In the Effort to Move Forward, We Die


I have been in a pensive mood this week. A lot has been going on in the world and in my life in the last month. And life moves forward. You have to roll with the punches and embrace change. There is no “pause” button. But I can sometimes find a pause by increasing meditation, getting off social media and listening to my heart. That’s what I’ve been doing, and I’ve been thinking about life… my life specifically and collective life generally.

At one point in my life I used to wonder if this was all there is to life. Those times were hopeless and were empty of connection and purpose. Today, I find myself overwhelmed by all there is. There is so much. There is so much hope and fear and anger and love. It’s hard to process it all. Our culture is changing. And I have to accept that cultures change when they need to change.  In my opinion, we’ve screwed it up. The party’s over.

I listened to a podcast this week from Invisibilia, one of my favorite podcasts. The Personality Myth episode is about a man who had been in prison for most of his life after raping a woman. A woman worked with him on a project many years after he was incarcerated and was very impressed with him as a person. When she found out why he was in prison, she struggled with how to rectify the two seemingly different people.

It made me think about how people change. I remember the young woman I was in my 20s fueled by alcohol and ambition. In my 30s, I tumbled into a depressive state that seemed insurmountable. The woman in my 40s had no confidence and swirled in desperation in an abusive relationship. I started to get my mojo back in my late 40s and in my 50s I’ve come into my own. If I woke up in one of those other bodies today, I don’t know if I’d recognize myself. And, yet I know that those women are all part of me.

This morning I read a story about a promising young woman who developed schizophrenia in her 30s. She ended up dying on a street corner in New York after living on the streets for a number of years. The people who knew her and loved her in her highly functioning days struggled with the reality that her life had ended up so destitute. And, yet, there was hope in her life and a connection with others that never ended. She always wrote. She read voraciously. She remembered with astounding accuracy the people who loved her. I imagine if someone had outlined her life’s trajectory to her in her early 30s she would have thought they were insane.


Life does not have a normalcy. There is no real status quo. We are either changing or we’re dying. This idea that things were better in the past is lunacy. Believe me when I say the good old days may have been good for a privileged few, but for most of us the good old days were filled with abuse at the hands of power, discrimination and a hopelessness that things could ever get better. We will look back at this being the good old days.

When I can be objective about what’s going on right now, I am hopeful. I think it’s time for a new generation to take over. The Baby Boomers have made a mess of our world, and my generation was so powerless in its wake that we did nothing to mitigate the damage. My young friends in their 30s have a completely different vision of how the world should operate, and I feel hopeful that they can undo some of the damage we have done. This generation will have their own set of problems to be sure, but maybe at least they’ll do better than we did. I hope one day we look back and say that all of this mess was just one more step in moving forward.


There Are No Words


Here we are again. There are just no words.  Actually, there may not be enough words. I keep wanting to write, but I can’t process it all. And I’m not just talking about the immediate crisis of the Parkland shooting. The complex processing that I can’t adequately express in words started with the Harvey Weinstein stories and the resulting cascade flooding the news cycle.

I walk in circles where people heal their wounds, so I know the silence around abuse. I have heard loud and clear that the abuse is horrible, but the silencing by others who should be protecting them is often much worse than the event itself. Women – and men – whose lives and relationships who are ravaged by the impacts of early abuse of any kind tell their mother, their father, the authorities to only find that they are not believed. Or maybe they are believed, but they are told to keep quiet. It’s just too INCONVENIENT to confront a spouse … or an uncle … or a friend … or a teacher.


So now we have a tsunami of words that have been silenced for far too long. Then we have the horrific doctor here in this state who systematically abused children and young women in his care in front of parents and others because his words describing his “technique” was unfathomably legitimized. Yes, there were complaints, but those words were explained away and covered up. Every one of these women’s lives will be horribly impacted by this abuse but most of all by the silencing of their voice by the people who should have protected them. I LOVED hearing their words to their trusted perpetrator.


We have the 18th school shooting this year. Eighteenth… and it’s not even the end of February. Parkland is the tip of the iceberg. And yet the rallying cry of some is that these children should not be speaking up. It is not their place. They are not old enough, wise enough to express themselves. These kids just lived through an event where they were targets of a man with a gun. Whatever age they were before this happened is irrelevant. They were forced to grow up real quick. Youth over. Life changed. Grown up.

