Sisterhood

According to Merriam Webster's Dictionary, the word sisterhood is defined as a close relationship among women based on shared experiences, concerns, etc. ; a community or society of women ; especially: a community of nuns. It seems Mr. Webster did not have the pleasure of meeting the phenomenal women I have met along my path. In fact, I would say Mr. Webster must have lived a very banal life indeed if he were no better inspired to define such a powerful word in such limiting terms.

Sisterhood isn't just limited to the external factors of human experience. Oh no, it is much more profound than that. Sisterhood began when the first woman walked out of the Earth and stared back into the face of her fellow woman. When they stood in the forests and howled at the moon. When the first woman gave birth surrounded by her fellow women.

These primal sisters honored this connection, this sacred ability to give birth, to create life. They expanded. They became aware and awakened. They flourished. They made art and created works so profound there were no words.

Sisterhood is simple. It's primal and untamed. It's love. It's respect. It's dignity. Empathy. Awe at the sight of one sister's face reflected in the eyes of another. Can such a powerful connection ever be limited to a few words? I don't think so. I don't think Mr. Webster meant any disrespect. I think he simply never understood what a powerful word he was defining.

Two-hundred and eight years after the first Webster's dictionary was published, the word is once again being uttered on the lips of women across the globe. Women are becoming aware. We are awakening. We are removing the labels. The limitations. We are becoming powerful. We are once again becoming that wild thing that stares into the Moon with wonder and yearns to howl.

As I said, I have met phenomenal women. I have been inspired, enthralled, and amazed by their brilliance. Although I don't see them every day, I may not even chat with them every day, their light is there. Artists, mothers, dancers, teasers, and twirlers of the sacred flames. They have the power to capture images in a flash, to interpret sounds into the most amazing vibration, to bring alive and fan the rays of Awen. I am in love with their endless compassion, their unique abilities, their endless vulnerability as they day after day share their inner light with the world.

But sisterhood is more than just sharing our gifts. It is also sharing our burdens, our pain, our flaws. And this is where the word shines, where it is the most brilliant, the most powerful. And so are we.

You see, when your sister is hurt you feel it. It buries in the base of your soul and pushes through to the core of your being. You feel it in every fiber. When our sisters fall, we pick them up. We empower them. We make them strong again. We heal. Anyone can be a sister when things are easy and life is bright, but when things fall apart and that light is dim it doesn't only dim one light. It dims all of our lights. So we ignite the fire again. We continue the cycle of destroying what holds us in place and creating a new flow, a new cosmos, where our evolution and awakening continues and flourishes.

Sisterhood is the creative force we carry to create our own universe, our own sacred self, and the power to bring others who have dimmed back into their orbits. This is sisterhood. This is our legacy.

Mr. Webster really didn't get it, but we do. When I call my fellow woman Sister, I mean it. In her face I see my own.

May my Sisters' lights never dim.

Namaste ~

Mommy Hug and Kiss Jars

Once upon a time there were two little boys that were in an unhappy place. They cried, and threw things, were angry, and couldn't sleep at night. They were frightened when anyone raised their voices and they were afraid to be away from their mommy. 

One day Mommy took the little ones to a big colorful place in their neighborhood. There were lots of other boys and girls and lots of bright colors and happy people. They liked this place, but after a week they were again scared and anxious and unhappy. 

And so is the tale of my two little ones and their struggle with post traumatic stress disorder and the anxiety that comes with it. The first few weeks of school for my sons in Kindergarten were some of their hardest. They were experiencing feelings they didn't know how to deal with, but when Bobby said, " Mommy can you come to class and give me hugs? " I knew there had to be something to make their day brighter. 

Looking through my craft room, I found these little bottles. Mini salt and pepper shakers that were small enough to fit in a pencil box. I pulled paint and glitter, ribbon and stickers. 

It was a regular part of our day to walk home from school every day. We would stop by the park and then continue on to home, where we would craft, do homework, and spend time watching a movie before bed. It was a part of our daily lives that had evolved out of the need to make my little ones happy again. 

That day we took a detour. We bought ice cream, chocolate sauce, caramel, and sprinkles. We made sundaes, put the homework off until the next day, watched Scooby Doo and Harry Potter, and made pigs in a blanket and veggie trays for dinner. 

