The diet hasn't been the best in the last several days. Massive amounts of cheese bread and pizza Saturday—which I allowed myself after 25 miles of biking—brunch for my brother's birthday on Sunday, and a treat day at work yesterday. Last night it finally caught up with me and I was a sick puppy just before hopping in the shower, feeling grateful that the nausea didn't hit while I was at Genesis attempting to become beautiful.

Meanwhile, Nick was feeling achy and tired and we both curled into bed before 8:00 had much airtime. Nick reset the alarm for 5:30 after it went off at 4:30, and I allowed him to, knowing that while I was awake, I didn't feel much like getting up. Then, 5:00 rolled around, and the child's bell jingled when she looked up at me, curious as to why all this time had passed and she still had not been given treats.

But today dawns brightly and it will be better—if, for no other reason, I go to the dentist today...the only one person who praises my teeth and tells me I have the best smile of all of her patients. It's probably a line, but I swallow it hook line and sinker. Every time. And gladly, too. This is also the anniversary of this...has it only been a year?

Sort of a humdrum melting pot of a post, isn't it? Exciting things have happened, honestly, I just want to be feeling better to give them their proper parade in the telling. For now, a picture of the pest:

Nick's plant, which has had a place in his life much longer than I have, has had this chronic wasting disease since, oh, around the beginning April. We'll come home to leaves strewn across the floor, others that seem to self destruct, eating away at themselves and looking quite brown and fragile. Poor plant.

Turns out, the chronic wasting disease has a name: Sophie.

For the longest time, I would be standing at the present, and looking back at the way things were the previous year. I suppose it began when the really tough times began to hit, and I longed for that other time back, the time before I truly understood mortality and pain. Gradually, it transitioned that my thinking that life is so good and looking back to remind myself that things were really hard there for awhile. It was my affirmation that I am strong, that I can overcome, and that I will always survive.

But this is the last weird anniversary for me, the next several days—the last time I had to force myself to do something that scared the bejeezus out of me. A year ago today was my last day at one job, which I left for lack of benefits (A very timely move considering that medical emergency thing that popped up 6 weeks later). That night was Relay for Life and ABS Global, where my mother was employed, had a lane dedicated to her. I spent the next day packing up Miles' things, purging albums of the photographic memories we had had together. The day after that, I saw him to go over the divorce papers—the first time I had seen him since I returned home that October day to find him gone. The day after that, I stood before a judge and declared that my marriage was irreconcilably broken. And, the day after that, I began working at my current job.

Easily one of the most tumultuous five-day stretches in my life, it was a series of endings colliding with a series of beginnings...and it left me absolutely exhausted. I needed Mommy, and she didn't come when I called. I ended one life and stumbled upon the start line of the next. But I'll tell you, I started that next life and haven't looked back. It was something I needed to do but truly dreaded doing so...and, being that I forged through and all, perhaps Mom came running after all.

Sometimes I catch myself smiling for no reason and I take stock. It almost doesn't feel natural to be this far out from some sort of trial and at times I wonder when the other shoe will drop. It was one thing after another after another for so long that I truly believed what Aunt Brenda said at the center of our family crises: "We had too many good years." Well if that be the case, and we travel through phases of good, then bad instead of a constant balance, I'm standing at the entrance to some really great times.

Nick approached on hyper legs the other night. "Dear, I think we need to change our lifestyle." He pulls out, with a barely concealed lip quiver, a rechargeable battery and two gnawed golf tees—found, supposedly, in places they don't belong. I suppress a laugh as it's obvious that it isn't my things that Sophie (who absolutely has the sharpest monster-teeth I've ever felt—lord save me from ever having to pill her again) finds and does God knows what with before depositing in the center of the bed or behind the toilet.

But I understand his pain, that rawness of having your things tampered with and your trusting nature abused. I know to lock away knickknacks. Gee, I wonder why? Clem was once the greatest irritation in my life, and oh how he has a soft spot in my heart! But even so, nothing was safe. I don't know how many times I plotted to kill the stinker, sell him on the black market, or (at the very least) sit down and give a stern talking to the male kitten who I believe was fixed a leeeeeeeetle too early with his fascination with my undergarments and makeup.



I support the thievery. Builds character.

Even so, Nick...I understand your frustration, but we don't need to change our lifestyle...but, rather, you need to come to terms with the fact that we are now living with a thief that eats us out of house and home, fills her litter box daily (leaving me to wonder how all that crap came from one little kitten), and generally isn't fond of human affection. At least she hasn't peed on your pillow for a good month now.

Redeeming qualities indeed.

Last Friday, I spent a portion of the afternoon at my aunts' house. They weren't there, but I wanted to try to capture some of the iridescent lavender swirls of fantasy that lassoed me in just the evening before.



I've always loved the grounds here. I turned from the rude modernity of a busy highway into an alcove of quiet residences quite apart from that other life. Parking in my aunts' driveway, I opened the garage door and let myself in. There I stood in the dining area, looking out in appreciation. I felt like Mary Lennox just then, with my own secret garden—but I was not the only one eager to drink it all in:



A storm was coming, I could feel the foreboding whispering from the lips of the heavy air. "Just a quick look around," I warned myself, but it was not meant to be. I had my camera and I was in Rappaccini's garden. The vibrant petals burned against the grayed light and the garden creatures—you know, the ones that only come to life when you're not looking, and no matter how fast you turn around you can't catch them moving around—watched intently as I picked my way through their world.



And, I breathed in the sweet fragrance. The wind was picking up, and the fragile blossoms revealed their true beauty as they persevered, showing their strength. The wind chimes picked up, and it sounded to me then, encased in my world of fancy as I was, as through faeries had descended around. My Aunt Brenda put a wind chime on my mother's grave. Mom used to lie awake at night, often unable to sleep with what faced her. One night, she heard a wind chime hanging from the corner of the house, talking to her. She had a moment of divinity then, and forever after referred to the wind chime's tune as "God's Song". I cherish the sweet strains.



But I just can't seem to capture the wonder of it all for you here. These pictures managed to miss the pixie dust shimmering down like curtains around the scene, the smiles I couldn't keep from my face. Perhaps it is a place one mustn't merely see, but experience. Perhaps that magic only comes to life to a girl latching on to that peace and beauty she knew so well from her childhood. Perhaps the camera's eye will never have the focus of mine.