Play should remain your life, your center of life. Work should be just a means towards play. -Osho

::Katie and Dylan getting down and dirty for our 2011 Calendar "Spills" ::

Work to Live. Live to Play. I think that's the general motto of any good ski bum. I might think differently when I'm sixty-five and staring at my bank account. I most likely will never have a 401K or a penchant plan, but I sure will have a lot of great memories to look back on. And while a collection of friends and photos will not pay the bills their wealth is immeasurable.

I'm on what we'll call, extended holiday. I broke my leg in a ski accident. I wasn't rippin' 360's or huckin' 15 foot cliffs. As best I can tell I lost my balance. Got dehydrated. Got tired. Lost focus. Just for a moment. That's usually all it takes. And so I find myself in Maine, mending my wounds. Slightly lonely for my friends and homesick for my mountains. But if I had it to do all over again I would still spend the day on the slopes with Molly and Baines. I wish I didn't have to sit still all these months. But my lifestyle is worth that risk to me. And next time I'll be more careful.

I know once I go back to work I am going to miss all this free time. So I've been trying to use it wisely. Craftily. I read and write. I've finished four books. Filled a journal. Made 114 origami cranes. Brainstormed photo shoot ideas. Good friends and dress-ups...gotta love it. Planned group projects. (Katie, we need to get on our monthly photo/theme contest). Filed recipes. Baked bread. Baked cookies. Watched documentaries. Caught up on Weeds, Friday Night Lights, Numb3rs, and Pushing Daisies. Designed mock posters. Made bracelets. Made mixes. Played scrabble. Went on "walks". And healed broken bones :)

Money's been pretty tight. And the weather has been less than marvelous. Doing most things on one leg presents a pretty exhausting challenge, so I haven't gotten to bake or sew or knit like I had originally envisioned before I left. The sewing machine is on the fritz, and I am apparently really bad at knitting. And when it comes down to paying for a physical therapy appointment or buying gluten free flour, sucanat, and traffic-free chocolate, I'm going to have to go with the former. For now. But I am keeping lists of all my ideas. And I should have a pretty full summer of art projects, should I find myself needing a break from hiking the wilderness of Colorado. My physical therapist told me I should be all set to hike by the time I get back to Telluride. (Goal: Memorial Day weekend). I'll have to start out easy of course but there's a chance I could check off some 14ers by the end of the season. And who know's...Imogen may even be in my future. It's good to have goals.

I am meeting with my Orthopaedic surgeon a week from tomorrow. If everything looks good with my next round of x-rays, the PT says I will be at weight bearing status. Ohhh...to be able to walk again!!! I had my first walking dream last week. It was incredible. Sometimes I lurch off the couch and catch myself in mid-rise before I realize I can't just sachet across the room. I love my bear-killers, but I'll be so happy to be done with these crutches. Wish me luck.

Hang in there kid. It's not supposed to be easy. -Ben Steenblik

"Still hanging in there?" she asks.
"I am, thank you," I say.
"All right then," she says, "that's what I like to hear."
She disappears into the locker room.
The truth is that I do not like hanging in there. I was born, I believe, to do more. Or perhaps it's that I survived to do more. -Dave Eggers, "What is the What"

"Be limitless." -Ben Steenblik

::In memory of Brandon Williams (June 1, 1979 - March 14, 2011)::

I suspect that it's all good. -Farmer Dave

::this is what today sounds like::

Being creative makes you a weird little beast beacause everything seems so bloody interesting for some strange reason.

Leonardo's Mona Lisa is just a thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo's David is just a million hits with a hammer. We're, all of us, a million bits put together the right way. -Chuck Palahniuk

Choice, as my friend Jen recently highlighted, often causes a crippling response. The more options a person has, the more paralyzed they become. This fear of commitment is present not only in relationships but also in professional decisions. Sometimes I think my life would be easier if I grew up decades ago on rural farmland. I could handle the hard work and early hours. And wouldn't life be less complicated if I knew from a young age that my role was to marry the neighbor's son, Noah, and feed the chickens? Adventure would be taking a carriage ride to the big city and fending off coyotes. I would find satisfaction in raising healthy children, and stocking the shed with canning jars filled with vegetables from my garden. Maybe there's too much variety these days. The "perfect job" and "Mr. Right" might just be internet fantasy. Like porn, designed to distract the masses from the things that actually matter.

"Maybe all of my life, all of my decisions are about avoiding suffering. The scandalous truth is that I don’t want a career. I mean, I want one because I have to have one, but I feel like I am on a constant mission to discover which one sucks the least." -Jen Painter

I had to give my therapist a brief overview of my life upon our first meeting. Just an idea of where I was at presently and where I was coming from. It sounded something like this. Grew up. Had friends. Played sports. Joined clubs. Got decent grades. Went to college. Got decent grades. Got a job. Got a boyfriend. Lost a boyfriend. Got a new job. Got a new job. Got a new job. Got a new job. Etc...

