And Still….

“FINE LINE”, 11X11X4,M/M


Fair warning- this is a post complete with plenty of gravitas, innocence, warrior training, not enough humor and too much change (says I).

A few weeks ago I was beset by excruciating spasticity in my right leg which is a common MS symptom generated by faulty nerve conduction. Imagine someone holding your ankle and turning clockwise so your leg corkscrews, spirals with no let up in an internal rotation. The day this happened I had to call the EMT guys twice after transfers failed. The second time they arrived their faces were unavoidably hardened into my perception of the looks they give women whose lives are so void of connection they resort to doctor visits to stave off the madness of too much loneliness. This may be just my story but I suspect not too far from the truth.

I was so embarrassed. And afraid.

All of a sudden my disappearing pie piece of freedom had a further chunk removed and I became dependent.

Fortunately, my family had just recently afforded me a membership with EGIS-an umbrella company devoted to managing care on all levels for those in need . Because this stellar organization is staffed with the truly extraordinary among us, by days end I had the privilege of a caregiver arriving at 8-11 whose job it is to get me up and out of bed and into my wheelchair where I remain until changing of the guard at 4pm at which time a different caregiver does all this “too intimate” stuff, makes sure I eat and back to bed.

Now, for a girl whose top value is freedom these uber -dependent waters are putrid indeed AND STILLthere’s got to be beauty in here somewhere but I’m too overwhelmed to find it on this day.


The next days open and close with excruciating twisty muscle madness and if I can’t find pockets of peace I’ll go mad.

I know the vocabulary of “INDEPENDENCE” by heart but now must learn “DEPENDENCE” and I don’t want to. It feels ugly, gritty, brutal, raw.

I am so private; needing the solace of emptiness, silence, horizonless musings

But now every moment is bunched together, overlapping the other with needs and tears and fear and confusion and anger.

AND STILL I begin to know the women caring for me.

They move economically from one task to the next, one ear at the ready should I call out.

My leg still hurts but relaxing somewhat.

I let them bathe me.

I thought I would be mortified.

I sat up straight and surrendered to the moment.

We just chatted like two girls about her great lipstick and watched as Emma stood guard and the water just slipped down my arm like it always did..

It was the opposite of hard; impossibly tender..lovely in the action of need and service made beautiful somehow.


And still there comes the next moment and smart as we are we never know what it will bring.



(PS- a detail of the image I post can always be seen by clicking on the image and then once again..)

Aspiring To a Soft Eye

My dog Emma has impossibly soft eyes.

I aspire to have my own eyes reflect a Self as innocent, worry-free, completely untethered from the pesky human will

We worship.

And then worship some more.

In partnership with health challenges as I am

A good deal of “letting go” occurs;

Not so much moving my body from one place to the next doing errands, etc. anymore.

What is left is an extraordinarily luxurious surplus of contemplative TIME.

Often it feels like an enemy.

Undirected, it (my mind) is no more than a juvenile delinquent acting out to grab attention.

I slap it down…

Again and again I put it to bed and lock the door.

But it changes form and seeps cunningly under the supposedly secure separation between us

And searches me out with it’s mysterious odor

That piques my curiosity

And I am gone down the rabbit hole


Emma does not suffer these human foibles.

Her eyes rest easy and neutral in their socket-nest

Except where food is concerned…

This trait we share.

There seems no distance between her state-of-being and what her eyes report;

She hasn’t the faintest idea how to mask her true self

Whereas we, as humans, are masterful at appearing “other”.

Today, I aspire to meet my dogs noble, unaffected Self

With my own noble, unaffected Self.

Thanksgiving Poem

“Bloom” 3×6,m/m



I want to say something
About not getting
What you want
Because if all those prayers
Had been answered
I’d surely not be me
And that would be a shame.

The warm press
Of my dog on my thigh
Might have slipped
My attention
As I went surfing the net;
Mindlessly window shopping
For a good-looking hat.

I might have missed
The precious and strong
Grip of my left hand
If my right one
Weren’t so weakened
By the take-away
Illness brings.

What if I actually had
All the independence
I have prayed for
And altogether missed
My heart stretching
With love for all those
Who let me know
I matter to them?

