Some people get you. Others never will.

“I don't think we have all the words in a single vocabulary to explain what we are or why we are. I don't think we have the range of emotion to fully feel what someone else is feeling. I don't think any of us can sit in judgment of another human being. We're incomplete creatures, barely scraping by. Is it possible--from the perspective of this quickly spinning Earth and our speedy journey from crib to coffin--to know the difference between right, wrong, good, and evil? I don't know if it's even useful to try.” ― Alexandra Fuller

I walked alone along the sidewalks of Main Street in Red Lodge, Montana.  Snow crunched under my feet in the pale, orange light of mid-September while more snow fell in quiet whisps—twisting and turning in a delicate dance to the ground.  I pulled my hat down farther and my red down coat a little tighter against the chill.  The shop windows, glowing against the darkening of night, gave a glimpse into another world.  Couples laughing over dinner and wine.  Friends toasting shots. A grandma, picking out a new light.  

Parked outside The Pollard was a Subaru with “Just Married” painted on the back.  I stood under the street lamp on the corner and looked up at the falling snow and the lights in the rooms above.  I was heavy into thoughts about endings, but I stopped to consider the new beginnings painted on that car. I had no cynicism left.

I’ve said before that maybe happy endings are messy and ugly.  They sometimes involve lots of pain and tears.  I watched the snow fall and it occurred to me that all new beginnings involve the ends of something else, and then I wandered on to the Snow Creek.

The bar was empty except for Susie, the bartender, and an older hippie sitting at the far side of the bar.  Susie was pushing 60 (or looked it), but she was dressed like the 20-somethings everywhere else in town that you could tell were working the mountain for a few days of free skiing.  They looked up as I walked in, taking off my hat and shaking off the snow.  For a second, I felt I was interrupting something, but they both hollered a friendly hello.  

I contemplated sitting closer to the old man, to make her bartending easier, but really, I wanted to be alone to ponder things.  Life.  Love.  Trust.

Ordering a PBR seemed too cliché, so I settled for a Stoly Collins (trying to remember my own free days as a ski bum).  I gave her a twenty and asked for fives for the juke box.  I played Joe Purdy and went back to my drink.  

I was remembering my divorce.  A horrid, ugly affair, and as I sat nursing my drink, I remembered all the friends that felt they had to take sides.  Aside from my kids, I think that was my biggest fear of this marriage falling completely apart.  It’s not so much ‘losing’ friends, but realizing who never was one to begin with.  Maybe that was the part that scared me most.  

You spend years of your life spilling your guts to people that really don’t give a shit but pretend they do.  That hurts more than knowing love, somewhere along the way, died.  I stared at the cherries; Susie gave me two.  I busied myself tying the stem of one into a knot with my tongue, staring into the vodka, contemplating how life was going to be. An end, and yet, a new beginning.

We’d gone away to figure out where to go.  Not like we were figuring out the next vacation, but to decide, once and for all, how to split things.  How to divide up the kids and the bills, and I guess, in the end, the ‘friends.’  Things got heated; we lost track of what the real reason for talking had been, and decided to take a break.  Past accusations.  All of our faults. I went for a walk.

I felt a hand on my back, and someone was passing me five dollars.  The old hippie sat down beside me and said, “I like your music.  Play some more.” 

I played his money and as I sat down he said, “You can always tell a Montana girl by her music.”

“I’m from Idaho!” I laughed as Susie pulled up a stool.

We talked and laughed and had a few shots.  I walked outside to smoke and Susie followed.  “What brings you here this time of year?” she asked, seeming genuinely curious.

By now the snow had stopped.  I took a deep drag and stared across the street.  “I decided I could figure out my life by holing up in a condo for three days,”  I replied.  “I knew no one would find me here.”

She looked at me knowingly, crushed out her cigarette, and said, “Good luck.  Your next one’s on me.”

I debated on going back in or going back and crashing under the homemade quilt that Dorothy from Georgia made and was sure to let everyone know she had in the guestbook on the coffee table.  But, I went back in for that free drink.

As can happen when old souls meet for the first time, our conversation got deep.  As I was pulling on my hat, and the snow started again, the old hippie said, “You stay good.  Don’t worry about losing the people you never had. Some get you and others never will.”

I walked out into the night and back to the abode.  I sat in the hot tub and watched the stars.

The next two days were deeply personal, and what I thought was the end, ended up being a new beginning.  

What I’ve learned in the last year, is that yes, happy endings are messy and ugly and they sometime involve a lot of pain.  I’ve learned that the people that judge relationships the most have never really had a successful one.  

I’ve come to appreciate the people I’ve always had, and thank God, the ones I never did showed their colors.

Some people just GET you.  And, some never will.  

Keep your stories for those who do.

Letter to my 19-year old self

I turned 39 yesterday, and looking back on 20 years, I have some advice for my old self. Plus, as a mother of two daughters…this is to you and me.

You’re probably sitting there, right now, in the middle of an existential crisis.

The sun is shining rays through the window, and you’re questioning yourself.  Have I made my parents proud?  Have I lived my potential? WTF am I supposed to do with my life?

First, I want you to know that things are fine.  Chill. The. Fuck. OUT. For real. 

Those thoughts you have, about not being good enough?  They lie to you. 

You’re going to find someone who tells you every single day just how beautiful you are.  You’ll find a hollow validation in that.  

Your heart is going to break over love.  Into a bazillion pieces.  You will live.  It’s going to hurt--deep down in the marrow of your sternum, and it will take your breath away.  But, you will live.

