To My Other Favorite W.W....

I wrote a poem earlier (blame it on the Food Network) and then went into the archives. So I figured I would throw a few out there. It's interesting to read old stuff and re-live some old head space. XXXOOO


Untitled

The lasagna could have been
A lovely dinner
Or the perogies I know you love
My hopes ascend over recipes,
I make lists for all the favorites.
Fresh herbs, chicken stock,
Italian sausage, all the cheeses.
“I forgot how good of a cook you are,”
made my night.
We all forget in the fog of accusations
And lies, until the fog clears.
But then the guilt,
the guilt,
the guilt.
“Make me chicken dumplings
Forever.”
The lasagna could have been
A lovely dinner.



The Realization The Things Will Never Be The Same

Paper, like we cement
Grabs my stupid words
Permanently on page.
I stumble on my mind
Where, just to piss me off,
He lives.



Redemption

Rain drops grace
My tired face.
I tilt
My head back,
Slightly to the right
And think
About the words that have come
Out of my mouth.
So I open that mouth,
Just a tad at first,
And let the rain sink in.
I’m in Nebraska,
It is clean and pure.
I smile and walk to my car.



Kitchen Philosophy

Sit in the kitchen and think about
What you’ve done wrong this year.
It’s December,
It will take a long time.
I’ll cook you breakfast
And we can laugh about February
And cry about August.
August Twenty-Something.
The day you left me.
Everything you had entered me
And I struggle to let you go.
I’ll turn the pancakes.
You figure out where we go
When we die.

3,652 days...

“I had no idea what time I’d left, how I’d gotten home, who’d been up here, and how long he, she, or they had stayed. Another night, added to the hundreds that had gone before, shrouded in mystery. Really, when you thought about it, it was creepy. My own life was a secret to me.” ― Heather King, Parched

It’s the last line that gets me—“My own life was a secret to me.” Addiction is so secretive. We hide our feelings, our actions, and our use. We hide from people who love us. I did a lot of hiding for about a decade of my life. The lies I told myself might have been the worst ones. Like Heather, I was a secret to myself.

10 years. I guess I can now start typing my time in survivor years from addiction using numbers instead of having to spell out the number. Maybe that’s just the English major in me, or maybe it’s the part of me that likes to downplay things. I don’t feel the need to celebrate my wellness time. I try to celebrate my health everyday.

Last week Monday, I was on a plane coming home from Chicago. I’d had an amazing weekend with my mom and two of my aunts. The goal of the trip for me was singular, to finish the Chicago Marathon. I’d run two marathons previously, so I knew I could do it, but Chicago is one of the World Major Marathons. (New York, Boston, Berlin, Paris, and Tokyo are the others.) They are the majors for a reason—they are the races everyone wants to run. The elites are there. The biggest prize monies are awarded. You have to have good qualifying times to get a bib. Or, like me, you have to find a charity team to raise money and run for to secure your bib. They are the premier events of the sport and a chance for someone like me to say I ran a course with Rita Jeptoo, albeit hours behind her. I doubt I will ever play on the same court as Michael Jordan. As I told a friend, I was going for a Sunday morning jog with 45,000 friends.

If you know me, you know I am no speedster and like I said, I secured my bib by running for a charity. My team was the Girls on the Run Solemates. I have been a volunteer coach for the local Girls on the Run program for two seasons, so seeing the positive impact that the program has on little girls made requesting to join that team a no-brainer. To any of you reading who encouraged and supported my fundraising efforts for the Solemates, I thank you. To date, our team has raised almost $285,000 dollars that will provide program scholarships for low-income girls. Shameless plug, if you are still interested in donating, the site will stay live through December.

The Chicago Marathon was an intense experience from start to finish. With 45,000 runners to manage, it’s quite a masterpiece of logistics. Everyone is assigned a corral that corresponds with one’s bib number. For the purposes of that morning, I was H 40845, like something out of a sci-fi novel. The energy was palpable as I entered the corral. H Corral lined up right in front of Buckingham Fountain, in Grant Park. Yes, I thought of Al Bundy. Lots of small talk with strangers—I should say Corral Mates, including one woman who runs with her Husky (three to five miles max, so she was quite impressed with the Bitches) and several who were experiencing their first marathon. One poor girl who was supposed to be in Corral D, but ripped her bib hopping a fence. She was relegated to the second wave with the rest of us 4:00+ runners. She took off like a bat out of hell when we crossed the start line.

