That, and a Cup of Coffee Will Get You...

Sitting here a joyful little mess this afternoon, as upon my return from the day’s out-and-abouting, I came home to a note under my door that has equal parts blessed me and broken my heart…

This isn’t normally something I would share, because some of the things I do for others, I feel compelled to ‘do in secret,’ as the scriptures exhort.  I keep my mouth shut about stuff like that for the spiritual guidance, for the privacy of others, and sometimes for the protection of not having to listen to criticisms for the things I do. 

Let me start this story at its genesis on December 23^rd…

That day, as I was moseying over to Dutch Bros for my morning tea and Dutch Baby love, I began to feel this move to *do something* for the kids that work at the Eureka Way coffee stand.  My sentimentality toward the location actually started in February of 2013, the day that my son, Jesse, told me that he had asked his then-girlfriend, Amanda, to marry him.  At the point where Amanda and I wound up in the car alone that day, I took her to the Eureka Way Dutch Bros for a celebratory drink.  At that juncture in life, I was still pretty much a fan of that Seattle-based coffee place, but felt it the right thing to take the one-day-mother-of-my-smart-and-beautiful-ginger-babies to HER place. 

Since that day, I have been a fan of the tea there, and the location has stuck as well.  When I got divorced the following year and moved myself and my business to my current downtown location, I became a daily regular-- sometimes in the mornings, to get my day started, sometimes in the evenings after massage class, or after a long evening of working on clients.  This past year—a year emphatically punctuated by horrific loss and grief for me—there were days when a smile, a hug, or some other measure of kindness from one barista or another, was the thing that got me through the day, or one more client, or one more afternoon trying to make sense of a lot of senselessness in life. 

It was these things, and a general love for a bunch of 20-somethings who serve up coffee and tea like they are on a mission from God—consistently, like it’s THE most important thing in that moment-- that made me want to do something for them as a token of my gratitude, and well, my love for them.  So, while I was waiting for my tea that morning, I asked one of the Dutch Babies to make me a list of everyone who worked there.  Twenty-three names in hand, I pondered that day what to do for each of them that would just let them know that I appreciate them. 

After much contemplation, I finally settled on getting each of them a gift card to the movies.  The gal at the theater got a pretty confused look on her face when I asked for twenty-four gift cards.  It was a chunk of change that left my wallet quite a bit lighter.  But considering everything that’s happened since, I’d have spent ten times as much and considered it an incredible investment.

The next thing I did was sit down with all the gift cards, and put each one in an envelope with a personal note—as personal as I was able to make it, based on how well I knew the recipient.  A few of them were more or less just, “Thanks for the awesome tea!” but some of them contained inside jokes, references to ways each had personally touched me over the year, or things I sincerely value in them. 

It took me almost two hours to work through the entire list.  When I was finished, I felt like Christmas was “finished” for me.  I’m not much of a shopper, and aside from this little project, I can count on one hand the number of gifts I purchased this year.  I generally try to just spend time or engage in a loving act of service for people I care about, rather than prop up the retail economy for the holiday. 

I dropped the cards off the next day, on Christmas Eve, when I got my daily dose of Dutch, and then went on my way. 

What has happened since has blessed me and humbled me immensely.  In the past four weeks since Christmas, I’ve received kind and heartfelt thank-yous from most everyone, along with stories of the movie they went and saw, who they spent time with as a result, and/or a general recounting of how nice it was to go to the movies, since to kids that age, newly on their own, movies are sometimes out of reach financially.

I’ve had the most incredible conversations about the notes. 

I had written to one girl, “I am in awe of how smart you are…”  Her response to that was to hug me and thank me, tell me that she has grown up her whole life in the shadow of the family billboard that her sister was The Smart One, and that I am the first person she can recall ever noticing that she is a Smart One, too.

I had written to one guy that I appreciated his tea deliveries, and that I am so thankful for the occasional chore he offers to do for me, because my own kids are variously MIA.  The next time I saw him after the holiday, he hugged me and told me that his mom passed away when he was in junior high school, and that he secretly “pretends” I’m his mom. 

