Little video clip of my flowers this year. I especially love the outside sounds here. It’s a lot of the charm, those outside sounds.

I like to describe myself as “an eccentric genius.” People always laugh, because they think I’m joking. I always laugh, because they think I’m joking.

Elsa P., my favorite astrologer, once titled a reading for me, “If she’s not crazy, there’s no end to the good she can do you!” I laughed for a solid week, because I’d never heard myself described better.

I couldn’t fit in if I tried; not authentically, anyway. I was raised specifically to be an outsider. I can blend in well enough to function, sure. But it’s not my natural state of being.

Honestly, that crap gets old; by the time you get to be my age, you just want to be, y’kno? Or at least, I do. It does have a price, though. You have to tune out other people’s opinions.

My neighbors do call me “the Crazy Cat Lady.” I’m okay with that.

So what if I thank the spent blooms for the joy and beauty they shared when I pull them off my flowers? I’m not asking you to do it. I’m not hurting anybody. It makes me happy. I feel less guilty for plucking them off, and I do appreciate their service. I scatter them on the sidewalk, intending them to provide luck and protection to whomever crosses their paths. You may think it’s nuts, but every time I send out a positive intention, it feels good. I am adding to the sum total of goodwill in the world.

Ok. I get the point. But I don’t do this aloud if I see anybody outside, man. I’m semi-aware, even though I have a number of…eccentricities.

I see two options: I can stop dying my hair weird colors, stop talking to my flowers, stop doing my nails blue, stop dressing like a hippie, stop talking about astrology and Tarot and chakras, give glitter a rest-in-peace edict—by and large, stop being so damn colorful! I’m way too colorful to be proper for a woman my age. Anybody knows that. Even (Gasp!) me…

Or, I can be known as “The Crazy Cat Lady.” Do what makes sense to me, without bothering with what anybody else would make of it. Do what makes me happiest, so long as it doesn’t hurt anybody else.

Way I figure, it’s a service. Maybe it gives them a little amusement to see what the crazy pink-haired old lady is doing. Or somebody to feel superior to. Maybe they can feel a little more normal by comparison. Who knows? The ones it bothers probably aren’t a good match for my energy anyway.

I’m as kind as I know how to be; I try to add light and love wherever I go, in however humble (or eccentric) the contribution. Everything good I have to share with anybody is enhanced by living as happy as I know how to live.

I guess I’ll change how much “me” I let out roam in the wild if I see a good reason; I have at times before. I try stay balanced and I do what I need to do, because I am a grown-up about what counts. But I’m really hoping I don’t see good reason. It’s a lot more fulfilling being authentically colorful than widely palatable.

They came back. After I saw myself described as “paranoid and reclusive” for acknowledging how I don’t trust the census and it bugs me how much the government is over-reaching into our personal lives, the good ol’ US of A’s main man, Uncle Sam, is back at it.

Geez Loiuse. This makes FOUR in-person visits from the Census to my house. For one form that was sent in already.

Bam! Bam! Bam! I look out the peephole—because every paranoid freak like me who doesn’t trust the rest of the world has a peephole, y’kno—and see yet another census worker, badge and GPS in tote, on the other side of the door.

I try to cut him off at the pass. “I sent it in. I sent it in already. I know it was late, but I already sent it in.”

“When?” he inquires.

“After the first follow-up visit. I know it was past the deadline,” as Mr. Disapproving  Scowl had already made clear on my last official visit. “But I sent it in.”

He starts off on his “I need five minutes of your time” spiel.

“No. I’ve done it once; I won’t keep doing it.”

He addresses me like a high school teacher would lecture an i’ll-behaved student. “I need a few minutes of your time. You have to answer these questions. Because otherwise, it won’t get counted. Those responses weren’t part of this new program, and they won’t get counted otherwise.”

(As if this is something that should alarm me.) “I sent it in once and that’s enough. Whether they throw it away or whatever, that’s not up to me.”

“Oh, no, they won’t throw it away, “ he said. Of course, I wouldn’t get so lucky. “They just won’t count it.”

“That’s not my problem. I did it once and that’s all I’m willing to do it.” I already felt like a sellout for providing information that isn’t constitutionally allowable. There were people that DIED in defense of the principles in the constitution, and me? I didn’t want to get a $5,000 fine that will, in all likelihood, never get levied for fear of a toxic public relations nightmare.

The man gets snotty at my continued refusals to tell a stranger who shows up on my door any personal information about who I am or the people that live in my home. He was getting angrier, and I looked to end the interaction.

