Good Night Moon and Other Nightly Rituals

Its finally quiet around here- No television blaring. No squeaking, chirping toys numbing my ears, dulling my senses. No one tugging at my leg, whining for food; no more tantrums to contend with, fights to referee. My kitchen is now closed, ending the nightly arguments over how many bites need to be eaten before being finished with dinner or my relentless monitoring of the refrigerator door that seems to be opened 100 million times everyday. Just silence. Even my husband has gone to bed for the night. The lulling hum of the running dishwasher is my only companion, a very welcome friend after a long, trying day.

My mind is finally free to de-clutter itself- to unload all of the fleeting and not so fleeting thoughts that have entered my mind throughout the course of my day. Most are probably gone for good as I have become much less proficient at remembering things for any length of time unless I have written it down somewhere- No time for even that nowadays with the demands of three young children vying for my attention.

So here I am trying to relax for a few moments before I begin my preparations for tomorrow which will be more of the same as today-

The time in which I am able to carve out for just me, is usually just leftovers, crumbs left behind- all the good stuff already taken. In my exhaustion, I try to remember something that caught my interest at some point earlier in my day, something I wanted to come back to when I had the chance- now here’s my chance, but I no longer recall what it was that I so badly wanted to remember. As it usually happens, it will pop back into my thoughts during some inopportune time, and I’ll put it off yet again and repeat this sequence until it eventually becomes moot.

Being a mom is tough. It is the hardest job there is and having the ability to do it well, consistently, is nearly impossible, in my opinion anyways. If anyone tells you differently, they’re just flat-out lying. Its physically tiring, emotionally draining and ages you in ways that nothing else comes close to. The worrying and fretting, the second guessing and self doubt gets to you and beats you down.

But in all sincerity, I really wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ll fall asleep tonight with a mind still on overdrive causing me to have dreams pertaining to unfinished business and other things that I have left undone ~ I may even wake during the night, separate from waking up with my two year old daughter, my heart racing over something I need to accomplish that I don’t dare forget about. I’ll fall back to sleep for what seems like mere minutes before the chaotic sounds of the day start all over again.

This all must sound like self torture and it is to a degree, but two chubby toddler arms reaching towards me for a hug, or a wet sloppy kiss on the lips and even better, an unsolicited “I love you, mom”, coming from my almost tween son, has a magical way of rejuvenating me from day to day in ways that make it all worthwhile and meaningful in the end.

Bad, Bad Leroy Brown

My son isn't very good about hiding his emotions. I can take one look at his face, and depending on the severity of the burrow of his brow and the angle at which the corners of his mouth are pointed upward or downward, I can usually tell what kind of day he's had.

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting outside on my front porch and just like any normal weekday afternoon, I saw Ben turning the corner to our street, his hi-top clad feet quickly pedaling his trusty ole Schwinn home from school. He stopped short of his normal drop off place, a small rectangular cement block to the side of our yard, the place where he normally parks his bike when not in use. Instead, today, he made it to edge of our lawn, nearly jumped off his bike, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. As he approached the porch, I began studying his face, looking for an indication of what was obviously wrong.

"How was school?" I asked in my perfunctory, matter of fact mom tone.

No response.

By this time, Ben had made his way past me, opening up the front door to our home and slamming it hard behind him. I took a moment before I followed him inside. There have been many afternoons such as this, moments in which I dread having to search my overwhelmed and ill prepared wee mom brain for some comforting words of wisdom to share that not only comfort him, but at the very least, don't make him feel worse than he already does. The wisdom I need so desperately, never seems to come to me when I want it to, so instead of saying something profound, I simply ask him what is wrong?

By this point, he has thrown his backpack on the floor, and has made his way halfway up the stairs towards his room. As he violently slams his bedroom door shut, I hear him scream, "I hate my life. I hate my school. . . ." and then BAM, the door is shut. His muffled screaming now audibly turns into crying echos reverberating down the stairs.

