two kitties/small city

A Point of No Return - Frederick Buechner

Last week, I stood on the porch and tried to figure out how I could get out of the shadows. It's not that I've been depressed. It's more that the web has been torn and I can see things for what (I think) they might really have been. Not how I imagined they should have been, or what I told myself were the reasons that could explain what happened in those dark and fragile moments.

Something in the night air told me to go back upstairs and open Beuchner.

A Point of No Return - (Buechner's diary entry for May 27).

The world is full of people who seem to have listened to the wrong voice and are now engaged in life-work in which they find no pleausre or purpose and who run the risk of suddenly realizing someday that they have spent the only years that they are ever going to get in this world doing something which could not matter less to themselves or to anyone else. This does not mean, of course, people who are doing work that from the outside looks unglamourous and humdrum, because obviously such work as that may be a crucial form of service and deeply creative. But it means people who are doing work that seems simply irrelevant not only to the great human needs and issues of our time but also to their own need to grow and develop as humans.

In John Marquand's novel Point of No Return, for instance, after years of apple-polishing and bucking for promotion and dedicating all his energies to a single goal, Charlie Gray finally gets to be vice-president of the fancy little New York bank where he works; and then the terrible moment comes when he realizes that it is really not what he wanted after all, when the prize that he has spent his life trying to win suddenly turns to ashes in his hands. His promotion assures him and his family of all the security and standing that he has always sought, but Marquand leaves you with the feeling that maybe the best way Charlie Gray could have supported his family would have been by giving his life to the kind of work where he could have expressed himself and fulfilled himself in such a way as to become in himself, as a person, the kind of support they really needed...

"Man shall not live by bread alone," and this just happens to be, among other things, true, and very close to the same truth that Charlie Gray comes to when he realizes too late that he was not made to live on status and salary alone but that something crucially important was missing from his life even though he was not sure what it was any more than, perhaps, Marquand himself was sure what it was.

There is nothing moralistic or sentimental about this truth. It means for us simply that we must be careful with our lives, for Christ's sake, because it would seem that they are the only lives we are going to have in this puzzling and perilous world, and so they are very precious and what we do with them matters enormously. Everybody knows that. We need no one to tell it to us. Yet in another way perhaps we do always need to be told, because there is always the temptation to believe that we have all the time in the world, whereas the truth of it is that we do not. We have only a life, and the choice of how we are going to live it must be our own choice, not one that we let the world make for us. Because surely Marquand was right that for each of us there comes a point of no return, a point beyond which we no longer have life enough to go back and start all over again.

--Frederick Buecher

After reading this (and this), I slept better and woke up the next day I got up and went to the gym, as is my habit. I ran hamster circles around the track chanting a new, strange mantra: "Make the most of it." As in, "This is it, we don't get more." And in the shower I thought about my dog - not just this moment - but all the other ones.

I thought about all the trips to New York and Miami. Every time I went away I'd get a call from the neighbor that my dog had wandered down the highway. What that meant was that he wasn't being properly secured, a necessity at our house.

You see, a friend's dog had been tragically killed after running through our orchard not long after we moved in. I remember the day. I was working in the art cabin at the top of our road. I looked out the window and saw this dog running Lab-happy through the trees. Being an animal person I normally would have run out to try and catch him and pet him but I was in the middle of something, I guess. Two minutes later, the dog was dead. Hit by a car on the highway. We were devastated - both of us - and heartbroken when our friend put him in the back of the truck to take him home and bury him.

So the other day, as I was showering post-run, I thought about that and acknowledged (I always knew, just wouldn't look it in the face) that he didn't secure my dog on purpose. Full well knowing what could happen. It happened all the time on our highway.

On the simplest level, maybe it was a way to try and keep me home. He didn't like me working and if he made it a stress to be away... On another level - and this is the point of the whole story - I realized in the shower that he really didn't like me, and that possibly, the reason for all of this sh**, is that he just wanted me to leave.

