One thing I know for sure is that in the moments of life that I feel the most peace, joy, love, and inspiration, there is a strange pattern that occurs right before, a cycle I know and feel, the art of birth and destruction. I doubt I have ever found myself or God or truth in the world when everything is going my way. In fact, I know so.

It is always in the dark, on my knees or in the car, driving with tears soaking my shirt collar and pillow, in marriage I would turn and even sob into the pillow, to not awaken him, with the girls it is always in the shower, or late sleepless nights.

It is true that how deeply you feel joy is equivalent to how deeply you feel pain, a remarkable thought.

Throughout my journey, I remember so many people commenting on how joyful and happy I always am, with a smile on my face, a joke always coming after the last, and sometimes I would smile and think,

“Of course, I’m happy, and why shouldn’t I be? Life is a gift.”

and, there were these thoughts as well,

“I smile because if I don’t, I might die, or even worse, you may not think I’m a happy person.”

“I am?”

“I smile because this moment is escaping the lie I bear at home, so thank God, and keep reminding me.”

And in my greatest dark moments, I have not been able to wear the smile, the whole world has fallen on top of me, my smile is not even given a thought, the weight of lies have broken me, and my only prayer is to survive.
Survival is the way to live in a crisis, not a life.

And in these places, I have had many people appear frightened, scared, confused, and concerned.
In the places of these times, I have not been able to smile at all, and the comments “Are you okay?” have been met with the following:

“No. Do I look okay? Please please stop reminding me.”

“Great. Now I just brought someone else down. Why can’t I just smile, for God’s sakes?”

“How funny. This person has no idea this moment is the most real and beautiful breaking I have ever witnessed. I don’t pretend, and I don’t perform, but I grieve, but for the right reasons.”

“Do I make you afraid of your own pain because you are very concerned I not show my own?”

In both places, the good and bad, I have learned not to judge or shame or blame myself, or at least that has been the battle, the truth of self acceptance is a life working lesson. In my laughter, and my tears, in my positivity and negativity, the truth remains.

If life were without the battle or the triumphs, I would be robbed of its experience.
I would regret nothing or everything, have no idea how to give or how to receive, would see only the good in my children or the bad, both have painful consequences when out of balance.

Sunsets and sunrises both have their glory, so why can’t I?

So, today, I cry and smile, and give thanks.
In all things, give thanks.


I left Divorcee years and years ago, a young mother, barely able to understand herself much less the vows she took. I stayed and so did he, neither of us able to look at our life and imagine a day without our girls in it. We settled and didn’t even question the distance, the cold empty space between, the void, the growing ball of self hatred, the elephant I┬ápretended not to watch just stomped me instead, over and over again.

In the leaving, I saw two girls so heartbroken over their daddy, I could die from just the memory of it, a stain so drenched in shame of their innocence, the smell of their blood on my hands could make me vomit in their presence.

I knew I had made choices that defined my life early, choices that led me to stay home, daddy coming home to the bills and a mortgage, my shirts drenched in breast milk and baby vomit paid my homage, a role I believed I had to endure. The truth is I loathed him for his freedom, the flippant way he hated his job, my thought of working and providing made my heart flutter like air. My very shame in wanting to work was the bondage he could never seem to make peace with.

And so, with my father vanishing, Divorcee’s tears and heart gripping hugs to them, I couldn’t take it anymore. They didn’t ask for this pain nor did they ask to come into the world to a young mom shocked and horrified at her own unconscious life, a life I couldn’t remember choosing, the constant look of longing and questions, their little hearts longing for the Daddy I knew loved them. And so, he moved in to take over, paid the bills, fed and clothed us, my mother and brother roommates as we all passed by, the girls in the circle, a circle I depended on for refuge.

And so they have soared, my little angels, healing and growing, Kat’s reading conquered, Lola’s first day at Kindergarten a blow we took together, friends and mostly a team, Divorcee and I. I told myself the room I had was worth it, the tiny little room with a mattress I did not own, a side table and lamp borrowed, my home long gone, all the “stuff” we collected together a vague memory of what was. It was worth it, the pain easing over time, the work of forgiveness and healing showed up like little lights in their eyes.

Only he knows what this cost, the harsh criticism, the judgments and assumptions, the weird looks, and strange distance of potential relationships, a blow I took for not having known my worth or passion. This new roommate role I settled into felt more comfy, like my favorite converse shoes, and was a better trade, so I took off their pain and wore shoes that said more lost than comfy, a bewildered zombie of a woman I did not know ran and ran, watching them grow from a different angle, but it was all just the same.

