The unexpected nature of finding myself living in New England for many years has presented innumerable cultural experiences that I could never have experienced otherwise. Although it's not been quite three years for me in Maine, I have lived here for a total of three full NFL seasons. NFL, living in New England... can you sense where I'm headed with this one? You bettah believe that this post is about none less than the NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS(groans from some, cheers from others). More specifically my time here amongst the Pats fans, thriving in their natural habitat, New England.
You see the past three NFL seasons have provided me the opportunity to witness the Patriots and their legion of local fans go through one Super Bowl loss, one Super Bowl win, and one season where the Patriots completely missed playing in the Super Bowl. All of this happening at the near end of what is the Tom Brady and Bill Belichick dynasty era of unparalleled success. This fact leaves me in the current position to also watch Patriots fans suffer immensely as Tom Brady becomes a free agent. So many beautiful facets to this story.
In the beginning, having lived here for only about five months, the entirety of the 2017-2018 NFL season, it all had come to an end and with a Patriots' loss to the Nick Foles led Eagles in Super Bowl LI. Coming down to the wire of a crazy game, New England walked away defeated, and stunned. Now, the fans' reaction wasn't so, um, professional. The crying, the excuses, the shit talking about referees or some other thing that was "unfair!". Mind you this is all coming from the fans of a team that has cheated. The somber, sorry slump that fans walked around with for one to three weeks post-loss. The feeling that life was so difficult to live because the Patriots missed out on the win. Not wanting to talk about it, and a general melancholy everywhere I went. Slightly pathetic, but overall not particularly annoying; I dealt with it fine. All the Patriots' fandom was super optimistic, if not out right in-your-face about the fact that the Pats would go back again in 2018-2019 season and win it all. And that's exactly what happened.
In a 2018-2019 season dominated by teams like New Orleans, Kansas City, Los Angeles Rams, Seattle, The Patriots were also strong, but not for sure favorites to take it all. Then the Patriots do what the Patriots do in the NFL Playoffs and just win, taking them back to play for Super Bowl LII battling this time with a much younger offensive thunderstorm in the LA Rams. The game was something of a defensive slugfest and it ended up as a snoozer, if you ask me. Low scoring and overall not exciting, but alas the Patriots were victors again where they are so comfortable being. Fans rejoiced. Patriots Nation was whole once more as Tom Brady delivered again as the messiah. Many fans weren't too loud mouthed about that particular victory due to its boring nature, but it was still a win. It happened to be an historic win as well, being the 6th victory
Our most recent NFL season was one that I followed more closely than any year prior, and also enjoyed more than any year prior. Of course as reigning champions the Patriots had just as good or better a chance to make it back to the big game as any team. After a decent start to the season the Patriots struggled towards the end and barely made the playoffs, where they lost in the first round. Not to summarize it too easily, I reveled in the glory of the Patriots' early playoff loss. Dancing around my living room I sang, "Ding dong the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead!!!" I was PUMPED that after two years and two NFL seasons living in New England, I was finally going to get to watch a Super Bowl that the Patriots did not appear in! Many New England fans in this area acted as if football didn't exist after the Pats lost in the wild card playoff game. Various mourning clients at the shop would slump in the chair and say how they weren't watching any other playoffs. I'm like, damn, y'all are sorta weak, in fact not sorta. For a group of people so accustomed to extraordinary success, Patriots fans really, really don't know how to handle a loss. At all.
Playoffs and the Super Bowl did not disappoint and Kansas City took home the prize, the first Super Bowl appearance and subsequent win for their team in 50 years. Imagine that, Patriots fans! Fifty years with no Super Bowl appearance, let alone a championship! It's truly unfathomable to these New England fans, because they have literally in the past twenty years never had to imagine being too far removed from a Super Bowl championship. But that might change this season, if not for sure in the next few seasons.
You see, the best part of all of this is not only have I borne witness to a variety of Super Bowl experiences with Patriots' fandom, now I get to see them squirm while they await official decisions regarding Tom Brady's final years in the NFL. Will he stay in New England or will he go to another team and make a run for it in a whole different way?!?!?! That very thought is absolutely torturing those that love the Patriots and Tom Brady. They are LOSING IT, to put it lightly. Should Tom Brady decide to stay with the Patriots for the final years of his career, the collective sigh of relief from this region will have the potential to shift weather patterns. On the contrary, the sheer volume of tears that will be shed if Brady leaves for another team will probably make up for the lack of precipitation we've had this past winter. I sit back and take it all in. I truly don't know what Tom Brady will decide and I sort of don't care. I'm just so grateful that I have been here observing such a wide variety of experiences regarding the New England Patriots fan culture during a time of historic success. Witnessing the highs and lows of the Pats fans, and especially loving the discomfort brought upon them by the impending end of the Patriots dyansty. Suckahs.
Sunday, March 8, 2020
Sunday, January 28, 2018
Ride or die.
On my street there's a poor, frozen bicycle locked to a tree. During the fall time I remember thinking, "Is that gonna be there all winter? Does that poor baby have a home?" Even if it does have a home, it's not allowed to come inside, regardless of the weather. This bike was on the verge of disappearing in that glacier, if it weren't for a couple consecutive days in the 40's.
Then New England got blasted with a "bomb cyclone" and I saw this frigid, two-wheeled friend left to bear the brunt of the storm. Then the plows came, making for an even sadder scene. Has anyone ever shoveled their bike out? Cars, yes. Doorways, yes. Bikes? This is Maine, bikes get shoveled out.
C'mon now, what did this bike do to get left out in the cold? Bicycles are our friends! They get cold and lonely too. Not to mention the damage various parts will suffer due to the freeze/thaw and all the damn salt, sand and grime ever-present on the sidewalks.
Call me crazy, but I don't think any bicycle should be an outdoor pet, they want to be warm and dry like the rest of us. Plus, who rides in this New England winter madness? You'd be surprised... I feel like nothing stops the New English from living life, not even the gnarliest winter ever. Inspiring folks they are. Or maybe just insane.
Thursday, January 4, 2018
Siwa.
Of all the places in all the world I've had the pleasure of seeing with my own two eyes and feeling with my own bloody heart, the oasis of Siwa in Western Egypt is one of the top, tippy-top best. One day, a few years back, I attempted to start writing about my experience there and found it too difficult to sum up. I was rambling, trying to put every detail into words, the smells, the sights, the feelings, the people, and I couldn't do it. Siwa affected me so deeply and was such a joy of a place to be that it was impossible to write a blog post about it. I have always wanted to write about Siwa, and the other night I had the idea of one experience I had there that would be a good story to share.
Let me set the scene. Siwa lies in a deep depression in the Sahara desert of Western Egypt with an altitude well below sea level, hence its access to ground water to create life in the sand. There are palm tree groves as far as the eye can see. There is a large salty lake west of the oasis, fittingly called Siwa Lake. In the center of the small town the remains of an enormous, centuries-old mud brick village still stand. Partially destroyed by heavy rain decades ago, the mud brick village is largely abandoned, but some families still live on its outskirts near the more "modern" town. Open air markets vending fresh fruits and vegetables, donkey carts(taxis), veiled women milling about, the echo of the prayer call coming from minarets, and ample sunshine add to the enchanting nature of this delightful place. Hundreds of miles away from anything, Siwa Oasis is special.
The Desert Rose hotel where I stayed was about a mile or so outside of the main town, down a dusty road. Being disconnected from the rest of the grid of the town, Desert Rose did not have electricity. Water was gas heated and all food was cooked over gas as well. At night we used candles to light the rooms. So charming. The courtyard was open air allowing for the sun to pour in onto the white stucco and tile mosaic. Behind the hotel lies a vast set of dunes, appropriately called the Great Sand Sea. These dunes went on for hundreds and hundreds of miles. Straight out of a movie.
I couldn't believe his timing. I couldn't believe that as my life flashed before my eyes I was suddenly picked up by this upbeat Egyptian, you know, just on his way into town. I got into the truck and said something about the dogs, about how scared I was and that they were gonna eat me. Ali chuckled and said, "Nothing would have happened." Easy for you to say, you are a badass, desert hardened Egyptian who could have fended them off with one hand tied! I'm a soft, pasty American with zero desert survival skills that I'm sure would have been quite the treat for those desert dogs dining on stringy old donkey.
Ali dropped me off in the town square where I enjoyed my last evening in this fascinating oasis that had touched my soul. I purchased some fruits, watched life go by and eventually got a ride back to the Desert Rose for my final candle-lit evening.
Siwa was a profound experience for me in so many ways, this dog story being just one of those ways. Siwa was the furthest away I had ever been from myself and everything I had known. A deep love for the desert began to blossom for me in Siwa's Great Sand Sea. I was seeing a very real part of Egyptian culture that was far from the famous history of the Nile. And it is the only place in Egypt that I ever rode a bicycle.