The same day, a friend mentioned an article he'd read about my step-brother who said, in the New York Times, that he was an only child. Though I completely understand PR and the value of keeping our family life a private matter, it bothered me. Not just that my sister and I didn't exist, but that he couldn't find a way to mention our brother*. Talking with J. about it over dinner, I spit out, "Everyone just erases me."

And I thought about all the other stuff that has happened recently and I reaffirmed that maybe it's painful, but boundaries are the way to set the web trembling for other people who need to find their balance. My lines are drawn on the page in permanent maker.

You still have all of my love but you don't get to not know me anymore. You aren't allowed to discount the work that I do, the education that I have, the value of my creative skills. You don't get to pretend that my web of global connections doesn't exist, that the only thing I'm good at is making dinner. That you wasted the six years you had with me trying to make me less - less smart, less strong, less capable - well, that's your problem. I'ma go be awesome (in my relatively small way) on the East Coast again. and I'ma do it without you, if I have to.

And then, I felt better. Like, instantly better. And I've been in a great mood all week - everyone noticed. I'm still sorting the connections between the dog, Beuchner, and Any Human Heart, but it was instant healing.

The dog's fine, by the way. He lives with a lady and has a better life than I could ever give him.

 

 

*Though, to be fair, if our brother is still alive - and still a drug addict - I wouldn't want him to know where I'm at, either.

Love, Loss, and What I Wore - Type of Thing.

  Prada bow belt. I have this. I bought it a few years ago imagining I'd wear it with a black shirt dress or a leopard cardigan. It sits in the drawer, next to the H belt; I never have worn either one. A red bow belt around the waist takes confidence.

 

I used to love clothes. More accurate, perhaps, to say that I used to *fall* in love with clothes. Not just the styles, the fabrics, and the textures (though, definitely all of that), but the idea of them. Where I might be going when I wore them or who I might be with.

I've gone broke for clothes more than once. Bonwit Teller collapsed in 1989, my freshman year of college. A local wholesaler bought the remaining inventory and so did I. The only purchase I remember (but there were many more) was a pair of lime green patent leather peep-toe pumps by Charles Jourdan.

I wore amazing suits on the trading floor. One of my favorite outfits was a single-breasted Lillie Rubin black and white houndstooth jacket and black pencil skirt. The red AIDS ribbon was de rigueur and if I was feeling flush with cash I popped the collar. I had a beautiful powder-blue silk suit printed with seashells and starfish that I wore once at Hotel Dupont in Wilmington and then was ruined by my dry cleaner.

The Asian currency crashes of the 90's were good financial years for us - James had placed heavy bets on those markets and his frequent travels East meant that I went with a time or two and shopped Takashimaya with my GBP and and USD. It's not often you see Dior marked 70 percent off. Divorced, I decamped with my Armani and my luxe-quality [knock-off] bright red Kelly bag to the Texas [inaugural] ball in Washington a few years later.

In Miami, I had a Donna Karan wrap blouse in black silk with red cherries. It hugged my generous curves and, for whatever reason, I wore it the day the office visited a soul food kitchen in the Overtown neighborhood. Ka-Kow! I made friends there.

Things changed after Miami. I wasn't well, I guess. But it was more complex than that. One night, before a dinner party, I put on an Italian sundress I'd found in town. I liked it. It was a soft, navy jersey with a deep v-neck and a loose, swinging skirt. The bodice was smocked with neon pink, orange, and green threads. I'd been feeling better and working out. I felt pretty in it. My Ex took one look at me in the dress and pressed his finger into the soft lump above my scar with a smile. I took the dress off and don't remember what I put on instead. I've kept the dress in my new closet. I turned to Faconnable and Eileen Fisher and though all of it still hangs in my closet, I rarely, if ever, want to put those clothes on in this new life.

I miss the easy confidence I had in my youth. If I thought of my body in the dressing room, then, it was more about how to hide my shape at work. I could wear most things even though I chose not to. I laugh when I think of how I wouldn't wear a bikini - even when I weighed 103 pounds. That I thought I was "fat" when I hit 120. Now, I keep my back to the mirror and I don't turn around until I'm fully clothed.