Maybe this is a quest to define myself. You are what you eat. I am what I do. What if I make the wrong decision? Is it that big a deal? My therapist walked me through my career choices thus far and pointed out the absence of any major landmines or epic failures. Perhaps the blinders I've been wearing have not only kept me on the straight and narrow, but they have also limited my perspective on the things that I have achieved. I have had the amazing privilege of graduating from college. (I was actually the very first person in my immediate family to garner such credit). But my degree is from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington not Columbia University. And my degree is a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing not a Masters in Astrophysics. I have never once held a job that I was, as decreed by my resume, qualified for. I have enjoyed every position I have ever held, but I feel that I have some how obtained them all by some form of trickery or slight of hand. I have never used my English degree. I read and journal, but I hesitate to call that writing. My high school neighbor John, is an author. I keep a silly blog. I designed signage and vehicle/boat graphics for six years. But I would not call myself a graphic artist. That's what Katie and Kelly do. I can only aspire to such creative enterprises. I have photographed areas all over the country. Taken head shots and wedding portraits. My work has hung on gallery walls and can be found in home bathrooms in at least six states (seven if you count my mom's). But I'm just a girl with a camera and a fetish for playing dress-up with my friends. Lauren is the one with the company and the website. Although I've cooked breakfast at a luxury boutique hotel, it feels like a lie to say I was a chef. My schooling comes from potlucks and hungry roommates. Asking too many questions on catering jobs. And watching the Food Network. Recreating Tyler Florence's finest doesn't make me half the chef that Blakely is.

And yet i've managed to achieve and maintain each position of my own accord. Leaving or moving on at my own volition. I feel like I have managed to pull off the most miraculous scam. And I am just waiting to get caught. Waiting for the head honcho to realize I have no idea what I'm doing. So I give up before I get busted. I can't seem to make one thing stick. My repeated failure in relationships has not deterred my efforts to find a partner. Yet even the moderate success I have enjoyed in the work world can not steer me towards one clear direction. When it comes to love I'm pro monogamy. But when it comes to career, I am down right phobic.

"If you are not aware of who you are, you can not be love. You will be fear. Fear is just the opposite of love." -Osho

Caitlyn always tells me I have to love myself first, before I can expect anyone else to want to settle down with me. I hate these pep talks. I have gotten so frustrated with her on so many occasions. And not because I think she is wrong. I whole-heartedly agree with her. But maybe my error comes from being too self aware? From picking things apart until they are unrecognizable? If a word can have multiple definitions, why can't I? Who says I have to pick just one thing to define me?










Perhaps I should more seriously consider my interests. Blending the best off all of them together. I'm thinking B&B at some point in my life. I apparently managed to fool the hotel's high-end clientele into thinking I have my act together. (I found these reviews posted by actual guests I served during their vacations -- Winter '09/'10).

"The breakfast each day was fantastic - not only a big convenience but creative, delicious dishes that varied each day...The breakfasts at Lumiere were outstanding - 5stars. We never left feeling hungry! Most of the time they had a buffet set up (starting at 8am). One day they served us. We had fresh fruit and coffee every morning and especially loved the raspberry glace french toast."

Although, i still think being a farmer's wife, keeping chickens and bees, sounds wonderfully romantic.
And for my next trick...

You were never created to be average. Everything you can imagine is real.

So here we go. Making something out of nothing. My mom and her friends are putting together a little art auction to raise money for my mounting medical expense. I have been unbelievably blessed to qualify for both the CICP (Colorado Indigent Care Program) and Maine Care, which combined have slashed my debt in half. But there are so many private costs that are not covered and I am watching as the tally rises into the tens of thousands of dollars. But I am not going to let that overwhelm me. It will get taken care of in due time. I have a job to return to and there is money to be made this summer for sure. For now I will focus on raising the funds to get me home. Fingers crossed.

You, alright. I learned it by watching you.

When I was five, my little sister and I went to live with my aunt and uncle and cousin, Brad in Michigan. Yes, there really is a Kalamazoo. My parents were separated, headed for divorce, and the stress of the new family dynamic, compounded with the generational traumas of her own, caused my mom to have a nervous breakdown of sorts. In order to get sober and centered she checked into a rehab. And because my father refused the responsibility of keeping us in his charge while she was gone, we were shipped off to the mid-west. And so defines the next two decades (plus) of my life. The repetitious themes taught from a very young age. You are too much: my mother. You are not enough: my father.

I was also taught to appreciate the little things in life, though. Like sharing a can of coca-cola and a package of TastyKake Butterscotch Krimpets with my mom and sister. Making wax paper aquariums with brightly colored crayon shavings and an iron. Catching salamander and crayfish in the creek and building forts out of the neighbors' trash. My sister and I spent Saturday mornings playing in our bedroom and trying not to kill each other while my mother slept in her make shift bed in the living room. The rule was not to wake her before ten. AND not to scratch each others eyes out while we were waiting for her to rise.

We were poor. And it sucked. My dad's failure to pay child support left my mom with a heavy burden. And while she struggled to provide food and a warm, safe home, the stresses of such difficult endeavors seeped into every crack and crevice. I can joke now, about eating $0.88 Prince Macaroni and Cheese every night for dinner. And heating the apartment with a fan on the open oven door. Wearing the boss' daughter's hand-me-down cloths, even though I was sometimes teased in school by the preppy girls who were friends with the articles' original owner.

But my mom has a way of stretching nothing into something. And she tried to make it fun. I learned to settle for what we had. To make do. To even enjoy it. But because of the stress and strife that surrounded the situation I also learned that it was wrong to ask for more than that. Any greater expectations for myself were too exhausting and troublesome. So, while I often wanted certain things, I knew they were not for me. They were meant for other people. Better people. More worthy people. And I settled into settling. I still remember sitting at lunch, sixth grade, crowded cafeteria, and I longed to be at the preppy girls' table. But I wore clothes from Burlington Coat Factory and my mom drove a Datsun you could hear coming from a block away. And while I was allowed to play on their sports teams and pair with them on class projects, I would never be truly welcome at their pool parties and sleepovers.