I am sick of this silencing of people who have been abused. I am especially sick of white men in power who silence people with their money, their shaming and their lies. There is a cultural shift in this country going on, and it’s about damn time. I am horrified that there was a systematic silencing of women in the workplace who had to endure ridiculous behavior in order to work. I am saddened at the lack of compassion and understanding to the plight of children who have to fear gun violence in their schools. There are just no words that adequately express my feelings around all of this.


This is who we are, America. Make excuses all you want. Marginalize the victims. Squash them if you can. We are one big dysfunctional family. Protect the perpetrator. Ignore the problems. Pretend we are normal. Keep the status quo. Do not feel. Do not speak. Do not tell the truth. I don’t know the answer to any of the problems we have as a country, but I know the path out is paved with words. Find them. Say them. Listen. It’s the only thing that has ever healed.

Wrestling Anxiety… I Win

I jolted awake. I could hear Buster throwing up in the next room. “Dammit,” I said. Poor Buster. I got up and took care of him and cleaned up the mess.

I hopped back in bed only to realize that I was wracked with anxiety. “Dammit,” I said more loudly. First I was pissed at Buster for waking me up. A flash of fear told me that I would never go back to sleep. I already felt the drag of the long day ahead with little sleep. My body railed against it. My brain assaulted me with fears of growing old, of not being able to pay my bills and of my imminent death. Living alone, my animals will die a horrible death of starvation because there is no one here to feed them. (I read that story in the news yesterday. My anxiety has a new toy.)

I thought of one of my girlfriends who has been losing sleep lately. I promised her that I’d send her some links to a yoga nidra to help her get back to sleep. I forgot. Surely she thinks I’m a horrible person, and her life is going down the drain, too, because I forgot to send her the salve for her wound. Now I’ll be friendless, too. The familiar tense muscles and racing mind carried me away on a runaway raft of fear.

I finally grabbed a limb. “This is not real,” I told myself. “This is anxiety.” It is a physical problem which manifests a cascade of mental bullying. Nothing had changed since I went to bed. And everything will be fine when I wake up if I ever go back to sleep. “Jesus, help me,” I whispered. “I’m in anxiety.” I gave myself a long hug and a reassurance that I loved her and would take care of her. Anxiety said, “Dammit, I was having fun.”

Once I named it, I was able to let go of the torrent of thoughts. If I don’t stop interacting with them, sleep will elude me. I didn’t want to do it, but I launched my Calm app and did a 25 minute deep sleep relaxation meditation. I was so tense it took the full 25 minutes for my muscles to release. I realized I might not sleep but I could always rest, and that was okay, too.

This is my anxiety. I can go through the list of things I’ve eaten this week that probably set this off, but it doesn’t really matter how I got here. I have to dig myself out. I didn’t feel anxious when I got up, but I know I could stoke that ember pretty quick.  So today will be a no sugar, no coffee and no white flour day. There will be no news until later in the day, and I’m listening to sweet Enya. I will meditate frequently. Breakfast was a whole-grain breakfast porridge with plenty of relaxing healthy carbs. A glass of kefir and a bit of yogurt coated my gut with probiotics. It was probably diet that got me into this mess, and diet will bring me out.


Thank goodness it’s Friday, and I have a connected weekend ahead. There’s a chili cook-off in Saint Joe tonight, and it sounds fun. I think a night out on the town might do me good. Y’all have a good weekend. I hope to visit a new coffeehouse or two this weekend!


Oh yeah, and if you struggle with anxiety, here are some things that work for me. You can also check out a lot of resources on this search. Share your favorites with me. Kick your anxiety out the door!

Seeking Comfort: It’s Monday


In the January 22nd reading of Melody Beattie’s Journey to the Heart, she provides a perspective on comfort. She keeps one of her favorite blankies in her Jeep. She doesn’t use it to sleep with because she doesn’t sleep outside, but she throws it in her vehicle to remind her of how important it is to seek comfort.

Our collective obsession to “be the best we can be”, “live out our passion” and “stay positive” has become a new way to push ourselves.  It seems softer than having to work ourselves to death for The Man, but it can have the same effect of driving us to succeed. We are not machines.

Even Elizabeth Gilbert realized that she was passion shaming people when she spoke about the importance of finding your passion and committing to it. After a confrontation from a fan about how shamed she felt after hearing her speak because she couldn’t name her singular passion, Gilbert realized that her path might have been different. She found that most people grow into their passion by the choices they make. Not everyone has the same driven life experience that she had. And both approaches are completely normal.