Most days, I wear boyfriend jeans, flats, and a t-shirt to my office. I soak myself in Guerlain and big diamonds to compensate, but it's not the same. I'm not the same.  Either I don't want to be, or I recognize that I'm unable to be. I'm not sure which one it is. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

When I moved here, I got rid of many of my clothes and shut the door on the rest of them.Now, I skim the top off of the laundry basket every morning instead of planning outfits from things on hangers. But lately, I've been thinking that I'm ready for heels and a pencil skirt. I'm not sure how to interpret that. My boyfriend tells me every day that he thinks I'm beautiful, but it's so easy not to believe in it - once you've had someone tell you, every day, that he thinks otherwise.

Weighing in.

 

I went for a short run on the treadmill yesterday, then talked myself into getting on the scale. It took some time. I asked myself all kinds of questions. Should I wait until morning? I ate pizza last night, I'm probably retaining a lot of water from the salt. If I haven't weighed in five months, what's the point of weighing in now? I could wait another month, starve myself and work out really hard.

On the other side, I thought - well, maybe it would be motivating. Because gym motivation has been really lacking lately. Maybe knowing is better than not knowing. The chances are good I haven't gained it back. Not all of it, anyway. Maybe I've even lost some more without trying. I got on the scale.

I've gained three pounds since November. Not lost. Maybe not bad considering all the travel and upset and sickness I've had since then. Fistfuls of Cadbury mini-eggs at my sister's house while we threw my Mom in "The Hole" (memory ward) as my sister so unfortunately named it. (Why do names like that insist on sticking?) Working two jobs is too much time at the computer. Trying to lighten up on the workouts because it seems I get sick a lot.

I showered and then talked myself through it while I Guerlain-ed up and styled my hair - for no obvious reason at 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. I wasn't going out last night or anything. I can lose three pounds no problem. NO PROBLEM. I'll cut out the nuts. I'll go back to kale. I've been skipping flax, I admit it.

And then I went back to my office and ate the Snickers bar I'd hidden in my desk drawer the day before.

The Noticing.

When I woke, the next morning, I had my oatmeal in silence then took a walk with my coffee around the convent grounds. Just to see the sights. I wasn't far from home - just outside Baltimore and about an hour-and-a-half from our house. But there's something about being on a hilltop, in the woods, that makes you feel like you're a million miles from anywhere. I stumbled upon the Peace Garden.

Years ago, on another five-day silent retreat, I had a dream about a gate just like this one. In the dream, the gate sat in the water behind my childhood home. I woke up with peace I had not known before in my life (I was about 23.)  Interestingly enough, I didn't think much about that dream when I was in this peace garden. I was too busy noticing the things that people had left behind.

And that's where the noticing really kicked in. As I sat on a rock, things started to take shape before my eyes. 

I couldn't find a blank book, so I brought this journal -- half finished from 2006 -- with plenty of room for more. In it I read, "There are no more good days. We are down to good hours, and bad hours." And yet, I would not leave for five more years. And those would be the years that I got a lot closer to the grandkids - which I wouldn't trade for anything. I'd give all the hours I have left for them, if they needed them.  

There were all kinds of memorials here. 

Who comes to light these candles?

I sat on a rock in the peace garden, listening to birds singing into Spring, and watching the bamboo trees stretch in the breeze. As surely as I am sitting here, it changed my life. Suddenly, I saw everything. I was really there. And it was ok for me to just be there. That was the peace I found in the garden. 

The noticing that started with the waterfall the day before seemed to be the first, and most important, thing. Thinking back, I am actually quite proud of the fact that I made that connection to my old life so quickly - and kick the stone down the stream. I am a ruminator, after all. 

I had meetings, but I carried the noticing and the permission to just be t/here back inside with me. It shaped the rest of my time on the retreat.

