I got the call

She was raped.

God Dammit.

So young, so angry, so brave and strong and eager to run.

He took it from her.

He . . . in his fucked up, twisted mind, in the depravity that hits when the soul just leaves . . .

he stold it from her.

WHY does this continue to happen. WHY do men feel they have the right to just rip the core from young girls. This will affect her forever. I know. I know . . .

He goes on . . . probably spinning some sick and twisted fantasy

She will never trust. She will always look over her shoulder. She will have doubts that creep into every decision of her life. She will live in fear, struggle to survive, die trying or die trying to prove she is worth something to somebody. I know. . ..

That son of a bitch.

drunk blogging again. not good. I wonder if i will have to delete this post to. Sometimes i write and write . . .coming back later and realizing that i make an ass out of myself when I do this. Tonight I am so torn up and raw I dont care. i'm blogging. hell with it.

this has been such a bad week at work, starting with traveling out of state to pick up a child who did not want to come with me. She made her plans, she wanted to stick with it. i wished she could have but the law is the law and I pulled her back with me. The plan was for me to have a few days off to make up for it but alas, there was no placement for thsi child so i have been babysitter de jur.

I wouldn't have minded had she been slightly reasonable, instead I am the queen of all evil to her. I spend my days being accosted by her, screamed at, cursed out, alternating between how much she loves me and how scared she is to having her tell me she may as well kill herself now because she wants to die . . . all because of me. When I don't have the pleasure of her company I have been working myself to the bone to prepare to send this child back to the state she wants to be in . . . . until today. until it came out that serious sex abuse apparently was happening. Of course I understand it. Nobody else does. i'm thrust into my own situation where I was willign to keep my mouth shut about being raped daily because it meant I had food on the table and a bed to sleep in. Gone were the days of sleeping in a car or under a tree. i had a fire a night, and it was well worth the embarrassment of having to be raped by a man thirty years older then me. After awhile rape no longer hurts. It settles into a numbness, a shield that protects the body and soul for the harsh realities of your body being invaded at somebody elses beck and call.

I'mfighting for her and she doesn't even know. She doesnt care. She cussed me out, spit on me and threw a book at me today. She told me she will get loaded regardless of what i say. She hates me. I should be dead and shewould be fine. It was lovely. I wonder what will happen when I tell her she can't go back.

I move from her to my next child, a child who spent the entire hour talking about her abuse, her trauma, her pain. She will be ok . . . she has a solid base. . . .

Back to the office I go, thinking hwo nice it would be to go hoem early, cook dinner, play with my babies. I was . . . am . . . exhausted. I miss my lover, I miss my bed, I miss my energy. I wanted to be home and recharge. Then . . . I get the call . . .

another young girl I have sent home, one I made a contraversial decision about . . .one I have been watching and monitering the best I can . . . made a suicide attempt. For confidentiality I can't speak of it but the poitn is I am responsible. I sent her home. I sent her into a pit of vipers who started again and wasn't there to save her. She t ried to save herself through death.

what the fuck am I thinking that I can do this job. I did exactly what I set out not to do. I placed a child at risk. A child almost lost her life. A child still could lose her life or her functioning. Why? because I sent her home. I . . . of all peopple . .. know that home is never safe. what was I thinking.

I came home after working several mroe hours to find myself utterly devastated. i don't know that I can continue with this line of work. I don't know how to find the words to tell her im sorry. I don't know why i thought I was well enough to do this. im fucked up and now she is fucked up.

I came home to beer and sobbing. maybe its the stress of the last few weeks, maybe its traveling, maybe its exhaustion or maybe its all. I am a mess. and, in the middle of my mess, is bill, always bill. Right there to remind me how weak and pathetic I am next to him. Right there to remind me that my lover and I will never be. Right there to tell me on one hand how much he loves me and on the other hand to tell me that he doesn't care what I ask. I told him if he cared then let me love my lover. Let me be happy, let me move on. Let me be. Just be. Thats all I ask. with his swagger he reminds me that he goes where he wants, does what he does. Its just like that. I have no choice.

im thinking its best ot just go. run. leave. gone. Why fight it. why?

So tired that I know I shouldn't be writing. Exhaustion is the worst time to write and yet seems to be the time when I am drawn the most to writing. Sometimes the element of emotional and physical exhaustion lends itself to creating a place of just being raw and open, walls going down, flood doors opening. Other times it lends itself to writing a jargled jumbled mess that makes no sense at all. Usually I don't read my stuff later so it doesn't matter but sometimes i go back. Its then that I see the times I write that are spurred by different emotions, highs and lows, hopes and fears. It affects the way I write. The way I think. The basic simple facts I believe in or don't. Maybe thats why my life is rocky and rolling . . . maybe there is no solid ground. Maybe there never will be.