Gilbert says there are two kinds of people. There are the jackhammers and the hummingbirds. I like to noodle things. I try out new things to see if I like them. I see a shiny object, and I totally dig getting distracted by it. This kind of lifestyle brings me comfort. Yes, I feel a little unfocused at times. I give in to my depression on occasion. There are days when I’m not being true to myself. I wasn’t always this way. I was taught to power through and excel. I was raised on the mantra “be the best at something, or don’t do it”. And it about killed me. I am NOT a jackhammer.

I’m approaching Monday by easing into it. I’m curled up with my kitties and Ashok under my favorite blankie. I’m sipping green tea instead of coffee. In a moment, I will have some greek yogurt and granola with fruit. These are some of my favorite things. And I will probably be a few minutes late for work because I hate dragging myself out of my house in the morning. Luckily it’s not too cold, and I don’t have to shovel snow. I have time to seek comfort this morning, and I believe I will.

What brings you comfort? Do you spend time seeking comfort, or do you drive yourself? What feels better to you? Are you a jackhammer? Or a hummingbird?



Vulnerability Unearths Strength


With a birthday that’s so close behind New Year’s, it’s hard for me to find a reflection point. I’ve already made a list of what I want for this year. I’ve already reflected on the past year. So, I searched for ways to celebrate your birthday on the worldwide web. That’s where all the answers are, right?

My search came up with all of the typical reactions to getting older. I care less about what people think. I sever or speak up in relationships that aren’t helpful. I am less attached to consumerism and “rules”. All of this stuff is true, but I don’t really want to focus on that. I wanted something more positive to focus on. I came up with this blog:

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A friend of mine recently pronounced on an online dating site that she was grateful for her sobriety and wanted someone that would celebrate that. After all, sobriety is hard work and a sign that a person would go to any lengths to make sure they are the best person they can be. That’s a positive, right? Pretty immediately she freaked out that she put that up there and took it down. But in the few minutes it was up, a guy – interested because of that confidence in herself – contacted her, and they have started dating. She doesn’t even remember what it said because she took it down so fast.

Ironically, in our culture, recovery from addiction is a stigma. Most of us have very little control over the hand we are dealt in life. Genetics define who is susceptible to addiction, our skin color, our  mental health, and our looks. People are constantly judged by all of these – as if they had any control over any of it. Many other issues are a result of our upbringing, where we grew up and the life lessons that fell in our path. Our path is not in our control, but our reaction to it is. But we are often judged by the obstacles that were put in our way – addictions, mental illness, poverty, attachment disorders – and not the way we have overcome it.


I know this seems to have nothing to do with the gratitude blog that I read, but I am most grateful for my quality of being intolerant of emotional pain. Sure, it led me directly into numbing through early addiction, but it also led me out. When something is painful for me, I don’t tolerate it very long. And, luckily for me, I live in a world with plenty of resources.

Even in my twenties when I realized drinking was an issue for me, I picked up the phone and asked for help. This “shortcoming” of mine of being intolerable of emotional pain has helped me avoid lots of danger and to become a stronger person with resilience in the face of adversity. The simple act of asking for help has opened me up to communities of people who are strong and brave and vulnerable. I have no idea what my life would be like if I would have chosen numbness over connection with others, but I really don’t want to find out.

One of the best compliments I ever received was from a country friend of mine when I moved home. This big, tough redneck guy told me, “When the going gets tough, and everything goes to hell in a hand basket in this country, I want you on my team. You are a survivor.” I can’t be grateful for that capacity without being grateful for the hardships and tendencies that unearthed the need. As always in God’s world, it is vulnerability that ultimately strengthens us.

Cultivating Change


I heard a activist being interviewed on some newscast the other day. He was convinced that in order to make people change their behavior you had to shame them about what they were doing. Nobody else seemed to notice the fallacy, but it struck me strongly that shame was the wrong emotion to be cultivating. Guilt could be a productive emotion to encourage. Compassion for others might be worth seeking. But shame? Of all the emotions that encourage change, shame is the least effective.

Shame is a debilitating emotion. When I am in a place of shame, I feel like I enter a type of tunnel. I go back to being a small child. Paralysis, remorse and fear engulf me. And when fear engulfs me, I’m more likely to react angrily and defensively than compassionately. If you want me to change the way I do something, you have to get me into a place of feeling safe. And I suspect that shame is not so different in other people either. Brene’ Brown has made a career of studying it and putting data to the effects of shame on people. It is not a motivating emotion.