Starting with lunch. For the rest of the weekend, I let myself eat whatever I wanted. After six years of living with someone who commented on everything I put into my mouth, I wanted to just taste food. Even if it meant meat or cheese. I have been enjoying veganism, but sometimes (when it's a lot of work to cook/shop/make everything) I wind up starving myself or making unhealthy choices because there is "nothing" I can have. Which isn't all that different than what I was doing before veganism. There just isn't any meat in my bad choices. It's a way of "taking care of myself" by not taking care of myself. 

And the interesting thing is, I still chose not to eat meat or cheese, the difference was I gave myself the option and felt free to decide.For lunch they had lovely roasted vegetable wrap sandwiches and homemade potato chips with garden salad. Loved it. The convent had a soda fountain and I indulged liberally in root beer.  

And the homemade peach cobbler and thought of my dead father. (I once spent an entire afternoon peeling fresh peaches and making a peach cobbler and woke up to find my Dad had eaten the entire thing in the night. Now I understand it, but at 14? I was pretty peeved.) I bought myself a Milky Way from the vending machine and didn't allow myself to feel guilty. It was still a battle to give myself permission to enjoy the food. But I did it. 

I sat and appreciated that someone had prepared such wonderful food for me and all I had to do was show up. I didn't even have to wash dishes or say thank you. I thought of a visit that my friend D. made to Montana at a time when I was really worn out and I sat there like a rag doll while she prepared food in my kitchen.  The only difference was maybe she didn't know how worn out I was, and maybe she didn't really want to make the wraps that much. (Thanks, D. )

A moment then and now when you feel like a pebble balanced just on the very edge. You could be brushed off. You could fall off. You could remain there, in a state of tension possibly forever. You just won't know until you know.  And, until then, there are good hours and bad hours spent just trying to maintain your balance. 

Sense and Sensibilities.

I have returned from a three-day silent retreat at Bon Secours convent in Maryland. I came with zero expectations. I have done enough of these to know that what I want will be quickly pushed to the side in favor of what really needs to be Seen.

It was a very beautiful place. I loved the bare simplicity of the room (before I messed it up.)

Everything seemed just right. A beautiful view out the window.

Once the rustle of settling in quieted down, I could hear the sound of the little waterfall underneath my window. And that sound made me instantly unhappy.

If you visited my home in Montana, you don't need me to tell you why. But if you didn't, let me tell you that there was a beautiful creek and waterfall underneath our bedroom window that lulled us to sleep every night.  It took me a little longer (but actually not that long) to figure it out.

And so it continued. A long weekend that I came to think of as "The Noticing Project." The small stuff. That wasn't always small. You can live in the most beautiful place on the planet and not have the smallest love you need. You can live in a very small place and have so much it can hardly be contained.

 

One Year Later.

I spent much of this week reflecting on the difference between last year and this year. It's been exactly a year. How could the two kitties have known what to do, right then? To pose in front of the chair we always sat in, typing and reading and blogging? Because it really was The End. 

Up until now, it has been almost impossible for me to separate the decline of my mother's health from the viability of that marriage. When I came home from this visit two years ago, right after my Mom received a confirming diagnosis of dementia, I was sick with flu, the tendon in my left foot had ruptured and I was limping, exhausted.  Arriving home, I looked to my then-husband for support but didn't get it. He asked me to do something small and when I refused, crying from tiredness, he replied, "You do NOTHING." 

I cried for three days straight. Harder than I've ever cried in my life. I rented an apartment, a P.O. box, I prepared to borrow money from my sister, I begged my priest/friend for prayers and he said a Mass for me. Tears come to my eyes writing this because I cannot believe, on reflection, how cruel that statement really was.  A statement about all he really thought about me and what value I had in his life. Up until then, I could still believe that he loved me. And yet I would not leave for another year. 

I would spend the next year just going along with everything. I was beyond broken-hearted. I had given up. I decided I would simply take the joy where I could find it. I lived for the kids and I would not be the only woman in the world that was doing that. 

