Something magical happened to me last night, and I wanted to make sure I share it with my heart-dwelling nestly owls of the internet=you!

In 1992, I went through a soul-searing, toxic, scary, abusive relationship when I was 18 yo. I managed to escape from a terribly isolated situation, and made a vow, a promise you could say, that I would travel the world and see new places before I settled down, went to college, got married, blah, blah, etc, etc.

Clearly that promise was an escape tactic in order for me to cope with the traumatic events from that relationship. But 7 years later, I was still bound and determined to make a trip abroad happen. Finally, surprisingly, everything came together. I left for Europe on March 24th, 1999. I was to be gone for 3 months, visiting 10 countries. I flew to Lisbon, Portugal, and would eventually fly back from Dublin, Ireland.

When I landed in Lisbon, I was so panicked, I called my mom and spent 2 hours not leaving  the airport. I was convinced I didn’t REALLY need to leave EVERYTHING I’d ever cared about behind:J ob, Apt, Boyfriend, Best Friend, Friends, Family… I could just get right back on a plane and come home and stop This Nonsense. Fortunately, finally, I made it outside.

The next 3 months were some of the most painful birth passage of Self I’ve ever known. It was messy. It was immature. It was frivolous. It was badly money-managed. It was also exhilerating, intoxicating, exhausting, thrilling, and I was utterly, totally, completely Free. I discovered my body’s natural clock-when she likes to get up, eat, how long I take to do things, how long I like to linger. I learned how long I need to really gaze at something to drink it in. I learned that my movement through space and time, is a singular event, and even if another redhead, of the same age, height, speech, and demographic were to do this exact same trip, it would be as different as Night and Day.

I walked off the plane in SFO on June 11, 1999, in a red dress, gold shoes, and greeted my new life.I had kept the Promise. I had nothing-no money, no home, no job. I had no sweetheart. But I had family, friends, and was loved. I also had one thing I’ve never had before, something so singular and original, I’ve never forgotten it.

The sense that I will ALWAYS keep a promise to myself. No matter how stupid, no matter how outdated. No matter if the original reasons aren’t the same reasons anymore, but that it must be carried through. If I went to the trouble to make the promise to 18 yo me, it’s because She NEEDED that hope to get through that tough time.

So the Scrapbook is the mosaic of that trip, that experience. I started Stitch n Bitch’s (craft nights) at my house 3? 4? years ago in a shameless attempt to finish the 3 book tome. Sure, I invited ppl over to work on projects. But really, I needed to get this done.

And last night, I did.

It’s finis.

I wonder what’s Next?

**Photo of album to be posted later**

Related Reading

• Why Promise?

http://mylittlepail.com/you-make-me-feel-like-dancing/

It talks about the strange flow of creative energy that writing requires in my life, and how it is intrinsically linked to the energy flow needed for dance.

I’ve been dragging my heels about writing here, as the sense of connection, and satisfaction has waned steadily over the last 6 months. I would love to tell you it’s just temporary. The fact is, I don’t know. Statistically, I can tell you I will likely be back in a few years, but there’s no guarantee of that.

I was in this “what on earth should I do about the blog?” headspace when my friend Cake took me out to dinner and a hot tub. Casually in passing he says, “Blogging isn’t for everyone.” And a cartoon lightbulb went off over my head.

I’d been beating myself up about this for a while, when the fact is, blogging ISN’T for everyone. I still have EIGHT posts, sitting in draft form, some from over a year ago, waiting to be explored, polished, tossed around, and shared with you like a little gold writing nugget. Something I found, something magical.

But my heart isn’t in it. My heart IS, however, in my feet. And my voice. I find myself shuffling my feet around more, bouncing around the house, singing softly to myself sometimes or loudly sometimes. ;D

So I mentioned this to a group of friends, and one especially good friend of mine, offered to take over the Pail. My Little Pail. I wasn’t sure how this was going to work…but we hashed out some details, and agreed he will re-vamp the layout, have his own style and category, and post as he feels the urge to. His name, dear readers, is Costello.

I know he’s posted a few times already, but I wanted to formally welcome him, and request that you comment and engage with him as often as you desire.

It’s likely I will occasionally pop my head in to share some new juicy tidbit.Some life change, some dramatic curve of the road.

