College student, train, crumpled paper, laptop

This week's http://indieink.org/writing-challenges came from http://www.3kidsandabreakdown.com/

who gave me this prompt: college student, crumpled paper, train, laptop.  I challenged her back with “with a blue sky like that” – check her link to read her sweet poem.

College student, crumped paper, train, laptop

She had always been a writer.  Writer.  Not typer. 

For time’s sake, she convinced herself that the laptop was the best way to go this time.  There were going to be serious re-writes.  Major editing.  She started with the date, saved the document and then gazed out the window.  The ride out of Philadelphia was always a good one.  A sunny day wasn’t in her memory – just the calm clouds that always made train trips enjoyable.  Forced relaxation.  Hours with nowhere to go, no controlling the speed or traffic.  Just sitting and writing.

First, maybe, a drink.  She was four cars from the food one.  The jostling, rolling walk was a long one and she unconsciously avoided every face she passed.  If there was a crime on this train and a detective rounded her up for questioning, she would be no good at all.  Besides the specifics of the graffiti zooming by and the dilapidated state of the swing sets in bordering yards, she would have no information whatsoever.  It was as if she had blinders on. 

Cradling two mini bottles of cheap red wine (annoyingly colder than room temperature) and a packet of shortbread biscuits, she headed back to her car.  Only one face this time, an accidental eye contactedness with an older man.  She noticed his eyebrows, monster-like jutting off his head.

She sat down, put the bottle of wine between her legs and knew her jeans and body warmth would improve the temperature, if not the taste, of the Woodbridge.  Merlot or Cab – she didn’t know or care.  Laptop opened again, dull dinging noise as it awoke, fingers ready for words.

She grimaced and decided to try the wine.  Too cold, but passable.  The thin plastic cup jiggled vigorously in the cup holder as she put her head back and watched the state go by.  It was fall, and the recent rain had matted the leaves flat beside the track.  Their colors were muted by the overall gray the surrounded them. 

The laptop again.  It seemed cold, the keys felt too responsive as if they were giving the words back to her.  An old standby since she enrolled in grad school last year, this machine was failing her with all its machine-ness.

It was time for the spiral to-do notebook.  She started writing, even though she didn’t really like her pen options.  After half a page, she tore it out and folded the paper, then let her hand crunch over it, feeling the paper edges.  It was a sharp edge that got her writing again.  New page in the spiral. 

“Dear Mom,”

All you have to do is ask

Jen O. (http://mytornadoalley.com/ ) prompted me to write about “All you have to do is ask” – by the way her entry this week really got me.  I asked “Disease” to write about the one that got away – see it here:  http://chamindrah.wordpress.com/2011/08/13/the-one-that-got-away/

Thank you, Indie Ink, for giving me this chance.  I gotta get inside my own head for a bit and not participate in the writing challenge, but I know you will be waiting for me when I return.  www.indieink.org

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK

Where are you going?  What are you doing?  Is this how you want it to be happening in two years?  Two months?

When is the last time you took the time to think about that?  Maybe this morning, maybe last year? 

Why does it matter?  Life gets so busy, it doesn’t matter how many kids or bedrooms you have.  You adapt your business to that level.  But I’m not more busy than you are.  And talking about it doesn’t make you a better, busier person.  What is going on inside your head?

All you have to do is ask.  Ask yourself if you are happy.  Ask yourself what you can make better.  Not better homemade cookies.  Or better Halloween costumes.  Where is your focus?  What is in your heart, or at least that part of your head that makes you think you are thinking with your heart.

Write it down.  Write down what comes up.  Put it on paper and let yourself believe that you can do it. Don’t wait for someone else to ask you.  Just ask yourself.  All you have to do is ask.  

have a conversation with a deity

Kiki Harshman http://barema.wordpress.com/ challenged me with: Have a conversation with a deity.  I found this to be fun and complex at the same time.  Sort of turned into a letter – I guess that’s the writer in me. 

Are you there, God, it’s me . . . sorry, I couldn’t resist.  No, I’m long past the training bra, and into the second half of my life, I think, now that I’m 40 (and three weeks!)

So, God, I know you haven’t heard from me in a long time.  I have been working through some things and you may have noticed that for the last 16 years or so, you haven’t been a part of that process.  Oh, you’ve been on my mind.  But you haven’t been an active participant, and that’s been my choice.

