Check in with Bar: Bar Scott's Blog

I woke up on the right side of the bed this morning – finally after a week or longer of slow starts and wishing the heat would turn on so I could comfortably pull myself out from under the covers. This morning, the moon was shining bright through the one window in our bedroom, and it cast a silvery glow on everything in its path. It was 5:45 and the stars were still visible.

Wally, our huskie/shepherd/wolf mix heard me stirring so he came into the room and stuck his nose in our faces, which is typical but not usually so early. Like me, he likes to stay in his warm corner for as long as he can on these cold almost-winter nights. There’s something about a dog welcoming me into the day that really does work. It feels good to be loved and adored the moment the day begins. Needless to say, what he really wants is for me to get up and take he and his huskie sister Tasha out for a walk. There’s a stray cat outside who lives in the drainage pipes under the street and they need to check on her – make sure she’s still around.

When I finally did get up, the thermometer read 1.3 degrees. Not too bad when last week it was minus 18. It’s funny how we adapt to new things. A year ago, living in upstate New York, if I’d seen 1.3 degrees I would have stayed inside with a good book. Now, here in Colorado where the air is dry and the sun warms things up the moment it crests the Wet Mountains to the east, 1.3 degrees is a day I put long underwear on, but not a day when I wrap a scarf 3 times around my head. Anywhere in the single digits is fine with me.

The Sangre de Cristo Mountains were spectacular this morning. They’re always beautiful, but my mood was so light this morning that they seemed even more perfect. That got me to thinking about why it is that some days are better than others; that I can feel my self relaxed in my skin today when Monday I thought it might be best for everyone if I crawled back into bed for the rest of the winter.

For some reason the phrase the peace that comes from understanding came into my thoughts as the dogs sniffed at every bush that other animals had peed on over the course of the last day. I had the feeling that the wording I was remembering wasn’t exactly right but that I liked it anyway. Understanding is a funny thing. Sometimes I understand a lot about myself and the world I’ve created around me; other times I don’t. There’s been a lot of change in my life in the last two years, so I often explain my discomfort by telling myself that’s it natural to still be out of sorts. And I think that’s true. So why is today so much easier? I don’t know that I understand anything better, but somehow today I’m ok with not understanding. Or maybe it’s just that today I don’t need to understand. It may also be that the peace that comes from understanding is really about accepting that there will always be many things that I will never understand. Accepting that fact is a comfort to me, and a gentle form of forgiveness.

By the time I got home, the phrase as I’d originally heard it, finally came to me: the peace that passeth all understanding…It’s a phrase that the Episcopal ministers of my childhood used at some point in the Sunday service. I’m embarrassed not to know exactly when, but I guess their message got through anyway. A quick google search tells me that the words are from Philippians 4:7 and are variously translated. I was drawn to these two reflections on the phrase:

And changing direction is not that easy. Understanding that fact, for me, today, this morning, has been important. But also knowing that I have relationships that are dear to me, and that there’s this incredible world outside of me to observe and feel – these are the things that calm my doubts and fears, and which quiet the endless chatter in my mind. I can see that all that’s necessary is my engagement in the mysterious and wonderful life that I am surrounded by.

My friend Abby gave me good advice on Monday when I was so low: “Make something,” she said, and I did. I came home and wrote a verse of what may become a children’s book. The following day, a song came into focus. Today, I am writing here and my heart is at peace. “Make something.” It really is good advice.

I don’t go to church very often, but my friend Kathy is the vicar at the local Episcopal Church here in Westcliffe, and I like her sermons a lot, so I went this morning. I think I’m unusual in this way: I’m not a fan of the service so much; but I love the provocation of a good sermon regardless of the church I’m in (or the synagogue or any other sacred space). There’s something about listening to another person’s musings on their own faith that I find inspiring.

This morning, Kathy talked politics. Some people object to combining politics and church, and often I’m not thrilled with the intrusion of the “real” world into the time I set aside for reflection, but her point this morning was right on. She talked about the fact that we need leadership from our politicians right now (not posturing. So right!) but not just any kind of leadership. From her point of view, what we need is the leadership of “The King” as she described Jesus Christ, but her language really spoke to the kind of leadership that a Jesus or Martin Luther King or Ghandi would advocate for; a leadership of compassion, compromise, gentleness and all the things that our leaders resist.

