Christmas Loss

Looking up, she sees the tree, the lights and now her eyelids blinking, one bringing on and the other holding back the tears that are threatening to spill over.  She brushes one escapee away from her cheek and continues to glare at the memory jogger.  The grief is finally hitting her full force.  So much loss; the people, the memories, the past, the parts of her family that will never be again.   

She is seated at the foot of the ridiculously wide Christmas decoration, sitting cross-legged on the floor.  Her hands hold a picture of a beloved dog, his fur so much like a lion’s mane.  The picture was there only because he could not be, and she missed him terribly.  At times like these, when nostalgia and bitterness got the best of her, he was her only refuge, his calm nature washing over her as she teetered over the emotional abyss.  But he was not here this year, having left them a few months prior to play in the fields of Heaven.  His absence was an acute presence in her life, she could never have known how greatly she would long for his large frame to be resting against her hip, his comforting warmth radiating to her very core, touching her soul. 

She thinks of the people in her life that she would eventually lose, one by one, falling away from this world; their radiance extinguished and stolen by God as if they became merely a burnt out bulb in a string of twinkling lights.  These were people she was not sure she could ever live without – her parents, her siblings, her aunts and uncles, her friends…her spouse.  Overcoming past grievances, feeling as though she were emotionally solid, solid enough, she was dismayed to discover another side of herself in waiting. 

Losing her first dog was a blow to the core of what she was made of, and she was ashamed to admit that she had changed, and it was not for the better.  He was a family member, almost as a son would have been to her, and no less of a loss than a human would be, but it was expected, in time, that he would leave her.  His loss was a thought she never dared ponder, and in denial of that natural order came a response so bitter, so overwhelming, that she feared what would happen the day she lost more. 

Until this day, she worried, agonized over his absence at the holiday.  Yet, Christmas was surprisingly easy to ignore, more than she would have ever thought possible, loving it as she did – the glitter, the glamour, the gloss of the commercialization effort; all of it so easy to disregard, to go through the motions, to not really feel it, it was saddening.  Even the music and family company that used to get her in the mood for the season were painless to keep out, never really sinking in, just let it pass her by. She vowed not to let it all in, keep it at arm’s length and not enjoy the holiday because she felt so angry over the world continuing its journey without her baby.  Despite even knowing, how could they? 

She wonders; How do others who have lost their sons, daughters, husbands, wives - their parents - truly enjoy the season without the bitter aftertaste? 

How does it become the innocent celebration once again, pure and without regret?  

Most of her suspects that it never does, only changes, settling into something more complex – and right now she wanted no part of it.  She missed blissfully enjoying Christmas…she missed him. 

Sitting in the quiet glow of the tree, dark in the house but for her glistening tears, her sensitive nature got the best of her, the spill coming faster, her slow hands unable to keep time.  She was wrong to be sitting here. 

This part of her Christmas routine usually rewarded her need to grasp the basic meaning of the season, letting the heady, optimistic mix of feelings - love, peace, joy and happiness – as cliché as that sounds, wash over her.  It served as the seal on the bottle, the top-off that made her feel complete; breathe in quiet, exhale peace.   The alone time needed to signal the end of hectic efforts, instead delighting in the enjoyment of her labors.  Time to let it all sink in and have peace settle over, soothing and caressing, creating a clean slate on which to eat, drink and be merry.  This was her mistake this year, she should have opted to skip this part, knowing how she would be, for it is now the chink in her armor that let it all in.  This first season without him that heralded all the future seasons without them. 

Feeling more like an adult than she ever has, she sobs over her losses; past, present and future.  

Check Me Out!

Lucy, an up-and-coming online women's magazine for us "real" women has published my story of how we found out about the triplets.  Check out my article here!  And be sure to peruse the rest - it's a huge issue!  It's a great new take on women's magazines and I am proud to be a tiny part of it.

Yay for me!  ;)  (Can you tell I am excited today?)

My Favorite Place

Etched so well into my memory that even the recollection brings me to peace, the imprint is a powerful tranquilizer. It is only summoned in great need of that effect; otherwise it appears solely in my random cerebral slide show, delighting me every time with the recall. This evocation of my favorite place is always a welcome event. Asked to describe it and all I can say is that it is merely a plain room, an old room and nothing more…at first glance. This room is not mine, only borrowed, and I have been there no more than a handful of times. Yet it is as home to me as my own bedroom.