It all goes back to those early days.  We arrived, our family of five, early for church each Sunday.  First or second pew.  When the brothers were old enough, alter boys.  Parents were lay ministers, taking communion to the hospital for those who couldn’t get to church.  Mom was head of CCD – Children’s Christian Development, also known as Children’s City Dump by those who roamed the halls.  Priests and even the bishop came for dinner on Sundays.  Oh we were rolling in the stuff.

Then came the parents’ divorce. 

“Divorce?”  you and your friends said.  “Well, that aint cool.  Please leave your weekly contribution in the basket on the way out.  Okay, an annulment?  Sure, we’ll put you through that total hell and then have people sign papers that say you were never married before the eyes of God.”

Umm, so God, where does that leave me and my two brothers?  You know, we did all that stuff you told us to do.  The first communion and the confession (that’s just plain weird) - - and now we don’t really exist? 

So yes that’s all ancient history.  How do we get to today without rehashing it all?  I mean after all, I am not sure of your hourly rate and I am saving for a scooter.  I just reread my little conversation and I already sound bitter.  Not my initial goal but as Harry Chapin says “we talked and we talked all afternoon.  We talked what life’s about.  We talked cause the talking tells you things that you really are thinking about.” 

So that whole process thing.  The goal?  To uncover or dig out or discover or rediscover that simple knowledge that you exist.  It is buried so deep.  The search seems somewhat physical and once I’m done I feel that you won’t look or sound or smell the same as you did when I was young and wearing those uncomfortable white patent leather shoes and sitting in the first pew.  I am hopeful that you will look welcoming and reassuring.  I am hopeful that I will meet you long before I actually need to.  I am hopeful I’ll then have the confidence to speak to you on a regular basis and not have to reintroduce myself each time we meet.

Until then, be well.   

I challenged Billy Flynn with I felt it change and I knew it would never go back and this was the response, please give it a read!!

http://www.therewrite.com/2011/08/07/rocket-man/

As always, come see what www.indieink.org is all about.  It’s been a great experience for me as a semi-retired writer. 

The Best News Ever, But

This week, Sherree http://slworrell.wordpress.com/ challenged me with “The best news ever, but” and I challenged FlaminNyx with “One of these things is not like the other” – please read their writing!  http://flamingnyx.wordpress.com/2011/08/04/similar-title-worlds-apart/

Interesting time writing this week.  I got a little corny, why not?  I rushed, and could have done better.  Hate the names of the characters but it all came tumbling out quickly in time for deadline J

The best news ever, but

Flight 134 from Denver to LAX started as any normal flight does.  Waiting too long to board (really, can you please move the eff into your seat when you are getting settled so we can all get by?), polite, non-eye-contact glances as people sit down next to each other, the visible letdown when one sees they are seated in a middle seat next to someone who should have purchased two tickets.

Adam gave a head nod at the man next to him and took his seat in the aisle.  The woman in the window seat was already snoozing, leaning against the window, headphones on.  Adam was seated in about the middle of the plane, not too close to the bathrooms and also not so far back that it would take forever to get off the plane.  He was eager to get home before the kids went to bed.  It had been a long time on the road and he missed his boys.  Talking on the phone got old after a few nights and his terse relationship with his wife was hard to talk around when he called in from the hotel each night.

The flight was scheduled to take about two and a half hours from gate to gate – just enough time to finish his trip log and plan his presentation points for tomorrow’s meeting.  He heard the familiar beep as the captain turned off the seatbelt sign and he witnessed the normal small crowd get up and head for the bathroom.  He always wondered about these people.  Why didn’t they go before they boarded?  Why were they in such a rush once the seatbelt sign was off?  Both of his row-mates needed to go so he got up and planned to stand while they went, hoping it was the only time he’d have to stop his work during the flight.

As he watched them join the growing line down the aisle, the plane did a small but sudden drop.  It was enough to cause an overall gasp and he heard things tumble to the floor at the front of the plane where the flight attendants had started serving drinks.  Only a few seconds later, it happened again, this time a bit more of a drop and a louder gasp.  The deep, reassuring voice of the pilot came over the plane.  “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the slight turbulence.  Let’s have you return to your seats while we get through this unexpected patch.  Flight attendants, please be seated immediately.”  The last part seemed a little abrupt, Adam thought to himself.  Most of the bathroom line turned around and headed back to their seats, including the man sitting next to him.  The woman, however, must have really needed to go, as she ignored the announcement and didn’t budge. 