Kathy segued from politics to the upcoming Christmas season. She reminded us that not getting caught up in the craziness of the holiday takes discipline, and she implored us to take time every day starting now, to be quiet and reflect on the birth that is about to be celebrated. What I liked about this portion of her sermon was the analogy she drew between the birth of Christ and a birth that we might celebrate in our own life. We ready ourselves. We prepare a nursery, we stock up on supplies, we anticipate, and we realize that everything will change once the baby is born. I liked this idea. She was asking us to get ready for a change because there’s going to be one (isn’t there always?)

Later in the service, Kathy said something I’ve heard her say before and which always moves me: “Behold who you are; become what you see.” What a wonderful thought! Presumably, if we’re honest, we’ll see that we are Beautiful with a capital ‘B’; we will see what we are made of (the stuff of God in my book) and we will see all that we offer in this world. But then: “become what you see”! Am I big enough, strong enough, courageous enough to become what I see? Not so sure. It’s a tall order.

My favorite part of the service came as a surprise. The older gentleman in front of me began singing a capella towards the end of the service. I’ve done that myself at times and I get nearly paralyzed with nerves. He didn’t miss a beat. He started when something else was going on and instantly everyone got quiet and listened. After a verse or two, I could vaguely hear others singing along with him, but thankfully they didn’t sing too loud so we could really hear his lovely voice. His confidence was not even an issue. He just sang. I’d love to be able to sing so unselfconsciously! I heard an interview with a singer years ago. She must have been famous in some way. She had an incredible voice and she talked about how much she loved to sing because her singing brought so much joy to anyone who heard her. I know about that joy but I’m so reluctant to appear to be showing off that I forget that sharing my voice with others is nice for people. I guess I grew up at a time when drawing attention to one’s self was not encouraged. But that’s not really the point either. Singing or any other expression of self that is offered for other peoples' pleasure is not about bragging. It’s about becoming what we see and being what we are. Another tall order.

As Thanksgiving comes around again this year, there’s a lot to be thankful for. I’m living in a stunning place in central Colorado. There’s no congestion, no hype, no schedule to keep (not yet anyway). I’m learning how to live with a whole new set of details. I’m in love with a special man who likes me and loves me a lot. I have new friends here, and friends and family back east that I will see soon enough. On my walk this morning I had an aha moment when I realized that I wasn’t sad at all; that there was nothing in my life past or present, that I would change. And for that I am deeply grateful.

We have two dogs: Tasha - a light-brown huskie with a sweet dispostion and a stubborn streak - and Wally, a rescue who's an exubrant cross between grey huskie, shepard and wolf; a dog who likes to kiss people (literally) when he meets them. We named him after Ralph Waldo Emerson whose work we were both reading when he showed up in my partner's life. Now I live with the three of them in a remote town in central Colorado, and I get to walk the dogs a couple of times a day. That's been especially nice the last week with the weather about as perfect as it could be: sunny, mid 70s, very little wind, and no humidity.

There's a small community of Mennonite and Amish families here in the Wet Mountain Valley. They live traditional lives with all the details that we associate with them: no electricity or cars; clothes that are simple and hand made. Some of the Mennonite families have allowed themselves motorized vehicles both to farm with and to do their errands, and often they pick up their Amish friends when they need a ride. Yesterday morning, I went out at about 8:00 and walked east on a dirt road through the center of the valley towards the Silver Cliff Cemetery. I go there almost everyday with Wally and Tasha. We turn around just beyond the homestead of an older Amish couple we've come to know over the last few months. It was Sunday, and just as I was walking up, a very full white van came up behind us and pulled into their driveway. There were mostly small children in the van. Their parents were probably squished in the middle somewhere, but peering out of all the windows were little girls with their Sunday bonnets on and navy blue jackets or shawls around their shoulders. One little girl flipped around to watch me and the dogs out the back window as they turned in front of us. I waved to her and she unselfconsciously waved back. We both smiled and made eye contact for just a moment. It made me a little weepy. I envied her, and I wondered if she envied me too. Her life is layed out for her. There are rules and customs that she has already learned. She simply has to follow the course. Mine, on the other hand, is random. I wear pants that I bought at Marshall's, I go out for tea when I feel like it, I have two dogs that need walking so I walk them by myself on a remote road far away from where I was born. Her life is guided by the chores that must be done each day. There are no machines that make it faster or easier. There probably isn't time to dwell on the things that my mind spends countless hours on for no real purpose. I wondered if her curiosity about me and the world that surrounds her might challenge her at some point. Would she stay in the Amish community, or would she have some compelling reason to abandon everything and go her own way someday? It's difficult to imagine anyone having that amount of courage. But perhaps she will. I hope that she doesn't. I hope that she is at peace with the life she's been given.