I believe that it possesses magical powers; step inside and you are instantly relaxed. All tension ebbs away with the lapping waves at the shore below, tugged down into the depths, the lake assuming your burden for the week. Imagine a lake that could do all that; submerge the stress of visitors below the calm surface, letting each one become at ease with life again, every ripple a reminder of the troubled currents it holds temporarily contained in its depths.

This place…it is just a room, a plain one in fact; a box of a room really. Old and distressed, the top half dressed in screens with only bare boards for skivvies, it leaves much to be desired in décor. Scattered remains of a few ill-fated creepy-crawlies litter the corners and sand crunches underfoot. Three pieces of old furniture you would not want in your own home occupy the space. Thankfully, it’s not the inside of the room I am here to see. It is merely a placeholder, a vessel of sorts, in which to experience the magnificent.

Cold description aside, even with the obvious brusque nature of the room, an ambiance exists. It is cozy, yet pleasantly airy, with an expanse of beautiful lake set out before you as a feast for the eyes to gorge upon. Inside, mystery and depth perfume the air with their intense aroma, signifying the presence of so many that have come before you to savor the comfort this portal has to offer. Just as a kiss is not just merely the pressing of lips to lips, this room holds the meaning and promise of so much more.

Standing at the threshold of this gateway, I breathe, and deeply, savoring the pleasantly astringent air. I have heard that one inhalation of this superior cocktail has the effect of a dozen massages; and I am feeling that now. I rest my hands against the timber door frame, feeling the rough hewn wood beneath my fingers and palms. It is a pleasant textural sensation that only adds more character to the rustic room. Another sensation, though this one strange; I feel as though I can sense the two worlds juxtaposed beyond both sides of this threshold. Behind me exists all the stress, anxiety and worry of the world, pulsing as if it had a heartbeat of its own, trying to pull me back in with every palpitation. Before me, the soothing bliss of a world where time stands still or maybe just moves slower than life can detect. The promise of troubles abated, apprehension quieted and broken souls mended; and me as the bridge between both powerfully drawing dimensions, the opportunity to choose which way to go.

Surveying the familiar, I look to the right. Swaying slowly and reverently, in tempo with the sonorous chimes, at times lilting and then deep, the modest bed swing allows for either quiet contemplation or a lulling dream state. It beckons with each arc toward my place at the door. Suspended from four slender chains, so as to not obstruct the gorgeous panorama, it is covered by a thin bedspread which is in turn covered in a smothering Victorian pattern. No matter, it takes nothing away. The curious formula of this screen porch is; that which is added only adds to the ambiance and character. Everything here works in pleasing visual harmony.

The breeze flows as freely through the room as the water down below, smoothing and contouring my state of mind into something beautiful and worthy of collecting.

Turning my gaze to the center of the room, a sturdy pine table hunkers in my vision. On it rests an unfinished puzzle of yet another gorgeous, though anonymous, vista. I am tempted to finish where the last occupant left off, but my psyche craves the current scene available to me, just beyond the framed screen. I need to concentrate on savoring this short-term sedative because its effects will vanish all too soon.

Scanning left, the answer to my need lies in the form of a humble rocking chair, its unintended shabby chic expression the perfect fit for my weary frame. It is in perfect position to accept the best angle of view to the viewer. At once crossing over the invisible line between worlds, I surge into its arms and it welcomes me as an old friend might after several years. Instantly comforted, I rest my gaze to the line of sight before me, letting in the sight of the golden sun glimmering on the rolling and rippling waves. The rocking and the lapping and the viewing all in chorus, I issue a sigh of contentment. The convergence of stress and relaxation in this place always concludes with the latter victorious.

My day is now set; rock, puzzle, sleep… in no particular order.

As Political As I Get...

Politics are beyond me.

I may lose a few friends with this post, but it has to be said. Considering that it is Election Day, one of the closest and most important in history, I thought it was appropriate to post my First Ever Political Essay. This is as political as I get, people. Please save the scathing comments, I don’t want this to turn into a debate. I will tuck tail and run, just to warn you.

