full-force with a gust of fresh air... was very simply:
"My god. I'm home."
A familiar buzz surrounded me, an energy with a mind of its own, the shadows shifting between the trees with the little spirits that I once called by name. The air itself was alive, whispering to me in a thousand voices unheard by the human ear. The branches of the redwoods reached out overhead like banners, waving to me as I passed by. The familiar windows, the old houses, the grumpy little shops, all smiling back at me through the rain. I found myself laughing out loud, almost insane, drunk with the feeling I never knew I'd lost, the feeling of being for once and for truly home.
I had reached the conclusion not more than three weeks ago that I could never go home again, for I had no home to return to. My childhood home was long gone, corrupted and changed beyond recognition. My heart broken, my friends scattered, my family living in some remote place that I had no real connection to and that refused whatever roots I DID try to put down. The very land itself rejected me, softly, gently, in that insistent but sad way someone who does not return your sentiments will politely decline your affections. I could almost hear the wind breathing into my ears that I could stay as long as I liked, but I would never truly fit in. And so, it was with a regretful determination that I shouldered the mantle of Vagabond, reasoning that I came from a long line of Wastrels and Nomads, surely this was simply a lesson to learn. And so, setting my jaw, I wandered to the Bay Area again, hoping that at least the familiarity would be some solace, the friends I could find would be enough to sustain me.
The shocks do not stop coming.
Not only are my friends coming out of the woodwork, and not nearly as far from me as I feared, but the land itself seems to rise up to meet me. The sun warms me with a friendly touch, the breezes caress my skin with what I can only describe as the tenderness of a lover, the earth laughs with me as I walk. And the profound loss I felt at being ripped away from the familiar was filled up to the brim and overflowing with a joy that refuses to subside.
And that moment hit me square in the chest, with all the force of a brick but yet with a fluid softness of a sudden deluge.
Home was here, the whole time, waiting for me to come back.
And my god.
Here I am.
March 05, 2012
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle - Why I Do What I Do
One of my favorite books as a kid was "50 Things Kids Can Do To Save The Earth". I didn't really understand at the time, but it truly shaped my perception of recycling. It started out simply: aluminum cans, plastic bottles - both easily identifiable, plentiful considering that our family drank a fair amount of soda, and recycling centers gave out money for them. But I noticed that the centers had bins for newspaper, tubs for tin cans, and several bins for glass. Even if they didn't pay much for them, or even at all, I started to wonder at the waste that could be averted with some careful sorting.
The word "green" wasn't really in use until I was well into high school. Our school - like many newer facilities at the time - was outfitted with receptacles for recycling, particularly bottles and cans. Though my friends sometimes scoffed (or were even just grossed out), I would remove soda cans from the trash and place them in the recycling bin. I realized that, sure, one can might not make a huge difference... but if I saved one extra can a day, that was 364 cans a year. Even one a week was another 52 cans that didn't end up in a landfill. That meant a lot more to me than most people.
See, my parents worked for the Forest Service in their youth. They would maintain trails, repair signs, and clean out fire pits. Sometimes campers left trash everywhere. Even as campers ourselves, sometimes we would find old cans sticking out of the dusty ground, where we could easily step on it and cut ourselves. It was an eyesore, a hazard, and it was certainly no good for the environment. Nothing breaks up the beauty of a sunrise by the South Fork of the Stanislaus River like a floating beer can that some careless fisherman tossed aside. So litter was a personal thing to me, on top of knowing that cleaning up after myself was the proper thing to do. And being fond of the wild places, wanting to preserve them, I knew recycling what we already have in use was the best way to keep the wild places pristine: turning in as much recyclable material as possible meant less waste in landfills, meaning they filled up more slowly, meaning they needed less space and less frequently. It also meant that fewer mines and refineries would be required to acquire new material. There was no drawback. It was logically the correct thing to do.
The only issue is one of effort. Sadly, a number of people find it to simply be too much hassle to separate bottles of glass, take it all down to a recycling center, and wait for someone to parse through everything. The time commitment and effort to maintain a recycling habit is often enough to make some people simply throw out their recyclables. That became even easier as the trend caught on, however, and by the time I was in college many dining facilities, bus stops, and public parks were outfitted with recycling receptacles. For the home-residents, garbage pickup services started offering at-home recycling pickup. Sure, you didn't get paid for it, but it almost eliminated the effort required.
