Cooper Two and the Ghost Town Blues

“Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.”

- John Muir

Peale, Pennsylvania

Corn::rows. Corn::rows. Corn::rows. Corn::rows. Picturesque view. Trees; rocks. Trees; rocks. Trees; rocks. Fields. Woods. Rolling hills. Picturesque view. 

There are a lot of great dirt roads to creep along on in my hometown vicinity. By that I don’t mean being a creeper in the creepy sense but rather a creeper in the Jeepy sense. Priscilla is my Jeep’s name, she’s a Patriot and she named herself. She’s been good to me so far, I try my best to be good to her. She’s white like a queen’s horse and basic like a bitch. She’s a 5-speed, she’s durable and she loves taking it slow. Dirt roads are the best, change my mind. There are quite a few to choose from around here. I usually do a Turkey Street scoot every day after getting the mail, a loop around Drain Lick perhaps. A short journey out to Sylvan Grove at times, there are some great trees out there. That’s all on Drifting side. There are several local haunts of interest for the slow traveler. When the boys fall asleep after I drop Celie off at school I just drive around back roads and let them sleep awhile lest I wake them up taking them inside. Sometimes I cut across Pearce Hollow. It’s cathartic and metaphoric, taking it slow. I get to gather my thoughts between the onslaught of noises and responsibilities that has become my life. I get “alone” time. Plus, I get one on one time. Me and Bob Dylan. Me and Tom Petty. Me and [Insert Artist Here]. Me and Podcasters. Me and the closest I can come to a near silence, filled only with the creaks of Priscilla’s bones and a slow, looped roll of rubber over dirt. Our din mimicking the antiquated sounds of a wobbly suspension on a carriage over dusty road, my white mare pulling me through the trees. There’s something wonderful about Jeep rides; not being covered in kids, listening to their cries or screams, a brief sliver of time without demands when they are restrained and harnessed and I am at the reins. I’m basically Aunt Bethany from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation: “I love riding in cars!” I like it when I’m driving, anyway. Or when someone I trust is behind the wheel, then it’s a good time. I’ve been on a few hell rides in my life, though. Luckily, I’ve been on some terrific treks as well.  

All of October I drove around taking in the foliage. Daily, I would witness these trees changing before my eyes. It seems to happen so slowly until one day you realize you are looking at the skeletal limbs and trunk of an empty tree you had just watched go through a brilliant display of transition. Full of leaves and color, a moving portrait and then bam—a few wind storms and some rain, a little drop in temperature, and they are gone. Lost forever, fallen to rot at the tree’s base, becoming nutrients for the next season’s show. It’s a cool thing to witness and I am glad to live where we get a good view of the seasonal changes but it can make you sad. It's kind of tragically heartbreaking. Imagine if you didn't know whether or not spring would come. Do you think the trees know their leaves will return? It's hard to keep in mind that the sun will swing back when it starts to move away and leaves us in darkness. The transition of fall into winter can be a hard symbol for that. The cold sets in and you can feel it in your bones.

I used to let my friend Leslie drive me around while I wrote. She’d take the wheel of my Dodge Caliber and we’d go on an adventure through the trees, into the woods, or sometimes elsewhere. She epically drove me all the way to Memphis, Tennessee for my 35th birthday. She also drove me down into Kato, once, and until then I had never been. Kato is a ghost town in her neck of the woods, accessed through Snow Shoe. It also happens to be where my paternal Pap hails from. It’s literally “a town that no longer exists”; it’s just roads through trees and some big rocks and a bridge, I believe. On August 29, 2013 Leslie and I drove to multiple locations as my daughter napped in the back seat, similar to what I do alone now with the boys napping in the back of the Jeep. I, with my trusted red-at-the-time Life Liver's Log spiral notebook in hand (to represent the Muladhara chakra, no less) wrote a song of sorts that day, still a fetus, each verse, a stop on our travels. As simple of a thing as that was, those were some of the best times I’ve had. All I ever really needed was a witness. Leslie came around a lot right at a time when I needed it the most. The years we spent together as friends will always be some of my fondest and even though they were some of my hardest, they were also some of my most "veil-lifting" times. I was writing a lot of odes and sonnets at the time. Manically writing; wound up as my base state, I could unwind and decompress on our car rides. The trees would help ground me. We were just two air signs looking for some earth. We could bullshit somewhat as well while I wrote because I am apt to and adept at dividing focus and Leslie was someone that I felt comfortable with and trusted because she was as equally forthcoming with me as I was with her. For some reason we spoke to each other, mirrored each other...understood each other? Leslie accepted me as me, whoever that was. She also put up with a shit ton of pressured speeches from me. I am grateful for her ability to witness me and for her tolerance of my soliloquies  and lectures which would take place in between the writing. She knew that I often spoke the truth so she took it even when it hurt. She was truly Rock Star about not just simply kicking my ass, though, because she could have, but she loved me and I loved her. Abrasion often rides shotgun with Truth. It polishes by rubbing and it’s often the wrong way. I was just trying to help her out, but the truth is I wasn’t always right. Sometimes I was just mad. She also once told me that I was self-centered. She wasn’t wrong; I was in the midst of an extended episode at the time. I tend to get grandiose. I also am highly distractible and can frustrate people if they need or want my undivided attention. I’ve used her comment for self-reflection ever since, because it hurt, as quipped truths often do. I have since apologized for my abrasive bluntness, or being a bitch, or what have you, and I am grateful that I did have that opportunity. She, in turn, has handed me a few hard, grinding truths as well. Leslie was a real gem, a Dusty Diamond, to be exact. She was a muse. She was a friend. We shared a true kinship. People like that are extremely rare and precious, like jewels in the junkyard of life. This I know to be true, especially when you have trust issues. Diamonds in the rough are a little dusty but shiny and priceless when given a polish. I considered her to be in my innermost circle of trust, which, at the time, only really included my husband. I told her things that I have told no other human or animal. I think it was a divine symbiosis, a mutual decompression. She, likewise, shared a lot of her secrets with me. Our companionship was just what each of us needed at the time. It was also one of the best gifts that she ever gave me and I am grateful for that. She made a real difference in my life. 

Heading back from the dust to the dirt, it’s a privilege to have so many dirt roads to take it slow and decompress on. Grassflat and Drifting are almost like sister villages, nestled on the mountaintop. I spent a bit of time there as a kid. My brother and I would ride with my father through Cooper Two to get there; it’s a dirt road that connects them named after the old Cooper Two coal mine. I’ve traveled this road many times in my youth but not as often as of late. These past months I’ve expanded the stretch of my local drives. I found Cooper Two surreally different because I always, for some reason, expect my childhood  ride home. That Cooper Two is long gone. So is that Grassflat and that Drifting for that matter. Last month during my foliage rides I moseyed out to Peale, which is connected to Grassflat but it also, in a haunting way, no longer exists. Oddly enough, Peale is the ghost town from my neck of the woods, like the mountaintop Kato. I hadn’t been down to Peale since April of this year, when I was still pregnant with Otis. People go to Peale for many reasons, mostly recreational now. The Red Mo race launches from there, of course. Four wheelers have access to Gorton through the tunnel and out to the Viaduct bridge through Peale. I used to ride out on 4 wheelers with my brother when we were kids looking for old bottles on the hillsides, pulling them out from underneath the layers of dead leaves and sediment like we were digging back in time. We found some pretty neat ones. People have camped, drove, rode, walked, and boated in Peale. Some people just come for the spirits, or in an attempt to lift or find theirs. Peale is almost a local Mecca, a local haunt for self-seeking and escape: holy ground. 