Now I am truly at a loss. Shall I go to him in his room or shall I give him some space and let him come to me when he is ready to tell me what the matter is? As a parent, I'm never 100% certain on how to proceed with these sorts if things, but I determine that it was best to speak to him immediately.

I gently knock on his bedroom door and ask him if I can come in. No response. I knock again- this time, I am ordered to "go away" but I persist. I have come to understand through experience that Ben needs a whole lot of coaxing before he will let you into his pain. I then decide to enter his room, fully expecting to be shut down, but instead I find him sprawled out on his stomach on the top bunk of his bed, head buried in to his pillow, hands formed into fists, pounding on his pillow, repeatedly. I climb the ladder and lay next him, my right arm propping up my head, my left caressing his hair, rubbing his back lovingly, knowingly.

"This must be bad", I think to myself, my own heart crumbling into a million pieces, my eyes frantically blinking to keep my own tears at bay- flashbacks of my own tormented childhood ensue.

We stayed in this position for quite awhile until the crying subsided a bit and the tightness of his fists loosened up. He finally raised his head revealing his tear stricken face and running nose that he then wiped off with the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes focused intently on his pillow. Even though he wouldn't look at me, I knew he was about to open up and so I continued to stay silent, waiting for him to begin.

He then recalled the days events to me and what it came down to in its most basic form, is a case of being teased and bullied. Even more troubling to me, was Ben's description of how his own teacher precipitated and set him up for what later happened to him after school let out.

The details of why he was being teased are not important. It doesn't matter. Kids will always find something to pick on other kids about. Very few kids escape this kind of horror completely and some, more than others, are effected and haunted by it for a very long time. I fear that Ben may be in the latter category as he has had to endure being a target in one way or another since he entered into the public school system four years ago.

In Ben's case, there are tangible reasons which contribute to his vulnerability. Simple things he could change that would, in all likelihood alleviate some, if not all of the factors that make him a target, but in order to do so, he would be giving up a part of what makes him who he is; his individuality, his way of self expression and changing who he is, is not an acceptable solution to either of us. We talk about this at length. I am proud of my son and the things that are important to him are just as important to me. This however, does not solve the problem.

After we had finished talking it out and Ben made the transformation back into the happy go lucky fourth grader he is, fixing himself an afternoon snack and retiring to our cul de sac to play with the neighborhood kids, I sat and pondered what I needed to do in order to support my child and address the problem. The heaviness of this task weighing on my shoulders, invading my stomach and causing upset that I could not shake. I phoned my husband and talked it over with him. I felt better. I then phoned Ben's father and felt even better, felt stronger and focused enough to call the school to speak with the principal. I dread confrontations in all forms, but the thought of waging war with the school, was definitely not on my list of things I'd like to do.

I sat down at the kitchen table and collected my thoughts. I have a tendency to ramble when I am under stress. To ensure that I got all my points out, I devised a list of all the issues that had culminated since the beginning of the school year, some I have previously called about; all have continued to go unresolved. I dialed the school, heart pounding. . . .

School: "Terra Vista Elementary, Can I help you?"

Me: "Uh, yes- can I please speak with the principal or leave her a message to call me back?"

School: "What is this in regards to?"

Me: "This is in regards to an incident that occurred today with my son and his teacher."

School: "Wouldn't you rather speak to your childs teacher directly about the incident?"

Me: "No, if I had wanted to speak with the teacher, I would have called him directly. The incident involves the teacher and so I wish to speak to the principal about it."

School: "Normally, we encourage parents to try and work issues out with the teacher before the principal gets involved."

Me: "If I felt I could do that, I wouldn't be calling the principal, now would I?"

School: "So let me understand, you want to speak to the principal about an incident that occured today involving your child and his teacher?"

Me: "Yes, that's what I said."

School: "The principal is on leave so you'll need to speak with the assistant principal and she's in a meeting. Would you like me to leave her a message?"

Me: "Uh, duh-yeah (okay didn't really say that). Yes, please. Do you know if she'll be able to call me back today?"

School: "I don't know."