Every time a new method was introduced, I incorporated it into my personal habits. Now I set aside recyclables at home, everything from newspaper to regular batteries; at the office, I help maintain the receptacles by keeping them clean and tidy, and emptying them as appropriate into the outside collections; when I go out on a hike or on a road trip, I make sure to pack out all my trash, and have a separate bag to collect things we can recycle when we get home. I try to help the practice gather momentum as well by educating kids on what can be recycled (my niece was ecstatic when I told her that she could recycle batteries), I encourage my peers to start up the practice, and I also set a positive example by being consistent.
I hope that I will eventually be able to whittle down how much I actually have to throw away to nothing. These days I'm even composting organic materials, so there's even less waste going into the garbage can every week. As time goes by, more and more efficient methods of manufacturing produce less waste, and our methods of reusing material become even more diverse. It is my fervent hope that we will eventually be able to completely self-sustain as a species, and no longer find it necessary to acquire more resources in order to maintain our lifestyles.
The word "green" wasn't really in use until I was well into high school. Our school - like many newer facilities at the time - was outfitted with receptacles for recycling, particularly bottles and cans. Though my friends sometimes scoffed (or were even just grossed out), I would remove soda cans from the trash and place them in the recycling bin. I realized that, sure, one can might not make a huge difference... but if I saved one extra can a day, that was 364 cans a year. Even one a week was another 52 cans that didn't end up in a landfill. That meant a lot more to me than most people.
See, my parents worked for the Forest Service in their youth. They would maintain trails, repair signs, and clean out fire pits. Sometimes campers left trash everywhere. Even as campers ourselves, sometimes we would find old cans sticking out of the dusty ground, where we could easily step on it and cut ourselves. It was an eyesore, a hazard, and it was certainly no good for the environment. Nothing breaks up the beauty of a sunrise by the South Fork of the Stanislaus River like a floating beer can that some careless fisherman tossed aside. So litter was a personal thing to me, on top of knowing that cleaning up after myself was the proper thing to do. And being fond of the wild places, wanting to preserve them, I knew recycling what we already have in use was the best way to keep the wild places pristine: turning in as much recyclable material as possible meant less waste in landfills, meaning they filled up more slowly, meaning they needed less space and less frequently. It also meant that fewer mines and refineries would be required to acquire new material. There was no drawback. It was logically the correct thing to do.
The only issue is one of effort. Sadly, a number of people find it to simply be too much hassle to separate bottles of glass, take it all down to a recycling center, and wait for someone to parse through everything. The time commitment and effort to maintain a recycling habit is often enough to make some people simply throw out their recyclables. That became even easier as the trend caught on, however, and by the time I was in college many dining facilities, bus stops, and public parks were outfitted with recycling receptacles. For the home-residents, garbage pickup services started offering at-home recycling pickup. Sure, you didn't get paid for it, but it almost eliminated the effort required.
Every time a new method was introduced, I incorporated it into my personal habits. Now I set aside recyclables at home, everything from newspaper to regular batteries; at the office, I help maintain the receptacles by keeping them clean and tidy, and emptying them as appropriate into the outside collections; when I go out on a hike or on a road trip, I make sure to pack out all my trash, and have a separate bag to collect things we can recycle when we get home. I try to help the practice gather momentum as well by educating kids on what can be recycled (my niece was ecstatic when I told her that she could recycle batteries), I encourage my peers to start up the practice, and I also set a positive example by being consistent.
I hope that I will eventually be able to whittle down how much I actually have to throw away to nothing. These days I'm even composting organic materials, so there's even less waste going into the garbage can every week. As time goes by, more and more efficient methods of manufacturing produce less waste, and our methods of reusing material become even more diverse. It is my fervent hope that we will eventually be able to completely self-sustain as a species, and no longer find it necessary to acquire more resources in order to maintain our lifestyles.
March 01, 2012
Brain Dead Drivel
(WARNING: Contains Strong Language)
Recently I found myself gainfully employed.
Now, unlike most other jobs I have possessed, this one is neither full-time, nor is it during normal business hours. No, the job I was hired to do is seasonal work that will end right about the time Spring Quarter starts up, which is pretty well perfect. It doesn't pay much, in fact hardly anything at all, but it slows the speed with which I am draining my unemployment claim. It's something, and I'm learning to take what I can with both hands and throttle it until I've wrung every last drop of sustenance from it.