We poured the tiny bottles and glitter containers onto the table and each boy picked a jar. We poured colors and paints into the little jars and turned them upside down to dry, letting the extra paint pour into a container we would use for another craft another day. Before we went to bed I gave them each tight hugs and kisses. 

The next morning my sons were ready to walk to school and as we walked holding hands we talked about trees, clouds, flowers, they met up with other parents and classmates heading to school too. It was an adventure every morning, discovering leaves, rocks, clouds. Every day my sons were getting lighter. 

This morning we reached their homeroom classes and before I went in I hugged them and I hugged their jars, blew kisses into them, capped them tightly, and told them whenever they needed a hug and kiss from mommy they were in their pencil boxes. 

My sons used them a few times after that, but now they keep them on their shelves and pull them down once in a while and tell their little brother about all the fun they had making the jars. 

They no longer remember why we made them. They don't remember being unhappy or anxious or scared. They just remember the fun they had while they were making them with Mommy. 

Once upon a time I would think about those days and tear up. Now I think about them with pride. It makes me proud to see how my sons have evolved and how they have become happy and still need time with Mommy. They're nine now and are growing up so fast. 

These jars are only 1 x 1 inches but it just proves to never underestimate small things. They are usually the things that mean the most. 

Namaste ~

Culture shock

I grew up in a small town known for blue birds that don't sing, peaches that are always sweet, and Trojan warriors that never lose a battle. I spent most of my younger years counting the days until I could leave and go somewhere else.

Somewhere where art and music and magick were everywhere. Where life was busy and trees were tall. Where the waves crash on the shores and there is always something going on

Fourteen years ago I packed up my Geo and moved to Savannah after just a few weekend visits. I loved the city. I loved the culture. I loved the busy-ness and the mystical vibe of the city. Once there I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Savannah is an eclectic mix of Old World gypsy charm with sleek and modern. The pace is fast, the vibe is slow. There's very little you could ever want that is not there and there is always something going on. 

And as I celebrated my fourteenth year in Savannah, we were preparing to move. Boxes packed, labeled, and piled into a lemon yellow truck had a way of solidifying our decision to leave the culture we loved and embrace something new. The decision itself was sudden, the move took forever. I suppose I have been in a bit of shock, somewhere between trying to dream of a new way of life and trying to be practical. 

Entirely too many times practicality has won out. 

If there was a way to describe our lives here now, it would be a smooth blend of caffeine infused decaf, smoothly blended without sugar and topped with whipped cream and caramel. With a very slight bite that comes when the coffee is a bit too strong for the rest of the beverage. Every moment seems to be filled with something that needs to be done. In Savannah, we lived a simple life but we chose our moments. It sometimes feels as if those moments have been stolen away in some respect. 

Dad's house needs a lot of tlc, lots of repairs, and it has felt over the last few months as if there is a timeline. Everything has to happen spot on time. My shop relocated with very few issues, much to my surprise. As I hear very often, this is the Bible belt, and although I have met some cranky people, we have been received well. So well in fact I have been too busy keeping up to be busy with the repairs of the home.

Over the last few months our sons have been adjusting. Robert, who is the more calm of the two, has been out of sorts. But overall Dad is back home where he wants to spend the rest of his life, our family is together, and we have a larger space for our family. 

A few minutes with my Bobby and the source of his angst is revealed. 

Vidalia is a small town. Very small. So small you can drive all the way across it in a mere 12 minutes. There is no rush, the trees are tall and the stars shine bright. Traffic is light, nights are dark. And yet I have been running on coffee fumes and still living in full Savannah mode. I seem to have missed the entire point. 

For the first time since we have been together Larry has had time with his family. He has worked days, nights, swing shifts, holidays, in the elements, sick and well and has missed many of the days that make being a parent the whipped cream on the frappe. Larry's work IS his family now. He spends his days caring for his Dad, and his afternoons trying to catch up on repairs. It is his family home and despite the endless list of repairs that are needed, it has a great deal of character.

