MS, love, and my life

  Us ~ January 2014 (a year before writing this post) 1.25.2015 Henry has a fever. After spending most of the afternoon curled up on the couch, a tiny ball underneath an old quilt I bought this summer at a garage sale down the street, he is finally up and eating. He sits straight up in his little chair - not quite a high chair, but almost, as if there were a rod pierced down the center of his spine.  I have come to almost enjoy when the children are feverish. There is something so ‘other worldly’ about their behavior. It’s as if they are in some kind of limbo between this and another parallel universe. They are shadows of themselves. Alternate versions. He is in a waking dream and I am one of his characters. His head pops up, “I have to go to the bathroom!” and he jumps up and quickly heads to the door.  “Do you have to go pee or poop?” I ask. He pauses at the doorway, “Um…You should say, ‘One or Two’”. “Okay”, I agree, “Do you have to go One or Two?” “Which one is One?” he asks. “Pee”

                                shrines 12"x3'                                       self-portrait 14"x20"                    It's been a while since I've decided to write. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's been months. Days seem to fly by so unannounced these days...this weightlessness and tumbling and turning...I find myself surprised when another month appears.                 I started making shrines a few months back. It wasn't a conscious decision, I just found some free wood on an alley walk one morning...and it started like that. I've had art supplies at my side my entire life (priorities!), so I had no shortage on materials once the 'canvas' presented itself.                 I was raised by parents who were raised Catholic. I was not. I was, however, imprinted with a strong love of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She always felt so safe, loving, and protective. I think that with everything we've been experiencing, from Covid to fore

  mom with her closest friend, Karen ~ 2016  Last night, as I was taking a bath, I had a strange memory. I remember being a child and finding the place in her room where my mom kept all of her most treasured belongings. Glass bracelets from Nepal, necklaces from Africa, perfumes in dark bottles…so many beautiful and exotic pieces. Like my mom. Beautiful. Exotic. A treasure to pine for. I’m the youngest of five children. Our parents were raised Catholic, but my mom wanted to leave the church behind for us. She didn’t want us to be filled with guilt, shame, or judgements that she felt organized religion might pass along. She did, however, want to raise us with the beauty and kindness of the Catholic church. She wanted to give us the best parts. When I was little, I wanted to be JUST. LIKE. HER. I loved watching how others watched her. She was beautiful, quiet, patient, intentional, curious, and honest. When I was a teenager, these traits turned into: vain, absent, slow,

beautiful  I've had a hard time writing lately. I feel hyper self-critical. I keep waiting for this to pass, but I've decided to try a new approach and see if I can just write through it. I went to the movies today. I decided to make things easy on myself, and park in the nearby covered parking. I've been going into this lot since I was a little girl, back in the mid-70's. I got to the downtown theater a few minutes early, and decided to buy a popcorn in Henry's honor, I guess. This was my first time at the Metro theater, and it was pretty cool, very new for Eugene, Or.  I don't want to say too much about the film other than Henry would've been out of his MIND over it. It was beautiful. I finally understood what my son always saw in Joker's character. He was the underdog, the freak, the one the other's didn't want to play with. Henry got this. He'd been stared at for looking different since he was a baby. People would often sa

me and little man - from my book I just looked at the last entry I made, on March 19th, and I oddly finished with, "life is so unpredictable..."  My 14 1/2 yr old son, Henry, died on March 27th. Two weeks ago yesterday. Eight days after that last post.  My superhero side-kick, my little man who I worried over for his entire life, just passed away. I know I am still in a bit of shock, as just the act of typing out these truths makes me feel as if I might be sick, or need to run, or both. It's a strange thing to grow up always hearing that the worst thing that could ever happen to you is the loss of your child. You're supposed to be outlived by your babies, right? My biggest fear, as Henry grew older, was that I might die before him . I didn't know how anyone else could possibly love him as fiercely as I do, could advocate for his needs as persistently as I do, who could make him laugh when some idiot stared too long or said somethin

so fucking close ~      I loaded my first book (ever) to be published on Amazon.com this morning.     I pulled it down shortly after. A temporary necessity.     There's something really humbling about things not going your way. It's like, oh yeah, it's not always up to me, after all. And from afar, that's kind of a cool way to see it. Only, I'm no where near afar. I'm smack dab in the middle of it. And from here, it straight up sucks.     Or does it? I mean, what if it had gone exactly as had hoped? And it was simply like switching on a light? Wouldn't that be a bit, anti-climactic for me? Well, I guess I'll never know how I would've handled things, had they gone differently.     Point is, my book was up for less than an hour. Luckily, I knew well enough to tell only one person, knowing he would buy it right away. We found out there were some bugs. First time self-publishing, not too big of a surprise. But BOY! It kind of ma