In times gone by, I would have scoffed. I'm earning almost half what I used to, and the hours are well after sunset until just past dawn. It's rough work, with harsh cleansers and sharp things and hard heavy objects with pointy corners. I'm on my feet pretty much the whole time. And everyone there with me is in the same boat, so I don't dare complain. I suck it up, because it's what you fucking do. It doesn't matter what it looks like anymore. It doesn't matter what other people think. It matters that I grab ahold of what life gives me and I never let go, like a terrier will get a rat between its teeth and shake the life out of it. I can't be the prim and proper middle-class lady I used to be. It's time to nut up or shut up, get my hands dirty, and wade through mold and dust and garbage and cardboard (and occasionally bite my lip through the sting of the cleanser when it hits the cuts on my hands) to get the job bloody well done.
I wake tired every time, and with each consecutive shift things seem a little harder. It's harder to get out of bed, harder to rouse into consciousness, harder to stay awake, harder to figure out if I'm hungry. It's harder to fall asleep when I get home, harder to see the goal ahead. But dimly I remember it's there, and I keep getting my ass out of bed, into the shower, into clean clothes, into the car, and down to the store. I think they call it graveyard shift because you feel like a zombie after a while. But I'm embracing it - good, bad, and ugly - with all my might. Others have come before me and done harder work for less. I won't let this beat me down. I just fucking won't. There's too much fire in my heart and too much stubbornness in my mind to let any paltry thing like this own me. I could be jobless, but I'm not. It's kind of a crap job, but it's fucking work, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be ashamed of that for any reason.
I worry a lot. Will there be room in the class I need, will I find more work when this is done, will I find ENOUGH work, can I find a place of my own that I can actually afford, can I make it on my own. The answer to that last one is no, at least for now. There's no way in hell that I could completely support myself in this moment. It's a bare, naked, raw truth, and hiding it doesn't make it less real. I'm done hiding the truth. It wasted a lot of damn time and gained little in return. Smiling and pretending things are all right only makes the wound fester. I need to lance it, let it drain, expose it to the air. I need the sunlight to hit it and fire to cauterize it. This is the truth. This is what's real. I'm fucking poor, can't support myself, but goddamnit I'm working like an honest citizen and paying my bills one at a time.
And that, above all else, makes me proud.
If you asked me what I need to do for school in this moment, the words that would come out of my mouth would be in half-formed sentences that cobbled together in incomplete thoughts. My brain is so tired I can't think straight. But where my brain fails, my spirit picks up the slack, and I carry that spark like a torch. It's my last inch, that last ray of hope. It's that fundamental core of myself that cannot and WILL not be extinguished for as long as I have the courage to keep fighting, the will to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and make something of the day. I may be in a rough spot, sure. Lots of people have been. This isn't new. I'm not special. In fact, a lot of folks have it much, MUCH worse. And yeah, I'm daring to forge ahead and get back into school, AND work, AND dig myself out of debt, AND many other things. But I choose to do them. I am no victim of circumstance. This fate was of my own making, and by god it will be of my own making to get myself out. Will I have to lean on others to make it happen? Yes. Am I grateful? More than I can express. But this is something I have to do for myself. I have to climb this mountain so that when I get to the top, I know for a fucking fact that it was because I bent my will to it and had the strength to persevere.
So yeah. I may be snappish, or short, or groggy. I may be exhausted, weary, and broke. It's an unglamourous life. But it's real, and it's mine, and nobody is going to take that from me.
Recently I found myself gainfully employed.
Now, unlike most other jobs I have possessed, this one is neither full-time, nor is it during normal business hours. No, the job I was hired to do is seasonal work that will end right about the time Spring Quarter starts up, which is pretty well perfect. It doesn't pay much, in fact hardly anything at all, but it slows the speed with which I am draining my unemployment claim. It's something, and I'm learning to take what I can with both hands and throttle it until I've wrung every last drop of sustenance from it.
In times gone by, I would have scoffed. I'm earning almost half what I used to, and the hours are well after sunset until just past dawn. It's rough work, with harsh cleansers and sharp things and hard heavy objects with pointy corners. I'm on my feet pretty much the whole time. And everyone there with me is in the same boat, so I don't dare complain. I suck it up, because it's what you fucking do. It doesn't matter what it looks like anymore. It doesn't matter what other people think. It matters that I grab ahold of what life gives me and I never let go, like a terrier will get a rat between its teeth and shake the life out of it. I can't be the prim and proper middle-class lady I used to be. It's time to nut up or shut up, get my hands dirty, and wade through mold and dust and garbage and cardboard (and occasionally bite my lip through the sting of the cleanser when it hits the cuts on my hands) to get the job bloody well done.