We moved a lot while I was growing up. Seven times in fourteen years. And although part of me always craved the attention the cool kids' table would afford me, I never felt deprived of good friendships. This was my one true survival skill. That sink or swim mechanism that kicks in subconsciously. (Side Note: my mom dropped me in the pool when I was a baby -KNOWN FACT = INFANTS FLOAT- but I sank like a rock and she had to jump in after me. A metaphor for all the burden I was to become). I learned to make friends quickly. To adapt to my surroundings. I learned to be funny. To share. To listen. To be reliable. Those lessons seemed to make people want to stick around. At least the girls. At least for a while.

Boys on the other hand have always been a much shiftier situation. I grew up playing with my cousin's Matchbox Cars and He-Man action figures. I loved Legos and my father seemed to enjoy bequeathing me with more masculine versions of my original requests. I asked for roller skates, he gave me a skateboard. I asked for My Little Ponies and he gave me Transformers. I learned there was something wrong with my requests. And I grew up playing touch football in the street, and filling containers with bugs and frogs and lizards. Boys were my teammates and my opposition. And I don't think I have ever managed to understand how to engage them in any healthy, acceptable male-female interaction. Other than friends, that is. I am really, really good at being the buddy and the sister and the mother hen. But I am almost entirely inept at romantic relations with the opposite sex. Abandonment breeds begging. And I settle for scraps. I find myself infatuated instead of in love. Standing on a slack-line attempting to cross. It's shaky and unstable. You fall off and hop back on, but the efforts only prove exhausting.

My last relationship was like this. (as were many of those prior).

"The problem with infatuation, of course, is that it's a mirage, a trick of the eye-indeed, a trick of the endocrine system. Infatuation is not quite the same thing as love; its more like love's shady second cousin who's always borrowing money and can't hold down a job. When you become infatuated with somebody, you're not really looking at that person; you're just captivated by your own reflection, intoxicated by a dream of completion that you have projected on a virtual stranger. We tend, in such a state, to decide all sorts of spectacular things about our lovers that may not be true. We perceive something almost divine in our beloved, even if our friends and family might not get it...An infatuation-based affair is a sanity free zone, where misconception has no limits and where perspective finds no foot hold." -Elizabeth Gilbert (Committed)

I found myself, late at night, standing in the middle of the street, bawling my eyes out. Literally begging this person I had been spending so much energy to be with, not to leave me. For as intense and passionate as our time together was, it was equally reckless and thus brief. All I remember through my tears is his repeated refrain, "I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'm not going anywhere." And he walked me home. And he held me close. And he sent me to bed. And he left. For good. And even now, writing this, I find myself still slightly shaken. I'm exhausted by this pattern. I have once again fallen off the slack line, but I feel no closer to solid ground. I have spent the last few months tearing myself apart. Unable to move past this. Unable to move forward. If only I was stronger. If only I had been more patient. If only...The prayer of self-flagellation. I beg for love and I vomit affection. Too much and not enough.


I remember Easter at my aunt and uncle's house. My cousin and I snuck out of our rooms to watch for the Easter Bunny. We fell asleep by the fireplace and when we awoke baskets were left with stuffed bunnies and loads of chocolate. And we spent the morning taking turns re-hiding the dyed eggs so that the hunt could go on all day long. We went about pretending that everything was great. And everything was normal. But it was a holiday. And what six year old doesn't miss their parents during a celebration? But my mom arrived some time after. Once school was out for the summer. She arrived after we had gone to bed. And she stole into my room and woke my sister and me and I remember thinking it was my aunt. That it was all a dream. But she and my grandmother loaded up the Volkswagon Rabbit, piling my sister and I in the back. Seats folded down, padded with blankets and pillows, we drove East to Pennsylvania. The hot sun melting our new box of Crayola Crayons into a colorful swirl of wax and paper.

It's impossible to say exactly what events have affected and defined me as an individual. We are all a sum of all the parts we have encountered. And I can only speak of the things I remember. Memory can be an illusive and unreliable resource. And I am left questioning how exactly I got to where I am right now. It is no ones fault. For finding fault would mean that someone has intentionally caused me harm. And even on my darkest days I do not believe that to be true. But I find myself dependent again. That six year old little girl all over again. Scared and vulnerable. And once again whisked across the county, packed up in the back of my car, padded with pillows and blankets. And I'm frightened because we have no money. And I'm worried about taking up too much time. And I watch my mom stress about bills and an extra mouth to feed, while my bank account dwindles down to zero. And I feel like a burden again. And I feel burdened by the difficult task of being patient with my body while it heals and forgiving it for not not performing at its fullest potential. And I struggle with the seemingly impending doom that crushes my shoulders and steals my breath when I even begin to think about how I am going to get home once I am healed. The costs of gas and travel and rent and food. I need a little refresher course in making something out of nothing. So I read and I write. And I listen to Heidi's advice. And I smooth my fingers over the ink embedded in my wrist. And I close my eyes and wait for the echoing refrain to fade into the darkness.