Me: "Can you please mark the message as urgent?

School: "You want me to write that its urgent?"

Me: "Yes, thats what I just said.

School: "Alright. I'll give her the message." Click.

. . . . .I never got a call that day and still haven't as of the time I write this post which sadly, doesn't surprise me a bit. And so I look at the clock and see that its nearly time for Ben to make his way around our street corner. Shortly, I will go outside and wait and hope that as I see him approach and begin my daily exam of his face, I will see a smile and when he heads towards our front door and I ask him how his day was, he'll answer me with a welcome, "fine." as he heads towards the kitchen to raid the fridge.

I will not let this one go. Even though I know I will probably get nowhere in the end, Ben needs to know that I'm on his side, always, no matter what- my voice is his voice, and his, mine. And maybe by just him knowing and feeling that, it will be enough to see him through and alleviate the sting of the schoolyard experience that isn't always kind and that seemingly, some teachers (whether well intentioned or not) seem to forget. . . . .

A Dash of This and a Dash of That

The smells of Autumn are so intoxicating. Whether it be mulled apple cider simmering on the stove, a cooling pumpkin pie tucked away on the window sill or the crackling embers of a wood burning fireplace, these aromas envelop you in a comforting warmth, much like that special blanket, made by your grandmother just for, you as a child.

My maternal grandmother was a fantastic cook, and especially loved to bake. As a young girl, I recall sitting at her kitchen table during our visits, intently watching her transform mounds of flour and sugar, combined with eggs by the dozen, with a dash of this and a dash of that, into a colorful array of decadent cookies, cakes, pies and candy. My sweet tooth begging, for just a taste, a lick of the spoon or even better, the chance to wipe clean, with my finger, the remnants off the mixing bowls that cluttered the kitchen counter top. I would eagerly wait for the timer to buzz, hardly able to contain my delight as she removed sheets and tins from the oven, a beautiful composition of scents, transfusing the air as she arranged them strategically about the kitchen to cool and firm.

With a sparkle in her eye, she would allow me the special privilege of sampling the goodies before they were fully cooled. With a tall glass of milk setting next to me, to cleanse my palate between bites, I would devour the sticky, gooey, goodness, leaving neither a crumb, nor morsel behind on my plate. I felt so special, so loved during these Sundays of baking with my grandma. She passed away when I was just 16 years old and with her, died the recipes that were only recorded and stored in her memory alone.

Years later, my mother and I together, would reminisce about earlier days, she herself recalling the same sort of experience that she had as a girl with both her maternal grandmother and mine. A familial art form, now fragmented along the thread of our lineage. These enduring memories remain eternally intact within my sensorial consciousness, as I am easily transported back to my place at the kitchen table at grandma's house every mark of Autumns commencement, and in my own unique attempt at replicating these same ever-lasting recollections for my own children and eventually, theirs, I find that same comfort, she gave to me and wear it like a blanket warming me to my core.

Cop a Feel. . . You Know You Want To!

Its cancer awareness month and so much attention has been placed on breast cancer. I admire those individuals, both women and men, who have battled this disease and come out of it, stronger and healthy. I empathize with their families who support them, scared for their loved ones, praying for a cure. I am pained for the ones that don't survive and are taken, in many cases, too young, leaving their children and loved ones behind to grieve their loss. I myself, have had two separate breast biopsies over the years and a possible third biopsy coming up in the next few weeks. I found a lump under my right armpit a little over one month ago and have gone to see a variety of doctors seeking opinions. I have been told its anything from an infected cyst, a swollen lymph node caused by an allergy to my deodorant, to a possible tumor related to breast cancer or Hodgkin's Lymphoma. I've been put on antibiotics and prednisone as a treatment and advised to stop using my deodorant, with no improvements at all. The third doctor I saw, finally conceded that I get a mammogram and wrote me the referral.