But mostly, Pail readers, I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for two amazing years that have brought me empowerment of my own passion, love at any hour, intrigue, surprises, and a little heartbreak. The good kind.

Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Goodnight Sweetheart-Chuck Berry

Random Posts

We don’t dress up, unless we want to. We share who picks the place, and when. We sometimes talk more after the brunches, but for the most part, we don’t. We have never fought after a brunch, nor AT a brunch. No one has ever bailed on a brunch, or showed up terribly late. We’ve had them mostly at restaurants, but also had them at our homes.

We’ve been the Ladies who Brunch. We’ve been the Ladies who Dinner. We’ve been the Ladies who Overnight in Santa Cruz. In a few months, we’ll be the Ladies who Hot Spring!

I think part of the secret recipe is that we are discreet. We don’t agree with each other, for agreement’s sake. We are trusting in each other’s choices. We support, we laugh, and we question each other. We keep track of who’s who, and when was what. We tread in deeper territory at times, and keep it light at other times.

And every single time we get together, the first thing we say is “It’s so good to see you guys! These brunches have become so important to me!!”

We began to be “heard” about by our other girlfriends, of which there are many. Others wanted in. We were like, Sure! So we had an open house brunch. And while it was nice, it didn’t hold the same intimacy, the same longevity, that our 3 person brunches have. So we decided to keep is Just Us for most of the year, and twice a year, have a Public Ladies who Brunch. I’m getting ready to host the first Public one at my house, and I’m very excited!!

As families get formed, relationships and friendships ebb and flow, as transitions take over and perspectives shift, it can be crucial to get the Long View from those who’ve known you in all your myriad facets. And these Ladies, My Ladies, have been precious to me in this regard. They’ve seen me through alot, and they are ALWAYS on my side. And I’m on theirs.

So I raise a well-loved mimosa to my Ladies, who shine in my heart, and shine in my life. May we brunch until the plates are cold!

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• Quan Yin-in the dark
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• Getting Absolved-Thanks, Jesus
• Second Chances

It’s been almost 3 months to the day since I posted here last. Life has been a series of strenuous electric shocks to the heart..my dad passed away on May 4th, and I posted here that week, and just before his funeral. I’ve been putting my thoughts here, into the Little Pail, for the last 6 months, over his illness, my disquiet. My depression. Job changes. Family and friends and everything in between. One week after the funeral, I awoke at 7 am to a text from my webmaster, stating the last 6 months of data was gone. I felt a cold valley open up below me, as I realized all the feelings and thoughts I’d put down…all the process, expression, and creativity I’d laid lovingly into place, like a mosaic, was up in a smokey puff.

It was an important morning. My friend’s baby was turning 1, and a birthday party I’d eagerly looked forward to was imminent. A Ride was on their way to get me. I started to get dressed, and doubled over, howling til my breath ran out, then gasping for air. I think that was my first true sense of vulnerability about this Muse, Mistress Writer. I felt like a sailor’s wife who’s heard that their mate is “lost at sea”.

I couldn’t understand–WHERE did my writing GO? How am I to feel, how am I to honor my dad if everything genuine thing I ever wrote since I found out he was sick is just…vvvvttt?!

Eventually, MGFD (My Good Friend) scoured the internet for cached posts over the last 6 months. He found every post but the last one, which was a poem I’d re-posted by Robert Frost for my dad, just before the funeral. I kept telling myself I’d re-post it, but didn’t. I was terrified of the screen I’m typing on, then. I’m scared of it now. I don’t feel entirely reassured that it won’t happen again. It’s made me want to run back to Tribe, or even Facebook, to make sure this art form I express in, stands a fighting chance against the vvvvvtttt!

But it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is that my job has turned out to be very toxic for my soul. Yes, the job I changed to just 8 months ago. It’s horrifically demanding, and the pay is a joke compared to how much I’m busting my chops.

My health has taken a beating this year. A variety of mystery illnesses, as well as for my CAT, of all people, has consistently plagued our normally happy home.