I hugged him and told him he doesn’t have to pretend any more.

And these stories go on and on in such a vein.  Today, the note under my door was from a Dutch Baby I just met in person this morning.  At the drive-thru, when one of his co-workers introduced me, he said, “Are you the Movie Card Lady?”  I nodded yes, he politely said thanks with a winning smile, and we each went on about our day. 

The card, as I now understand it, made its way to my door with help from a co-worker, and read, “I started work at Dutch the week you gave me the movie card.  On more than one level, that card WAS CHRISTMAS for me.”

I don’t even know what exactly that means, but all that matters is that it meant something to him.

I am as guilty as anyone for taking people I care about for granted, for not speaking positive truths to them, or about them.  I am purposing this year to do a better job of that—family, friends, random people… and I’m sharing this, I guess, so you can, too. 

Sometimes, more than we might think, without realizing the consequence, kind words empower, they heal, they change lives in unimaginable ways. 

Playing Social Hookey Today

At the moment, I am sitting in Starbucks, bottom resting comfortably in a chair, taking advantage of that post-workout boost of creativity that seems to come from putting my body in motion.

In twenty minutes, there is a town hall meeting across town to unveil the Public Safety Blueprint.  I won't be there.  Because honestly, the costume change required almost doesn't seem worth it with everything else I have going on today.  Also, I'm pretty much losing my normal optimism for what we can collectively get accomplished in Redding.

Let me start by saying some positive things:

It's GREAT that city council members Brent Weaver and Kristen Schroeder heralded the charge, and that the Redding City Council moved the concept of a blueprint forward.  Without a vision, little can be accomplished.

It is important that dialogue continue among community members, leaders, agencies, and others.  We can't continue operating in silos and expect positive, realistic outcomes.

These things being said, I've lost patience, and I've lost hope.  Here's a slice of why:

In a nutshell, we continue to throw money at the wrong pieces, the wrong planks, of the problem-- even at the community, philanthropic levels, the place where the grassroots girl inside me thinks the best stuff gets accomplished.  Remember a few months ago, when there was a big push in the community to collect blankets for the homeless? In the past few weeks, I have picked up more than a dozen filthy, wet, damaged, unkempt, covered-in-God-only-knows-what blankets in the twelve-block area that is my 'hood.  I have heard other friends complain of same in other parts of town.

While I know that some of the blankets are actually assisting people who need them, it seems a significant portion have become another part and parcel of the symptoms of the mental health problem that is a foundation of what ails our town.

Another similar aggravation of mine is the folks that are digging around in dumpsters and trash cans, seeking whatever treasures they may find.  Yesterday, I helped put trash back into a large dumpster behind Sherven Square (the building next to mine).  Someone(s) had taken out all of the trash from a nearly-full dumpster, took what they wanted, and left the rest of the trash scattered about the ground.

Later in the day, on a quick walkabout between clients, I found an abandoned shopping cart with, among other things, a cardboard box addressed to one of the businesses in the Sherven Square building.  The cart was nearly full with an odd assortment of stuff-- boxes, plastic bags, recycling, two wet and broken-down blankets, and what appeared to be possibly stolen items, including electronics, make-up, and food items.

I reported all this to the proper authorities.  Not that anything can be done, but at least it's statistical data as to the problem.

My car has been broken into a total of ten times now since December 26th of 2013.  My suite has been broken into, and even though I had $600 in cash taken, it doesn't amount to a 'crime' under the guidelines of Prop 47.  It wasn't until added to the theft of rent checks (and actually, the entire drop box) from my building a week later, that the potential to capture the suspect was a reality.

I receive an online alert from businesses in town who share information about thefts and other crimes to businesses.  Multiple times a week, the folks at the Ace Hardware Express on Eureka Way are reporting thefts or vandalism in their store.