If I had all I wanted
I’d never know
How not having
Helps me know
The very important gift
Of wanting
And cherishing
Exactly what I have.
-Cathy Aten 2013

Fuck the Fainting Couch



In the NYT this morning I read an article on the forever allure of the literary sad woman:

It isn’t just women either..sadness has a cult following these days which is beginning to bore me.

My dad was a soldier.

He never spoke of it and so of course we kids were prone to go digging in his drawers;anywhere that might fill in the empty places regarding his experiences of war.

His top drawer held pins-long bars of multi-colored ribbon. So gorgeous and left in full view of curious eyes. These..he did not hide and I guess this was as close as he wanted us to get to that part of his life.

Pain and suffering and the horrors of war and illness may be different in the hierarchical sense of “whose suffering is worse?”

I think about this a lot as folks often offer a caveat of : “..but your experience must be far worse than mine..I shouldn’t even be talking about my woes to you!”

In my book suffering is suffering. Period.

It makes no sense to qualify the thing.

We humans are sorely lacking in the “HOW DO WE CONNECT WITH ONE ANOTHER?”

It is so hard and so important and we are just very uneducated in our culture about how to healthily make contact with one another.

But we can so easily find common territory we all share by hopping on the SUFFERING TRAIN!

My back aches.
The doctor said:
My neighbor takes…for…
Old age sucks.
I’m allergic to:
I can’t function unless I:
Wow-my whole body hurts today!

These seemingly disparate topics of my dad and how he held his experiences of war and how we, as a culture hold our own suffering

Are connected


Does it matter if we try to become a graceful container for our own sufferings?

There are millions of reasons for learning how to contain our personal experiences instead of ‘sliming’ all those around us making it necessary for a total energetic body wash for the unsuspecting compassionate friend.

Let’s all try to find other, perhaps less automatic ways of connecting beyond “through the wound”.

I am training myself to ask :” Do you have it in you to listen to me complain awhile?” Getting permission to “dump” feels respectful and more conscious.

Instead of falling to the lowest common denominator maybe we can elevate the moment into a higher frequency edging toward a peaceful encounter just enjoying one another.


PS- If you’d like to view the image from each post more intimately please click on image and then again.

How To Accept a Compliment and Why It’s Important

A good friend I’ll call Dominic is a master deflector;

Deflector Dominic.

There is no way to acknowledge him and all I appreciate so much about him.

“D..I love your new haircut!”
“Oh, my last one was so much better.”

“D..You were so kind to our waiter. It made e feel that kindness can cure most ills.”
“You should have watched this great new show on TV I saw, talk about kindness!”

“D..your painting these days is exquisite..I love the new palette you are using.”
“It isn’t really new. I’ve used it before.”

“You inspire me.”
‘Just doing the best I can.”

In each one of these exchanges my heart welled up enough to want to bring something to my friend’s attention. I needed him to know I appreciated him in a particular way.

But he deflected the compliment by making himself smaller in some way and my gift to him had no where to land and so the compliment was wasted energy and lost in the ethers.

We all do this at times but some of us can not receive an acknowledgement EVER.

I have gone through many stages with “D”;

FRUSTRATION at the effort I put forward to connect with him in a loving way that gets batted away like a mosquito
ANGER that he does not seem to value my discerning nature and does not seem to believe what I say
SAD he values himself so little that a simple “Thank you” can not be summoned
WEARY that we as a culture believe false modesty is somehow a virtue to be cultivated.

After years of this I want to give up reflecting back to my friend who I experience him to be.

In my teens depression was my constant companion.

I was so bereft of motherly love that I perfected people -pleasing to a high art and eventually lost 99% of the threading of my natural self tapestry in search of that love.

At some point, when I reclaimed enough self awareness through therapy to understand the unhealthy dynamics taking place

I needed to find my way back to authentic CATHY.

How to do this?

I began listening to what my friends and loved ones were saying about me/to me.

I listened for a long time and after awhile a pattern/patterns arose.

Many people mentioned various qualities they noticed in me and I started to believe them.

I began to let their compliments REST WITH ME.