Again I was outside a life I did not want.

And like all things, courage came, the death of a dream in another form, the understanding that I wanted to live in a home I owned, with little towels that smelt like me, sheets I paid for, a bathroom I could visit without a turtleneck and deadbolt, which is pretty much how I feel every time I sneak to the community shower, never knowing if Divorcee or Baby Bro will have beaten me first.

I am an artist and nothing here is owned or decorated by me, strange glass vases and foreign colors make me weary and depression came down like a whip lash, my girls laughter in the back yard was nothing less than the cost of myself, my eyes vacant and hollow, joy a feeling I had lost long ago.

Until now. I found me. I found my joy, the passion for a work I could only dream to want much less own, and truly the shock and gratitude comes and goes like a slap, the pain and longing for my babies just as strong, my inner pull to do what I love.

The truth is I did not choose this job but it has instead chosen me, my body and soul a channel for the demand to create, no matter the cost.

I have not eaten from having spent my quarters, prayed as I shake from the gas tank on empty, not even able to buy the birthday presents much less the big party, I watch in sick envy as Divorcee clumsily picks the Halloween costume, nails the Christmas list, works tirelessly as a single Dad while I come home deathly afraid I have missed it, and the fear is not an illusion, but a truth, because I always miss something, every story or lesson plan or book read is a shock to my system, and I watch Lola miss me in her baby love, Kat shrug away in her silent anger, no longer a hero at her ripe age of 9.

And has it cost me. God, it has cost me everything. I eat, breathe, sleep, think work and art, my own presence vanishing off the map, my little girls holding my legs and crying for me not to leave, the hours have been brutal to them, and so I have promised them.

I have promised a girl house, with girl stuff, where girls where panties and dance and laugh, and this house has been the taste of freedom I seal the wound each night I miss the bath, the reading, the stories off the bus.

So, I have this passion, this creative talent and unheard of passion and drive, but for what?
You never get Mrs. Smith’s second grade concert back.

Kat has struggled the most, her needing me screams like a cat caught on fire, my heart screaming no as she turns her back to me, my sixteen hour day has nothing but “YOU LEFT ME” written, a pain I cope by working harder, certain the dream and the house and the ability to own a bank account certainly will make it all worth it.

Perhaps I will fail, miss every moment for a poor substitute, a dream is a waste for many or all of us would pursue ours.
I don’t blame them. I sometimes hate my own.

I tell them about Disneyworld and the house of girls and i see myself disappear in their eyes, and only God knows how I don’t just bury my soul in the grief, the guilt, the belief it has to be worth it and so I push, and push.

I can’t decide if living with them poor and broke when they are on their own paths, a cord they can never untie for needing to carry my weight is the destiny I am avoiding or if the truth of my mission will one day reveal itself to me, all these broken promises made good, a pride for my work and courage renewed by our love.

Until then, I sit in a room written with words of affirmation, words written to convince me I could do this and be happy, dependent on a man that never wanted me, who is releasing my title, living my dream, the one I have to go make space for while he is brushing their hair and hearing their stories, and I feel like a ghost, my life playing through a window pane, but he is in it while I am chasing it.

I sobbed and sobbed with Kat tonight, a breaking I had to have, my forgiveness I beg, my title of mother not worthy of such a precious little girl, and she is going to let me hold her tonight, a rare thing for her growing pride, to watch a movie in my teeny room, and yes, no closet door for extra storage space, my mission to make a magical sleepover in this once fearfully loved home, a space I never occupied but pretended to love.

The truth is, no space or dream can take her away, for without her I am nothing, and so I silently weep, a grief I know must be shared by millions of women all over the world. But right now, I hear nothing but the shallow ache of a hollow heart, wondering if any dream or art could give me back her, all the days, not just the moments, and I can not hear my own voice, the echos of these women I assume know answer not, and I sit in the breath of my choices.

I sit in the weight of my dreams.

Lose the Keys and Follow Your Dreams

My heart is full with gratitude to be sitting here, coffee in hand, with my blog and you, my strange friends out in the universe. I have missed writing and have felt the pain of not expressing my ups and downs daily, a balance that always grounds and restores me. I am excited the next three weeks to return to my writing, the blogs of bondage shoots, people, laughter and experiences bursting to be expressed.