When I look at my future, in ten years, I see a blank page. I don't know how to fill it in, what to write, what colors to choose. I don't see a theme or a canvas. its just blank. At some times I believe that in ten years I will be married, the kids mostly out of the house, I will be traveling and secure in my career. I will cook for lots of people and play with grandkids as much as possible. Life will be about having fun and relaxing.

Other times I can't imagine that. I wonder what the point is. I am terrified of complacency and settling into a mundane middle class existence. I want to join the peace corp and travel teh world or adopt five kids and build a life for them. I want to do the extraordinary, not sit in a mundane lifestyle and watch the years pass by. I've no fear of death but a huge fear of not living life to its fullest. I don't want to be rich or famous, I don't want to drive a new car or outfit my family in the latest brand names. I just want to life fully.

Every day I wake up and think about how amazing this life is. Maybe you have to go through an experience where your basic fundamentals are stripped from you before you can truly recognize how amazing it is to simply go for a walk, take a drive or plan a vacation. I even still get emotional when I make a phone call at times, remembering the years I wasn't allowed. Watching television still feels like I am going to get in trouble . . . I wait for my husband to come around the corner and catch me. Lying in a bubble bath with a book is exhilerating and at the same time I'm so aware that I would have caught hell for weeks just a few years ago.

Looking into my future, I never really saw myself with anybody again. I can't imagine shifting my life to include somebody who would once again have a say over where I go and what I do with my time. How would I let somebody in who could bar me from a weekend trip or limit my choices and freedom. I logically can understand that I only will find this relationship if I let myself and that there are many many men out there who aren't this way. How do you ever know though? really know?

And under all of that . . . how do you know your strong enough to move on? strong enough to be a true partner to another and yet to hold your own space and boundaries, your own beliefs and ideals without becoming homogonized to the other person? Where do you allow the lines to blur and yet know when to hold steadfast to yourself? I haven't had a relationship like that . . . I realize that i want that . . . and that I'm woefully unprepared ot know how to proceed. I find myself being pulled back into patterns of the past, thinking I should settle for the 'safe' man . . . the one who won't rock the boat, who . . . while kind and gentle is also not the one I am pulled to. The one I am pulled to is like fire . . . and I'm a moth drawn to the flame . . . dancing so close I am bound to be burned but so delighted in the lick of flames I care not. And then . . . when all is quiet, I think about it, logic sets in and I began logically explaining to myself why the other is safer. Its not a fire . . . its more like a warm blanket that just cloaks you . . . its comfortable, its easy, it asks for nothing and requires nothing. There is companionship and maybe even chemistry but it pales in the light of the other.

My old habit has always been to shy away from what I really want to seek out what is safe. My history shows that this has never been safe nor has it ever worked for me. Do I dance in the flame . . . do I throw aside old habits and dive in head first, letting all caution to the wind . . . asking for nothing in return and knowing that I may have to pick myself up from the ashes when I am done? OR . . . do I keep it as a special memory and go back to the safe place, the warm arms, the quietness, the dark eyes. Do I dip back to the one who silently has the world to offer? I don't know . . . do I want that world? I don't think so . . .

Maybe I am answering my own questions . . . I began this talking about not wanting to live a mundane existance but to push the boundaries of life. I want the passion, the spark, the backbending toe curling arching hanging on for dear life passion. That doesn't come often. That passion becomes passion for all things in life . . . arts, career, friendship, life . . . but that passion can cost one hell of a price. It can cost me everything. I don't know . . .

Loss

Coming home from the playa I had so much emotion in my soul. I was feeling so healed and ready for my future whatever that holds. I left behind the expectations and the pain from the past, said goodbye to relationships that didn't matter anymore, was full of love from my playa family and was looking forward to coming home recharged and ready.

Until Sunday night, when I found out that Dale, a man who was the kindest, gentlest, best person I have ever known, had passed away. It was a shock. I knew he was sick but Dale is a strong man and up until last week when I left, was still out on the baling tractor working the alfalfa. I didn't see this coming. I feel like somebody just opened my chest, ripped my heart out and left a huge dark cave where once was a soul.

Today I spent remembering. I couldn't do anything. I can't bring myself to go to the farm. I can't bring myself to make the call. I can't face the reality that the one safe place in my entire life is gone. He is gone, and soon, she will be gone to. I am unprepared for the fact that I don't have a center any longer, no stability or anchor in my life. I feel like I am about to set into a drift with no directions and it scares the hell out of me.

