My Groovy Entropy

Picture This: Bleeding Some Thoughts on Life and Death

2016-10-12T12:03:00.001-07:00

Blink. Blink. Blink blink blinkblinkblink.... the cursor mocks my writer's block.

I feel it in me - the voice; but the words have jumbled and choked up at the door. If you're an innate writer, you know this agony. We have a need to write. It keeps us sane; connected. If I don't expel the thoughts they churn in my mind, creating more confusion and disorder in a space that is already infested by madness. I've waited too long and now all the thoughts and experiences have contaminated each other, bleeding out unintelligibly. So, forgive this rambling, as it is as much a practice in therapeutics as creative expression.

In March we moved to a neglected farmhouse perched on a christmas tree farm in Oregon. We were offered this opportunity through the workings of the ever-resourceful hands of my friend, Liz, who, upon our move, also became our neighbor. The entire experience has been surreal, and seemingly universe-directed. At the same time, the months since our arrival have been a near-constant tutorial in the rawness of life and death. I've read that many cutters cut themselves in an attempt to feel and know they are alive. Well, we have bled and felt that we are alive, and have been made excruciatingly aware that it is fleeting.

Since March:

Oliver, our pekepug, was kicked in the head by a horse, he survived (to the tune of $$$ that we didn't have, so we now owe our first born - sorry Kinsey). He lost an eye in the ordeal, so is now #piratedog.
Annabelle, our Boston terrier, injured her eye and, due to her condition of congestive heart failure, had poor odds of surviving an eye-removal surgery. We chose to put her to sleep and end her pain.
Our beloved Frida, the hen, was taken by a hawk... I think. She just disappeared. I spent weeks looking for her. Her death was followed by that of about 12 others (honestly, I've lost count, there were numerous baby chick losses).
Despite valiant efforts to predator-proof my animal enclosures, I've lost two beloved bunnies. A third, Moose, is now lonely and depressed. I'm looking to rehome him in a safer environment. Just can't sacrifice any more.

And then there was the day that I was outside installing a fence in the rain (in attempt to keep my dog from sadistically visiting the neighbor's horses). Klee walked down to where I was working, speaking to someone on the phone. He covered the mouthpiece and said, "Cherie, Liz is in the hospital and they don't have any phone numbers for her family." I had just been talking to Liz a few hours earlier. She was comforting me about the loss of my dog, Annabelle, who I had put to sleep two days prior. I dropped my tools in the mud and drove my frazzled (and dirty) body to her side. I called her parents on my way. I texted her that I would be there soon. I didn't know we had already shared our last conversation.

I have one picture of Liz and me together. It was taken while I held her in my arms and cried into her ear, trying with futility to tell her how grateful I was to her; that I loved her; that I would miss her. She moved her hand when I spoke. They said it was most likely just reflexes. I don't know. Maybe she heard me somewhere in her mind. Somewhere that was still aware. Who can know? Later, as she labored to take her last few breaths, I whispered that it was ok to let go. And, she let go.

I have one picture with my friend, Liz, because she had strict rules about not taking her picture. While she had made peace with who she was, flaws and triumphs, she was ashamed of her weight. She was heavy and it made her life difficult. I spent a lot of time with her in the months before her death, even lived with her for about a month, while trying to get our house to a livable condition. I never saw her overeat. In fact, I ate more than she did on more than one occasion. I'm not saying she had a great diet, just that it was not marked by unusually excessive caloric intake. She had dieted a lot over the years, which I'm sure impaired her metabolism. But really, her habits were not that atypical. I believe she was struggling with metabolic issues, making weight control unusually difficult for her. But, regardless of why she was obese, she hated the prison her body had become, and she didn't want photographic evidence of it. I miss my friend. I see her everywhere on this farm. I wish I had a picture I could look at to see that our friendship was real. That we shared space together at one time.

I'm 43. 40 seems to be the magic age for shutting the metabolism down. I eat well; not even eating the nightly ice-cream anymore. I'm pretty active, building fences, chasing chickens and dogs and a 5-year old. Doesn't matter. The combination of a slowing metabolism, a geriatric pregnancy (don't even get me started), and a medication (with a side of weight gain), has resulted in the addition of about 40 unwelcome pounds. I am very. unhappy. about this. It doesn't even feel like I'm looking at me in the mirror. I hate shopping for clothes. The self-loathing is at an all-time high. And, I am guilty of disallowing the taking of photos. (I mean, who really wants extra documentation of this shit?)

Here's the thing; TAKE THE PICTURES. All the pictures. Wrinkles, fat, grey hairs... none of it matters. Not at all. We are so distracted by this temporary packaging of our souls. But these vessels we live in, they allow us this life. These bodies give us the opportunity to connect with everything around us. We touch, see, hear, feel, breath in and out; we experience love and life through the skin and bones we're in. And we are lucky enough to live at a point in history where we have the ability to record these experiences, and the beautiful bodies that carry us, with photographs. So, for those that love me, my new rule is, take the pictures. And, if someday you're holding the memory of me in your hands, and my body is no longer here, please know that it was real. I was there. I lived. I loved you. And, if at all possible, I love you still.

The Adventure of Pain and the Pursuit of Happiness

2014-12-12T13:58:00.000-08:00

I have a frown line. It slices my brow in half and renders me looking "bitchy" even when I'm feeling rather docile. It's a real condition, you know. I know because I've read about it on the internet. It's called 'Bitchy Resting Face'. You learn more about BRF HERE.

I have pondered several theories about how I developed this condition. Was it from squinting too much? Concentrating too hard? Do I pout a lot? Did squirrels descend upon me in my sleep and scratch my brow? Or, Am I a bitch? We may never know...

There is one theory that I've recently contemplated with some seriousness. Maybe, I have been unhappy. Unhappy, a lot. More than I've been happy. Enough to leave a permanent (at least without Botox) imprint on my face. A symbol to the world around me that I have been angry or sad or distressed... unhappy.

I watched a PBS movie a month or so ago, called 'Happy'. It discussed what makes people happy, presenting the very common philosophy that happiness is somewhat self-made. Happy people DO certain things that unhappy people don't do. The narrator introduced viewers to a variety of very happy people living in seemingly destitute surroundings, but, because of their community/generous spirits/positive outlooks they were untouched by their lack of comforts and conveniences. Of course the movie also touched on the merits of low-stress living and lots of good sleep.

The positive-thinking model for happiness has always disturbed me. Books like, 'The Secret', left me empty and unsettled, irritated even. It's not that I don't see value in optimism, or seeking out the silver linings; I just strongly disagree that a person can positive-think themselves out of legitimate trauma. The theory ignores the very natural and necessary stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I'll concede that everyone is impacted differently by the disappointments of life. Some seem to wear no evidence of hardship at all. I'm both happy for, and question the depth of, those people.

Then there's the, "it could be worse, you could be...." answer to adversity; or the, "but look at all that you still have," response to loss; or even the, "buck up, we all have bad days!" pat on the back in the midst of devastation. These statements come from a place of naivety; at least I choose to believe that people don't say these things with the intent of belittling a person's very real pain. (See, I can be positive!) I'll never forget receiving a card from a well-meaning friend, at a time when I (the mother of three small children) had just lost my home, my church, much of my social support, and was facing my husband's pending imprisonment. The card said the equivalent of "darn, I got a run in my stockings and hit all red lights today - time for chocolate!" Do I even need to explain why that sentiment came nowhere near to easing my pain at that time? A "bad day" does not equate to a devastating blow. And yet, even a bad day merits the stages of grief, if only mildly so.