People always ask me what my tattoo means. And I feel shy and embarrassed translating its reminder You Are Loved. I think it is sad that I have to wear it like a talisman. But I think it is better to crawl across solid ground than to walk a tightrope. Better to be reminded of the love you have, than to find yourself begging for the love you think you need.

god is a dj. life is a dance floor. love is the rhythm. and you are the music. - framette

::this is what today sounds like::

everything is funnier in retrospect. funnier, prettier, and cooler. you can laugh at anything from far enough away. - chuck palahniuk

once upon a time...i fell down a mountain and broke my leg. i spent the next few weeks healing and reading and doing battle with the medical dragons. one day, two kind gentlemen drove me to mont rose in their chariot. There i was magically healed by the very talented wizard named bynum. once i was strong enough to travel, the good witch of the east came to collect me and my trusty sidekick marley. we set off on a cross country adventure, our wagons packed to the gills. we traveled far and wide stopping only once in chi-town to give our regards to a fallen knight. we finally crossed the towering bridge onto the mystical island and arrived safely back to the witch's den. "there is much work to be done," the witch told me. "and once you have completed your tasks you will be returned to your box to live happily ever after...

::marley dog makes a bad co-pilot. he kept falling asleep on the job::

::my comfy lil' nest in the back seat grew more and more crowded with every mile::

::got a little autograph love from Ed Helms. Now that's funny::

::my new hardware::

::my roomie ben, showing off my new hardware post-op::

she turned her cants into cans. and her dreams into plans.

::this is what today sounds like::

"Point me at lost islands. Point me at the sea. I'd love to know the sound of nothing else but you." - Tired Pony

patrick wolf - the city
the naked and famous - young blood
the arcade fire - sprawl II (mountains upon mountains)
the head and the heart - lost in my mind
fleet foxes - grown ocean
muse - starlight
tired pony - point me at lost islands

everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it. - andy warhol

I think I have a broad and intelligible appreciation for the arts. I like foreign films and classical music. Post Impressionism and poetry. But sometimes I just like to indulge myself in the guilty pleasures of cute boys and cheesy tunes. (that's right folks - Cory Monteith has a band) cliche films and interpretive/synchronized dance. The internet in a variable cesspool of options.

one is not IN love. one IS love. - osho

In the midst of witnessing couples dissolve, divorce, and wither all around me, i find so much pleasure in seeing others yet, venture into new and stronger phases. Stepping from friends to lovers. Lovers to partners. It is my greatest joy to announce two of my favorite people will be married in the fall. Congratulations Rebecca & Sean!

You have come to one another with your wheelbarrows heavy with loads, but manageable with strength and balance. And together, the two of you have crafted this shared foundation. Watching you navigate one another so gracefully, though not without your own share of tensions, trials, and struggles. I applaud the care and patience with which you approach one another. It is a blessing and privilege to know you both. Love & Grace. See you in September!

The vocal is regret spun hollow and strung on a wire. - Michael Perry

I like a certain kind of music. The good kind. My iTunes reflects a variety of genres and artists but my iPod playlists pose a penchant for the melancholy and morose. Strings and aching vocals. I love a song that can get your body moving. Makes your hips swing and your feet tap. But sometimes I feel most connected when I'm on my back, eyes closed, headphones on. It's the type of music that captures a feeling that can not be articulately expressed in any other format. And even if I am at my happiest moment I can still appreciate the power of the story. The strength of the song.

Bon Iver is releasing their new LP June 21st. I am looking forward to this follow up to For Emma. If you can't find me on the volleyball courts look for me laying by the river. Blanket spread. Sunblock on. Soaking it all in.

"In the absence of solid ground, the whirlwind becomes a whirlpool, and Bon Iver, Bon Iver is Justin Vernon returning to former haunts with a new spirit. The reprises are there – solitude, quietude, hope and desperation compressed – but always a rhythm arises, a pulse vivified by gratitude and grace notes, some as bright as a bicycle bell. The winter, the legend, has faded to just that, and this is the new momentary present. The icicles have dropped, rising up again as grass." - Michael Perry

If you doubt that I’ll be there don’t despair. Don’t you dare. - Sean Carey

::This is what today sounds like::

You grow up to become living proof of your parents' limitations. Their less-than masterpiece. - Chuck Palahniuk

::This is what today sounds like::
"We write to expose the unexposed. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words - not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues. You can't do this without discovering your own true voice, and you can't find your true voice and peer behind the door and report honestly and clearly to us if your parents are reading over your shoulder."
— Anne Lamott

Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. - A. Lamott

"Write as if your parents are dead." — Anne Lamott

But that's hard to do when you are "being held captive" on your mother's futon.

My mom has two really annoying habits. (1) It appears that her neck is directly connected to her right foot. Every time she turns her head to look out the window her foot presses down on the accelerator and I choke back the lump in my throat as I claw at the seat vinyl, close my eyes, and brace for impending impact with the vehicle in front of us. It's not fun. People drive to fast and take turns to sharply to be day dreaming and staring off at rock formations and birds flying. YOU ARE DRIVING! Get it together woman. I once made her pull over (even though I was sick) so I could take over the wheel because she admittedly was too distracted by her surroundings and kept veering off the road. (2) She is endlessly messy. She knows this about herself. And it's almost like she's proud of the wake she leaves behind her. She can't make a meal without dirtying every dish in the kitchen. And then she leaves them. Overnight. And the coffee table and kitchen table are covered with random piles of things. Nameless masses of random things. Having to clean for a half an hour before I can use a space is one of my biggest pet peeves. I don't understand why she doesn't clean as she goes or put things away when she's done using them. Aren't these common things parents say to their children all the time? How is it that a mother who allows the burial of all horizontal work surfaces has a daughter who makes her bed daily, color codes her closet and alphabetizes her spices/cd's/dvd's? If that is my rebellion I think she got off easy.