Crossing the start line at a race that big is interesting in and off itself. From the start of the second wave, it took me almost 17 minutes to get stop-go shuffled to the actual starting line. The funny part is that the 17 minutes to get to the start seemed to take longer than the 326 minutes I was out on the course.

I’ve always said that the marathon is a mini-life in that you experience every range of emotion out on the course. I don’t take my phone with me to take pics, Facebook, or Tweet like some runners do. I keep those photos locked away in my brain space, just for myself—the photo wouldn’t be able to describe the feeling of running through the underpass with thousands of others, a mess of neon dry-fit, everyone screaming and whooping. We were like caged animals in the corrals, now free to find our pace and enjoy the beautiful morning. And beautiful it was. Clear skies and perfect temps. The first seven miles were really just a dream, figuring out my pace, crossing the river a few times, and enjoying the city. Of course, I found some beautiful real estate on Sedgwick Street. Everyone there had gorgeous dogs like Whippets and merle Am Staffs. Leave it to me to find the dogs on the route. I did manage to not stop and pet any this time, something I was totally guilty of at the TC Marathon.

When we were crossing the river by Marina City, I remember a woman with a sign pinned to her back that said, “I am running for the love of my life,” with his photo. He’d died on September 28 and was 37. My age. You see those stories through races, of who we are and why we run. I admired her courage and determination.

I got to blow kisses to drag queens and hear my Girls On the Run Cheer Squad hollering in the charity village. I won’t try to describe how sticky the ground was at the halfway point, where the aid station was handing out Gatorade chews and lots of people ate one or two and dropped the rest. Actually, I can tell you—it was worse than the old carpet at the Top Hat. Worse. I was particularly thankful for shoes at that point. I only saw one man running barefoot, which is one of those runner things I have never even tried to understand.

The funniest point of the run was at the 17.5 mark. I was trotting along, when I felt something splash on me, even on my face. Splash might not be the best word, as it had some force behind it. My first thought? Somebody puked on me. Gross. I touched my face and wished I had a photo of my face as I looked down at my hand and saw a red streak. My second thought? It’s blood. Red was also spattered down the side of my pink Girls on the Run singlet. Great, I’ve caught the Ebola. I looked to my right at the woman and man next to me were also splattered. Hell, she looked like she’d been stabbed. Thankfully, this all happened in about three seconds and the logical part of my brain took over and realized she must have stepped on one of the hundreds of packs of GU that people had dropped along the course. Nobody stops to pick anything up, they ditch and go, which was slightly horrifying for a second, but provided a little comic relief for me.

The people of Chicago are amazing. Every neighborhood was playing music, passing out water, and welcoming. There were kids in dragon costumes dancing as we ran through Chinatown. A Black church was out in full force with “You are anointed” and “Run for Jesus” signs.

To be truthful, I really don’t remember looking at my Garmin after mile 21. There was some sort of energy that pushed me on. Sure I made a pit stop and a couple of stretch breaks along the way. This was never about the time. It was always about the feeling. And I let the feelings rule the last few miles.

Once you are going north again, you are running to the skyscrapers and I was just focused on those buildings. I remember seeing this particular woman for the third time along the route, who was holding signs for her daughter, Emma, and the signs were covered in cats, like she was a crazy old cat lady or something. It was sort of perfect. I remember people stopping to hug loved ones and take pics. I remember people who couldn’t run anymore and were walking it in, knowing they had plenty of time to meet the 6.5 hour cap to be an official finisher and receive a medal.

I thought about a lot of things during those 26.2 miles. My life has been out of kilter and slightly chaotic the past few months. I thought about all the people who helped me get to the race. I thought about Man Friend. I thought about a friend who is nearing the end of her life. I thought about Alli and Joey, my beautiful Bitches and the best trainers a girl could have.

The crowds increased during the last mile and as I approached the spectator village, I was still sassy enough to repeat the performance of my first marathon and yell at the crowd for being too quiet. Yes, I did get some cheers.