I’ve been doing a 30-day yoga challenge with Yoga with Adrienne since New Year’s. This morning’s practice urged me to soften. The practice put me in some fairly uncomfortable positions, but gently allowed me to soften into the shape. If I don’t fight the ache…. if I don’t struggle against the tightness in my body…. if I soften into the pose, my body accepts it. With acceptance amid the softening, I can change.

Our culture seems to believe that pushing and screaming will create change. Kids are beat and shamed by their parents. Teachers hurl insults to shame kids into submission. Bosses scream and rant in attempt to scare workers into performing. What we’ve created is a culture that is angry and scared with limited skills in connecting with other people. Conflict is “handled” by screaming insults at others and then further shaming them when they don’t hear it gracefully. The result is a society that is riddled with addictions of all kinds, a government that is self-imploding and a media landscape that is not appropriate for children.

New behaviors for people are like seedlings. And, if we are all honest with ourselves, change is very, very hard. When a seed is planted that I need to change, I have to create an atmosphere where I can feel safe in changing. I also have to feel confident that I can. If I’m in the midst of shame storm, I don’t think I’m capable of anything. Change is uncomfortable, and I always fail a few times if not a hundred. With each attempt, I need to feel supported and hold myself accountable to keep trying. I can’t water a seedling with a firehose.


Sundays in Sawyer: Dancing With Darkness


The house across the street when I left this morning.

It was dark when I left out this morning at 8 AM. Christmas lights sparkled red and green against the soft luminescent snow. The Winter Solstice is this week – Thursday to be exact. I love Solstice celebrations. When I think of the significance of lightness and darkness in our lives, it makes sense to me that the days with the most light and the days with the most darkness should be marked in some way. And what would Christmas lights be without the long interplay of darkness in December?


I’ve always loved the dark. I love seeing the stars at night, and I love the long nights of winter. They are times of rest and reflection. I don’t sleep as well in the summer with the long days of sunshine. While I feel more energetic during the summer, I don’t think it is good for us to be revved up all the time. There is a reason for the season, and I believe the reason is rest and rejuvenation – of our bodies, our souls and our lives. Our ancestors felt these seasons were so important, they were the biggest celebrations of the year.


Part of my plan for getting through the winter this year is to be open to doing something different. I signed up for an 8-class yoga pass at my old yoga studio where I completed my teacher training. And, I decided that I would start doing my Sunday blogging at Infusco Coffee in Sawyer since it is on the way to the Sunday yoga class.  When I visited their website last night, I read about their mission. This is much more than a coffee shop. They sell “relationship coffee.” It makes the coffee taste much better when there is such a good cause behind it. If that’s not a light in the darkness, I don’t know what is. So now my Sunday blog will be called Sundays in Sawyer…. until I do something different.

The mission and history of Infusco ….

A sign on their counter said their eggnog latte was divine, so I ordered one. Ashok was out in the car waiting like usual, and I thought to ask if they allowed dogs. They do! Ashok can now hang with me instead of waiting in the car. I set down her blanket, and we both enjoyed the Christmas tree and the quiet setting of this comfortable and welcoming coffeehouse.

The darkness of depression is still lingering with me this evening. But I got up and made myself a nice, healthy dinner. A task so simple feels overwhelming when I’m depressed. But, I have to say it made me feel a tad better to put some effort into taking care of me. I think I’ll turn off this computer now and go read for a bit. Surely I have something light and humorous on my Kindle to ignite a little lightness in my spirit. If not, I can always fall asleep and get some rest. Either way, tomorrow will be another day.

We got out for a hike today at Warren Dunes State Park. That helped my mood a bit, too….


The Extraction of a Troublesome Tooth


This morning I had a tooth extracted. But this was no ordinary run-of-the-mill tooth. This was THE tooth. This was the tooth that cost me hours upon hours in dental offices and literally thousands of dollars. This was my first root canal, and it would become my first extraction. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear,” the Michigan endodontist said, “but that tooth needs to be extracted. The root is cracked.” My heart sank as I looked out the window where the birds were eating at a feeder. But a voice inside my head, said, “Let it go.” And shame washed over me.

