Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

I wish to be cremated

Distribute my ashes equally:

My parents, if living. If not, the family Urn. Mix me with my ancestors for all time.

My brother Vincent. Release me in your favorite fishing hole.

Jeremy, Jen, Nolen, and Haley. Scatter me on the wind from a train in Colorado or New Mexico.

Amy and Josh, Feed me to the fishes at the bottom of the Black Canyon where you took me that day.

Kelcey. Let me warm my bones on the rock in the back 40, on the Hogback, on the sandstone along the Purgatoire at Dinosaur Tracks, or just before the Kelsey campground along the Platte on the flat rock that juts into the river. Your choice.

Gene. Return me to Mother Ocean at Sherwood’s in Waimanalo so my ashes will rejoin the part of my soul which lingers there. You know where.



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bone crushing, all-encompassing, sadness

sitting in the corner crying, sadness

Oh, Anam Cara, Why?

Why are you so mad?

Why do you reject me?

Punish me?

Ignore me?

Be deliberately hurtful and mean-spirited?

If it’s intentional, it’s working.

If it’s not intentional and you’re just being an ass,

It still feels like abandonment.

my. heart. hurts.

What have I done?

What have I said?

What have you assumed without asking?

I thought we were never going to do this again.

I thought…

I have nothing to offer you

no PhD’s and Masters degrees,

half a million dollar homes, hot tubs and saunas,

high powered jobs and money galore

hot cars and nice clothes

a hot, toned, fuckable body.

I just have me. Me

my heart,

my unconditional love

an apology

you should never get my snark and frustration

even tho you occasionally do.

I’m not a swipe left kind of gal.

You’re not a swipe left kind of guy,

I want to see you. soon. sooner than later.

not in a month

or 6 months

or 2 years.

Whatever needs to be said should be face to face.

Good, bad, or otherwise.

We owe each other that bit of respect.

I want to see the anger/disappointment/disdain in your eyes

I want you to see the hurt in mine.

Anything less is cowardly.

I guess everything is. Until it isn’t

just, so. very. sad.

sitting on the floor, crying, sad



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The battle in my head for some time is what to do with the numerous journals-both formal and informal, and of course, this blog, when I die.

There is a good deal here and in my journals that I really don’t think my children want to read.

I had a conversation with my cousin a few weeks ago about this. What do I do? Destroy everything? He was shocked. He told me that he would give *anything* to know more about his own father. His thoughts, his mind, his process. And to deprive my children of that knowledge would be a most selfish act. Stunning. I just never considered that perspective. He said just preface it with, if you feel uncomfortable reading something, then don’t. It’s on them. You’ll be dead.

I’ve decided that one year after my death, I will have Gene give access to this blog to my children. They can do what they like. Maybe then they will finally understand and know me not just as Mom, but as a person.

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I just wanna

have a little fun.

Ice cream and a swing in the park.

A blanket and a book.

A kite on a nearly cloudless day.

A drink, a dance, a smile


There is no normal anymore and it fills my heart with the sadness of loss for these small things that once bought me joy,

Where is the joy?

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Set Point

What is your set point?

Mine is cantankerous with a sprinkle of sarcastic amusement of the absurd.

Oh, and I hope they serve good sweet milk stouts and wine in hell. Just sayin’

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fade away

We all shine like stars
And then we fade away

Cause there’s a monster living under my bed

Whispering in my ear

There’s an angel, with a hand on my head

She say I’ve got nothing to fear

There’s a darkness living deep in my soul

I still got a purpose to serve

So let your light shine, deep into my home

God, don’t let me lose my nerve

Lose my nerve

Santana – Put Your Lights On ft. Everlast
On lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc


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scar stitched hearts

With every loss, for every scar stitched across our heart, remember that those scars limit neither the size of our heart nor our capacity to Love.

The heart always grows larger to accommodate the loss.

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constant companion

Death is my constant companion.

We walk side by side,


a shadowy presence

I often wonder if anyone else can see his shadow next to mine.

There are times I shrink in horror the thought,

at other times I long to grab his hand,

take me away, give me peace.

The line I walk is thin between two worlds

of the living and the eternal.

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Cast me

Cast me gently

Into morning

For the night has been unkind

Take me to a

Place so holy

That I can wash this from my mind…

(Answer, Sarah McLachlan)

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Now I search for those who can help me on my journey, my own walk with death and I have empathy for those who cannot.  Twelve years later, I still have only these two regrets…

Sands of Time

For me, living means trying to have no regrets along the way. Being honest, treating people kindly, making the best decisions I can for me, for my family. Not lying, not cheating.

I’ve talked to others about their regrets. All were along these lines: Didn’t take such and such job. Didn’t go here or there. Regretted sleeping with him or her. Didn’t make my mark on the world. Lots of regrets.

And if *you* died tomorrow?

For me there are only two….

That I should have spent more time with my grandfather. The one who lost the fingers on his right hand when I was 7 and never, ever wore his fake hand because it scared the heck out of me. I told him it felt bad (I’ve always been a tactile person) and that it just wasn’t him. I remember him very proudly (and after much practice), showing me…

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Final Advice-

For my children and my grandchildren

I am so very proud of all of you. I am so very happy *for* you.

Cherish every minute with your friends and family; it goes by far too quickly.

Be grateful for everything. Live that you regret nothing; even the missteps. Be kind to strangers.

Be happy in all you chose to do. Follow your heart. Love hard. Live simply. Leave behind what you do not need on your path.

Create your reality with your thoughts. Let nothing stop you from moving in the direction of your dreams. Allow the current of life to move you along, but act on the serendipity along your journey.

The tapestry of life connects us all. Revel in the threads, their colors, their strength, their resiliency.  Lean into them whenever you need; they will never fail you.