I just turned 40 this year and the new screening guidelines state that women should not begin routine breast cancer screenings until we reach the age of 50- this recommendation comes from the U.S. Preventative Task Force. The American Cancer Society continues to recommend this type of screening begin at age 40 with baseline data being collected much sooner than that, especially if there is a family history. I guess I am fortunate in a sense, given that I had my first mammogram at the age of 19 because of some fatty tissue connected to my left breast. The second mammogram I had, was during my 2nd pregnancy with Ben, during which time, several lumps formed in both breasts, which can be quite common in pregnancy. I underwent my first biopsy at that time. I remember how scared I was not only because of the actual procedure, but the fear of receiving a possible cancer diagnosis. Ultimately, the biopsy was negative and eventually the lumps disappeared. My second biopsy was done in January of 2007. Again, I found a lump in my right breast, went through the mammogram and ultrasound, which uncovered a few more suspicious masses and finally, the second biopsy with the end result being the same as the first. I was told at that time, that the lumps in my breasts were to due a benign condition known as fibrocystic breast changes, in layman's terms, lumpy breasts caused by fluctuations in hormones.

Since then, I have noticed many lumps that come and go. I admit that I don't engage in formal monthly self breast exams, but I do it often enough to feel confident in noting any changes. The lump that I discovered last month, is somewhat different in texture than the previous ones I have found in my breast tissue itself. Another concern is that I have some discharge in my right nipple which is unnerving in itself as I haven't experienced this symptom before. My mammogram is scheduled for this coming Monday. I fully expect an ultrasound to follow with a recommendation for a biopsy. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for me!

Here are some statistics according to the CDC (August 2010),

"Aside from non-melanoma skin cancer, breast cancer is the most common form of cancer in women. Breast cancer is the number one cause of cancer death in Hispanic women. It is the second most common cause of cancer death in white, black, Asian/Pacific Islander, and American Indian/Alaska Native women.

In 2006 (the most recent year numbers are available)—

• 191,410 women were diagnosed with breast cancer.*"
• 40,820 women died from breast cancer.*† "

Additionally, breast cancer rates by age are as follow:

"The risk of getting breast cancer increases with age. The table below shows the percentage of women (how many out of 100) who will get breast cancer over different time periods. The time periods are based on the woman's current age.

For example, go to current age 60. The table shows 3.45% of women who are now 60 years old will get breast cancer sometime during the next 10 years. That is, 3 or 4 out of every 100 women who are 60 years old today will get breast cancer by the age of 70.

Percent of U.S. Women Who Develop Breast Cancer over 10-, 20-, and 30-Year Intervals According to Their Current Age, 2005–2007†

Current Age	10 Years	20 Years	30 Years
30	0.43	1.86	4.13
40	1.45	3.75	6.87
50	2.38	5.60	8.66
60	3.45	6.71	8.65

Although rare, men can be affected by breast cancer as well. According to the CDC,

"Men can get breast cancer. In men, breast cancer can happen at any age, but is most common in men who are between 60 and 70 years old. Male breast cancer is not very common. For every 100 cases of breast cancer, less than 1 is in men.

For men, signs of breast cancer and treatment are almost the same as for women."

Of course breast cancer is just one form of cancer and it is just as important to screen for other types. You can look up the CDC website or the American Cancer Society website for more information regarding recommendations for other types of cancer screenings.

If you're anything like me, the "C" word terrifies you. I have witnessed first hand, how devastating this disease process can be. Sometimes, I feel like not knowing, is the lesser of two evils- but its not. We need to learn to put ourselves at the top of our priority list, if not for ourselves, then for our families. Know your own body. Go to the doctor for regular check-ups. Become an advocate if necessary, to obtain the referrals you feel you need. Don't let a doctor be in charge of your health. Its not their life, its yours and you are the best person to determine what is normal and what is not, in terms of your own body.

My sincerest prayers go out to all of the brave women and men who are currently fighting this battle and my deepest sympathy goes out to those families who have lost a loved one along the way.