“We’ll get the information somehow!” he calls out ominously as I’m shutting the door. Say I’m paranoid if you want to; I don’t give a damn. It was delivered as a threat, plain as day.

So, we’ve got FOUR in person visits to obtain one, already-completed form sent in weeks ago. We’ve got the government keeping (but not “counting”) information sent it, and some mysterious, nonsensical program requiring paying people to go out and harass citizens who have already given up some of their rights by answering questions the agency has no authority to ask. Like the whipped cream on the sundae, it’s all topped off with bully census workers, ominously implying they’re somehow going to invade your privacy if you’re not adequately cooperative, as demonstrated by providing whatever information is demanded, each and every time it’s demanded, by whomever claims authority to do said demanding when showing up at your doorstep with a laminated name tag. Even if he does work for the census, that’s no guarantee he’s not a lunatic, after all.

Kinda makes you go all warm and fuzzy about how much you pay in taxes, huh?

When you put energy out there, what are your expectations on a return?

There was a time, whatever I did, I had a clear picture of what I thought I’d get in return. I worked at a job, started a business, created websites, went to school, whatever it was, with clear, specific expectations on exactly where the path was going to take me. I “knew” just how each action was going to impact my life and make it better.

Except for one, especially pesky little issue: I was almost always wrong.

Not just making wrong turns on the path, although I made plenty. Not just other people reacting outside my preconsidered set of expectations, although that happens plenty, too. You can’t guess, anticipate, plan, or visualize every detail of where life takes you. Many of the best trips are side trips–unexpected, serendipitous surprises. Synchronicity is the magic.

I learned you can’t plan what comes precisely. You can have goals; in fact, you need goals! They spur you forward and force you to clarify and focus. Very hard to get what you want without knowing what it is to begin with. But the piece that gets missed so much is mixing up actual goals with the path to the goals.

My goals used to be around accomplishing a specific result; I wanted this job or that bank balance or that car or this degree or whatever.  When that happened, everything would be just right! Thing is,  it wasn’t the accomplishment in and of itself I was really searching for. It was what the accomplishment meant to me.  I thought working toward specific goals would give me security, satisfaction, freedom from worry, blah blah blah. I was actually longing for what I expected the goals to add to my life.

I have a friend who recently lost her job, and for a time, felt like her world was crashing. She confused having a long-term job with her actual goal of financial security. The financial security doesn’t come from any job, all of which are temporary–it comes from the experience, skills and talents you hold that allow you to meaningfully contribute; those abilities are what land you any job, allow you to care for your own needs independently, and allow you to progress and thrive. Exactly where those abilities gets exercised is far less important than having and exercising them. Making the transition from one expression to another expression of goals merely requires a little faith while you’re making your trek along the way.

The experiences I’ve benefited from the most notably, progressed my life the most significantly, have NOT been the times I’ve set a specific target and hit it. It’s been the side trips. The stuff that made me crazy–the times things blew up, went ridiculously wrong, or I ended up on a road completely unanticipated. These have been the gifts in ugly wrapping paper.

I still have to remind myself of the process sometimes. It doesn’t matter if I can imagine how I might get from A to B, because the path is totally and utterly irrelevant. Focus on the feeling you want–first amplifying your current experience of that feeling, which opens your life up to more of it; when you’re vibrating in tune with your goals, you metaphysically open yourself up to gifts, synchronicity, and whatever assistance is out there for you in the universal energy flow. By seeing where you are approaching your goals in your day-to-day journey now, you can build and grow until the result you wish is more purely and strongly expressed.

Now, when I see an opportunity, I put my energy out there and go Zen. I tell myself explicitly, “It doesn’t matter if things come together the way I expect. It doesn’t matter if I end up feeling stupid, or others don’t respond well to my efforts, or if I end up in an entirely different place than I expected setting out.” Whatever happens, I know I will have opportunities to learn. I work to divorce my ego from the process and trust. All that matters is that I put the energy out there in the direction I want to go, with faith and belief that I (or someone else) will benefit somehow from the energy, that my journey will be advanced, and that, somehow or another, it all adds to the light.

Saturn in Libra is a big deal; as a collective, we’ll be looking at issues surrounding hard work, responsibility and boundaries (Saturn) as well fairness and kindness (Libra) in relationships (Libra).  This transit will be around until Fall, 2012.

I did a video Tarot reading on making the most of this time. FYI, I still get way nervous on video and tend to ramble, but I figure, that’s how you get better, right? I also notice sound is out of sync, damnit. I’ll get there.