Later in the day, walking the dogs again, I walked west towards the mountains. Half a mile from home I heard a horse trotting on the road behind us. When I turned around, there was a chocolate brown mare pulling a young Amish couple in an open carriage coming towards us. They sat erect but close to one another looking straightahead. The mother held their tiny infant in her lap. Wally barked at the horse, naturally, but I held him back and apologized. They smiled back at me. As they rode off, I stood watching and tried to imagine what it would be like to live like they do in the midst of this crazy, busy world we've created, and once again I found myself being envious. What would my life be like if I'd never injected so much media hype, electronic communications, radios and every other modern day thing into it? I love my life, and I love this little MacBook I'm typing on right now, but it does make me wonder what I'd be like if I didn't have all of this stuff around me.

Remember that scene in the movie Witness when Kelly McGillis and Harrison Ford are moving slowly around an old car in a barn somewhere and they're frantic to touch one another? She's a young Amish woman and he's a cop hoping to ask Kelly's son what he saw in a Philadelphia train station that would help solve a murder case. The Amish community is very conflicted about Harrison's presence. They don't want their community contaminated by the outside world. But the boy saw something and they know that his telling Harrison what he saw might lead to justice. The scene with Kelly is hot and powerful, but it stays with me mostly because we know while we're watching it that if the two of them carry on, she will have to choose between her Amish family and being with the man that she loves. She can't have both. And he can't become Amish. The whole scene is symbolic of her choice (and ours) between simplicity and complexity; family and the world. For me, the scene was incredilby beautiful and unbearable. Why couldn't they have both? As I write this, I'm reminded of Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford in The Way we Were - another impossible love story.

All of these thoughts remind me that I long for a simpler way of being. I'm writing new songs in a different way: not using my recording gear until the song is done and I'm ready to record it rather than recording sketches from the beginning and trying to make sense of the mess I've created. It's harder; it's refreshing, and it takes a lot of discipline for me to work this way. My hope is that in the end, the songs will be stronger melodically. I'm already noticing, though, that working this way is diminishing the spontaneous part of my writing. That may not be a good thing, but maybe it is! We'll see.

Today, it is beautiful again. Tasha and Wally are outside after a long walk this morning. They like their pen because they can see the comings and goings of our neighborhood. I'll go get them soon so that I have time with them inside in a more peaceful setting. I'm going to finish painting the living room today. And I may read. I feel lucky to have a choice.

We got home last night from a ten day trip through western Colorado, The Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park. I'm glad to be home in Westcliffe again, but also really glad to have seen such beautiful places day after day this last week. My parents took me and my five siblings through Yellowstone when I was 8 (45 years ago). I didn't recognize a thing but it brought back some sweet memories: watching my father swim in a hot spring while the rest of us stood watching without the courage to jump in with him; a bear in our campsite and along the road - some of whcih I imagined to be grizzlies; the camper my parents rented with a window above the driving cab that the six of us could look out of as we drove through the park; a tent for my parents and brother, the five of us girls getting the tables that converted to beds inside the camper.

On our trip, my partner Brent and I thought we would camp but never did. Our first day in Yellowstone, we were forced to turn back because of snow. The roads were closed shortly thereafter and no one without chains on their tires was allowed in the park. Instead, we stayed at The Jackson Lake Lodge at the northern end of The Grand Teton National Park for two days until the roads opened up again. I liked being there a lot. The staff was young, upbeat and friendly. The lodge they'd been working in all summer was closing for the season so there was a lot of sadness as well as celebration shared amongst all of them and the few guests that remained, including us. Inside Yellowstone, we stayed first at the Old Faithful Inn where it was also the last night of the season. Winter was coming and it was time to board up the buildings to keep them safe from the wind and snow. Sunday night, we stayed further north at Mammoth Lodge 5 miles south of the North Entrance to the park and to border of Montana. Our most exciting adventures were there.