A Halloween Tale

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We can all list events in our lives that have profoundly changed us. In one moment, we're one way and in the split of a second, we are forever different people. One such event in my life was the time I learned of my mom's cancer diagnosis. As adult children, we stand by and watch our parents age. Many of us have also seen our parents get sick, some recover while some do not. My mother was one of the unfortunate ones. She received a terminal diagnosis and within a couple of months, passed away just a few months shy of her 61st birthday. I was a just few months shy of my 33rd birthday when this happened- much too young for my mom to lose her life and much too young for me to lose my mother. She was an extremely important figure in my world and even though eight years have elapsed since her death, the pain is just as real and just as intense. The following post is part one of this story.

I choose to write about this now because I learned of my mom's terminal diagnosis on Halloween Night 2002. As each Halloween Night approaches since that time, I relive the true horror that is only supposed to happen in B movies, not in real life, especially mine.

Back tracking a bit, I will say that there were signs that something bad was looming. She had been sick on and off for several years, mostly related to bronchial issues. She had been a smoker for 40+ years, but ironically, had finally quit her habit just the year prior to her death after being told she had emphysema.

In the summer of 2002, we spent a few weeks together which was a normal occurrence with us. I was living in Seattle at the time and she and my dad were still living in the same house I grew up in. She made the trip out to see me 2-3 times each year, on the average, spending about a month each time. My family and I, would also make frequent visits to see my folks, usually for holidays and vacation times. During that Summer, my mom had been out to see me and then our entire family enjoyed several days, vacationing in Mexico.

The following month of September, my mom began to feel under the weather. For several weeks she felt as if she had the flu and just couldn't shake it. Her symptoms became increasingly worse until eventually my dad took her to the emergency room after she had an episode in which she experienced severe shortness of breath. She was admitted into the hospital that night and there commenced a week long ordeal of every test one could have. All tests came out negative. On the last day, one of her doctors ordered a lung biopsy. She had already undergone a chest X-ray, just as she had numerous times over the years, which never showed any signs cancer. I knew she was having the biopsy done and throughout the day, I felt an uneasiness that I just couldn't get rid of.

Halloween 2002 fell on a Thursday that year. I had been busy at work and rushed to pick up Ben at his daycare, ran home to feed Zach, Samantha and Ben and then get ready for trick or treating. I hadn't heard from either of my parents that day, but wasn't too concerned as I believed that no news was good news. With the children all dressed in their costumes, we proceeded to go around the neighborhood. David took the older kids out while I took Ben to a few select houses of friends and family, as he was only around 20 months of age at the time. I remember it being so cold that evening and the streets were slick with rain that had fallen earlier that day. The autumn leaves from the tree lined streets formed big piles along our path. Ben, adorned in his dinosaur costume, would attempt to jump into each pile as we walked. Since his costume was so thick and constraining, he kept getting stuck in the piles, unable to stand himself up.

The bitter coldness of the night, drove us home earlier than I had expected. Once home, I removed Ben's costume and put him to bed. David, Zach and Samantha had not yet returned at that point. I then began my nightly ritual of tidying up around the house and preparing for the following morning. As I washed leftover dinner dishes, the phone rang. I saw that the call was coming from the hospital in which my mom was at. I answered the phone, fully expecting my mother to start asking about how our evening of trick or treats went, but instead, the first words that still clearly echo in my mind to this day were, "Are you sitting down?" In that very moment, my heart sank and I knew what she was about to tell me before she uttered anything more. I slumped down into a kitchen chair, collapsing, really. My eyes began welling up with tears. my voice all but vanished. All I could muster was a very meek, "yes".

She began to explain to me that the lung biopsy showed that she had stage 4 lung cancer. It was inoperable since the kind of cancer she had was more of a filmy coating around the lungs rather than an actual tumor. I sat motionless in my chair, unable to speak or move. Panic set over me and I told her I'd have to hang up and call her back later. I dropped the phone and dropped to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, primal cries originating from the very core of my being.