I think I am registered as a Democrat, but I am ashamed and yet somehow relieved to admit that I am truly part of the "Blissfully Ignorant" Party. When one is trying to live a simple and uncomplicated life, as I am, there is simply no room for politics, for it is possibly one of the most complex social games known to man. I never get close to that fire, no thank you, until the Presidential elections roll around and there is simply no way to escape the propaganda, the campaigning and the SNL skits chock full of presidential hopefuls. I jump on the bandwagon; I am a fair weather fan, only every 4 years. I am otherwise a "do no harm" voter (ie, one who does not vote so that there is no harm in swaying the vote to the worse of the two candidates). I would love to change that, but it all starts with the system producing the candidates.

We are consistently presented with the choice between the "lesser of two evils", and for what did our patriots fight, lose their lives and their sons to get us to this point? The corruption, greed and vanity, the waste that is filling up our Political Metropolis is something to be ashamed of, if ever our original founders knew what the system has dissolved into.

I’m not sure why, but people are passionate about politics these days. So not me. I can be passionate, and I think passion is great if you have it, so long as it is not imposed upon your neighbor. That is, unless your neighbor wants it that way. ;)

Take religion. Religion is in the same vein of thought in my book. “Believe what you want to believe, but don’t force me to believe what you believe.” People will believe and follow only if they agree wholeheartedly that this is the way to go, and that is usually by emulating a desired path of action. Make sense? Most people would be alienated from that religion if it is forced upon them instead of being able to make up their own mind and follow on their own. See this as a note to those who would love to see others voting...don't be scathing, overzealous or condescending of those who would not "practice" your same opinion. In other words, treat it as you would a religion. Do not force your opinions on others, for it will further distance them, proving their point that staying out of the "game", as I see it right now, is easier than dealing with “people like you.”

Use politics, then, not as a platform to display only your beliefs or to put down others you may deem as naive or ignorant, but as an objective, knowledge furthering opportunity, a discussion, for those who seek impartial bias and sentient leadership to lead the way to a better tomorrow. Let the lesson be heard in the calm display of knowledge you have collected, not by forcing the "right way" down people's throats. I believe that you are entitled to your own opinion, as opinions are never wrong, even though this one will help to shape the next 4 years of our country's history; there is a lot at stake.

I’ve never had the energy, or searched for the knowledge necessary for a political fight. I am usually in awe and disgust of a heated political fight between us regular joes; awe of the knowledge necessary for the fight, disgust in what they were actually fighting over. What was the point? I want no part of it, to get into a tangle with a venom spitting, passionate political activist - No Thanks. The people I have come into contact with have been way too pushy and ultimately scathing. I believe that we own our opinions, and we should not be chastised or reprimanded for holding them, especially not for letting them out into the open. If we do our research and believe what we have come to believe, we own those opinions.

Aggressive politically-minded people were never a part of my friend roster, and if you found me at a party where the subject came up, you could also find me quietly sneaking out of the room, not wanting to be caught and then reprimanded for my lack of knowledge, and inevitably my lack of patriotism, lack of support for constitutional rights, as if I am betraying those who would fight for that right, slapping them in the face, disloyal to our country.

I get it. I understand what is at stake and what has been sacrificed to get here…but the system those men and women died for is now defunct and corrupt. Put someone in the office that isn’t compromised, slick, favor-trading and narcissistic. Let’s face it, if you have gotten all the way up the D.C. food chain, you have got to be a good politician…and that’s not a compliment. Most are there for their own political agenda, and the perks that come with it. The fake smiles and handshakes, the phone calls to secure your name and place in the favor closet, the banquets to work on your schmoozing skills – how far have we come since the first of their kind? Previously a hardship, taken on by the most righteous of citizens, traveling to Washington with the town’s sacred votes in tow; the representation a necessity in that time of vast space and primitive communication. I can imagine the eagerness and passion back then, all knowing they were there to shape the country for the better, they believed in the system. Honor and sincerity, a personal stake in the changes made. It is all so different today…for example, don’t even get me started on Diplomatic Immunity…But with the technology of the 21st century, are politicians truly needed anymore? With the internet, and therefore information and communication at most everyone’s fingertips, what exactly is the purpose of a “voice for the people” these days? We can now all have our voice heard without representation. The money spent greasing hands can be used to fund an internet connection for all interested, the opportunity always present to participate.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. The job has changed, become so far removed from what it was intended to be, the thought actually sickens me. The career politicians enjoy the benefits and keep networking, selling themselves to save their asses. No paycheck or reelection should ever come between what is good for our country and our people, now so far below on the food chain, it's a wonder they ever think of us at all. It's now a high rollers game, them sitting at their exclusive “millions-in” poker game in the back room, laughing while they trade their fortunes back and forth, smoking cigars, while us mortals plink our last nickel in the slots, crossing our fingers and hoping for a miracle so that we can pay our heating bills or maybe even send our kids to school.