My mom is however, one of the most creative people I know. And as it goes in history creative genius and slovenliness seem to go hand in hand. Perhaps it's true. My creative potential may be bounded by my OCD box, but I am pleased to say that box has crisp corners and a dust free lid. And when I want to do art projects or bake cookies I can find my supplies and I am met with a clutter free counter top -- unless I'm living with Ben :)

This is such a growing experience. And i am very much finding myself in that "awkward stage". Wednesday marked two months since my accident. Two months that I have been on crutches. That I have not been able to take care of my dog. That I haven't been able to carry my dinner to the table. That I have slept always conscious of my movements and my knee. I slept on my side for the fist time a week or so ago. Propped my knee up on a folded blanket. It felt nice to lay cuddled up (even if it was to nothing/no one) blanket up around my head, hands folded like a prayer under my cheek. But my arm went numb shortly after. And I had to roll onto my back. Again. I guess my leg muscles aren't the only ones that have atrophied. It's hard to get exercise here. The weather has been rainy and cold and despite the fact that my mom is always around she is busy doing other things and working (when we aren't going to doctors and dentists). I am grateful I have a place to stay while I heal but I would not have left Telluride if there was any other option at the time. This Tuesday will mark one month since I left town. It's hard to believe it's been that long already. The first three days I was here in Maine I thought I was going to wither up and die from deprivation. I am so homesick. I miss the freedom I had to come and go as I pleased. I miss posting up at The Bean and reading in the sunshine knowing I would be met by friends all day long. Homework breaks with Raegan. Comedy hour(s) with Heidi, Kris and Garret. Coffee with Rae. Bench time with Steve. It was a destination for me. A way to get out of the house. Get some exercise. And stay in touch with my community. I feel so out of the loop here. I know it's off season and everyone is in Thailand and Moab and Maryland. But I can't help but feel left out like I am all alone here while you all are partying down without me. I feel like my life has literally stopped and I am watching all the fun from my repose.

I don't know that I can describe how enormously painful this is for me. I have to ask for help. I have to be patient. I have to give up most of the aspects of my daily life (all of the ones that I truly enjoy) and I am incapable of any physical exertion that would otherwise be my stress relief in similar situations. ie. running, hiking, biking. I miss my friends immensely and friction that is caused by never being truly alone but never being with them either, is grating pretty seriously on my nerves. I need space. I need to be entertained. I'm stuck somewhere between novels and Netflix. What I wouldn't give for a 229 Family Dinner. Or a ladies brunch. Or yoga at the library. I was so overwhelmed for so long. And now I feel like i'm dangling. I feel trapped. And I want to go home (to my two new roomies Maggie and Huntley) and revive my life. Whoever said Maine is "the way life should be" has never been to colorado. I'm flat-lining here people. Somebody get the paddles. Clear.

The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open. -Chuck Palahniuk

Driving to the dentist on a rainy New England day. Slit your wrists now. I had a tooth extracted yesterday. Cracked it on some gravel in an old mine, last spring. Now painfully cavity ridden, I am driving (Read: riding with my mom because I still can't do anything for myself. ugh.) to Bangor, Maine to have it pulled out. I'm so white trash. The "Big City" reminds me of Montrose. Post zombie invasion. All strip-mall-ed and empty parking lots. Piles of construction debris and dilapidated houses. The actual down town scene is quaint, but hardly redeeming.

The dental assistant has me sign a form agreeing to having tooth #2 pulled from my head. I have no idea if that is the actual tooth that is broken. But I sign and hope that the dentist is smart enough to differentiate the cracked one with the big cavity from all its other innocent bystanders. Two shots of novocaine and the dentist leaves me alone with my after care instructions while he lets the numbing agent do its thing. I lay in the plastic padded seat staring at obtrusive objects in the room. Mildly distressed by the page long list of possible risks associated with extraction (including but not limited to: facial deformation, numbness or complete loss of sensation, & paralysis -all listed as temporary to potentially permanent). And also concerned by the dental assistant's worrisome look when she took my blood pressure. Twice. Apparently 81/52 isn't quite the norm up here in Maine. Though that's low even for me (usually 90's over 60's) I try to put it out of my head and chalk it up to the high altitude living and the fact that although I feel like I have been hibernating the last two months, my BMI is actually much lower than a lot of these whoopie pie loving Mainers.

So I try to put the negative thoughts aside. And focus on sending the dentist positive energy. And reminding my self to breath and remain calm. Take in the surroundings. But there's not much to look at when you're having a tooth extracted. One minute it's chin back - open wide - rubber & latex - the glint of medal. Then wrists - elbows - dirty drop ceilings and four minutes later (six minutes if the dentist pauses to answer a phone call. true story) the dentist's face starring down at you announcing it's all over - bite down on this gauze - good luck with your leg.

Hands down the most intensely violent experience of my life. Everyone always tells horror stories about the gynecologist. On your back. Legs spread. Insertion. Isn't that what the vagina was designed for? That's a Saturday night for some of you. But seriously, while we're all worried about our privates being violated we don't pay as much mind to scenarios where we find ourselves pined down, mouth agape, practically choking on the metal objects probing our universal orifice. At least I didn't until I found myself walking (Read: crutching carefully & slowly) to meet my mom in the waiting room, feeling vulnerable and violated. Nothing could have prepared me for that experience. There was just pressure and pulling and wriggling and yanking and then blood. I tried really hard to stay calm. But the best I could do was clench my eyes shut and repeat to myself "Veneta. Veneta. Veneta." Desperately trying to channel one of the calmest most soothing souls I know. Weird. Agreed. But it made me laugh. And then I pictured telling her this story and it made me laugh even more. And then it was all over. And we went to buy brownie mix (Ghirardelli double chocolate. Is there any other kind?!?) at the Hannaford's in the strip mall down the street. Across the pot holed paring lot "Dream Dress Bridal" stood between "Maine Smoke Shop" and "Laundry & Cleaners". I thought of zombie brides and i day dreamed about the near future, when I'll be able to say "I walked into Target". Walked being the operative word. It's almost over.