I have been living like a hurricane building slowly on the horizon, a dangerous and destructive omen to most, a storm unyielding and unpredictable, my presence unbearably feared by my mother, who has been worried about my health and lack of sleep. I have 26 unheard messages I think, my phone is MIA at this very moment. I missed the annual tree decorating this year with my girls. I whisper I love you to all of you during the day, when a text comes through, a thought pops up, a song is playing, when my heart drops at your status on face book I had again missed, and then in the early morning when my return reply had been replaced by drool on the side of my face, the awareness I went to bed fully clothed again.

I don’t know if the echoes of my whispers find their way, but I just hope, sometimes cry, my tears falling from either trust or doubt.
I certainly have not known the difference, especially at first.
I once thought you should have a key to having it all, and so I looked for the key tirelessly, mostly through my love of all things spiritual, self help books, failed relationships, lots and lots of questions to all kinds of people. I am passionate I can have it all, and my treasure has been an endless search for the perfect key that will bring the energy available to my work and family, friends, independence, and even love.

I have been looking for keys my whole life.

People who know me would laugh because it is so true, my keys are always lost, locked in or out of my car, stuck in 14 foot drains when it is raining, and I feel bad for people who love me for this reason. I could be in a New Jersey Hotel, a cemetery shoot, or in the driveway crying, but it never fails the best friends I have are most likely cursing me in the bushes. Divorcee, who has a gift I might add, knows to always look in the most illogical place possible, which is actual logic, and sometimes, like the bushes, or the fridge, there they are, a white light illuminating them in my eyes, my face overjoyed, his head shaking.

Triple A is probably what I should be asking for Christmas.

I lose but also collect keys, uncertain why, many of them are rustic and beautiful, some are prison keys, concrete and heavy. I love keys, in all shapes and sizes and the best of them tell a story, represent bondage and freedom, wisdom, and love.

Haven’t you overheard the phrase he holds the key to my heart? I used to wonder if that could be true.
Can people hold keys to your heart and is it possible just anyone could have the key and open and shut your heart as pleased?

If keys could represent love and dreams, no wonder I have been collecting them, wanting desperately to unlock all my heart’s desires, the search endless.

No wonder I can’t find one to complete me, so I collect them and have found some of the best in garage sales and nice antique shops, the perfect key makes me smile, especially if it makes you pause and stare, is worn and authentic, waiting to unlock something fabulous.

Strangely today, if the key to solving my disappearance were in my hand, the key to a workable loving relationship with a man, being fully present with my kids, my mother’s fear vanishing, the only key to turning off my brain racing with anxiety and excitement were in my hand, I would not even think twice.

I would toss it right out the window, without even hesitation, unless I was aware of a pedestrian, or maybe to turn up the volume in my car, my laughter and tears of the day falling, which they do fall every day, but rather they come from joy or pain I can’t ever seem to know.

I have become alive and I am never going back.

Becoming alive has been a fearless and painful process because I don’t think I understood it fully till now.

I think about the word “SHOULD” in my life and all that have brought me to you today, my heart beating in that loud beautiful way, the way one’s heart must beat while alive. I recognize it because it is new to me, a bold unfamiliar pattern I am strangely adapting to understand.

You SHOULD lose your best friends because that is what your husband wants.

You SHOULD be a good stay at home mom because that is what your mother did best.

You SHOULD not write about the things your family feels so much pain over.

You SHOULD accept years of unhappiness in a marriage because you brought kids here.



And so I did, worked tirelessly to make all the demands I believed should make life matter, and I regret nothing, seeing those decisions found me here today along with a lot of healing, beautiful children and relationships stamped by the word “FOREVER.”

But those things did not make me come alive.
It hurt actually.

It made getting up a hard thing to do, my arms like weights being lifted just to hit the alarm, the voices of doubt pushed so that I had like a robot, repeated these unfamiliar dreams into a pattern now familiar, dreams I thought I had to want o be my own.

“Life is not easy,” and “Look at the good things” and “You could be worse and have been” are mostly the ways in which I convinced my dream to be a good one.

Dreaming is scary for Robots.
Robots are careful not to see too much hope. They know despair soon follows.
Robots are careful not to see too much destruction. They know destruction costs you everything. That is why they do everything the same way, but they are wired incorrectly. They are still living in fear every day, but it okay as long as they are unaware of why or have a creator they blame for the damaged circuiting.