Like every other being, I have experienced loss. Some of my losses have been disappointing, some have been heartbreaking, and some have left me in utter desolation. I have no need to compare my losses to those of others. Certainly, and sadly, others have experienced more loss than I have. But the tragedies in my own life have challenged the plans laid in my DNA, and changed my very form (evidenced by my BRF??); much like the scars left by falling off a bike, chicken pox, pregnancy/giving birth, or injuries from war.

Last night I sat in a group therapy session. I listened to the stories of others and the insights of the moderator and internalized what I could. The group is for codependency, a little habit I picked up (in truck loads) along my way. Essentially, the message is to love myself better, and to love others without destroying myself. It's teaching me to allow the grief, be kind to my heart, and take care of myself.

I think I've struggled the most with letting go of the injustices and the hurts and accepting the reality of my life's picture. The death of my birth-father, painful break-ups and multiple divorces, betrayals, losses of homes, cars, income, beauty, and struggles with health; just typing the memories causes my throat to tighten. I've become disillusioned with so many of the desires of my youth. The canvass, which in the optimism of my childhood was soft and fluffy white, has over the years been slapped with abstract lines and harsh tones, portraying a scene that is drastically different from the hopeful visions of my prior self. Who is this painting of? Is she ok? Do I accept her, this ragged Picasso-like shadow with a frown line etched in her brow? I want to. I want to be proud of her. I want to LOVE her... me.

In our group, the moderator re-stated the ever cliche, "Life is not fair." She gave some impactful quote that more eloquently said that pain is a fact of life; the sooner we accept that truth, the sooner we can move on. Half of getting through the pain is just acknowledging that it could even happen to us. Hence, the 'denial' stage of grief. I guess many of us have a tendency to believe that we shouldn't have to feel pain.

Pain is the inevitable challenge of life. The irony in the acceptance of pain and the experience of loss, is that therein is the birth of empathy. It is in learning to cope with pain that we experience the rawness of compassion for the hurts of others and the beauty of our connection with humanity. Empathy is a powerful ingredient in the ability to love. It is in the adventure of pain that we find our courage, stamina, resilience, and our capacity to love, which, I suspect, is also the epicenter of genuine happiness.

In the words of Helen Keller, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

Please Come Visit Me at Potager Cottage!

2014-11-10T16:45:00.000-08:00

HEY! I've started a new blog designed to follow my life at Potager Cottage. If I'm not here, I'm probably doodling around over there. Please, come visit! You can click the Potager Cottage link at the top of this page, or just click

HERE

For the Love of All That is Holy; Losing My Religion

2014-09-19T08:53:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before that my birth father left my mother for another woman. He left her the day before I was born. He was angry at her for getting pregnant. He was very narcissistic according to all accounts I've gathered from those who knew him.

Growing up without a father in the home those early years didn't phase me all that much. I mean, I missed my dad and I wanted my parents to be married like other kids' parents were, but my day-to-day life was relatively unhindered. One issue that did plague me, however, was that my parents were divorced. From what I'd picked up (from somewhere in our church-centered circle), divorce was a grievous sin, punishable by eternal damnation. This disturbed my impressionable five-year-old mind deeply. I'd learned that divorce was only permissible if infidelity had occurred, so I found some relief in learning that my father had been unfaithful. At least my mother, who was raising me, wasn't going to burn. Of course, I couldn't shake the guilt I felt over the recognition that I was glad that my mother would be saved, even if at the cost of my father's soul. It wasn't that I wanted him to be eternally damned, it's just that I knew her better. This notion that I chose my mother's salvation over my father's haunted me in my teenage years, following my father's early and torturous death from colon cancer.

I was a "Believer". From my earliest memories, I believed in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. I believed the bible was the infallible word of God. I believed I was born into the one true church. And I wanted to be good. I couldn't wait to go to heaven. I was told that death would be over and in an instant I would open my eyes to the coming of Christ. I would get to go to heaven, where there was no pain or suffering; no fathers leaving pregnant mothers; no hardworking single mothers leaving their children in the care of babysitters for weeks at a time; no suffering from cancer. I have a vivid memory of standing in the kitchen one sunny afternoon, holding a knife I'd pulled from the kitchen drawer, contemplating the pros and cons of killing myself so that I could skip the living part and go directly to Heaven. I wasn't depressed or suicidal at all. I was just a believer. But, standing there, I realized that it might make my mother sad if I died, and I wasn't totally clear on the whole suicide thing - is it suicide if you're just trying to fast-track it to the streets of gold? So I decided to put the knife down and go out back and play. This is a true story.

I wavered in my faith at times, and tripped up quite a lot on following God's word, but I maintained my deep belief into my early years of motherhood. I wasn't just a blind believer either. I studied my bible. I learned of grace and attempted to practice love and forgiveness... acceptance of others. I become open to the possibility that mine wasn't the one true church, but that God was bigger than that and would make all things clear in the end.

On April 2, 2003, my pastor-husband returned home late from a church leadership meeting with news. I sat on the couch of our little Oxnard home as his words blew through me with a paralyzing chill. A betrayal had occurred. A confusing act of dishonesty, for which we would now stand trial.

I cannot overstate the profound devastation that I felt that night, and in the harrowing months that followed. I recognize that sensation now as shock. It's a feeling of surreality, a separation of your mind from your self. Denial, disbelief, panic, pain, bargaining... all the stages of grief hitting at once in an overwhelming wave of loss. Too much for the mind to process.

The church had their own reaction to the betrayal. They were hurt. They were hurt and exceedingly angry. In the wildfire of the news, they frothed with fury. They held meetings discussing the unforgivable sin, and the punishments they felt we deserved. The rumors grew into their own form of evil. We started getting threatening phone calls and letters. People that I had loved... the conclusions they drew, the hate they expressed, the absolute confidence they held in their actions against us. Group think. Burn him at the stake! Who cares what happens to his wife and children! They made callous statements, "I'd feel better if he lost everything," "Maybe if Cherie left him or if he went bankrupt or tried to kill himself, then I'd think he understood the magnitude of his sin." "We are warriors for the Lord, we need to break him at foot of the cross." They sent letters out to all of the churches on the west coast, exposing the allegations against us. They sent letters to all of the churches in Arizona (where we had moved to escape the hate) warning of our evils and telling church leaders that we should not be allowed to attend. I know of these letters because I saw them. At one point we were informed that private investigators had been hired to follow us and hack into our computers.

Nothing felt safe anymore.

A very precious few extended words of comfort to us during those days. I'll never forget those that did. One was the realtor that handled the sale of our home.

We sold our home in order to use equity to pay off debt to the church conference, but the conference leaders played dirty with the escrow and strong-armed the escrow officer into turning over funds that exceeded their due; funds that, by prior established contract, were the rightful property of my parents. Funds that exceeded $50,000.00. To be more clear, the conference leaders knowingly and effectively stole $50,000.00 from my parents while in the same breath publicly condemning us. And, while they had promised to drop the allegations against us if we repaid our debt to them, they withdrew that promise at the last minute.