For years I carried an intense fear of all dogs, not realizing it was born that day, on that road faced by those bloody faced wild dogs. A dear friend helped me realize the fear came from that experience and it was a great revelation that helped me get over it. I love dogs now, but I don't ever want to be in another situation like that. There's a big difference between domesticated, well-taken-care-of dogs and wild African desert dogs with a mission to survive. All of that said, Egypt is, and will likely always be, my favorite country.
Let me set the scene. Siwa lies in a deep depression in the Sahara desert of Western Egypt with an altitude well below sea level, hence its access to ground water to create life in the sand. There are palm tree groves as far as the eye can see. There is a large salty lake west of the oasis, fittingly called Siwa Lake. In the center of the small town the remains of an enormous, centuries-old mud brick village still stand. Partially destroyed by heavy rain decades ago, the mud brick village is largely abandoned, but some families still live on its outskirts near the more "modern" town. Open air markets vending fresh fruits and vegetables, donkey carts(taxis), veiled women milling about, the echo of the prayer call coming from minarets, and ample sunshine add to the enchanting nature of this delightful place. Hundreds of miles away from anything, Siwa Oasis is special.
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| A portion of the mud brick village. The "modern" town lies at the center of the photo. |
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| Market at night. |
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| More common than any other form of transport. |
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| Desert Rose courtyard. |
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| Edge of Great Sand Sea. View from Desert Rose rooftop |
Ali is the name of the man who was in charge and he embodied the friendliness and gregarious nature that Egyptians are legendary for. This guy could cook a fierce meal, guide a desert safari, and run errands for the hotel all in one day. I felt blessed to be in such a gorgeous place, in the company of such a gracious host, with the backdrop of the stunning dunes shimmering in the full moon light. Ali loved the desert and sold safaris in his well equipped 4-Runner; deflate the tires a bit and head out into the endless dunes. I took him up on this two separate days and those safaris are some of the most beautiful memories of all my times visiting Egypt. Along with sharing his knowledge and love of the desert with me, Ali would come to save me from great harm at one point in the few days I spent as his guest.
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| Ali in his beloved desert. |
During one of the afternoons I was at the Desert Rose, I wanted to get into town to enjoy the evening and buy some fruits for my bus journey the next day. Ali was not at the hotel to give me a ride so I decided to go into town on foot. The walk was an isolated road of sand and dust, lined with tall grass on either side and passing the occasional structure. There was nobody and nothing on this road besides me and the desert, or so I thought.
At one point as I was taking in the breathtaking serenity I heard some growling. I stopped and quickly noticed not far off the road was a pack of desert dogs. Four or six of them, large dogs, intensely staring at me and slowly inching forward, baring their teeth. Their faces were bloodied adding to the terror. They were eating a dead donkey and my passing was certainly a threat to their meal. In an absolute state of overwhelming fear, I froze. The following moments were consumed with thoughts of, "If I run they will chase me. I have no where to go. There is nothing here to protect me. I am a dead woman." Those moments felt like an hour. Paralyzed with fear, I literally did not know what to do. I knew I was gonna get attacked. It was over, life was gonna end for me like it has for so many, in the Sahara. Then suddenly Ali pulled up in his 4-Runner and with this thick accent was like, "Do you want a ride into town?" Do I want a ride?! I jumped into that truck for my life!
I couldn't believe his timing. I couldn't believe that as my life flashed before my eyes I was suddenly picked up by this upbeat Egyptian, you know, just on his way into town. I got into the truck and said something about the dogs, about how scared I was and that they were gonna eat me. Ali chuckled and said, "Nothing would have happened." Easy for you to say, you are a badass, desert hardened Egyptian who could have fended them off with one hand tied! I'm a soft, pasty American with zero desert survival skills that I'm sure would have been quite the treat for those desert dogs dining on stringy old donkey.
Ali dropped me off in the town square where I enjoyed my last evening in this fascinating oasis that had touched my soul. I purchased some fruits, watched life go by and eventually got a ride back to the Desert Rose for my final candle-lit evening.
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| Still alive! Siwa town square in the full moon light. |
For years I carried an intense fear of all dogs, not realizing it was born that day, on that road faced by those bloody faced wild dogs. A dear friend helped me realize the fear came from that experience and it was a great revelation that helped me get over it. I love dogs now, but I don't ever want to be in another situation like that. There's a big difference between domesticated, well-taken-care-of dogs and wild African desert dogs with a mission to survive. All of that said, Egypt is, and will likely always be, my favorite country.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Black don't crack.
Many a jacket hangs in my closet. There are two down jackets, one large and puffy, the other is more of a down pea coat with a great hood. There are numerous hoodies of varying ages and thicknesses. Some of the hoodies have been adorned with the graphics of old t-shirts sewn on the the back as a way to customize and preserve, so punk rock. From my travels to other countries, I have a great collection of Adidas soccer jackets, Team Argentina, Team Mexico, plain black with white stripes and a high collar, etc. I even have a hoodie that I adopted from the barbershop after no one came back to claim it. Being someone who wants to avoid the cold touching me at all times, I have collected these jackets over the years and refuse to part with any of them.
Today it snowed all day, nothing major, just a consistent flurry of the heavy, fresh-off-the-sea snow that I guess is the norm for Portland Maine. This breed of snow is all new to me. Heavy, sticky, makes slush as soon as it hits the ground. Strange to this Colorado girl who's only experience with snow up to this point has been the dry fluff of a high altitude, landlocked climate. And then the sun went down, the temperature went up. And then it started to rain. It's still raining. WHAT THE CRAP?!(insert mind-blown emoji)
How in the world does snow turn to rain? Rain turns to snow, period. When the sun goes down, the temp goes down, period. Not so quick, I'm learning. The ocean is a powerful determiner of all things weather and being right by it means I need to throw out the rule book on what I've experienced, having never lived in the coastal climate of New England. Or shall I say, having never wanted to live in the coastal climate of New England. I truly cannot believe I am hunkering down to endure a Maine winter. sigh.
Though I hate winter and snow, I love shoveling snow, gets the anger out. Having good intentions to shovel some of the snow this eve, I got all dressed up and went outdoors only to find the rain has completely soaked the four inches of snow that had fallen. It is complete slush; deep, icy slush. My Famous Footwear snow boots are no match for this, I need real boots. Alas, I at least used the opportunity of being outside and brushed the slush off of my car before it has the chance to turn to four-inch-thick ice.
When I came in I removed my soaked boots, my soaked gloves and hung up my soaked jacket. Clothes be gettin' soaked. The jacket I had chosen to wear outside is the one I thought best suited for a rainy situation and proved to hold its own for the fifteen minutes I stood in the sopping wet snow and got poured on by freezing rain. This black hooded jacket has been in my life for almost ten years. It's technically a lightweight ski jacket, lined with a thin fleece, that I bought for the "cold" nights I would experience living in Guatemala back in 2009. We are talking about 55 degrees at the lowest. It is the closest thing I have to a real rain jacket that would also provide me warmth. It's still hanging and will probably take the bulk of the night to dry.
What prompted me to write tonight about jackets and weather was the thought that I NEVER, EVER would have known that the jacket I bought nine years ago to keep me warm in Guatemala would be out in the freezing December rain of Portland Maine. This black jacket has been through torrential downpours of Bogotá, kept me guarded from the winds of Okinawa, admired the fall leaves and majestic glaciers of Patagonia, and has even ridden the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. Life never ceases to amaze me with its twists and turns that have led me to so many wonderful places, black jacket in tow.
My black jacket has seen the world. Take a minute, look through your clothes, find one of your older pieces be it a jacket, pants, gloves. Think of all the life you've lived in that single piece of cloth, and reminisce. You'll probably be surprised at how much life you've lived with something you didn't realize was there with you the whole time.
Today it snowed all day, nothing major, just a consistent flurry of the heavy, fresh-off-the-sea snow that I guess is the norm for Portland Maine. This breed of snow is all new to me. Heavy, sticky, makes slush as soon as it hits the ground. Strange to this Colorado girl who's only experience with snow up to this point has been the dry fluff of a high altitude, landlocked climate. And then the sun went down, the temperature went up. And then it started to rain. It's still raining. WHAT THE CRAP?!(insert mind-blown emoji)
How in the world does snow turn to rain? Rain turns to snow, period. When the sun goes down, the temp goes down, period. Not so quick, I'm learning. The ocean is a powerful determiner of all things weather and being right by it means I need to throw out the rule book on what I've experienced, having never lived in the coastal climate of New England. Or shall I say, having never wanted to live in the coastal climate of New England. I truly cannot believe I am hunkering down to endure a Maine winter. sigh.
Though I hate winter and snow, I love shoveling snow, gets the anger out. Having good intentions to shovel some of the snow this eve, I got all dressed up and went outdoors only to find the rain has completely soaked the four inches of snow that had fallen. It is complete slush; deep, icy slush. My Famous Footwear snow boots are no match for this, I need real boots. Alas, I at least used the opportunity of being outside and brushed the slush off of my car before it has the chance to turn to four-inch-thick ice.