I wake tired every time, and with each consecutive shift things seem a little harder. It's harder to get out of bed, harder to rouse into consciousness, harder to stay awake, harder to figure out if I'm hungry. It's harder to fall asleep when I get home, harder to see the goal ahead. But dimly I remember it's there, and I keep getting my ass out of bed, into the shower, into clean clothes, into the car, and down to the store. I think they call it graveyard shift because you feel like a zombie after a while. But I'm embracing it - good, bad, and ugly - with all my might. Others have come before me and done harder work for less. I won't let this beat me down. I just fucking won't. There's too much fire in my heart and too much stubbornness in my mind to let any paltry thing like this own me. I could be jobless, but I'm not. It's kind of a crap job, but it's fucking work, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be ashamed of that for any reason.
I worry a lot. Will there be room in the class I need, will I find more work when this is done, will I find ENOUGH work, can I find a place of my own that I can actually afford, can I make it on my own. The answer to that last one is no, at least for now. There's no way in hell that I could completely support myself in this moment. It's a bare, naked, raw truth, and hiding it doesn't make it less real. I'm done hiding the truth. It wasted a lot of damn time and gained little in return. Smiling and pretending things are all right only makes the wound fester. I need to lance it, let it drain, expose it to the air. I need the sunlight to hit it and fire to cauterize it. This is the truth. This is what's real. I'm fucking poor, can't support myself, but goddamnit I'm working like an honest citizen and paying my bills one at a time.
And that, above all else, makes me proud.
If you asked me what I need to do for school in this moment, the words that would come out of my mouth would be in half-formed sentences that cobbled together in incomplete thoughts. My brain is so tired I can't think straight. But where my brain fails, my spirit picks up the slack, and I carry that spark like a torch. It's my last inch, that last ray of hope. It's that fundamental core of myself that cannot and WILL not be extinguished for as long as I have the courage to keep fighting, the will to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and make something of the day. I may be in a rough spot, sure. Lots of people have been. This isn't new. I'm not special. In fact, a lot of folks have it much, MUCH worse. And yeah, I'm daring to forge ahead and get back into school, AND work, AND dig myself out of debt, AND many other things. But I choose to do them. I am no victim of circumstance. This fate was of my own making, and by god it will be of my own making to get myself out. Will I have to lean on others to make it happen? Yes. Am I grateful? More than I can express. But this is something I have to do for myself. I have to climb this mountain so that when I get to the top, I know for a fucking fact that it was because I bent my will to it and had the strength to persevere.
So yeah. I may be snappish, or short, or groggy. I may be exhausted, weary, and broke. It's an unglamourous life. But it's real, and it's mine, and nobody is going to take that from me.
February 12, 2012
Adjustments
I was recently asked by a friend how I was holding up.
I didn't know how to answer the question. Not because it was difficult to say how I was doing, but because it implied that I might not be doing well.
Point in fact, the best time of my life has been the recent months.
I get up in the morning when the light streams through my window, painting the wall in golden light. Often as not, there's a particular furball curled up next to my chest, purring softly. I get up, clean up, do my morning chores, then go out to the back pasture to practice my archery.
I was given a number of arrows for my birthday - six carbon-fiber flights with target tips, the exact proper length. I take them from their corner, string up my laminate longbow, and head out to fire no fewer than three rounds of flights into the hay-bale set up for expressly this purpose. Then, arms sore and achy, I gather everything up, unstring my bow, and come back in to clean them all off and put them away. Then I sit down for guitar practice.
The calluses on my fingers are forming, if slowly. I've learned three major chords so far, though "learned" is putting it kindly. If I make a funny face and think hard enough, I can remember how I'm supposed to make the fingers sit on the strings. Dad taught me a song ("song" is again a generous term) that involves all three chords, so I can feel accomplished. Somewhat. It's halting, it's clumsy, it's awkward... but it's music. Then, when my fingers wont take it anymore, I get down to the real exercise.
I nabbed a Brazilian Dance workout DVD with the Amazon.com gift card I got for my birthday, along with a Yoga DVD. I do the makulale-inspired workout, then follow it up with a cooldown stretch of Yoga for fifteen minutes. My spine in particular appreciates this part. It's tough, but I feel so much better afterwards.