Shortly after moving in, we found two hidden rooms. There are four porches (each one facing a direction), two living rooms, two kitchens, and over all a construction that feels as if each room was added as it occurred to the architect. It's odd and interesting, a place of curiosity for little boys looking for an adventure. Except since moving here there hasn't been much in the way of adventures. It's been full of work, repairs, and, well, busy-ness. Somewhere in the wiring, the ceiling panels, planks of timber, and sorting out piles of items, Bobby got lost. Bobby lost his Mommy time, his Larry time, the time he used to spend with both of us.

Somewhere among all of this, Bobby's adventures came to a screeching halt. His artistic soul was screaming to come out and play amid everything. He wanted his life in Savannah where there were after school play dates, circles, art, picnics in the park, and Mommy crafting time. I thought my little boy had outgrown this time. That he no longer needed it. But I forgot the old saying that my babies would always be my babies, and he would always need his Mommy time.

As the new year slid into play, so did our family. We made resolutions to remove all the extra complications from our lives. To bring only what we love doing to life. To move back into that whipped cream on the frappe mode. We still have the repairs. We will still have the repairs for many months to come. The creative blockage I have been struggling with for months has lifted as I made the choice to close my brick and mortar shop and choose festivals, fairs, and a spot online. My writing has shifted also as I have chosen to leave a writing job to be completely independent and free form. My sons have their Mommy back completely and whole. While my health is nowhere near what it was before moving here, it has improved since making this choice. It's allowed me to spend more time with my sons and less time with my blanket.

Life is simpler here. It's slower, more languid. I moved to Savannah to shift life into gear only to discover years later what I need sometimes is for life to run on cruise. This is home. This is where my husband was born. Where our sons will grow up. Where our grandchildren will one day call home. It's not Savannah, we all feel that, but it has its quirks.

Bloom where you are planted, my tee shirt says. My three little flowers raise their faces to the bright full moon and so do I. Here I find my heart and soul.

Namaste ~

The first Ostara bunny

I  love this time of the year. Here in Georgia Spring teases us. It gets very warm and within days our cars are covered with clouds of yellow pollen, our heads are stuffed up, and lo and behold the first buds of azalea bushes start to peak through the branches. Birds are hopping about looking for nesting materials and squirrels are busy making more squirrels. For a few weeks before the actual onset of Spring, Georgia moves between being very warm and being frigid with gusts of wind coming off the ocean sharp enough to slice a roast.

The little ones are already anxiously awaiting the time when they can run around in shorts and pull out the water slide. The grill is daring me to clean it and photos of hand painted Easter eggs hung on trees bring back old memories of celebrating Ostara with my Grandmother. I plan to do something similar with my sons this year as well as participate in our annual Ostara picnic in the park at Forsyth Park on March 23rd. For now though, my mind and heart is tenderly reminded of stories my Grandmother told me of winged bunnies and a saucy little girl that had a heart as big as the whole world, and apparently a mouth as big as well.

My Grandmother told me this story when I was a wee witchling and I tell my sons the same story every year. One day they will also tell their children this story. I'm not sure where the history of this story lies or how old it is really, but I'm 44 and I was very small when my Grandmother first told it to me so it has been around a lot longer than I have.

It started with a little girl who lived in a tiny house near the Black Forest. It was very cold and her mother asked her to get firewood. The little girl went out, grabbed some logs, but was distracted by a pitiful sound of a bird crying in the forest. Thinking this wee bird was in trouble, the little girl dropped the fire wood and ran into the woods to help it. But the deeper she went the more lost she became until her hands and feet were numb with cold and she began to get very hungry.

Finally she found the wee bird. Its little body was very stiff and it was barely breathing. She put the little bird in her cloak and talked to it. She promised to take the wee bird home and take care of it if it would just get better. When she realized the little bird was not going to get better, she started crying. Her tears froze to her cheeks and when she was finally without hope she cried out to the Goddess to help the little bird. Unaware that she herself was also freezing to death, she begged the Goddess to come and help the little bird. In the distance she heard twigs snapping and saw bright green leaves sprouting on trees. Tiny white flowers appeared on smaller trees and flowers popped out of the ground.

Standing in front of her was the Goddess dressed in a gown of green leaves and with a ring of flowers in her hair.