It was our realtor that saved us. When he discovered the actions of the conference during the escrow process he was so disgusted that he contacted his friend at the LA Times who agreed to write up an expose of the conference leaders' underhandedness. Then our realtor informed the conference president that the expose would be published that Sunday and there would be picketers outside the conference offices Monday morning if he did not return the money to my parents and withdraw all allegations. The next day we received the call. The official statement from conference leadership was that they had decided to show us grace. I know otherwise.

We lost everything. I lost everything. I lost my home, most of my friends, my church, my denomination, my happy marriage, my sense of safety, my faith in people. I was suddenly more alone than I had ever imagined a person could be. I prayed. I cried. I worked my ass off to keep my children fed and housed. I sank in my soul-hollowing despair. I retreated from all relationships. I developed anxiety about answering the phone, checking the mail, or logging into the bank accounts.

In the years following our traumatic exit from the church, I sought answers to my questions about religion, God, the Bible, faith. How could a loving church, built on an act of grace, be so cruel and condemning? So quick to discard us?

Initially, I craved the familiar comfort of church. I found a grace-oriented non-denominational church to attend for a while. It was great. The people were so friendly, the praise music was inspiring, the women's fellowship group was very active, and they even had a cafe! The pastor knew of our history (thanks to a letter he had received) and accepted us anyway. I thought maybe I was safe. But, it was there, the spiritual comparisons and judgements being made. The homeschooling moms looking down on the traditional schoolers. The frequent attendees questioning the spirituality of the sporadic visitors. The awkward alter calls. It was subtle but I could still feel it, the sense that these people were just as likely to be in the crowd at the next heretic burning as those that were at ours.

Then there was the day at a women's breakfast event when the ladies passed around a petition to sign for the preservation of the sanctity of marriage (i.e., the opposition of gay marriage). That little twinge of discomfort I had been feeling rushed to the surface. It was wrong. I knew this action was wrong. It wasn't what a loving God would want. But it was what the God of the Bible required; at least as I understood it. The conflict was so blaring and obvious that it could not be ignored. Not by me. Not anymore. That could not be my religion. If it meant my eternal damnation, then so be it. I could not turn my back on real, raw humans, who needed love, just because an ancient book seemed to tell me to.

I followed my questions. I read. I studied. I read, 'If Grace is True: Why God Will Save Every Person,' by Philip Gulley and James Mulholland, and 'End of Faith, Letter to a Christian Nation,' by Sam Harris. I read parenting books like, 'Kids are Worth It,' by Barbara Coloroso. I researched homosexuality. I researched the origins of the Bible, how it came together at the hands of both religious and political powers-that-be, motivated by agendas of manipulating the masses. I considered the findings of modern science and its inability to support biblical accounts. The more I read, the more I let go of the belief. The more I learned, the more I understood how little I knew; that there was no religion, no human, that had the whole truth. No perfect book. I let go of my understanding of God and faith. I concluded that if a truly loving God did exist, he would not punish and condemn; rather, he would love and restore. I decided that, as a human, I was gifted with life, and with that gift I was given the ability to choose how I wanted to live among the rest of humanity. I concluded that, if my actions or beliefs failed to reflect love, they should be questioned. I realized that the only way to grow and learn was to be open to new information and willing to adjust my beliefs accordingly.

And I concluded that the only thing I truly believed in was love. True, blazingly honest, empathetic, selfless, restorative LOVE.

Milton, Myrthful, and Potager Cottage

2014-08-17T14:16:00.000-07:00

My grandpa, Milton, was a watermelon farmer.

He grew other melons too, but watermelons were his big crop. I remember loading up his truck to drive the melons into town to sell, just like they're doing in the photo below.

Grandpa Milton, Grandma Myrthful, and helper.

When we were young, my brother and I would spend summers with my grandparents on their Arizona farm, and later, on their Idaho farm (pictured to the left). My grandparents (the Mundalls) were extremely conservative, hard-working folks. No TV; not a lot of toys; no shopping days or restaurants; no parties; no air conditioning; just farm.

On Saturdays they took us to a tiny church that smelled like old hymnals and dentures. And, during the week, if we worked enough rows of melons, grandpa would take us into the Weiser town pool to go swimming.

I remember missing my mom immensely during these long summer visits. But, I also remember all the smells sounds and feels of the farm. It was always hot, even at night. We left the windows open, turned on the loud square fans and stood in the cold shower with our pjs on just before bed in hopes that the wet clothes would keep us cool enough to fall asleep before they dried. Mornings came early and were cool enough to be comfortable for a millisecond.

The house smelled like comfort, like fresh-baked wheat sticks. I don't ever remember going to a grocery store. Grandma, Myrthful, made everything we ate from scratch, mostly from ingredients grown in her gardens. She had a large deep freezer in the garage, the kind you had to use an ice-pick to dig the food out of, where she froze fruits and veggies for the winter; and a large canning pantry filled with jars of peaches, applesauce, apricots, green beans, and any other garden treasure you might imagine. She grew everything. And I had the privilege (not that I appreciated it) of working right along side her from dawn to dusk.

Myrthful in her garden. Notice the stick-made bean poles.

We took scraps to the hens and cleared the boxes of the fresh eggs. We milked the cows and carried the buckets to the mud room, where they sat to be skimmed (seems like there was always a bucket or two of milk in there). We climbed the ladders to collect fruit from her many fruit trees. She would send me into the towering tomato plants with a metal-handled bucket and a mission to pluck off every last pudgy green tomato worm. We sat on the porch and snapped beans, shucked peas, and husked corn (which I liked to make dolls out of). In the kitchen I had a stool in front of the sink where I would wash and halve apricots, carefully removing the worms form the center. I set the table, cleared the table, washed the dishes, and collapsed into a cozy chair when the day came to a close.

I don't ever remember hearing a radio, just the crickets, toads, mosquitos, train whistles, chicken clucks, cow moans, tires rolling on rugged dirt paths, and the whispery whistles my grandma would compose while sewing or crocheting in the evening.

Grandpa was a smallish man, I think about 5 foot 7 inches tall, but he was huge in my eyes. He always donned a woven cowboy hat the smelled of straw, sweat, and shampooed hair. When he came in for the night he scrubbed his hands with irish spring (or a soap that smelt of that). He laughed in bellows and told "true" stories of his many adventures with bears and lions and caves, that only seemed possible in the world of fiction. He worked his fields with fierce determination. If I was lucky, I got to ride in his tractor, or beside him in his farm trucks (known to be missing doors) over the dirt roads when he took his melons into town. He called milk "cow juice" and soy sauce "bug juice". And he was my favorite. I would begrudge my brother who got to run off to do chores with grandpa while grandma made me stay in and learn to sew.

We got to play sometimes too. My brother and I would sit at the irrigation ditch and use the mud to make bricks for houses. We would spend hours there. To this day I love the smell of the irrigation ditches when I drive on old farm roads. I roll the windows down and inhale the cool air and childhood memories. We would climb the hay bales in the barn and jump from great heights to piles of hay below. We would put milk bowls out for the random farm kitties that were always skittering about. We would catch grasshoppers and toads. And, we always enjoyed spinning around in the tire swing hanging from the tree out front.