Peale, Pennsylvania was an old mining town founded in the late 1800s when the Beech Creek Railroad line was the main way into places. It once held near 2,500 people that relied on the coal mines or railroad for their bread and butter. It was owned by the coal company. After the town diminished with the active train line and mines, people slowly dispersed, some moving up into Grassflat. Several houses as well as a church are in Grassflat now that were from Peale. There were only two camps left in Peale when I was young and now there is only one, as well as a garage structure. One camp was burnt down years ago and it still makes me sickeningly sad. Only one real structure remains and the foundations of some things but you can walk out to look for the lone grave of Martha Renfrew, the only marked grave left in the Oakwood Cemetery. She was aged 14 years, 11 months by the inscription on her tombstone. This was all so fascinating as a kid. At some point, somebody put up a sign to mark the Oakwood Cemetery. I can remember this and it doesn’t seem that long ago but now the words on the sign have since been destroyed and nothing remains  aside from the side posts and a few small boards that a dark piece of fabric is tied to. The changes that this land has gone through during my lifetime alone are phenomenal. To think back farther to when it was a bustling hillside community of over 2,000 is about enough to blow your mind. 

Although not from the bustling Peale days, one structure has remained for at least my entire lifetime, and that’s the bridge, however it is really starting to show its age. Anyone local who’s anyone local has some memory of this bridge and probably that big crack in the side that seems so much bigger than I remember it being  every time I see it. But it’s a reminder that bridges will eventually crumble. Rebar protrudes from the cracking concrete, a strong skeleton that will only keep the bridge together so long. Time wears on everything; everything eventually turns to dust. I’d spent the past two months watching the leaves fall and transition, thinking of how many changes I have endured during my short lifetime alone and how many more await me. 

And so there I sat on the Peale bridge at the reins of Priscilla pondering the past with one too many ghosts riding shotgun. We try to reach back with our minds, like I dug with my brother into the dirt, excavating for any unbroken remnant to hold in our hands. Our shined up, dirt-plucked vessel can be a wonderful memento and it will even hold water but it’s place is in the past and therefore it’s a relic. 

Peale looks entirely different today than it did as a kid. The drive across Cooper Two is the same way. Entire hillsides are cleared. Peale Camp has burnt down. So many trees are gone. The landscape is drastically different and it hollows it out, making it seem less of a shelter but more of a marvel, because it opens up the hillsides to the expanse of trees and better shows the distance from here to there. You can get a glimpse of the forest through the trees now. It all seems so far away. Going to a ghost town is akin to visiting a graveyard.  Lost in time, a fog from long ago settles over your  mind. These hills used to be filled with homes, people, families...life. My gram’s sister lived in one of the last houses out here. Some were moved board by board to be reassembled in Grassflat. The church was moved. Peale was a once bustling country town set up with all the trappings of a city and is now a quiet place of refuge and recreation. The Red Moshannon has brought its race crowds, though, time has been unwinding here for decades, the mines still bleed into her beds and mark the creek with their rusted blood. Enjoy her splendor but don’t drink the water. 

The lines from the Day Song seem even more pertinent today, as well as my embryonic Dusty Diamond lines, in a ghostly way: "All alone with those inner demons...where's it hurtin' tonight girl?" In an attempt to understand the present we try to reach back into the past with our minds but the past will never come back to you. We remain haunted like these towns are by the specter of the past. But maybe it can be a friendly ghost? 

Verse 1:

I went to an old house sitting out in a field.

My body was shaking, my spirit was thrilled. 

Empty without the life that we bring.

Silent without the songs that we sing. 

Oh, but it’s still standing. 

And I think it always will. 

Verse 2:

I went to a town that no longer exists.

I give into whatever my spirit insists. 

Once upon a time, maybe we were trees.

Twin oaks, side by side, all in a dream.

Oh, but we’re still standing.

And I feel we always will. 

Verse 3: 

I went to a church that holds no services.

My spirit is pious, despite its perverseness. 

Echoes throughout with the sound of silence.

No evil, no anger, no hate, and no violence. 

Oh, and it’s still standing. 

And I believe it always will. 

Verse 4:

I went to the hilltop and gazed at the mountains. 

The clouds were rollin’ and my spirit was shoutin’. 

Open expanse of trees and sky; 

Will your memory never die? 

Oh, no, it’s still standing,

And I know it always will. 

CHORUS: 

On my way home I came to the crossroads,

I took a wrong turn into one of my episodes.

I got stuck in the mud, shed a little blood.

I’ve been having these visions for years,

Wiping tears through the forest of fears,

And I’m headin’ home the hard way. 

Laughing Through the Flames Together

Parenting is a lot of things. It’s an honor, it’s a blessing, it’s a privilege and it’s also a job. Parenthood can either be the most joyous time of your life or a living hell from which there is no escape. Honestly, even though we are encouraged and expected to “cherish every moment” the hard truth is that parenting is often both. Parenthood is the hardest job anyone will ever have...except for maybe that guy that gets his heart ripped out by Mola Ram and is lowered down into the firey pit on Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. They aren’t without their similarities, anyway: High pressure. Sacrifice. Rip your heart out. In a cage descending into fire. Very hot. It burns!  

Okay, it’s not all that bad but it helps at times to keep things as light as possible and to not take it too seriously...even though you need to because you are single-handedly making choices that are in part forming your beloved children’s personalities that they will then be at the mercy of forever...and even though they will go forth with these personalities into the world either to make it or break it. Kiiind of totally a huge deal. But don’t worry. No pressure. “Kali maa shakti de!!” 

What could be harder than parenting? Single-parenting, obviously, would take about a thousand cakes on that one. But actually sometimes, albeit to a much lesser degree, it can also be co-parenting. Parenting is hard in general to wrap your will around but meeting another person on the same page who has their own preconceived notions of what parenting is or should be and staying on the same page when it comes to your beliefs on raising children and consistently standing by said beliefs in the face of distraction and frustration…two different heads of the same snarling beast and they both chew your face off. My husband and I can agree that this is often really shitty. Call a spade a spade. We both can also agree, however, that it is the best thing to ever happen to us so where do we meet in the middle of this? That’s the million dollar question. That’s also where the continual relationship work resides. It’s no laughing matter...except for when it is. 