The little girl held up the tiny bird and said to the Goddess, "Fix it! She's very sick and I can't fix her! I put her under my cloak but she is still stiff!" The Goddess being a bit unused to this manner of address, looked at the little girl and said, " Let the wee bird sit on the ground little one." And doing what the Goddess said, the little girl placed the still stiff bird on the ground near the Goddess's feet. The warmth from Her was already warming the little girl and her tears now flowed down her cheeks.

Scooping the little bird up, She blew on the little bundle and set it in a patch of thick clover. The little bird fluttered and flittered but could not make its wings move correctly. If the bird could not fly it would not be able to get away from cats! The little girl knew there were things that would eat it if it could not get up and fly away.

" NO! No! You didn't fix her! She still can't fly!" The Goddess looked at the little girl with a very annoyed expression. Only hours before She had walked out of the Earth and began waking up the plants and flowers around Her and this little one was very demanding indeed! Still, She admired her spunk and knew she only spoke out of love for the wee bird.

The Goddess knelt down and putting a pretty clover leaf behind the little girl's ear she brushed away her tears and whispered, "Watch this!" ...Before the little girl's eyes the little bird had transformed into a brown and white bunny and hopped away leaving a trail of brightly colored eggs behind her! Squealing with delight, the little girl followed the bunny and her eggs until she reached her little home at the edge of the forest.

Her mother, who was beside herself, welcomed her little girl home with a big hug and welcomed her new pet with a big bunch of carrots.

Such is the story of the very first Ostara bunny!

Letting go of safe

My youngest son and I recently came across a chrysalis. They're not terribly pretty. They are actually quite banal to onlookers. Not appetizing in the least for birds seeking a treat. No one really notices them. In fact, I would not have noticed it at all except it was covered in a thin veneer of ice. It sparkled, shimmered, looked as if it were dipped in fine sugar. I took a second to appreciate this and to share this with my littlest angel, who isn't so little anymore. I explained to Morgan this odd little capsule was a home for a beautiful butterfly that would emerge in just a few months. It was dry. It was warm. It was safe. 

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I am not a fan of sudden abrupt change. We found ourselves suddenly trading a small home in a big town for a large home in a small town. We added a family member as my husband's Father became a daily part of our family life. A beagle mix puppy named Scrappy Doo joined us as did two little feline fur balls. We lost friends.We gained friends. Change is uncomfortable. It's difficult. It's not safe. 

At the end of last year I considered a lot of choices I made to feel safe. Some of them good, some of them not so bright, but at the time they were safe. They were comfortable. They did what I needed in the core of my being to be done. Much like this butterfly forming inside the chrysalis. Outside is a hard exterior, inside is soft, vulnerable, fragile center that needs to be protected at all cost. I believe we are all like that at some point. Fragile, like these beautiful winged creatures. We just have to be careful not to clip our wings in the process. 

At the end of the year I felt very much as if my wings were clipped. I'd lost perspective in lists, in to dos, in orders, Dad's medications, and helping my sons adjust to a new home, a new school, a new way of life. I found myself dealing with an illness I was not prepared to deal with. The last few months of the year flew by, all the while leaving very little room for my own flight. 

Somewhere under the piles of lists I lost direction. I've spent more than a few days in a tailspin while trying to regain my control. At the end of the year I began moving back into a place of intuition. My son, who has had issues in school this year, confided the need for more mommy time, more craft space, more family time. Our home has undergone major changes as we shifted rooms, spaces, uses of space. In the process something clicked. The first crack in my chrysalis. 

My dislike for change has become a devouring need. Once again, this time on my terms, life is changing. My shop of ten years is closing and becoming an at home venture until I create the perfect space. How odd that as soon as I made this decision the dam of creativity I have been fighting to open swung free. It's not only what my sons need, it's what I need. I plan to travel to festivals. To teach. To immerse myself in art, service, and life. This year is about rediscovery. It's about releasing control in order to gain it. After several months of adjustment, I've realized the clarity of letting go of safe. The funny thing about constructing and losing yourself in life is you don't really live it. You lose the freedom of flight for the sake of a gilded cage. 

And now my chrysalis has cracked. It's time to spread my wings and fly. 