When I was fifteen, my home was so abusive that police and child welfare intervention was necessary. The day I left was the scariest day of my life. I ran and hid in the bushes from my stepfather as he raced his motorcycle up and down the street trying to find me. I would like on the ground with my baby (his child) under me so that he couldn't see us. He had threatened to kill us so many times that I have no doubt, he would have, that day, had he found us. Eventually though we arrived at the police station. The fear was immense. They took little Jayme from me and had a woman watching her while I went to another room and was interviewed for hours by the detective. The humiliating pieces from the past three years all came out. . . one by one. After that we were driven to child welfare, the office where i work now .. . . specifically in the same office that my supervisor is now in . . . . at that point, I began to realize that not only was I not going home, but that there was nowhere for me to go. As a teenager with a toddler, no home was certified for us both. I didn't know what that meant but I knew I was scared. Scared for me and my baby girl.

We went back to the center we had originally been at. There it began to come out that I was going home with this little white haired lady Marsha. She wasn't a foster parent but she came out fighting for me. I remember the detective stating to her that I was in very high danger until my stepfather was caught. Marsha smiled and said "I have a big shotgun in the closet, a son on one side and another on the other side . . . nobodys gonna hurt these kids". With that, she loaded Jayme and I in her car and home we went. I was terrified. I saw a Jesus sticker on her car and hoped it would be ok. She told me she had a husband. Dale. I was more terrified then ever.

As we pulled into Marsha and Dales home I gasped. So many times I had drove by their home and wished for a life like that. The sweet white farmhouse, acres of green growing hay, the cows and chickens. I cried and told her. She welcomed me home. She set about making a space in the room for me. What I didn't know, is that she had never taken a kid home before. She took a risk for me. Her husband, Dale, allowed that risk.

I met him soon. He was tall, cowboy hat, a farmer to the core. Dale didn't speak much and I was terrified of him. My experience with men wasn't very good and he was very big. He never said much, but was polite. A few days later they called me to see a birth of a calf. That calf died, and Dale was concerned for the mother. He went to buy a baby calf at the auction and invited me. I was terrified and refused to go. He sensed my fear . . . he was soon back with a tiny baby cow and let me watch as he introduced her to the grieving mother. He was so gentle and concerned.

Over the next twenty years, Dale and Marsha were my anchor and my rock. They would come to visit, come for the holidays. One year there was a flood and rats kept coming through the sewer lines . .. . for Christmas Dale bought me a huge rat trap as a joke. He was kind and funny. On my graduation from high school when everybody forgot me, Dale came in from the fields and took me to dinner to celebrate. He loved my children and I in a calm and safe way that nobody ever had before. He could be moved to anger though. One particular time I was stuck in a very unsafe situation with a man I had been dating. I couldn't find my way out and was scared. I called Marsha and Dale answered. He knew right away something was wrong and said "are you safe?" I wasn't . . . and he knew. Within moments him and Marsha were there to help me once again and take me home, to the farm. He had a few simple choice words for that young man but we all knew he wasn't joking.

Home. Thats what the farm is. When my life was in turmoil at fifteen . . . it was home. When my mother brought my stepfather back into my life at sixteen, I ran away in the middle of the night in a snowstorm with my daughter and hid while Marsha and Dale drove an hour to pick us up . .. and take us home. I lived with them for months, building money, skills, and letting my heart heal . . . before I could move on again. When my heart was broken, I went home, to the farm. When my marriage ended, It was Marsha and Dale who healed me again. Sitting at the table with farm food being served, Dale drinking his milk, Marsha fussing over me. I was safe there. Probably the only place on this planet that I was safe, that is consistent, that is solid. I can go in the middle of the night, on any given day of the week. I can call when my world is crashing or when something exciting is happening. Most of the last ten years I have spoken to them daily, sometimes good, sometimes rocky, but always there. They parented me. They raised me. They encouraged me to do better and knocked me around when I was spinning out of control.

Now, he is gone. No more farming the fields. No more watching the tractor weaving in and out. No more laughing as my children climbed onto his lap and got their first tractor ride or jumped in the pickup to head out to a far field. The farm is going to be sold . . . I can't imagine my life without walking in the garden or picking clusters of grapes. The thought of never sitting at that table and sipping tea from Marsha's teacup collection or being teased about my fear of the basement is terrifying.

So little of my life has ever been solid, I don't hold connections or keep grounded. I don't carry on traditions. I don't have a safe childhood home I long to return to. I float like a crushed dandelion in the wind. When I crash, hurtling in a downward spiral I land at the farm. Now . . . that is gone.

