I wonder about getting old.  I want to have my mind and body about.  During this time (I tell myself) I will be able to focus on slowing my pace perhaps.  I will have more time for books, my writing, my garden, photography, learning languages and travel.  The children will be grown and gone. I find myself thinking about age when I never use to.  This occurs when I find a stray grey hair mixed in my red.  I see the wrinkles around my eyes. I wonder how they got there.

I know what I don’t want to be.  I don’t want to grow moldy and cancerous.  I don’t want to get sick or to be bed ridden. I don’t want my home to smell of medicines or urine.  I believe I have a say in all that.  If the Divine has other plans I can fight those pre-written scrolls like a Hemingway.  I don’t care what those men wrote or if the translations were accurate in that Holy book.  I can shake my fist at any sky and curse any sickly fate.  I have this faith that the Divine will forgive me of my pride and moxie.  Maybe I am too vain and conceited.  But somewhere I have this sense that the Divine will not be able to help itself because it knows my heart and my thoughts. 

I am too adorable for it not too.

I don’t want to become sour or smell like cigarettes mixed with baby powder.  I don’t want any rotten teeth or for my cuticles to grow over my fingernails.

When I get feeble I will want to revisit days that I have experienced in my mind.  I want to focus on the great days.  I will be a Walter Mitty in my own secret right.  I will re-call the day of the dolphins.

I am on a teeter totter of being financially broke.  My parents gave us a week in Florida at spring break.  My girls are so excited.  I am sitting at my desk rubbing my eyes.  Stacks of bills are surrounding me.  It is so damn bleak and cold outside.  This Michigan grey sucks me until I just want to curl up and go to sleep.  I need new brakes on my car.  I am formulating a budget to drive us down.  Food, gas, activities.  I know I am so fucked over if the car doesn’t make it down.  Worry grows like the vines that cover my back porch in summer time.  The girls incessantly talk of swimming with the dolphins.  I know it is a near impossibility.  The cost of this activity borders on the insane.  I keep our options open.  I don’t want to disappoint them.  It is so hard for me to say no.  I know enough not to promise.  If it is meant to happen it will.  I give them my best, “We will see.”

We have room in my car for one more.  I believe it a waste not to allow others that can fit in our little car to cop a ride.  The girls fight for each of their friends.  I let Katie, my oldest, invite a friend.  My decision is based on logic.  To the two younger ones it is arbitrary and unfair. 

They soon get over it and start packing their bags.  I put a padlock on my money worries. 
We leave late after my work day on Friday.  In this 24 hour drive I get us to Kentucky and I need to pull over to sleep at a gas station.  Chubi, the friend, is perplexed.  Why aren’t we getting a hotel? 

My simple response: “That isn’t how we rock and roll.  We unload when we get there.”  I do not mention the real reason: this luxury is a waste of activity money.

The cramped space and hours in the car make us irritable and cranky.  I am downing 5 hour energy like vodka shots.  My tiredness evaporates when we hit the Sunshine state.  Warm weather, blue sky and sun is my second wind.  Their moods burst. Everyone seems to forget about the long hours and our unwashed bodies.  The colors are bright blues, linen whites, yellows and oranges.  Palms and wet land grasses.  We are looking for alligators and all the windows are down.  I love the wind on my face and hair. 

We forget we are tired and smell bad.

The timeshare stay is routine.  We have done this our entire lives.  We check in, unpack, and I am always off to the grocery store.  I let them stay and swim.  There are other children and good looking teenaged boys.  They scatter.  I take a dreaded trip to the grocery store.  Another three hours of work for me.  I love them so I don’t care. 

These days lounging at the pool spoil me.  During the late evening the parents all get in the community hot tub.  They all introduce themselves.  All are couples.  We define ourselves by where we come from and what we do:  Canada, Wisconsin, New York; Housewife, Doctor, Teacher, Mechanic.  Topics of conversation that are safe prevail. Where to go, what to see, what restaurants to frequent, and the sharing of any really good vacation deals.  I can do this banter and talk for a day or too and then I am spent.  It’s trivial and I am not really good at it for very long. 

Two days of nothing and my restlessness prevails.  I cook, make them snacks, we do day trips and my girls love to shop.  I love Key West and want some adventure.  I propose a drive to the Keys.