What I keep hearing at these community meetings is that there aren't enough law enforcement resources out on the street.  But even if there were enough cops or community service officers, there's not enough space in the jail to put 'real' offenders, and thanks to Prop 47, many of the property thefts, damages, etc., are no longer crimes the courts will consider.

It reminds me of that song we all sang as kids, "'Round and 'round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel..."

If we aren't going to address the mental health problems in a legitimate way, i.e., more court-ordered, community-based drug rehabs, in-patient facilities, and other programs; and we aren't even going to prosecute crimes in the community, it really doesn't matter how many Adopt-a-Block programs there are, or how many blueprints we construct, or how many "homeless" initiatives we develop.

The problems will continue to persist.

So, I made no effort to go to the meeting.  I know my friends will update me.  I've eloquently stated in public meetings what I feel the problems are, and what could and should be done.  Instead, I wrote (this blog, and another hilarious piece I'll be sending along to an editor by the end of the week), and now, I'm going to go to the market and pick up the items I've pledged for supper this evening with My Guy, My Bestie, and Her Guy.

And to be honest, an evening with friends is really part of the answer to the problem.  Stick together.  Socialize.  Live life in a way that trumps the negative things in town.

Resolved: No Resolutions for 2016

I had an opportunity this year to come away from a hypnosis session with Brian Srotananda with a weight loss tip that has translated into virtually every aspect of my life.  He's on Facebook, based out of Chico, CA.  Go find this amazing soul. If for no other reason than to follow his cute face, his darling daughter, Jilli, their pet, Bun-Bun, and all their life shenanigans.  But trust me, he can help you unleash some amazing things inside yourself, as well.

I initially went to him as part of my ongoing pursuit of health and weightloss.  The hypnosis session focused in part around implanting positive messages in my subconscious that would improve my thought processes around food and a healthy lifestyle.  

I went to Brian with a list of ideas of things I wanted my subconscious to promote in my daily living.  One of those items was, "I will write down what I eat before I eat it."  It was a resolution of sorts, just on a meal-to-meal basis.  

What Brian did with that was tweak it into a real-time operation, making it, "I write down what I eat before I eat it."

It may seem like mere semantics to some, but what this did was turn my desire, my altruism, my good intentions, my resolution, into an actual, demonstrable act.  I DO this thing.  It's not that I want to do this thing, or that I hope to do this thing, or that I resolve to do this thing, or that I hope I have enough time to do this thing, or that I wish I had enough discipline to do this thing, I DO IT.

I've always been a 'resolution' girl.  Part of it is probably that my birthday is the last day of the year.  I tend to be in a very reflective mood anyway, contemplating all that the prior birth and calendar year was and wasn't, and what I want to make different out of the coming 365 or 366 days.  

What I have determined for myself this year is that it's less about resolutions, and more about an ambitious 'To-Do' list.  It's not that I 'resolve' to (hope, pray, believe, or otherwise passively seek) change.  It's that this shit is just gonna get DONE.  

Anyone who knows me very well, knows that in everyday life, I am all about breaking every problem, task, or opportunity down into 'doable' chunks, and then just getting the job done.  I am now committed, due to Brian's tweaking of my philosphy, to changing the behaviors, and applying those changed behaviors to my To-Do list.

For example, I have health goals for the year:

Lose 30 more pounds.  

My to-do for this does not relate to pounds at all.  

In 2016, I work out at least 150 hours.  I DO IT.

In 2016, I eat a low-carb, meatless diet.  (I know this isn't everyone's gig, but it works for me.  This is key-- find stuff that works for YOU!)

By doing these two things, the weight will come off.  It's not that strive to do them, not that I hope to do them, not that I pray someone, or some thing will spur me on to do them.  I JUST DO THEM.  The same way I shower every day, pay bills every month, pay taxes every quarter, these things are added to the list of things that JUST GET DONE.

I have business goals for the year.

Meet all my business and personal expenses for the year as efficiently as possible.  

I can do this if I book 500 premium massages for the year.  I just do it.  I do enough advertising and outreach to make that number happen.  