In my early thirties, this tooth had lost a filling or cracked or something, exposing a nerve. I’d never had any kind of serious tooth problem. But when I would drink anything hot or cold or even bite down on it, it would hurt. It keep getting worse and worse, and it got particularly bad one day when I was at a sportswriter’s convention with my ex near Gatlinburg. The pain was so bad, I called up a friend’s husband who was a dentist, and he agreed to see me right away.

I was so naive back then and so filled with anxiety that I was literally shaking as I went in to his office. I thought this was going to be horribly painful, and I would be broke for life. I had always been healthy, so this seemed like the end of the world to me. The pain was so horrible that I was literally traumatized by it. He was so nice. It was a tooth with 3 canals, he told me, and it needed a root canal. He usually sent those out, but since it was me, he agreed to do it. I’m quite sure he could tell I was scared to death and would burst into tears if he didn’t do it.

I drove the hour back to Gatlinburg and then returned the next day for the procedure. I was pleasantly surprised that the procedure was no worse than getting a filling. And the pain blessedly was gone. I was still woosy from the drugs, so the curvy hilly drive back to Gatlinburg seemed like a drug-induced dream. But the worst was over.

It was only about a year later that the tooth got infected. The very same dentist who now had my undying loyalty sent me to a specialist for a re-treatment. I wasn’t as afraid this time as I knew the drill – pun intended. The pretreatment went fine, and the tooth seemed happily content for many years. One day when I was in Louisiana, I noticed a bump on my gum above the tooth. That’s weird, I thought. It didn’t hurt. It looked like a pimple. I didn’t think much of it, but when it didn’t disappear I called my amazing dentist in Baton Rouge.

“That tooth is infected,” he told me. “The pimple is releasing the pressure so you don’t feel it, but we need to retreat the root canal.” Off I went to yet another endodontist to retreat the root canal. I expected him to advise extraction since it had already been treated twice, but he didn’t. The second treatment had lasted about 20 years. That was three years ago.

I found the pimple again the day before Thanksgiving. I’m trying to rid myself of troublesome things. I have beliefs that don’t serve me, and they haven’t served me for decades. I’m making headway in letting those go. I’ve made choices in my life and in my relationships that make my life lighter. I’ve downsized my belongings, and I’ve gotten out of debt. As I stood in front of the mirror and looked at the telltale sign of a hidden infection, I truly felt it was time to let this go, too.

Extracting a tooth is fairly serious. It’s why we put so much money into keeping them. After you extract one, you have to either bridge it which involves destroying two other teeth or get an implant which is surgery. If you leave the socket empty, you risk bone loss or shifting teeth which causes a new set of issues. Whatever my choices, it will take time and money and a bit of an attitude shift. And in a weird, surprising way I feel a bit of shame that I didn’t – or couldn’t – take care of my tooth. I remember feeling shame the first time it was worked on. Perfection? Failure? Loss? Not sure of the root, but there’s shame there.

So, today I have a hole where a tooth once lived. I’m eating soft, cold foods because it has to scab over. Luckily it’s hidden so I don’t have to look at it, but I’m sure I’ll take a peek. When the dentist was done, I asked his assistant if I could see the tooth. She gets a tweezer and picks up this tiny little bloody thing I could hardly see without my glasses. It came out in two parts because it was broken. “It’s so tiny,” I thought. In my mind, it was massive with big hairy tentacles and dripping with blood.

My first instinct was to ask to bring it home. I’d invested so much in it over the years, and it was a part of me. “No,” I heard. “Let it go.” And I did.


The Power of Gentleness


I chose a meditation this morning from my 10% Happier app that promised to provide focus. Sharon Salzberg was the teacher, and she promised to help me focus on the space between the breaths. I noticed my breathing was labored. I struggled with pausing between breaths. As soon as the exhale ended I was gasping to inhale. My body was reacting as if I would die if I went a second without oxygen. I know from experience this is a symptom of my anxiety.

My anxiety’s creator is what I call my drill sergeant. He literally has a whip that he uses to keep me on the right track. “Do it right,” he screams and cracks the whip. “You can’t stop now,” he admonishes when I stop to rest. His goal is to keep me on track, to shame me into sticking to a standard is always be elusive. And when I’m meditating, he rails at me to “relax …. stop thinking … quiet your mind … breathe smoothly and easily …. you’ll never get this right”. What actually happens is I can’t do any of those things. I just get scared that I’ll never do it right, and I lunge at my breath to help me feel safe.