Without Dale, Marsha won't make it for long. She has been suffering from a host of problems for awhile and dementia is beginning to settle in. She needed Dale to care for her. She needs the lifelong patterns of gardens and chickens, church and quilting. Without them she will begin to lose everything . . . and then I will lose her.

I am scared for me. I am scared for my children. This is the anchor, the rock, the solid place in my life and its gone. Nobody to ask my questions of any longer. Nobody to cry to, or to share joy with. Nobody to listen when I am confused. It's gone. The only solid thing in my life, is gone.

I know I shouldn't be selfish. Dale is in a better place, I believe that. Marsha will join him soon and if anbody on this earth should make it to heaven its them. But, im here, and im scared. I panic and get lightheaded when I think about my life now. How do I recharge? Where is my safe place going to be? Who is there to care at all now? To guide me and pull me back into line? There is nobody. I'm alone . . . completely alone. I am so scared.

This week I have to face his funeral. I don't think I can. The children want to go and say goodbye. I can't say goodbye. I cried and sobbed so hard this morning I drove the wrong way and had to stop on the shoulder of the road. My sobs led to wails, to a primal level of pain and release, to shaking and heaving, sobbing, hysteria. I had to come home and tell the children. Katie stared at me blankly . . . she hasn't connected yet. Makiah crumpled and began sobbing much the way I did . . . . Jayme, sat silent for a moment and then the tears came . . . . Hannah and Jacob cried . .. we all are feeling lost.

I always have to be the strong one to get everybody through. This time, I don't know if I can. I don't know where that strength is. I feel vacant and empty. I'm tired of doing this life alone. Now I am more alone then ever. Im so scared. I feel like that lost and lonely kid the first day I was taken away . . . knowing that home is gone and no longer an option but without any clue what is there to take its place. I'm lost. I'm scared. I want my parents. They are no longer there. Home is gone . . . im afraid I'm gone with it.

Thinking . . . . pondering. . . So, I just read a blog entry about a man who went to burningman . . . his truck was dinged and dented when a part broke. Burningman said he could file a claim and fix it but he realized that after he came home, everytime he looked at the ding in the side of the truck it was with nostalgia. He kept the dent . . . thought about painting a kiss. . . that is beautiful.

When I was in my first year of college I took a class on religion. My favorite story was that of a Buddhist woman who went to the temple to burn incense . . . she asked for blessings from the Buddha and began being blessed greatly. As her blessings increased she began to get selfish, she wanted the blessings for herself only. Next time she went she cupped the incense to go straight to her and the Buddha statue only. She burned and singed the Buddha's face. It was an amazing story.

The class opened my eyes to Buddhism and I began collecting Buddhas here and there. My first one I bought was a sitting Buddha, Lotus style. As soon as I got it home I dropped it . . . breaking his nose off. I delighted in this because it is my reminder to share the blessings in my life. The next Buddha I got fell and broke as well. I bought a Buddha lamp and it broke . . . To this day, every single Buddha I have bought has broken or had a chip out of it. I absolutely love that reminder. It has become a running joke in our house. Last year at Christmas Makiah bought me an oil warmer with three buddhas on it. Within days it had broken . . .

My point? Nothing really. Reading his post made me think of my own experience. Made me remember to embrace the experience . . . . good or bad. What looks like a negative can quite simply be something beautiful. So, if you see a cracked Buddha, thank somebody for your blessings

I woke up this morning feeling giddy and excited. Three days from now I will journey to a dried up lakebed in the middle of nowhere to spend the days rediscovering who I am. I wasn't going to make it this year due to a myriad of issues but at the last moment the playa called me, and I couldn't say no.

Going to Burningman means so many things to different people. It is so easy to get swept up in stories of orgy style parties and endless drugs. Some people talk about the hippies or the ravers, whatever their particular bent is. That is all true . . . as with any city, if you look close enough you will find just about anything.

But, on the playa, its magic. It is the only place in my life I have ever felt connected and fully accepted. Nowhere else do I feel that people understand me. I understand that my outlook and view on life is often significantly different. It is one of the reasons I tend to not make connections in this every day life. Its far simpler to have many polite aquaintences. However, on the playa . . . its understood. The people who actually treck to the playa with everything they need to survive the week . . . those people get it. They understand the need to experience everything this life has to offer. The good, the bad, the unusual. The experiences that you draw from in those down times to pull you through.