I write three more books.  

This works out to about 250,000 words.  

While this may seem insurmountable to some, I realized a couple weeks ago, that this number breaks down to about 5,000 words a week.  For anyone who follows me on Facebook, it's pretty easy to see that I write almost that much every week just fooling around on Facebook alone.  I will be channeling the focus differently, so that there is less 'facebookiness', and more birthing of my 'word babies'.  Very simple transition.  Done.  

My untitled diet and exercise book utilizes this philosophy a lot.  Figure out what combination of activities, sensible eating, and behavioral changes will result in your weight loss goal, and then just DO them.  

I resolve not to get lost in the ambiguity of resolution this year.  I AM JUST ON MY WAY TO GETTING THE JOB(S) DONE. 

Here Comes 2016

Watch for the transition of this blog to my official ‘author’ site in the coming months.  With the anticipated publication of ‘Cuz She’s Feral That Way, a lot of new things will be happening.  

For one, this blog WILL become regular in 2016… watch for posts at least twice a month!

The blog and new website will also be alerting folks as to when hard copy editions will be available in your local metro and rural areas.  

While I am and will always be grateful to the opportunity that self-publishing on Amazon is giving me, I am, as always, totally committed to supporting small, independent booksellers and stores.  I was raised on the importance of supporting the ‘mom and pops’ in communities, and as a small business owner myself, I understand that first-hand as well.  

I hope this finds you wrapping up a warm and loving holiday season, and looking brightly to a happy and prosperous 2016.  

Lots of hugs and love to you all... 

Keep In a Cool Dry Place

Two weekends ago, I spent another few days on the coast, comprising the Guitar Shorty concert, encountering the tour bus the night before the show, time in the ocean, a new tattoo, Tsunami Nacho food, new friends, old friends, and some of the best sleep I ever get—nestled in the Redwoods, and within the smell of the ocean. 

It’s the smells that really provoke me in this life.  My eyesight, like most middle-aged humans, is waning, but smells seem to cloak me in old memories, new moments, and reminders of things that should be eternally embraced. 

My drive home along the lakes which hug Highway 20 was unremarkable on many counts.  The weather was scorching as usual for August, the traffic was doggedly slow in all the wrong places, and my patience was a little worn as I sought to break free onto I-5 and race home for a client who would be waiting for my arrival.  I felt annoyed as I pulled into a convenience store parking lot, stopping primarily because of nature’s call.

After relieving that immediate need, I gazed furtively around the store, deciding to find something cold to drink, as the beverages in my ice chest were beginning to warm in the water that had transformed from ice the day before.  I was even more compelled to purchase a cold drink when I realized that I was going to be afforded the luxury of walking into a cooler to select an item.  The mere thought of being embraced by 38-degree cool air was enough to propel me to the other side of the store and into the refrigerated haven. 

The chilled air hit me like enthusiastic embrace of a long-lost friend.  As I took in my first deep breath of the cool air, the reunion hit a horrifying snag.  The cold, musty smell took my breath away.  I knew that smell from my childhood, when my parents operated a small restaurant resort.  Something living was decaying inside that walk-in.  My in-the-moment, logical brain told me, ‘probably lettuce or a soft cheese,’ based on the fact that the store made deli sandwiches.  But that logical order of thought was completely usurped by the invasion of a dark, coarse, damp, wet memory—one I had no idea I’d been housing for over thirty years.

What overtook my road-weary, slightly hung-over, completely over-indulged-from-the-weekend body at that moment was a point in time from late 1982.  Decaying produce, the cold-yet-swampy smell of an ancient ‘beer cooler’, the dim lights of same, all swirled in my brain, along with the smell of a cigarette-stained, beer-infused, bearded, dirty man. 

Somewhere back in that place in time, this man would regularly take me into that cooler, with permission from at least one adult who should have been keeping me safe.  Inside that cooler, I smelled, felt, and tasted things no child should ever have to recollect.  I am thankful for a brain which barred the memory from me for three more decades.  I am angry for a lack of recollection which has probably subconsciously driven more than one of the many poor choices I have made in my lifetime.