My best friend of 17 years and I hadn’t spoken in months, and about a month ago, when we did finally get to the White Elephant, it rapidly became a shouting match via email. It feels a lot like a marriage separation, and though I’ve never been through one, I can honestly say it is the worst feeling I’ve ever had on this planet. SThis, combined with everything else, showed me that it was time that I start seeing a therapist.

Dating has been a challenge to my center of gravity, and I’ve stretched myself further than I could really afford to, in an effort to stave off grief and loss. I’m starting to understand how pointless THAT was.

There have certainly been other factors to my life, huge ones even, that have contributed to my Still Being Alive. One is a perspective shift around my career and life path. Another is that I’ve started a side business, which I was threatening to do, re-selling parasols. (Website soon!-www.promisesparasols.com)

And I’m learning about the stock market, so I can learn how to put my dineros to work. Some of these things are surprisingly nourishing and simultaneously draining. I regularly panic, then breathe through it. Sometimes I forget to breathe, though.

I wanted to break the paper wall, and mention that while I’m not HERE, I’m still here. Or maybe even Here. Just not, you know….”Here!!!”

I know that this Little Pail, this container of redheaded heart-shaped, soul-funk pot of mish mash is not meant to be only filled with the lighter side of Life. But this rupture is a big one, and I’m not sure of the message from Spirit yet. Maybe it’s time to put down the pen, take up something new. Go back to Dancing? Take up Drinking? I wish I had more in my life, but I just don’t.

So Summer can keep rolling by at a steady 50 mph clip, 20 knots in the boat, whatever. I’m at a standstill, and while I can pretend I’m moving, I’m really not.I’m crushed under the knowledge that a truly good man, who loved me unconditionally, with all his heart, is gone, and I don’t get to see him ever again. Not this life.

So I’m standing right here, until I can stop crying about that…

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It was then, and remains now, the oldest, most worn out, rattiest, cover duct-taped, edges gone book I own. But at least its signed by the author.

What was it about his stories that shaped me over the years? The redhead worship? The strong female lead throughout all of his books? The rich philosophy, the pedantic ramblings, the mossy, kelp-like undergrowth, rich with brainy minerals?

Throughout some dark times Mr. Robbins kept me sane. He kept me insane as well. Laughing at the tragedy, crying at the ecstasy. He kissed me, and he slapped me. Each time a book was released, I would sigh with relief, that there was a chance, a fat/juicy/hotdog w/ketchup&mustard/hold/onions &pickles of a chance, that I was going to find kinship and symmetry in this crazy mixed up world, and it would allow me to be here, on this earth just to try, for a little bit longer.To keep existing.

Sure, not all his works made me bow down at the altar of Literature. And no, I’m not the sort of fan who’s tried to learn everything about the Author. Yes, I went to a reading/new book release once. Yes, I looked briefly into his personal life.(he has kids,has been married, etc.) But the most interesting probing I’ve done was look into the authors/stories that inspire HIM. Whoa, did that give me a view into the Brain Most Revered.

and this little, carved out part of the universe, that pays homage to my own thoughts, that gives me voice and soaring freedom of expression. This Little Pail, is named in tribute of him. It’s been 15 years, and when I crack open those books now, I see myself. I see the shaped parts of my caverns and valleys around a few tenets, inside those wacky books of his, that I hold quite dear. Pacifism. Laughter and Pleasure. Dance. Magic. Mayonnaise. Stilts. Sex.Privacy.Aging. Children. The Pacific Northwest. and last but certainly not least, my origins, as a redhead.

My proudest moment in regards to the Man himself?

When I did go to his book release, it was for Villa Incognito. The book explores the question of the Mysterious, and the many answers we have not, cannot, or won’t yet, explore.

I raised my voice with difficulty. “Is there a secret of yours, of the mysterious, that you are not very proud of, and would you share it,with us?”

My reluctant mentor, stared at me in respect, the room went quieter still, and he said nothing.

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I haven’t been back, really back in the saddle of writing since early December. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, as you may not have noticed the HUUUGGEE gap (gulp) but since I missed my own damn anniversary, I thought I should get down on bended knees and freeakin APOLOGIZE.

BABY, I’m sorry! I know I missed our one year anniversary, but you mean EVERYTHANG to me, baby, please open the door! I’m SORRRYY~!! How many times I gotta say it?