As Adam backed out for the guy to get into the row, a deep, continuous creaking noise overtook the cabin.  It did not sound right.  Never, in all of his thousands of airline miles, did he ever hear a noise remotely like this.  He exchanged glances with his seatmate and the gravity between them made Adam shudder.    They hadn’t been able to buckle their belts before the yellow masks fell from the ceiling, setting off a series of screams and moans throughout the cabin.   All hell had broken loose in a matter of seconds.  The pilot came on and tried to say something, but two women were yelling so loudly that no one could hear what he was saying.  A flight attendant, face intentionally calm, stood up and acted out how to put on the mask, over-emphasizing the motions.  Adam felt like a bystander, not a participant, as he took it all in.  He didn’t put on his mask, he didn’t do anything but sit there and observe.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm and quiet.  We need to get information to you now.  Please be quiet and calm and quiet,” the pilot said loudly.  He sounded calm except for the fact he said “quiet” twice in a row.  “There is something wrong with. . .  We are having some mechanical issues with this plane.  We are going to land the plane now.  Please get your seatbelts on and stay calm.”  He didn’t say anything about the masks.  People were rushing by him, some passengers trying to get back to their seats, some rushing around in a panic.  A flight attendant, a man he hadn’t yet seen, rushed by and, thinking he was close enough to another flight attendant down the aisle, loudly whispered “we’re going down.  Get in the back, get them seated.  He said the landing gear wasn’t up and it caused a crack.  We’re going down.” 

The man next to Adam had also heard it, Adam knew from his face.  No one else seemed to, for the panic would have escalated even more.  The sounds of the calamity kept on but the movements all seemed to slow down.  Adam felt like he was looking through a bowl of clear jello, watching his world end.  The man next to him gripped his arm.  Adam observed the hand.  The hairy knuckles.  No wedding band.  No wait, he thought, that’s his right hand. 

“I’m Corey,” the guy said.  “I am 34 years old.  I’m a Christian.  I am going to go to heaven.  I have sinned and I am sorry for my sins.  If you make it and I don’t, find my family.  They live in Beaumont.  My last name is Ramirez.  Tell them I love them.  And that it was fast and that I was praying for them when my life ended.” 

Adam realized he wasn’t looking at the man as he listened, that he was looking at his hand, gripping his forearm firmly and steadily.  “Heaven?”  Adam said.  Holy shit, was it his turn?  The plane moaned a mechanical moan and it got hot and humid all at once.

“I’m Adam,” he said, unable to look up from the hand.  “I’m not going to heaven.  I was raised Jewish.  Wait, what the fuck?”  his mind spun in a big waving circle.  The pilot’s speaker was breaking up, but Adam heard the words “emergency landing, crash positions. Cover the back of your heads,”

“I’m Adam,” he said again.  “17 years ago, I killed two people.  No one knows.  I didn’t mean to do it.  I found them together and I became a beast and I killed them and no one knows about it.  I am not going to heaven.”  He bumbled the words out without plan.  So many times the word heaven was just said. 

Corey tightened his grip.  “You have admitted your sins.  You will be forgiven.  Our Lord is a good Lord and he will forgive you.  You can repent right now.  You can join me on the way to the light,” he was chanting, like he was reading aloud.  Adam almost believed him. 

“I fucking killed two people man.  I murdered them with a knife.  I ran away.  I let another man take the blame.  I watched it all happen and I never said anything and I have lived with that my whole life.  I have a wife and two kids and they don’t even know anything about it.  I have lived a lie.  And now this plane is going down and we are going to die and I am not going to heaven with you.  I killed Nicole Simpson and Ronald Goldman.  It wasn’t OJ.  It was me,” he yelled.  The few people around him got quiet.  For about three seconds.  The pause was like a deep breath before the huge yell a baby does when they get really hurt. 

“We’re going down.  He said we are going to crash.  This guy said we are going to crash.” 

“That guy is a killer.  He’s a killer.  He has a knife.”

“We’re being hijacked!  Get him, stop him.”

Adam couldn’t figure out who said what, but the chaos seemed to make the plane shake harder. 