This past weekend my husband and I were jokingly talking about our day, and he had an errand to run. I had the baby on the boob and the other two were being their loud and annoying selves because yes, kids are often loud and annoying no matter how many times you post their pictures on social media decreeing them your angels and your everything. I said, “You guys should go with your father,” giving him an eye and a Cheshire Cat beam. We knew I was mostly joking. His face visibly sunk in an exaggeration of protest because everyone knows it takes twice as long to do any errand with kids in tow, and he said, in a wailing womanly voice: “You haate me!” We laughed. Humor is often your saving grace. It’s also wonderful when our daughter chalks up everything that goes over her head to “adult comedy” as she calls it. We’re not entirely proud but this is where we find ourselves. Parents make jokes because you either laugh or you’ll cry. 

Later that day, after earlier having discussed how his truck has gotten him over 100,000 miles, he said how he had to go out to work on it for awhile. I teasingly accuse him: 

“You know, you’re truck hasn’t needed anything big but you SURE do work on it a lot? What are you sabotaging shit just to get out there and get away from us? ‘OOoh NOOOOoOOO my BRAKE line broke, I better get out there and FIX that today for sure!!’ Is that how it is? ...’Cause that’s what I’d be doing.”

Again, we laughed. Humor through parenthood is like saying that the knife wound in your side kinda looks like a face. It’s simultaneously both denial and complete and total acceptance. We started doing impressions of him taking out his brake lines and other truck parts because they really did go out recently and it does seem he is perpetually working on his truck during his brief time at home. It’s seemingly never ending; duties and projects drag on into a balmy eternity. Everything moves like chilled molasses because there is never enough time in a weekend. It’s funny because the poor guy is actually out there as I write this working on it again. This weekend it’s universal joints. Lucky bastard. It’s funny because it’s not funny. At least we have humor. 

I think if you can laugh together you have a lot to work with. If you can’t make each other laugh, then it’s going to be a hard road for you because it can get a tad rocky and you’re going to feel every bump and stone. If you’re laughing you kinda just roll over the top of some of them and it doesn’t seem like such a bumpy ride even if your shocks are shot. Who you have as a co-pilot traveling with you as your partner in crime on the road of parenthood matters a lot. It helps if you get along with your celly. Your partner ultimately helps to determine how bumpy the ride will be and even when you have a good one the struggle is still real. Parenthood is where relationships go to train for the UFC; it will either make your marriage stronger or take it down blow by blow. 

That poor bastard in the basket on Indiana Jones didn't survive the destructive flames in the pit. He evaporated. Kali needed her sacrifice. It all seems so gruesome. We can just say he represents your egoic parts that need to surrender to the sacrifice. In Hinduism, Kali is the goddess of death and destruction. In her earlier depictions she is often a crone with red eyes, holding weapons and severed heads, with black skin and protruding tongue, a real bad bitch. Westerners generally view her as evil because of her form and requirements of destruction and human sacrifice. But in her complexity, she is a dualistic goddess, in her later Kali Ma form she is also a symbol of Mother Nature, nurturing and benevolent. Kali is like the transformative power of tough love, your darkness transmuted. When we are breaking apart from circumstance and heading into darkness that is Kali, but when we are fitting the pieces back together and finding our light, that is also Mother Kali. From my understanding, that is. Maybe you can see where I’m heading with this metaphor. 

Dealing with the stresses of parenthood together exposes you to each other’s deepest wounds. If there is anything ugly in your core kids will pull that dark shit right out of you and cover it in glitter and boogers before shoving it directly and repeatedly into your frame of view. “Look! LOOK! Do you see this?!” Kids are Mola Ram invoking the power of Kali to tear into your chest and hold your still-beating heart in front of your face before sacrificing your ego in a pit of flames. In short: kids’ll fuck you up. You need a strong resolve to survive the destruction of the goddess Kali. It requires a tight connection, a sturdy bond to hold your relationship together in the fire as the flesh of your old selves is seared away in sacrifice. Parenthood is some serious shit. It burns a good bit but as with much of life, it helps to laugh. 

The Length of the Rainbow Bridge

Over two years ago now, on Saturday, May 20th 2017, we had to make the hard decision to put our buddy Buster to sleep, our beloved boxer mix dog, our family companion and friend. I haven't posted anything about it online yet even though it was awhile ago now. I wrote up most of a blog awhile back but then never finished or posted. A year after I still had his Pill Pockets in the closet and a bin of his supplements stuffed in a bottom cabinet. I'm not entirely sure why it is that I didn't post anything about it, perhaps because it was a difficult phase and decision for our family to deal with and make. Maybe I was too emotional at the time for the outreach, I don't know. I also had just given birth to our second child at the time. It was a time of transition for our family, but we have had some time to deal. Celie and I had a chat about him awhile back and we decided that we "don't feel horrible anymore" so I'm ready to post about it I reckon. Now, two years after she has started to ask about getting another dog. While I am not ready for that step quite yet, and am also currently preoccupied with now gearing up to have our third child, I suppose I could at the very least finish up the blog post. 

On August 4th, 2016 Buster was diagnosed with lymphoma cancer after we took him to the vet for a swollen neck and a persistent hacking cough. They delivered the sad news and I knew I had to reframe it for Celie somehow. She was just 6 at the time. It was also only around a week before we found out that I was pregnant with Jasper. We were excited to be having another baby but simultaneously sad for the impending loss we had ahead of us. The vet told us that dogs usually only live 4 to 6 weeks after diagnosis so we had to tell Celie something because we didn’t think we had much time. We were obviously heartbroken and were not looking forward to saying goodbye to him so soon, but I made the choice to tell Celie up front and talk to her about it through it all because I thought that he would die or that we would need to decide to put him to sleep within a month or so. Being 6  years old at the time, I felt that it would be good for her to be told up front in an age appropriate way. I immediately bought her All Dogs Go to Heaven and did my best to explain cancer to her and what was happening, also so that she would be aware that he wasn't feeling well and would act accordingly because we had no idea what was ahead of us. It forced me to break down death to a child's level while simultaneously reexploring my own thoughts and beliefs. It was painful, sad, and vulnerable, but in the end I am grateful that I had the opportunity to explain it to her using a dog companion first instead of a human one, as it was her first rememberable experience with death at the time. 

I am grateful for the pure love that Celie and Buster shared. We already had Buster when she was born so Celie was raised alongside her furry friend. “Buster” was even her first word. He was her four-legged older brother and he was so patient and gentle with her, despite her high energy. For that I will also forever be grateful. If he was a mean tempered dog, it could have been a bad experience but he seemed to understand that she was a tiny people, one of us, and very dear to us, never doing anything overtly aggressive unless in a defensive manner and having a great way of judging how gentle he needed to be with her. It helps to keep in mind that it was special for her to have a good connection with a dog so early and this was a gift in itself. It still hurt like hell and was one of the most heartbreaking things to witness and have to explain to her, given her mix of emotional reactions through it all especially because it ended up taking much longer than the vet initially told us.