Robots sense fear and loss and despair and so they pretend the life they have is the one they ordered, unchangeable, and for whatever reason, dreams do not get a receipt. You accept the damaged lost dreams and you go on.
Or they can also pitch a fit, blame everyone behind the counter, stomp through life angry and unmovable, completely convinced the people in standing distance must all be punished. Robots don’t even ask about the exchange policy.

It seems strange now I did not question either whether dreams never expire, or believe you can change your mind or even ask for a new dream, uncertain if it even exits, or how much it costs.

Being a Robot has cost me a lot in my life, but I did not know it.
I was just a Robot.
Being alive has hurt, cost me relationships I value, and I tremble at the future, aware it may hold even greater destruction than I know how to handle. I fear not only believing in the dream and losing it, but the reality of losing the ones I love in the process.
It has been hard for me to realize Robots say the right things, the cliche of “FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS,” wanting you to follow your dreams and when you do, what they actually meant all along was,
“Follow your dreams if I am a part of it.”

“Follow your dreams but don’t come to me for help.”

“Follow your dreams if it is the one I think is best for you.”

“Follow your dreams but need me and don’t go far.”

“Follow your dreams but I am pretty certain you will fail and if you don’t, I wont like myself around you.”

Robots don’t want to feel less and it makes them afraid when you decide to do the very thing they desire.
All Robots want to be set free.
So when you set yourself free, it makes them aware that they have not, and suddenly, they do not like you.
And yet, I can’t go back.

I have this funny wonderful feeling that the dreams I had before were all programmed Robot dreams, my life an evolving door of pain and suffering, having been programmed by fear, fully dressed in Robot gear.
I am not sure yet but I wonder if dreams don’t actually cost you.

Maybe that is a robot invasion programming device convincing me I am unworthy.

I wonder if all I have to do is look up.

The dreams may just start falling straight from the sky.

Olivia Maddy Marie, a “Tribute” for Heather Murphy

When Kat was barely two, my boss at the time had a little boy named Alex, her favorite playmate, a child so full of life and contagious joy, there were no walls, counter tops or couch cushions that could contain him. He was a flaming spirit of play and laughter, a lot like his mom, and nothing he did could not be instantly forgiven.

One of the hardest moments of my life was going to his funeral, his mother bathed in unimaginable grief became no longer my boss, but part of my soul as I worked with her every day, my greatest teacher to date. She taught me that being in grief with someone made you not weak, but strong. I will treasure her for life for all the moments she allowed me to practice the art of loving someone who is drowning in grief, and the realization that there is no life jacket to throw, nor did she need or want one from me.

She taught me to look at life, death, love, loss, God, and motherhood through a whole new lens, but the ultimate lesson she gave me, is that you can not say, pray, wish, love, or cry the pain away. You have to just be there, sit in the devastation with her, and just be. It is the hardest and most important lesson I have ever learned.

When I left her and that job, there were lessons yet to remain. I quit to have Lola, to divorce, to grow, and in a full cycle, to return to the same job, changed, irreversible, yet so incomplete.

I had yet to meet Heather Murphy.

My first day back on the job, I found myself in the office with this beautiful young blond mother who in small talk about our girls, took out a picture of her incredibly beautiful Isabella, the perfect vision of brown springing curls and big eyes that would melt the hardest of hearts. Then, she took out a photo of Liv, her baby who had died not too long before we met, just a year old. I thought I could die of heartbreak at that very second, flashbacks of the same office, the unforgivable grief, all the details entirely different, the horrifying reality absolutely the same.

My new boss was a part of my soul now too, in an instant, like someone in heaven were snapping their fingers at me, to wake up, to realize she and I were strangers no longer, but together in that moment, for a reason.

It was bigger than me. It was bigger than us.

I don’t know if she knew it, but I knew it.

I watched that woman outside of my body for months, waiting, asking, praying, wanting. She is a spitfire, a hilarious person full of playful energy with a sneaky smile, sarcastic humor, kind gestures, motherly instincts, strength, and has an uncanny ability to do her job amongst men not just well, but incredibly well. She had walls as tall as Berlin, a tough exterior of strength and professionalism, calling me out when I needed it, running the place when I wanted to fall over from fatigue, but she remained. She exhausts me, sometimes mowing the grass at night, just because it needed to be done.

I believe it is her greatest strength and weakness, this strength, because everyone believes she is capable of everything, and sometimes I wonder is she just wants to sit in a chair and be rocked, mothered, taken care of, a realization that no one is there for her, but her, and she is responsible for everyone else.