Idealists will scream at my defacing of their saviors, but get real, people. They are there because they want the fame, the white teeth, the mistress and the Ermenegildo Zegna suit. They want the snazzy power package; they want it all.

Who sounds scathing now? ;) I'm sure there are some out there that are in it for the right reasons. It can't all be corrupt, I hope. But eventually the system may choke out these do-gooders and send them packing or else join the boy's club; the “Can't beat ‘em, join ‘em” mentality. It's become accepted, this new job description, and I for one, am disgusted. If those people truly wanted to be public servants, their campaigns would go quite differently. They are there for themselves, not us. And even if they start for us; gung-ho, with energy to rival a toddler, they will be eventually beaten down by the system, the other career politicians, hell-bent on keeping their positions and prolonging the country's agony.

Career politicians should not exist for they are the ultimate oxymoron; they should never be allowed to put their own success in front of the office/town/state/country they are running "for" because it creates conflicting end goals. How can you put the country first if you are basing your decisions on what would be “popular” enough to get you reelected? That kind of politician garners disgust from me, as do the people behind them who are so passionate, being used to lobby for them, to sell them, and the contempt and condescension in which they view the citizens that want no part of it. Put someone in office that is not a career politician and I will vote; I will do my homework, and I will have passion that matches their own sincerity. I say, stop paying politicians. Make it again a true public servant's job, just the basic necessities, such as a Catholic priest might enjoy (no laughing), and see how many people jump at the chance to represent their people. Only the truly sincere and hopeful will apply.

Now, it's all a salesmanship show, a “performance”. At the last debate, the commenters kept referring to the candidates’ performance and that infuriated me. This simply should not be. We should not be voting based on a performance in a debate or a campaign, there shouldn’t even be a performance…we should be voting on their performance record.

They play the “he said, she said” game, hoping that the busy Average Joe (aka, Joe the plumber, Joe Six pack) will never investigate the claims in true depth. They prey on American's ignorance to the senate voting process, the black and white bill voting packages; making it almost impossible for them to find the truth under the lies they throw around, hoping the current technology (gossip, phone calls, email, etc...) will spread the damage, you know the lies well; the ones that irrationally scare us to our very core, the ones the most ignorant and lazy of voters will base their decisions on. The same voters that will cast their ballot based on the mere name of the candidate, the supposed religion, or the fact that he may look robotic and jerky, even though it was suffered through years of torture.

We see the facade, the performance, and some of us judge as such, good or bad. We see an American Hero, who is also the most emotional, hot button candidate I have ever seen. Do we want that as President? We see a polished black man, an historical sight, but the deep down details of his plan and agenda, some hard to swallow, may be too hard to distinguish through the gleaming polish. Same old, same old.

Yet this election has brought out in me what I have never felt before…excitement. I shiver to think why or how, but it’s there and palpable. I’ve come to realize that it’s because both candidates truly seem to care about our country and us, the little joe. They both have the basic end goals in mind, which is rescuing our country from certain death. I like them both, for very different reasons, and I like their running mates as well. Not one candidacy is perfect, but hey…whose ever are? I have taken the time to research and for the first time in my life, I have held political discussions to learn more. When I look in the mirror, I think “Who is this person?” Yes, this may all be another great performance, destined to fizzle out in the fire hose that is bureaucracy, but I am holding on to my hope, that this time, something is different.

Think of those original fighting patriots and the original representatives of our newborn country….try to imagine the excitement, wonder and hope they felt to have this privilege to help change our lives for the better. Use those feelings and drive to your nearest booth, feeling the awe that comes with this kind of responsibility.

There is no right or wrong in an election, just a better path toward a better tomorrow. And it is our right and responsibility to research the means to that end, even if it is just the lesser evil path, for that is all we can do right now, until the system is bettered. This election is huge, and staring down another Great Depression scares the hell out of me. Our country, our world, is spiraling out of control and we need help. Our vote determines what happens next, to us and our children…so please use it; no matter what “party” you belong to, real or imagined.