The best journeys answer questions, that in the beginning, you didn't even think to ask. -180 South

I am lucky to call this place home. And while I am anxious to return to its magic I am trying to make the best of my time away. Sometimes the lines become blurred and the things you never thought possible to take for granted become mundane. Sometimes you need a new perspective. Even if that means starring though tear filled eyes, out the back windshield of your car.

I could not have known then that everybody, every person, has to leave, has to change like seasons; they have to or they expire. Everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons. And you will not be alone. You have never been alone. Don't worry. Everything will still be here when you get back. It is you who will have changed. -Donald Miller

I am healing up well. My bones are getting stronger. I am attempting to strengthen my heart and clear my head. And in the midst of all this hard work I am making sure to heed the advice of a wise friend.

"Bake bread, listen to music, sit in the sunshine, read books that take you places. Heal your soul and your body will follow." -Elizabeth Gessinger

When God closes a door He opens an oven. -Pushing Daisies

Pushing Daisies is my new guilty pleasure. Lee Pace ("Ned" from ABC's short lived quirky comedy) is a life resuscitating, crime solving, vest wearing, pie baking, sweetheart. Think cross between Jake Gyllenhaal and John Cusack circa Say Anything. (Who doesn't love Lloyd Dobbler). Anna Friel's bee tending, honey making, 50's dress and suspender-ed pant wearing female lead "Charlotte 'Chuck' Charles", is too adorable for words. I want her gorgeous hair. (Reminds me of Molly's). And her wardrobe. Kristin Chenoweth rounds out the trifecta as "Olive", bursting into Broadway worthy song at whim. This show was practically custom made, just for me. Too bad I didn't know about it until two years after its cancellation. But you can enjoy it's twenty-two episode romantic romp on Netflix. And as a bonus, "Shane Botwin" shows up at the end of the second season with a jar of coins to hire the gumshoes to solve his mother's murder.

"Love doesn't need all the right ingredients. It's heart-ier than that." -Chuck

we can write with ink and pen, but we will sow with seeds instead. starting with words we've said. and we will all be changed. -seryn

::this is what today sounds like::

"People always say how you should be yourself, like yourself is this definite thing like a toaster or something. Like you can know what that is even. But every so often I'll have like, a moment, when just being myself, in my life, right where I am, is like, enough." -Angela Chase

Dentist. Check. Orthopaedic Surgeon(s). Check. Check. Physical Therapist. Check. Psychologist. Check. It's a complete Audrey overhaul. Oh my.

My therapist asked me the question "where do I see the past and the future?" That's obvious, right? Everyone knows the future lays ahead of you and the past is behind. And after a few moments pause to consider the trick I might be missing in such an easy inquiry I conceded to the position of the future. But when I looked around for the past I was surprised to find it directly to my left. Hanging off my hip like a messenger bag filled with awkward memories that I can (in)conveniently access at will.

I've been lugging this weight around with me for as long as I can remember. And I have never been able to put a name to this emptiness and loneliness that creeps into my life at my weakest moments. But I learned today that it's because it has been with me since even before I had words. I learned this sadness as a small child. And I have been chauffeuring it around all these years.

"It's not so much that I don't know who I am, but rather, that I feel the constant need to apologize for that person" (journal entry 2.22.11)

I'm tired. I'm frayed. And the contents of this bag might not even belong to me. At least, not entirely.

Know your own happiness. Want for nothing but patience -- or give it a more fascinating name: Call it hope. — Jane Austen

I took a bath today. Not my first one since the accident, mind you. I've been keeping regular hygiene habits though all this. I might be laid up for two months, but i don't have to look like it. Or smell like it, for that matter. I've managed to get in the tub all on my own from the very beginning. Filling up our claw-foot and pouring in the epsom salts. Washing my hair and submerging to rinse. I'd just pretend I was in a Jane Austen novel or Little House on the Prairie. Where the entire family shares one tub of hot water. This was luxury in comparison. And the few showers I have taken, perched atop a milk crate, padded with a folded towel, because I couldn't yet submerge my incision site, felt oddly extravagant. Steaming water streaming over my entire body. Close my eyes. Soak up the sensation. Makes me grateful. This is how I picture a shower to feel after a summer of camping in the woods. I'm great at bathing in a bucket, but there's something soulfully calming about a hot shower. I have definitely taken that for granted.

This bath marks a special occasion, though. I saw my new orthopaedic surgeon for the first time today. Dr. White. I've never been one for going to doctors and now I find myself with two professional orthopaedic surgeons in as many states. Ball-ahh. Dr. White had x-rays taken and we compared them to my last films. (P.S. Phil -the donor bone- is doing fine and his "touretts" has been under control, minus the first evening I spent in Chicago, when my legs muscles seized so violently I silently considered an exorcism). I realized, as the nurse moved me and positioned me, that this horizontal modeling had been performed on me before, right after my surgery. While I was still under anesthesia. I have amazing copies of x-rays as proof, but no recollection to correspond with the event. And that makes me feel weird for a minute. Like I'd been time traveling again. Only instead of waking up cold and confused, and still inside the Sheridan Bar, I came to in a cotton gown (read: half naked) newly armed with titanium pins and plates. Bionic Audrey. But she still can't hold her liquor.