A Cat Named Scooby Doo

It has been a long year and 11 months since my last post. You know the Southern saying, "Life is like a box of chocolates." ? Well, it is really and this post is particularly a bittersweet piece. Full of nuts, rich deep, nearly black, dark chocolate, with a hint of that thick, syrupy, sweetness confectioners and chocolatiers are so fond of. I'm going to start my first post of 2013 and over 11 months, with this thought. Even though the first taste may be bitter, there is always that sticky sweetness to look forward to.

I've lived in Savannah for over 12 years, in fact this will be lucky 13. I love Savannah, most of the time anyway, but before I lived here I lived in a tiny two road, no traffic light, little town (read Incorporation) called Devereaux. It was tiny and everyone knew or were related to everyone else. So when I started moving through my divorce everyone knew and everyone knew before I did. I worked in the ER for five years, only to arrive one day to find chains on the doors. My third job as domestic Goddess of local doctor's offices died as one doctor after the other left town to relocate in other areas.

All the signs were there. It was time to move. Out came a map, a pin, and within days I'd located an apartment and were making arrangements to move to Savannah. Within the month I would be in my new home with my little dog Casey, who was a blind, bow-legged, fur based bundle of goulash. My room mate at the time had a little dog. A Yorkie. Casey loved this Ewok on four legs. It didn't take long to realize that Casey, who was an abuse survivor, had come out of his shell because he had this little dog to play and socialize with. When we left, he would not have this companionship. I started thinking of options for him. I didn't want to leave him alone in a strange apartment while I was at work.

I extended my concerns to the Universe and it answered. In blaring, biting, black and white clarity.
A few days before I moved I found this small bundle of black and white fur and bright yellow eyes. He was a fuzzy little thing, but skinny and seemed to be missing teeth. He seemed to be a bit lethargic and had this nasty ooze coming from his eyes and ears. He was a sad creature. The sort you see and can't decide what to do about. Infested with all manner of biting creatures, I felt compelled to share my dinner with him. He he ate and snorted and sneezed and finally after a few minutes, threw it all back up...or at least most of it. My heart sank. I was hoping a good meal would help his situation, but it seemed he was so badly malnounrished his stomach couldn't handle food. I grabbed a towel and started to wrap him up and he bit me. Yes you read that right. This ratty little kitten with the yellow eyes and the vampire fang teeth, actually BIT me.

Within seconds I knew without a doubt he would make it. No matter what was wrong with him, he was a tough little guy and if my vet could see him before we left for Savannah he would be the companion Casey needed to continue his healing process. And so 324.00 later, a big bag of meds, bottles, cat milk, soft food, and kitty eye drops later, Lestat became a part of my small family. I didn't have children but I definitely had a soft spot for fur babies.

Three months later, Lestat, Casey, and I were in our third story apartment and he did not look like the same cat. His teeth finally came in. His parasites were gone. He had put on weight and had a glorious coat of black and white fur. His tendency for biting people he did not like, however, remained. Four years later, Lestat was present at every solitary circle, every reading, very familiar with my crystals, and would sit nearby and watch me prepare my altar for each change of season and Sabbat. He was the perfect familiar.

Fast forward four years. After a long and difficult pregnancy, Lestat welcomed us at the front door peeking in on our bundled newborn twin boys. He seemed to be especially attached to Bobby and slept close to him whenever he had the chance. Two weeks after bringing the boys home, Lestat woke me scratching and howling on our bedroom door. I checked the monitor. All was quiet. Lestat was nearly fantic in his scratching and had nearly ripped pieces of the door away. When I  checked my sons, I found Bobby with a cold blue tinge to his lips and non-responsive. He was not breathing. Another nearly three weeks later and once again I was returning home with my sons. I spent the entire time there with my infants and I was told Lestat only left the boy's closed door to eat and visit his litter box.

Fast forward three years and my husband and I are now divorcing. We were separated for almost a year when I discovered yet another little miracle was on the way. While Lestat did not seem as interested in this bundle as the last two, he was also a good deal older. A few weeks after my youngest angel was brought home, our family was struck with a situation that would take over two years to resolve. My soon to be ex husband had taken my sons and refused to return them. I spent a good bit of time curled up on the floor weeping that night and Lestat was there with me, trying to get into my lap, purring in my ears, offering what comfort he could. In the months that came he visited the boys room and I noticed he was much thinner than before. When the boys were returned to our home, Lestat spent his nights in their room, sleeping with one then the other throughout the night. Slowly, a day at a time, I watched my sons begin to open up and move back to a place of normalcy.