Random Memory

Giving Her Away

The white of her dress flows down past her smooth ankles, covering most of her feet but for the tips of her fancy ballet shoes; a hint of sparkle and shine peek out from the hem, leading you to believe they would dazzle in the sunlight. She taps a toe of one of these magnificent shoes on the carpeted floor, fast and rhythmic.

She is nervous, and she wonders why.

This is her big day! She should be full of elation and excitement, yet it all feels...wrong. She is somehow melancholy and nostalgic, sad for what she is leaving behind. Homesickness, she realizes, comes close to what she feels, and what an odd emotion for the day. Covered in sequins and tulle, organza and beads, this ought to be a cause for celebration, for one does not don a fifty pound dress for just any old day.

The driver turns into the church parking lot and pulls to the door of the vestibule. This is it. The bustle of the bridesmaids is hurried and chattery. They are all late and there will be a hustle to organize from this moment on. There is an air of rushed expectancy.

Yet she feels glued to her seat. Her well-dressed father is perched next to her, a large grin on his face. He is looking intently at her, ready to go, yet she can’t get up. She wants this day, she loves this man, but she knows that once she leaves the shelter of this vehicle, she will become another person, her heritage lost…she will have in essence entered the witness protection program, changing her name, her address, her complete identity. What she is now, she will never be again…and the thought overwhelms her. Her past transforms to present and future here today, and her tears are barely contained over the revelation of all that will be over. Her family is changing.

Her father, recognizing that she will not stand up, covers her hand with his. He gently squeezes it for reassurance, for he knows that this is a penultimate moment in her life, being one in his, too. He is giving up his “baby”, his first-born, entrusting her to another caretaker. He will be giving her away in minutes, in a simple ceremonial gesture, symbolically handing her over to her love, to her new family.

Her beautiful veil flows down around her left shoulder, and flowers sit idle, gracing her lap. The light twinkles off her every bead and sequin, shining so bright, that there appears an aura around her frame. She is a vision in white, and he has never been more proud of her than today. She has found a steady, smart and truly good man to share her life with and that is every father’s wish come true.

Time has been stealing his family away, year after year, taking it one phase at a time, though always handing him a new one in return. This would be his new reward, watching her take her place in life, watching her bloom ever further into the woman she is becoming, and it all starts here, today.

Her mind is also on what she is losing, but also what she has done that she can no longer take back.

Her family could be called dysfunctional, but most could fit that description. Dysfunctional is the new Normal. She admits to matching the terrorizing description of “terrible teenager,” ungrateful and lazy. She has never really known how good she had it, until this moment. Her parents gave her everything, and she gave back nothing in return. She was a dreadful daughter to them, and now she was moving on past them, never to have the opportunity to redeem her actions.

She was torn, knowing she had a tentative relationship with her father, whom she was more like than she would ever admit. Toward one another, they remained emotionally closed off and hard-headed, stubborn and stoic, angry and cold. Better apart, they enjoyed a more mature relationship with others. Though, her and her mother had problems as well, anger welling up consistently and hurt feelings abound. The household was usually a screaming, emotional and grudge-holding mess. Yet, leaving it all behind, the comfort and the safety net of their home and love felt so difficult today. She enjoyed their company, being part of the family and sharing in their experiences, however disjoined. Tomorrow morning she would wake up in the company of her husband…and no one else.

She had no idea why this saddened her so, and why it was all hitting her now…moments before she was to walk down the aisle. She was barely holding on to her composure, staring down at the flowers in her lap, seeking control in the arrangement of peach colored roses. This was baffling! More than anything, she wanted to leave, to start on her own, to have her own space to organize and enjoy. She was chasing down real freedom! And she was afraid to let it capture her.

The car was empty, except for the two of them. He watched her studying the bouquet, trying to understand her melancholy mood. This was not usually a pose you would ever find them in, mostly concerned about their own selves. But he stayed quiet and looked at her until he realized she was not going to glance up.