When I turned the corner and saw the 400 meter sign, I ran as hard as I could. I probably passed two hundred people. What’s a quarter mile at that point, really? And when I crossed the finish line, I wept. I buried my face in my cap and I wept. I heard a woman’s voice say, “You did it, honey. You did it,” and felt a hand on my shoulder. But I couldn’t look at her.

I kept moving so the med folks didn’t swarm in and I looked up at the buildings at the end of Millennium Park. I thought about how cool my life was now. I thought I had myself collected so I went to the line to receive my medal and started bawling again.

“You did it!” said the woman who gave me my medal. I’m sure they thought I was upset about something silly, like my time. But the tears were pure gratitude. I was thinking about how close I was to my recovery birthday and I was thinking about my life 10 years ago. I was thinking about what a Sunday morning was like then. It was trying to piece together the previous day(s). It was a life so secretive, it was a secret to me. That life certainly didn’t include going for a jog with 45,000 friends.

My secret life kept me from discovering who I really am and what I love about life. Discovering running has been one of the greatest gifts of my recovery life and for that I am truly grateful.

So many words, so little time...

This is what happens when I'm asked to write a unique biography in 150 words or less.

It’s June 1990. I am 12 and stoked for the summer, ready for the swimming pool, softball games, and tennis lessons. Enter one bench swing and a pack of friends. A particularly impressive game of jumping from the swing ensues. I spend the first several rounds standing on the back of the bench swing, holding on to the top bar tightly, and helping propel the swing for the jumps of my comrades. They eager squish into the swing in packs of threes and fours, the middle children jumping first, and shrieking with the delight of youth freed from elementary school. We weren’t too cool to care about jumping from the swing, that would come that fall, when junior high set in.

My turn to jump comes and I am mad air all the way. I’m flying! Kicking and screaming in the best way possible until gravity seals my fate and I land in hole on the ground with a very sore ankle, then I am just kicking and screaming.

The x-rays show four fractures.

What would Jessie Spano do? I hook my bike pack filled with books to my crutches, I exhaust my parents’ record collection, I smash tennis balls into the garage door when the crutches make way for the walking cast, and consider sitting still as an average 12 year old does. And in all the cast signing that summer, I never notice my foot growing and my toes of my right foot stretching out of the cast. All the toes except my big toe, which stops growing with that broken ankle and gives me an extreme case of Greek foot, dashing the hopes I never knew I had of becoming a foot model, but securing a philosophy that function is usually more important than form.

Fast forward 23 years and I nearly slice my left big toe off in a lawn mower incident six weeks before my second marathon. So I guess I am uniquely hard on my feet.

Hannah Boo Bear...

The Bitches are doing that thing where they take up ¾ of the bed. Yes, I had them totally trained off the bed earlier this year. Yes, I know I could do it again. They don’t always fall asleep here. I’m smashed off into the far right corner, wondering how long I might keep messing around on Facebook and writing before the laptop burns my thighs. I’m giggling as they are both on their left sides, facing the end of the bed, with their right front paws gently placed over their left front paws, like a commercial for bed thieving. Their deep chests rise and fall in the tandem of peaceful sleep. No attention is paid to the football game I can hear from another room. I admire the simplicity of their existence—eat, sleep, play, and do it all with a sense of unconditional love I can’t even begin to match.

I’m sitting here with Alli and Joey, the Brownheads, but I am thinking about some other brown girl dogs tonight. I like to sing “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison as “Brownhead Girls” to my girls; it’s one of Alli’s favorites. Alli wasn’t my first Brownhead Girl. Alli’s ear is twitching as I type. My first Brownhead Girl was a Lab mix named Hannah. Hannah came to live with my ex and I when I bought my house. She was a skinny thing who turned up at the Humane Society and needed a home. She made a place in my heart pretty quickly. I’d grown up with dogs living outside and since the yard was fenced in, a doghouse was one of the first purchased after the house closing was completed. Did I mention I purchased the house in January?

Hannah was allowed to live in the basement the first night. I would have been a monster to make that poor thing sleep outside in a South Dakota winter. Sleeping in the crate in the laundry room downstairs was like the Hilton compared to my Blacky braving Minnesota winters outside when I was a kid.

She didn’t stay in the basement long. She was upstairs, baby-gated in the kitchen, and then the living room. Before long she was sleeping on the bed. Right or wrong, whatever different dog behavioral specialists may tell you, they are pack animals and they want to be near you.