The fist x-rays I had taken were on the day of the accident. These were awkward in a different way. My knee was eight times its original size and the odd angles the technician attempted to photograph me from sent shooting pain through my body. I remember laying on the cold, hard table holding my breath, wincing in pain. Dollar signs flashed across my anxious mind. As I lay motionless, it became suddenly clear I had two tasks ahead of me: (1) Cancel my reservation for Valentine's Day at 221 and hope my hot date would take a rain check. And (2) Email AhHaa for a refund and let Sasha know how disappointed I was that I wouldn't be able to take her burlesque class after all. (I am still proud to say I was the very first student to sign up). Hey, everyone has priorities, people. Mine just happened to be a bit off kilter that day. I blame the endorphins and the exhaust from the snow mobile ride.

While my return to the dance floor may still be a ways off, Dr. White informed me that he was very pleased with my progress and on the time line for my recovery I was definitely advanced. I didn't jump off the exam table and break it down in his office, but my heart and my head did a little tango at the thought of bluegrass tunes and the Jud Wiebe trail. I couldn't bring myself to ask him where I stand in terms of hiking potential this summer. Trying not to get ahead of myself. I have my first physical therapy appointment tomorrow morning (first one since the surgery) and I am anxious to regain the mobility I have lost. But the doctor is confident I will be back to normal in no time. And despite the atrophied muscle and joint stiffness I am doing great. I would love to hike another 14er this season, but right now, walking across the room would serve as an equally rewarding accomplishment. Weird how that happens. Perspective. Everything looks different depending on where you're standing.

So, bandage free-staples out-tape removed-compression sock retired-I sink down into the warm bath water, and do what I have been dying to do for weeks: shave those pesky little hairs growing along my incision line. Sexy. I might even celebrate this good news by painting my toenails. Hey, it's sunny and 49 degrees (that counts as warm in these here parts)and if this weather keeps up I might be able to wear a dress and my flip-flops...some time in June.

And word of advice - packing for a two month "vacation" in Maine should be added to the warning labels for all major narcotics. (Read: May cause drowsiness and/or dizziness. Use caution when operating a car or dangerous machinery. Do not attempt to make any practical or purposeful clothing decisions) Ladies and gentlemen, the new Spring fashion...Percocet Eclectic.

Here's to healing and hoping...that my mom will let me raid her closet.

::this is what today sounds like::

[original mountain design by the lovely jane roberts]

point me at lost islands tired pony
northern lights bowerbirds
civilian wye oak
sprawl II (mountains upon mountains) the arcade fire
lost in my mind the head and the heart
this orient foals
love out of lust lykke li
marathon tennis
nothing like you frightened rabbit
looking for shelter good old war
i'll build you a fire seabear
blood the middle east
fake empire the national
empire jukebox the ghost
this is why we fight the decemberists
ghost woman blues the low anthem
young blood the naked and famous
art house director broken social scene
just for now cloud control

i love colorado. it kicked my ass and then saved my butt.

Greetings ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to a. mann's world. For those of you new comers, unaccustomed to the rants and raves and wild meanderings of this forum, let me take this opportunity to introduce myself: my name is Audrey, and I am broken. (in more ways than one, presently). And for all those returning guests (brave souls, indeed) let me use this time to get you up to speed. It has been far too long.

It is off-season where I live. Telluride, Colorado. A tiny resort town in southwestern Colorado. Or mud-season, as some aptly call it. So named for its abundant remains. The dirty laundry left from a season of hard play. And while my original intent was to high tail it to the desert at the close of the lifts, my travel plans were forced to change. As were many other plans and arrangements I had previously penciled in.

Part of me wishes that I was regaling this tale from the road. Headed northwest to Oregon and Washington. Stopping off first in San Fransisco to explore the hilly streets, organic restaurants, shops and markets. Where salt air melds with chocolate delight. A dream. A city I could consider calling home. Settling down with a local farmer. Opening a bakery or B&B. Spending my life covered in soil and flour.

Or perhaps my words would flow more freely if I were posted up in an Alaskan cabin. Where the northern lights dance across the sky like a flame on alcohol. Where the wilderness over takes you and you can't help but be reminded that you're alive. But that is a journey I pictured taking as one half of a pair. And it seems like far too long a drive to make without a co-pilot/personal DJ. Sometimes people bail. At least I knew this before I committed to a bear skin rug, a hunting rifle, and a stack of books. At least my destiny was determined for me. In a round about way.

Instead I find myself in Maine, in the final rounds of a Scrabble game versus my mom. I believe it no small coincidence that my last remaining letters spell out F-U-B-A-R. Maybe not a recognized word, according to my mother's handy Scrabble specific dictionary, but a perfect description for my current physical and mental health.

I broke my leg on February 13th. Fractured tibia, depressed tibial plateau, and sprained MCL. My first broken bone in thirty-ones years of activity. I think that's a pretty good percentage rate. While I was at it I figured I might as well go big, right? If I thought there was anything resembling "cool" associated with breaking a bone I was wrong. It hurts. In more than just the way a prescription for Vicodin will appease. It's painful not to be able to care for onesself properly. To be at the mercy of those around me. To fear stairs and snow covered side walks and anything that requires more than five minutes of standing at a time. Having a broken leg is truly a humbling experience. This isn't what I signed up for! My vote was for hiking Moab and Havasu Falls
Somebody please press rewind!!!!

