Notes from the Red Bird House

‎'You've gone a million miles. How far did you get? To that place where you can't remember and you can't forget?' ~ from 'Secret Garden' by Bruce Springsteen I'm in a gray area. I've forgotten things I want to remember and remember things I wish I could forget. I left everything I knew with high hopes ready to walk a new path. I'm still on that new path, but I have no idea where I'm going anymore. At first I thought I was looking for 'Home' - that place where I could be, live, succeed, and find love. I ended up discovering that 'Home'; it was always inside of me. Now, a million miles later, I'm still walking and wondering. God has led me here and even though I have faith in Him and trust Him implicitly, I'm still confused. I fear I'm being prepared for something. My strength is palpable and grows with each step I take. I know I'm not headed for something of my choosing. For once, I'd like to be n

I'm seldom angry. To be honest, there's usually a diminishing return on my anger so I generally let it go pretty quickly. More often than not the person I'm mad at assumes a defensive stance and throws it all back on me. Somehow, some way it all becomes my fault, even when they've fucked their plausible deniability and are clearly in the wrong. No matter what they've done, I could have or should have prevented it, deterred it, or convinced them not to. Either that or I never should never have said what I said or wrote what I wrote (even when they grossly misinterpret my words). I should have gotten there later than sooner or sooner than later. In any case, I am unquestionably to blame which means that somewhere near the end of the argument, I find myself on the high road eating crow and choking out an apology I only marginally believe in. Oh, don't worry. They always forgive me on down the road. And that's why I know that this, too, will probably pass. I&#

Right now I'm trying to cure my 'hangover' with Twizzlers and Diet Coke. Thus far a mango margarita, Mexican food, forty ounces of water, and thirty-two ounces of Blue G2 Gatorade haven't worked. At this point, I'm willing to try anything. Of course, when I bit into the first Twizzler I had a flashback to a time somewhere in my childhood when I barfed Red Vines. So, no... The Twizzlers have done little to quell the nausea. Gotta love a 'hangover'. Especially this one. I had a couple drinks with a friend last night to celebrate the sale of my first book, but I wasn't drunk. I mixed light enough and barely caught a buzz. I woke up early feeling great. I ate some breakfast, drank some coffee, listened to some music, wrote the Krispy Kreme donut blog, had a very productive physical therapy session for my shoulder, and went for a run. The day was near perfect until the dehydration set in. You see, I'm not very good at re-hydrating. After last night'

I would like it on the record that I don't like Krispy Kreme donuts. I love donuts; I even wish I could eat one every day. I can't do that so I have long told myself that I can have one 'tomorrow'. (Luckily) in my relationship with donuts, tomorrow seldom comes. Because of that, I'm far from a donut expert or connoisseur, but I do know what I like. It's not Krispy Kremes. Now I don't judge. If anyone out there loves them and drives MILES out of their way just to have one....well, that's cool. For them. I simply choose to choose a Krispy Kreme exclusively when I want a donut AND it's the only thing I can find. These are, of course, the times when a pack of Hostess minis won't cut it. Yesterday morning was one such morning. Accidentally running late for work, I needed a quick breakfast and a pick me up. I went to bed with an idea in my head about the coming work day and then suddenly at 7:00am just seconds after my alarm went off, that idea skitt

Fight or surrender. Grace comes either way. There comes a time when I feel I must speak. Forgive me, if you must, if it makes you feel better. I mean what I say, so I don't care for or need forgiveness. I stand by my words. They are my fight and my thoughts and my feelings. Above all they are mine. I decided long ago that I am entitled to think what I want and say what I want. If I offend, well... It's most certainly not intended. It may seem like I'm trying to spar, but I'm really just attempting to clarify my position. If that position isn't met well or happens to be misunderstood, it's far from my fault. Truly, the beauty and the disaster of the written word lies in it's misinterpretation. It's a hazard I know I may have to face every time I post something I've written. I don't want this to seem bad, but I don't care. I don't. Ask me to clarify and I will. Seethe and demand an apology and I just might tell you to go to Hell. Politely,