When I came in I removed my soaked boots, my soaked gloves and hung up my soaked jacket. Clothes be gettin' soaked. The jacket I had chosen to wear outside is the one I thought best suited for a rainy situation and proved to hold its own for the fifteen minutes I stood in the sopping wet snow and got poured on by freezing rain. This black hooded jacket has been in my life for almost ten years. It's technically a lightweight ski jacket, lined with a thin fleece, that I bought for the "cold" nights I would experience living in Guatemala back in 2009. We are talking about 55 degrees at the lowest. It is the closest thing I have to a real rain jacket that would also provide me warmth. It's still hanging and will probably take the bulk of the night to dry.
What prompted me to write tonight about jackets and weather was the thought that I NEVER, EVER would have known that the jacket I bought nine years ago to keep me warm in Guatemala would be out in the freezing December rain of Portland Maine. This black jacket has been through torrential downpours of Bogotá, kept me guarded from the winds of Okinawa, admired the fall leaves and majestic glaciers of Patagonia, and has even ridden the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. Life never ceases to amaze me with its twists and turns that have led me to so many wonderful places, black jacket in tow.
My black jacket has seen the world. Take a minute, look through your clothes, find one of your older pieces be it a jacket, pants, gloves. Think of all the life you've lived in that single piece of cloth, and reminisce. You'll probably be surprised at how much life you've lived with something you didn't realize was there with you the whole time.
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| Perito Moreno Glacier, Patagonia, Argentina 2013 |
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| Okinawa Island, Japan 2011 |
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Barbara Morgan Hansen
Has it really been fifteen years? Fifteen years since that call came? Close to half my life... Where has the time gone?... And though I often think of that day and the memories are crystal clear, I've never written about it. Until now. Fifteen years later.
Fifteen years ago, November 28 2002, was Thanksgiving Day. The bulk of my immediate family and I were at our Mom's house in Littleton preparing for dinner. The weather was mild as November can be in Littleton, I remember the sun shining through the windows of the kitchen. Hanging out, doing what families do best, BS-ing, the phone rang and it was my dad calling from his home in Highlands Ranch. Brady answered, told my dad, "Yes, we'll go right now", and hung up the phone. Dad had called to tell us that he had received a panicked phone call from his father, our grandpa, and that our grandma had fallen and they needed immediate help to get her up. My Mom's house was barely a mile from our grandparents and my father called us because he knew we could get there sooner. Jason, my sister's boyfriend at the time said, "I'll go with Brady" and I told him no, that I would go. I didn't want a stranger going over there.
Thinking, Oh we'll go help Grandma and be home in time for dinner, Brady and I hopped in the car and within minutes were at Grandma and Grandpa Hansen's house, a place we'd spent ample time at and formed lasting childhood memories. The energy upon entering that house was not what I expected; intense, heavy, almost twilight-zone-like. Brady and I turned the first corner into the hallway and saw our precious grandmother on the floor of her room. Our panicked, pacing grandfather and a neighbor who had come over to help immediately following the accident, were also there. They were able to turn Grandma over so she was not face down, and helped clean her up as she had messed herself in her moment of weakness. What my grandfather and his elderly neighbor did not have was the strength to pick Grandma up and carry her to bed. Nor did my grandmother have the strength or energy to do so on her own. Grandma's breathing was labored, she was clearly stressed out and likely in great pain, but she was communicating clearly and aware of what was happening. I'll never forget the sense of urgency and anxiety that consumed my grandfather in those moments; he was beside himself, helpless to help the love of his life in her time of greatest need.
Brady and I went into work mode, knowing we were there to do a job, one that required great strength but one that we did not know would require deep levels of tenderness. Brady and I positioned beautiful Barbara Hansen in our arms, Brady's arms underneath her armpits and mine underneath her legs. The bed had been prepared for her to be laid down and all we had to do was lift and, in one fell swoop, make sure she got to where she could rest. As we lifted, she was heavier than I expected, the weight of the world it felt like.
We got Grandma into bed and proceeded to bandage some injuries. At 83-years-old, Grandma's skin was as thin as tissue and a large piece on her arm had peeled back likely from hitting a door frame or piece of furniture. Being someone who doesn't deal well with flesh wounds, I thought of who I was helping, what she meant to me, and how much she needed me in that moment to get past the sight of the wound. I remember thinking, How is this going to heal? It's so big. I loaded the wound with antibiotic cream and placed a large bandage over it. There were a few other smaller wounds Brady and I bandaged and took care of some other things, making sure she had water and such.
Grandma was off the floor, comfortably in bed, still breathing heavily from the stress caused by the situation. She expressed her gratefulness for us coming over. Brady and I hugged her and she said something to us that I'll never forget, "Thank you so much. You are such good grandchildren." There was hugs and I love yous all around. We made sure Grandpa was feeling alright and after a very, very intense experience, got back in the car and headed back to Mom's. Thirty minutes absolutely seared in my brain.
As we drove away from their house, I felt infuriated that Grandma was living like that, needing such care and not having it provided for her in her home. I had last seen her in September of that same year and did not realize she was in danger of scary situations like that, living with only my grandfather to help her. I told myself that after Thanksgiving was over I was going to have a talk with my dad and Aunt Linda about her needing more care, a home nurse, something! What Brady and I saw in their home that day made me realize Grandma needed help, I did not want this special lady to suffer like that again. And she would not.
Following the holiday, I was at work that Friday and my father called the salon to tell me that grandma had passed away that night as she slept. A wave of relief washed over me, so much of uneasiness of the day before made sense, Grandma had been at the end of her life. And I found tremendous peace in knowing she wasn't going to hurt or fall anymore. Then I realized of all Barbara Morgan Hansen's grandchildren, Brady and I were the last ones she ever saw. That thought really meant something to me as it sunk in the day of her passing. Brady and I are close, and I'm sure part of that bond came from sharing that experience that day with our beloved grandmother.
I decided to leave work immediately and to return to Grandma and Grandpa's house. It was something of the same surrealness, but much more empty. My grandfather was in state of shock, almost as if he couldn't feel or communicate. I don't remember much of "the day after" to be perfectly honest except that it was colder outside and the angle of the sun felt distant.
As funerals usually are, Grandma's was a forced family reunion of sorts. Everyone in our family undoubtedly loved this woman and even her grandchildren that grew up a great distance from her felt a deep closeness to her that was palpable at her service. She was a part of all of us and her love transcended.
My siblings and I were the luckiest of all of grandma's grandchildren as we grew up so nearby and were at Grandma and Grandpa's all the time as children. My childhood memories often betray, but I do not forget the excitement I felt each and every time we were going to go to Grandma's house. Let's face it, it was a lot more about Grandma than Grandpa(God rest his grumpy soul). It didn't matter if we were stopping over for an hour on a Sunday or if we were going to spend the day, I was always pumped! We loved the kitties, the worn out old-fashioned games and toys, the cable TV, the abundant gum supply hidden in Grandma's purse, but really we went to be near Grandma. We loved the love that poured out of her from a seemingly bottomless fountain. Though there were many, many grandchildren that claimed her, she always made each of us feel like we were the only one. How did she do it? Grandma power. I still miss basking in her glow.
Barbara Morgan Hansen was made of love, was made of joy and a sassiness that carries on in many of her children and grandchildren. Grandma was a committed woman. Grandma was committed to her family, to her husband, to her faith, all of which gave her ample grief from time to time, but whom she served with a smile. I remember as she aged, her asking me to come over and cut her hair, a way to bond with me, to help me learn, and to look her best as she always strived for. Anyone that remembers my grandma, remembers that if she had lipstick on her lips that it was also on her teeth, more evidence of her consistent, infectious smile.
I cannot remember a time where Grandma was mad at anyone or anything. I don't remember ever being scolded by her, which if it happened was likely disguised in some loving manner. In fact she even subtly covered her own "wrong doings", as was evidenced in the few R-rated VHS tapes she owned with the "R" rating being blacked out by permanent marker. Nice move Grams!! I mean, really, Grandma could do no wrong.
But even though she was loaded with compassion, and goodness and non-judgement, and sugar and spice and everything nice, Grandma was no softie. In fact, she was one tough cookie(just like the ones she baked, I'm sorry, I had to!). Barbara was married to Whipple for over fifty years after all, and that should be commended! When I was a young adolescent, Grandma was diagnosed with ovarian cancer which she handedly beat, like a boss. I realize all these years later that Grandma may have formed the ovarian cancer from her use of talc powder which she kept in her bathroom; as talc use has now been linked to ovarian cancer. As kids we liked to talc our tummies, kids are weird. Alas, it was part of the magic of visiting Grandma's house, talc tummy. The talc and the fuzzy toilet cover were the best parts of Grandma's bathroom. I know Grandma also gave birth to giant babies(my dad), further cementing her legend, and suffered a miscarriage in between children. There's so much more I wish I knew about everything she endured and sacrificed.