This is how I found my way back to the woman I am today who I consider to be emotionally healthy for the most part and I am very proud I have done the hard work of making space in my life to allow her to rise again like a phoenix. Again and again I rise. Because I choose to.

My invitation to you is to listen for the next compliment offered and recognize you do the giver a great disservice if you do not let that persons gift rest with you with a simple “Thank you so much. I appreciate that.”

Then pass it on.

Thank you for being out there reading my offerings. It means a great deal.


That Thing In Your Way…



….is actually your way in.

I am a product of a fortunate foundation.

Growing up we had money.

It afforded us comfort, freedoms others were unfamiliar with, great educations and we were never hungry..I mean the “for real” kind of hungry.

In these last three months of searching for a replacement caregiver I have had more than 10 young and middle aged women cross my threshold hoping to secure the job.

In more comfortable times I “read” people on an essence level when sussing them out and consider myself a fairly good judge of character using this kind of intelligence.

As I am dependent on MEDICAID the helpers must come through a healthcare agency and then sent to me. Supposedly they have been vetted for drugs,criminal history and had a TB test.

During this search process I needed to look at in a purely rational way:
-can she follow directions?
-is there retention of directions I have given?
-how does my dog do with her?
-is she interested at all in me?
-can she clean, cook a bit, notice if the floor needs sweeping?
-do I need to coach her every micro movement?
-know how to use GPS to find a place?

If I found someone I felt I could tolerate in my home 5 hours/day I kind of jumped at the chance to hire her.

This happened three times.

I was lied to (“I can cook”-NOT), stolen from ( pain pills and amazon purchases), ghosted (“Cathy you are a great woman! I will love working for you…(Gone in the wind..).

I don’t really know anything about poverty. I’d hazard most of you reading this don’t either.

How far could you get on less than 12.00/hr?

What could you eat? Where could you live? Do you imagine you’d be healthy or even kind?

Would you even know who Judy Garland was if I told you I was going to the movies?

Would your skin be clear?

Would you eat from the gas station aisles?

Would you know what kale is or how to measure 1/4 C?

I’ve needed to throw away my disease of judgement and find ways to stay elevated in spirit

Or I will die.

I have a gold-hearted caregiver now.

We are learning one another.

I numb my olfactory sense after she goes outside for a smoke

And let her hug me when I cry from too much pain.

The care and recognition of who I actually am is reciprocated in kind.

We are learning one another.

I almost missed her. Came dangerously close to missing her.

I am grateful we can be a bridge for one another.

Be very, very grateful if you enjoy a life of financial means as my story may never be yours

But on the other hand Carl Jung says “The hand of God is found in the shit.”

We are good buddies.

FYI- if ever you’d like to blow up an image to reveal detail you can click on it then once again to blow it up.

The Solace of Civility



This morning on my early roll around my beloved Santa Fe I felt soft-hearted with Emma’s warmth pressed on my tummy.

We go fast at the outset and slower as we enter downtown.

I have a safety flag that collapses like a tent pole and I put it down approaching the plaza.

An old, unshaven Mexican busker sings unimaginably off-key and looks at me with a leaden expression as we pass without dropping money in his basket.

I felt no guilt as my policy is to give as I am moved to do and enjoy those connections thoroughly but this was not our moment.

There is a fancy OLD WEST ANTIQUE SHOW at the convention center. Handsome wild western men with 12+ gallon hats stand around comparing spurs. It makes me slightly giddy.

A well-heeled couple dripping with major Native Americana stop me to talk about Emma.

“Is she a maltese?”
They beamed authentic good-heartedness, had strong and clear eyes and good taste even in extravagant over-adornment. Taking their leave they left me with “Be extra careful,OK? Is there anything we can do for you? It was such a pleasure to meet you. Bye, bye now..”

I rolled away radiating wellness from this tiny encounter.

Keeping abreast of the current world dis-order,undercurrent of fear, anxiety and grief takes a great toll on sensitive souls.

What shall we all do with the sticky, uncontrollable ooze of heart-bypassing decision- making occurring within our world at present?

Once again we are asked to pull in our flailing arms and embittered reactivity

And know the only thing we have control over


Is who we are

In each moment.