In Miami last week, I ran into an old friend who recently accepted a new position. She's so visibly happy, so alive in this new job. Talking about that she said that she had become so used to just making it work, creating some beauty within the boundaries of a greater dysfunction. I understood exactly what she meant.

I finally made my decision in a moment when I realized that, for the rest of my life -- even though I would give up everything I thought, believed, wanted, accomplished --  it would not be enough to soothe him. And that was my purpose there - to be whoever he needed me to be in the moment. I played a guessing game every second and when I figured out the game was being rigged so I would fail, I quit. Last night, reflecting, it occurred to me that good marriages don't survive on love. Love helps, love is a good thing, but I think what makes a good, long, marriage is the respect you have for one another. 

When I left he did not fight it. He said he did not blame me. He said in the lawyer's office that he had always liked the "status" of being married. He gave me a hug before I drove away. We agreed we would always be able to stay in the same room for our grandchildren. We were supposed to stay friends. I went home to the next thing - to help my sister pack up my Mom's office. We literally throwing the vast majority of her life's work into the garbage.  My mother had compromised so much of life - friends, family, even her relationship with her children - to do that job. And yet at the end of the day, she wasn't even here to sort through it. It went into the trash and no one cared. It was a big, sad, moment for me.

Somewhere in the middle of that office packing, February of last year, my ex-husband's daughter called to tell me what he'd said and done in the last few days. I was gone. There was no one to take the hurt out on. That's the only reason I could think of to explain why he'd written hurtful things blaming her and the family for my leaving (...NO...). But if you wanted to hurt me, that's what you'd do, right? You'd hurt the people I love. You'd try to ruin relationships. So much for the goodbye hug in the driveway. He would not attend his granddaughter's graduation, but he'd send a box of useless kitchen items to me via a family member also attending her church reception. A way of being there, in the way he wanted to be.

Last week, February 2012, I came back from my mother's exhausted. Being with her, trying to be present emotionally through all of this, trying to make plans and changes to a more appropriate level of care - it's always draining. No matter what, we're always chasing behind the rapid progression of her dementia. Two weeks ago we weren't sure she was ready for the memory unit, now it seems obvious. We were making early plans, now we're behind.

While you're there, you do what you have to do. Time with friends was difficult to schedule and I quit trying when I realized what a bummer I was. So I tried my best to bury my own emotions and dipped into stores of energy I didn't know where there.

Back home, I kind of melted. Not into tears,but into a sort of shapelessness. I went about my life as usual - a little exercise, lots of work -I was all there without really being all there. But I didn't have to be. John was home this week - entirely unusual - and without really talking about it, he made me three meals a day, tons of coffee, figured out some critically important stuff for the booming spray business and did the laundry.  I apologized for myself and thanked him profusely, and felt guilty for leaning on him so heavily, but even so, I knew I didn't have to. Being supportive is his nature. 

Such a contrast. 

Yesterday, I noticed that I was actually different. Not just divorced-different, get rid-of-your-stuff different, but happy different; got-choices-different. Been-gone-one-year-and-I'm-already-in-three-international-magazines-different.

John and I drove into DC to see a play. I confess that in a solid year, I have not been into the city. Not really. Twice to the suburbs - once to see friends and once to buy underwear. But not once downtown. And this play was seriously downtown. We drove past my college, and the monuments, and across the beautiful bridge. I was excited to see it all. Right then I realized I was cured. I am ready. I can go back now. Somehow I know, and I don't know how I know this, that I will not be leaving here again. That on Monday, I'm going to call a monastery nearby and see if I can spend a few days in silence and in thanks.

And that I will not be writing about that old sadness any more. 

My Mom in better days, wearing a jacket she bought in Bigfork. Just four years ago.

Field Notes.

I'm in Minnesota for two weeks while my sister is on vacation. She went diving off Palau. Everyone keeps asking me, "Where's Palau?" and my answer is always, "I don't really know." It's far away. It's right here:

Mom has changed a lot the last couple of months and she's [al]ready for the next level of care. It's good to spend time with her in one way, in another, it's completely exhausting. She's like a grandkid that will never grow up. That growing-up promise that kids make makes all the difference to the way you feel about caring for them; cleaning up after them. Same with pets. The unconditional love of a furry thing will make you clean up unbelievable messes - with no regrets.