We arrived just after lunch and decided to take what we thought would be an easy 5 mile hike from the center of the lodge's campus. After we'd climbed the first uphill stretch, we found a trail marker that didn't match up with the info we'd gotten at the trailhead but which was close enough that we carried on. It was the first hike we'd taken without a pack with water, food, warm clothes or first aid thinking that we'd only be out for about 90 minutes. The hike was peaceful and not too demanding. We only ran into one other set of hikers - three young men who told us we'd walked about halfway and that the good parts were yet to come. That was 40 minutes into our hike. We were right on schedule. We found beaver ponds, elk skat and aspen groves along the way, as well as some really beautiful mountainside views. An hour later, we still weren't finished the walk and the sun was starting to go down. It was 5:00 and getting cooler and it was time to be heading towards dinner not hiking with no extra fleeces on hand. In a moment of panic that no hiker should ever allow, we decided to go off the path towards a road we could see far below us. We were in a valley that didn't look familiar and the only sign of life we could make sense of was a tiny stretch of road that we thought we could reach before the sun went down entirely. In our haste, we began to scurry down the side of the mountain, but the road we'd seen went out of sight as we descended. 30 minutes earlier we'd seen what we thought was our lodge to the north from an overhang along the path we'd been walking. When we saw it, we were surprised to be south of our destination, and more significantly, so far away from it. All of these observations had turned us around and confused us and suddenly we were lost and not sure how far we were from where we needed to be, or how we were going to get out before the day ended and it was truly cold (not to mention the thought of bear, mountain lion, and elk!) We survived, obviously, but it was a tense way to end the day. We walked as fast as I've ever walked to get oursevles off the mountain and safely to what turned out to be the North Entrance of the park, about five miles away from our cabin at Mammoth Lodge.

We made lots of mistakes that hikers should never make and it was humbling to say the least: we didn't have supplies with us in an unfamiliar wilderness, we didn't have maps, we hadn't told anyone where we'd gone, and most importantly, we'd gone off the trail. We hadn't even looked at maps in advance to know that there was another town in our vicinity. When we saw buildings in the distance from the top of the mountain, we assumed they were Mammoth Lodge, our destination. Had we known that Gardiner, Montana was 5 miles north, we would have figured things out differently. When we finally got there, exhausted and a little bit desperate, the park ranger we found told us we'd have to hitchhike back to Mammoth. Naturally no one wanted to pick us up (it was getting dark, and perhaps our eyes looked crazed from being so distressed) but finally a young waittress picked us up and took us right to our door. We bought her and her family dinner just for having the courage to save us from our somewhat stupid selves. When we walked the path in reverse the next morning just to see what we'd done wrong, we discovered that we were only half a mile from our cabin when we scurried down the side of the mountain. If we'd taken the time to breathe and look at the very obvious landmarks, we would have had time for a hot tub before dinner instead of a manic hike over unfamiliar mountains to a town in Montana. Needless to say, we were humbled and reminded of all the things one should not do when they go out for a short walk in the Rocky Mountains.

The following day, we woke to a herd of elk comfortably camping out in the center of the guest cabins we were adjacent to. The strange thing was not the herd being there but the fact that there were three males instead of a single adult bull. The park employs an entire staff of men and women whose only job is to monitor the elk herds that rest from their predators in the middle of the lodge's guest facilities. Tourists get over-excited and do stupid things that can irritate an elk and cause them to charge. Silly me, I didn't know any of this as I skipped between the cabins to get a picture. I was immediately called back and scolded (gently) for being a ding bat. 10 minutes later, the senior bull went a little bonkers when a younger bull mounted one of the females. He let us all know that this was not ok. Elk the size of a minivan were running everywhere to get away from him. We were in our car by then and smack in the middle of the action. The bull came right up to our windshield as a famale stood a foot from my side of the car. I didn't want to scare her with my flash so I didn't take a picture, but I got a shot of the bull coming our way - calm by the time he got to us. Seeing them all scattering all over the place was thrilling to say the least. Things settled down very quickly - just another day in Yellowstone Park, but for us, it was something we weren't likely to see again in our lifetime.

I've written for long enough. I had all kinds of thoughts to share, all of which have escaped me. Maybe I'm tired; maybe I'm just wanting to talk about our trip. But I'm reminded as I sit outside with our dogs on this glorious fall day in central Colorado, that being home is really my favorite place to be. Going away is always good, but there's something about coming back that I love more than anything. The aspens here are glorious: yellow and shimmering in the light wind. Brent is off walking somewhere and our dog sitter and house guest, Wendy, is out running, believe it or not, with a burrow. I admire her. She takes life by the reins, literally in this case, and digs in. It's a good day and a good life. I'm glad to be where I am.