I have no doubt people think I’m nuts. Well-meaning, but nuts. I try not to let that bother me. (Often, I succeed.) But sometimes, it’s just a bit much and I get tired of keeping my mouth shut. It may surprise some of you I do actually keep my mouth shut at times, but it’s true.

I’m not a fan of the Census. Now, before anybody starts spouting off about the importance of new roads and how will the government be able to accurately gauge Congressional representation, stop right there. I’ve seen the commercials, okay? I’m aware of all the nifty little “benefits” touted by the $340 million dollars spent on just marketing the census. I am willing to go so far as provide a headcount for my household–in other words, I’m perfect willing to provide the information that’s constitutionally allowable for my government to ask.

But I don’t want to provide any more information than that. Census data has historically been misused–both in the US and in other nations, and with the state of current technology, it’s possible to use the aggregate data to track individuals. Lobbying groups for marketers advocate for more complete (and intrusive) information gathering. This isn’t public service on their part.

While many people got the short form, some didn’t. They got the long form. How is it the government’s business if any member of the household has difficulty remembering, concentrating, or making decisions? Why is it important for my government to know how many times I’ve been married, how much I paid for my electric bill last month, whether I have a refrigerator and flush toilet? This helps them know “how many roads to build and how much representation my area requires in congress?” Sure.

Short answer: It’s not the government’s business, of course. But this information is pure gold to the marketers; if it weren’t, they wouldn’t lobby to continue gathering more and more of it.¹

So this being how I feel about it, I was NOT in a hurry to return even my short census form. I read up on the possible penalties, like a $5,000 fine–ugh–decided I needed to send the form, but the thought of it made me feel a little sick. So I procrastinated until a saw a sticky on my door one of the Census workers had shown up and would return. I don’t like strangers showing up at my house. So I filled out the form, partially. I put in how many people were here and their race, although I still believe it’s wrong to ask. I skipped birthdays and phone numbers and other questions because, well, it was just too much.

A few days later, Mr. Census Worker shows back up. As soon as he introduces himself, I cut him off.

“I saw you were here, and I mailed it in!” I say quickly. I wanted him to leave, leave, leave! I don’t like people I don’t know at my house.

He scowls. “It was due April first,” he says through pursed lips, shaking his head a little.

“Well, I just sent it. Obviously, it’s not going to make it by April 1st, but it’s done.” Duh, I think to myself, but didn’t say so. I did not feel appropriately ashamed.

“I need to ask you some questions. It just will take about 10 minutes of your time,” he counters. Still that damn paternal tone, still the disapproving scowl.

“No. I did it once, I’m not going to do it again.” He still had that hall-monitor-and-you-don’t-have-a-pass vibe, and I think he may have sighed, but did not argue. I know they’re trained not to argue, from my friends who have temp jobs via the Census-Making-Employment-Statistics-Look-Better program. I wasn’t rude but I was clear: no–I’m not going to give what I consider personal information to a stranger because the US government pays lots of money for pretty commercials and water bottles saying it’s a good idea to trust them.

See, it wasn’t ten minutes of my time I was worried about. It was something I value a lot more–my privacy and my freedom. My peace of mind depends in significant part of feeling like I’m in control of what information I share with whom and for what reason. I care deeply about issues like having the freedom to make my own choices about how I live my life so long as I don’t hurt other people.  This  is slipping away in leaps and bounds in the name of “everybody’s best interest” every day and it scares me. I don’t see it getting any better and if people who feel the way I do don’t say or do something about it, it will undoubtedly get worse.

So he went away, and I (sorta) stood up for my principles. And if anybody wants to know how many flush toilets I have in my house, they can go to Hell.

1. It never ceases to amaze me how people can be dead-on convinced the government is our best chance at protecting the people from the very same corporate interests that funds the campaigns of people writing the laws. Can you say “conflict of interest?” Money fuels EVERYTHING.

I recently found out a client of mine–and her husband–committed suicide. It made the news, but the story wasn’t accurate. It had the couple’s ages reversed, said they were from California instead of Oklahoma, and failed to mention that the wife survived only one additional  day after being retrieved from the hotel room. They were in their fifties.

When you read an email with news like that, you just say, “Wow.” It slaps you upside the head and you can’t just shake it off.

I’m not unexposed to suicide. I worked mental health, the crisis hotline, detox, and case management before I went web. I’ve done suicide intervention and I’ve had clients kill themselves before. Not in this business though, no. And it doesn’t feel the same.

