Room to Breathe

Air in a Hurry

I know wind. I know blustery wind gusting to fifty miles an hour. I know days of sustained breezes. I know winds that bring in the rain storm and those that help to move it on its way. I know wind that rips shingles from your roof. Wind that wakes you in the dead of night. Wind that blows so softly that I forget for a minute how entirely windy it is here.


If I have gained anything from living on the high plains in Wyoming, it has been the intimate relationship I have with all manner of gust, current and draft. I will not claim to love it. Or even like it. There are days, frankly, when I barely tolerate it. More days than not, the wind will be blowing. More days than not, I ask myself why I live here.

There are, I suppose, some benefits from wind. I’m sure it has a pretty critical role in maintaining global- atmospheric-pressure something or other. We probably need it for that purpose. I guess I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the wind is harvested here to make electricity. Giant white wind turbines dot the horizon, slowly turning their blades, like sentinels protecting the open prairie.

Sometimes, I will admit, I love the fragrance of the wind as it slips off the grass covered plains. It smells clean and sweet. There are no smoggy days here. There is little humidity. On soft, breezy days, I feel like I am climbing in to a bed made with freshly washed sheets—crisp and new.

I should mention that there is really nothing like standing on an open piece of land with no buildings, roads, power lines, people—just earth and grass-- and letting the force of the wind cover my entire body. It presses against me, blowing my hair, blasting over my skin, roaring in my ears. As I lean into it, I secretly hope the wind will steal away a few of my sins and maybe a couple of regrets. I watch hopefully as it whisks them into the sky, far away from me. It ought to, you know, do that little thing for me. After all, I live with the wind every day. I know it pretty well. I’m starting to think it knows me.

An apology to my mother

My sister once put a diaper on my one year old son completely backward. I thought it was a cute mistake made by someone who hadn’t changed many, if any, diapers in her lifetime. It wasn’t until a while later that I figured out that she was so sauced she had no idea what she was doing. She was very good at hiding her addiction. Very good. I should have known from her slurred speech and wobbly gait that something more was going on than “strong sleeping pills.”


I didn’t put it together until she was staying in my guest room and answered the bedroom door drunk. She couldn’t even stand. I might have been more understanding, but it was my three year old who was knocking and wanting to see her. I was livid.

I found an empty fifth of vodka in her bag. I had no choice but to put her back in bed and let her sleep it off. I wasn’t going to let her get away with it, though. Not in my home. Not around my children. Even if it was her birthday. I did what any sensible sibling would do; I told my mom. My parents arrived an hour later.

After driving her to a hospital an hour away, my mom told me that she blew a .25 blood alcohol level. It had been hours since her last drink. The fact that she blew that high of a level and was still bantering with the hospital staff astounded me. The legal limit in our state is .08. This wasn’t someone who decided to go on a birthday binge. This was someone who had been using alcohol for a good while.

As in any dysfunctional family, the fallout from the whole event landed on my shoulders. Turned out that, because I was hesitant to have her back as a guest in my house two days later, I was the bad guy. Never mind that she had been wasted around my one and three-year-old sons. Never mind that she had a long history of cruel manipulation with me--her younger sister.

No one will own up to the fact that it was anything other than normal sibling behavior when she would do things like dig her finger nails into my arm to the point that my skin would break and I would bleed . It didn’t matter that she was fourteen and I was nine. Things like this happened nearly every day before my mom moved out, taking my sister with her. That’s normal for siblings, right?

I’m not going for a “my-life-sucked-so-pity-me-please” sentiment here. I just want to make the point that sometimes things happen that forever fracture the relationship between siblings. Perhaps this rift is rooted in the day she told me that if my parents and I didn’t bring back a puppy for her that day, she would kill herself. That’s some heavy shit for a fourth-grader, if I say so myself. Needless to say, she got the puppy.

The divide between us now is so large that I can’t imagine ever wanting to try to mend our relationship. It would be one thing if the drunken disaster was an isolated event, but it wasn’t. It can be added to a laundry list of offenses that cause my chest to fill with slow burning anger.