It's Wednesday September 14th, and I'm only just remembering a promise I made to myself in May: write a blog entry every Monday if for no other reason than to stay in the habit of writing. Now, here it is mid September, a Wednesday, and my last entry was nearly four months ago. Where does the time go? So today I'm making another promise to myself: do not promise to write a blog entry every Monday because you know that with life as it is right now, writing something every Monday is highly unlikely. Truth is, I'd like very much to be writing every day, not just Mondays. But here I am in a new state half way across the country from New York where I've lived for 20 years, and frankly, my head and heart are spinning. So I excuse myself and hope that with time, I will settle down and get back to writing every day soon enough.

It's a crazy, mixed-up time for me. I keep telling myself to call this a sabbatical, but really it's just another time in my life. I'm not productive on a creative level. I'm not playing the piano much or the guitar very much at all. My recording equipment is on the fritz, which makes me nuts. I haven't lived here long enough to have anything to write about, and I'm too distracted by all the new stimulation to re-open old work that needs to be finished. Today, I felt like I needed to write something new, so I've migrated to this non-threatening blog spot. When I got to my desk, I had no idea what I might have to say, but simply needed to put my fingers on the keys and begin.

I've spent the last couple of days painting. We live in a commercial building that has one very large room on the second floor which acts as our living room, eating area, piano studio, tv room, ping pong table space and kitchen. My partner and I have only random furniture that we've brought from our previous lives. As luck would have it, everything looks ok together, but believe me, there's nothing elegant about any of it. Painting the walls seemed a good way to warm up the room and bring our two lives together through the act of picking colors. We started with the main wall in a beige/mustard color recommended by Brent's sister-in-law. I wasn't sure about it when she suggested it, but when it was done, I was amazed by how it made most of the other colors in the room blend together. After I painted that one wall, it was clear which colors in the room didn't work and would have to go. Yesterday, though, I wrecked that feel by using two other "neutral" colors in contrast. Amazing how quickly you can screw something up by experimenting or making things more complicated than they need to be. It does look better, but there's something uncomfortable about the two palettes. The beige is in the brown family, and the other two are in the gray/slate family and boy does it confuse the eye. I never studied fine painting, so seeing this all so clearly in my own living room is exciting, albeit rather expensive. So off to the paint store I go again, to get two browns that are in the same color group as the beige, to see if that'll work. The whole experience makes me want to understand the psychology of colors. There's a whole building to paint here, so I'm going to learn a lot one way or the other.

The summer is nearly over. We've already started lighting a fire at night to take the cool edge off. Two nights ago, the tips of the Rocky Mountains were covered in snow. This will be my first winter in Colorado, so I'm a bit nervous about what's to come in terms of being cold. Last year was milder here than in New York where I was living at the time, but it may turn around the other way this year. We'll see. At this moment, I'm wearing long sleeved thermal underwear and a fleece to make sitting still comfortable.

But what's mostly on my mind is the question of what to do with my life. For over 25 years I've been dreaming about and trying to be successful with my songs and songwriting. I'm 53 now and never achieved the success that I fantasized about, but nevertheless, did well enough to be grateful and satisfied with my work. I loved being on stage more than anything else. When I was singing for others, especially my own songs, I felt as good as I've ever felt. Despite nervousness and insecurities, I usually calmed down the moment the show started. My tendency is to be over-wound (you noticed?) but for some reason, when I'd sing, a lot of that high strung energy would dissipate. Standing up in front of a crowd was ironically the most relaxing place for me to be. It was also particularly warming to get feedback after the show, especially if someone was truly moved. What better reward could there be? Now here I am in Colorado, a state I'd never been to before moving here, and I feel as though something major is happening to me. I don't have the need or desire to perform right now. I DO feel a deep sense of relief about not performing because I don't have to get on the phone today and try to find a gig for next month or the month after that. I should try, but I don't have the drive to do it anymore. I need to earn a living, of course, but I don't have to do it the same way, and frankly, I'm tired. While I was painting these last couple of days, I listened to my friend Kirsti Gholson's new CD about 20 times in succession. It's an incredible recording (get a copy!) but what is most impressive is her lyrics. She is truly a master lyricist. I'm inspired to try new things with my songs as a result of listening to hers. I was also struck by the fact that Kirsti doesn't perform her songs in public that often. She chooses to record and write instead. As I listened to her, I felt like perhaps that's the direction my mid-life body wants to take: write, play, record, but let go of the constant need to perform and travel. Perhaps now is the time to rest. To reflect. To gather myself together for whatever the next phase of my creative life will be. I've ordered a new computer so that recording will work smoothly again. My piano's in tune and I'm in the process of buying a used keyboard that has all the virtual sounds I might need to make a good recording right here at home. A simple recording. A recording that focuses on the songs rather than on production. These days, no one has the money to make highly produced recordings anymore. We all have to simplify in all kinds of ways, and for me, this is a good thing. As I get older, I can feel my voice changing. I have more courage to sing out but less range to work with. So I'll write songs that will take advantage of my waning skills. The challenge is to feel good about where I am now and not fret about what used to be or could have been. As I adjust, perhaps new and interesting material will emerge. I hope so, and I actually believe that it will.