Corey uncurled his hand from Adam’s arm.  Adam finally looked up at him and saw him slowly back away as much as he could while staying seated.  Where was his Lord now?  Adam was so focused on Corey that it took him a few seconds to realize that the mechanical noises of the plane had ceased.  The quiet filled his ears.  Were they falling?  It didn’t feel like it. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said.  “We are under control.  This is under control.  We are going to be okay.  Please stay seated and calm and we can land the plane in a few moments.  It is going to be okay.  Please calm down.  Flight attendants, please help the passengers to their seats and then be seated for landing right away.”

The best news ever, but . . .  .  

happily ever after

This week, K. Syrah (http://www.shoesneverworn.com/about/) challenged me with “Unravel a fairy tale after the Happily Ever After.”  I challenged Bewildered Bug with “describe your favorite travel moment” and you can read it here: http://bewilderedbugs.blogspot.com/2011/07/my-favourite-travel-moment.html

Unravel a fairy tale after the Happily Ever After

She was wrapped up in the moment.  Literally, wrapped up in the soft, thin wool shawl and wrapped in his arms.  They stood that way for a long time, not able to look at each other, just standing so close and both taking the time to try to manage their breathing.  How could standing still make you so out of breath?  The heart-racing was taking over and the breathing didn’t slow down.  She didn’t know who moved first.  They were of similar height so the slightest movement brought their faces together.  She could feel his breath, warm and wine-drenched, as he stood there overtaking her brain and body by just being.  She had thought about it so many times, but those times didn’t come back to her now.  It was just here and now and happening and there were no thoughts but of her heart racing and her breathing and now his breath.

She moved in closer, touching their lips together, not really kissing, just nudging, and that was it.  Everything about her was moving closer to him.  The kissing was strong, all the energy she had put into slowing down her breath was forcing her forward through time with him.  He held her face in his hands and she wrapped her fingers around his and felt their kissing through her hands. 

It was too much and not enough at the same time, so she closed her eyes and lowered her head and pushed her forehead against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him to her.  The darkness was a respite from the surging everything and when she lifted her head, she was in her bed, taking in the room around her.  What happened?  She felt her face, searching for his hands.  He wasn’t there.  Oh my god, what had she done?  She sat up, lurching forward to push back time.  She shook her head hard – maybe it would all go away if she could shake it out of her head.  “No you didn’t, no you didn’t” was all she could think, the repetition becoming song-like and higher and higher pitched in her head.  Trying to swoop time backward, she waited for that vortex feeling of taking it all back. 

Only a matter of seconds later she came to and realized that no, she hadn’t.  It was just a dream.  So charged and passionate that it was hard to believe it wasn’t real.  But thank God it wasn’t.  No matter the passion, nothing was worth that feeling.

She looked over at him.  He was still sound asleep, snoring mask doing its magic.  Even sleeping, he looked haphazard.  He was in need of a haircut, an intervention and a month’s worth of exercise.  But this marriage; this life   - - it was the makings of each cell in her body.  There weren’t other options.  Okay, there were other options, she thought, again shaking her head hard to remove the recent dream.  There are always other options, but her mind and her body would collapse if the life they built came down to one passionate moment with someone else, even if it was as amazing as that dream.   Each day was a building block – just one block.  

Took forever to build that life and one act of passion, even a short one, would tumble the whole damn thing.  Bruise it forever.  Never to be returned to its normal state.  She knew more solidly each time she woke up from these dreams.  It was etched on her brain and heart because of that dread she felt.  That sucking in air as to back up time. 

Their marriage had started out great.  To this day, people still compliment them that their wedding was the most intimate and wonderful they’d ever attended.  The setting was idyllic, the partying so fun.  The 90 close friends and family wished them well and blessed them on their way.  With a start like that, how could anything go wrong? 

“Life gets in the way,” she thought.  What a common, unintelligent phrase.  An excuse.  How do you live like you say you will, like you think you will, the way you felt at the wedding or the honeymoon?  And just what is happily ever after?  Today, on this sunny warm morning, this version of happily ever after would be good enough for one more building block.

And we're Off . . .

This week, Staffani (http://www.iffyinklings.blogspot.com/) challenged me with "And we're Off."  This isn't an ideal topic for me, but I kept going back to it every time I thought of the prompt.  I challenged Kiki Harshman. 

And we’re Off!

What does it say about a person who buys pregnancy tests at Costco?