They were in Rome, staying in the Hotel Splendide Royal (pictured above). After having sold all their belongings, they were on a tour through Europe. They had told their family and friends they were traveling, and would decide what they wanted to do when they got back. They had said goodbyes. During the trip they’d contacted folks, let them know what a wonderful time they were having.

Nobody was hurt, sick, or in pain. They felt like they had completed what they wanted to in this lifetime, and they wanted to cross over together. They asked friends not to judge, but to be happy for them, and respect their decision. They wanted to leave on a joyful note.

I didn’t know her very well–I’d done a website for her a few years ago, and handled her hosting. She was sweet and very, very kind to me, always. A gentle, soft-spoken woman. But I could go months at a time without talking to her, without a reason to, so it’s not like we were close.

But when I found out, I cried. And weird as it was, my feelings were hurt. It felt like she had done something to me. I couldn’t tell you what, because she certainly didn’t owe me anything. It made no sense whatsoever. But it didn’t matter. It upset me.   (I’ve no doubt it’s got to be the tiniest fraction of what somebody who loses someone close to them feels, and it sucked.)

And it pissed me off, too. What the Hell, you know? I prefer people I like not go and off themselves.

Which left me upset with myself for being upset. What right do I have to tell her how to live her life–or end it? How is this my business? If I liked her, don’t I owe her my best attempt to honor her wishes? Can I be happy for her?

I’ve been trying to sort this out the last week; today, I realized I’m also pissed off about being reminded that I am mortal. I am aging, my husband is aging, and someday, the one question of one or the other of us dying will become a reality. I haven’t met anybody that’s figured an out yet.

My husband says the one thing he didn’t know about being married to me would probably have dissuaded him: the level of attachment. The thought of being without the other once you’ve bonded to that point is terrifying, disturbing in a way that defies description. In 21 years, you can get awfully used to someone. I don’t want to be without him or leave him without me. I just figured we’ll be one of those couples that go about the same time, because…well, we’ll want to.

So, is it wrong they wanted to die together, without paying the dues of  age or illness first? For whom is it to say what way someone else should die, when or how?  It obviously impacts others, but it’s not about others. It wasn’t my life, so it wasn’t my decision (clearly).

I liked and respected her. So I’ll do my best to respect her request and intent, but it’s not something that I can imagine feeling joyful about anytime soon.

I went to visit Dad in the hospital. They expect him to be fine, after they add a couple more stints to his heart. But he’s almost 80. So, you never know. They just moved back into town, it’s a half hour trip. I’m going to see him before he goes to surgery.

My brother was there, with his wife, now adult son, and granddaughter. He looks, walks, and sounds so much like my dad it’s freakish.  I haven’t seen him for maybe 15 years; been probably a decade since I’ve heard his voice. They’re all dressed up, fresh from their meeting.

He was nice enough to me, and talked to me a little. But it’s weird as holy Hell, you know? It’s like it’s this person you know but you don’t, and everybody’s acting like it’s not weird that we haven’t talked in 15 years.  It’s not even mentioned or acknowledged.

His wife didn’t speak to me, but wasn’t rude. After they left, some of my parents’ friends came in–one I recognized, the mom of my best friends growing up. She didn’t speak to me either, and I was out of there pretty shortly thereafter.

It’s disconcerting and upsetting to be in a group where most of the people act as if you simply weren’t there. It probably shouldn’t have been. I’ve been through this before and it’s part of the territory I traversed in exchange for claiming my own adventure.

I AM the black sheep; my folks talk to me normally, but when someone else is around from their religious tribe, I cease to exist.

It’s not like they don’t see me. That’s the thing. Everybody there is going to know who I am. Even if they never met me. “That must be their disfellowshipped daughter. How sad…”

You are the sinner who’s been condemned to die in Armageddon because–well, you just weren’t a good enough person. What a disappointment to those poor parents. As you may imagine, this is not my favorite vibe.

The other thing that glared was how very old they both seemed, how fragile. They’d been moving, so they were all banged, bruised and scraped. It made me sad. I knew it all along, but the reminder I have no idea how long they’re going to be with us just hasn’t been clearer for a long time, and it stings.

I’m glad I went, regardless. Mom and Dad both said what I was thinking: that he should be fine, probably will be fine, but it’s good to see him anyway. You never know what’s gonna happen tomorrow.

I get reminded sometimes. Most of the time, I forget. It’s second nature. But once in a while, I get reminded. I live a humble life. I’m not sure if it’s by circumstance or choice.