Hannah was chocolate in color and loved to have her coat brushed. She started to fill out a bit, I’m sure due to the consistent feeding schedule and meat scraps I would save her from work. She never ran with me, but we walked a lot. She was a funny girl. She would tolerate wearing clothes, giving me a look of utter disgust when we tried to put a little dog hoodie on her. She loved car rides and the dog park.

She came into my life right at the beginning of my recovery and I didn’t really know upside from down, but she reminded me how important the love of a dog was in my life. During college, when visit my parents, Blacky was the one I told all my secrets to. He knew all the dark shit and saw the tears. He would sit with his head in my lap on the steps in the garage and just listen. Just listen. Hannah caught a lot of that, too. She knew all the insecurities but never exploited them.

And because she made my heart grow, there was talk of getting another dog that first year in the house. I wanted a bull terrier or a German shorthaired pointer. I’d seen a beautiful pair of GSPs at the dog park one day with Hannah and thought they were about the prettiest things I had ever laid eyes on. They were as elegant a dog as I’d seen.

Since the ex liked to hunt, he fancied two pheasant dogs and set his sights on the GSP. We drove up to a breeder near Aberdeen to find Alli. Of course, Hannah came with since she had to be part of the process. We knew we wanted a girl and when one of the four available females started messing with Hannah, she was out of the running. Alli picked me, Hannah sniffed Alli, and the rest was history. I do wish I had a picture of Hannah’s face when Alli pooped in the car on the ride home. Hannah jumped into the front seat with us, distancing herself from the mess of the little whining fur ball in the back.

Hannah was an amazing teacher for Alli. She was a natural Alpha, but not overly harsh. She did a great job of correcting Alli when she was a little too close to Hannah’s food bowl and helped make potty training a breeze.

Alli never respected the baby-gate. She hoisted herself over as a pup and sat proudly in front of the gate as if to say, “What else do you have for me?” leaving Hannah on the other side confused as to why her little charge wasn’t an interested in pleasing momma.

They spent a couple of years together, sleeping in a pile on the couch, playing in the yard, and making trips to the dog park. I was sorting a lot out back then and working several jobs, so sometimes I’m not sure what I’ve chosen to remember and what I’ve chosen to leave behind. I know that Alli always gravitated more to me and Hannah spent more time with my ex, running errands and taking car trips. I know people grow apart. I know decisions were made and lives changed. And I know one day she was just gone.
Alli was locked in the crate. Hannah was gone. The details aren’t the point here. The point is she was gone. They were moving to another state was what I discovered when I called his cell phone after work that night. She was gone. The stuff could be replaced. The stuff didn’t matter. The broken glass on the floor could be swept up. What hurt was that she was gone and I didn’t get the chance to tell her goodbye.

I stood at the beer cooler at Super America for a long time that night. I’m sure the clerk thought I was gonna try to rob the place or something, my tear-stained reflection wondering if there was enough beer in the world to make that hurt go away. I ended up buying a pack of cigarettes and calling my brother. I’ve never been so glad he answered the phone.

Alli wandered around the house, play-fighting with the air and checking every room and closet, looking for Her. I had to accept the fact that I would never see Her again so she just became Her. Her who died in an accident and I was never able to see Her again. Her who taught my Alli so much. Her who loved me, even though she knew who I really was.

I never knew what happened to Her. I didn’t know if she stayed in the other state or if she returned home when the ex did. Sometimes you think you’re through with the past, but the past isn’t through with you, though.

It’s funny. All I ever wanted from that situation was an apology. I wanted to know if Her was okay and I wanted an apology. I dug my heels in about that apology and it kept me sick for a long time.

Her died at the end of August. Her had cancer and was able to be euthanized, so she didn’t have to suffer. My ex called to let me know she wasn’t well and to make arrangements if I wanted to see her. So I did see Her. I got to hug my Hannah Boo Bear—her tail wagged really hard when I called her that. I got to hold her and give her a little booty scratch. I got to tell her I loved her the whole time and that Alli is great and has a sister we run with and a brother. I got to tell her that I was sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. That was the apology I needed to hear.

You lose some...