They grunt and groan.  It’s another five hours one way in the car.  We leave early at 4:00 a.m. and my closing argument is if they sleep they won’t know they are in the car.

The drive on the interstate is a stretch of an amazing green and blue.  We stop at the dolphin aquarium.  No openings for a swim (and if there was I couldn’t afford it).  I feel their disappointment.  I mentally exchange thoughts with a natural unknown.  It borders on self-pity, anger, and a whine.  “Really, you need to help me out here.”  My logic is based on my good heart and all this shit I have had to dig though.  Throw me a bone.  I am sick of all of this life’s problematic shit.

The girls are too good for this.  O.K. Divine I am right down here and it would be nice if you would just really listen to me. 
I imagine for a minute—-for your aches and worries you spoiled little brat—-and like a parent giving a wailing toddler a toy.

It comes in the form of a beautiful bikini clad blonde. 

She is holding a road side, card board, sign: Ski Doos.   

We are just past Marathon Key.  I hit the brake and veer off.  I am facing a plywood, road side, biker bar.  My questions are numerous.  How much? How does this work? Where are we allowed to go? 

I book two wave runners and we are off to subway to eat a $5.00 lunch.  The kids moods are more up beat.  I am looking forward to this open sea.  We have one rented hour.  We have never driven or ridden such a machine.

The three teenaged girls are on their own ski.  I am paired with my youngest.  We hop on and slowly pull past the dock and an island of southern key grass and shrubs.  Just waiting on the skirts of the open ocean are a team of dolphins.  They head at us and are within inches of our reach. They bob and squirt.  They duck in and out.  There is a baby.  It is a afternoon of ocean play with these wild creatures.  We are under that mile high bridge.  The colors are aqua blue.  This color is so bright I am convinced it can’t be real.  The ocean water covers us until we are sticky with salt.  The air is so warm.  Our freckles pop and three of us look like we are blotched with splattered paint.  Their screams of delight, the roar of the jet skis, the dolphin play, the air, the warm water, and that Florida sun bathe and tan the other two.  We are snaking in and out from under that movie making bridge.  We have that high speed adrenalin rush.  My hair is wet and wild. 
I feel more than free.

Our hour is up.  The girls conspire.  Chubi says she’ll gladly pay.  I fear they are booked.  What continued luck.  Cash changes hands.  We hit the sea and that salt.  The dolphins are there waiting for our continued race and play. 

It’s like they knew we were coming right back.

This feeling.  This day.  This two hour slice of sunshine. It’s after our night time excursion into Sloppy Joe’s.  It’s after we view men dressed like women, the 90 mile Cuba marker and that Hemingway house.  It’s not until the girls are fed, tired and sun worn until they pile into the back seat creating a mixture of arms and legs all folded together.  I don’t know where one child starts and the other one ends. 

The road back goes dark on our trip east and north.  I am left with my random thoughts.  I am amazed how this night black hides the day of whites, greens, greys, and aqua blues.

It wasn’t until our drive back that I could melt, digest, contemplate and realize. This string, this cosmic being, this existence is no coincidence. 

Today it heard me. 

Giving us two perfect hours on it’s sea.

I was tricked into being hauled into this state when I was seven.  I remember the move well.  My mother’s bribe of a Michigan adventure.  I do not know which one of my parents contrived the excellent idea to leave the warmth of the West for this northern snow.

Snow, when you live in southern California, is just something you read about in books or see on T.V.  It becomes a fascination, especially, around Christmas time.

It wasn’t like my baby sister and I could really say, “No, we’re not going to get in the car.”  Little kids panic at the thought of being left behind.  Between you and I, I had this secret fear of the orphanage.  My father had a day of stationed Naval duty at one and took me in tow.  The nuns gave me orange pop to drink during my afternoon of play with orphans. 

I decided I didn’t want to become one.

Soon we were surrounded by boxes, the big moving truck, and a visit from my Uncle Ron to help my dad drive us north.  We were facing this trek across states to reunite with a family I had only heard about in stories.  Most of these people I did not actually know.  We were stuffed into a green station wagon and the very last to be scooped up and squeezed in was our yippee Mexican Chihuahua.