Skipping time again. It is December 2012, the year of awakening, transformation, and truly a time of magick if ever there were one. Lestat is missing. We put up flyers, notices, left numbers, spoke to all of my neighbors, none of them had seen my little brat prince. He was simply gone, as if he had never existed at all. No tufts of fur. No foot prints. No sightings. Just gone. My sons went to Winter break for a week with their father. We had the second half of break. I called them nearly every day and during one of our conversations, my sons John said the most amazing thing.

" Mommy did you find Lestat?"
" No honey not yet. We are still looking for him."
" Mommy tell Santa I don't want any of my toys. He can give them to children that don't have any toys. I want my kitty. Please tell Santa to bring him home. All I want is my kitty."

And there my heart broke. The incredible powers women get when they become a mother to heal scratches and ouchies with a mere kiss, to mend stuffed animals with a simple passing of the needle, and the ability to bend time and space to keep dates with her children could not fix this. Here was the one thing my mommypowers could not fix.

And then I went to work. I have wonderful shop mates. One of my favorites is Carmen. She has a heart as big as Jupiter and always smiles no matter how bad things utterly and totally suck. And her daughter was standing in front of me with an equally big grin on her face. And a silver bag in her hand.

Inside the bag was a tiny meowing orange and caramel swirl kitten with a Santa hat and a red collar with bells. The hat was too big and kept falling over his face, which in kitten language is a declaration of kitty war. While kitty was mauling the Santa hat, and purring the entire time, I noticed his eyes, the color of warm carmelized honey. A weight was lifted. I could not give my sons Lestat, but I could maybe make John's Yuletide wish come true.

Carmen explained that this wee kitty was also a toss away kitty. Someone had taken his siblings and put them in a bag behind a local Walmart. They were crying and hungry, infested with critters, and two of them were suffering with eye infections while a third appeared to have a broken back. In the back of my mind, I couldn't help but think Lestat was going to be cranky when he returned and found a cute kitty had taken his place. Deep down I think I knew Lestat was not coming back.

Christmas morning the wee ones came home. The kitten was the last gift to pop out of their room. They were instantly in love with him. Amidst squeals of happiness and excitement, they were told he did not have a name. They were charged with gifting him with one.

He was not a Thor, not a Sunflower, not a Loki. Finally Bobby scooped him up and started reading him his favorite Scooby Doo book. Amazingly the same kitty that had spent the past few days zooming around at high speed and tackling bows, pieces of paper, chair legs, and toes, was perfectly content to sit and listen to the adventures of Scooby and Shaggy.

And so the name stuck. Three weeks later and the kitty still snuggles with Bobby and Bobby still reads him the adventures of Scooby Doo.

Somewhere in Avalon, a black and white kitty nods in approval. I believe he left us to pass quietly with as little suffering for his family as possible, but in return this little one who would not have survived the weather without food or shelter, now would continue Lestat's purpose. Even from the Summerlands, Lestat is still watching over and loving his family and Scooby Doo has become a beautiful long legged bundle of energy. Like Lestat he takes turns sleeping with his new family members. He tries to steal our chicken and he loves the ugliest orange chair ever created. Just like Lestat. Like Lestat, Scooby Doo is also a very lucky kitty. He will live out his life being spoiled and adored just like his predecessor.

But without the biting.

art by any other name..

Our family is full of artists. All kinds of artists. I create art from ordinary day to day items that would otherwise end up adding to the pollution problem. My fiance loves working with metal. My sons, well they love all kinds of art and the messier the better. My littlest angel Morgan, well he has a strange love of art that seems to out weird even my tastes.

The funny thing about little boys, especially while potty training, is they seem to get particularly creative around this time. It's almost like a little alarm goes off that tells them to seek out strange and unusual ways to express their creativity. Like most members of my family, the stranger the better. Well maybe not. The day I discovered my son's zest for art was a particularly busy day. Probably busier than any day I have had since, well since Pagan Pride Day last year. I was an art major and have a hunger for anything artistic. I think it would be fair to say my appetite has been somewhat diminished.