“Be gentle with yourself,” I tell my friends when they are lunging after their breath, their eyes wide with anxiety and fear over something that they can’t seem to accomplish or make right. I see their drill sergeant and can almost hear the crack of the whip as he admonishes them to meet an impossible goal. It’s not infrequent that people tell me that they can’t be gentle with themselves. If they are not harsh with themselves, they will fail.

When I recognized what was happening this morning, I stopped trying to follow her instructions, and I said, “I love you, Sharon”. I gave myself a big, imaginary, long hug. Immediately my body relaxed, and in a few minutes my breathing and my mind settled into an easy, relaxed cadence. I love the lessons of meditation and yoga. They are so subtle, and they only come when I pay attention to my internal drama. I think the drill sergeant is my internal voice, but he’s not. He’s an external structure built by a lifetime of experiences, demands and uninformed authority figures. He is not what is within me.

Yoga, meditation, therapy, 12-step recovery and other spiritual practices quiet the unhelpful voices that cause us to lunge after our breath or material goods or addictive substances of any kind. These safe practices – and if they are not safe, they are not healthy – provide a different structure that provides a soft spot to land and an absence of expectations. We all have enough goals and demands and expectations that drive us nearly to our death. The inner voice of the spirit is so gentle and sweet in comparison. It’s only when we meet it with gentleness that it becomes audible.

Ms. Salzberg echoed my experience this morning when she said that we can only improve and succeed if we lovingly support ourselves. Want to stick with a diet? Need to stop drinking? Is your life not working? Don’t listen to the drill sergeant. He’s what drove you to this place. Listen to your inner voice that tells you what you need and want and who genuinely adores you just the way you are. In my experience, it’s in the safety of sweet gentleness that my spirit ignites. The human spirit is infinitely more powerful than being driven from the outside…. and a lot more pleasurable, too.

Be gentle with yourself. See how powerful you really are.


A Saturn with a Clutch

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The Daily Prompt today is clutch.

The first thing that comes to my mind is the only new car I ever bought. It was a red Saturn coupe with a sunroof and manual transmission. I had driven several cars with manual transmission, and I actually preferred it. It was kind of fun to have so much control over it, and for every turn, start or stop to require my intervention and energy.

I bought this car when I was engaged to a guy from Seattle. We had just moved to Michigan, and he did not bring his muscle car that wasn’t very practical for snow. We needed to buy another car so he could drive to college, and I could drive to work. Saturn was a brand that catered to females and featured the first no-haggle buying promise. The price was the price. And when you picked up your new car, they put it up front with a big red bow on it. I was handed a rose and,  they took my picture with it. It was all very exciting.

It was exciting until we went to lunch afterwards to celebrate and my fiancee told me he quit school. That was a dealbreaker. He had already told me he didn’t want to find a job, and I was concerned about the direction this was taking. We broke up that day, and he headed back to Seattle with all of his crap two days later. I was left with two cars and a house note that was intended to be financed by two people. It was just another lesson in getting to know people better before you commit to them.

I loved that car. After he left, I remember driving up Hwy 31 to Manistee MI to stay in a bed-and-breakfast that we had booked for us that weekend. It was my first fall here, and the leaves were beautiful. My B&B hosts were really nice, and I had a very relaxing and beautiful weekend walking around in Manistee.

I never even paid the car off. My second husband didn’t like having a car with manual transmission. He didn’t find beauty in the simplicity of it. So, one day he told me he wanted to sell it so he could buy a car we both could drive in case we ever needed to switch. It was only one of the things I loved that I got rid of because he didn’t like it. He bugged the hell out of me to sell my beautiful four-poster bed because he didn’t like it, and I finally did. I think he got $500 for it on some website. I still want that bed back. And, to be honest, I’d like to have that Saturn back, too. I still see those cars every now and again even though Saturn is long out of business. They were good cars, and mine was really sporty and cute, too.

Funny, when I think about this story, I bought the car for one star-crossed lover and got rid of it for another. Maybe that car was just a catalyst for a couple of life lessons. I stood up for myself and sent one guy packing. In the other case, I swallowed my voice and let somebody else sell something I loved. I am a Capricorn, and Saturn is my ruling planet. I suppose on some level I should have known that a buying a Saturn would be much more significant than just a mode of transportation.