The ski season had not been a particularly accommodating one. Snow falls were few and in disappointing accumulations. The town was getting restless and ready to be done with it. These emotions entirely echoed my own. I was struggling. Again. Cycled back around. And as I grew more exhausted daily, of fighting with myself, I planned my next big adventure, (read: running away) my would-be exit route. But summer's heartbreaks couldn't withstand the cold weather and the shortened supply of community. (Never underestimate the power of town park. There's healing in those late summer evenings on the volleyball court and soccer field.) And with a new rhythm to the season I quickly fell off beat. And back into my rut. My solution: get the hell out of dodge. Wendy lady has grown tired of all the Peter Pans, and my guilt at living such a fairy tail life has me overwhelmed. San Fransisco here I come!

Or so I thought.

God has this annoying way of shaking me out of myself. He would probably say that I have an exasperating way of ignoring Him until the last possible moment, but I'm telling "my" version of this story.

So there I was. Skis on. Headphones in. Hiking my mountain. Day after day after day. It's a good way to clear the head. Gets the juices flowing. Gets the mind going. Helps me sort things out. Get perspective. Gain some knowledge. I knew I wasn't okay. I passed fine years ago. And while I don't feel justified in claiming that I am unhappy, I would say I feel unfulfilled, and guilty for feeling so. My instinct was to run but a voice in my head kept calmly repeating "hold still". For weeks this continued. And for an equal number of weeks I quietly researched driving routes through the Pacific Northwest. Surprise. I'm endlessly stubborn. But when God is talking to you it doesn't do you much good to pretend you have a bad connection or your call has been dropped. There's no such thing as a dead zone in this scenario. I imagine God to be like the Verizon guy..."Can you hear me now?" You might chose to ignore His call, but he'll always leave a voice mail and it's never too late to call Him back.

"Be still. Let go. You are loved. Deal with it!" That was my message. And while it looped through my brain like the guitar line from Wye Oak's "Civilian" I could not shake this bottomless fear of being a burden to others. Somehow this was at the heart of all my escape acts and avoidance tactics. That heavy burden of knowing that I am not enough. That I am too much. That despite my efforts, in a seemingly previous life, I failed miserably at keeping someone's love. And now I am left alone to figure out my Plan B. "I'm afraid of my solitary experience with the world. Even with many amazing people in my life, will I ever feel like someone Knows me again? Can I even trust another person with the darkest, weakest parts of my heart?" -Sarah Painter

I saw it happen before it happened. A flash in my mind. A moment of clarity. I pictured the tumble...and then...I was tumbling. So surreal. Falling end over end. Then rolling. Then sliding. Yelling when I couldn't stop myself. Screaming when my body made unnatural twists and torques. Snap, crackle, pop, was no longer reserved for Kellogg's breakfast cereal. And after the ski patrol sled ride down the mountain, and the reluctant trip to the emergency room, my x-rays revealed my greatest fear had come to fruition. The films read my fate. Broken bones. Crutches and a brace. And non weight baring for ten to twelve weeks post surgery. (my adventures with finding an orthopaedic surgeon are another tale entirely). I found myself completely dependent on those around me. To cook and clean, run errands and walk the dog. You could stubbornly find me climbing into the tub or attempting to bake cookies. Miraculously I managed to vacuum my room on crutches. And for a while I strategized how to get bowls of food and mugs of tea from the kitchen to the livingroom. Giving in only when forcibly rescued by my roommates and friends, who repeatedly, yet patiently, witnessed my egotistical pride as it damn near drown me in my inability (read: refusal) to ask for help.

Not being able to do for myself is equally as crippling as the fracture itself. It's a mental game. And I am fighting to stay on top of it. Trying not to fight to hard with myself. To practice a healthy vulnerability. Asking for help doesn't equivocate laying yourself out like a doormat. Let yourself be loved. And cared for. And be grateful for those who are lavishing such sincere gestures. Magazines and cookies. Home-cooked meals. Late night consolation at the drop of a hat. Dog walkers galore! These are gifts I can only hope to be able to pay back in kind.

And at the top of the list, a mother who put everything aside to come rescue me from my stubborn self. Who offered, without me ever having to ask, to come get me and bring me back to her home until I am healed. I don't even know where to begin with that one. I feel so unworthy at every turn. And find myself frustrated at not being able to pull my own weight. We argued tonight. A combination of mounting anxieties and far too much inactivity. I lashed out at an inquiry she made. But I find myself endlessly defensive when put in a position which reminds me off all the ways I have failed to measure up. I have made quite a mess of things for myself. I am working on getting things back on track. Getting my ducks in a row so I can focus all that wasted energy on moving forward. I want a straight line. I've grown far too dizzy from walking all these years in circles. But I still have old habits. And like a trapped animal my basest instinct is to attack when threatened. I know it's not healthy and it is far from productive. But I keep that guard up. It doesn't make any sense. But neither does the fact that I fell down a mountain and survived, while my cousin (only two months my elder) had a heart attack in his condo and passed away.

Can a person be anymore broken? The answer is "yes". As long as you have breath enough to inquire, the answer is always yes. And I think probably long after that, too. Be careful with your questions. Answers don't usually extend the same kindness. But then, sometimes you need to be shaken out of yourself. Sometimes you need to be reminded to answer the call. Wake up! This is your life. This ain't no practice round.