So today…as I adventured out into my own wilderness

The kind words and soft hearts I met along the way

Lit my world


So here I am

Extending some of the treasure

To you.


What In The World To Do?

“FINE LINE”,monoprint,22×30″


A good friend said: “If this political climate continues for another four years I am done with life. I’m outta here”.

I fully understood the sentiment.

I have thought the same about my own ‘micro-world’

Often seeming forever colored by pain or struggle or physical dissolution of some kind in relationship with MS.

There have been a few lines I thought I could not live beyond

But truthfully…getting up close and personal with such “lines”

I find they never are the end game;

The line I think I can’t live beyond.

So what is the thing that grabs me under my armpit for support to ease my weary self across that self-drawn line?

Two things:

This is an honest to God truth for me: each and every time I think I can’t go on or have lost interest in doing such..
Just after such an energy cave-in a thing happens which emerges out of the mist, is usually very small as opposed to monumental
And makes it’s good self known with the sweetest of normalcy.

It could be: “You look so beautiful with your cute dog!” as I roll by
Or maybe someone has passed quite a ways down the street but backtracks fully just to open a door for me.
A stranger has said: “Your attitude inspires me. May I bring you a homemade dinner sometime? Share an evening and get to know you better or just drop the food at your door perhaps?”

The other day it was the tiniest moment catching the eye of a grumbling homeless man when I said “Good Morning” and he lifted his confused head and gave me the purest of smiles.

It is a family members’ financial bail out with no questions asked or my dog’s insistent mid-night press into the small of my back coupled with the indescribable sweetness of a deep and secure sigh eliciting the same from me.

My idea of Beauty used to loom so large. Now it is held in secret and tiny places.


These explosions of Beauty help me understand I matter. And you matter. And we each have our responsibility to do what we can to recognize our unique gifts and to give them to our fellow travelers on this grit-laden road. I can’t go precisely because of the beauty I AM..and YOU ARE.

Sedimentary Perception



My existence in a wheelchair puts my perspective about 2 feet below yours in all likelihood.

My current penchant for going down to the Santa Fe Plaza very early in the morning has the effect of an archaeological dig at times.

This morning I saw deep brown skinned, old Mexican men lifting giant glass containers filled with fresh watermelon juice as they readied their street vendor food cart.

Pigtailed girls ran deliriously after taunting pigeons.

Native Americans sat stoically tolerating the tourist gum-chewing and innocent disrespect; their eyes slightly glazed and hungry at the same time.

I loved my soft awareness with its desire to attach itself to the surprisingly graceful choice the city gardeners made of planting corn in the large pots used to direct traffic.

Perception stayed cool and comfortably low..

Humored by high-heeled, polyester suit-clad women teetering blindly while worshiping their phones.

I could see their crowded thoughts buzzing like flustered bees above their hair.

The stately trees generously buffered the sun.

I was in love with it all; the clear air and green smell mixed with surreptitiously smoking folks trying to get small in their shame and pleasure.

The low down suits me.

All these different levels and layers of perception invisible to the others but carrying wiggling and lively realities unique to each.

How very much we miss by remaining in our familiar territories.

The lower I get the quieter I become.


Come follow me on INSTAGRAM! I am a beginner but it sure is fun..xx


“BLACK MESA”,3×6′, m/m



I love Dirt (capitalization intended).

“Earth” is gentrified Dirt and not what we are up to today..

Did I ever tell you the story of eating Dirt?

I will tell it here again as it is a pivotal tale in my life and you may understand me a bit better after hearing it.

Moving to the New Mexico landscape from Michigan greenery and severely compressed horizon in 1989 stopped being jarring for me after the first week or two.

The place is pretty much space, sky and brown which is a darn sight different than oak trees and suburban lawns I can assure you.

One needs glasses tuned to deeply subtle beauty here; the kind barely visible inside shadows or the dark.

My beloved grandmother, Gonnie, passed away a few years after I moved here and I travelled to Michigan to attend her funeral.

She was born to the upper class but her true “hood” was the garden; roses, raspberries, lilies of the valley, lilacs planted for color and fragrance, tulips and a rock garden.

She pretty much raised me and silently taught me about Dirt and growing things.