My choice to distance myself from my sister is not a popular one. I love my mother, but she can wield guilt like a master swordsman. In my mom’s eyes, I am not the victim here. Nor am I the forgiving one. Thing is, I don’t care anymore. I don’t have to. There was never an apology. Not a sincere one anyway. Even if there had been one, an apology without remorse is meaningless. There was never an ounce of remorse.

Don’t get me wrong. I wish my sister the best in life. I hope that she can overcome her addiction and find other ways to fill her vacations. I just never want to see her again.

It may be ugly to say, but I don’t need my sister. I have a crowd of friends, including my brother and other sister, who can diaper my one-year-old just fine. I trust them with my children, and also my heart.  Maybe one day, I will regret my decision, but I doubt it. Some decisions are so deeply felt--are made on the most solid of evidence--that they are never wrought with regret. This rift is one I don’t choose to close and (sorry mom) I’m good with that.

The Beach at Manzanita

A little me time

I don't want to be me.

I need a vacation. Some time away. I need a break from all I should do and be and want. I need time away from the noise and mess and rush. I want to turn off my brain. Turn off my heart. Step away from my guilt and conscience and memory.

I want to escape responsibility…reality…redundancy.

I want to stop the voices in my head.

I want to stop trying to please the voices outside my head. The ones that say try harder, work more and be better. I want to stop trying. I want to stop wasting effort.

I want to experience peace….calm…nothingness.


I want to hear the ocean. I want to feel the breeze. I want the sun to warm my face.

I want my heart to beat slowly. I want my mind to feel calm. I want my body to feel rested. I want to be glad. I want to be real.

I want to me.

Dream On

Last night I dreamt about an old boyfriend. John Beard. He was the first boy who ever held my hand. He made fun of me once for picking my nose. It was fifth grade. I haven't seen him in over twenty years.

Yet, in my dream, he was a man. I was me. Not a younger or better looking version of me, but the same strung out, mini-van driving mother of two young boys who didn't shower this morning person that I am. And, he was okay with that. He was still interested in holding my hand. He had every intention of being with me, despite the fact that I had food stuck in my hair.

In my dream, I kept wanting to steal away for a few minutes to shave my legs. I felt desperate to ensure that, even though I had stretch marks and wrinkles and mom underwear, my legs be soft and hair-free.

That is, of course, when the dream morphed into a strange mountain climbing/mall shopping trip scenario that definitely did not involve my fifth grade, now manly, boyfriend. 

In the waking hours since that dream, my mind continues to find his face. To relive the moment when I asked him how he kept his car so clean and the realization that this neat-nick, handsome man was actually in love with me despite how far I have fallen from youthful grace.

What do you make of that, psychiatrist sam? Does it mean that I need more spice in my marriage? Or, perhaps just better hygiene? Does it mean that I long for a distant past? As long ago as my upper elementary years?

I probably won't share this with my husband. I mean, what would I say? "Hey honey, you won't believe this crazy dream I had last night." Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I he would even be interested in hearing. Oh, right. Maybe that's the problem.

Kitchen Sink Conversation

“You’re right, you know.”


Startled, she glanced up at him. The dish slipped from her hand and clunked heavily back into the soapy water.

“You were right about the old man. He had been in prison. Thirty years.”

“I knew it,” she said. “He just had that look about him. Nothing wrong or sleazy, but. Did you say thirty years? Shit. That is a long time.”

He reached over her for the dishrag. “Yeah, well. Thirty years for murder. Or, manslaughter. Or something.” He grabbed the dripping plate as she handed it over. “It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to ask details about.”

“Oh, my God.” She stopped her hands and stared at her husband. “He killed someone? And now he lives next door?” Her gazed wandered across the kitchen. “I don’t know. I don’t think I like that. Who told you?”

“Well, like it or not, he’s our neighbor." He flipped the plate and started drying the other side. "I heard it from Steve. He has a connection at the D.O.C.”

“I don’t know. I need to meet this guy. I need to look him in the eye. Manslaughter is one thing, but murder?” She reached down and unplugged the drain. “I’ll get a feeling from him once I talk to him.”

“Don’t talk long.” He smirked. “You never know when those old murderous tendencies will strike again. Young woman like you. Might be too much for the old geezer.”

“Stop.” She smiled lightly back at him. He laughed as he turned to leave the room. “Jerk,” she added just before he was out of earshot. He laughed again.