*pause*

*sound of door unlatching*

okay! So now that the groveling is over. What can I say? December was a blur of a Cute Boy, Old Friend who Came back Into Promises’ world. Then there was Other Cute Boy I met at Christmas Time, even though I had a Cold. Then came a quiet and solemn New Years Eve, and Day. Then came all kinds of ping-ponging with Cute Boy #1, which led to yanking around of Cute Boy #2 (sigh, poor thing) and now Cute Boy #1 is gone, and Cute Boy #2 remains. Oh, and I had bronchitis for 2 weeks.

So you see, there was really nothing going on.

But I’m happy to say that BEFORE all that, there was a boy named Jocko, who we all NOW know…dum dum duuummmmm! Is actually a fraud and a con man, yes! See my other post, here.

I have been at my new job (technically a transfer) for the last 3 months, and even though I work harder, for less pay, and took a demotion, I am so stupidly happy to be rid of the mental anguish and constant humiliation, its all I can do every day to not kiss my boss, and dance a jaunty irish reel, right in the middle of her dangerously overloaded round table. Still, it’s amazing the feeling of being out from under someone’s deadly triangle shaped fingernail.

I’m back to researching adoption, and insofar as Love goes,decided to Let Go of the Idea of A Man for Promise. For now. It’s too hard. Period.

The cat is good, the house is good. Family has endured some rough trials, see here.but I’m working on the acceptance there. My sister is leaving for France very soon, and I’m SOOPER excited for her. Never had a vacation. I know, I know, what’s THAT about! Go Sisterness to the mountains, to the cheese, to the seductive language, and the warm hearts~! Watch out for dog poo!

I’m a bit tight on money these days, so spending time reading indoors until Spring peeps out of its bear cave. Headed to Portland in late March, very excited to see Best Friend and Baby. Perhaps visit a family who’s adopted that I’ve already interviewed.

Thanks for bearing with me! and *raises glass*, here’s to the first year of MLP, and hopefully, many more!

Related Reading

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There’s not enough time to fix it–to mend over the broken, ripped stitches.Or to make new, luminescent ones.

There’s not enough words–I have to shout just so you will hear me, and even then, I’m abbreviating it so you will get the gist.

There’s not enough ways to talk–talking brings on coughing, which brings on the racking, ripping, burning horror in your lungs bursting up, and the image of you bent over, throwing all your weight into a handkerchief, like your lungs were a companion-docile animal who turns and bites you without reason.Then keeps on biting you.

There’s not enough privacy–when you can move at all, it’s from bed to the bathroom, to the living room chair, in front of a 6 ft screen, surrounded by hutches filled with glassware for guests that never come, plastic moveable tables holding daily pills, various oxygen machines, cough drops, and the remote for the TV.

There’s not enough touching–I can’t get to you to hold your hand. I can’t sit near you to wrap my arm around your shoulder. To do so causes uproars and exclamations, moving of furniture, clucking, fussing, what a production, a chorus of  “Are you sure?” ‘s. Like touching him could blow him into the breeze like a wil-o-wisp. The danger of intimacy.

There’s not enough time, you tell me. To sort through the 10,000′s of video footage shot over the years, to mark,label, and date the vacations. I need to do that, you say. If I can get out from in front of the darn TV. That’s you, to a T. You say darn, instead of damn. To go through old photographs, send them to the right family member who featured in them. To sort through the cumulation of a life, and preserve it in such a way, that it might be seen through, beyond the veil and illusion that this person marked time, was in history, that this person lived and breathed, loved and lost, witnessed, and was seen by others who love him.

There’s not enough movement-getting you to the kitchen table was a major breakthrough in the house. How on earth can it feel, to have your breath, your chi, the very essence of human life, slowly fight you, getting stronger over you day after day? I can’t even sit on the porch with you and watch the stars.

And what would I say, if I didn’t have to scream it, if I could touch your hand, if your lungs weren’t the enemy, if we had privacy from the well-meaning worrying fuss? How can I tell a man, who’s never raised his voice to me once, how sorry I am, that we are just plain out of time? That the vast canyon of his Beliefs and my Beliefs, that How he was Pushed Away while I was Young, and How I was Raised, all these factors now stare me in the face–as I look helplessly, silently, and lovingly at the man who I called Daddy.