As I stood in the cooler somewhere in Lake County, I was overwrought with the flood of memories rushing through me.  On the verge of totally losing my cool, I stood in a corner, pretending intently to be deciding between cranberry juice and sparkling water.  I pretended to make trivial choices while tears flowed wholesale, in cascades, down the side of my 46 year-old face.

Wiping tears and mascara on the bottom of my tank top, I finally made the decision to just leave the store, making no purchase at all.  I got back into my car, pulled out a luke-warm bottle of water from the ice chest, and started the car. 

The drive from there to Redding was a bit of a blur, but this I do know—it was a swift one.  And a teary one.  And one that had me singing to every rock song I could find on the radio—at top volume—anything to avoid getting hit by The Feels on any more intense of a level than what was already battering me. 

Most of last week was also a blur, in terms of this situation.  I didn’t sleep well.  Nightmares were in high supply.  Sleeplessness was prescient, as was anxiety, and a mess of additional memories returning for some really fucked up homecoming. 

By Tuesday, the sleepwalking, and the attendant sleep-shenanigans had manifested.  My beloved “Hugger” pillow had been ripped open as part of a dream where I was trying to claw my way out of the beer cooler. 

I finally took some control over the situation.  I met with my counselor, who has had to walk me through other similar childhood traumas.  I was super honest with him:  I don’t want to be raw through this.  No Feels.  To that end, I have nursed a $120 bottle of Gold Reserve Jameson whiskey this week.  I have had an outing with one of *those* friends.  I have gained twelve pounds in eight days in an attempt to board up the hurt, anger, disappointment, shock, and sadness.

Despite those efforts, still I’ve been overcome with the return of this situation.  By Thursday, I had replaced The Hugger—with an even better version.  And I made a phone call, one which put me in contact with the violator in this situation. 

When he returned my call, I was on the other end of the line with a gravelly-voiced, aged, ailing man who did not have any recollection of me.  The comedian in me couldn’t help but giggle.  I mean, really, I didn’t remember him until a week ago.  The little girl in me was wholly pissed off.  What happened in that beer cooler should never have occurred.  That he was claiming no recollection was an affront I didn’t quite know how to accept, or process, or understand how to redeem. 

Though he was initially reluctant, he agreed to meet me.  Sunday morning, I drove to the small town where I grew up, down a familiar dirt road, and to a place that held other more pleasant memories for me.  It was some real irony for me that he now lived in a place that I associated with good times. 

We talked.  I confronted.  He shrank.  He denied.  He wilted—sort of like lettuce sitting too long in a beer cooler.  Finally, after assuring him that I only want to make sense of something so senseless, and that I want this shit to be back in his lap where it belongs, he confessed.  His apology was weak, or at least I think it was.  There may have been a sincerity there that I overlooked, because I have honestly had it up to *here* with people from my childhood blaming their drugs and their booze for a whole lot of abuse, neglect, and general lunacy.  

Regardless of those degrees of humanity in something so messy, I feel like I have offloaded the burden.  The process in doing so may not have been as perfect, or as exacting as anyone would want, but I am at peace with that much of it.

This is the second time I have confronted someone like this.  This is the first time I am still angry after the confrontation, but for now, I am okay with that, too.  I think it will dissipate.  The anger I shared with him yesterday made an impression.  To the extent he remembers, I am sure he will not forget.  And with that, I am carrying a lighter load.

Summer Drives

As I traveled between Sacramento and Mendocino via the I-80 corridor yesterday, I experienced something akin to déjà vu as I recalled making the same drive along I-80 several times in the summer of 1987.  It was a curious thing to think about the similarities and the differences between then and now…

The destination—in 1987, I was taking trips right into San Francisco, meeting up with friends I’d ironically made working at the Big Wheels in Shingletown.  George and his buddies were regular visitors to the area.  At eighteen years old, I was all agog at being in The Big City.  While I had lived in my very early years in the Los Angeles area, my parents transplanted us to Shingletown when I was eight, so my growing up years were rural—very, very, rural.  Weekends in San Francisco were filled with evenings quietly tiptoeing through the KPIX studios where my buddies worked, and then checking out interesting angles and lines to the city’s night life.  I fell in love that summer with the architecture and design of the beautiful city. 