Slowly, she let me in, and it took time, and the right moments of listening and asking, to hear her stories of Isabella and Liv, the moments moms exchange with knowing looks and hysterical laughter over what their children do and say, the joy that light us up and the acts that put our heads in our hands with worry. After time, I got to see and experience what happened behind the office door closing, the truths I was ready for, the job I wanted, fearfully, but qualified. I knew the job I had been trained for was not in counting money and doing side work, but in listening, crying, staying, and being.

No money can account for that kind of work, the work of one soul inviting another in, the exchange of pain so unimaginable and unreachable, it is what I believe, the very hope to see life each day as priceless, to approach death in humble awakenings, the thing we fear the most, the loss we never want to imagine. It is a gift and she let me unwrap it, the images of Liv and the stories, her chest of toys and lasts, her journals of letters she writes her, the guilt and horror, the daily hell of waking up to a nightmare you can not numb or escape.

I wrote of Alex, back in the day, and I still have those memories on file, an imprint on my soul, but I was too afraid to share his story and life, the fear and pain a choking sensation around my neck. But, I am ready for Liv.

Alex changed me but Liv freed me. Becky taught me to be in the mud, in the dark, in the grief, and she shown like a star so bright, it was too painful for most to witness. Heather has shown me in your vulnerability, you are invincible. She walks the line of greatness and destruction, a beautiful mess, a tragic disaster, and I know she is afraid of going crazy with her own fear, but I know it will be the arrow to show her the way home.

I am waiting for that day she knows. I wonder what will happen when she arrives, the arrow slicing her heart open, her blood a price will become her gift to herself, to the world. It is a miracle what the human Spirit can endure, that every bit of pain of her loss is giving the world a different lens, a price too high for any mother to pay, and for that, I am so very sorry. That line is almost too pathetic to write, how sorry I am to even write it.
What the hell kind of word is sorry for the price you have paid?

I still will not be sorry to hope, to cry, to endure, to give gratitude, because that is just a piece of what you have given me. I hope to share her with the world, through her mommy’s eyes, her life so big and full and immeasurable in moments not only a mother can understand, but all who have seen angels, walking or not. Her Spirit is too beautiful to have gone anywhere but here, and I feel her now, as I write, and I feel it every time her name is breathed, every time I see her mother cry.

…..I hope you will feel her as well, the anniversary of a year since she left, published on the hour she took her last breath, and I ask that today, you say a prayer for Heather, light a candle, release a butterfly balloon, open your heart to the life you have been given, and remember.


Grief Observed

Yesterday I watched tenderly as a very old lady on a busy intersection, cane in hand, placed a stuffed teddy bear at the foot of a simple white wooden cross.

I was at a busy traffic light, on my way to work, and felt very much like an intruder, a witness to the horrific grief this woman was experiencing, tears flowing down her wrinkled cheeks, teddy bear being patted, picked up, placed down, and up again.

She couldn’t seem to make up her mind which direction of the cross the teddy bear should face and at one point, she just sat on the ground, staring, the teddy bear on her lap.

I wanted to open my door, ignore the honking people trying to get here and there to just sit with her, hold her hand, offer up a tissue or a hug. Instead, the light turned green and I can’t shake the image of her out of my head, as I said goodbye from my rear view mirror, watching as she took her hands off the bear and on to the cross itself, shaking from obvious sobs of grief.

I don’t know what happened or who this woman loved and lost. I want to tell her that she touched me, that she is forever connected to my soul, reminding me that death is part of being human, something we all have or will face. When you strip it all away, I am a breathing, loving, grieving soul, just like her.

So, I thank you, little old lady on Hwy 141 with hair in pink handkerchief, cane in hand.

I promise to pause and say a prayer for you when I pass by your white cross where you lost someone you obviously love so much. I am sure they were better for being loved by you.


I have been asked by several people to write a book about some of my dating experiences. OUCH.

I admit that after my divorce I didn’t give a damn, became somewhat a serial dater, protecting my heart so insanely that it just made sense to date the outrageous and ridiculous, rather than risk finding something real.

In fact, I wasn’t real. Not really. Not yet.

I think I will eventually write about some of these experiences, like Mr. Electric, who picked me up at church, took me to Moe‘s, and bought me a car the next day. I think about all the musicians and I just cringe, especially B. H. Rocker, who screamed into microphones and called it music, believing he was so huge underground that I should have to walk behind him into bars. It was for my safety, you see.