He then took her face in both hands, and she looked up at him staring at her so directly she thought she would burst from the intensity, and before she could look away or feel awkward from the attention, he said, “This is the last time I can ever call you Cheryle Collins.” He faltered toward the end of his declaration, tears slowly rolling down his face. He looked as sad as she felt. Him using their family name, her soon to be maiden name, was far too much for her fragile state and she dissolved into tears, her lower lip trembling. In his last act as direct father, he kissed her on the forehead and pulled her up to stand with him. She was moved in his endeavor to make this moment so special. He couldn’t have known it would have this effect on her, and it seemed to make him even more emotional. Overcome, he started to lead her out to the waiting ceremony, but she grabbed at his hand, at that moment wishing she could take back all the grief, all the difficulty and hurt feelings she had ever caused him, caused them all, and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

She cried all the way down the aisle, most people assuming her demeanor as the usual tears of happiness and overwhelming emotion. In truth, it was for those reasons, but also nostalgia, love, and the sorrow of loss…the loss of her childhood, fading with every step closer to her love.

Her father quietly crying in tune beside her, walking his daughter home, every person they walked by succumbed to their own level of emotion, as if a magical spell settled over the crowd with their passage. By the time they reached the altar, the whole church was sniffling, brushing away tears – even the stoic priest.

He took his daughter’s hand and faced her, for the last time as her provider and guardian, and kissed her cheek. He squeezed her hand, full of emotion and told her he loved her. Her response was renewed sobbing, and a choked iteration of the same sentiment as he physically placed her hand in her fiancé’s own.

Transfer complete, this moment slipped away so quickly. She was now part of another immediate family, and it all happened with the simple passage of her hand. The ceremony underway, she glanced over her shoulder at her father, taking solace in her mother’s embrace and smiled at him. She was filling up with love and warmth, beside her soul mate, surrounded by her extended family and friends, feeling as if this was where she truly belonged. It all began to feel so right. Trading one phase for another, this was the beginning of a new relationship, a new emotional bond; a friendship, with her parents, and it all starts here, today.

Random Memory

The Jump

I look down. Fear overtakes my every nerve, prickling and bristling them, cascading down from my neck to the small of my back, crawling down my calves, settling in my toes.

The water looks surprisingly gorgeous from up here. Clear and blue, with a hint of green. So clear that even from here, I can see a fish swim through my field of view.

How deep is it? The clarity of the water muddles my instinct. Because I can see the bottom, it feels too shallow. It looks to be about 20 feet deep. But knowledge of this river supersedes my basic instinct, and I know it must be safe. Knowing and feeling are two very different things.

My senses previously focused on the water below, I become aware of a far away sound; a loud, pulsating, unrelenting sound. It echoes and bends, wobbles and distorts. It’s as if a warning bell has sounded in the distance, but the intended recipient has left their hearing aid on the bedside table. It becomes a distant, distorted version of the original; curious, yet no longer urgent. As haze distorts vision, so this sound feels; blurry. An eerie and peculiar property has attached itself to the noise and I find myself wondering what it is. A distraction to my plight, nevertheless haunting. I tip my head to the side, the better to receive this intriguing signal. I close my eyes to blot out the glaring sunlight and it all feels so familiar. Like waking from a dream, the source and meaning float before me, waiting to be grasped.

I stand there on the sharp rocks, letting the edges poke into my bare feet. It helps me to surface from the state I am currently swimming in. No water surrounds me as yet, but my awareness is as such.

Breathing in the clean air and turning my head around, I open my eyes to the sound of many people behind me, in both the literal and figurative sense, egging me on; needed encouragement for the task at hand. My focus swiftly returns to the beautiful blue-green current beneath me.

I ask myself: Why am I doing this?

For money? No.

For fun? No.

For glory? Yesssss.

I am wondering if my silence belies my fear. Though, in reality, my wide eyes, pinched breaths and shaking hands betray the truth.

I am afraid of jumping.
“Friends” taking residence behind me, threatening to push me off that rock if need be, I start the mental countdown. My hands are clammy and sweat beads off my forehead.

Typical signs of fear.

And I am acting oh so typical.

This is me – the fearful girl who shies away from any adrenaline pumping good time – irrationally afraid of the anticipation of pain. Not the pain itself, but the anticipation, mind you. Silly, really…parking on the bench for a reason so dull. Still, I do worry about my poor neck breaking and ending up in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Then, I might have something substantial to worry about.

Incessant and irrational thoughts whirl through my head, making me swim in a sort of panicky state. Some part of me tries to counter the barrage of flooding cowardice. It tells me to “just jump! Get this over with already; you are making it worse than it has to be.” So calm, this scolding part of me that I would realize later was my subconscious mind, the only rational part of me. I want to listen, but the prickling nerves in my feet seem to have somehow fused with the rock below. I feel paralyzed and surmise that this is yet another part of me, the irrational part, displaying to me in a wheedling voice just how life would be if my poor, precious neck did, in fact, snap. “See? See how this would be? This is crazy! Don’t go! I won’t let you!”