Those years were a gift. They rooted a love within me for playing in the dirt and living a simple, organic, sustainable life. I feel my heritage when I'm digging in our cottage garden now. I sense their love for the farm and nature, a love that they passed on to their five daughters and beyond. This little corner house surrounded in untamed dirt and weeds feeds that love in me.

It has been 4 months since we moved into this cottage in Benicia. These have not been easy months. Our home has demanded patience, creative organization, and hard labor from us, nearly breaking us. I have always named my homes, a practice I picked up from a short time at school in England. I love how English homes are named. Home is so personal to me that a name seems more appropriate than a sterile number. We have debated names for this home since before we moved in, but have struggled to settle on anything. We decided to just sit with it. Live in the house and wait for her name to present itself. At last, it has! As I was wandering through the land of Pinterest the other day I came across the name for a vegetable garden that sits just outside your door; it's called a potager. Perfect! We have vegetable gardens just outside our front and back doors. So we have dubbed our sweet little home 'Potager Cottage'. She's not a farm but she has revived my sweet memories from those summer days and the two beautiful souls who instilled this home-grown love in me.

Potager Cottage

Crossing the Bridge

2014-05-22T12:40:00.000-07:00

Roughly six weeks ago our family moved from a lovely 2000 square foot home in the trees of Castro Valley, California, to a tiny 1940's cottage in the small water-side town of Benicia, California. It was a daring move. While both towns are technically within the "Bay Area", or greater San Francisco metropolis, Benicia requires the crossing of a toll-bridge, which, to many Bay Areans, means it doesn't exist. This explains how I managed to overlook this quaint town for the first 6 years of my Bay Area residence.

It's not the bridge-crossing alone that makes this move a daring one, however. The house we signed up for is a cottage that was built in the 1940's; giving it ample time for a speckled history of being loved and nurtured, as well as abused and neglected, as evidenced by uniquely executed additions, mismatched fencing, questionable plumbing and wiring, a variety of flooring types, and a well-earned, 70-year-old-house scent.

In general, I welcome this type of "character" in a home. I prefer it to the modern comforts found in many tract homes, actually. But, it can be a challenge to take on as a renter. Particularly if the contractor in charge of renovating the well-aged home fails to complete the renovations prior to the move-in date. When we arrived on moving day, with two truck-loads of way too much stuff, our new little cottage was missing a few necessities (any appliances, useable closets, finished floors, functioning gas, electricity, plumbing, sinks and showers).

Why?

Well, for the first month of living with strange hammer-weilding men traipsing through our personal space, drilling holes in our walls, holding cock-fights on our roof (or so we suspect), and shoveling shit (yes literally) in our backyard, we weren't sure we had a good answer to that question. But, there was an answer. We came here on purpose. We were following our soul-fire. That unquenchable inner light that haunts you with visions of the life you're meant to be living. I have always felt it - since I was a child drawing pictures of my dream home.

We saw the potential for that life in this old home, in this small town. And, while the initial weeks were flooded with the dread that maybe we had made a horrible mistake, Benicia gently whispered to us that we were home. She whispered in the distant lullaby of the train whistle and passing boat horns. She presented us with gifts of sea glass and beach wood. And she embraced us with the warm smiles and genuine "hello's" of her community.

Slowly, this cottage is accepting our many treasures (and helping us to identify the less keep-worthy items). Goodwill and Craigslist have been well supplied by our loosening grip of 'stuff'. It feels good to trim back again. I have always felt at home in a cottage. It makes sense in my entropic mind to live in a smaller space with less to manage.

Not everything is smaller though. We have a lot of dirt to play with here, and I'm giddy about it. This weekend, Klee and I tore down the old picket fence surrounding our large front yard. We have been carefully pulling out old rusted screws and sifting out the rotted lumbar (not a small task) in order to reclaim the old wood to build a new fence. We are building a "hog-fence" (also called a welded wire, or no-climbe fence). We have already re-set all of the posts in cement and are almost ready to start assembling. I can't wait! Once we have it up we can start our garden. We are planning to plant a large vegetable garden in our front yard and another in our backyard.

This is it! The beginning of the answer. A small piece of the WHY that moved us here. We are living in a 1940's cottage (at substantially less rent than before) surrounded by the promise of vegetables and flowers (and chickens?), on a quiet street with friendly, and perfectly quirky neighbors. We are just a short bike-ride away from the beach and a fabulous downtown community that embraces art and music. This is the vision. We are here and my heart feels at home.

Finding My Words

2014-02-05T14:05:00.001-08:00

Last night I sat in a room, surrounded by other damaged people; a support group of sorts. The moderator posed a question for us to consider. Where is your healing place? While my comrades seemed to ponder their answers with a twinge of uncertainty, I knew my answer without hesitation. Writing. Writing is where I bleed and where I heal. I have other healing places, such as the beach, rain, trees, creative projects and solitude, but writing is where my real medicine is.

I think this may be the reason for my long bouts of literary silence. Sometimes I can’t find words. Other times, I don’t want to. I don’t want to spill my soul out. It’s a mess that I rarely feel I have the time or the fortitude to deal with. Reliving my thoughts, penning (or typing) them down, means I have to think them. I have to give them life.

It’s foolish for me to think they don’t have a life already, regardless of my acknowledgement. Those wounds exist with or without my permission. But, what if I can’t contain the emotional deluge that inevitably accompanies their exposure? If I start; if I unlock those gates, I might just fall to pieces. Truly. So, I leave the space. The void. The blinking cursor on the empty screen.

Time passes, and the blankness remains, and I function. I do the stuff of life. Kids to school. Dinner. Bath-time, diapers, dogs, toilets, mail. I write my nutrition papers – the ones that pay the bills. I watch my shows, and laugh, and cry. But, when you’re a writer, you’re always writing. It’s there in your head. ALWAYS. Words float around and bump about, occasionally forming clarity, but usually they tease. It’s an internal conversation that persists regardless of the stuff.

A good portion of the time, writers are introverts. We live in our heads. We relish our solitude, despite a very clear need for social interaction, support, and friendship. We prefer to present ourselves from a distance; from behind our pens. Those who know me well, know that I struggle with social interaction, even talking on the phone. I’d much rather text, email, or write snail-mail. It’s a quirk, and I’m aware that it alienates me more than I want it to. It’s a social anxiety, I’m sure. It just is.

So, when a writer doesn’t write, the words can become overwhelming. And that’s when the fear of writing them down becomes real. And their release, necessary. Like letting the steam out of a pressure cooker. In her song, 'Breathe', Anna Nalick has a line that describes this experience well:

“2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song

If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer

Inside of me threatening the life it belongs to”

It is a torturous and honest… and beautiful necessity. It is medicine. When I let them out, my words, my closest companions; the pain seeps out with them. I am suddenly aware of my heart pulsing; my cheeks are wet with tears; my soul exposed. It is the truth inside of me, and it is rarely pretty; but it is my truth. And as the pain filters out, the space that remains begins to expand. And, in that space, I heal.

