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It's really not about me.

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I have to remind myself of that. Sometimes when I watch myself, interact with the world, I cringe and scream wildly in my mind.."STOP BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"...but that point inevitably comes. I just....ugh. When my beloved spouse sends me flowers, and they are the only flowers in the world I actually dislike...I start to have an internal meltdown because how could he not know that I hate them!? I feel happy and butthurt at the same time.  Or how my kids were completed assholes and chose to stay home when I went to my birthday dinner alone. It quickly became all about my expectation and disappointment. As a wise woman I know tells me semi-regularly, expectations are but premeditated resentments. Let that one sink in... But all that ^ afforded me the opportunity to be with my Mom as a person, not as a mom or daughter. What a rare gift, to see her as she is, not as I perceive her to be.  I think about all the people I've met who only get to know their loved ones, trul
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The Wayback Machine

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I can't remember the first time I thought I belonged elsewhere, in another time or place. I wanted to be in the presence of mystics, faeries and crones who could tell me the secrets of the wild. What I do remember is gathering flowers, berries and acorns - then using them to make potions or art projects or imaginary scenes. I watched the wind blow through the hills of tall grass, undulating like waves. The tall stalks  and wildflowers bent in the breeze, appearing flattened, but would stand again with a magical and rhythmic motion. I can still see the tiny white popcorn flowers, buttercups, poppies, lupine, German chammomile and other nameless but beautiful things. In the woods and creeks, there were countless places to explore. Gold mines to sneak in, trees to climb, and "helping" in my Mom's bountiful garden. At 41 (tomorrow), I can remember it this way now.  That's her. Flowerlove Prettyplease. I don't even remember myself then. I have very few memorie
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