I, of course, not wanting to accept the death sentence even in my adult mind, initially Googled my fingers off about dog lymphoma and things. I frantically considered chemotherapy briefly, read up on that. Decided against it. We purchased supplements and ebooks on dealing with canine cancer. I started him on a mixture of vitamins and things. Most notably we switched his dry dog food to grain free Blue Wilderness. Ultimately, though, his lymph nodes continued to swell and eventually he was hacking and could no longer eat the dry dog food. About a month after diagnosis he wasn't in the best shape, but he was still here. The swelling in the lymph nodes in this chest and throat eventually became so significant, though, affecting his ability to eat, that we decided to put him on prednisone to see if it would shrink them and give him some relief. This is basically the first line of cancer treatment with dogs anyway. Luckily it worked, the swelling went down, he was able to eat better again, and he just kept going. 

I had planned on making him his own homemade dog food from recipes I found on the internet in canine cancer support groups and the ebooks that I got, but in the end we just switched to Blue Wilderness canned food for the most part, mixing it with the grain free dried kibble. He seemed to love most kinds, he was hungry because of the prednisone so at least he kept eating. We were fortunate to be able to afford it because grain free dog food is so much more expensive and it added up! I switched up kinds when they were on sale but stuck to grain free, high protein. Merrick’s was a brand he liked a lot also and some of it honestly looked so good I would have eaten it! All through my pregnancy we were in this limbo state where we gave him his medication and bought him his special food, every week we repeated the drill and it somewhat stayed the same. I called in and refilled his prescription at the vet so many times. I broke his pills in half and put them into chunks of Fresh Pet loaves. All the while he slowly got worse but still remained basically Buster, playful and social with a happy tail. 

We switched him to a completely grain free diet when he was diagnosed and I attribute this to most of the bonus time that we got with him. Aside from his diet, we also refrained from giving him any table scraps unless it was a pure protein or fat source like meat or something. He lived quite a few fairly active months after diagnosis, fetching tennis balls a month or so in and even playing tug of war with Celie close to only a month before the end, but he slowly got worse, though, and the cancer ultimately took over his body. In the end it was in his stomach, which became swollen, and in his skin that started to harden and peel although it didn’t seem to bother him. He was uncomfortable but didn't seem to be in significant pain. I continued the supplements that I had read showed the most results in other dogs with cancer. In the end I still feel like I failed him, not trying aggressively enough with the supplements or not making him his own homemade food or not doing this that or the other. But who is to say Colloidal Silver would have done anything? If I had tried crazy baking soda treatments I could have sent him into heart failure. I wasn’t sure of anything, but my mind was awash with all of the things I had read or ever heard that could fight cancer, this invasive beast that had killed so many family members. Now it was taking the best dog I had ever had who was the equivalent of a human only in their 50s, no where near done with life with still so much love to give. Son of a bitch. 

Seemingly selfishly lost in my own depression at the time and dealing with my pregnancy, I feel like I wasn’t able to give him my all.  While that was true with everything else happening, I know that it is also true that I did try my best to keep him as healthy and comfortable as possible through it all. I believe it got us a good amount of extra time, the equivalent of a human living for 5 more years after diagnosis versus the 1 year sentence they were given.  That’s fairly significant considering most of those months were decent months.

I remember nights of me putting my legs up to ease my swollen feet. I would grunt and rub my swollen belly and he would grunt as well as he rolled onto his swollen belly. In my limited positioning, he would snuggle his face into my toes and I would rub the side of his head with my foot as we gazed into each other's eyes in an understanding misery, only mine was temporary and self-induced, the creation of life, while his was an unfair sentence that would take him from this place, the slow destruction of life. He held on and watched me grow our new baby, though, almost like he wanted to see the family unit completed to where it was advancing to before he left. He wouldn't give up the happy tail and seemed only in mild to moderate pain. After 8 and a half months, though, his front legs began to swell. We had all of this time with him to prepare for our goodbye and in the end it didn’t seem long enough. 

At one point one of the tumors on his side burst open and he needed a vet visit. She said she thought it was a cat bite or something like that, but I knew it was one of the growths he had on his side that must have broken open some how, or he dug it open himself. It was squirting blood, regardless of how it happened. We thought that was the end but we bandaged and tended to it, covering his dressing with pet sweaters to keep it in place...and he continued. When his legs started to swell and his one front paw seemed as though he had punctured it on something simply from the pressure of the fluid, we once again thought it was the end. We took him into the vet again and they said it was most likely the beginning of the end and this vet was actually so surprised that he had such a happy tail and was in such good spirits. We got him on an antibiotic to help with the swelling, and it did take it down temporarily. Because of the antibiotic we got around one more month after that point, but it was apparent that the stubborn old boy wasn't going to go on his own laying out in the sun one morning like we selfishly hoped would happen. After the course of the antibiotics he started to go downhill pretty fast.

He had taken to standing instead of laying down, we are unsure if it was because it hurt his stomach to lay on it or what, but it was a weird stage. At first we thought that it was just the pain pill we had been giving to him at the end to keep him more comfortable but he seemed to be slipping out of consciousness while standing in the yard, almost dropping to the ground at times like someone falling asleep and then catching themselves. This is when we made the decision. He had taken to nodding out standing up in between lucid moments of happy tail interaction, but he looked in your eyes like he knew something big had changed. He sat out in the yard in different spots just looking around the grounds, like he was becoming aware of something we were missing. He was a mere 9 years old, only 57 in dog years, but in those moments he looked to be well over 100 in dog wisdom. Something was changing and we knew it was time, but it took us a good day to accept our responsibility. Nobody wants to put their dog to sleep. Nobody. The only reason we "want" to do it is to ease their suffering because there comes a time when our responsibility to them is to take their life, to show them mercy. There is a lot of guilt involved in trying to make the right decision when the time comes, a lot of dilemma over when the time is right and I think we did good by our boy. In the end, I think he'd understand we were trying to give him the most life that we could without allowing him to suffer unnecessarily. 

The day we knew it was time, Celie had left for school and I was having a chat with Buster in the yard. He gave me the look. I didn't want to accept it, I sent Celie to school that morning half knowing. The dilemma was then that it was a Friday and I didn't want to put him to sleep while she was in school so that she wouldn't get to say goodbye and know he would be gone when she got home. He seemed to be okay with it. I wished there was an at home service in our area for pet euthanasia, but there isn't. So we kept him that one last night so that Celie could say her goodbyes and wouldn't be jarred with him just being gone. So Buster got one last night at the ranch and that next morning as he sat in the yard in his drowsy state in what had become his favorite spot I watched from the window as my husband walked Celie over to tell him goodbye before he took her to my parents’ house. I will never forget his reaction to her approach, snapping out of it and immediately going into his happy tail and walking up to her. He was running on pure love at that point. I believe he knew he was going to die, or at least knew that something was up, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave us, but regardless of all feelings from all parties involved it was time to say goodbye. 