Friendship with other women did not come easily to her and I felt the heaviness being lonely can bring

But we adored one another.

When she died I instinctively dug up a pink double-petalled peony plant and carefully bagged the moist root ball cradling it on my lap as I flew home to Santa Fe.

I dug a home for it to live and paused in prayer.

The Dirt was black and impossibly alive

With her.

I put a pinch-full on my tongue

And brought it inside my mouth and, feeling the grit, swallowed.

And cried.

It was the most beautiful form of prayer.

Of course, peonies are much too delicate to live in New Mexico

So..even after my uber-tending

The roots never took

But it really was ok because I have her in me.

Delicate-ness doesn’t last long here.

The place demands courage, resilience, self-sufficiency, silence, reflection on self and other.

If one’s roots can’t push hard enough to get to the elusive water often just out of reach,

You die.

Yes…Earth is gentrified Dirt

And I love them both

More than is reasonable.

My roots were always meant to do the muscular turning and twisting and stretching and yearning and bending and searching

Living in New Mexico demands.

I love delicacy

And am conscious of what it has taken to be in relation to the grit.


ps- FYI: if you click on image then click again the full detail of each image I post is revealed. 🙂

What Do We Do In The Dark?



This winter has been challenging for me.

Bitter cold, schizophrenic wind screaming in the eaves

And way, wayyyyyyyy too many mornings

Waking to cool grey watercolor skies.


My wheelchairs deep tread tires itch

For action

And I spray Chanel #5 on my curly lamb neck warmer

And wear it around the house

Like a weird prayer

For the permission

To outdoors myself.

This week warmth has snuck back in.

And good friends and family are coming to visit!

I begin happy-ing up.

Emma gets ditties sung to her

Whether she wants them or not.

During the long dark

I thought of the longest dark.

Not seriously;

More in a curious way.

I prayed in my bed

Curled fetal

Around a heating pad

I love

More than is reasonable.

I prayed for my athletic and shredded

Nervous system

To fucking give me some peace.

Emma and I make the micro-adjustments

As we lay there-

Needing the primal reinforcement

Of constant contact.

I let myself love crime TV

And try to meditate in the mornings

But I am water-logged in stillness

So inviting more seems the act of a mad person.

One day I screamed into a pillow

Out of vocal atrophy

But Emma got a look on her face

No one should ever see.

In the dark of this winter

My hibernation was

Not a peaceful one.

My friends will arrive soon

And help me reclaim

Undernourished life lines

Connecting me to

The taut and gracious

Brain and body

I let go to seed.

My underground self

Will keep stretching

Toward their warmth and humor

And my complexion will pink.

My own long migration

From the dark to the light

Depends more and more

On Communion

Of any kind


In essence,

Means not alone.

I Bought a Leopard Print Jacket


I usually shoot for spare and elegant in my “peacockery” when choosing what to wear.

But lately I have ancient anger re-surfacing.

Old “mother-stuff” undealt with.

You’d think a lifetime of therapy would have taken a squeegee

To my nervous system (in chronic hypervigilance due to her)…

But NO……

The glass is not yet cleared of the awful fog of war

I innocently turned in on myself

And ended up with an autoimmune illness

Which makes me fucking ANGRY

So I bought myself


In the hope that when I wrap myself

In the perfect chaos of the spots

I will take on some of that same wild


Even as I hold myself

High and risen

In my trusty chariot ;

Contained in an elegant package

Will be me as the wildest, growling, taut in muscle and mind


The leavings of sonic boom shatterings

Of grief laced with rage

And be-fuddlement

Will be seen by those behind me

Perchance ambling by

Confused by the wide and sure



Paw prints

Left by

A very large


Smelling of Chanel #5.

Don’t Worry





Don’t worry
If you are not
Where you want
To go.

If I say ‘‘empathy’’
Does your heart
A few old scales?

If a dog
Happens to dance
A prayer for food
Do your eyes gleam?

I don’t know
My multiplication tables
But I can remind you
If you lost your song.

No longer do I ask
“Am I good enough?”
I AM which is
Indeed all there is.

I saw two black birds
Dipping and veering.
I gave them my attention.