Trust the Process

2013-05-14T01:12:00.000-07:00

Our plane touched down in San Jose last night. It is my practice to only fly if heavily inebriated, so my recollection is a tad foggy, but I'm pretty sure I sacrificed a fatted calf, did 500 Hail Mary's, and vowed a life of chastity to the divine powers that be. We had landed. We were still alive. Somehow, the near-death experience of flying in the belly of a large clumsy metal beast (which, I have under good authority, is the work of VOODOO), made the whole foreboding 'end of vacation' thing a little less tragic.

It always happens. Vacations end. I'm aware of it from the very start. It looms over me, getting heavier as the days, hours... moments, of vacation slip away. I dread it. Inevitably it takes three quarters of the vacation to adjust to the new agenda of having fun. Then, just as I've found my groove, it's done. Time to go home. Back to the stuff; the busy, stressful, messy stuff that made the vacation necessary in the first place. I start making deals with father time, "if you just give me one more week, I'll be ready to go.... I promise."

After years of being me, and working with myself, I've learned that I have a process. And, when working on a design project, or writing a paper, I've learned to trust that process. I'm confident that if I just see it through, the end result will be inspiring.

As a designer, it can be very frustrating to have a delay half way through a project installation because it leaves the client hanging with only a piece of the final result. This can make them anxious and cause them to second guess the decisions made. And, when I'm up there on the ledge with them, I frequently find myself saying, "trust the process; allow the details to fill in before you panic; if you don't love it, we'll fix it." They always love it.

I have the same pep talks with myself when I'm writing. Staring at the mess of words on the screen (or worse, no words at all), doubt and creative paralysis set in. I close my eyes, breath deep and slow, calm the anxiety, and remind myself to trust the process.

Slowly... very... s.l.o.w.l.y... I am learning to trust this same process as I wait impatiently for the details of my life to fill in. For instance, when I move to a new home, I can expect it to take me about a year to start feeling settled. No matter how fabulous the move is, I will get depressed and feel homesick during the packing/unpacking phase. I will feel the OCD bugs crawling all over me in the initial weeks in my new house. But, as pictures get hung, I begin to connect with my surroundings. I've moved many times. It happens every time. It is my process. And knowing this about myself allows me to be patient with the pain of transition. I'm able to trust that I will find peace on the other side.

We stumbled through the door with a disoriented toddler dangling from my arms and mountains of luggage hanging haphazardly from Klee. It was late. The house felt... cold. On autopilot, we drug the bags up the stairs, changed the baby and got him to bed, rummaged for our toothbrushes, and collapsed into bed. Our bed, with the worn-in body-shaped trenches and the bleach-spotted pillow cases... and the soft billowy down comforter that keeps us warm in the cold Northern California nights. It felt good. We were home.

Home. In Hawaii, people would ask us where we were from. We'd answer, "the Bay area, San Francisco," and I would feel a twinge of pride. I woke up this morning, loaded up the coffee machine (the coffee machine that doesn't know when to stop dripping, so it spills all over the counter when you go to pour a cup of coffee, even though it pretended to be done brewing), and walked out back to check on the garden. The tomatoes are starting to produce. The loquats are turning yellow. I pulled a few new weeds and picked three red strawberries. My heart felt full. Happy. Home.

It's just my process.

She's How Old??

2013-02-28T12:48:00.000-08:00

My 40th birthday is dangerously close. Despite my attempts at evasion, it appears that I will indeed be 40 years old one week from today. So far, I'm only reluctantly OK with this. I've resigned to the reality that bad things happen to good people.

But I don't want this to be a bad thing. I want to embrace this milestone. I want to be 40 and Fabulous!

It isn't really that I'm sad to say goodbye to my thirties. I remember how excited I was to turn 30. It was going to be my best decade ever! Life was good. I was on the right track. I was a mother to three gorgeous children and the wife to a very talented pastor. But my thirties began to bitch-slap me no more than a month after my 30th birthday, and (with a few years of happy reprieve) continued the beat-down for the better portion of that decade. So, in many ways, I am happy to turn this page.

The fact that my father died at the age of 43 looms over me a lot. It makes the forties a scary decade for my superstitious mind. I am not superstitious by choice; it just nags at me on a subconscious level, causing regular conversations between my rational self and my other self. Don't look at me like that... I know you do it too.

After some persistent contemplation, I've concluded that, outside of the obvious link between aging and death, my angst about getting older is due to my inability to reconcile where I thought I would be in my life by this age, and where I actually am. At 20, I dreamed of marrying the love of my life and raising babies together in the home we would buy to grow old in. Clearly, I have made valiant attempts at realizing this dream. What is it they say? "Try, try again?" "Never, Ever give up?" Yet, three husbands, four babies, and too many homes later, it seems my progress has taken the two steps forward, four steps back approach. I somehow feel like I'm still just trying to get started; only, not with a virginesque blank slate, clean credit, or youth. Where I am isn't bad, it is just vastly different from the picture of success that I spent years training my brain to believe in. And, my current reality is quite different from what society has taught me it should be by now.

** Ok. Stop right there. I know you already have half your speech prepared on why I shouldn't care what society says; why I need to be true to myself; how life is a journey of experiences and learning... Of course, I know all of this is true. Again, what I know to be true and what my other self interjects are frequently at odds with each other.**

This is why I write; to spill out the clutter of thoughts that paralyze me from forward motion. And, as I'm writing this, bits of happiness and hope are seeping in. I'm realizing that, with the surreal losses of my thirties, I have gained priceless perspectives about life and humanity, and have found beautiful pieces of myself. And, I know this is not unique to me. Many of you are reading my words and nodding your heads in understanding. This is the gift age brings. Wealth provided by experiences of both joy and pain.

So, I guess I'm not starting again empty-handed. Of course I'm not! I have four spectacular human beings that call me mother, a rugged and poetic man that calls me wife, and the wisdom that these first 40 years have afforded me. (Just, maybe, can we slow down a little bit on the wisdom-imparted-through-pain part??)

I have sort of been looking at this birthday as an opportunity for resolutions. So, phrases such as, "five year plan," and "bucket list," have been uttered. My imagination has been swimming with visions of physical fitness, moving closer to the ocean, sustainable gardening, owning a home again, developing community, growing our shop, medical insurance...

But, first things first... I'm turning 40... LET'S PARTY!

I Hit the Motherlode!

2012-12-09T10:59:00.000-08:00

Elli and I set out for an Ikea outing yesterday when we happened upon a local estate sale. I have almost no ability to resist garage/yard/estate sale signs, so we detoured. Fortunately, my Mr. shares in my sickness, so the only reprimand I receive from these detours is for going without him.

Anyway, I found FABULOUS! I can not wait to post these treasures in our shop! Hats! Scarves! Bohemian Beads! Polka dots! Ruby depression glass! Linen!

I'm beyond giddy.

The Shop!

2012-10-03T17:05:00.001-07:00

We did it! We've finally launched Entropy: The Shop. And just in time for the holidays! We even shipped our first order this week!

We're small right now, but are growing daily. Please stop by and check out the goods...

We're selling some of our fabulous vintage finds:

My funky bohemian designs:

And Klee's delectibles!