Working in the addiction wellness field is challenging, often due to misconceptions in regards to the disease. I still occasionally run into folks who believe that addiction is a moral failing. They don’t believe diabetes is a moral failing. They don’t blame people with cancer when they have a relapse of the disease, or just tell them to try harder to get better. All too often, the go to solution for addiction is a 30 day stay at a treatment center, even though this approach doesn’t match the chronic nature of the disease. So the system fails those who suffer.

Where I work, one of our goals is to extend the continuum of care past the initial treatment phase and offer long-term supports and services for those with addiction. It’s worked beautifully and we’ve achieved some great results since we opened our doors in 2009. We love to share those stories and talk about how many more people stay well from addiction and are in recovery at the one-year mark. We know we are affecting positive change in the community and we believe that no one is ever completely incapable of getting better. But the sad reality is that sometimes we lose people. Sometimes life is just too much or the disease has too strong a hold on the brain. Sometimes it’s progressed too fast or too far. Sometimes, they die.

In America, an interest in death is considered odd or morbid and many of us don’t like to talk about death. It’s something we compartmentalize nearly to the point of emotional indifference and then toss around platitudes to comfort each other or express our disbelief that someone actually died. There was plenty of that during the past week, with the news of Robin Williams’ death. I was asked to comment about it for both radio and television programs and found my comments focused on us needing to get over an explanation of how this could happen to such a beloved person and change the dialogue to discussing issues like depression and reaching out for help when we feel hopeless, as those who suffer from depression and addiction often do.

Last week was a difficult week. We received news that two of our clients had died. One I didn’t know particularly well, as he received telephone recovery support, so I never saw him in the center. I do know that he completed suicide and my hope for him is freedom from whatever became too intolerable from this life. I do know that this was tough for the volunteers who make those calls to hear. They are peers in recovery who are actively seeking wellness in their lives and they hope to help others find it.

Another gentleman died from complications of another chronic illness he was fighting. He was a character. The first time I met him, he looked me up and down and said, “Nice tatts. I like you,” then walked away, saying “They got the right lady in charge” to no one in particular. He carried many labels—veteran, OG, felon—but he also carried himself proudly and fought his illnesses to the end. He was particularly bonded with his recovery coach and she discovered that she was listed as his emergency contact and asked to help make arrangements. She was the one stable person in his life, the one he could always count on to answer the phone or visit when he needed to vent or was having trouble with his appointments.

It isn’t always easy or fun, but I know we did have some impact on these lives, even if the end results aren’t something to positively report on a stats sheet. When you’re working with people instead of products, success isn’t always easily measurable and when you’re working with sick people, the life milestone of death may be part of the equation.

I plan on dying someday. At this moment, I don’t know where, when, or how, but of all the things I may think I know about life, my death is something I accept with certainty. I agreed to be born, which means I also agreed to die. We’re all terminal.

That view might help me live more in the moment and not take my life for granted, especially my recovery life and the opportunity I have to help others find recovery and wellness. Most days, I feel like it’s a miracle that there is breath in my lungs. Today was lots of little miracles—a run with the dogs, working on the yard with my Man Friend, eating Icies with my nephew, and listening to Janis Joplin while I type.

Best in Show...

At this time last week I was gearing up for the big dog show, my premier sporting event of the year. Two televised nights of dog after dog after dog. Like many other sporting events, there’s plenty of ritual, build-up, and flair. Sometimes the judges out-flair the dogs. (Google Ms. Betty Regina Leininger if you don’t believe me. She’s a wonder in purple and yellow diamonds. A wonder.) While the commercial time may not sell at ‘Merica football rates, the athletes excite and inspire lovers of canines everywhere.

To be honest, I couldn’t contain myself once the show started. Facebooking the event hadn’t been my goal for the evening, although I have been known to Facebook snark throughout the celebrity fashion parades also known as awards shows. The tabloid giggle factor always gets me there. But the dogs, oh the dogs bring me joy. All the different groups and breeds—fur babies of every shape and size, some even furless, like the beautiful Xoloitzcuintli. Of course, the Sporting Group is my favorite as it is home to the German Shorthaired Pointer. Alli and Joey wouldn’t have my vote any other way, even though I’ve never thought the breed winner to be any better looking than my beauties. Plus, Baby Walter’s repping the Sporting Group as well, so my allegiance is solid.