That’s as good
As it gets I think;
Pay attention.
No expectation.

There is
No wrong road
You follow someone else’s.

Dipping and veering
In the hall of mirrors
Is the cost
Of character.

I’ve paid my dues
And then some
For the privilege
To know nothing.


-Cathy Aten

Blue Man


Yesterday, I passed him by.

Approaching the elevator

Leading up to my favorite coffee spot

I saw a blue man sitting on a bench.

His whole self was covered in bundles

Of blue plastic tarp- wrapped belongings.

Sleeping bag, blanket, sundries.

Each carefully placed around him

Creating a weighted balance.

He looked weary

And pulled in like a turtle.

I said: “Are you staying warm?”

I didn’t listen closely enough

To what he said

Because I wanted it to be

What I wanted it to be.

The elevator took a really long time to come.

In hindsight it was surely God

Giving me extra time.

Waiting there for the elevator to open

We were silent.

My head was dropped a bit

Doing my own unconscious pulling in.

I didn’t think about him again

Until this morning.

I totally missed the holy man;

Hungry and defrosting

Sitting silently there with me.

The temperature outside was 15 degrees with wind.

The blue man was taking shelter there

Trying to stay alive

Within his challenges.

I could easily have bought him breakfast and a warm drink.

So easily.

But I didn’t even think of it.

And that is the thing that bothers me.

I missed the holy man completely.

Holy. Sacred.

Resting there

In his ordinary-ness.

This is the way we humans learn.

We carry on

Easy in our habits

Designed to prolong comfort

And assuage desires

Like a latte

Or post-holiday sales.

I could have done better.

Next time I hope I will.

Maybe I will see the holy man

(who is me)

(and you)

And I will recognize his need for comfort.

I will ease his suffering if I can.

This is how we learn;

We triumph

By failing first.

Then we rise up

All ash-covered like a phoenix

And trundle on

With wider eyes

And stretch marks on our hearts.



Happy New Year to the sacred in and amongst us. xxxx

Christmas Eve


It is Christmas eve and I am longing for a star to follow.



I wrap up my Emma in a soft cloth

And sling her over my shoulder

To keep her delicate paws off the pesky desert sand.

This would have to be in dreamtime as wheelchairs don’t negotiate desert terrain well.

The mysterious glitter of the bright spot in the sky

Wakes up my heart

To Hope. Adventure!

I pack up my beloved (with 3 NATURE’S VALLEY granola bars for me and Emmas’ freeze- dried treats made with wild boar) and just skedaddle.

It is very dark

But we are not scared.

I see a guy over there in the shadows.

His name is Elon Musk, he says.

“Come with us!” I say. We are following a star.

“Ok” Elon says.

Silently we walk on.

About another mile or so there is another man we meet and before I see him clearly I recognize the voice to be David Attenborough! OMG!!!

He slides in next to us as we walk.

Later that night the bartender from my favorite haunt appears

As well as my third grade teacher

And the homeless woman who is so skittish

And Roseanne, who comes to help me each day.

Ellen Degeneres, Kourtney Kardashian, Anderson Cooper and a weary little boy fighting cancer all join our little parade.

I wish Oprah would show.

The star seems to get brighter and brighter as the night goes on

And our eager group grows to include millions of folks from every walk of life.

We all walk in silence. For hours and hours.

A slight sliver of dawn light appears.

That which we seek is near! Our breathing quickens.

We crest a huge hill.

There sits a small brown box.

Nothing else.

Nothing else at all.

A box.

Just a little bit disappointed at this anti-climactic finale

With a sigh I plop down in the sand and all the people in our caravan form a half circle around me looking over my shoulder as I borrow a knife and begin to open the box.

The gaining dawn is so quiet we can hear the grains of sand skip across with the slightest breeze.

There in the box I find


In shock I say “ALEXA!!! What are you doing all the way out here?”

“You all put in quite a night of travel with hope in your hearts for something magical..even sacred to lift you from your human condition of suffering. All you needed to do was look at who walked beside you, connect with them by way of a slight touch, smile or conversation and if patient enough you just might get the gold. What you seek is right here, in you, near you always. You needn’t work so very hard my darlings.”