I wonder quite often why fuck-nuts get the girl. I can count on a couple hands the number of good women who are saddled with a girlfriend who is either dumb, crazy, or a combination of the two. Believe me, I know what it looks like. First hand. Because of this, I feel free to comment. I've dated my share that I never should have. I've endure their stupidity and their crazy. I've been taken for a ride and dumped when it became apparent that I wasn't as rich as they thought I was. I've worked, stressed, sweated, and freaked out. I've let myself be belittled and emotionally battered. In the end I was the dumb one and the crazy one. For dating them as long as I did. And for being so torn up when they left. Now I say 'what the fuck ever', but it's taken me awhile to get here. Experience has made me smarter and stronger. I think at one point, I liked the idea of being needed. It was probably an ego thing because it can feel good to be needed. I'm  pr

I've been 'yes' and I've been 'oh Hell no', both with about equal success and, interestingly enough, with equal results. Truly, what is meant to be is meant to be and I place my faith in God and His (seemingly fucked up) plan. Blah, blah, blah... I'm good with my life. In fact, most days I say I love my life and I'm being honest about it. Some may look at me and wonder how that's possible. I do have my health, but very little wealth and even less connection in the traditional sense. I still get asked if I'm going to have kids and shocked looks when I say that I'm not. I still get asked why I'm not married and shocked looks when I say that I have to date in order to eventually get married. And this is where I turn my life over to God. Yes, this is going to be another one about being single. Trust me, if I was married or attached or even fucking someone, I'm sure I'd be writing about that. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I'm not

I have never shouted my truth at anyone. I have stood in it and gotten beaten down for it, but shouting? Never. I assure you, I'm not planning to start now. Shouting gets truth nowhere. The more we raise our voices, the more those around us stop listening. I think it's a natural reaction stemming from loud childhoods when we were told definitively what we needed to do in a voice much louder than necessary. After so many years, we learn to drown out loud voices. Therefore a quiet stance is always better. If we stand in our truth and LIVE our truth, that truth comes out. This is the platform from which minds are opened and some are changed. In recent days I've found myself speaking about God more. I've 'ministered' to friends and co-workers, quoting Scripture when I had some to quote and otherwise reassuring them of God's presence. However, each time I open my mouth to speak about God, I nearly bite my tongue. It's all the 'what ifs' of political

'I am tired of this fire...'             ~ from 'Reasons Why' by Saving Jane I'm craving silence, a deep and abiding silence that only I have the power to break. I need out, out of everything - the 'orange box', the sandbox. I want to slip my earthly bonds and nestle into the desolation of my training, my writing, and me. I can live simply and silently;  I don't require much. Spirit, yes. Bullshit, no. I suppose I'm tired. It's been awhile since I've gotten away. I enjoy my training because occasionally I escape, though more and more the thunder and lightening of every day life creep in. I want the silence of music blasting out of my headphones and the feel of the road beneath my feet. Sometimes I think if I could just keep running indefinitely, I'd eventually find true silence. Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm not. I'd like to find out though. I pretty sure the risk would be worth it. I mean, what if? What if I found silen

'Good Morning, Love.' The day started sweetly enough. Just moments after my second alarm went off, my phone buzzed and I found a wonderful 'Good Morning' text. Then I got out of bed and the day downshifted into chaos and insanity. By the time my lunch hour arrived, I was ready to leave for the day and drown myself in tequila shots. Keeping in mind that I never drink tequila in 'shot' form might shed a little light on the Hell that was my day. By the time I really did leave for the day, I wasn't sure if I needed a couple xanax tabs or to sweat my way back to sanity on my Spin bike in the sauna that is my garage. I chose exercise over drugs, but I'm fairly certain that sleep will require medical assistance tonight. I'm hanging by a rapidly fraying thread and dying to disappear for a good month. Maybe month and a half. I'll have to let you know. So how did my day go so wrong? Let's see. I was late. I'm never late, especially when I have

Mere hours after writing my last posting ('Adding To Instead of Scratching Off"), I was presented with an opportunity. At least I think it was an opportunity. It had all the makings of an opportunity; and at the time I was pretty sure it was indeed an opportunity. Looking back, I'm not sure if it was the fog of rum and Jagermeister or an actual honest-to-goodness opportunity. And somehow that glimmer of 'maybe' kept me from trying anything I might regret later if in fact it was NOT an opportunity. That's not to say I didn't want to because I most certainly did. I've been waiting for this kind opportunity for awhile and I'm determined that one day it'll happen. It's just that something about last night wasn't right. Not that it was wrong. Or would have been wrong, However, this one's different, special in a way. Spiritual. Yes, potentially spiritual. Maybe I'm reading too much in or hoping for too much and maybe I should just ju