——————————————————————————————–

I worshipped my dad from my earliest memories. I thought he was the sweetest, kindest man I’d ever met. I can still say that, actually. It’s amazing, but true. I was caught on Christmas Eve, gorging on weakly-concealed chocolates stolen from kichen cupboards. I’m talking A LOT of chocolate. His idea of punishment? “Go sit on your bed for an hour.” Seriously?! Where are my books are? And my soft blanket? and the CAT? THAT’S PUNISHMENT?? I was ecstatic. Best hour of my entire.childhood.life.

Mom and I moved out of state shortly after their divorce, and I was devastated. I missed him terribly. He became the beacon in my heart for all good things, a person and a refuge for all my conflicted, angry, impotent feelings that children have when they want control over the crazy events going on around them. I was fighting with the New Stepdad all the time, especially after my sister left home.

I used to go to school, pissed off and fuming, and walk to the payphone, and dial Daddy’s number. I know it by heart, I’ve known it every single day of my life. It’s 805-835-8508. I liked dialing the numbers. I liked knowing that if I needed to, I could reach him. Some days I needed to dial more than once. Or twice. However long it took me to calm down. I never did call him. First of all, I didn’t have change. Secondly, explaining to my mom that I’d called my dad would be a betrayal, and I couldn’t afford to do that in an already divided home. Third, I didn’t trust I could tell my dad without him doing something about it,and he definitely would have done something about it, which would cause more troubles..see Item 2. Fourthly, and this was only admitted on rare occasions to myself, he was too busy, and didn’t want to hear from me.

Eventually, around freshman year of high school, I stopped calling, even on those ghost calls from payphones. I went through some intense experiences in high school (don’t we all), and finally decided that getting impersonal checks on my birthday and christmas was making me acutely uncomfortable. I wrote a long letter when I was 17, explaining that I wanted him in my life, but not in a halfway, distant manner. Either get in or get out. I asked him if he knew I liked antiques? Long dresses? that my favorite color is red?

He responded two months later, and said Yes, he did want to be in my life. Shortly after, he sent me an antique candy dish. I’ve prized this possession above all others in my house for years. It sits in my front living room. Even after its perilous journey, stolen from me by a vindictive former friend, recovered and circulated back through a mutual friend who didn’t know it’s origins..it remains a symbol of beginnings..of love.. and reaching across the distance.

——————————————————————————————–

A few short years later, I found out that Daddy is not my Daddy. He’s not my biological father, and illegedly, he didn’t know this either. I felt lost, and terrified. How did this happen? How can you tell a man, the child you’ve helped raise, sent money to, loved, lost,grieved, and fought back to gain, isn’t actually Yours?

That’s a different story. What happened is that I told him. Gently. He laughed at me “Honey, is this what you’ve been so stressed about when we talk? I had my suspicions you weren’t mine when you were little. But I decided you needed a father, and I could be that for you. You are my little girl, and you always will be. Now, can I please come and visit and we can have a nice time?” I could hear the smile in his voice. The acceptance. The love, and protection. I said, Yes, I will see you tomorrow.

We’ve had the most honest, quiet, sweet relationship since. His family always embraces me, even when our views on lifestyles and choices runs black to white. They include me on email updates, and invite me down constantly. When I called on Father’s Day last year, he teased me about whether or not he was ever going to walk me down the aisle. It was such a fatherly thing to say, I teared up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loving him has never meant sacrificing my own happiness, or having to follow his expectations. Being his daughter has brought me support, love, honesty, grace, and patience. When he has responded in anger, he was pushed into a corner and had to do so to maintain his integrity. His reasoning is solid. We do not see eye to eye on everything, and I haven’t had even remotely the time I wanted to bond further, but I cherish, CHERISH the memories I do have, that wash over me again and again, as he fades from his human experience.

I love you, Daddy. May the silver shine in you, be reflected in me, forever.

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I am having the roughest time lately with UNDERSTANDING my own heart. What she wants. Where she goes. I feel a general fog around my path, that obscures even the simplest decisions. I used to SEE with a blaze of fire and insight. I could dance circles around the indecisive, the wishy-washy, the unambitious. Now I find myself slowing at any old physical or emotional speed bump in the road slowing down to 2 mph, when I could be going 15.