Well…now what are we supposed to do, I thought..

I’m so tired and a little cranky after all that.

We turned around and there in front of us was a MARGARITA BAR!

Everyone just bee-lined over there and began sharing stories, memories, math equations, lipstick, tamale recipes, bad jokes, binge-watchable tv, prayers, medicines, inventions, poems and songs and personal trainers..

The bright starlight we followed seemed now to be suddenly swimming in each others’ eyes.

The distance between us was easy and soft.

So much light..

So much light

To find our way home.


(I apologize if any of you found this sacrilege.)

Dude..I Been Through Some Shit


Last night I got so friggin’ sick of myself that I had to raise my frequency right quick.

I went directly for the sassiest red lipstick I have and applied with a brush (this method takes more time and signifies some adventure of note is about to take place.)

Keep in mind my Michigander roots embrace anything that feels like “weather” with a weird kind of anticipatory glee..

It was really cold last night but a sparkly, deep and dry cold with no wind.

I bundled Emma and myself up so we looked incredibly well put together in our winter wear, locked the door behind us and headed out.

I love how I can entertain myself out of depression by creating an event.

We headed downtown in search of Christmas lights; my red safety flashers creating a pink pool of light behind my wheelchair.

It was late-ish and little was open so we headed to a favorite hotel bar I knew to be cozy with a real fire and decorated lavishly for the season. A single woman never feels weird in a hotel bar and often Emma provides an easy conversational entry should I be inclined. Last night was just for us though.

Emma and I sat there quietly for over an hour soothed by the fire and a lovely glass of red wine.

It is too laborious for me to remove all my outerwear when in a restaurant and I am pretty heat tolerant so I sat there still bundled, sinking into thoughts of my rich life.

My sister tells me she is amazed by my resilience.

I am too truth be told.

Suffering can be an end-point or an impetus.

Some people make a religion out of it.

Granted, hardship is a way to connect; we all experience it to varying degrees. There will always be someone in agreement with how hard life is.

What we do with our suffering determines our state of being and quality of life.

If suffering is a constant companion there exists the danger of becoming too familiar with that frequency and settling in for the ride.

In the distant past when I attended support groups I found attendees comfortable in the habit of suffering.

I am fortunate to love my own company and be more interested in creating my own entertainment when need be.

Shifting my frequency ever higher on the spectrum is a skill I practice as my best medicine. I began learning about this in practical ways from this book:
Power vs. Force by David Hawkins.

In Dr. Hawkin’s work the example I gave above had me moving from the stasis of APATHY up the frequency ladder to COURAGE as I took action.

Here is a good beginning entry into his work.

Can -You -Copia?


What is a cornucopia anyway?

This is my Thanksgiving morning conundrum.



a symbol of plenty consisting of a goat’s horn overflowing with flowers, fruit, and corn.
an ornamental container shaped like a goat’s horn.
an abundant supply of good things of a specified kind.
“the festival offers a cornucopia of pleasures”
synonyms: an abundance, a profusion, a plentifulness, a profuseness, a copiousness, an amplitude, a lavishness, a bountifulness, a bounty


Following a weird but vivid dream I was prompted to ask a friend if I had ever disappointed him in the past in a big way he might never have told me.

His answer really isn’t the point though..

Not one of us can claim never to have initiated disappointment in another…duh…

Many folks who love me look at my life and wish I had an easier ride.

If my life had not included a narcissist mother, alcoholic father, divorce, rape, illness, blah..blah..blah..

Would it have been “better”?

Easier, by god yes indeed..

But better?

We each have our laundry lists of suffering..some seeming more dramatic than others

But suffering is suffering.

If I had had an easier ride would I have disappointed fewer people because of less drama? Would I have had more of my wits about me to conjure less hurtful, unconscious behavior ?

What IS a good life anyway?

My definition is this:


This morning’s example is this: Petting Emma’s neck I have a wave of tidal love recognizing the fragility, strength, soft and noble beauty I have snoring on my lap.

I am being my own horn of plenty;

With my breath I blow the awareness


Into the thing

And the tears turn to diamonds

Because I say so.

(Sometimes it takes some heavy breathing..just FYI.)