After that, the rest of the day kicks in. I might take the dogs out for a run, outpacing them on the bicycle to really run them out. Or I might just grab the ball-thrower and put them through their paces in the pasture. If there's work around the house that needs doing, I'm on it without complaint. Dad might draft me into some construction work, ripping up the deck or getting the posts ready for a new railing. Mom might have me take care of some gardening, or need a hand making some epic meal. I volunteer to chop wood, build fires, stack kindling, and walk to the mailbox down the road. I run errands in town, and I play video games on the computer. I make friends and flirt and have fun. I meditate on the I-Ching wrapped in a Chief Joseph robe. I listen to the chorus of the thousands of frogs, I pick out the stars from the blanket of twinkling lights, and I scan the stream for the Steelhead salmon that spawn there.
... how am I "holding up"?
Yeah, okay. I did have my fiancé tell me he wasn't going to keep going. After six years (almost to the day), he called it quits, leaving me completely adrift. I had no job, no prospects, and no reason to stay... even if I could have afforded to. Before I knew what was happening, my family swooped in like an eagle after a chinook, and carried me back to the nest. And here between the redwoods and the open sea have I found myself, hiding all along.
I never had depression, apparently. They're saying now that it was Chronic Anxiety all along, which was why the meds never worked properly. The instant the relationship was over, the attacks stopped. No more emotional episodes. Terrible as it sounds, I feel... free. The trickle down I've heard has been that he's doing about the same. Perhaps everyone was right, maybe the relationship was over long ago, and neither of us were willing to admit it. After all, I'm a Capricorn, and he an Aries. And I come from a long line of stubborn women.
So - how I'm "holding up"? It's the wrong question. The question is how I'm doing. And the answer is "I'm thriving". I'm about to start a new job, and I'm getting my school applications all squared away, and I'm making new friends. I'll be moving again soon, but this time, it will be where *I* want to go, and it will be for myself.
I didn't know how to answer the question. Not because it was difficult to say how I was doing, but because it implied that I might not be doing well.
Point in fact, the best time of my life has been the recent months.
I get up in the morning when the light streams through my window, painting the wall in golden light. Often as not, there's a particular furball curled up next to my chest, purring softly. I get up, clean up, do my morning chores, then go out to the back pasture to practice my archery.
I was given a number of arrows for my birthday - six carbon-fiber flights with target tips, the exact proper length. I take them from their corner, string up my laminate longbow, and head out to fire no fewer than three rounds of flights into the hay-bale set up for expressly this purpose. Then, arms sore and achy, I gather everything up, unstring my bow, and come back in to clean them all off and put them away. Then I sit down for guitar practice.
The calluses on my fingers are forming, if slowly. I've learned three major chords so far, though "learned" is putting it kindly. If I make a funny face and think hard enough, I can remember how I'm supposed to make the fingers sit on the strings. Dad taught me a song ("song" is again a generous term) that involves all three chords, so I can feel accomplished. Somewhat. It's halting, it's clumsy, it's awkward... but it's music. Then, when my fingers wont take it anymore, I get down to the real exercise.
I nabbed a Brazilian Dance workout DVD with the Amazon.com gift card I got for my birthday, along with a Yoga DVD. I do the makulale-inspired workout, then follow it up with a cooldown stretch of Yoga for fifteen minutes. My spine in particular appreciates this part. It's tough, but I feel so much better afterwards.
After that, the rest of the day kicks in. I might take the dogs out for a run, outpacing them on the bicycle to really run them out. Or I might just grab the ball-thrower and put them through their paces in the pasture. If there's work around the house that needs doing, I'm on it without complaint. Dad might draft me into some construction work, ripping up the deck or getting the posts ready for a new railing. Mom might have me take care of some gardening, or need a hand making some epic meal. I volunteer to chop wood, build fires, stack kindling, and walk to the mailbox down the road. I run errands in town, and I play video games on the computer. I make friends and flirt and have fun. I meditate on the I-Ching wrapped in a Chief Joseph robe. I listen to the chorus of the thousands of frogs, I pick out the stars from the blanket of twinkling lights, and I scan the stream for the Steelhead salmon that spawn there.
... how am I "holding up"?
Yeah, okay. I did have my fiancé tell me he wasn't going to keep going. After six years (almost to the day), he called it quits, leaving me completely adrift. I had no job, no prospects, and no reason to stay... even if I could have afforded to. Before I knew what was happening, my family swooped in like an eagle after a chinook, and carried me back to the nest. And here between the redwoods and the open sea have I found myself, hiding all along.