David and the other kids arrived home at some point during this time. I could barely speak as I tried to relay to him the news I had just been given. After some time had elapsed, something took over my body and by some sheer force of will, I was able to compose myself so that I could phone my mother back as I said I would. I first spoke to my dad who in his pain, was rattling off technical details that neither one of us cared about at that moment. Even though I know that I spoke to my mom after that, I can't remember doing so. I can't remember anything further about that night- its all just a fuzzy blur.

In a little over one week, Halloween will be upon us once again. Much of what happened earlier that fateful night will be repeated just as it has every Halloween since. Rushing to eat dinner, dressing the kids in their costumes, walking the neighborhood for tricks and treats and finally, a quiet moment at the end of it all, in which I remember my mom and think how nice it would be to share with her the days festivities as I had so looked forward to doing that Halloween night of 2002.

Basic Training

I would say that I lead a somewhat complicated life- Most people would probably say the same, as we all play a number of roles to a number of people, day to day, week to week.

Stating the obvious here, I will start with the basics. I am a mother to four children; three are my own biological kids- my eldest is deceased (William, Ben and Mackenzie) and my fourth child (Jack) belongs to my husband, Keith. I have been a wife to three seperate men and a step mother to four children total, a sister to one older brother, Jeff and the daughter of my deceased mother, Sandra and my very much alive, father, Richard. I am also a step daughter to my father's second wife, Jill and now have two step-brothers, Thomas and Simon, in addition to their respective families. I have a large extended family, some in Northern California, some in Seattle, Washington and still more in various parts of the UK and Ireland.

By profession, I am a currently a domestic engineer without any sort of degree to back it up and a social worker in my previous life which ended over three years ago. I miss working outside the home for a variety of reasons. At some point, I hope to go back to work or school, but at this stage, its not practical for reasons I'll delve into later.

I live in a modest home, in a modest neighborhood located somewhere within the great Inland Empire (AKA- the 909). Keith is an attorney who manages his own practice and dabbles in many different areas of law, however, most of his cases are family law cases which involve families going through divorce, custody and all the stuff that happens along the way. He works long hours, sometimes weekends and travels occasionally for out of town clients. Being married to an attorney is not glamorous at all. His work takes so much from him, both physically and emotionally. Sometimes, I feel I only get the leftovers and resentment has built over time because of this.

We've been married for 2 years now, together for over 3 and as much as I'd like to say its all been perfect, it hasn't and it won't ever be. I'm not trying to be cynical or pessimistic, but marriage is hard and just like most things, the reality doesn't live up to the fantasy. I love Keith very much and I love our blended family. After 2 prior failed marriages, I am motivated to do everything I can to make "us" work by learning to accept, forgive and be more accountable for my own actions. A relationship is the product of two, never one and so I accept that I am one half of the equation and the only part in which I have any control over.

I manage the kids and the homestead, doing most of the cooking, cleaning and child rearing, although I have to admit that Keith pulls his weight around our home more than most and so I can't do much complaining on that front. I don't enjoy housework very much, if at all. In fact, I can think of a million other things I would rather be doing in place of it and most of the time, I put things off for as long a s I am able. My children are a joy to me most of the time, but challenging in ways I never thought possible. I constantly worry about the kind of mother I am and just hope that some of the parenting choices I make, are the right ones.


Most of my days are spent at home, looking after the kids and transporting them to activities. I don't have any friends in the area, mostly because I never put myself out there to meet anyone. My father and his wife live part time in the house I grew up in down south and the other part, in England which is where Jill is originally from. My brother, Jeff resides in San Diego. My very best and dearest friend, Marlo lives about 45 minutes away from me- which is just far enough to make it difficult to see her as often as I would like, but in spite of this obstacle, we do try and get together a few times a month and speak daily by phone.

The other friends I have are scattered about, and most of our contact is either online or by phone. Life can be very isolating for some and I feel I fall into this category. I realize that I could easily fix this by putting myself out there more than I have, more than I do, but sadly, it feels like more effort than its worth. With age, comes the wisdom that the people who have known you for a long time are the ones that are most valuable. New friends are important too, but it seems harder to build deep and lasting friendships the older I get.