These were tortured days in the car even with the company of a little sister and our bat like dog. I found myself doubting these stories of relatives and snow.  Thoughts of losing my friends created stomach aches.  Soon after we entered into this great lake state I was missing my prickly backyard and the San Diego beaches.  I yearned and missed our games and make believe play that took place at the end of our cul-de-sac.

After my first Michigan winter I came to a very simple conclusion: this trade to see snow was a raw one.  I know the Chihuahua, if it could talk, would have agreed.

I hated Kalamazoo, Michigan.  This place was not the same.  This new house still smelled of paint and dry wall.  The builder kept showing up to fix things.  I didn’t care for his scruffy beard and curly hair.  I didn’t like him around my mother.  One of the rooms had ugly orange carpet.  Our backyard wasn’t the same.  We had mud for a lawn because the landscape wasn’t put in. 

These Kalamazoo children were not the same.  There was a creeper that lived at the end of this street.  He was grades ahead of me.  He was always trying to kiss and wrap his arms around neighborhood girls.  There was a time he tried to grab and kiss me at his house.  I remember he tried to wrap me up in a blanket.  I just got all hot and sticky and could barely breathe fighting myself out of a fuzz ball laden net.  He wasn’t my San Diego Robbie.  My childhood best friend.  Robbie and I played together, we walked to school together, we had all kinds of out door adventure together.  Robbie was real and safe.  We were a metal lunch box team.  Kissing Robbie on his lips or cheek was as natural as punching him in his arm, going barefoot, collecting lizards, playing in the beach sand, and riding our big wheels and bikes up and down our street. 

This Kalamazoo boy was odd and unnatural.  His watery eyes matched his filmy touch.  This boy exposed me to my first glossy playboy.

Kalamazoo lasted only a year.  I was grateful to leave it.  I was now going on school number three.

I learned it takes time to make new friends.  It can be odd and lonely to eat lunch in a room full of kids that have known each other for years.  I learned how to sit back and read a room.

Maybe this is what fueled my incessant love for books.  Reading new adventures was a way to deal with these hard changes.  I survived this prison with books.

I blocked out the misery of my third and fourth grade.  I just never really got along with girls.  They didn’t like the things I liked.  I was too thin, quick and wiry.  I hated dresses and liked to wear my hair short.  I loved the outdoors and sports.  Boys picked me to be on their teams.  These constant school changes made it hard on my math skills.  In some subjects I was more advanced.  In others I was behind.  Sometimes I had to stay in at recess to catch up.

The fall of my fifth grade brought me Trent.  I loved this boy.  He loved me.  He came in the form of sandy hair that held a front left colic.  He broke out into this cocky toothy grin whenever he saw me.  His face would turn red and he would stutter.  I loved his smile.  I looked forward to him everyday.  I found that he would always be looking at me.  He would always wait for me in the lunch line.  He was the most popular boy in our class; the most popular boy in our school.  He loved to help me with my math.  He wanted me to succeed.

I was always on Trent’s team.  He let everyone know why.  The girls hated and envied me.  I loved every minute of this fifth grade existence.  He made my heart pound.  I could hear it in my ears.  At times, when he shot me that smile, I couldn’t breathe.

After that year my parents had their discussions.  I was put into a different school district again.

All these transitions.  All these books.  All these changes.

And all this god damn Michigan snow.

These changing leaves.  Michigan molting it’s greens into bright yellows and pumpkin oranges that change into barn reds.  These bursts of sun colors burning themselves into dry crackling browns.  Their flames lick the tree branches bare.

My professor told me this is how relationships work.  They come in seasons.  I didn’t need him to remind me of it.  My childhood was, and is, a constant reminder of this natural fact.

Just because changes are inevitable doesn’t mean I have to like them.  I hate my Michigan summers folding into ribbons of fall that package harsh winters.  I am tired of shoveling all this god damn Michigan snow.  I hate these chapped cracked hands holding my mug full of hot chocolate even when it’s mixed with peppermint schnapps.  I hate having to pay for AAA roadside assistance.

I want to catch my cottage summers and leaves of fall and press them into waxed paper.  I want to preserve them like I preserve my family photographs.