Grandma had her vices also, romance novels being one of my clearest recollections. I'm sure Grandma longed for some of the stories to be her own, but I also know she simply enjoyed reading. When I think of Grandma there's always M & M's somewhere floating in the memories. Usually milk chocolate M & M's, I was always slightly disappointed when there was peanuts involved. Easily forgiven however, as it was Grandma, and she had some other treat somewhere else. Ice cream, sugary cereals, packaged cookies, all to the grandchildren's delight. I could literally write a novel about her...
Being that she passed when I was at the tender age of twenty-three, I did not get to have much of my adulthood with my Grandma Hansen. As a selfish young adult, I didn't take much time to visit her, even though we lived in the same city. I didn't get to show her who I became and am still striving to become. Grandma is mostly a childhood memory for me.
Years after her passing, I had a very vivid dream. She was there, and she was alive, but she was going to die. There was an overwhelming urgency, a pressing need for, for something to happen before she passed. In my dream I could not identify what "it" was, but the emotion of anxiety was causing me to cry. As I felt the pressing and urgency of this thing that needed to happen before she passed, I "arrived", I was there before she passed. I was crying and in my dream I realized something very profound, Grandma could not pass away until I was there, just like it happened in real life. We needed to be together one more time before she rested.
I woke up crying, something that has only ever happened that one time. All the memories of seeing her that last time were instantly refreshed, and now had a new meaning. Grandma had come to me in my dreams to tell me how important it was that I was there on that day. I called my father to tell him, still crying and trying to explain in my morning fog, the meaning of the dream. That dream was extremely powerful for me, it still speaks to me.
I have always been humbly grateful that I was one of two of her cherished grandchildren to see her and help her in her final hours. I know that I was meant to be there, and I am really really grateful that I did not let someone else go instead. I am grateful it is an experience I share with my favorite person, Brady.
As a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, Barbara Morgan Hansen blessed so many with her generosity and steadfastness. When I felt compelled to write this, I knew I would cry, and there has been streams of tears on and off the past three hours, along with some downright ugly crying. I also know that I could write millions more words for a woman that, though I only got twenty-three years with, is literally a part of me forever.
To my Grandma: What you have meant to me and continue to bless me with is beyond what words can describe. I love you deeply and want you to know that your joy is with me every day. I cherish the thoughtful handwritten notes and letters you wrote to me over the years as physical memory of your tenderness and care. Don't be surprised if I keep writing about you. Thank you for everything. Love, your granddaughter, Sarah Kay Hansen
Fifteen years ago, November 28 2002, was Thanksgiving Day. The bulk of my immediate family and I were at our Mom's house in Littleton preparing for dinner. The weather was mild as November can be in Littleton, I remember the sun shining through the windows of the kitchen. Hanging out, doing what families do best, BS-ing, the phone rang and it was my dad calling from his home in Highlands Ranch. Brady answered, told my dad, "Yes, we'll go right now", and hung up the phone. Dad had called to tell us that he had received a panicked phone call from his father, our grandpa, and that our grandma had fallen and they needed immediate help to get her up. My Mom's house was barely a mile from our grandparents and my father called us because he knew we could get there sooner. Jason, my sister's boyfriend at the time said, "I'll go with Brady" and I told him no, that I would go. I didn't want a stranger going over there.
Thinking, Oh we'll go help Grandma and be home in time for dinner, Brady and I hopped in the car and within minutes were at Grandma and Grandpa Hansen's house, a place we'd spent ample time at and formed lasting childhood memories. The energy upon entering that house was not what I expected; intense, heavy, almost twilight-zone-like. Brady and I turned the first corner into the hallway and saw our precious grandmother on the floor of her room. Our panicked, pacing grandfather and a neighbor who had come over to help immediately following the accident, were also there. They were able to turn Grandma over so she was not face down, and helped clean her up as she had messed herself in her moment of weakness. What my grandfather and his elderly neighbor did not have was the strength to pick Grandma up and carry her to bed. Nor did my grandmother have the strength or energy to do so on her own. Grandma's breathing was labored, she was clearly stressed out and likely in great pain, but she was communicating clearly and aware of what was happening. I'll never forget the sense of urgency and anxiety that consumed my grandfather in those moments; he was beside himself, helpless to help the love of his life in her time of greatest need.
Brady and I went into work mode, knowing we were there to do a job, one that required great strength but one that we did not know would require deep levels of tenderness. Brady and I positioned beautiful Barbara Hansen in our arms, Brady's arms underneath her armpits and mine underneath her legs. The bed had been prepared for her to be laid down and all we had to do was lift and, in one fell swoop, make sure she got to where she could rest. As we lifted, she was heavier than I expected, the weight of the world it felt like.
We got Grandma into bed and proceeded to bandage some injuries. At 83-years-old, Grandma's skin was as thin as tissue and a large piece on her arm had peeled back likely from hitting a door frame or piece of furniture. Being someone who doesn't deal well with flesh wounds, I thought of who I was helping, what she meant to me, and how much she needed me in that moment to get past the sight of the wound. I remember thinking, How is this going to heal? It's so big. I loaded the wound with antibiotic cream and placed a large bandage over it. There were a few other smaller wounds Brady and I bandaged and took care of some other things, making sure she had water and such.
Grandma was off the floor, comfortably in bed, still breathing heavily from the stress caused by the situation. She expressed her gratefulness for us coming over. Brady and I hugged her and she said something to us that I'll never forget, "Thank you so much. You are such good grandchildren." There was hugs and I love yous all around. We made sure Grandpa was feeling alright and after a very, very intense experience, got back in the car and headed back to Mom's. Thirty minutes absolutely seared in my brain.
As we drove away from their house, I felt infuriated that Grandma was living like that, needing such care and not having it provided for her in her home. I had last seen her in September of that same year and did not realize she was in danger of scary situations like that, living with only my grandfather to help her. I told myself that after Thanksgiving was over I was going to have a talk with my dad and Aunt Linda about her needing more care, a home nurse, something! What Brady and I saw in their home that day made me realize Grandma needed help, I did not want this special lady to suffer like that again. And she would not.
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| 5643 South Huron Street. |
I decided to leave work immediately and to return to Grandma and Grandpa's house. It was something of the same surrealness, but much more empty. My grandfather was in state of shock, almost as if he couldn't feel or communicate. I don't remember much of "the day after" to be perfectly honest except that it was colder outside and the angle of the sun felt distant.
As funerals usually are, Grandma's was a forced family reunion of sorts. Everyone in our family undoubtedly loved this woman and even her grandchildren that grew up a great distance from her felt a deep closeness to her that was palpable at her service. She was a part of all of us and her love transcended.
My siblings and I were the luckiest of all of grandma's grandchildren as we grew up so nearby and were at Grandma and Grandpa's all the time as children. My childhood memories often betray, but I do not forget the excitement I felt each and every time we were going to go to Grandma's house. Let's face it, it was a lot more about Grandma than Grandpa(God rest his grumpy soul). It didn't matter if we were stopping over for an hour on a Sunday or if we were going to spend the day, I was always pumped! We loved the kitties, the worn out old-fashioned games and toys, the cable TV, the abundant gum supply hidden in Grandma's purse, but really we went to be near Grandma. We loved the love that poured out of her from a seemingly bottomless fountain. Though there were many, many grandchildren that claimed her, she always made each of us feel like we were the only one. How did she do it? Grandma power. I still miss basking in her glow.
Barbara Morgan Hansen was made of love, was made of joy and a sassiness that carries on in many of her children and grandchildren. Grandma was a committed woman. Grandma was committed to her family, to her husband, to her faith, all of which gave her ample grief from time to time, but whom she served with a smile. I remember as she aged, her asking me to come over and cut her hair, a way to bond with me, to help me learn, and to look her best as she always strived for. Anyone that remembers my grandma, remembers that if she had lipstick on her lips that it was also on her teeth, more evidence of her consistent, infectious smile.
I cannot remember a time where Grandma was mad at anyone or anything. I don't remember ever being scolded by her, which if it happened was likely disguised in some loving manner. In fact she even subtly covered her own "wrong doings", as was evidenced in the few R-rated VHS tapes she owned with the "R" rating being blacked out by permanent marker. Nice move Grams!! I mean, really, Grandma could do no wrong.