This summer, almost 30 years later, I have been frequenting the Mendocino area, loving the interesting and eclectic blend of offbeat culture, beautiful forests, and the Pacific coastline.  There is something so soothing to me about walking beaches, and communing among the redwoods.  And the people I meet here are awesome. 

The music—that summer in ’87, I was constantly on the lookout for Huey Lewis and the News, the first couple of visits missing him by days in one direction or the other because of the band’s tour schedule.  My persistence finally paid off, having met him at a media event and winding up with opportunities to see him perform, and even attend Forty-Niner games at the sideline as he sang the national anthem at the start of the games. 

This year, with a verve that seems to come from the same youthful resonance all those years ago, I have been chasing after musicians all summer, enjoying the music, and meeting people who have that beautiful hunger and passion for the talents they’ve been given.  In 1987, the pursuits were completely successful only because of luck and happenstance.  As a woman in my forties, I am equipped with a radar, and intuition, and a perseverance of a woman on a mission.  I want.  I seek.  I find.  Tour buses, meals, after-hour jams, and new friendships have all fallen out of the musical tree in my pursuits this year. 

The wheels—in ’87, I was cruising around my universe in a 1975 Mercury Monarch.  I had bought it from Chuck and Carol Ann Dinning, as Carol Ann had upgraded to a new ride.  It had four doors, of which only two fully worked from both the inside and the outside.  Ditto on the windows.  But wow, that car could go fast.  Typical of a teenager, I was not fully satisfied with the ride, and longed to have a car that was smaller—cuter—and more fuel efficient.  In retrospect, I really had it all with that car.  The back seat was so huge I could—and did—sleep in it on some of my longer adventures.  I recall longing to get into a car with a car payment back then, as I felt that would be some sort of rite of passage, some big deal that made me more adult. 

This year, I’m driving a smaller, “sportier” car that probably would have filled the bill for the longings of eighteen year-old me.  As a middle-aged woman, I try not to curse on my longer road trips as I sit crunched up in my little Mitsubishi Mirage, a veritable ergonomically-incorrect torture machine that leaves me in need of body work after every adventure.  And there is no way I’m going to sleep in the back seat of this thing! 

This car also brings with it the unique opportunity to be ‘profiled’ almost every time I drive it in an urban area, as with its large rims and slim tires, it apparently takes on the look of gangster trouble.  While not the ideal ride, I love this car, as it has helped me travel thousands of miles over the past fifteen months I’ve owned it—seeing, living, loving, learning, and moving on in life.  I paid $1500 for it, and could not be happier that I don’t have a car payment or the need for an upgrade. 

As I drove through Fairfield yesterday, listening to Hall & Oates on CD, I thought about how many times I’d listened to that same band in the Monarch, on cassette tape.  Back then, I would sing along, but look side to side, furtively, so as not to be caught by other drivers.  Now, I roll down the windows in the slowed traffic, crank up the tuneage, and dance it out.  Sometimes, along with whomever is driving along side along the highway. 

It fascinates me, the things in life that change, and the things that don’t.  

Give Until You Get It

Sometimes, I get a bit overwhelmed in life by the things I can't seem to control.  It was part of the downfall for me in my last marriage.  Since then, I've worked hard to separate those things I can do nothing about from those things over which I do have dominion.  And I've been pretty successful at separating that kind of wheat from its chaff.

Today, for the most part, I felt less successful at it.

I had a client whom I was unable to immediately bring pain relief.