We had to travel to Mezger's in State College because of our decision, because our normal vet was closed on Saturdays and we didn’t want to make him wait until Monday, fearing he was experiencing a lot of pain. I had asked my mother to watch Celie for us, but Jasper was only 2 months old at the time and was still nursing so he had to come along. When we got there, the vet on call had an emergency surgery he was in. We were preparing to put him to sleep in the back of our Jeep in the parking lot so that we could avoid any added stress on him by taking him inside a weird and scary place in his state. Two nurses came out to put an IV into his paw as I nursed Jasper in the back seat. They said it would only be a little bit of a wait. We spent the time crying and loving on Buster in the back of the Jeep with the back hatch up in the parking lot. I bounced and held Jasper all the while in one arm while petting Buster with the other. 

At one point a stranger approached us in what was an odd interaction. In retrospect, I imagine she saw us upset and was just moved to do anything to help. She came up to us and asked if we were putting a friend to sleep that day, which was pretty obvious, I guess. She asked if there was anything she could do, offering to take a picture of us. In my surprise at forced conversation at such an upsetting time I almost told her to get lost then paused and thought she surely must have just wanted to offer anything she could. Given his state and appearance, though, it seemed like a weird request, but I did give her my phone and let her take one last picture of the four of us in the Metzger’s parking lot. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it at first, but in the end decided on appreciative. It was a kind act of a total stranger and a final documentation of our sad time. 

By the time the vet was out of surgery and able to put him to sleep we had waited going on two hours. We had waited so long for his transition that when it was finally happening it was surreal how quickly it was over. He wouldn’t lay down so he was sitting up as it was done. The vet, my husband and myself positioned ourselves to catch him. I lovingly rubbed his furry face. The vet did the first injection and then with the second his head immediately dropped into my hand and we all caught him as he fell, gently letting him settle onto the blanket we had placed under him. Buster Buddy was finally resting. I cried and stroked his snout and we both pet him, apologizing. I think that the vet felt bad for us having to wait so long and with a baby in tow and all. He said Buster seemed like he was a really nice dog. I agreed, through my tears, that he was the best we had ever had and he was so great with our kids. He apologized for us having to wait and to our surprise said he would give us the euthanization free of charge. We thanked him heartily. 

The ride home was sad and the wrap up was bittersweet upon our return. We were happy to know he wasn’t suffering but had to make him a box, dig him a hole, and help Celie process her big feels. We saw her through the curious touching of his lifeless body. We witnessed her raw reactions, at one point screaming his name up into the sky like some dramatic scene from a movie. We felt his soft floppy ears, his favorite part to be rubbed during life. He would always push his head against your hand and grunt and groan with pleasure as you gave him a good ear scratch. One last stroke before we covered him up, burying him with his favorite squeaky duck toy and some tennis balls. We chose a spot under the hemlocks where he would always lay and bask himself in the morning sun. We could see him from both the kitchen and living room windows there. 

In the end, it was our duty to help Buster transition as comfortably as possible. We grant them that act of mercy despite our qualms, guilt and personal pain. It’s the least we can do. It will always make me sad that he didn’t live a longer life but he had just made it to his 9th birthday in February and we ultimately gave him a pretty happy life. He had survived having Lyme disease as well as anoplasmosis a few years back and had outlived his cancer prognosis by a significant amount of bonus time. His diagnosis led to a longer walk across the rainbow bridge than we initially anticipated, but I like to think he would understand that the choices we made were made out of love and compassion. Him was a good boy. 

BOOK REVIEW: Savor

Savor: Mindful Eating, Mindful Life by Thich Nhat Hanh and Dr. Lilian Cheung was a very interesting read. This book was able to combine a great amount of nutritional information with mindfulness practices. 

As Cheung highlights better eating choices and patterns, Thay's mindful action plans are woven around them. This approach utilizes breathing exercises and the untying of your internal knots. Mindful Eating is discussed as well as Mindful Movement. The book is filled with practical meditations you can practice daily to improve your mindfulness with food and exercise. 

One of the biggest things I got from this book was the discussion of the nutrients we physically ingest as well as the nutriments, which includes all of our interests we take in, people we engage with, media we consume. These nutriments have as big of an impact on our psyche as the nutrients we consume have on our body. It is best to be aware and mindful of everything that we are ingesting in our daily lives. 

BOOK REVIEW: How To Eat

How To Eat by Thich Nhat Hanh was a fun little book. It's a pocket book, so it is small in size but vast in truth. It is filled with small passages pertaining to food, eating, drinking, and cooking. The main teaching of this book is mindful eating, experiencing your food with all of your senses and seeing all of the Universe in every meal that you consume. The orange is nourished by the sun, the soil and the rain, and thus contains those aspects of the Universe and, in turn, we are nourished by it. 

Thay explains how the monks eat together in silence and refrain from chewing and swallowing their problems along with their food. He suggests similing as you eat with friends and experiencing them in the moment as well. In these meditations he talks about everything from the proper way to do the dishes to the Five Contemplations we should always consider when eating. 

How To Eat was a quick yet enlightening read, and because of that I will probably enjoy this book again sometime. I am sure I would get something out of a second helping of these simple yet profound teachings.

BOOK REVIEW: The Tao of Eating

The Tao of Eating is a wonderful book! It is up there with Eating in the Light of the Moon for me, and it was actually a recommendation from Johnston, so it makes sense. 

The Tao is known as "the way". This book focuses on the Tao of eating versus the way of dieting. The author explains how to "undiet" and eat according to your desires, for your mind, body, and also your soul. She advocates having a soulful relationship with food, deeming no food off limits, no time of day taboo for eating--NO RULES regarding food, and no eating with the goal of losing weight at all!

Some of the suggestions seem rather radical, but only if you still believe what you have been taught by the way of dieting. When I started applying these practices to my life I felt a little out of control and uncomfortable not restricting ANYTHING from my body. Especially because I am recovering from disordered eating patterns, this book was helpful in supporting me in eliminating all eating restrictions. The theory is your body will find its balance once again as you are applying no negative beliefs or thoughts to food. This was a slightly scary yet liberating experience,

Aligned with the teachings found in the Tao te Ching, the main text of Taoism, The Tao of Eating explains how to live a diet free lifestyle and truly find your soul using the cues your eating patterns have to offer you if you choose to listen. It is suggested that we listen to our body's cravings in order to bring awareness to its needs.

Asking For Help: A Retrospective Ramble

[Started February 3, 2012]

Last week I was still dealing with crazy head.  Don’t get excited, nothing has changed, but I have a plan of action now at the very least.  I’ve said I want a Renaissance.  I’ve been saying it and feeling it.  But it’s hard to work on my Self and be a semi-single SAH mother and a wife and a writer and an artist and a musician and a business owner.  For some reason I guess I always felt like I should be able to do it all.  Not 100%, but at least do it all myself.  My husband is always away, so I take on the role I have to in order to exist here.  But I want my other roles; I have many.  It’s hard to keep things going and still manage to do everything.  Motherhood trumps everything else, including my sanity.