But even though she was loaded with compassion, and goodness and non-judgement, and sugar and spice and everything nice, Grandma was no softie. In fact, she was one tough cookie(just like the ones she baked, I'm sorry, I had to!). Barbara was married to Whipple for over fifty years after all, and that should be commended! When I was a young adolescent, Grandma was diagnosed with ovarian cancer which she handedly beat, like a boss. I realize all these years later that Grandma may have formed the ovarian cancer from her use of talc powder which she kept in her bathroom; as talc use has now been linked to ovarian cancer. As kids we liked to talc our tummies, kids are weird. Alas, it was part of the magic of visiting Grandma's house, talc tummy. The talc and the fuzzy toilet cover were the best parts of Grandma's bathroom. I know Grandma also gave birth to giant babies(my dad), further cementing her legend, and suffered a miscarriage in between children. There's so much more I wish I knew about everything she endured and sacrificed.
Grandma had her vices also, romance novels being one of my clearest recollections. I'm sure Grandma longed for some of the stories to be her own, but I also know she simply enjoyed reading. When I think of Grandma there's always M & M's somewhere floating in the memories. Usually milk chocolate M & M's, I was always slightly disappointed when there was peanuts involved. Easily forgiven however, as it was Grandma, and she had some other treat somewhere else. Ice cream, sugary cereals, packaged cookies, all to the grandchildren's delight. I could literally write a novel about her...
Being that she passed when I was at the tender age of twenty-three, I did not get to have much of my adulthood with my Grandma Hansen. As a selfish young adult, I didn't take much time to visit her, even though we lived in the same city. I didn't get to show her who I became and am still striving to become. Grandma is mostly a childhood memory for me.
Years after her passing, I had a very vivid dream. She was there, and she was alive, but she was going to die. There was an overwhelming urgency, a pressing need for, for something to happen before she passed. In my dream I could not identify what "it" was, but the emotion of anxiety was causing me to cry. As I felt the pressing and urgency of this thing that needed to happen before she passed, I "arrived", I was there before she passed. I was crying and in my dream I realized something very profound, Grandma could not pass away until I was there, just like it happened in real life. We needed to be together one more time before she rested.
I woke up crying, something that has only ever happened that one time. All the memories of seeing her that last time were instantly refreshed, and now had a new meaning. Grandma had come to me in my dreams to tell me how important it was that I was there on that day. I called my father to tell him, still crying and trying to explain in my morning fog, the meaning of the dream. That dream was extremely powerful for me, it still speaks to me.
I have always been humbly grateful that I was one of two of her cherished grandchildren to see her and help her in her final hours. I know that I was meant to be there, and I am really really grateful that I did not let someone else go instead. I am grateful it is an experience I share with my favorite person, Brady.
As a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, Barbara Morgan Hansen blessed so many with her generosity and steadfastness. When I felt compelled to write this, I knew I would cry, and there has been streams of tears on and off the past three hours, along with some downright ugly crying. I also know that I could write millions more words for a woman that, though I only got twenty-three years with, is literally a part of me forever.
To my Grandma: What you have meant to me and continue to bless me with is beyond what words can describe. I love you deeply and want you to know that your joy is with me every day. I cherish the thoughtful handwritten notes and letters you wrote to me over the years as physical memory of your tenderness and care. Don't be surprised if I keep writing about you. Thank you for everything. Love, your granddaughter, Sarah Kay Hansen
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| Memoral Day 2015 |
Monday, November 20, 2017
Fred.
Oftentimes we have no idea the degree to which we affect the lives of others. We also don't know when teachers will come our way.
At the tender age of twenty-one years old, I was diagnosed with a stress fracture injury in my left hip. The doctor said, "Is this the beginning of arthritis? We won't be able know." I was told that it would take a year to heal and that I was not supposed to ride my bike. I was obsessed with riding bikes, how am I not going to ride for a year??!! I was devastated by the news. It was the beginning of summer and I had just left my beloved Vail and come to Denver to go to hair school. My heart was broken from leaving the mountains and I faced the uncertainty of going back to school for the first time since dropping out of high school. Not being able to burn off the anxious energy of youth through cycling, I knew it would be one of the toughest years of my life.
In order to stay something resembling sane, I would go for long walks around Capitol Hill in Denver on the perfect summer nights. Focusing on flexing as many muscles as possible in my legs and bootie as I walked, I did my best to flush out the frustration through the limited physical activity I was permitted by the doctor.
One of these balmy nights as I clipped along at break-neck walking speed, I passed a gentleman with long dreadlocks. I complimented the dreads as I passed by and he proceeded to initiate a conversation with me. His name was Fred and he was a bit older than middle aged black man who had spent decades living on Capitol Hill. We walked and talked for I think nearly three hours.
I'm sure I vented significantly about how hard my life was at twenty-one years old. I'm sure I told him about the hip injury, and my obsessive walks. I'm sure I expressed in detail my heartbreak from leaving the majestic mountains. I'm sure I reeked of young adult insecurities masked by overconfidence. I'm sure he knew I needed him that night.
Nearly twenty years later most of the details of that night have faded into the depths of memory, but there is one thing that I hang onto to this day. Sitting in a small park on 10th Ave and Penn, Fred looked at me and said, "Everyday you have to find something that inspires you. You have to stay inspired." There was a subtle urgency in his voice, he knew he was saying something profound to me.
Although we lived only blocks away from each other, I didn't see Fred until a couple years later, at a grocery store. He remembered me, but the magic I felt that summer night seemed to have faded for him. His gifting of wisdom towards me had affected me deeply for months and years after our chance encounter that night, and it was strange that I felt he looked at me as someone whom he met once and chatted casually with. No bother, it was nice to see him again.
Over the years when I've been living in Denver, I've attended performances put on by the dance school Fred plays drums for. During another particularly difficult time in my early twenties, I knocked on his door, prying for more of the wisdom. It's been years since I've seen Fred and I think of him from time to time. But whether I ever see him again or not, he will always be with me. When I find myself in a tough time and need some hope, or whenever I see or feel something deeply inspirational, Fred is there with me, reminding me to stay that way, inspired. I sometimes feel like I made an unconscious promise to him and to myself that night.
So for what it's worth, Everyday you have to find something that inspires you, You have to stay inspired.
One of these balmy nights as I clipped along at break-neck walking speed, I passed a gentleman with long dreadlocks. I complimented the dreads as I passed by and he proceeded to initiate a conversation with me. His name was Fred and he was a bit older than middle aged black man who had spent decades living on Capitol Hill. We walked and talked for I think nearly three hours.
I'm sure I vented significantly about how hard my life was at twenty-one years old. I'm sure I told him about the hip injury, and my obsessive walks. I'm sure I expressed in detail my heartbreak from leaving the majestic mountains. I'm sure I reeked of young adult insecurities masked by overconfidence. I'm sure he knew I needed him that night.
Nearly twenty years later most of the details of that night have faded into the depths of memory, but there is one thing that I hang onto to this day. Sitting in a small park on 10th Ave and Penn, Fred looked at me and said, "Everyday you have to find something that inspires you. You have to stay inspired." There was a subtle urgency in his voice, he knew he was saying something profound to me.
Although we lived only blocks away from each other, I didn't see Fred until a couple years later, at a grocery store. He remembered me, but the magic I felt that summer night seemed to have faded for him. His gifting of wisdom towards me had affected me deeply for months and years after our chance encounter that night, and it was strange that I felt he looked at me as someone whom he met once and chatted casually with. No bother, it was nice to see him again.
Over the years when I've been living in Denver, I've attended performances put on by the dance school Fred plays drums for. During another particularly difficult time in my early twenties, I knocked on his door, prying for more of the wisdom. It's been years since I've seen Fred and I think of him from time to time. But whether I ever see him again or not, he will always be with me. When I find myself in a tough time and need some hope, or whenever I see or feel something deeply inspirational, Fred is there with me, reminding me to stay that way, inspired. I sometimes feel like I made an unconscious promise to him and to myself that night.
So for what it's worth, Everyday you have to find something that inspires you, You have to stay inspired.
Friday, November 17, 2017
Bear market.
Yesterday two new clients came in to the shop. Slicked back, sharp looking gents, these two were excited to be trying out a new spot that has a golden reputation around this small city. One of them was scheduled with me and during his consultation he told me he had been going to a high-end men's salon in Portland but had lately been disappointed with the results of his haircuts. Upon inspection I definitely noticed quite a bit that was off about the shape and it seemed like whoever cut his hair wasn't sure how to deal with the unique nature of his hair type, and the dueling cowlicks that rested upon his crown. Disappointed in the work of others, which I often am as a detail obsessed barber, I told him the plan and began my work to remedy the mediocre mess he came in with.
Throughout the haircut I explained to him what I was doing, why I was doing it and the effects my technical approach would have on the final result and grow-out of his haircut. In the end, he was very pleased with the results complimenting me on my skills and execution of his desired look. But the best was yet to come from this client.
After their cuts, the two men stayed around and enjoyed a drink, relaxing on one of the plush leather sofas in the shop lounge. At one point I walked by and my client told me they are hedge fund managers(I don't really know what that means, but I know it has something to do with rich people's money). He followed that up by telling me his buddy had asked him how I had done and if he liked his haircut from me. My client told me that his response to his buddy was, "I told him, 'She dissected it like a mismanaged portfolio!!'." I was in stitches and we all enjoyed a good laugh over that before I thanked him for the financial adviser's perspective of my work. Truly one of the great compliments of my lengthy career.