I received an email back from a City Council member indicating that we are going to just sit by and wait for damage to be done to the old RPD building and grounds instead of attempting anything proactively to better keep transients out of that area.  (I can just about hear the echoes of the chain link fence already as they begin to scale their way in.)

My daughter is still radio silent in my direction.

Despite being conservative in my use, my electric bill was ridiculous this month.

Finally, this afternoon, I ran screaming from the building, to get a little sunshine, and to get some errands accomplished.  So fast was my escape, I did not even change clothes, leaving still draped in exercise pants and a winery T-Shirt.

As I was stuck in traffic, I mulled over all these things which were making me cranky.  I began ticking off the list of things I could do...

While I was waiting in line at the courthouse, I tapped out an email to my pain-ridden client and gave him some more exercises that may help his situation.  I've given them to him before, but I decided that the reminder might spur him, and let him know that I care.

I sent my daughter an email simply telling her I love her and I miss her.  That she will not respond is not my issue, letting her know I love her is.

When I got to REU, where I had to show up in person in order to resolve a long-standing confusion over which suite in this building is mine, I also paid a utility bill that is twice what I paid this month last year.  Some of that is because business is booming, and some of it is just plain I-don't-know.  But I decided to pick my chin up off the floor about it, and be grateful that I am more than able to make the payment.  Then I watched a woman in another transaction counting out coin change-- a lot of it-- to pay part of her utility bill.  I decided it was more than I could bear to watch, and I paid her bill, too. In addition to the joy of giving, it put some things in perspective for me electrically speaking.  My bill may be bigger than it was last year, but it is nowhere near as huge as what this woman had to pay.  I need to do a better job of remembering how blessed I am to be where I am at, even in its occasional imperfection.

When I went to the market, I grabbed the few things I needed, and was hoping to slide right out and on to other things.  My line was slowed up by another woman who was paying for her groceries with coupons, vouchers, and change.  I'd been saving my tip money this week to buy a kayak.  I can't tell you how much I don't care that my kayaking plans are on hold, because six kids are going to eat AND have fuel in the family car during this last week of the month.  Every time I go to the market lately, I come out with an enormously heavy heart over the cost of food, especially when I put it in perspective of so many families I know who have kids to feed.  Lately, every time I go to the market, I take extra money with me in the hopes that I can help someone else out, too.

And it's not that I share these things to get a pat on the back, or be called a nice person.  There are so many more things I do in secret, and at infinitely greater sacrifice, that I will never tell.  I give, because it's the right thing to do.  I'm telling you all about it, because I feel genuinely compelled that someone(s) out there need to hear this message.  I am learning more as time goes on that my gift to write is not just about composing and arranging words to my joy and satisfaction, it is because sometimes people benefit from what I choose to share.

Anyway, I finally got home, and as I was entering the building lobby, I realized with both equal measures of joy, and concrete reality, that I am pretty much broke for the week.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

But what I know about this life and the laws of reciprocity, deeds in this universe don't often go unrequited.  In my mailbox, I found gifts from Dutch Bros.  One of my Dutch Babies ordered me a new tank top and new lids for my flasks.

I got a little teary at the generosity and thoughtfulness.  With my own kids off doing their own thing, my nest feels horribly empty sometimes, and the abundance of love that a bunch of baristas show me completely blesses and overwhelms me sometimes.  

While I was getting changed into the newest addition to my ninja wardrobe, there was a knock at the door.  Already, my head was a-twirl with the fear that I'd forgotten a client, or something else equally dreadful.  What I was met with instead was the mother of the girl I helped down on the street yesterday.  She brought me flowers.  We hugged.  We laughed.  We cried.  And I was grateful.  Grateful that I was here to help her daughter yesterday.  Grateful that I had a chance to tell this woman that it's going to be okay, that she WILL make it through this thing called motherhood.  

Ultimately, what I think I gleaned from my adventures today is that no one really gets through life purely on their own steam.  Whether it's helping others in crisis, blessing their financial needs, or even just touching lonely hearts, we don't make it through this life on our own.  We are all in this together.  And isn't that a great thing?