When I think of my burningman experiences, the ones that move me are the ones that taught me so much about myself. My very first burn with the Tribe (my group) we had planned and worked on our project for months (a move theatre in the desert). I had taken several trips to Sacramento and San Francisco. I was ready . . . I was fired up. We got to the desert and began to build our circus tent. The wind was thrashing and dust was flying. It was hot, the sand stung, it wasn't the best of times. I was very task oriented, wanting to get this "done". Soon, a group of men . . .adult men . . began whooping and hollering. They had lost their hula hoop and were chasing the hoop down the playa. I noticed and went back to the task of holding down the circus tent while the men attached the gromets. Next thing I knew . . . the adults in MY group were chasing this hula hoop. They left our job to go chase a childs toy.

That made me so angry! We had so much to do and these adults were chasing a three dollar item. I stopped to figure out how to keep working while this pack of now 15 or so people chased a hula hoop. I thought it was idiotic that these men ran after this rolling hoop in the wind . . . leaving responsibility behind . . .

And then, it hit me. Thats what we are here for. Jimmy grabbed my hand and pulled me along. Soon, I was one of them . . . I was chasing a hula hoop across the desert. That hoop would roll in the wind, fall down, pop back up and roll more. It would slam into cars or structures and pop in the air. Others joined our run . . . I lost my shirt somewhere . . . This went on for probably thirty minutes. Finally, the hoop was caught and everybody began to cheer and hug, clap and cry . . . it was amazing.

it wasn't the hoop. No. It was so many strangers gathering for sheer fun and joy. It was acceptance and a community event. We all were best friends after that. We had connections.

Maybe that is why I love the playa. Connections with others can be made in moments. A look, a touch, a gift, its there. It touches your soul. You come back with your heart so full of love and joy that it exudes for weeks. Here in the real world I can't hug a stranger or cry with a woman I just met. I can't put on a purple tutu, snakeskin boots and a cowboy hat and walk out my door to find somebody else with the same idea. Out there, I am truly me. Out there, I can express myself in any way I choose and be alright.

On the playa I am free. That is an amazing way to be.

I have been so busy posting about my own personal drama I forgot the intent for the blog. Moving my life to a place of simplicity, a place of peace and becoming as sustainable as I can. I realize this year that much of that has went by the wayside. Sustainability at least. I have put up less then 25 jars of food. Primarily I have done beets, pickles and beans. I think next weekend I may have a canning frenzy and put up 100 pounds of tomatos and sauce. Part of the reason I have put up less is having a smaller garden. I truly believe in eating seasonal and it doesn't make sense to purchase food to preserve when we live in a climate that produces year round. Part of the reason is that I have had a long slow easy summer and was too lazy to do much more then that. Least I recognize my laziness ha!

Yesterday we harvested the last of the corn and a patch of beans in the garden. I cleaned out a huge piece and will be replanting lettuce, spinach and onions there this weekend. I am a bit late to plant more flats of cabbage and broccoli so will grab some starts from the coop. So much for self sufficiency lol.

We are moving into my favorite time of year, fall. Some of that is really just due to harvest season and the excitement of canning, dehydrating, freezing, settling in for the winter. Primarily though it is the joy of cooking for my family. I love autumn dinners, big pot roasts, stews, hearty food after spending the days hiking in the woods. Love to watch the leaves change and feel the bite in the air. Jayme is 20 now and still gets so excited for Thanksgiving, she looks forward to the pumpkin rolls, the yams and turkey. She is like a four year old child on Christmas Eve.

When I begin to make plans to move away in a year, I wonder what it will be like to not have all of my children under my roof, all of them here for a big meal, to hear the sounds of them joking, teasing, remembering stories good and bad. I don't know that I am ready to give it up. Staying here seems impossible though. How do you move from being a mother, from your identity as a mom of many and begin to stretch into the realm of a woman on her own, without the buffer of your children's noises as a distraction?

Good or bad . . . I'm going to find out. I have everything to apply for a teaching position in Alaska, a few different options in Arkansas. Arizona is a possibility as well, if my dad moves down there. Somewhere. I will be . . . and my babies will be here. Katie will likely go to Washington for school, Jayme will stay here where she has her grandmother and friends. I will be with just my three youngest. Excited . . . but oh so unsure. I feel in my soul its right to go. I will go. I just don't know how . . .

BUT for tonight, I won't worry. I will have my kids and their boyfriends for dinner. I will just enjoy the simplicity of spaghetti and meatballs, of hearing them chatter, of feeling that all is well when all my chicks are under my roof at once. Maybe I will make a cheesecake and see Jayme smile. How many more times will I be able to do that?

Moving forward always comes with a price right?