The Alzheimer's parent, though, is a little more complex. When she's sweet and grateful, it's a big deposit in the emotional bank account. A re-store for the wells of compassion you have for the aging parent.

When she's crabby, manipulative, and controlling - like a giant toddler who desperately needs a bath - it's much harder. I took away some of her freedoms this week. I'm making her take a shower, with the assistance of an LPN. I'm having someone come in and do her meds every day. I'm having someone come and knock on the door when it is time to eat lunch and dinner. I'm taking on the familiar role of "black sheep" because I am so comfortable disappointing her I realize it may be the best thing I can ever do for my "good girl" sister - to accept responsibility for these unpopular decisions.

She doesn't eat anymore because she doesn't remember to. She will eat if you hand her the food. So this day, I brought her lunch. Some wild rice soup, quinoa salad, potato chips, frosted valentine's cookies and Vernor's ginger ale. All old favorites. Putting everything on plates (that had to be washed first since they get put straight back in her cupboards after they've been used), I turned to find she had dragged the old typewriter table into the hallway for our lunch.

We took a picture of the table just like my grandma used to do at every holiday meal. All the doors are shut on that side of the apartment because she thinks people are coming in at night and "bullying" her. Small green post-its with her name written on them are all over the house. You can see a couple on the bookcase.

I'm hoping the extra service buys her some time in her own apartment. I'm hoping it buys my sister a little peace of mind knowing that someone is checking on my Mom five times a day. My Mom hates the idea, especially the expense.  But that's because she doesn't seem to take on that her only other option is the memory unit, which is twice the price and basically zero freedom.

I went to visit the memory care unit, because we hadn't actually done that yet. It's down the hall and through another locked door. I expected to be miserable in there - I was when I saw units at other facilities - but it wasn't like that at all. It reminded me of the Apple Tree Inn in Indianola, Iowa where we stayed when we visited my Mom's parents. I hope that's a good sign. In their shared kitchen - they can eat whenever they like.

Brene Brown: The Power of Vulnerability

 

On the topic of authenticity, sharing your real self on blogs (or elsewhere), I wanted to share Brene Brown's TED Houston talk:

 

[Little] Man's Search For Meaning.

 

White Kitty, aka "Karl" or "Little Man" checks out the neighborhood.

Lately, I've been deep in e-conversation with blog friend kstreetjournal about...well, it's about a lot of things. But the overarching question is whether it is best to write about the difficult stuff or to keep the blogs all "shiny and successful and American Dreamy..."

You know, I think I've done both. The felted sweater people came in droves but would instantly abandon me whenever I wrote about some of the things that were on my mind. It was sometimes discouraging, almost like you could hear someone saying, "I don't care what you think, I just want you to shut your pie hole and sew," as a button clicked ''unsubscribe' in the background.

I thought my writing had candor. I preferred my style to blogs that present endless accounts of bright, happy, well-scrubbed marriages and perfect children. Who can help but be disappointed by the reality of a marriage after so much buildup? We think we've come a long way, baby, but we're still dreaming up 'perfect' weddings and cooking photo-perfect dinners we feel too guilty to eat.  No one says a word about what happens when your partner loses a job, your mother-in-law turns against you, or you gain fifty pounds because you hate your life. Maybe someone should. Sometimes I think I may have helped someone; there is so much of that whitewashing going on in the world.

But I can see, now, that I was only telling partial truths myself. Because you don't want to ruin it - for yourself or for others. You seek out the beauty in the every day, wherever you can find it. You imbalance toward your strengths. I look back at the old blog and...I know I was there and what I said was true enough at the time...it is my real history. But I also feel very removed; I no longer identify that way of thinking; writing; looking at the world as my own. It's strange, but also strangely o.k.