And, if you ever see something you want from one of my blog posts, please message me, I'll do my best to accommodate!

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Brotherly Love and All That

2012-09-11T09:45:00.001-07:00

For those who may be unaware, we are experiencing an economic crisis. Good people have lost their jobs, their homes, their marriages, their health. Many educated, honorable, hard-working Americans are unable to find work. Not unwilling. Unable. And, contrary to popular belief, a job at McDonald's doesn't cover the mortgage, or insurance, or student loans, the electric bill, the car payment, childcare.. Let's be honest, even well-paid, two income households have trouble making ends meet.

What's that? You didn't lose everything? You still have your job? Home? Family? Health? You worked hard, tightened your belt. Good for you. What was your industry? By any chance, was it real estate, retail, financial services, construction, or design? Maybe. Did you buy your home before, or during, the real estate boom? I wonder if your mortgage payment doubled as your income dwindled and home value plummeted. Probably not. That only happened to the lazy, uneducated, mooching opportunists. Right?

And, hopefully, no one encountered major illness in the past five years. Good thing you had insurance, right? And I'm sure it covered all the lost work and medical bills. Phew! Good thing you didn't have any pre-existing conditions, or obnoxious deductibles, or unforeseen small print excluding your illness from coverage, right? Good thing.

It's election time again. Time to choose a political team and vote for our nation's leaders. Anyone else disenchanted? Am I just unAmerican to be in complete disgust? To feel the futility in it all? I want to believe that my vote counts, and that the leaders are honest. Please. I want to vote on laws designed to edify humanity and preserve our earth, rather than to fund corporate greed. I'd love to believe that people will set aside religious or party biases to honestly, and empethetically, consider their choices.

What would happen if we voted solely for the betterment of our fellow humans? Imagine people opening their minds to compassionately see through the eyes of others. Imagine, a country where people pursue equal opportunities for all; a world where we do unto others as we would have done to us, and we love our neighbors as ourselves. I wonder what politics would look like in a world like that...

Imagine

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Necessity, the Mother of... Sanity

2012-09-05T10:12:00.001-07:00

After months of negotiating with a toddler over all pantry items below the four foot mark, I decided to accept the reality that the pantry is no longer my jurisdiction

So, we are trying something new...

Welcome to Elliott's bistro!

The chef is in.

And the customers are lining up.

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Channeling Eden

2012-08-29T14:07:00.000-07:00

I'm currently sitting in my garden whilst my youngest freely runs about innocently terrorizing the dogs and prematurely plucking our tomatoes, or "bapples", in toddler-speak.

He calls them bapples because any round fruit even slightly resembling an apple is, of course, a bapple.

My interventions have minimal and temporary success. With each tiny green bapple presented by my toddler's fingers, I restart the four stages of grief. I go through them relatively quickly now, as I've accepted a certain degree of defeat.

And, I'm simultaneously forced to self refect as I listen to my little imitator sternly scold the pups, "No No, doggie!" for nothing in particular.

Regardless of the on-going grief and introspection, this is my favorite place to be when I'm at Shadow Creek. This tiny Eden was why we chose to live here (well, that and the fact that the landlords were willing to rent to us, a whole other blog).

When we saw the lush landscape of trees perched behind our house-to-be, concealing the modern world, we knew we were home.

So, as I said, this lttle garden is now my favorite perch, but it didn't start out that way.

When we first moved in, our small yard was a huge, oddly shaped, thorny mess.

We referred to it as our East meets West jungle of, "holy Moses, what is that?!?"

We knew that, if we put some love into it, we could find the beauty hiding back there.

It only took a few garden tools (rake, shovel, rototiller, hacksaw, machete...),

a little tenacity (muscle, patience, bravery, rage, night-terrors...),

and some ingenuity (bribing the garbage men, child labor...),

and before much time at all

(except for the years stolen off our lives),

we had the beginnings of our sweet Eden...

While her progress is slow (thanks to that gopher from the underworld and his minions, the snails),

she is starting to give back some of the love.

And we are so grateful!

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MoonStruck

2012-08-16T15:29:00.001-07:00

I think the feeling that surprised us the most was the sense of calm which followed our vows. As you might remember, I have debated the necessity of marriage quite a bit in the past. And still, I do not believe everyone needs a ceremony of public commitment to feel bound by love. But I cannot deny the transformation of thought that took place for me, personally, when we said, "I do". It was as if we took each other's hand and stepped in, out of the storm.

For this reason alone; to experience this belonging; to publicly choose and be chosen; I question how anyone could deny another the basic civil right of marriage.

Our wedding was perfect for us. Very intimate, just family.

We knew we wanted to dress up in honor of such a significant event, but neither of us could really buy into the whole church/tux/white dress thing. I mean white? Really? Four (4!) kids. We just wanted honest. He picked his snazzy gray suite and I chose an orange dress (and a significant amount of flair).

I added some puff and bling to my shoes and created a birdcage veil out of a black vintage pillbox hat. I bought the hat at a thrift store in Santa Cruz when I was 17. My mother made my teal bolero and the glass and pearl necklace belonged to my grandmother, Thelma Hughes...

And, of course, it had to be by the ocean...

We chose to say our vows, with our loved ones gathered around us, on a scenic platform overlooking Moonstone beach.

We even had our mothers officiate the ceremony

Our precious mothers

Everyone collected small jars of rocks from moonstone beach prior to the wedding. During our ceremony, each person poured a portion of their rocks into our jar while sharing their thoughts on love.

Now we have a jar of colorful moonstone beach pebbles found on the day we got married.

We celebrated with a fabulous dinner at Robin's restaurant in Cambria.

It was colorful and beautiful and surrounded by a garden. Klee's mom, Julie, created all our flower arrangements for the tables.

My kids looked so great!

Elliott loved all the flowers

Klee picked out our pretty teal cake...

...complete with an orange sugared dahlia topper.

It was a wonderful day.

One which I love to replay in my memory... over and over.

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Creating the World Around Us

2012-08-02T11:14:00.001-07:00

Hello my friends and fans! How I've missed you. Somewhere along my blogging way life buried my creative time and energy. And then my laptop developed a personality disorder. I make my living by writing papers, so all of my computer's happy moments have been dedicated to limping through those assignments. So, let's hope my handy iPad can save the day. I found this blogsy app. It's a little confusing for a tech novice like myself, but maybe I can figure it out with some trial and error.

So first off, I should tell you, I got married! I'll blog a wedding post for you later, but here's one happy pic...

Klee and I are both creative creatures. As we evolve together, so does our vision for the life we want to share. It's a slow process but we're always adding details to that dream. We both thrive when we're swimming in projects or absorbing inspiration. For example, our weekends frequently involve a trip to one of the many local farmer's markets in search ingredients to use in Klee's jams, relishes, and vinegars. We've even designated a canning station for him. He has four concoctions brewing there now...

Much of our honeymoon was spent either beach combing for pretty shells and stones, or hunting for treasures in the antique stores. Fortunately, we made it home in time for the annual neighborhood garage sale. Never underestimate the joy bought by the aquisition of a $5.00 World War II army lockbox, $3.00 amber globe lamp, or a free box of canning jars!

