you don't need magic to disappear. all you need is a destination.

What makes you interesting isn’t just what you’ve experienced, but also what you haven’t experienced. Embrace your limitations and keep moving.

"Here’s what artists understand. It’s a three-word sentence that fills me with hope every time I read it: Nothing is original." -Austin Kleon
How to Steal Like an Artist (and 9 Other Things Nobody Told Me)
1. Steal like an artist.
2. Don’t wait until you know who you are to start making things.
3. Write the book you want to read.
4. Use your hands.
5. Side projects and hobbies are important.
6. The secret: do good work and put it where people can see it.
7. Geography is no longer our master.
8. Be nice. The world is a small town.
9. Be boring. It’s the only way to get work done.
10. Creativity is subtraction.

Shortly after I wrote my little diatribe on commitment in my professional life I stumbled upon this ten step process to claiming and mastering your creative flow. (Thanks Rebecca for posting this delightfully insightful/inspiring article).

"If I waited to know “who I was” or “what I was about” before I started “being creative”, well, I’d still be sitting around trying to figure myself out instead of making things. In my experience, it’s in the act of making things that we figure out who we are. You’re ready. Start making stuff. You might be scared. That’s natural. There’s this very real thing that runs rampant in educated people. It’s called imposter syndrome. The clinical definition is a “psychological phenomenon in which people are unable to internalize their accomplishments.” It means that you feel like a phony, like you’re just winging it, that you really don’t have any idea what you’re doing. Guess what? None of us do. I had no idea what I was doing when I started blacking out newspaper columns. All I knew was that it felt good. It didn’t feel like work. It felt like play. Ask any real artist, and they’ll tell you the truth: they don’t know where the good stuff comes from. They just show up to do their thing. Every day." -Austin Kleon

It's nice to know I'm not alone in this confusion. I'm just a small part of a phenomenon. And I love that my natural instinct is to make things. Be it a photograph, a mix tape, a pie, or an installation, my heart is always comforted by my busy hands. I hope that this is the reason my pictures speak to people. And why my cookies taste so dang good. Because there's a piece of me in everything I create. There's love, and time, and attention to detail. I am not sure what "my thing" is quite yet, but I know it involves creating things. And hopefully one of my hobbies will turn out to be something more.

a moment. a love. a dream aloud. a kiss. a cry. our rights. our wrongs.

"I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love someone, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in. And all your dreams. The way you decorate your home. Or party. Your grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks. And the way you feel. Life is art."

find out what you're afraid of and go live there. -chuck palahniuk

::maine::

::april (snow) showers bring may flowers?::

::the snow gives way to cloudy days and rain::


::marley dog has no difficulty making himself at home::

::the best easter basket ever::

::in addition to her jewelry, my mom's contribution to the silent auction::

::auctioning my photos to help pay my medical bills. fingers crossed::

::i got a job sitting a gallery on the island. this is my favorite piece::

::private collection of Carolyn Hecker::

::the gallery fridge. the "coolest" appliance ever::

::saving my pennies (literally) to get me back to telluride::

It's such a collection of great people doing amazing things -Tom Shadyac

::Celebrating indomitable spirit::
in·dom·i·ta·ble
adj \in-ˈdä-mə-tə-bəl\
: incapable of being subdued : unconquerable

The snow is melted and sunny days of slacklines in the park and coffee on The Steaming Bean "patio" have finally arrived. While town is anxiously awaiting Bluegrass Festival and frustrated with the ticket situation, I would like to take this time to direct your attention to the real festival season kickoff: MountainFilm. Since 1979, Telluride has held this epic meeting of minds, talent, courage, and athletic ability. Coming to your very own box canyon this Memorial Day weekend, prepared to have your life rocked. I have been involved with MountainFilm for the past two years. Sarah, Jenny and David have all been heavily involved and peaked my interest during film selection process. Last year I had the great privilege of volunteering in exchange for a pass. It's an experience I definitely recommend. People travel from all over the world to participate and volunteer. The number of incredible minds under one azure, Telluride sky is worth the ticket price alone. Instead of trying to scalp a ticket to Bluegrass consider putting your cash towards a weekend guaranteed to make you think a little differently. Split a 6 punch with your better half or roomie. I have never walked away from an event more encouraged, uplifted, and emotionally exhausted. I went thinking, at the very least, I would get to see an interesting documentary. I found myself two days later ready for a nap due to all the stimulating commentary and discussions over free breakfast talks (Get up early and go to these if nothing else!) artwalks, symposiums, picnics, parties, dinners, and conversations with new friends I met waiting in queue for the films to commence. MountainFilm's access and direct interaction with activists and artists alike is unparalleled. You'll find yourself standing patiently in line for a coffee one moment chatting with the gentleman next to you, then next thing you know that same man is answering questions from the audience you find yourself in.

What is Mountainfilm? from Mountainfilm in Telluride on Vimeo.

I have been lucky enough to meet the following gentlemen and their work and contribution to MountainFilm extends far beyond the presentations they have this year. If you have any interest in photography please take the time to check out the works of Drew Ludwig ::Walking 120 Miles in the Gulf of Mexico:: and Aaron Huey ::Broken Treaties::. And if you share any love for the desert of Utah (you know you all just got back from your snow-relief climbing trip to Moab and your camping respite in Arches and Canyonlands) you will not want to miss your chance to learn more about Bidder 70's Tim Decristopher.