The man wore pigtails and different colorful bandanas for God’s sake.

There was the man prescribed to me by my doctor, Prescription Dan, who after coffee, sent a penis shot captured in the midst of ejaculation, a stream so brilliantly photographed, I can’t figure out how he did it. A tripod? My doctor was profusely apologetic.

I think you get the point.

After being devastated with my last boyfriend leaving to live on a boat in Italy, I decided it was time for me to take some serious time out, to refocus, to think about who I was and what I wanted out of life. I buried myself in self help books and work, and at first, I didn’t like what I saw. I avoided mirrors and had night sweats, breaking addictions to sleeping pills and anxiety meds.

I found that all my coping mechanisms came in the form of blue tablets called Xanex and without them, I had to rediscover ways to function. The first thirty days were terrifying. I put one foot in front of the other, took on one day at a time, let every scary emotion I had been running from come to the surface. I wasn’t used to feeling anything much less everything, all at once, all the time.

I felt like I would never stop crying and that I had been issued one big life sentence, a lifetime of pain for all the mistakes I had made, for all the hurt I had accumulated and had been unwilling to address.

And then something rather shocking happened.

Thirty days turned to Sixty and then to Ninety and by the time six months was approaching, I was beginning to not only become comfortable but actually like my own skin. A spark I forgot existed began to ignite inside of me and I was effortlessly laughing, creating, dreaming.

Until my friend M decided it was time for me to be set up on a first date. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Hell no. NO WAY.

I wanted to vomit. I listed out every reason why I was one big mess and she laughed me off saying it would be fun, great, and well past due! It began with text messages and he had this irritating way of making me smile constantly, pulling me in to compulsively checking my phone again and again for what he would say next.

We decided to meet the day after Valentine’s Day and quite frankly, I kind of hoped it might be disastrous, so that I could wipe my hands of this risky relationship business, something I was so tired of failing at.

And well, he wasn’t a disaster at all, damn it.

he was smart, and funny, and kind, and yes, sexy.

The entire time he talked I wondered what the hell he would do with a girl like me. He was a gentleman, thoughtful, believed in taking his time in relationships and I respected him immediately.

There was also something so endearing about his open and honest nature, telling me things about his past relationship that made me know he was healing as well. He let me know things right away that were not easy for me to handle at all, but for some reason, I just couldn’t find any of them reason enough to walk away. And believe me, I tried.

And Oh my goodness, is he funny. Silly, actually and very childlike.

And a really good friend.

On our third date, we went to the movies. It was fun, relaxing, and I didn’t really want it to end at all. He drove me back to my car where we talked for at least an hour, until I noticed a man in a hooded jacket cut across the parking lot, his eyes darting back and forth, and my stomach started to turn.

I felt something might be dreadfully wrong. I felt my blood pressure rise and my heart stop and I worried about what Clyde might have to do, knowing he kept his gun close, having been robbed at gunpoint just earlier this year.

The shady dude slowly opened my car door. I almost vomited. In a flash, I saw every scary horrible scenario flash through my mind like a series of bad movies, but happening to me, to Clyde, to the people who might never see me again.

I froze. My jaw clenched tightly, my fists tight.

“Is that your car, K?” Clyde said quickly, pointing to my actual car a few feet ahead of me, where the relief of the moment melted from shock to hysterics.

I couldn’t stop laughing. It reminded me of nervous relief, and I am definitely the kind of girl that laughs at funerals.

I have been living on edge so long, waiting for someone to hurt me, to break into my car, to crush my heart into a million pieces, to lie, hurt, and suddenly disappear.

My mind has taken over and I see that it has been playing tricks on me, and somehow I had turned a man with a sweatshirt getting in his vehicle into a possible murder scene where I lost my car, possibly Clyde, and myself. I

realize now that I have made the same mistake with my heart, giving it away to unusual suspects and jerking it back before some unlivable crime is committed and in doing this, I have become guarded, afraid, and alone.

I don’t know if I give Clyde my heart some day if he will break it into a million pieces. I just met him.

I don’t know if I can handle the hurt of another failed relationship, what and how much the human spirit can take, but I must have the courage to at least try.

I guess this is what it means to trust, to feel the fear and do it anyway, to surrender to now, to live in the joy of today.

I guess this is what it means to be real.