I never had depression, apparently. They're saying now that it was Chronic Anxiety all along, which was why the meds never worked properly. The instant the relationship was over, the attacks stopped. No more emotional episodes. Terrible as it sounds, I feel... free. The trickle down I've heard has been that he's doing about the same. Perhaps everyone was right, maybe the relationship was over long ago, and neither of us were willing to admit it. After all, I'm a Capricorn, and he an Aries. And I come from a long line of stubborn women.
So - how I'm "holding up"? It's the wrong question. The question is how I'm doing. And the answer is "I'm thriving". I'm about to start a new job, and I'm getting my school applications all squared away, and I'm making new friends. I'll be moving again soon, but this time, it will be where *I* want to go, and it will be for myself.
January 08, 2012
Long Time Gone
It's been a long time comin'
It's goin' to be a long time gone.
But you know,
The darkest hour is always
Always just before the dawn.
And it appears to be a long, appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long
Time before the dawn.
After a year of frantic and frenetic futility, I find myself here.
"Here" is unemployed, living with my folks, and single. In the span of just a few months, I went from living with my fiancé in San Diego and gainfully employed to here. Now, 900 miles later, I have the opportunity to really start anew. Not only has a new year begun in the strictest sense, but also a new decade for me, as the tail end of 2011 saw the celebration of my 30th birthday. So now, starting from scratch, with nothing but possibilities laying before me, I have the hardest thing to do - choose a path.
I've narrowed it down fairly quickly. I have the best chance if I start by thinking about careers. I've never really fancied working in an office, which is mostly what I've done for the past ten years. This office, that office, this corporation, that nonprofit, this industry, that manufacturer, this distributor, that service. It's all the same, day in, day out. I'd always start enthusiastic, but before long I would find myself bored out of my mind, wondering to myself, "what GOOD am I doing here?"
The answer is fairly simple. I want to work with animals. I'm good at it. I have a talent, a gift. Why waste it? But the economy has made it quite clear that an inexperienced Vet Assistant isn't enough. It's time to up the stakes. No, I don't want to be a Veterinarian. But I do want to be there in the animal hospital, making the sick ones well, helping the hurting ones heal, and letting the suffering ones go. I want to be there when someone has to say goodbye - not because it's enjoyable, but because I'm the right one for it. I can relate because I care. I can offer a shoulder to the owner and peace to the dying. And I can do this, not because it doesn't bother me, but rather because it does. Who else but someone who gives a damn will ensure that an animal - no matter its size or appearance - has every last scrap of dignity possible?
So instead of 6 years and multiple tens of thousands of dollars to become a Veterinarian, I'm taking the better route: 2 years and a couple thousand dollars in a Veterinary Technician Program.
What's so special about that, you may ask. Why not got full-hog and be a Veterinarian proper? Simple: I don't want to be the one to make the call.
During my externship, I ran across situations where the animal suffered because of a bad diagnosis. One that stands out more vividly than the rest is the case of Momma, a cat who couldn't maintain her equilibrium. Her head tilted at a sharp angle, unable to stand, she tipped over miserably and could not right herself. The vet puzzled and puzzled, but came to two conclusions: either she had an inner-ear problem, or a neurological one. The only way to see if it was an ear issue was exploratory surgery, which would be expensive for no reason if that wasn't the root cause. As a result, the family - being of middling means - opted to have her put down. The vet had presented the case as best he could with all the information he had available, and had made the call that it was one of two things - one fixable, the other a death-sentence - and if they paid a high price, it might still not be a positive outcome in the end. After her death, he performed a necropsy... and found that it had in fact been an ear problem, an easily fixable one.
It wasn't his fault. He did the best he could. But that's an intellectual rationalization for the fact that a cat was euthanized when we could have saved her. I never want to be the one to make that call. I have plenty of ghosts, thank you very much. I don't want or need more.
That being what it is, a Vet Tech is authorized in this state to do basically everything a Vet can do, shy of complex surgical procedures, with the notable exception of diagnosis. I'd never have to make the call. Get my hands dirty, do the work, assist when necessary, run labs and tests and all the legwork that cam up... but I'd never have to sentence a living thing to death, no matter the reason or rationale. It might be considered cowardly of me, but I know my limits. That's one of them.