Sometimes I’m so frugal it’s odd.  Especially when I don’t know if I even wanted to be pregnant yet.  The concept was exciting.  We were happily married, had the cute ranch house in the suburbs.  Good jobs, great dog.  But really, Costco?  The other item on the check out belt was, of course, a king-sized bottle of white wine.  Not sure if I was going to cork it or not.

What does it say about a person who takes said pregnancy tests alone, in the middle of the day? 

Not a good idea.  Wait until the husband is home.  He may have convinced me that two positive pregnancy tests were enough.  But there were, after all, three in the pack.  Lined up, all showing that same line, there was nothing in the pit of my stomach that could turn its way around and believe that we had actually made a baby.

Was it bad that I lied to my husband to get him home early that Friday evening?

Complaining of a headache and something about the dog bothering me (???) I asked him to come home as early as he could.  As soon as he was home, I told him.  Same look I saw earlier in the mirror.  Was that fear?  Was that sadness?  Surely fear.  But then I saw his wheels turn and he smiled and assured me with his eyes that we would love this new adventure before us.

So did I cork the wine?

No, no, this isn’t a story about a woman who finds out she is pregnant without a whisper of a try and then drowns her fear in a large bottle of cheap wine.  Instead, I asked my husband to drive me to the bookstore in my pajamas and buy that terrible “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” book.  I figured out my due-date.  I paced.  I did not sleep.  My husband, who  reacts to stress by sleeping, was snoring on the couch.  Good training for a new daddy, actually.  

And we’re off . . . . that night will always be remembered as some time spent on the high dive, looking down.  Knowing we couldn’t go back, knowing that what lay ahead was scary but also exhilarating.  I do admit that I long for those responsible-free Saturday mornings with the newspaper and overpriced lattes.  Or less laundry.  Or times with my husband that revolve around us instead of the kids.  But I wouldn’t trade that Friday night for the world. 

Only through karaoke can one get to heaven

This week, I was challenged by Brad MacDonald with "Only through karaoke can one get to heaven." Thanks, Brad, I think!  

She groaned as she heard the music down the block.  “Karaoke?” she thought sullenly.  The night ahead was going to be enough of a challenge without a bunch of drunks wearing fake courage, slurring and drooling into the microphone.  Maybe it would be easier if she liked to drink.  Or sing terrible songs to strangers.  Or both.

There was really only one thing she was looking forward to tonight and the anticipation had made her delightfully sick since she got the text that afternoon.  Taking a deep breath, she forcefully relaxed her face into a dull, bored expression, and swung open the door.  The music came through the floor and matched her heartbeat.  “Don’t look around too quickly,” she coached herself.  “Look surprised when you see him.  Then smile with your eyes so he knows how happy you are to see him.  Don’t let anyone else catch that first moment you have together.”  She had practiced it in her head so many times.  She never did feel like she got it right.  Always a bit too anxious to see him, then a quick nervous look around and a nervous pull of her hair over the mole. 

She saw him before the other six in their group.  Not that he was taller.  He was just radiant.  Whether he was engaging the group with his silly stories, holding his extra-long arms stretched wide or tossing his head back to laugh openly, he seemed to embrace everyone in the room.  When she saw him, he was sipping some clear mixed drink and nodding at her friend’s story, undoubtedly the same one she told all day to anyone who would listen.  He didn’t look bored, though.  He was engaged with the story -  nodding, smiling, focused.  She had to get that focus on her soon or she’d run out of breath. 

As she crossed the room, a wide woman in skinny jeans stood on stage, eyes closed, humming the first verse of “True” by Spandau Ballet just to herself.  Lame.  She seemed too entranced to open her eyes.  No one was looking at her.  Still, she felt embarrassed for this woman who seemed so exposed without knowing it.

“Hey!  Hey.”  Damn, too excited again.  She looked right at him but didn’t look away as planned.  He matched her eye contact.  She saw the look that she knew was only for her but it was quicker and more poignant than before.  Then it abruptly transformed into the look he gave all the others.  As she turned to greet the rest, she replayed the moment three more times in her head.  She knew she saw it.  And then he ended it so quickly.  Maybe he was already drunk.  But it was more, a harder look, with more energy.  But the turnaway, it was so harsh.  She felt like a punished child and ached to look at him again.  Instead, she looked down, folded her hands so she wouldn’t touch the mole.