It breaks my heart that I will most likely be on the road during this years festival. But while my physical self will not be present for the screenings and discussions, my spirit will be relishing the fact that Telluride embraces such life altering events. And I challenge you all to take advantage of this opportunity. Test your spirit. Celebrate.

Check out some of the festival's previous entries. These are available on Netflix:
Wasteland
I Am
180 degrees South
The Cove
Big River Man
The Yes Men Fix the World
Sergio
The Garden
These are NOT available on Netflix but should definitely be viewed if you can find them.
First Ascent Series
Eastern Rises

"Do they collide?" I ask. And you smile. With my feet on the dash the world doesn't matter.

Word on the street is that I'll be reunited with the box canyon in three wee lil' weeks. (That seems like a long time when tacked onto the six weeks I've already put in, but I'm giving myself a million little pep talks to make it through.) I saw the doctor today, in the mix of running errands with my mom and her friend. Food Pantry. Grocery store. Post office. Library. Walmart. Getting goodies for the silent auction we are holding on the 15th. I'm hoping to be able to walk a bit better by then. I can't hold a glass of wine in my hand on crutches. Trust me, I've strategized. But the good news is I have a little time between now and then to perfect this ol' balance thing again. My knee is holding up well. The x-rays today showed no sign of my fracture line. And the donor bone has been 95% incorporated into my own. Phil and I are literally becoming one. But while the films say my bones are ready for the big test, my muscle didn't quite get the memo. My "walk" is more of a one crutch hobble across the room at the present time. When I'm feeling really daring I might try the two steps from the toilet to the bathroom sink. It's slow going. But I'm farther along than I was yesterday. So I just need to keep up the pace. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And I'll be at the finish line in no time.

Sitting here, after a day on my feet and some time standing at the stove, (I made my spicy mushroom soup) I am trying to prepare myself for the next few weeks. I stocked up on Advil today. I have a feeling I am going to need it. This next phase is going to be a bit more painful but I have a huge reward waiting on the other side and I am confident I can push through a little discomfort in order to claim my prize. H.O.M.E. All I have to do is get my leg strong enough to engage my clutch. (Dang straight drive.) And then I'm on the road. I have one final appointment with Dr. White on the 24th to make sure everything is holding up and to wrap up any lose ends and file a final report to send back to Dr. Bynum in Colorado. The two have been keeping tabs on one another's evaluation of my progress. It feels so nice to be cared for from both sides of the country. And I am going to take advantage of the physical therapy I have available to me here. Maine has been the perfect place for me to recover in one major aspect. It has been free. My mom has provided me with a place to stay and food to eat and rides to my many medical appointments. And thanks to the wonderful health care in her town, all of my treatments have been taken care of through a program I applied to through their hospital. Sometimes being poor means you wait in line to get cereal and rice and other times it means you get to have fancy x-rays and not give yourself an ulcer trying to figure out how you'll pay for them. (I am finding the latter to be a rare occurrence and therefore all the more amazing). But sometimes it pays to be (net)worth-less. In my case, roughly $4,300. Or the Bluebook value of my car. According to the government that is my total value. Sounds kinda pathetic in the grand scheme of things but I'll take it since it seems to be working to my advantage at this point. There's plenty of time in the future for me to find my niche and strike it rich. For now I will just revel in the fact that I have found doctors who don't shame me for not having health insurance and who treat me like an actually person. (My sincerest thanks and praise go to the fine staff at Blue Hill Medical Center, Western Slope Orthopedics, and Montrose Memorial Hospital. All of you have been so supportive, informative, and friendly during what has been a very difficult and upsetting event.) Would it be weird if I baked you all cookies? You definitely deserve it!

So, in the mean time I will be practicing my dance steps. Packing up my things. Getting my car in working order. Not to mention all the million little details to arrange before I can get back on the road. Being in my car will feel like the ultimate freedom. I am so excited to be back behind the wheel. It almost makes up for the three-four days I will be spending in my car to get from A to B. But with my trusty sidekick Marley Dog, an ipod full of play lists, coffee in my cup holder, and wind in my hair, nothing can stop me. Not even the $4 gas prices. Ugh.

We've got a date, Telluride. I know it's been a while. Don't worry, I wont stand you up. See you at the end of the month! I'll be the one bent down in the middle of Colorado Avenue kissing the black top.

It's a long way back. -Grey's Anatomy

"After a trauma your body is at its most vulnerable. Response time is critical. So you're suddenly surrounded by people; doctors, nurses, specialists. Surgery is a team sport. Everyone pushing for the finish line. Putting you back together again. Surgery is a trauma in and of itself. And once it's over the real healing begins. We call it recovery. Recovery is not a team sport. It's a solitary distance run. It's long. It's exhausting. And it's lonely as hell." -Dr. Grey

I have my orthopaedic appointment tomorrow morning. Getting another round of x-rays and and exam. I should know more about my recovery time line by the afternoon. I am nervous. I think I can handle three more weeks. If the doctor says I just need a few more weeks to get strong. The sound of that doesn't suck my insides out. But I need to see the light at the end of this tunnel. My life is on pause. And I'm desperate to push play on this soundtrack.

It's hard to imagine getting up and walking around when my knee throbs all day because of the rainy weather. And it swells when I stand at the sink for too long. Sometimes it feels lose and I am encouraged and other times it is stiff and tender and seems so far from ever carrying me across any expanse. But I am trying to stay positive. Sending love and light. And I have done all that the doctors have asked of me. Please let there be good news on the horizon.

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::