Drifting Sun has been back burnered for quite awhile now.  My shed was inundated with all of the stuff that was in my office prior to us needing a room for the baby.  I only printed one or two jobs the entire time I was pregnant.  I actually had my sister and husband do the physical printing, and I just did the screening, prepping and registration.  It can get a little smoky while printing, and in July while being 8 months pregnant the last thing I wanted to do was be standing and printing in my tiny hot box of a shop.  So they printed for me as I oversaw the process while sitting outside in a chair, and it worked out nicely.  I did print a couple pieces when they ran into problems, though, and helped them get straightened out.  And I printed a jacket job I had, because it was one jacket (ONE CHANCE SWIPE!) and my husband felt a little too intimidated to do it himself, which is understandable. 

I just printed a job for my cousin (December 2011), a memorial shirt for my Aunt Leslie who died of cancer in 2008.  It was an honor to print these shirts and it got me back into the swing of things with printing after the pregnancy hiatus.  This still doesn’t change the fact that my printing and chemicals and dark(bath)room stuff doesn’t exactly mix with watching a toddler.  And even when I am working on graphics or other things, it takes a great deal of my attention.  I’m always split.  I’m not a working mother and I’m not a stay at home mother...I’m something else.  I’ve tried to work out a situation where I could have her consistently watched once a week but haven’t been able to make it work yet.  At a loss, I’ve taken a friend on as my “assistant” instead.  I need help.  I think it’s obvious, and if I am pleading “please, I’m dying here!” and am not answered with a helpful hand, then by the fuck I’ll MAKE a helping hand.  Leslie is my friend and it seems appropriate she shares my aunt’s name.  Truthfully, other than my aunt, she is the only Leslie I have ever known.  She will visit me a lot and simply allow me to get simple things done like the dishes or getting a shower, just by being another individual that is around.  Leslie has agreed to help me out with my business also.  It seems appropriate that the first time I met her I was in the shed printing a job.  She actually helped me out watching my kid AND printing the first day I met her.  Maybe it was her eagerness, or something inside of her I recognized that seemed familiar, but this girl is a lifesaver.  Sometimes you just recognize people on a soul level and the connection is immediate and effortless.

 

Sometimes asking for help can be difficult.  I have grown to have a problem with this because the response was usually unsatisfying.  I shirked from asking for help...but in truth, I need help.  Isn’t it obvious?  It can be hard to submit to the fact that you are lost, look at the male stereotype of how hard it is to ask for directions.  Last year I struggled with this dilemma when deciding whether to take antidepressants or not and whether to begin to see a therapist or not.  Decisions decisions.  Life decisions.  This year has been chock full of the help I received because of that decision, the decision to heal.  The decision to leave the victim mentality behind.  It’s mostly a battle with EGO.  Ego doesn’t need help...so it thinks.  Truth is...EGO needs help more than anyone or anything.  EGO is the prime reason for all suffering and most of the communication problems among us.  It’s quite the bitch. 

So last year was fucking nuts but it was a first step into what really feels like a whole new life, it seems fitting that December 2012 was the end of the Mayan calendar and the supposed end of the world as we know it.  Nothing seemed to happen, aside from symbolically.  Was that really such a bad thing?  I needed the change.  I needed my world to end so that my new life could begin.  It was a matter of SURRENDER.  I simply had to surrender to the help that I have always desperately needed...physically, emotionally, mentally...and spiritually. 

[Finished September 10, 2013]

(Facebook Meme Graphic/artist unknown)

Labor of Love: 138th Cooper Picnic

Today we did what we have done for Labor Day...well, all of my life?  I wonder if it really has been 32 years in a row?  Surely not, but most years of my life.  I don't know how old I was when we first went.  Surely I missed a year or so in there somewhere? Who knows?  Most of the years of my life I have gone to the Cooper Picnic on Labor Day.  This was Celie's 3rd year.  She made her Cooper Grove debut about 7 days after she was born; it was our first outing as a family. This year was the 138th annual Cooper Picnic.  My family's involvement in these festivities has spanned decades and it is a tradition that is close to my heart and will hopefully continue.

When I was younger Labor Day sometimes started the day before the picnic.  My dad is an electrician, and often fixed things or helped out as they were preparing for the event.  I remember going with him when he fixed the soft serve ice cream machine.  I thought it was so neat, I got to see how it was made.  My family also helped out and we were expected to for many years once we were older.  My grandmother worked in the kitchen when we were younger and we would run into the old dining hall kitchen to see her.  "I love you!" she'd tell us every time.  We would visit a minute or two, watching as she did the dishes.  It was also in this hall where my parents had the dinner part of their wedding reception.

The Cooper Picnic has games and small rides, like the unforgettable hay rides, but I can even remember when they used to have a ferris wheel and there were ticket booths.  They have the traditional bbq chicken dinner but also have a stand with burgers and such.  Funnel cakes, blue berry milk shakes, birch beer!  A few of my favorite things. The games and flea market are even better.  I can't even say how many gold fish we've won and free goods we have acquired.  My pap spun the chuck-o'-luck wheel for well over twenty five years!  I can still hear his voice declaring, "An ace, a deuce, and a trey!"  My grandmother worked at the Chinese auction when we were older, this was actually the last place that I saw her alive.  We stood in the spot where I last spoke to her on this Labor Day as we talked to a friend and watched his dad's band perform.  I forgot to mention the live music they have every year.  It's a good time.  Plus, you never know who you are going to run into at the Cooper Picnic, family, friend, or foe!

The grove is haunted by the spectres of my youth but I am sure more than that clings to this place.  I used to attend catechism classes every Wednesday in the main building that has long been torn down and replaced by a new one.  We used to ride the merry-go-round until we were sick!  They used to have the yearly 'Sleigh Full of Gifts' dinner here where we saw Santa.  I remember coming to Karate events here that my dad was in when I was a kid.  What else happened here, beyond my life?  To think, what was this grove like 138 years ago when the residents of Cooper Settlement started this community tradition?  What did these grounds look like?  The grove itself must have been so different; these trees, while impressive, were clearly not here 138 years ago.

As my daughter ran wildly evading my husband's attempts to control her, I saw myself running around the Cooper Grove as a kid, barefoot and wild, lost in tradition.  Living in the holiday.  Times have changed, the grove has clearly changed, the food has changed, the games have changed....the people have changed.  Many things about this event have changed over the years...but the tradition continues. 

Entanglement

Mom and Pop shop under the block,
Baby's in back with a bottle of blue.
Cornered by stars blazing out a new trail.
Solemn is secretly starting anew.