She took her time blinking.  Made her aloof face.  Smiled at the conversations around her.  How long was it before she looked back at him?  Not more than two minutes, but it felt longer.  He didn’t look back at her.  They were all involved in the conversation, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.  She stepped outside the safe zone and asked him a question directly.  Oh the coy was on now.  A bit of teasing about his drink being empty.  In just moments, she had lost all of the plans and was reaching out to him without hesitation.  And he didn’t return it.  She tried laughing louder and instantly felt dumb.  Once, she actually bobbed her head way sideways to catch his eyes and he smoothly moved his glance right across her face and onto the next face without even meeting her eyes.  She thought she felt the breeze as he looked on by.

Two of the women announced it was time to sing.  The worst of song titles were thrown up for vote.  She wasn’t part of the conversation, just laughed nervously, holding her breath until he’d look at her again.  There was no way she’d ever join her friends up on stage, but they were beckoning her anyway.  “Come on, sing with us.  Relax, you stress ball.”  She saw him laughing out of the corner of her eye.  As the women climbed on stage, he was clapping and hooted obnoxiously.  She took three large steps (was she running?) and met up with them as the last woman was climbing the dirty carpeted steps to the stage.  “Wait!  Ok, I’ll sing with you!”

The cheap lights confused her vision for a bit.  She’d start singing, pretend to be having fun.  Nod to the other girls as she mouthed the words.  He’d be watching, clapping along.  And then she’d have her chance to look down and get that delicious morsel she needed from him.  That warmth that spread down her arms when he looked at her with his chocolate brown eyes and held her gaze.  Her longing would be hidden in the spotlight.  Was this awkward foot stomping to the beat worth it?  Yes, he’d soon look up and she’d imagine his hands on her cheeks they stared at each other. 

Her friend yelped song lyrics into the microphone, making her wince, waking her out of her thoughts.  As they hit the chorus, he turned away to look at something behind him.  She actually took a step forward, sang louder.   She saw him reach up and back with his long arm, bathed in his white dress shirt, wrinkled from the work day.  When he pulled his arm forward, she saw her.  He kept his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him.  He kissed her on the lips in greeting.  They laughed, not at the singing, not at anything anyone else knew about.  They held their glance, small smiles still lingering.  His wife.  And there were still three more verses to go.  

Squarshing Olives

I have been thinking about and talking about this blog for a long time - really since our first week in California - when the culture SHOCK started.  My mind is always full of thoughts and realizations about how different this place is - - and really our entire lives have changed.

Guilt is a very terrible emotion - because while I love California and am ready to shout it from the mountain tops (which we can see from our house by the way) - - so much of my mind and heart are occupied by what's happening back in Sylvania, Ohio.  My dad has taken yet another bad turn and the phone calls, emails and emotions about him come first and foremost when I even think about writing something so selfish as a blog.

But last night, after about two hours of sleep (total) and incredible restlessness, I need to just start writing.  It doesn't mean that I'm not thinking about my dad and all ML is doing out there for him.  In fact, maybe if I just write I'll be able to both worry AND enjoy.  Crazy.  I love my dad.  I miss my dad.  I worry about him every single day.  I am even close to saying a prayer for his peace of mind and body.

So that's how I got here.  While walking home from Sarah's school today, I was pushing Lucas in  the "red delicious" stroller and walked under the olive tree.  The olives have started dropping and they are all over the sidewalk along - get this, Olive Avenue, on which her school is located.  So as I rolled him along, it was a tactile experience to just run over the olives and squarsh them under my clogs.  Here I've been all these years, paying mucho bucks for them at the D&W Olive Bar, in my favorite fancy olive oil, and I was just mushing them up and hoping to not get them on the hem of my too-long yoga pants.  They were black and vibrant and smelled good and stained the sidewalk.

That's really what California has been like for us.  Everything we've struggled for, it's here.  Right under our feet.  We really do want a pretty simple life.  And we fought uphill for so long in Michigan to have that life.  We packed up and moved and are slowly, very slowly, starting to exhale.  It feels amazing.  I didn't realize how long or how much we'd been on pause, not being the people we want to be.  The husband and wife, the parents, the friends.  So much is opening up for us.  I am grateful for the friends and family who've supported us on this funny journey.  And we know that we exist the very best with just the four/five of us.  We are a family unit that just sails through together as long as we are home together.  And I'm no longer living for a vacation day or a trip.  I'm living for the every day, when we are all here at 27 Hastings, looking at the mountains and sleeping with a view of the palm trees.