I give thanks to you, my dear readers who give me the gift of witness. You keep me real. xxx

Cheer Up

“MOON” 5×3,painted wool flannel


“Be of good cheer.”

A common greeting for the holidays we are about to enter.

It seems like this year something other may be called for?

Just the word “cheer” sets me on edge somehow.

Please don’t stop reading here as I promise this is anything but a depressing post…!

A girlfriend of mine recently posted something on Facebook revealing her mood which included tinges of grief, some ennui, immense gratitude and, what I felt was a lovely recounting of her early morning prayer/meditation peace and quiet.

She goes up on her roof each morning in the hill country of Texas with her cup of coffee and peruses the world; her inner one and the outer as well.

Someone on Facebook left her a comment: “I wish I could cheer you up.”

My friend reassured her that she had spent a perfect and peaceful morning thoroughly enjoying the quiet, contemplative time she had gifted herself.

Is it better to be of good cheer?

Maybe the friend would have felt easier in her bones if she witnessed an abject display of wide smiling, false-fineness and presumptive communion; common faces of holiday cheer.

My point here is that authenticity is a true gift we can give ourselves and one another particularly this year.

This holiday season feels more potent in a pagan sort of way.

“On every world, wherever people are, in the deepest part of the winter, at the exact mid-point, everybody stops and turns and hugs, as if to say, well done. Well done, everyone. We’re halfway out of the dark. ”

The mysteries of the Dark, the preciousness of Light, the bitter chill inviting us indoors to sit close to those we love warmed by fire.

Quiet, stillness, gratitude, reflection, Nature sounds and smells, recognition of our needs being met and extension of loving care to those not so fortunate…

In this season these are the things that enrich my soul.

From the outside there may be no perceivable “tell”.

So Much Isn’t a Problem



It’s weird that grappling with health gone awry or the nauseating politics of the day

Scratches the same strange itch;

The one that says we are better for being in the fight.

The horrible pseudo-holiness sewn into feelings of self-worth

Stemming from actively participating in the fray

As opposed to very quietly witnessing

Seduces us.

The adrenaline rush of acute pain

And screeching disbelief in flawed human behavior on display of late

Feel similar.

Are we really better for being in the fight?

Reading about it, talking about it, going to every doctor, taking every new pill

Or is there more potency in just the recognition of WHAT IS


And using our own finite energy reserves

To attempt just a tidbit of elevation

Of our own personal energy frequency;

Maybe lift ourselves up a tad

Out of the mud.

Love ourselves enough not to succumb

To the lowest common denominator

As tempting to our nervous system

Out of habit

As this inclination may be.

Today I will practice

Not involving myself so much in the dramas of the day in my body and in the world.

I will trust in the intelligence I understand to be

So much larger than me

And use any extra energy I have

To keep myself uplifted

And through this state

Perhaps be of service to others.

Good Question

detail of painting,m/m



Sometimes when I am asked: “ are you?”

I don’t really know.

My landscape is so varied and I skip between optimism and being a realist

Almost moment by moment.

Isolation becomes my safe place

Until I get so sick of myself I remember

Connection with vulnerability, humor, sass, curiosity and adventure

Light me up.

I have a friend who forged a relationship by bombarding me with questions.

It was shocking, endearing, sexy and courageous.

I love being asked things…almost anything actually.

I sense people shy from any intimate query around me

Perhaps afraid they’ll get more than they bargained for?

If you wanted to know me these are some questions I might welcome (always with the option of saying I can’t or don’t want to answer that right now!):

1. What was the best thing that happened to you today?

2. Did you see, hear, read something particularly great?

3. Were you lonely today at all?

4. What is it like for you to get ready in the morning?

5. What scares you?

6. What is the best thing about MS? The worst?

7. Do you miss your old life? Would you go back?

8. Who would you invite to a fantasy dinner party if you could have 6 people of your choosing, living or dead?

9. What do you think is your best, not so good quality?

10. Do you like your voice?

11. What do you think your hands say about you?

12. Who is a hero for you?

13. Is there anyone you have not forgiven but are thinking about it?

14. Are you friendly with your body?

15. What stories do you think people tell about you without really knowing you at all?

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