My parents were very poor growing up. Very strong work ethic–Dad evaluated his success each evening by outline what he’d accomplished that day. They worked very hard. And they are frugal people. Those who’ve experienced lean times learn to get by on less and make the best use of what they have. This is how I was raised, and I accepted the gift of sense in this regard.

When my husband and I first married, we were young. Early twenties, 3 kids, no help. Back then, I considered at $8/hr job as paying very well, so that gives you an idea.

When something broke, we were screwed.

So you adapt. My husband is great at fixing things, and that’s why. I mean, yeah, he’s mechanically inclined, but it was the years of fixing broken crap that honed his skills. You don’t have the cash to to replace it or pay a repairman, you fix it yourself or do without.  You use things until they wear out; you get secondhand, shop around for bargains, look for quality. You ignore a lot of little things as long is it still works. You have no idea how many years I used cracked ice cube trays or used a microwave you could only cook things in increments exclusively involving 3, 6 or 9. Guess that’s why I had a mental block about throwing out my holey socks.

Time goes on– kids grow up, you earn more money, and eventually, it’s not as tight anymore. But the habits are still there, by and large. You get more iPhones and Cat Genies and Roombas and big TV’s then. I like that part!  But the basic principles of being mindful about spending, continues to hold.

Sprinkle in some circumstance. Endless custody hearings, child support bills surpassing a house payment, co-signing on on a car that ends up in the river,¹ career changes, medical bills, going to school–whatever it is. Things happen.

By whatever means, view’s the same. I live in a triplex. I drive an 1989 Acclaim that has one windshield wiper², a passenger door that won’t open from the inside, and overheats in drive-thrus. It was my daughters car, but wasn’t worth it or reliable enough for her to take it with her tto Ohio. I don’t use credit and I don’t spend a lot in general. What I do, I research well and carefully consider first. This is both in my blood and a skill practiced many years.

It sure makes it easier when you’re on in one of life’s ebb phases. And when you’re in the flow phases, it flows all that much more–so long as you don’t forget to notice.

But sometimes, it’s a little uncomfortable, too. It’s like there needs to be an explanation, except 1. there doesn’t, and 2. even when it feels like it does, people don’t much care for them. It makes ‘em  uneasy from what I’ve observed.

For me, I guess I just don’t want to leave the impression I live humbly through lack of ability, or lack of resp0nsibility, or lack of control. Simply put, “lack” is the last thing I want to be associated with.

There is humble, and there is small. My my energy, my love, and my happiness are not small.  My contribution is not small. My life is not constricted. So what’s it matter how old my car is, anyway?

1. Or, as we sometimes call rivers, “Crack Whore Parking Lots.” Don’t ask.
2. Driver’s Side–Score!

When our kids were little, like most kids, they got too much candy for Easter. Hyperactive little munchkins anyway, right? They’d gobble some, and when they slowed down, we’d put the rest away for later. Usually, there was part or most of the chocolate Easter bunny left over. Into the fridge it goes.

Then, a conscientious parent would do their parental duty to save the child from the obesity epidemic (and a potentially annoying sugar buzz): sneak into the kitchen when the kid is busy watching TV, and snap a piece of that Easter Bunny’s ears right off for a quick snack. As long as you avoid easily identifiable parts and don’t suddenly behead a previously intact bunny torso, nobody’s any the wiser.

Unless you’re like I was, back in my sugar-eating days, and lacking a little in self-control.

Making one too many trips to the bunny box, eventually you realize what you’ve done. Now, you’re faced with the potential righteous wrath of an indignant  five-year-old whose candy you have stolen. That’s a pretty serious infraction to a five-year-old, you know.

You could ‘fess up and face the music with an earnest apology to your offspring, presented with a promise to replenish the chocolate stash and then some. Heck, the kid would probably learn some life lesson about honesty or apologies or some other such shit.

You could.

Or…well…you could also break the remaining chocolate bunny in a bunch of much smaller, unidentifiable pieces, and put them all in a baggie in the fridge after bedtime. Destroy the evidence. Guess which one I did?

“Hey, what happened to my Easter bunny?” Radar’s up immediately. Candy is serious business.

“Oh, I broke it up into pieces for you. It’s easier to eat that way,” said in my best helpful-mom voice.

Tilted head, her eyes narrow. She’s suspicious. She knows something’s not right. “Are you sure…?”

“I sure think so!” (I didn’t specify for whom it’s easier to eat.)

The kid knew something was fishy, but wasn’t sure enough to pursue it. I felt a twinge of guilt for a minute, but it didn’t stick. After all, how much Easter candy does a kid really need, anyway?