Check out some of our other recent scores...

Awesome green trunk and vintage crate

The crate reads, "Cambria", which is special since that's where we got married.

The chair was free and we found the footstool at an antique store in old Capitola.

$25.00 cedar chest!

Pretty painting and frame

And, ok, this lamp may not be for everyone, but it caught my eye. If I want to, I can dismantle it and use the globes for another creation. I'm gonna sit with it for a while.

And, like many others, we love our garden, although that has been more of a learning process than a productive one this summer. More on that later, but here's a glimpse as I sign off...

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Here's Something Pretty to Look at While I Figure This iPad Blogging App

2012-08-01T17:22:00.001-07:00

Flowers from our sweet garden!

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What To Do With Old Branches and Tin Cans?

2011-10-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

Make a towel hook/vase for the half bath!

A bulky towel rod in a bathroom that has neither a tub nor a shower just makes no sense at all.

Peace out!

Painter's Tape and A Little Bit of Psychosis

2011-10-15T08:36:00.000-07:00

I promise there is a deep and provocative blog entry brewing within me, and I will write it soon, but not today. I simply don't have the mental organization to pull it off.

So, I'll share another of my recent OCD projects...
The staircase!

Our staircase was beaten up and painted white (at some point long, long ago). Now, I like white railing very much in the right setting, but these stairs are in a vaulted stark-white entryway, leaving the railing virtually invisible.

After a lot of playing with colors, I changed all that.

In general, when I paint I like to free-hand all of my trim. I learned years ago that using painter's tape just takes a lot of extra time and the edge never looks as clean. However, when I'm painting in tough corners, or in patterns which require meticulous lines (like stripes on a wall), I reluctantly pull out the blue rolls of sin. It's a love/hate thing. It seems no matter how careful I am, when I go to pull the tape off, I find drips and bleeds.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is an OCD nightmare. Especially if I've mixed my own colors, as I did here, and have limited quantity of paint for touch-ups. I hover over these lines for hours with my magnifying glass and that familiar lump of anxiety in my chest. But, eventually, I remember that sometimes you just have to step away from the project ~~and take your little blue pills~~.

In the end, I make my peace with the madness,
and it all works out...

And, just in time for fall!

I Own Very Few Articles of Clothing That Don't Have Paint Spatter Somewhere

2011-09-19T17:34:00.000-07:00

Paint is always close at hand in my world. The other day Klee asked if I wanted to toss out the hideous pink curtains that came with the house. I had been using them as drop cloths for painting the cabinets. He figured, since the cabinets were done, I was done painting, so the curtains could go.

Oh, Klee. The painting is never done...

Klee's old nightstand (which spent a year outside)

I found the paint at the rejected paint
stand at Lowes ($2.00!)
The knobs were on sale at Anthropologie

Gripe Water

2011-09-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

One of the little vials in Elliott's medicine cabinet is called 'Gripe Water', intended to sooth his fussiness. Though, it has never proven to be much more than a placebo, I like the name. I sure could use some gripe water right now.

I've mentioned my battle with Lyme disease before. A couple of years ago, I spent about six months in aggressive antibiotic treatment under the direction of two physicians in Chico, Ca. I had been plagued by mysterious symptoms for almost 20 years, with little relief. But, with the treatments in Chico, I made dramatic improvements. It felt like I was being given my life back. At the time, my doctors said I would probably need consistent treatment for at least a year, and they recommended IV antibiotics as well as hyperbaric chamber treatment. However, my marriage ended, which dramatically affected my financial status, so my treatment ended as well. The cessation of treatment was actually a blessing, as it would have been very bad for baby Elliott if I had been on those meds during my pregnancy.

Even though I wasn't able to complete the therapy, I felt so much better for a very long time. But, it's all coming back. I was warned that Lyme is a very stealth and sneaky adversary. I knew it would resurface. It's just that I've had time to forget what it felt like. So far, the symptoms I'm recognizing include:

Foot and hand pain. Especially when I wake in the morning, the pain in my feet is similar to the feeling you get after walking all over Disney Land for days with bad shoes. The bones feel bruised and feet feel swollen, even though there is no visible swelling. The hand pain is more like arthritis. They ache and hurt when I try to open things or grip anything tightly.
Restless Legs Syndrome. Unbelievably irritating!
Back pain. My spine is very stiff. Notable pain in my ribs, shoulders, and lower back. I know some of this is Elliott-related. I would attribute it all to him if I hadn't felt it all before.
Hip pain. This is unique. My hips ache and occasionally seem to give out. I do think some is of this is a result of pinched nerves related to Elliott though.
Fatigue. This is one of the worst symptoms. I dread it.
Brain Fog. I was so happy when the brain fog lifted during my six months of treatment. I want that back. I feel myself sinking into the fog and, again, I dread it.
Black outs. More specifically, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia and Hypotension. Sucks.
Anxiety. This is already an issue for me, made worse when I'm sick.
Night sweats.

I have no insurance, but it wouldn't really matter since Lyme is a highly debated diagnosis in the insurance and big medicine world. Doctors that are aware of the depth of this illness are rare, and those that have the knowledge and willingness to treat it are even more scarce. But they're out there. I don't intend to give in to this bug.

I'm just so very pissed at this reality! I hate it! I tend to push through as much as I can. I still create (I find it therapeutic), mother, play; but it's all a lot harder. I hesitate a little more at planning outings... Will it hurt? Will I get too tired? Will I be irritable and bitchy? Unh.

SOAP BOX:
I would like to note that I know of several others that attended Monterey Bay Academy, that have been tested and diagnosed with Lyme disease. It was rampant in Santa Cruz county in 1989/90, and is still endemic in that area. You do NOT have to see the tick, feel a bite, or see a bull's eye rash to have the disease. Less that 40% do. If left untreated it becomes chronic and neurological. It is rarely alone, Lyme disease usually brings a host of co-infections with it, which also must be addressed in treatment. Bartonella is a common one. IF YOU LIVED AT OR NEAR MBA/SANTA CRUZ COUNTY and have suffered a mystery illness, please consider Lyme, and get tested by a Lyme literate doctor. Palo Alto is a good place to start.

Ok, so that's my gripe. Peace out.

The Office (Devil Birds Included)

2011-09-03T20:57:00.000-07:00

View from my bed

Before I get started, I have to comment on the duck. I'm sitting here, on my bed, and I hear a quack from the creek below. How completely cool is that!? (I never know what punctuation to use when I'm both questioning and excited. There needs to be a third option.) And the duck is not alone! I have been spied on by both deer and wild turkey. And, somewhere in those trees is a horrid screeching devil bird and some form of bear-dog.

I also believe it is skunk season, as I have passed far too many aromatic road-kills these past few weeks. I always liked the scent of a distant skunk. Kinda feels like home (weird?). But, up close, it loses that homey charm.

I really want to share my latest project with you. Please excuse my tangent-riddled brain. She's tired. Also, the lyme symptoms are back and doing a number on her clarity.

Well, we've been working on our backyard this month. I can't even describe how calming it is to finally have life out there. (I will show you before and after pics in a future blog.) One of the major improvements, of course, is the grass! It arrived on our driveway in one big square pile of dirt burritos. I wanted to surprise Klee when he came home from work, so I managed to muster my superhuman strength, which seems to kick in when I'm in project mode, and lugged each of those muddy rolls to the backyard.