The country as a whole feels uninspired to me right now. So many of us are feeling less well off, more nervous or worried. The rains, fires and winds have set us back. The economy and political silliness has made many of us cynical or angry. But I remain optimistic. I believe we'll all be ok. And I know that for myself, as long as I continue to believe that good creative work will come from my hands, that in time, it will.

I wish you all well, and continue to wonder who it is that might be reading this.
Bar

The word 'change' comes into my head almost every time I think to write something new. I don't know why. Maybe the universe has been saying "you need a change," or maybe it's that there's been so much change and I'm just thinking about it all the time.

The big change I've made recently is to move from Woodstock, New York to a small town in south central Colorado. I'd lived in Woodstock for 18 years, made lots of friends, got married, had my son Forrest, lived fully then lost Forrest to cancer 10 years ago, ended a good marriage 18 months ago, fell in love with another wonderful man and decided it was time to start over somewhere else. Leaving so much that I knew well and moving to a place that is different in almost every way imaginable was an act of faith. I knew in my heart that it was time to go. I didn't necessarily want to go from all that I loved and all that supported me emotionally, but my heart knew that staying in Woodstock would prolong my sadness and keep me in a place of thinking of myself as a mother whose child died, or, as a woman whose marriage ended, and I knew I wasn't either of those things. I loved everything about being a mom, and a wife, and yet I couldn't seem to rise above the challenge of Forrest's death looming so large in my life. I didn't help myself by writing a book about it, except that writing that book changed everything. Taking the time to describe what I felt and experienced during and after Forrest's life was cathartic in all kinds of ways. I finally allowed myself to grieve in a way that I hadn't been strong enough to do before. When Forrest died, without knowing it, I went into hyperdrive and feigned strength so that I could survive emotionally. He was my greatest joy and love and living without him was almost unbearable. Writing, telling our story from my point of view, gave me all the time I needed to feel what I needed to feel. By the time I'd written the third draft, I didn't hurt so badly. After the seventh and final draft, my sadness had turned to peace.

Change has been challenging in the form of my marriage ending too. Needless to say, I have spent much time thinking about love and the institution that I vowed to uphold and did not. But things change. People grow, and some people grow apart in such a way that it no longer makes sense to continue living together. So now I live in a cowboy town surrounded by ranches, cows, horses and mountains. The air is dry, the nights are cold. I miss the green of the east coast and I miss my friends. But i feel the adventure and the wonder of my new life. The people here are older for the most part. Many are retired and moving more slowly than I am through their days . This is good for me although it's sometimes frustrating. We stop and talk to neighbors like us who have nowhere to be in a few minutes and that's a relief. There's a movie theater that shows B films in the summer on Friday and Saturday nights. There are a handful of restaurants. None are vegetarian or ethnic except for the Mexican place. The closest town of any size is 50 miles away. I ride my bike everywhere and I walk. The people are nice, and the word 'folks' comes to mind when I think of many of them. They're nice folks.

Already I can feel the story of my life changing and I like it. We're planting a garden -- starting some from seed others from plants that someone else started months ago. Talk about change! I'm watching sets of dirt with seeds we planted an inch deep and hoping hoping hoping that I will see green shoots soon, no matter that it's only been two days since we planted them. I'm green. It's all new. We're growing food, learning how to love and be loved again, and seeing how it feels to work in tandem with someone else. These are changes that I needed and I am so curious to see the bloom.

Bar