Equally distant and equally whole.
Silence is golden when silver is loud.
Learning to fulfill a much greater role. 
Shadow is darker when under a shroud.

Switched off; what is my folly?
Why be I the record broke?
I've housed myself inside your body,
swinging from your bloody rope.

At last I plummet from the cliff,
and settle in the stench of death.
I struggle to my feet, legs stiff,
To take my first eternal breath.

Growing Pains

Engaging is hard work.  It takes time, it takes patience.  It's an art.  Sometimes, what you need to do is disengage. 
Everyone has their own issues.
It's hard to focus on others while trying to maintain and heal yourself.
It can really seem selfish.  Accept it. Everyone needs to be okay with being a healthy amount of selfish.  Everyone needs to take time for the Self.  It's nobody's job to make you happy; it is your own responsibility.  Nobody can do it for you.  The dirty work is yours.  Do it for yourself, in your own way, however it is you heal.
Nobody will stop to hear you talk about your story because they're too caught up in writing their own? Write it.  Write it out long hand, page by page, word by word.  Bleed it out like from an opened vein and put the pain to rest.

If the Shirt Fits: Who is Missie Sue?

As is the norm for the daily and weekly monotonous grind of my life, it seems anymore, I am once again "dejunking".  What does that even mean?  There is too.much.stuff!!  The trouble is, my house really isn't sized for hoarding, and I haven't quite learned to let go yet.  Cut me some slack; I don't even have an attic or a basement!  (And it is far better that way...I think.  I still pine!)  But, I desperately want to simplify!  I'm practicing.  I have started to go into a brave "pitch it" phase that I very much want to take full advantage of in multiple areas of our home.  Lucky for me, my husband was relatively baggage free when we met, he had few physical possessions and not many noticeable issues.  "Score!  'Cause we're gonna need enough room for all of my shit!!"  (That's a metaphor!)  I have been carrying some of my baggage with me since before grade school!  It's pretty hard to part with something you have had that long, whether you use it daily or not.  We shared a space for nearing twenty years!  These things have surely absorbed my energies, and I have, I'm sure, sucked up some of their essences.  What defines you?  The stuff that touches you?  The things you keep?  The things you let go of?  If I cast off the things I used once to define myself, will I be any less myself?
 
I don't really believe we are defined by our possessions, I uphold, rather, the near opposite belief, I can be very anti physical reality at times. I am, as I say, obsessively nostalgic. Go figure!  I do think I compulsively hold on to certain items for a reason.  I also struggle daily with getting the junk out in some sort of a routine!  I have so far THIS TIME AROUND been able to go through the spices and some of the vitamins and medicines. I tossed a lot of expired and old things.  No matter how small the object, this act is terrifying and empowering.  I feel a tiny bit of control in the out of control nature of pitching and tossing.  I have a bag full at the door of clothes.  I have a bag I am currently filling up.  I tossed in some things I pulled out of the glove and winter hat stash.  I am going through sweaters and already have three that can definitely go.  I'm trying to see these things differently.  Perhaps...it will be easier to let go if they aren't so useful? (They aren't.)  If they aren't so comforting?  (They stress me out!)  If they no longer have a purpose and I realize how I don't really use them or need them anyway it will be easier to toss the shit out!  (Yes!)  If you don't love it, it isn't useful, and it doesn't save you time or make you money....hey hey hey...goodbye!!

My big red fuzzy bathrobe, for instance.  I got it from a friend, it's awesome and warm.  To me, it's a tastefully dyed Egyptian cotton.  In reality, it is bright red and 100% polyester.  It's a Secret Treasure.  It's an impostor; a used bathrobe.  It's not even my very own, knitted out of fetal goat hair gathered on the full moon and dyed with my own menstrual blood or anything.  What's the attachment?  I can't help but wonder why I have kept it for so long when it isn't a real part of my life and honestly, I don't even use a bathrobe...but I fancy that I might.  It is for this reason I have so many clothes, so many books, so many art supplies, so many containers, so many totes full of things, things I fancy as essential parts of my life.  Things that I fancy a use for someday.  Things that I fancy will fit me one day.  I fancy I might, when it suites my fancy.  Well, isn't that grand?  The grand clutter of Missie Sue.  Who is she, in all this mess?

I have this plaid, short sleeved, button down shirt.  I believe it was one I took from my father's closet in high school, when I was very into wearing my dad's old shirts from the 70's and 80's.  I was also into punk at the time, which seemed to be into name tags.  Silly ones, real ones, whatever, it was a style.  I wanted a name tag, but not a fake one.  I didn't want something made for someone else; I wanted something completely original, my own name.  It was at this time that I decided to combine my nickname and my middle name and make it greater than the sum of its parts.  I cut a small piece of an iron on patch and by my sloppy hand embroidered it with the name "Missie Sue" in yellow cross stitch thread.  Missie Sue became a character that represented my dominant side, the part of me that was desperately seeking an identity in high school.  That part inside that was going to express itself or die.  The same side that writes this blog, the same Missie Sue.  This shirt fits me like a glove.  It was my very first uniform, my first super hero cape.  My name tag.  I bravely named myself, creating my own brand in an attempt to avoid receiving a label.  Unfortunately, I still received plenty of those, but fortunately I  established a relationship with my "better" side, a relationship that continues today, the longest relationship I will ever be in.

So, do I really need a red bathrobe for comfort?   Would I miss it if it wasn't here to occasionally throw on for warmth?  Should a person struggling with depression really purposely make it a habit to wear a bathrobe MORE often?  Isn't that just insult to injury?  Should I toss the plaid shirt?  It would look good over a blue or brown tank top?  I could probably pull off plaid with a fedora?  I could rock it out for old time's sake.  Will I actually WEAR my old uniform ever again?  Is it REALLY a necessary part of my wardrobe or person, required to be who I am?  Probably not...but I fancy it is.

What's the attachment?

Me To You,
Missie Sue

Crystal Growing: Blogumentary Pt. 6

Lastnight I had a dream that I took the crystals down to look at them and they were white melted puddle-looking mounds on the plate.  I was obviously disappointed. I have no idea what this could represent, other than disappointment?  They almost appeared to be a white mold type of deal, as if they had started to rot and had "gone bad" in a way.  Spoiled.  That's what they were.  Molded over with a fuzzy coat.  I remember wondering why they would have gone bad, like so much rotten food.  Maybe they represent my creative aspirations?  Maybe in a way, I feel my creative side, the part of me that creates projects just like this crystal growing blogumentary, has gone sour or like so much of my molded food, has laid unconsumed so long it has been taken over by fungus.  Fungus...mold...it's what grows on things and eats them away when we don't.  Time.  Dormant fruit and time grow mold.  Mold is a growth, but a stagnant growth.  A growth in the wrong direction.  Either this project, I feel, is wrong or something about it.  Or...it's right, and my fear of my creative side rotting away is what it should teach me?

