Notes from the Red Bird House

Yesterday I decided to write about gratitude. Then today, I decided to change that up. No idea why. Thoughts stay the course. Thoughts meander. Ideas come. Ideas go. Inspiration waxes...then it wanes. The words that want to be written eventually come to the page. All in good time, they say. If you're bummed I decided against gratitude, stick around. I'm sure I'll come back around to it in a few minutes. Because look, shouldn't everything begin and end with gratitude? All that positivity aside, I'm going to start with a bitch. It's a small one, but it something that grates a little. Like a pinky nail on a chalkboard. I know it shouldn't bother me and, trust me, other things bother me a lot more - Systemic racism, challenges to Roe v Wade, Madison Cawthorne, #MAGA, entitlement, figs on pizza, tuna casserole... But still this...gah. I don't like it. You're going to think it's ticky-tack. And you're allowed. To me, though, it's annoying.  Let...

There are assuredly those who will think I should have titled this one "Oh, Poor Me." And look, it's not like they'll be entirely wrong. I created this and now I'm paying the price. Moreover, I knew exactly what I was getting into when I made the decision. I knew how hard it was going to be and how I was going to struggle. I knew I would feel the sting of tears and the crush of loneliness. I knew the Herculean effort it would take to step outside of my comfort zone again and again. I knew there would be many moments of anxiety, frustration, and resignation. And, YES, I knew that, before all was said and done, I would throw a pity party or two. Well, welcome to my party.  I'm only half joking. I don't believe in wallowing or complaining, but I do believe in feeling and experiencing . Right now, I'm in the middle of the beginning. I'm tired and I have a long way to go. I am fully confident I'll make my way through. Part of that knowing comes hav...

  "You got a gypsy soul to blame and you were born for leavin'." ~ Zack Brown Band, "Colder Weather" I'm not entirely sure what I told myself all those years. Was it living twenty-years in the same house? Was it my parents' divorce? Was it the loss of my childhood home when I wasn't quite ready to create my own? Was it fear? Was it longing? Was it FOMO, the fear of missing out? Look, I have a degree in psychology and I've done several stints with a variety of therapists so please understand when I make this next statement. It's possible to think way too damn much. Or not think nearly enough. Looking back on this issue - one that plagued me for nearly thirty years - I realize that I didn't think enough. Or maybe I did, but not about the right things?  There is little as frustrating, confusing, and convoluted as the human mind. And when it's your own doing all that? I think that's why most people shy away from thinking. The more you...

There comes a time when you just have to tuck it away. Pull out a new box, throw it all in, and close the lid. Write "Yesterday" on the outside, if you want, but it's not required. Tape it closed, if you want, also not required. I've created a lot of these boxes in my day; fifty-two years worth, in fact. I'm getting better at it. Quicker. Practice makes perfect. Perhaps. Or maybe I just decided that I didn't want to be that person anymore. I no longer choose to hold onto sh** that doesn't serve me or deliver me, make me a better version of myself or move me forward. I've learned to box it all up real quick, long before it begins to fester and pollute my soul, long before its tentacles have breached every facet of my being, long before months and years disappear into the ether.  I had to do another final accounting recently. Endings are seldom pretty, but they don't have to be awful. I catalogued the memories, our history - the good, the bad, and t...

I'm in well-charted territory. It's far from my first rodeo. I know there are those who incredulously ponder my courage - after all I traveled across eight states (during Snowmageddon) to settle in a place where I knew a sum total of exactly one person. Some of those people question my sanity - Whyyyyyyyyyyy would I do this again?????? Others stand back in awe. I can tell you with every certainty that I am neither crazy (Full disclosure: I am medicated for anxiety) nor awesome. I've said that "This is just what I do," meaning I move and restart and move and restart again. Wash, rinse, repeat. I stay a few years, complain the whole time (usually not incredibly vocally - with the exception of Las Vegas), make plans, finally make the plans concrete, and Boom! I donate a bunch of sh** to Goodwill, load up the rest, and head out to parts (largely) unknown.  Look, I don't relish the stress, the loneliness, the wondering if I'll ever find my "people." W...

I took off yet another ring yesterday. This morning my hand - right ring finger because it wasn't 'that' kind of ring (I was hopeful that maybe one day it would be) - feels odd, different. I feel lonely and off, unsettled like something is missing. In truth, she left awhile ago. I just didn't know it. A little piece of information she didn't feel was important, I guess. Strange because once upon a time we communicated so well. Of course that ended awhile ago also. Call me loyal, sentimental, loving, too trusting, dedicated but from the day I said 'I love you' and slipped the ring on my finger, I was in. Wholly, completely, and willing to work through anything. I don't take love and rings and commitment lightly. For me what I say today, I intend to mean for a lifetime. So today - this morning - my empty ring finger is a reminder of commitments broken, love lost, expectations shattered. A very different horizon stretches out before me. It's one I'm...

My dad turns ninety-three today. Yes, really. He was an "old dad" when I was born - he was forty-one - and well ahead of his time. Dads having kids in their forties is much more common today that it was in mine. Many thought he was my grandfather until they got to know us. Dad and I reveled in our age difference - about the time I was considered an "adult" at the movie theater, he was a "senior;" I don't think we ever paid two full price admissions to a movie. And we went to a lot of movies together. We can't go see a movie for his birthday, nor can I even hang out and watch one with him (though I am giving him a new blu-ray for his vast collection - "Captain America," his first Avengers movie). Covid stole all that.  I moved to this god-forsaken desert to spend time with my dad. I've only seen him a handful of times since March. Don't get me wrong. I couldn't be happier about how his assisted living facility has handled the p...