You are loved more than you will ever know. More than in your wildest dreams. I will always be with you. Forever and always.

Feel my kisses as you drink from the clear mountain waters, in the salt of the ocean, in the breeze across your face, as snowflakes on your tongue and in the fragrance of your favorite flower. Know that I will be winking at you as fireflies on a warm summer’s evening and in the twinkling of starts across an inky black sky

We are Stardust

We are golden

Million year old Carbon

Unconditionally, Forever and Always….



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The light is still on in the window

And the door is still unlocked. Guess I’ll go in and see how the place held up while I was gone…

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All writing is a form of remembering…

All writing is a form of remembering. …

That memories are recovered — that is, that the suppressed truths do reemerge — is the basis of whatever hope one can have for justice and a modicum of sanity in the ongoing life of communities. …

That every generation fears, misunderstands, and condescends to its successor — this, too, is a function of the equivalence of history and memory (history being what it is agreed on, collectively, to remember). Each generation has distinctive memories, and the elapsing of time, which brings with it a steady accumulation of loss, confers on those memories a normativeness which cannot possibly be honored by the young, who are busy compiling their memories, their benchmarks. … The rule seems to be: each generation looks upon its successor generation as barbarians….

Sonja Sontag

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just a few little things..

I’m sitting in my office watching the rain. Watching the white fluffy clouds move past to expose patches of clear, blue sky. The Sky has been crying off and on for the past few days.  We call it our summer storm track. Heat from the valley rises against the mountains, only to cry oceans of tears.

I’m crying. I have been for three days. It’s something I rarely do. I don’t know. Maybe I need to do that more. It’s not that I’m stoic by any means, just prefer to try to turn it around and not wallow in the shit (despite my ability to be plenty cantankerous, lol).

I found out Saturday that former HS classmate suicided about 2 weeks ago. I’m shocked.Saddened. Talked to him just a few months ago about another friend’s passing, life, family, travel, jobs. Happy. He sounded happy. No, he wasn’t undiagnosed with some horrible, fatal disease.  Love and Light, Andrew. You were always one of the good guys.

Shootings, Death, Hatred. Orlando, Trump. If it wasn’t that FB was a big income source for me right now, I would delete my account.

Moved in early March. Couldn’t take the crazy anymore. Love my roommates but with 3-4 Bipolar, and all of us somewhere between clinically and occasionally depressed; it was just too much. Too much crazy, too much drama, too many people coming and going.

I have a nice 2 bedroom apartment on the ground floor in a 1950’s neighborhood instead of the brand new subdivision. The housing was originally for the old Ent Air Force when it was active here. It’s not large by any means. But it’s mine. All 800 sqft and 2 bedrooms, is mine.  I have a large office with enough room to throw the air mattress on the floor when my daughter comes to visit. Killer western view of Pikes Peak from both the back bedrooms.  It’s wonderfully quiet. The 3 other neighbors in the building are nice.

I’ve been tired. Doing too much out of frustration. I feel like a caged tiger. Pacing in my apartment. Limited. Limited activity, limited distance. Limited in what I can support right now emotionally.

It’s been learning to live with a 50′ hose connected to a machine that makes oxygen out the air and force feeds it to me through my nose. It’s learning to live dragging a 4′ high cylinder in a cart anywhere I go. Everywhere. Doctors appointments, shopping. I am limited by the 2 hours of air in each tank.  It’s learning to use the back burners on the stove so I don’t set myself on fire, and how to walk and shit and shower, and get dressed without getting tangled in the 50′ of plastic tubing that provides my breath.

It’s wondering who would want to date someone who is now classified as disabled.  Who wants to spend time investing in a relationship where sex is limited at the least. I have no breath, no stamina, and massive headaches with arousal and orgasms. It’s frightening.

Can’t do many of the things that bring me joy. A walk in the park is a chore and swinging on a swing is out until I teach Charlie (my o2 tank and chaperone) to dance with me.I’m reluctant to tell anyone. Is this life?

I met his partner almost three weeks ago. Accidently. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.This weekend she’s friended me on FB and I am honestly trying not to freak. I’m trying to shrug off how it’s always worked (badly) and just go with whatever happens.

I’m hearing signs of not wanting to be in the relationship. Of looking for its end. I’m sad for that for the both of them. She doesn’t understand his language. And what she wants she presumes everyone else wants. Observation, not judgement. We all do it.

I apologised to him, crying. For not trusting him.  He didn’t know.  Well, he knew I was in the hospital. He didn’t know I was on O2. I just couldn’t trust he wouldn’t reject me and stare in horror, or look away like most folks do.

It’s interesting, you would think it makes it easier being friends with his girlfriends or partners. It’s not because none have been poly. There’s this girl dance I don’t do very well. But I can see it unfold in body language, posturing, intonation, the deliberateness of words chosen…..It’s not pretty and I don’t play well with others this way.

At least I’m sleeping better than I have in months. Maybe even years. Small blessings….




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coming home…

As it is and always will be…

My heart coming home.

Anam Cara.

I am always awed, touched, humbled by the depth and intensity of our hearts together.

We hugged and cried and laughed and kissed and reminisced and talked and promised and bathed and ate and drank and loved and slept in our very own private, blissful bubble the entire weekend.

For the first time in a month since quitting smoking, I slept. Peaceably. All night.  It’s how I always sleep with him. Safe. Cocooned. Tucked away where nothing can hurt me. Where nothing else exists for me, but he and I.

Love you madly. Don’t let me go. Keep me safe.

Time and time again. For all time.

I am Grateful.

I am Love.

I am Loved.

I have no claim calling him boyfriend, or lover, or beloved.

I have no “right”…

Don’t you see?   I’ve never wanted to claim him, own him, possess him

Whispered on the wind,  Beloved.









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