All of this drama in mere seconds, yet it feels like I am drowning in time, wishing I could be stronger and just make a rash decision for once. “Jump! Jump! Jump!” An old-school rap song commandeers my visceral sound system, ringing in my brain to overload.

The mild breeze flows around my quaking body and ebbs me closer to the edge. I feel the warm sun and imagine the cool water surrounding me, and it is encouraging. I feel a rush of audacity overcome me and…

I jump.
Hands in the air to propel me away from the mass of quartz, I push off with my last effort and soar through the sky. I see in my front facing view, the beautiful vista laid out before me, moving higher and higher with each passing second, in my slow motion descent. Now, all I can do is worry, and feel...and hope.

I have already traveled thirty feet and at this moment, I worry if my push off was adequate. The rocks slope down and out toward my entry point, so if I did not give it enough, landing on them would be inevitable...not to mention, terribly painful!

Another ten feet finds me close to my destination. Looking down, the surface of the river is approaching and I point my toes to enter the water gracefully. My arms directed to the sky in an effort to become as thin as a knife, I pray my skinny profile will aid in escaping the jagged shelf. Holding my breath, I let the water envelop me, hoping to feel nothing but that, and I am now fully underwater, surprisingly unscathed.

The water is cold, but I am prepared for that. I strive not to gasp with the shock, taking on gallons of fresh water in the process. Successfully holding my composure, the reflex passes.

Happy to be alive, I take in the familiar scene; for this is my favorite part of the jump. Plunging downward to the bottom of the clear river, my fingers pinched to my nose, I am surrounded by a flurry of tiny blue-green bubbles, so delightfully bright from the sun; swirling and effervescent. I look upward to see the aqueous blur of the sky and the dark, hulking mass of rock directly to my right. I am intimidated by its unyielding presence and ask myself why we always choose this mountain to hurtle off, year after year. It has become a rite of passage in our disordered family.

Time feels suspended here in the depths and it is so quiet, after the muffled rushing of my plunge and passage through the water subsides. I wonder if I have enough air to make it back up. My outstretched toe has finally found the bottom, a flat table rock more than thirty feet down, and as more of my body collides with it, I push off with satisfying relief and bolstered courage, all thrusting me upward to retrieve said glory.

Arachnophobic Girl, Part 2

So, we all know by now that I have a fear of spiders. Big Deal. I can get over it, right? It's just a silly mind over matter exercise.

Exercise #1: Repeat after me...

They will not hurt me.

They are smaller than me.

There are no spiders in the Northeast that can kill me.

When not confronted with the cause of my fear, I can be tough. I can will away the fact that I need therapy for the sight of an eight legged creature that weighs less than an ounce. Then, I go and do some research on particular spiders to find out if, say, they really weigh closer to an ounce, and the merest glance at an arachnid sketch makes my scalp tingle. Mind over matter?

Then I find one like this in my house, a wolf spider. Ok, again, big deal. We all have to deal with that unpleasantry quite often. Some kill the little beasties, others, like myself, play capture and release. For, while I do find spiders terrifying, I also find them fascinating creatures. If you look really close at one, preferably behind glass, you will see all sorts of interesting features. Their eyes, all 8 of them, are different sizes. The hairs all over their bodies, the "fangs" they have ("the better to EAT you with, my dearie...") and the structure of their legs. The up close view is neat, but quite intimidating.

We have a collection of these Wolf Spiders somewhere on the grounds, and as all spiders like to do, they try to find a warm place in winter. I believe they hibernate most of the season, but if the temperature exceeds 50 degrees, they are back on the prowl.

Our house providing the warm place to lounge, every fall and spring we can expect these beauties to jump out and scare us at any moment. Usually the moment you have started to think they might be gone for the time being. Halloween is a hoot! They pull out all the stops on their very own holiday, leaving us in stitches at their hijinks.

And they are fast! Wolf spiders are so named because of the similarity in hunting styles to it's namesake. It's fast, stealthy and it's eyesight is fantastic, for a spider. Needless to say, it makes them incredibly hard to catch. Especially with a small glass jar and a shaky hand.