I've amended my New Bucket List. Yes, already. And let me reassure you that by 'amended' I don't mean 'scratched off'. For the record, I haven't kissed anyone new since May 20, 2011 when I wrote the original NBL blog. This of course precludes any scratching off. And makes me seem utterly pathetic. God bless. I'm not sure what I have to do get a kiss in this town. Lord. It might be time for a road trip. Or not. But then again, I digress. I decided a moment or two ago to add a name to my New Bucket List. For those who may not remember (or skipped reading it entirely), my New Bucket List involves only one activity. And it's not sex. The way I see it, there are literally zillions of people I'd be willing to kiss, but would have absolutely no interest in exploring sexually. Unless the kiss goes exceptionally well. A few months back I whittled that lengthy list down to seven. From zillions to seven. Yes, I'm serious. They are a select group. I gu

There aren't many things that require a third wheel. A tricycle? Yes. A 'date'? Yeah, I'm gonna go with NO. If there's one thing I NEVER want to do again in my life, it's be the unsuspecting third wheel. Really? Friendship only goes so far. I'd like it on the record that I don't need to be invited. Just leave me out. Tell me 'no'. Tell me 'another night'. Tell me 'I want to fuck her brains out'. Tell me something, anything that will help me avoid the awkward I've-gotta-get-outa-here moment when I suddenly realize that I'm not exactly needed (or wanted) at the moment. 'Scram money' certainly helps, but it is far from necessary. Here's a clue - just don't invite me in the first place. Or..... Un-invite me. I'm a big girl. I assure you - this is NOT my first Rodeo. I can, and will, deal with reality. Oh, and trust me, it's easier before the fact than during the fact. Please, please (please) save me fro

I think I'm becoming a 'gear-head'. I used to show up to run, play tennis, or participate in my sport of choice with the barest minimum of required equipment. In college, it was part of my tennis 'mystique'. While all my fellow tennis players had bags full of crap, I arrived on the court with two rackets - no bag, no jug of water, no change of clothes, no extra socks, no banana, no snack, no make-up, no Neosporin, no pain killer, no hair-ties. It was just me and my rackets. Truthfully, I didn't need anything more than that (I frequently broke strings so I often required the back-up racket). I showed up to softball games with my cleats already on and my glove in hand - again no bag, bats, extra glove, batting glove, water bottle, or cooler of beer. Running met perfectly with my minimalist bent. All I needed was a sports bra, running shoes, and a stopwatch. At the starting line, you don't want much more than that anyway. Now as a fledgling triathlete, I'

Being single is equal parts my choice and equal parts my fault. I truly believe that these two are inextricably linked, like conjoined twins who share one too many critical organs. The choice not to date comes from my failings and my failings come from my choice. It's an and/or proposition that keeps me consistently content and single at the same time. This does make me some kind of freak of nature (I have many qualities that put me in this category, unfortunately) and unintelligible to most people. The fact is that human society has convinced itself that, like wolves and geese, that 'we' are intended to mate for life. I see the whole marriage partnering initiative to have been a necessary adaptation from the Stone Age until just a few years ago when women realized they could actually be free and independent creatures who could own handguns and make their own money. Such cultural advances make men unnecessary in the lives of women. Classically, men were for protection and

I'm not overly delighted with the medical establishment these days. It's not that I have major health concerns; actually it would probably be easier if I did. Doctors, like lawyers and salesmen, like the big score. You know, something they have to call the CDC about or something so obscure they can write a paper on it. My little so-called issues barely rate five minutes and a minimal amount of focus. They stereotype me whichever way fits their needs and send me on my way. Funny, as I think about it, my original statement 'these days' isn't correct. It's on going, as in for most of my life. I don't know if it's me, the doctors I've gone to, or just the way things are, but I think I've finally hit my limit. I want the right answers, not a bag full of assumptions, stereotypes, and prescription drugs. I have two problems right now - my shoulder is fucked up and I have amenorrhea. We'll discuss each one in turn. I 'hurt' my shoulder a