Having thusly narrowed down my career choices, I have narrowed down schools. Now I need to put that into action. That's the difficult part for now. That, and learning to live with my "single-ness". It's striking. I haven't been single in six years, and it was a fairly short gap between-times the last time anyway. So this is new, even though it was once old. I'm finding it freeing and liberating as well as scary as hell and lonely. I'm healthier now, in a way I never knew I was sick, which gives me all the reason in the world to never look backwards. Only forward from here, although the journey is very, VERY long.
But it's been a long time coming. The darkest hour is always just before the dawn.
It's goin' to be a long time gone.
But you know,
The darkest hour is always
Always just before the dawn.
And it appears to be a long, appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long
Time before the dawn.
After a year of frantic and frenetic futility, I find myself here.
"Here" is unemployed, living with my folks, and single. In the span of just a few months, I went from living with my fiancé in San Diego and gainfully employed to here. Now, 900 miles later, I have the opportunity to really start anew. Not only has a new year begun in the strictest sense, but also a new decade for me, as the tail end of 2011 saw the celebration of my 30th birthday. So now, starting from scratch, with nothing but possibilities laying before me, I have the hardest thing to do - choose a path.
I've narrowed it down fairly quickly. I have the best chance if I start by thinking about careers. I've never really fancied working in an office, which is mostly what I've done for the past ten years. This office, that office, this corporation, that nonprofit, this industry, that manufacturer, this distributor, that service. It's all the same, day in, day out. I'd always start enthusiastic, but before long I would find myself bored out of my mind, wondering to myself, "what GOOD am I doing here?"
The answer is fairly simple. I want to work with animals. I'm good at it. I have a talent, a gift. Why waste it? But the economy has made it quite clear that an inexperienced Vet Assistant isn't enough. It's time to up the stakes. No, I don't want to be a Veterinarian. But I do want to be there in the animal hospital, making the sick ones well, helping the hurting ones heal, and letting the suffering ones go. I want to be there when someone has to say goodbye - not because it's enjoyable, but because I'm the right one for it. I can relate because I care. I can offer a shoulder to the owner and peace to the dying. And I can do this, not because it doesn't bother me, but rather because it does. Who else but someone who gives a damn will ensure that an animal - no matter its size or appearance - has every last scrap of dignity possible?
So instead of 6 years and multiple tens of thousands of dollars to become a Veterinarian, I'm taking the better route: 2 years and a couple thousand dollars in a Veterinary Technician Program.
What's so special about that, you may ask. Why not got full-hog and be a Veterinarian proper? Simple: I don't want to be the one to make the call.
During my externship, I ran across situations where the animal suffered because of a bad diagnosis. One that stands out more vividly than the rest is the case of Momma, a cat who couldn't maintain her equilibrium. Her head tilted at a sharp angle, unable to stand, she tipped over miserably and could not right herself. The vet puzzled and puzzled, but came to two conclusions: either she had an inner-ear problem, or a neurological one. The only way to see if it was an ear issue was exploratory surgery, which would be expensive for no reason if that wasn't the root cause. As a result, the family - being of middling means - opted to have her put down. The vet had presented the case as best he could with all the information he had available, and had made the call that it was one of two things - one fixable, the other a death-sentence - and if they paid a high price, it might still not be a positive outcome in the end. After her death, he performed a necropsy... and found that it had in fact been an ear problem, an easily fixable one.
It wasn't his fault. He did the best he could. But that's an intellectual rationalization for the fact that a cat was euthanized when we could have saved her. I never want to be the one to make that call. I have plenty of ghosts, thank you very much. I don't want or need more.
That being what it is, a Vet Tech is authorized in this state to do basically everything a Vet can do, shy of complex surgical procedures, with the notable exception of diagnosis. I'd never have to make the call. Get my hands dirty, do the work, assist when necessary, run labs and tests and all the legwork that cam up... but I'd never have to sentence a living thing to death, no matter the reason or rationale. It might be considered cowardly of me, but I know my limits. That's one of them.
Having thusly narrowed down my career choices, I have narrowed down schools. Now I need to put that into action. That's the difficult part for now. That, and learning to live with my "single-ness". It's striking. I haven't been single in six years, and it was a fairly short gap between-times the last time anyway. So this is new, even though it was once old. I'm finding it freeing and liberating as well as scary as hell and lonely. I'm healthier now, in a way I never knew I was sick, which gives me all the reason in the world to never look backwards. Only forward from here, although the journey is very, VERY long.
But it's been a long time coming. The darkest hour is always just before the dawn.
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