Not that I don’t love the Dobermans, the Mastiffs, and the Bull Terriers, cuz I do. I love them all. I love watching them run around the show ring. I love the way they look at their handlers. I love. Sure, some dogs are a little funny looking or so odd looking you love them for their quirks. Sure the dog people go a little overboard, but so do the football fans, the baseball fans, and the soccer fans. We love our breeds like they love their teams; we just make our own scene in our own way. You’ll never see anyone dressed up like a Poodle at a dog show. (Yet.) Plus we don’t have to worry about our favorite athletes getting arrested. I just love it. That’s the key really.

It brings me joy to go online and look at the breed judging and see all the GSPs lined up. There’s something spectacular and funny about it, even more so in a breed with more unified coats, like Golden Retrievers. Imagine a whole row of Buddies, proudly looking up at their handlers, poised and affectionate, alert, yet loving. Making it into the Group Finals is a pretty incredible feat, a national broadcast, with dog geeks like me watching their every move, commenting on favorites and speculating on winners.

Yes, I may be a bit over the top with the Facebooking during the show, but I was surprised that some friends told me to quit commenting or even to shut up. My response was to not respond to tell them to block me. I mean, there were at least a couple of funny posts, as evidenced by the likes and the fact that more friends said they enjoyed the commentary. And something beautiful did come out of the few negative reactions because I realized I will never apologize to anyone for annoying them with my joy.

Social media is such a strange beast. We each have our own pages, feeds, and accounts. We all choose what we display about our lives. It may be honest or a complete fabrication, but there is a selection process, sort of a branding process as to what we choose to share. If someone who had never met you looked at your page, what would he or she say about you? What’s important to you? What do you value? Or maybe the more interesting question is how would you be judged? Judging is more about the lens through which the judge views life than the one standing judgment.

You take selfies, you’re a narcissist.

Drug pictures: Junkie.

Political rant 245: Ron Paul is your new god.

You post about your cats, you’re a crazy cat lady. Bet you’re single.

Oh, you’re one of those people who always has to post when you go to the gym or ran a mile cuz otherwise it’s like it didn’t happen.

Political rant 556: Obama stole your birthday.

All you post about is drinking, you might have a problem.

All you post about is drinking, you must be fun.

Underground music scene guy. I get it, you’re cooler than I am.

Quiz 2365: Which 70’s Porn Star are You? You got Long Jeanne Silver… umm…

You had a baby. So did everyone else.

You had a baby! You had a baby!

Political rant 132: All Republicans are evil.

More home remodeling pics? Rub it in, jerk, I live in squalor.

This could go on for a hundred pages, but my point is pretty simple. You choose what you put out there and yes, putting it out there allows for it to be judged. BUT, in my experience, if you share your joy, it doesn’t really matter who or how you’re judged.

When necessary, use words...

Joey came into my life through an animal cruelty case. She was considered evidence, which logically made complete sense to me, but in the place where my feelings live, evidence was supposed to be some sort of inanimate object that could be kept on a shelf in a police station, catalogued in a file box long after the case was adjudicated. At one point, a turn in the case made me having to return her to the man accused of running the puppy mill a distinct possibility. Fear, anger, more fear, a river of tears, and two attorney consultations later, the evidence was ever more important to me. The evidence, who was just to be a foster dog to alleviate stress on the shelter responsible for housing, was family.

To be honest, she wormed her way into my heart within about 12 hours. I can’t lie about that. The little brownhead is the canine version of me and I knew she belonged with Alli and me.

Protecting my family was paramount; I even went so far as to set up an underground railroad-type system of six different non-relative friends she could stay with if the case were dismissed and she was to be returned. I hoped. I prayed. Walks were more protective that winter, since I now lived in a world in which I was sure sheriff’s deputies, armed with warrants were lurking around every corner, ready to snatch my baby back to the unknown that was Turner County.

It all got to be a little obsessive since I loved my girls so much, but also because of my wacked out, over-active imagination. Somehow that imagination led me to specialty Catholic supply store. Catholic friends, don’t be offended—the first time I went to a Catholic church my observation was, “Cool, you have footrests.” It would be a cute story if I were eight. I was 19, but I was corrected—“They’re for kneeling when you pray”—and did stay for the service, er mass, but was really confused about all the up and down. Back home in the Reformed Church, we were stuck in the pews unless asked to stand during a hymn, and that was riding the pine—no cushions there.