I've stopped reading a few blogs here and there. One woman was always uploading photos of herself but saying how she "never uploads photos of herself" and rounding it out with a healthy dose of how cool she used to be in the 80's, just proof that her son started listening to her old cassette tapes. Her blog is hugely popular and I felt like that was the whole point. She was always trying to remind me that she was hugely popular and creative and super perfect and after awhile, I just didn't care. I checked in some months later and saw that she had changed her tack. Not getting a book deal from the first go 'round she tried something else; disorganized "real" mother type of thing. It still doesn't work because it still lacks authenticity. Another woman had more interesting things to say but rounded out every blog post with a small complaint. And I found that got on my nerves. Like, I'm really sorry your new $10 yoga mat has a crease in it, but...quite frankly, you just sound like a whiner. And if that's your authentic self, I don't want to be your blog friend.

But then, that's not really fair, either. People don't really know you from your blog. Not the all of you. I spent some time on FB today making suggestions to someone about a book cover and later it seems my suggestions turned out to be somewhat smart. And I wanted to say..."Well,  yes, I'm not just a cat-loving; exercising; book-reading, People-of-Walmart.com following Vegan. I kind-of/sort-of know a lot about developing and promoting creative work. But, of course, they probably don't know that. Sometimes I try to talk about work on FB but people seem to prefer my posts about my new vintage leopard faux fur coat.

What's your view? Should blogs write in the difficult bits? Or stay American Dreamy? Or is it more complicated than that?

2011: Year in Review.

I Have Always Loved You (2008). My work. Encaustic/collage.

In 2011: 

I stopped telling myself it would be different one day. I stopped Two Kitties. I stopped eating meat. I stopped wearing my clothes and bought new ones. I stopped writing, making art, cooking, answering emails, phone calls, and letters for awhile. I stopped being friends with people who asked me if I "got rich" from my divorce (I didn't) before asking how I was holding up without my grandkids close by. I also stopped being depressed and miserable, eventually.

I started over. I started a new business, I started paying full-time attention to the old one again. I started a Vegan diet with the help of Jonny O and Engine 2. I started running. I started losing weight. I started buying smaller new clothes. I started to say "no" when I wanted to; this time out loud. I started talking to some people again (I'm still working on it).

I was satisfied with my most recent haircut.

And frustrated by the way my health insurance application process went.

I am so embarrassed that I wound up divorced.I never would have believed that would be the outcome of that marriage, but it was. There are a lot of old friends I feel like I can't call because I don't want to talk about it.

Once again, I failed to finish writing my novel.

Once again, I did not achieve buns of steel.

The biggest physical difference between me last December and this December is I've lost about 15 pounds. I think I look happier and healthier, not just because of the weight loss but mostly because I'm happy on the inside.

I loved spending time with my sister this fall, outside of the stress of my Mom's changing life - in Seattle, Winchester, and again in Minneapolis a couple of weekends ago. Last year sucked. We were in crisis mode every time we were together.

Why did I go back to the hairdresser that turned my hair blue?

I should have known better.

I regret giving her a compliment on her wedge/bob; because that's what she gave me.

I will never regret giving my whole heart to my five grandchildren. I love them so much. They are really amazing people.I hit the jackpot on that deal.

I love martinis way too much. Especially the third one. But martinis are like boobs - two are great; three is a freak show. I learned. I'm back on coffee.

I didn’t do anything, for anyone, this year. As far as I can tell.

My poison ivy drove me crazy. That was a bad situation.

The most relaxing place I went was upstairs. I think I slept the entire month of July. I lost five pounds during that month, btw.

I feel so vulnerable when I realize all the things I don't know about running a retail business.

Why did I think it was a good idea to paint the hallway orange?

The best thing I did for someone else? I'm not really sure, to tell you the truth.

The best thing I did for myself was leave my husband.

The best thing someone did for me was offer me a life, filled with love, where I could be myself, 100 percent - no punishment.

The one thing I’d like to do again, but do it better, is all of it. I'd do all of it better. But I want five years to figure out how it should be done.

Last year's review can be found here.