I was delighted to find a large wooden pallet at the bottom of the heap. I couldn't wait to play. As the ideas developed, I knew that one pallet would not suffice. So, Klee and I set out to scavenge for more. They're everywhere! But they aren't all for the taking. Some businesses reuse their pallets, so we had to make sure ~~via lookout man and getaway van~~ that they were free to take. We collected all different sizes and color shades. Treasure hunting is kind of our thing.

So that's a whole lot of typing to tell you that I made some cool stuff out of wood pallets... and other materials like a big cardboard piece, tin cans, rebar twisties, etc..

Since Klee and I are both creative types, we decided to designate a wall in our bedroom to be our "ideas" wall. We weren't sure just how we would go about this until our magic pallet appeared.

The great thing about pallets is that they are pretty much pre-assembled (take that Ikea!). However, you will most likely want to embellish yours. In this case, I cleaned and lightly sanded some of the really rough spots. Then I applied just one coat of paint, as I wanted the character of the wood to show through. I backed it with a large piece of cardboard, covered in fabric, which I had laying around (I have crap like that stashed all over the place). The purpose of the fabric and cardboard was to serve as a pinboard, possibly sparing the wall from unsightly pricks. This turned out to be mute, however, as I then proceeded to use eight screws to install the piece. Mama likes her power tools.

Once the pallet was mounted, I played...

My tin can project (in process)

Card Klee gave me, telling me I was
courageous; and some shells
from our beach trips

Sentimental frame, postcard, jars of rocks, and vintage
hat which I bought at a thrift store in Santa Cruz
when I was about 17 years old

And, what idea wall is complete without a desk?

I plan to add glass to the top. It turns out,
a desk with large gaps, has some drawbacks

And, cool antique kitchen cart, which Klee and I found on an unrelated treasure hunt a while back.

The wall has two square windows which I've only slightly covered. I will most likely add to them eventually.

I used wire, curtain rings and
fabric-like paper

It's still a work in progress, but, I guess that's the whole point of an "idea" wall, right? It will change with each new piece of inspiration, or project.

Two Years of Entropy, Let's Celebrate!

2011-08-29T22:26:00.000-07:00

In honor of the two year anniversary of My Groovy Entropy, I give you cupcakes...

Kahlua chocolate with chocolate raspberry ganache

Yellow cake with lemon zest, topped with lemon curd and
cream cheese frosting

Edible flowers from mom's garden:
nasturtium, pansies, roses

Chocolate covered espresso beans and
cookies to top it off

Two full years of entropy; still looking for my groove. Stay tuned...

Two Roads Diverged In A Yellow Wood...

2011-08-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

Next weekend, my husband of 11 years is getting remarried. I learned of this two weeks ago in a conversation regarding the kid's schedules. It went something like, "the boys don't have camp next week; will Kinsey be around on Thursday? Oh, B and I are getting married next month; do you know where Bailey's phone charger is?".

Three weeks is not a lot of time to process it all, but I think I'm doing... OK. It's very surreal. From what I can tell, she's a nice person. The kids love her. I want him to be happy (except when I don't). I hope they won't have to fight the same dragon that burned down our fairy tale.

Of course I've been playing all the memories over; usually when everyone else is sleeping. We had a lot of good. In fact, outside of that one beast, we were pretty great. I held on to that greatness whenever it got dark. I kept thinking if I just hung in there, kept fighting... loving...

I held on until I couldn't anymore. I lost my grip. I lost myself. Lost hope.

So here I am, completely disillusioned about love and the institution of marriage. Wondering why I've been so unsuccessful in it. Sometimes it feels I've got my nose pushed up against the glass of the 'Love and Marriage' shop with my pet, Bitterness, sitting at my feet.

If I hear another well-meaning, "You, know, marriage takes work...", I'll... well, I don't know what I'll do. I know what I'd like to do, but I'll probably just nod and say, "yes, it does."

I think, however, that sometimes, deciding to let it go is the brave thing to do. I assure you, it is not the easy way out. It is not immediately rewarded with acceptance and understanding from others. It required me to trust myself. That inner voice that I hid from for such a long time. The one that blurred away when he shined. I had to listen to her, and do still.

So, as he takes that proverbial stroll down the aisle, away from me, I'm forced to ask myself, "Do I feel at peace, as he goes? Do I accept this road I chose?" I have to say...

I do.

Repurposing With Flower Power

2011-08-22T08:29:00.000-07:00

One of the casualties of our recent move was a loft bed which I had been using in the kids' room. When we attempted to reassemble it in the new house, we quickly realized that it was too bent up to go back together properly. So, the skeleton of said bed has been perched outside, by the garbage cans, theoretically waiting for one of us to make a trip to the recycling center.

It's hard for me to explain how my projects come to me. Inspiration usually hits me when I'm attempting to do something completely unrelated. I might see something, that makes me think of that other thing, that reminds me of something in the back of my garage that would be great for... it's like that. So, it was something like that, that lead me to my most recent headboard project, using, of course, the abandoned loft bed frame.

It started when I realized that the mattress supports for the loft bed were the exact length of a king headboard. I liked the lines of the metal supports but didn't like the cheap Ikea metal finish, so I decided to paint.

Paint falls into one of my hoarding categories. I like to have paint on hand, since nothing changes a look faster than a coat of paint! Paint can get expensive, so I've made a habit of checking the rejected paints at Lowe's, Home Depot, Ace hardware, etc.. There's always a table of paint cans that were denied, generally because the color or finish wasn't what the buyers wanted. These cans are usually $1 to $5, as opposed to $30. Not bad.

In this case, I had a blue color that I liked, but it wasn't exactly what I wanted, so I pulled out my stash and started mixing. I came up with a perfect gun-metal grey.

Some of you may recall the headboard project in which I layered old fabric samples. When we moved, I collected and stored those samples, uncertain of how I was going to use them in the new house. It occurred to me that the cold look of the frame might benefit from some fabric softening, so I started to play.

My idea was to make fabric flowers. Then I remembered that I have a tin filled with old buttons from my mother's and grandmother's sewing days. I was so excited to infuse some history into this project. I also decided to use some of the yarn (which I got from freecycle a while back) for accents.

Once I started applying the flowers to the frame (I sewed them on), I realized I was going to need to make a bundle of them in order to get the effect I was looking for. I was going for the look of scattered flowers, but I think it would also look really cool to use one to three large flowers instead.

After a lot of placing, removing, repositioning, and staring, it was time to install the headboard. This was easy to do since the frame had perfectly placed holes which I was able to use for mounting it to the wall. I used deck screws because I liked the rusted look of them.

I had a few flowers left over which I've had a little fun with. There are so many fun applications for them. One of my favorites is lampshade embellishment. In this case I used magnets to apply the flowers to prevent damaging the shades.

Klee and I are planning to open a little on-line shop to sell some of our creations and finds. I think I might sell some of my flowers there. What do you think?

Anyway, stay tuned my friends. I have an obscene amount of projects to catch you up on.

Peace out!