Someone will fall in love with your mind and you’re never, ever, going to let them go.  Ever.  Because you’re going to realize the scale doesn’t matter.  You’re going to realize that the guy buying you drinks, only tells you have pretty eyes for one reason. 

You will fall in love with yourself...and that's better than anyone else can give you.

You are going to lose your best friends.  Not over the petty drama of boys and silent treatments.  They are going to really die.  They will pass on to watch over you.  Always with you in a way they couldn’t be before. This will teach you to appreciate getting old.  You will learn to tell everyone, “I love you!” because you finally know you might not have the chance tomorrow.

You will learn that an education doesn’t make you intelligent or guarantee a job. You’ll learn new things anyway.

Sadly, you’ll learn who deserves your tears, and who doesn’t.  Happily, you’ll come to know laughter through tears is the best emotion.

You will live through a moment where you think you want to feel the depths of human emotion, then you will learn they don’t call it deep for a trivial reason.

You will fight with your mother.  You will realize entire libraries exist telling this story.  You will hold her hand and tell her you love her anyway.

Your dad will be your hero again.

You’ll travel.  A lot.  It will make you realize you grew up, not in a backward place, but in beauty and love.  

You will embrace the different.

You will realize your strength when you give birth.  You will wipe tears, heal wounds, and give slobbery kisses.  You’ll feed ice cream to broken hearts, throw rocks at boys, and comfort the sick.

You’ll confront more than your fair share of bad.

You'll feel guilty for not being the perfect mother.  You'll find grace  when they turn out fine.

You will wake up, praise the sun, take a breath and love your life.

You’re going to have breakdowns and meltdowns and throwdowns.  You will still get back up, maybe even not knowing you’re better for it.

You will hate stretch marks, but love the memories of kicks in your belly.

You will hate crows feet, but learn to bask in the sun that gave them.

You’re going to fight over what is right.  You WILL lose.  You’ll fight anyway.

Things aren’t going to turn out like you planned.  They’re more beautiful.

You will fight your head.  Stop it.  

Stop asking why. Stop asking, “Should I?”

Or, to my girls, maybe you won't.  Maybe there is a different route for you to find.  Find it.  Embrace it.  Love it.

Know you are loved.

Buy the ticket.  Take the ride. 

You will come out on the other end happy, beautiful, and just like it was supposed to be.

Just be.

Namaste.

Time

The thing about the desert in the blazing afternoon sun is the quiet.  The only thing you can hear is the wind, sometimes roaring up from the southern end of the Snake River Plain.  So quiet sometimes you can hear your heart beating and the blood pumping in your ears.  The wind so loud on other days you can barely hear anything else. 

The sun shines on these days in bright, white light.  Heat rises on the horizon and pushes the buttes into funky shapes and ripples the mountains to the west.  I need the quiet.  I’m terrified of snakes, and the quiet lets my ears tell me what my eyes and the stick I use to poke the brush sometimes don’t—a rattlesnake letting you know you’ve gotten a bit too close to his grouchy ass.

I love the early summer, when the needle and thread grass sways in waves.  I sit in the lupine and paintbrush to eat my lunch, and pull the seedy heads off the grasses, teasing the large army ants.  Usually staring off at the mountains, thinking of good routes if I ever decided to climb again.

I’m late this year.  The flowers have gone to seed and the grasses have already senesced in the dry heat.  The cicadas have hatched, and their loud scratching puts me on edge.  I can’t hear the quiet.  Franklin’s gulls circle everywhere.  They only show up here in these numbers when the cicadas are everywhere and fat and bleating—hiding  the sound of snakes.  “They saved the Mormons,” I tell myself. 

Maybe they’ll save me.

The weather man says we’re in for a severe drought if we don’t get feet and feet of snow.  I knew by sitting in my grass and watching the snow on the Lost River Range we were in for a dry spell.  The grasses shrivel, and with every sigh of the desert in the dry heat, I can feel a drought in my heart swell.  

We’re growing apart.  We fight and yell and drive each other crazy.  We wonder aloud what we’re doing, and, as the water table drops another foot, another giant chasm opens between us.

I sit in a manager’s office.  He calls me “kid” and “sweetie;” a condescending way of letting me know he thinks I don’t know what I’m talking about.  “You’re going to have to supply supplemental water,” I tell him, regarding the vegetation project he wasted his money on last year by not listening to me.  “Otherwise, you’re just going to keep wasting your time and money.”

Supplemental water.  The grass is only greener on the other side of that fence ‘cause the neighbors water.  So we head into fall, trying to water the dying shriveled mess we’ve made.

We make it to winter and the sky only sends enough snow to make the roads unbearable and treacherous. Enough snow and bitter cold to freeze us in a grip of cold and tragic death.  The reaper pulls at whim, leaving us surrounded by the screams of grief that drown out all else like the cicadas have drowned out my quiet, peaceful summer. 

He takes at his leisure, and I wonder why, like Pilate, he leaves us Barabbas and takes the good. 

So we water our parched pieces of drought stricken hearts with our tears and remember what really matters.  In the middle of our loud and angry grief, our gulls come in the form of “I’m sorry,” and “I love you,” and “the dishes can wait.”  They swoop down and gobble up our sorrows and remind us we have time to heal.  Time.  They give us time to focus on what really matters.  The cicada of grief hatches and leaves behind an empty shell.  But like the butterfly, it morphs into something more beautiful.  A hug.  A touch.  Laughter.  Love.

We realize we have time.  A gift denied many.  

So, I’ll scoop up my glorious time, because when the drought of time hits, no amount of watering will save it.