Maybe this is why I do not like to change the location of furniture in a room.  I do not like to change the make and model of my car.  I keep the same employment, never fire employees, and never switch jobs.  I like to wear my jeans as worn and tattered as my shoes.  I like to put my keys in the same spot.  I like to sleep on the left side of my empty bed.  When I find a breakfast place or restaurant I like I frequent it.  I order the same meals off their menus.

I know many people. I do not have many friends.  The ones I have I treat like glass.  When I find something I cherish I have this desire to keep it close.  I know winters will come.  I am helpless to stop unwelcome changes.

So I dream.  I dream of a season that stays a Michigan summer or sunny fall.  This I could continually love.  I smell apple pie.  I am drinking cider spiced with cinnamon and rum.  He is warm and waiting in my night-time bed.  We both share bedroom whispers and conspire to succeed.  We both agree on the terms of the chores.  We both listen to each other.  Firm and kind words are used when we disagree.  Compromises are easy because he is so damn witty and intelligent.  He cares about my day.  I care about his.  His words are kind and encouraging.  He wants to help.  So do I.  We eat our dinners together.  He sees my flaws and hears my secrets but he doesn’t use this information against me.  He only wants to sit next to me.  He has that cocky grin and kind eyes.  I am envied by the other girls. I don’t have to move.  Maybe I would iron his shirts.

I know loving him would be as easy and natural as waves that lap California beach sand.

I feel I have experienced a life time of these god damn Michigan winters.

I have many vivid night-time dreams.  I often think about my night-time world.  These weird, amazing, and disturbing mind messages.

When I had a major exam I would dream the content in my sleep.  I have dreamt conjugating verbs in French.  I have dreamt calculus.  I have dreamt my mother and father speaking in Spanish when we all know they have never learned a word of it.

When I was pregnant I dreamt what my babies would look like.

When I had a major trial I would dream my questions and cross examine witnesses on the stand.  I would make my closing argument to the judge. 

When I was contemplating divorce I had a lot of conversations with the Divine.  I was really pissed off about my life circumstance.  I would get mad. 

This life is not what I had signed up for.  This worse was not even a contemplation.  I didn’t know this worse could even exist.

This wasn’t something I deserved.  My love was supposed to conquer all. 

My anger turned into tears.  Tears turned back into anger.  Anger and tears then turned into cold fear. 

Fear that I wouldn’t be strong enough to leave.  Fear that I would wind up dead.  Fear that I would end up financially destitute. 

I even tried discussions with the Divine.  That night I remember pouring out my pathetic little heart.  I did this like I have never poured out anything before. 

And that night I had this dream: Our big beautiful house was underwater and being washed away.  The water was filling up the home.  My girls and I were in it.  It was more than scary.  It confirmed all of my fears.

Will I lose everything?  Yes, you will lose everything.

I thought about that all day long.  I was getting use to this idea.  The concept wasn’t all that bad.

The next night I had another dream: I was surrounded by an insurmountable wealth and beauty.  I was at this most luxurious pool.  I was there surrounded by Tiki torches.  My mind was telling me this was a new house.  This was a bigger and better house.  I was in a better and safer place.  I felt no fear.

I knew I was surrounded by a wealth I couldn’t even begin to comprehend or understand.

*****************************************

This is the beauty of our mind. 
How do we want to look at our situation? 
******************************************

I was discussing money with a very close personal friend.  How the love of it can poison a love or a relationship. 

When suddenly the treatment of an individual becomes much less important than wealth. 

It’s when you are at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and the stock market tanks.  When you come out and he is screaming profanity at you because your mutual stock portfolio that held $100,000.00 plummeted to $20,000.00. 

Take it to another extreme.  Your loved one is constantly monitoring it.  Who gets it? Who earned it? Who has rights to it?  Your value or worth is directly associated to it.
And the rehashing of that profanity and stock market crash every time he gets to remembering it (which is everytime he continually monitors it).

(Ok love, why didn’t you try calling a stock broker when we were at the bottom of the Grand Canyon?)

I think about all of the choices that I make with money in mind:  Where to park, what college to send my children to, what trip to go on, what clothes to buy, what food to eat, what charity to donate to, where to live, what people to associate with. 

I think about all of those hard questions:  How much do we want to give to our children?  How much do we lavish on our spouse?  What gifts to buy or not to buy for a loved one?  How much to save?  How much to spend?  How much to invest?