Upon inspecting the crystals today, I am fairly certain that I did something wrong.  The stones look dead, lackluster, and spent for some reason.  Maybe they've exerted themselves as much as possible.  I think their growth period is over.  They are FAR from the crystals in the picture on the kit.  I either took too much liquid out, didn't dissolve the powder enough, or just got a dud kit.  It is possible it takes longer than a week to grow?  You would think maybe they'd grow on.  I have no idea, I don't know crystals.  Mine actually look more like warts than crystals!  Glorified WARTS. Wart gem stones, I could maybe make wart wear?  Classy growths.

I don't know crystals.  I do know that I enjoyed having an experiment, I liked how easily I was able to share my phone pictures with my blog and create a post.  I liked doing a blogumentary style set of posts.  I liked getting back into the swing of my blogging after the crazy end of 2012 and the beginning of the new year. I was able to start the year off with something a little easier and more playful. 

All in all, with this experiment I have determined that I am not a scientist.  Not only that, but I apparently can't even grow a set of crystals from a kit from the dollar store.  But, I have also found that I can document it not working, express the physical change from rock to crystal or lack thereof. THAT is the power of playful creation.  I can track my progress, reflect, change, and continue.  I have the desire to make crystals out of rocks, and that's enough.  THAT...is a metaphor.

From Rocks to Crystals,
Missie Sue

Another Dumb Metaphor

"That's a metaphor!"  That's my catch phrase, or at least one of them. Regardless, I use use this line a lot. I think that the Universe lays things out for us sometimes, giving us hints or steps in our lessons. There is always always always (USUALLY) a deeper meaning to something that you are seeing or experiencing. I don't believe this, I beLIVE it. I see it in action daily. Sometimes, things are so coincidental, such a twist of odds or fate, that it seems foolish to not take note.

I'm currently reading a book that was talking about spring, relating it to personal growth and thoughts, the cutting off of the old in order to allow new growth.  The shriveled foliage from the previous year gives way to new sprouts and buds. It's an interesting concept, stating that things are made to flourish, and then die back, and grow again.

One of the things I have always been timid about is the trimming of my house plants. I'm afraid of cutting off what so much energy was expelled to produce. It seems such a waste, even though many of my plants would do well with a trim more often. Hell, even hair is encouraged to grow with a periodic trim. This is a lesson I need to learn. Trimming promotes thicker trunks and stronger roots, a more stable organism.  You don't see plants carrying around their old growth and baggage like us humans, trees refusing to drop their leaves in the fall.  When something is past its prime, it gracefully takes its place among the fallen, the dried, the brown. The compost. The fertilizer. The sustenance. The Earth. Pruning is quite common in Nature. God is an excellent gardner.

Other than the book I am reading, my therapist was using the analogy of cutting off dead pieces [of yourself] that no longer serve a purpose or empower us in our last session.  This really hit home; it coincidentally followed the theme I was being given. How interesting. I should take note.

I recently acquired the remainder of my grandmother's house plants.  They were unattended for some time after my pap passed, so they are in rough shape, some of them. Among them was this guy, a large over grown dieffenbachia or "dumb cane". It's called this because the sap is actually poisonous. It apparently can paralyze your vocal cords and swell you tongue to choking proportions. Add that to the fact that this stem is about as thick as a can of Red Bull, and it is a quite intimidating creature. What if it doesn't survive? Something my grandmother kept alive for decades, could be destroyed so easily. The stem that she saw, touched, and tended. This intimidates me. And it should...it represents more than that. 

I remember once when my gram had just cut it back and put the piece of stem in the dirt, the sideways piece that I now see with a dying shoot on it.  Upon bringing them home, I trimmed the obvious dead off of all the plants, but I waited with the dumb cane's main stem because I didn't know how it would handle the shock or what pieces were definitely goners. I trimmed a lot of it's large browned leaves. His thick intimidating stalk feels like a soft potato. I read you should leave at least 6" or more when you cut it. I'm going to try this and then cut the rest of the large stem into starters. If the trim doesn't help it, perhaps I can turn part of the stem into the dirt and it will sprout? Regardless, it's time to let it go.

The cane's overgrown, meaning its foliage, or weight, is mostly at the top of the stalk that isn't strong enough to hold it. It got carried away. It grew too quickly, too tenaciously to keep up with itself, to support itself. If you've grown out of control, cut yourself back to the roots and grow some new foliage, some new pieces.

If you're scared to do something, I read somewhere that you should not wait until you aren't scared, because that will most likely never happen. If you're scared, just do it scared. Just do it. Trim off the dead portions that no longer serve you. Take care not to let them poison you and silence your present or future, for they can be like the slowest of poisons, but cut them off nonetheless, and let them go...so you can grow. So you can thrive. That's a metaphor, straight from the dumbcane.  Here's to the power of pruning. What dead matter should you cut off of yourself?

Crystal Growing: Blogumentary Pt. 5

10:45AM
As you can see there is a bit more crystal formation taking place. They are bigger today than last night. The crystals seem to be changing, even the pile of powder stuff under the stones seems to be changing. It appears to have less liquid and more solids. The protruding part of the pebble on the right is maybe close to 1/4 inch or more now.  It's a long road ahead, I feel.  I'm also, I think, regretting scooping out the two spoonfuls of liquid that I did.

Crystal Growing: Blogumentary Pt. 4

8:00PM
There is some growth happening, I think. "Watch them grow right before our eyes!" My friend said jokingly as I placed the rocks in the tray at the beginning of the experiment. It has taken quite awhile, but it is actually obvious at this point that the crystals are growing and I really need to get a life.

I haven't measured them yet, but they seem to be protruding higher than before and close up they appear more "crystaly" and are starting some color changes. 

I'm starting to wonder how many days it would take for the rocks to look like the picture? I'm also curious as to why all this is happening; what are these crystals made out of? Some research would be useful at this point. I'll see what I can find. Until next time, they grow on!!

Crystal Growing: Blogumentary Pt. 3

8:45AM
There has been some slight change over night, although nothing drastic. I'm assuming these things need many many hours instead of just a few like the instructions suggest. Perhaps I am just daft.

19 hours into it and there is a definable mound of growth on the stone on the right and the stone on the left isn't far behind. I need to find a small tool to measure the height with? The box claimed I think 1-3 cm, but I am not sure offhand what that would be in 'merican.

We'll see how the day goes.  Does light have any affect on them, I wonder? It's definitely green crystals we're looking at.

Crystal Growing: Blogumentary Pt. 2

5:45 PM
It appears there is some slight change in the specimen however, so little that I am doubting my abilities to mix water and crystal powder, and measure things. I scooped off two spoonfuls of fluid from the tray because I thought perhaps I had the stones buried too deep because it appeared greatly over 3/4 of the tray. The sprinkled tops have maybe grown slightly, or maybe simply changed in appearance. I texted Christal about her rocks. She reports "minor" changes. I would classify mine as sub minor. 4+ hours in! We'll see what time does.