Throughout the haircut I explained to him what I was doing, why I was doing it and the effects my technical approach would have on the final result and grow-out of his haircut. In the end, he was very pleased with the results complimenting me on my skills and execution of his desired look. But the best was yet to come from this client.
After their cuts, the two men stayed around and enjoyed a drink, relaxing on one of the plush leather sofas in the shop lounge. At one point I walked by and my client told me they are hedge fund managers(I don't really know what that means, but I know it has something to do with rich people's money). He followed that up by telling me his buddy had asked him how I had done and if he liked his haircut from me. My client told me that his response to his buddy was, "I told him, 'She dissected it like a mismanaged portfolio!!'." I was in stitches and we all enjoyed a good laugh over that before I thanked him for the financial adviser's perspective of my work. Truly one of the great compliments of my lengthy career.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
Beasts of childhood.
Why are animals THE BEST??!! Their fuzzy faces, their expressive eyes, their adorable paws. Bah! I love them all! Literally all of them. No matter the species, the "ugliness", the things they do to other animals, I can't help myself, I am obsessed with all beasts. Yesterday my sister sent me a video of her precious dog being petted, I watched it four times and I squealed each time. Insane for them!
In my house growing up, there was no shortage of animals. I don't remember having any less than four cats at any one time. We had dogs, one named Kitty even. We had birds, snakes, rats, hamsters, etc, etc. All manner of living creatures. I remember always feeling grateful that we had animals and I can't imagine the amount of crap my parents had to clean up. We even called our food pantry the "cat room" since it housed the litter box. Yep you got it, a box full of cat crap in the same place we stored food.
We had this monster black and white tuxedo cat named Moosie. I think he pushed 25lbs. Maybe he was 40lbs, my childhood memories make him larger than he likely was. This cat is a legend! Moosie had one eye, can't remember how he lost it, he just always had one eye. Moosie also walked with a severe limp which was the result of a shoulder injury he endured after being hit by a car and my parents chose not to pay for the surgery to repair it(maybe the eye went in that accident also). Even with all his gimpyness and that one eyeball, Moosie loved life! There was nothing this cat wouldn't put up with from us five kids in the house. He had the loudest purr ever, like ever, look it up in Guiness. We could sit on him, aggressively snuggle him, harass him to no end, and that loud purr just kept on going. Even just walking by, Moosie would purr. Moosie loved love.
Moosie also had a girlfriend, a life partner, if you will. That's right, Moosie loved love from humans AND other animals. Noodles, a fluffy calico we also had, was Moosie's girlfriend and these two cats were inseparable. Completely enamored with each other, these kitties could be found cuddling together any time of day. It was heartbreaking for everyone when Moosie passed away at some super old age for cats. However, none of us felt his loss like Noodles did. Noodles was inconsolable and passed away just a few weeks later. We found her under the bed, cuddling alone. To this day, we are convinced that she died of a broken heart. We buried her next to her beloved Moosie. Noodles and Moosie, like Sid and Nancy, together until death, except without the heroin overdose and murder charges.
As I became an adolescent, I took on my very own pets, bought with my own money. Mickey and Zoey, my rat couple. I would breed them and the lil baby rats were too cute for words. When the babies were old enough, I would sell them for $1 each to pet stores to then be sold as pets. All these years later, I realize many of them likely became reptile feed. Snakes gotta eat too I suppose.
I had the rats for a few years and I'll never forget the day I realized Zoey was very sick. I bawled all the way to the vet to have her put down. I knew she was suffering greatly and I had to say goodbye to a tiny creature who had brought me so much joy and taught me so much responsibility. I had Mickey for a while longer, along with the lone baby from his and Zoey's final litter they had together.
The luster had worn off after years of caring for rats, and one day I took the last remaining offspring from my rat couple and "released" him into the field behind my house. I don't know if I ever admitted that to anyone. I literally took a domesticated rat that probably didn't know how to fend for himself and abandoned him in a field thinking he was now free. He probably didn't last the night. I still have some guilt over that.
Throughout my adulthood, I've traveled and moved so much that I have never made the space in my life to have an animal. I have longed for it and came close to getting a kitty in Denver until I moved into the most perfect apartment... that wouldn't allow pets. I currently live with a kitty but he is the definition of a scaredy cat, runs from everything and will barely let me pet him. The feelings I've been having lately of isolation a loneliness are pressing me again. I mean, I'm almost 40 years old and I've never had a cat or dog of my own, even though I've ached for it for years, but feared the commitment.
I've denied myself so many things in exchange for a gypsy life and I'm not so sure I want to continue to deny myself the joy of having a pet anymore. It freaks me out to commit to something like that, but I've also got to face my fear of commitment sometime before I die. I am so grateful to have grown up surrounded by so many pets in my childhood home. I have been blessed to have countless friends who's pets have made a real difference in my life. The experience I had volunteering at a shelter was profound. I squeal and get giddy at videos of animals. All the signs are there that it's right. It's time to honor my inner child who had so many pets, and spoil myself with a pet.
In my house growing up, there was no shortage of animals. I don't remember having any less than four cats at any one time. We had dogs, one named Kitty even. We had birds, snakes, rats, hamsters, etc, etc. All manner of living creatures. I remember always feeling grateful that we had animals and I can't imagine the amount of crap my parents had to clean up. We even called our food pantry the "cat room" since it housed the litter box. Yep you got it, a box full of cat crap in the same place we stored food.
We had this monster black and white tuxedo cat named Moosie. I think he pushed 25lbs. Maybe he was 40lbs, my childhood memories make him larger than he likely was. This cat is a legend! Moosie had one eye, can't remember how he lost it, he just always had one eye. Moosie also walked with a severe limp which was the result of a shoulder injury he endured after being hit by a car and my parents chose not to pay for the surgery to repair it(maybe the eye went in that accident also). Even with all his gimpyness and that one eyeball, Moosie loved life! There was nothing this cat wouldn't put up with from us five kids in the house. He had the loudest purr ever, like ever, look it up in Guiness. We could sit on him, aggressively snuggle him, harass him to no end, and that loud purr just kept on going. Even just walking by, Moosie would purr. Moosie loved love.
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| The legend himself, Moosie. With baby Alex. |
Moosie also had a girlfriend, a life partner, if you will. That's right, Moosie loved love from humans AND other animals. Noodles, a fluffy calico we also had, was Moosie's girlfriend and these two cats were inseparable. Completely enamored with each other, these kitties could be found cuddling together any time of day. It was heartbreaking for everyone when Moosie passed away at some super old age for cats. However, none of us felt his loss like Noodles did. Noodles was inconsolable and passed away just a few weeks later. We found her under the bed, cuddling alone. To this day, we are convinced that she died of a broken heart. We buried her next to her beloved Moosie. Noodles and Moosie, like Sid and Nancy, together until death, except without the heroin overdose and murder charges.
As I became an adolescent, I took on my very own pets, bought with my own money. Mickey and Zoey, my rat couple. I would breed them and the lil baby rats were too cute for words. When the babies were old enough, I would sell them for $1 each to pet stores to then be sold as pets. All these years later, I realize many of them likely became reptile feed. Snakes gotta eat too I suppose.
I had the rats for a few years and I'll never forget the day I realized Zoey was very sick. I bawled all the way to the vet to have her put down. I knew she was suffering greatly and I had to say goodbye to a tiny creature who had brought me so much joy and taught me so much responsibility. I had Mickey for a while longer, along with the lone baby from his and Zoey's final litter they had together.
The luster had worn off after years of caring for rats, and one day I took the last remaining offspring from my rat couple and "released" him into the field behind my house. I don't know if I ever admitted that to anyone. I literally took a domesticated rat that probably didn't know how to fend for himself and abandoned him in a field thinking he was now free. He probably didn't last the night. I still have some guilt over that.
Throughout my adulthood, I've traveled and moved so much that I have never made the space in my life to have an animal. I have longed for it and came close to getting a kitty in Denver until I moved into the most perfect apartment... that wouldn't allow pets. I currently live with a kitty but he is the definition of a scaredy cat, runs from everything and will barely let me pet him. The feelings I've been having lately of isolation a loneliness are pressing me again. I mean, I'm almost 40 years old and I've never had a cat or dog of my own, even though I've ached for it for years, but feared the commitment.
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| Lil Tucky, a beast who has made a difference for me. |
Monday, November 13, 2017
Artsy fartsy
Lately in my life I have had a mix of feeling completely lost and uninspired along with periods of feeling overwhelmed with insight, inspiration and newness. Lately? Who am I kidding, that mix is my life summed up. Perhaps what brings me back to this blog after two and a half years is finally coming to terms with the fact that I have to get off my ass and commit to something again. I have to begin to search again. I have to reignite my urge to push boundaries(something I am a self-trained expert at, just ask my parents).