My limited experience with the Catholic church did remind me that they recognized different saints to pray to and help with certain life situations. So who would be my saint? I waited on plenty of priests at the restaurant at which I worked, but I was a little scared of that dialogue since I wasn’t Catholic, let alone go to any specific church. I didn’t want to leave the impression that I was mocking their religion or just trying to score a favor from the Universe since I was experiencing some trouble and uncertainty in my life. Same story with consulting a friend—religion is so odd like that, some people assume I’m an atheist or have no spiritual basis to my life since I am not a church-goer. So what did I do?

I Googled.

Was I looking for the saint who comforted the confused? The fearful? The saint who looked out for the attorneys trying the case? The judge presiding over the mess? The lost? The 30-something chick making herself sick with worry over losing one of the beings she loves more than herself before she barely had a chance to know her?

Then it smashed across my head like a sack of potatoes: it wasn’t about me. It was about Joey.

Oh humility.

It wasn’t about the chance of me losing her, it was about the hope for her to continue the good life we’d started.
Then I found my saint, not like a wrecking ball, but like the birds surrounded him as he preached to them. My saint was Saint Francis, the nurturer of animals and the environment. The humble man who lived in poverty and is probably the closest saint I could get to a hippie. When I was a child I would hold funerals for dead birds, usually robins, the most basic bird in these parts, but the 40 inch tall version of me knew each little bird deserved a few words before time took their feathers away.

Maybe I didn’t find Francis, maybe I re-found him.

He was with me when I was 23 and went to Paris, in front of Notre Dame. There’s a beautiful courtyard space on the Western side of the church where I was sitting one morning, taking the whole scene in, the way one has to when the buildings have centuries of history, wondering who might have stood in this spot and pondered his or her life. My thoughts were interrupted when I noticed a rough-looking man feeding tiny songbirds just a few feet away. Rough-looking isn’t the right way to say it; one could easily jump to the conclusion he was homeless.

Whatever his situation, the joy on his face was incredible. I started to take his picture and when he noticed, he stopped to pose. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was beautiful. He motioned me over.

The cynic in my thought I was about to be robbed if I walked to him.

He took my hand at the wrist, turned it over, and placed some of the bread crumbs in my hands. He pointed at the birds, nodded, and gently guided my hand towards the tiny, feathered creatures. One jumped into my hand and started pecking, tickling my palm. A second friend joined in the pecking on my hand. The man laughed at my laugh. Maybe Francis looking for me again…

But I wasn’t thinking about those experiences when I walked into the Catholic supply store that day, I was just on a mission to find a Saint Francis medallion. I knew I didn’t need a nun’s habit to pass as a Catholic, but I also knew I couldn’t get roped into any type of questioning about where I attended mass or if OG won the last big game. So, I lied. The lady at the store was so nice and helpful, but I lied. I told her it was for a gift. I’m not sure what the penance for lying to the nice Catholic lady at the Catholic supply store is, but I should probably do that. Mission was accomplished, though, as I found a Saint Francis medallion and a prayer card.

That was late in 2009 and I’ve worn one everyday since. I had to do one replacement medallion as it was lost somewhere on the bike trails. But faith, superstition, or whatever you want to call it makes me want to wear it.

Once at the restaurant, I was cleaning off a table after the guests left and I found a Mary medallion on the floor. It must have fallen off someone’s chain. The guests were gone, so I put it in my pocket without really thinking much about it. I just thought I’d toss it in the lost and found on my next trip to the host stand. I had to laugh when the table was re-seated and it was a priest and two nuns. I relayed the story to them and said, “Your presence was announced.” The priest laughed. The nuns smiled.

We all have signs and symbols woven into our lives; we place the amount of meaning we chose into them. I am always amazed when I reflect and really look for the patterns, though. Did Joey find me Francis or did Francis find me Joey? Not that it really matters in the end. Joey is curled up in the papasan chair with Alli in a big pile of brownhead bitch love, just where they should be. And I’m listening to After the Gold Rush, humbled at the love in my life and grateful it’s there, no matter the path by which it came.




Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love,
Where there is injury, pardon,
Where there is error, the truth,Where there is doubt, the faith,

Where there is despair, hope,

Where there is darkness, light, and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.