My father would have been 69 today.  It's been 4 years since he died. The week of the 10th - 18th is always hard. The day he passed away to his birthday. Every year the echos of grief, anger, disappointment, and longing ripple through me like a stone dropped in the water. He's been on my mind a lot lately, and in little cosmic ways I feel his presence. The two random shows we watched that both had songs from Fiddler on the Roof, The random comment or joke that sounds like something he would say, the taste and smell of something familiar to something he'd make.  This week has had several lessons in forgiveness.

This pictures was taken about 20 years ago, we were doing Fiddler on the Roof with the Mountaineer players in Bainbridge. It was the last time he played the role. 

Life is full of bitter fruit. Repeating patterns. It never fails... I feel I'm doing well, I feel I'm getting settled, comfortable, caught up, finally on my path... and then the North wind blows.... bringing cold reality and the urge, and need for change.

Chocolat is one of my all time favorite movies for a multitude of reasons... If you've not seen it, please go find a way to watch it. 

My garden is flourishing and I'm starting to harvest things. I had an abundance of radish greens (the radish themselves largely have been rather tiny... but whatever... work with what you are given).  I decided to make a soup.  Hot soup on a 80+ something day? Why yes, soup always!

​Most of the ingredients came from my garden and this brings me incredible joy. 

This soup is full of radish greens, but you could use pretty much any green you have on hand like beet greens, kale, spinach, turnip etc. It's also got zucchini and lots of herbs. I opted for chicken better than bullion to make the soup, but this could easily be made vegan by using a vegetable option. 

*Measurements are a loose guide... I cook rather instinctually by throwing things in a pot generally.

I have a tendency to over do things. I overwork, overthink, over speak, overdo. I tend to trudge through the brush and bramble and forge my own path instead of taking the one that is sometimes obviously laid out before me, or even taking the hint of a trail.  This leads sometimes to wonderful adventures, but often just making things harder than they really need to be. 

Mom and I went huckleberry picking this morning. We have a favorite spot we go, it's served us well, year after year, but as is so often in life, sometimes things change. 

Would that it were not so, but I, am bad at love. Persistently hopeful, yet increasingly hopeless. I flounder, stuck in a repetitive pattern of unrequited love and being drawn to the unavailable.  They say being aware of the pattern is the first step... Well, I'm aware of it. ... painfully.

I had a moment the other day where I stopped and realized I was happy. It was an odd sensation, something unfamiliar. In the last 5 years of overwhelming grief, stress, trauma and survival there have been fleeting moments, here, and there, of joy. The moment would pass and I'd go back to scrambling, trying desperately to catch my breath. 

My path has never been clear, my way never straight, and narrow, no neat order. My path is wild, untamed, and uncertain.....

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 Healing is a slow journey. It doesn't happen over night. There are steps forward, and slips back, the occasional bold and giant leap. Patience has never been my strongest virtue, especially with myself.  I'm doing this book right now called The Artists Way by Julia Cameron.
​I'm just starting week 8 of 12 ----

It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. I lost a hero.
Anthony Bourdain to me, had the life I most aspire to. He had seemed from outward appearances to overcome his past, and personal demons and find his calling in food, writing and travel. He connected with people on a personal level, explored uncomfortable truths about history, current realities, and brought people together. He had wit, and sarcasm but also altruism, and a giddy joy for discovery.  He spoke out against injustice. He loved everything from a hot dog to a fancy multi-course prefix with pairing. He could connect, with everyone with a good heart. He had no tolerance for bullies and fools. For years I have said if I could do anything/be anything, I’d be the female Anthony Bourdain.  So how do you handle the loss of a hero? Someone who seems to have everything you dream of? If this strong fighter can’t deal with the state of the world anymore, how could I possibly? When you’ve spent years trying to bring people together through food, through our commonalities, trying to get everyone to see that we are all humans with the same basic joys and pains and we just need to connect. What do you do when it seems increasingly that hatred, greed and fear are winning?  When the world seems more and more divided? How do you not lose hope? It’s dark right now. Every day I read the news and it just seems worse. 

​There comes a time in grief where you cease to feel (at least for me) the pain is so great that you just go numb and thinking and doing is impossible. My grandmother Dorothy Neils died yesterday. February18th 2018. With exception to my father, my relationship with my grandmother is probably my most complicated. I loved her deeply, and she did irreversible damage to me over the years. To me she was always a wonder, exceptionally smart, witty, driven, beautiful, classy, exceptional in the kitchen, hard working…. entitled, judgmental and hard.  I think I have spent most of my life striving to please her and make her proud.  She was for many years the sole female influence. 

 Dating shouldn't feel like Mordor. But man this shit can be terrifying. I feel like I'm surrounded by orcs and goblins trapped in a big swamp with ghosts of dead things haunting me. I'm searching for meaningful friendship, and love which is beautiful holding on to that vision that it exists. I'm out to destroy my fears and past patterns when it comes to dating.