Between last night and this morning I watched a Hulu documentary about a street artist who's art I have seen and appreciated over decades of my life. My first of many light bulb moments was that I had never stopped to register that there was a creative genius with a tremendous story behind the images. The documentary left me with a myriad of emotions from enlightenment to frustration to acceptance; acceptance that I have to stop sitting on my ass, numbing out with TV streaming, and start doing what comes so naturally to me. I need to tap back in to that part of me that woke up when I was an angry 16-year- old with no other outlet. I need to create my own art. I need to honor my own gift...I need to write. And write. And write, etc.
This year has been tough for me. I am living somewhere that I am enamored with, but never planned to be. I'm not close with anyone here, I am lukewarm about my employment situation, I am achingly far from anyone I can truly lean on and New England's North Atlantic winter is on the way. However the most pressing part is that I am feeling a choking feeling when it comes to my self expression. Literally feeling like I'm being choked since arriving here, a tightness in my throat. And it's not allergies. I have to do what it takes to release, I have to express. And write. And write, etc.
What has been absent for me is motivation. To watch that documentary and realize what a gift this street artist has given the world on an incredible scale made me feel like a chump for not creating my own art when I damn well know I have the ability to do it. I could feel the motivation awakening. Do I think I'm going to have the impact that he does? That's not the point, it's not a competition. It's not about scaling my own art, it's simply about doing it to honor myself and to explore where it takes me, to give in to the gifts of destiny.
There may be no one that ever reads this, and I'm okay with that. But I am not motivated by fame or "being known" or whatever. I am motivated by being bored and frustrated and feeling lost. I am motivated by the feelings that I get when I watch others go through their journeys and realize I've taken way too long of a lazy break of my own. I am motivated by the longing to feel like I belong somewhere, a struggle of my entire life. I really want to feel like I belong in my own skin, on my own crazy, blessed, unique path. I can't lie when I say that I do want to feel like I'm helping others, making a difference, not matter how small. But I can't help anyone else until I help myself first. So I write. And write...
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| One of my faves ever. Bogotá, Colombia. (not the artist from the documentary) |
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| Art of one of the most prolific artists ever to live. Denver, Colorado, USA |
The inspiration to create doesn't seem to be the key factor in my lack of production. Every day I experience the beauty and sadness of our earthly existence. Every day I notice moments, observe love, listen to seagulls loudly squawk. Every day I am taking things in, and every day the moments die inside. To the point that I'm making myself sick. Things feel off. I feel lost.
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| How life should be. Buenos Aires, Argentina. |
There may be no one that ever reads this, and I'm okay with that. But I am not motivated by fame or "being known" or whatever. I am motivated by being bored and frustrated and feeling lost. I am motivated by the feelings that I get when I watch others go through their journeys and realize I've taken way too long of a lazy break of my own. I am motivated by the longing to feel like I belong somewhere, a struggle of my entire life. I really want to feel like I belong in my own skin, on my own crazy, blessed, unique path. I can't lie when I say that I do want to feel like I'm helping others, making a difference, not matter how small. But I can't help anyone else until I help myself first. So I write. And write...
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Pep talk.
"In the beginning there is not much difference between the coward and the courageous person. The only difference is, the coward listens to his fears and follows them, and the courageous person puts them aside and goes ahead. The courageous person goes into the unknown in spite of all the fears." - Osho
Tossing and turning, tossing and turning some more, that was my night of "sleep" last night. I had this obscure dream where I was downtown in the early morning hours to pick up my car after being at a rave(or something like that)all night. As I waited on the corner, chillin' before getting in my car, all of a sudden it was gone. Stolen? Towed? My dream state didn't say, so I called my dad to pick me up so we could figure out how to advise the police about my missing vehicle. I was relieved when I awoke to realize that my car is still parked where I park it every night at my apartment complex. Glad I didn't have to deal with police...
I would be lying to myself if I tried to say I wasn't sure what's causing the temporary insomnia. This morning, I find myself having quite the internal conflict. A bit too personal to describe in detail, I'm being faced with a situation where I have to make a decision where either choice is neither right nor wrong. Both choices are positive, allowing a lot of growth, and both choices can potentially cause a lot of questions that could remain unanswered. Therein lies the conflict, and the fear.
I feel compelled to stay the course, allowing myself to move through this particular experience and become pressurized. That pressure will either make me stronger, teaching me or, it will break me; but it's got to be better than being sedentary. This gypsy can't stay still, and that includes internally. This is why I'm so intrigued by this situation, the unknown it will bring into my life. I'm addicted to the unknown, I'm addicted to its reflections and its lessons. I have an impulse to forge ahead despite the fear.
Coupled with the impulse to forge ahead is the impulse to walk away, realizing that this situation is not something I need to continue to involve myself with. Realizing that I have learned what I need to learn from it and the time has come to have a new adventure. But wait, aren't both pathways a new adventure? Isn't life itself a new adventure every day? Oy vey.
I am left to remain in conflict for the time being. Deep down, my intuition is signaling that either decision is okay, I cannot choose wrong. I am simply baffled that I have reached a point in my life of such neutrality, a gift of enduring the awakening process. Both choices bring the unknown, both choices present fears. There is no other choice except to accept my own decision and the decisions of all parties involved with a response of love. After all, the only choice we have in life is to choose between love or fear.
"To accept the challenge of the unknown, in spite of all the fears, is courage. The fears are there, but if you go on accepting the challenge again and again, slowly slowly those fears disappear." - Osho
"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." - Franklin D. Roosevelt
I would be lying to myself if I tried to say I wasn't sure what's causing the temporary insomnia. This morning, I find myself having quite the internal conflict. A bit too personal to describe in detail, I'm being faced with a situation where I have to make a decision where either choice is neither right nor wrong. Both choices are positive, allowing a lot of growth, and both choices can potentially cause a lot of questions that could remain unanswered. Therein lies the conflict, and the fear.
I feel compelled to stay the course, allowing myself to move through this particular experience and become pressurized. That pressure will either make me stronger, teaching me or, it will break me; but it's got to be better than being sedentary. This gypsy can't stay still, and that includes internally. This is why I'm so intrigued by this situation, the unknown it will bring into my life. I'm addicted to the unknown, I'm addicted to its reflections and its lessons. I have an impulse to forge ahead despite the fear.
Coupled with the impulse to forge ahead is the impulse to walk away, realizing that this situation is not something I need to continue to involve myself with. Realizing that I have learned what I need to learn from it and the time has come to have a new adventure. But wait, aren't both pathways a new adventure? Isn't life itself a new adventure every day? Oy vey.
I am left to remain in conflict for the time being. Deep down, my intuition is signaling that either decision is okay, I cannot choose wrong. I am simply baffled that I have reached a point in my life of such neutrality, a gift of enduring the awakening process. Both choices bring the unknown, both choices present fears. There is no other choice except to accept my own decision and the decisions of all parties involved with a response of love. After all, the only choice we have in life is to choose between love or fear.
"To accept the challenge of the unknown, in spite of all the fears, is courage. The fears are there, but if you go on accepting the challenge again and again, slowly slowly those fears disappear." - Osho
"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." - Franklin D. Roosevelt
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Red tent.
If I could describe in words how unlike myself I feel today, and the past few days in general, it would be welcome relief. However, I can't. I feel totally and utterly out of sorts. I don't generally have to question where this kind of mood comes from; fortunately for me, I always know. Usually, I don't have unexplained moodiness, it's the uterus, it's an especially bad case of PMS. One that has me crying as I write this. Please don't feel bad, I don't even have a legitimate reason to be crying, but alas, I cry.
During all of this crying, I found myself thinking, "If I only had a place to go where I could cry and no one would question it. If there was a place I could go to get away from the world and just feel crappy PMS ass." Then I cried even harder wishing that my world had safe places for women who need support before and during menstruation; I want to go to the red tent. Sure, the red tent is reserved for women who are actually menstruating but I'd kill to be able to go to one today. I am craving escape, understanding, comradery, a nap, a good laugh, distraction, and the empathy of other women.
Many cultures around the world currently have menstrual huts as part of life. Native American cultures are famous for the menstrual huts that women would go to during menstruation to bond, celebrate femininity, and encourage creativity during a time where women were believed to be more connected intuitively.
It's clear as to why we don't have these special places in the Western world now. Our periods are something that we are supposed to hide. Our periods are something we are supposed to be ashamed of and feel is "disgusting". A menstrual hut would not only blow these bullshit beliefs and habits out of the water, but would encourage the beauty and special nature of this time, the connection with our womanhood and our sisters, the celebration of all things feminine. Celebration?! That's right.