I also struggle with depression from time to time- having good days and bad, but always thinking about how I can improve myself, therefore keeping the depression at bay. I try to be hopeful about the future while at the same time, being realistic with my expectations. I admit that my past has had way too much influence on my present and this realization is something I need to work on changing if I ever expect to change my circumstances.

I guess my basics turn out to be not so basic, as complexities emerge through simple description. As I read though this post, I almost feel like Eeyore from Winnie the Poo, so down trodden and sad, but truthfully I really believe that life isn't so pretty for most, as very few escape troubles, whatever troubles they might be. My attitude is not quite as dire as it may appear to be, but notable enough to warrant an adjustment which is the point behind the telling of my tale. You can't change what you don't acknowledge- I think I just quoted a Dr. Phil colloquialism.. . .

Disclaimer

In the age of social networking, I find that most of my connection to the outside world is through what I view and read online. To me, this feels unfortunate, but also has its benefits. On one hand, the convenience that social networks offer, by making the world as accessible as it has now become, is infinitely valuable. I can visit places I've never been and most likely never will. I can communicate with people, I would otherwise never meet in real life and strengthen relationships with friends, old and new, that would be impossible to achieve in other ways. I can also educate myself in any subject I could ever dream of exploring. However, the flip side of the conveniences and accessibility the web affords us, is that living through your computer robs one of the actual experiences, and can never serve as a replacement for the real time ability to touch, taste, feel and see.

In addition to that, most people I come across, myself included, create an "online" personality which is different from who we are in our day to day dealings. Social networking lends itself to perpetuating the notion of our perfect self. We tend to censor information, both good and bad, depending on the audience we are playing to. We are in virtual control of what we want the cyber world to know and to not know about our person, our family and our lifestyles. People do this kind of self editing in real life as well, but the anonymity of the computer screen adds an extra buffer, making it even easier to do.

It begs the question, at least for me, to ponder whether any of it is real? Is the information that has become so accessible to us merely fantasy or actual reality? Do we really know people in the way we think we do? Is the information we seek accurate or simply someones opinion devoid of fact to back it up. I think we as a culture, have become complacent to accept everything we read and see as the truth, whether it be about people, places or things. Prior to the age of the internet, one had to actually engage in the fact finding process themselves to research anything they wanted to know about- relationships included.

Nothing will ever replace face to face contact. Social networking, blogs and other informative websites will never be able to offer the same level of empirical data that can only be gained through other means, away from our computers, but none the less, they do serve a purpose.

And with that said, please read this blog bearing all of this in mind. As much as I try to remove the self editing button, there's no way to completely get rid of it. Anything I may blog about is being channeled through my unique perspective, mostly born of my feelings and not actual fact. Even personal experiences that I will recall, are memorialized in my mind based on perspective at the time and not necessarily what factually happened. As with all memories, thoughts and feelings, people will remember and interpret the same events and information much differently from one another. Each recounting is as unique as the person who is telling the story. I suppose this is what makes the age of the internet so interesting and valuable, but only one small part of the whole. Its up to us, individually, to fill in the gaps to attain our own truths, if that's what you seek.

Inspiration

Inspiration is found in many different forms. It depends on which part or parts of you a particular person, place or thing speaks to, touches or resonates within your body. Inspiration can take you wherever you need to be in the moment it grips you, and if you allow yourself that freedom to feel what you need to feel, you are better able to express that inspiration in ways that are meaningful to you. By doing so, you become more in sync with your internal and external persona's, resulting in harmony between heart and mind.

I dedicate Pieces of Me to doing just that; seeking out people, places, and things that inspire me, and more importantly, afford me the voice that I have thus far been unable to find completely, to express my inner most feelings and thoughts about things that are meaningful to me, brought out by the world in which I exist.

I am but one of many, single threads, loosely knitted together to form a whole. There are many paths to get from one place to another place. This is my path with a trajectory that changes from moment to moment. I don't know where all of this will take me, but I can say I'm excited to find out.