I gleaned this fancy tidbit just today:

"Wolf spiders can be found at night by using a headlamp to see their eyeshine. Relatively few spiders have eyeshine."

That is utterly disgusting to me. Blech. Eyes flashing in the night? *shivering in disgust*

And, who does that, anyway? Yuck. Nice hobby.

I do appreciate their beauty, but you'd be hard-pressed to find me gleefully digging in the dirt at night, headlamp on, with the express purpose of excavating a very fast and predatory spider. Not even for Fear Factor...sorry, Joe. I'll sit this one out. Oh, the nightmares I would have!

I think I handle the normal, everyday capture of these wolf spiders pretty well, considering. Though they always shock the heck out of me. I had a hard time last fall because the babies were on the floor constantly, just learning how to roll over. I had to swoop in and extract a few quick and large monsters before they overcame and ate my children.

Well, at least I thought they were large at the time....

In the spring of this year, we had a good season...only a few spiders so far to relocate. If they are past a certain size, I make Mike walk out to the yard or garden and release there. Hopefully, they might smell dinner at someone else's house from there and not return to Casa Ertel.

The spider we did find, the reason behind this whole long-winded article...I made Mike take all the way to the end of the driveway, which required the quad and some shaky nerves on his part. That should tell you something!

We were knee deep in our baby clean-up routine that night, clean 9 bottles, 4 sippy cups, 3 highchairs, dinner dishes, dinner table, living room...I don't really need to give you the whole run down. It was alot! I was washing dishes for about an hour and we were just finishing up. We were standing in the kitchen, talking about the day...and I heard him choke. I looked up at him. My back was to the sink I was just at for hours, and his eyes were riveted to the spot directly behind me. They were almost as big as dinner plates! I knew something was bad since he rarely reacts.

I jumped away from the sink, turning around in midair (what it felt like!) and scanned the drying dishes for the source of his immediate fear.

Then I saw it.

Pictures could do no justice to the hulking form poised on the back of the sink edge. We recognized it immediately as a familiar wolf spider...but it was, by far, the largest one we have ever seen, or since...thank God. It just sat there. Waiting. Projecting menace. It was about to pounce on the cat, I just knew it.


We just stood there, in shock, not believing a spider this big could exist, let alone be in our house and crawling over our freshly washed dishes and bottles. Oh, the emotions I felt...Disgust, fear, shock, disgust - did I mention that one already? Wondering how long it had been in the house? How were we going to catch that sucker? And if we didn't catch it, would it be crawling all over the kids and us overnight while we dreamt of sugarplums and excessively large and hairy tarantulas? Oh, the horror!

We did capture it, after much drama, between restrained squeals and screams...from the both of us. True to its family, this big one was a Speedy Gonzales...and proved tough to catch unharmed. A small jar is usually used to house the many specimens until their transport outdoors...this spider did not fit into it! Unbelievably, we had to use a large mouth Mason jar for its home and Mike drilled holes into the lid so he could stay with us awhile.


He sat on the counter while I made dinner and breakfast and lunch...though not for him. I considered throwing in a mouse, if I could find one...but thought better.



I stared and stared and stared...being so large, his every detail was easy to see...and I am surprised to say, he was beautiful.



As Serendipity would have it, my niece's birthday was the next day. Surprisingly, she likes snakes and spiders and other creepy crawlies...the bigger, the better. Her party was to include a man who works with these types of creatures and he was bringing all of these things into my sister's house! She was so excited. She happened to come over the day we were lodging our new friend. She went wild! She wanted to let him out so we could play with it. Oh, she can't be MY niece!

Jinx sizing him up - she looks somewhat afraid!

Disclaimer here...I know that by any-other-part-of-the-world standards, this would be a baby, but for our neck of the woods, in OUR house, it was a gargantuan. It was big enough for me!

While researching, I found this out a few months ago too: ""Arachnophobia" is derived from the Greek "arachne" (spider) and "phobos" (fear). The Greek word was derived from the name "Arachne," a maiden in Greek mythology whom the goddess Athena turned into a spider after the girl, a skilled weaver, challenged Athena to a weaving contest." Mythology is pretty cool.

Not that it helps me much.

Knowledge isn't always power - it just gives my imagination more material to work with. When I can conjure up even more scenarios about what's under my bed while I am laying in bed, it's never a good thing. Why else would they say "Ignorance is Bliss"?