Flashback circa 1992, LA art scene. There I am in a 20's style black beaded flapper dress, hair vampire red and done in a mass of ringlets, and anxiously awaiting my first performance art exhibit. I am excited. Eagerly awaiting the artist that created the gorgeous splashes of colors on the home sized canvases in the gallery just outside the closed doors of the theater. I have to say I was feeling very uncultured. Everyone around me seemed very sophisticated and there I was, skinny little goth girl from Fort Valley, Georgia. I almost didn't go. I didn't care for the city. It seemed everyone was in a hurry to get barely further than they would have if they had just waited. I was never in a hurry to get anywhere. I wanted to soak up everything. My friend Adrian, who was flamboyantly gay, sported a two foot screaming orange mohawk, and wore a fuchsia shirt so bright it ran the risk of getting satellite attention, was my anchor. I hovered around him like my life depended upon it.

And then the artist arrived.

Now here is where things start to relate to the topic at hand. It gets a little gross from here, so please don't snack while reading. Perhaps I should have added a disclaimer...

The artist in question was tall, pale, seemed to be completely out of place with everyone else's very tanned bleach blond looks. And yet he was completely at ease...so much so that he disrobed and strutted around like a peacock. Ok, artists are chronically eccentric, it's what we do, but this was borderline comical. And then out came the artist's assistant. With paint, gallons of it. And a hose. In a flash I had it all figured out. This naked, cocky guy (no pun intended I promise) was going to spray the canvases with the paint and probably end up wearing it.

Not exactly. The artist's assistant proceeded to assist the performer in question with a paint enema. Yes you read that correctly. Unfortunately. From there on, I was no longer concerned about my level of sophistication. This particular artist was very talked about, from Geraldo to Donahue. I missed those episodes. I sat in the audience wishing I had not. The beautiful canvases in the gallery were pieces produced by, and pardon me but there is truly no delicate way to put this, although I will try, this artist projectile spraying the paint on the canvas with his backside.

And that is as delicate as I can get. I will leave the rest to your unfortunate imaginations. Needless to say, I left the showing with the full confidence that in no way shape form or fashion was LA the place for me.

Walking into Morgan's room, I kind had the same impending feeling of horror. You see my little son, who is still potty training, decided to adorn his room with a similar organic matter. I was not amused, somewhat horrified and astutely aware that a hot bucket of water and lots of bleach was definitely going to be needed.

Morgan on the other hand, seemed to be very proud of his accomplishment. He had a fresh pull up and chirped all the way to the tub, with rubber ducky in hand. As frustrating as that was, I have to say spending a little q-time with Morgan while he was splashing around and having a blast doing what little boys do with bubbles, duckies, and boats was somewhat of a relief. Life has gotten too busy. My little shop, which has exploded this year, has kept me busy. I now write full time for examiner.com, and a host of other things take me away from doing a lot of the things that keep my life simple. Like spending extra time with my son.

He gets lost sometimes. In the hustle to get packages to the post in a timely manner. In the hustle to get healthy meals and snacks ready. In PTA meetings and soccer games. In page after page of homework. Even though the circumstances were unfortunate, it brought me back to a place I desperately needed to be. A place where the articles, the beads, the tabs, the orders, were not as important as the reason I bust my behind to make them and keep them coming. Sometimes life has a funny way of resetting our priorities. It has a way of forcing you to sit down and just marvel at the small things.

And when it comes down to it, it's always about the small things in life. That's usually where our happiness can be found. Maybe I'll miss a few parties. Maybe some events will get cancelled. Maybe there will be days when I'm too tired to do anything but cuddle on the sofa with my sons, make fruit trays and popcorn, and just enjoy the Harry Potter or Bewitched series we've watched a gazillion times.

It's amazing how ten years later the same lightening bolt of awareness and realization that made me astutely aware of my place, struck twice. After pulling out the legos for Morgan and scrubbing the walls, I understood this was his way of asking for Mommy time. I cancelled my appointments for the rest of the day. I don't think he will ever have to ask me twice.

But I will still be very happy when potty training is over.

Namaste ~