Rarely do I feel this out of sorts. Perhaps it can be chocked up to the fact that the weather is HORRIBLE these past few days and I'm likely mourning the arrival of ultra-wintry weather, but fuuuuuck I feel awful. I even got into a Facebook fight with a dear friend in Egypt. Then I cried. Then I texted a friend. Then I cried. Then I listened to music. Then I cried. This is madness, nobody should be forced into society in this condition. I want to be locked up in the red tent until emotionally functional Sarah returns.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Saving Private Daylight.
Today is a day that many folks do not look forward to. Today at "2am" it suddenly went right back to 1am. I literally watched my phone change time from 1:59am to 1:00am. An extra hour of sleeping, or other extra curricular activities..., don't mind if I do!! I love it, I love the time change.
Sure, I think it's stupid that we change the clocks in some sort of human attempt to control the uncontrollable; time is relative anyways and, what difference does it truly make to change the clock? Though most of the world does not practice "Daylight Savings Time", and even some states in our country, alas it is here: Five months of darkness.
Now, I'm no ignoramus, I understand that it is, in fact the orbit of the Earth around the Sun and not the changing of the clocks that makes the daylight fleeting. But the fact that we change the clocks, in turn, makes the sunset happen earlier bringing what I call "The Darkness". I LOVE The Darkness!
For a lot of my life, I struggled with the lack of sunlight in the winter. I had the typical seasonal depression, hated the change of seasons to cold and dark, and the nights that never seemed to end(I still hate the change of seasons to cold). Spring eventually worked it's way back into life and the daylight increased after what felt like years of darkness.
About eleven years ago, I decided to make a change. I consciously decided that instead of choosing to loathe The Darkness, I would embrace it; I would enjoy it, love it, need it. I decided that I would fool myself into liking The Darkness by telling myself that I needed it to do certain things; for example, if I wanted to watch a movie I would need to wait until it got dark. If I wanted to make a phone call or smoke a bowl or clean my house, I would need to wait until it got dark. Pretty easy to do really since the sun goes down at like 4pm for a good part of winter. But the seemingly magical part is that it worked like a charm! By simply telling myself that I needed The Darkness, wanted it and loved it, I found that I did need it, want it and love it. Yay for The Darkness! My personal mind game proved fantastic results and I've never been the same since, almost looking forward to this time of year as opposed to dreading it.
There is so much that is mysterious and magical about the dark hours of the day, especially when there are so many dark hours in one day. Darkness is when we rest and rejuvenate. Darkness is when we feel more comfortable with intimacy and, darkness beckons love making. The Darkness allows for for much of the external world to be unavailable for viewing thus allowing introspection and self reflection. The Darkness is when we escape the hustle and bustle of the daylight hours.
So as the season of The Darkness is upon us, I reflect back on that day when I changed my mind about it, and I feel really grateful. I will embrace and enjoy the many lightless hours of night in the next few months. Now if I could only convince myself of the same when it comes to the cold temps, I'd be set...
Sure, I think it's stupid that we change the clocks in some sort of human attempt to control the uncontrollable; time is relative anyways and, what difference does it truly make to change the clock? Though most of the world does not practice "Daylight Savings Time", and even some states in our country, alas it is here: Five months of darkness.
Now, I'm no ignoramus, I understand that it is, in fact the orbit of the Earth around the Sun and not the changing of the clocks that makes the daylight fleeting. But the fact that we change the clocks, in turn, makes the sunset happen earlier bringing what I call "The Darkness". I LOVE The Darkness!
For a lot of my life, I struggled with the lack of sunlight in the winter. I had the typical seasonal depression, hated the change of seasons to cold and dark, and the nights that never seemed to end(I still hate the change of seasons to cold). Spring eventually worked it's way back into life and the daylight increased after what felt like years of darkness.
About eleven years ago, I decided to make a change. I consciously decided that instead of choosing to loathe The Darkness, I would embrace it; I would enjoy it, love it, need it. I decided that I would fool myself into liking The Darkness by telling myself that I needed it to do certain things; for example, if I wanted to watch a movie I would need to wait until it got dark. If I wanted to make a phone call or smoke a bowl or clean my house, I would need to wait until it got dark. Pretty easy to do really since the sun goes down at like 4pm for a good part of winter. But the seemingly magical part is that it worked like a charm! By simply telling myself that I needed The Darkness, wanted it and loved it, I found that I did need it, want it and love it. Yay for The Darkness! My personal mind game proved fantastic results and I've never been the same since, almost looking forward to this time of year as opposed to dreading it.
There is so much that is mysterious and magical about the dark hours of the day, especially when there are so many dark hours in one day. Darkness is when we rest and rejuvenate. Darkness is when we feel more comfortable with intimacy and, darkness beckons love making. The Darkness allows for for much of the external world to be unavailable for viewing thus allowing introspection and self reflection. The Darkness is when we escape the hustle and bustle of the daylight hours.
So as the season of The Darkness is upon us, I reflect back on that day when I changed my mind about it, and I feel really grateful. I will embrace and enjoy the many lightless hours of night in the next few months. Now if I could only convince myself of the same when it comes to the cold temps, I'd be set...
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Branding.
"My soul is not contained within the limits of my body, my body is contained within the limitlessness of my soul."
"You cannot define yourself in reference to other external coordinates, you must define yourself internally with your relationship with a higher entity. Think of yourself as a manifestation of some higher thing, some higher frequency. This is the visible realization. And you know that because you can't see atoms, can you? And you certainly can't see the forces that hold atoms together. There in the micro-quantum world lie the answers to everything. We can't understand it with our biological, rational minds, but we feel it intuitively. Get yourself in line with that stuff and you'll beam like the sun."
If I challenged each and every one to guess who quoted the above listed quotes, I am certain that nobody would come close to guessing who the two men are that said those two things. One is Canadian, one is British. Both are extremely famous comedians, movie stars, funny men. In fact, both are known as complete goofballs, guys who push the limits of comedy.
Jim Carrey and Russell Brand, in that order, are the two men who said the two profound, deeply meaningful things that are quoted above. How is it possible that those kooky guys, whose mission it is to make us laugh, can come up with such substantial, spiritual inspiration?
As a society we pay attention to, only seem to take notice of, the superficial. We are more obsessed with what someone is wearing than the actual composition of their character. There is no doubt in my heart that both Jim Carrey and Russell Brand have lived multiple lives before this current one and the wisdom of their old souls knows full well that in our modern world we do not acknowledge and value spiritual strength. So, in order for these messengers to be able to deliver the real message they are intended to deliver, they must first earn our attention with silly antics. If Jim Carrey did not grab our attention with Ace Ventura and Dumb and Dumber, would we ever have listened to his true wisdom? If Russell Brand wasn't touring the world with stand up comedy in order to make a name for himself internationally, would we be willing to sit and listen to his penetrating, almost uncomfortable ranting about the state of humanity and the power of connecting spiritually?
Both of these men have used their gifts first to make us laugh and now to challenge us to look deeper within ourselves, beyond the laughter behind which so many of us hide and to truly begin to understand something greater; that of our true selves. Looks like they are good for more than a laugh after all...
"You cannot define yourself in reference to other external coordinates, you must define yourself internally with your relationship with a higher entity. Think of yourself as a manifestation of some higher thing, some higher frequency. This is the visible realization. And you know that because you can't see atoms, can you? And you certainly can't see the forces that hold atoms together. There in the micro-quantum world lie the answers to everything. We can't understand it with our biological, rational minds, but we feel it intuitively. Get yourself in line with that stuff and you'll beam like the sun."
If I challenged each and every one to guess who quoted the above listed quotes, I am certain that nobody would come close to guessing who the two men are that said those two things. One is Canadian, one is British. Both are extremely famous comedians, movie stars, funny men. In fact, both are known as complete goofballs, guys who push the limits of comedy.
Jim Carrey and Russell Brand, in that order, are the two men who said the two profound, deeply meaningful things that are quoted above. How is it possible that those kooky guys, whose mission it is to make us laugh, can come up with such substantial, spiritual inspiration?
As a society we pay attention to, only seem to take notice of, the superficial. We are more obsessed with what someone is wearing than the actual composition of their character. There is no doubt in my heart that both Jim Carrey and Russell Brand have lived multiple lives before this current one and the wisdom of their old souls knows full well that in our modern world we do not acknowledge and value spiritual strength. So, in order for these messengers to be able to deliver the real message they are intended to deliver, they must first earn our attention with silly antics. If Jim Carrey did not grab our attention with Ace Ventura and Dumb and Dumber, would we ever have listened to his true wisdom? If Russell Brand wasn't touring the world with stand up comedy in order to make a name for himself internationally, would we be willing to sit and listen to his penetrating, almost uncomfortable ranting about the state of humanity and the power of connecting spiritually?
Both of these men have used their gifts first to make us laugh and now to challenge us to look deeper within ourselves, beyond the laughter behind which so many of us hide and to truly begin to understand something greater; that of our true selves. Looks like they are good for more than a laugh after all...
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