Constantly QUESTIONING.I feel insecure. Fragile.

Something like this happened two years ago, around the same time. I’m wondering all the time, is it a weather thing? Is it a battered heart thing? Have I over-extended my trust? Can Promise kindly step up to the mic? Is Promise here? Has anyone seen her lately?

*pause*

*sounds of people shuffling*

I mean what else can I do but wait? ride it out? Sure I could apply the band aid of retail-therapy to this sucker, but how do I get the neosporin-for-the-soul in there if I wrap it up tight in repressive gauze?

Fragile Future

Bear with me. I’m trying.

Photo credits-

http://technabob.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/fragile_future_2_lamp_2.jpg

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When we look back at moments like these with 20/20 hindsight, and ponder the Path Not Taken, the conjecture comes easy. But when you are actually IN these moments, the fact is, the right road just sort of drifts into clearer focus.

Even though it’s supposed to rain today, I think I can see the road, for a little ways.

Photo-

http://images-0.redbubble.net/img/art/border:blackwithdetail/product:mounted-print/size:small/view:preview/2405332-6-foggy-country-road.jpg

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I’ve been experiencing pangs around this one. Pangs of the not-married, don’t-have-children, haven’t-opened-my-business variety. I feel the distinctive loss of frailty. The loss of ignorance. If I wanted to, I couldn’t even pretend now to be innocent. The days of angst and anxiety are truly gone, and with them, the bleeding heart poetry, experimentation,the recklessness, the discovery of new music, etc. It’s not that something incredibly amazing isn’t in it’s place. The confidence, a sense of place in the world, purpose, and capability is intoxicating in its own right. And my body is looking mighty Fine for a 35 yr old, or so I’m told! But I feel the ebb and flow in a singular way, and the vaccuum it leaves behind.

For the most part, birthdays are a celebration to me. I don’t think of it as getting older; just that I was ever born. I consider it my day to shine, to glow, to burst out in glorious chorus of Love for Self, for Spirit, for Fate, and my fellow loved ones.

Last year’s birthday was a crazy one. I had a wild hair about going hang-gliding, deep underground caving, and a dinner party for 20 thrown in. All those activities were breathtaking (note the pun) in their own right, but the birthday itself was precipitated by some heartbreak, romantically. This “trauma anniversary” was flaring up again just before this year’s birthday.

Because I had gotten so wild last year, I decided this year, despite it being a milestone, I wanted to stay mellow,and hold very little expectations. To treat the time-marker with grace, and gentleness. More of an embrace, less like arm wrestling.

So I had dinner with my mom on Friday night (Birthday was Sunday), which was awesome. She and I are in the times of our lives when we can meet each other, where we are. We are good friends, old friends really, and now just enjoy the space and company so freely available with the other. It’s so diamond/gold/titanium precious to me, I can’t overstate it enough.

I also spent some time with a boy I was dating- hiking, brunching, and lounging around, talking. It was sweet, and so wonderful.

I went to help my neighbor with her dinner party, chatted with guests, and then headed home to change for a milonga. I got on Tiny Black Dress, and arrived nervous and breathless. I love to tango Aregntine style, but hadn’t been in over 2 years. I met a new friend there, an astounding handsome and charismatic man , and we flirted/danced, talked and laughed.

The actual birthday had a make-your-own sushi party, and more than double the amount of people showed up than I expected! I really thougt it would be a quiet gathering. It was raining, so well all packed into my friends’ cozy house. It was very pleasant. I did all the things you are supposed to do on your big day-look nice, have great food, smile from being loved, and smoke hookah.  

Overall, I am still walking the road. And I will go on walking, despite the age I feel, or the cultural times I’m in. And really, it’s my dreams that make the walk so rich, so colorful.

Right? 

———————————————————————————————-

Tonight I’ve watched
the moon and then
the Pleiades
go down

The night is now
half-gone; youth
goes; I am

in bed alone

–Sappho

Photos-

http://brainyworld.com/wp-content/uploads/oldoryoung.gif

http://www.1st-art-gallery.com/thumbnail/116023/1/Young-Woman-Before-A-Mirror.jpg

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