I think about all of the stories about money: the Biblical fable of the man that buried his money instead of investing it, Charles Dickens’ Scrooge, the man that turned everything he touched into gold, and (one of my favorites) Jack and the Bean Stalk.

The power money has.  The evil that comes from it.  The food, warmth and good it provides.  The stories we tell about it. 

A poison or an elixir.

But what I really find so fascinating is that it is so very character revealing. 

Give it to a man that comes from nothing.  Take it from a man that has everything.

I am happier here in this spot.  I know more about things than I have ever known before.  I have seen these men with their masks off.  I see them as they really are.  I see myself as I am.  I know my real worth.  I know of my potential.  I know what it is to have.  I know what it’s like to not.

Nothing scares me.  Nothing can hold me back.  It’s all up to me.
I have the moxie to jump out of a moving plane.

And I believed in the Alchemist before it was written.

My night-time dreams tell me of an undiscovered oil.

In Evora, Portugal sits the Chapel of Bones.  I walked under the inscription: Nos ossos que aqvi estamos pelos vossos esperamos (more or less:  our bones are waiting for your bones).

Such a pleasant thought. 
A granite carved reminder that our time here is definitely short and meaningless.

I remember this day and the dread that surrounded it.  On this vacation I was making hard decisions.  My mind was formulating plans.  My heart lacked color and music.  It was impossible for me to act anymore.  I am a very poor actress.  I was wondering a lot of “whys.”

It was really a norm.  This impatient, self assured way of his choosing or deciding just to be mean for meaness sake.  It felt like water that seeps in from the soles of well worn shoes.  Gone is the comfort they once gave. Their worn out flavor brings on feelings of resentment. Knowing myself, I know I did not create or cultivate this response.  Cobblers couldn’t fix it.  The only thing left to do was to try this trip walking barefoot.
 
It started with him parking so close to another car so I could not open my passenger side door to exit the vehicle.  I had to crawl over to the driver’s side and as I lifted my head he proceeded to slam the diver’s side door in my face. 

He did these things often when I said or did something he did not like.  A habit which was more common than routine. 

In this holy visit he was disrespectful, not only to me, but also to this place and to those bones. 

I felt no hate or any disgust.  I did not give this type of behavior back.  What I did feel was a complete tiredness.  It washed over me again for the millionth time.  I was guilty of allowing this behavior to continue.  I had no way of stopping it.  He couldn’t control it.  How could I? 

This thing that had it’s own shape and dimensions.  

It just always was my fault. 

I have learned that people are who they are.  We might be able to influence them slightly, motivate them to be a better person, or evoke a feeling of caring, some sort of trust, or good humanly bond.  Maybe we can convince themselves, in our small moments of greatness, to aspire to be better people. 

(then we have to be careful about a jealousy or an envy if we become too dynamic) 

It is up to each of us.  Whom do we want to be for ourselves.  More importantly, whom do we want to be for other people.

What are we going to leave in our wake?  What do we leave behind if we can only control our responses to such individuals.

I want to approach each thing as if I have never been broken.  I want to smile to that stranger and to talk to that store clerk.  I get to know the parking attendants.  I know the books they are reading.  I try not to focus on my worries and my insecurities.  I want to listen and to take in the small joys or stories of my clientele.  I want to try and guide those struggling in the chairs in my office.  I want to really help.  I want to really make some sort of difference.

I want to be good and kind.  I want to be positive.  I want to love and nurture my girls with good and positive words.  I at times, do not deserve them.  I want to go out of my way and do the best that I can for those I sincerely care about and love.

I want moments with a lover that I crave to revisit.  I want reciprocity.  Experiences of learning and growth.  A feeling and caring that will grow and have deep roots.  I don’t want to judge.  I don’t want to hold back out of fear.  I want the beauty of sincerity and simple truths.  I want a combined approach that we each recognize that these moments together are fleeting.  Such experiences should be expended to propel us higher and make us better.  We have little time here.  Good should not be withheld or wasted.  A sharing of a day because we simply crave and desire to share it.

I want to keep those weeds of meanness and hurt out of my garden. 

I want to keep it out of my soul and out of my life.