fuck diamonds. duct tape is a girl's best friend.

June is more bad-ass than ever and Becky tells me that I am finally starting to look like a local northern New Hampshirite. Live free or die, baby. Live free or die.

It would appear that after 75ooo miles or so the motor on a VW power window has done its time. And so I looked at the options... cardboard? saran wrap? a beach towel with the Red Sox insignia? or maybe just roll down the highway au naturel-like, with the wind in my hair. The weather forecast knocked some common sense into my head; a winter storm warning has been issued for the next few days. I started to fiddle and pry away at the inside panel thinking that maybe I could "fix" the window rather than seal the hole. Harry, having earned his stripes on the planet came out of his garage with heavy-duty plastic and, you got it, a roll of duct tape, cautioning me to not make it worse than it is.

So, Anemone (in photos) and I combined our creativity and fresh thinking to determine how best to seal the window. Being a McClure with an inbred fear of maverick electrical wires/cords in my living space and sticky residues in general, I had to breathe deeply into a paperbag a few times before completing the project. Becky has assured me that there are solvents which can remove unsightly gooey trails without harming June's pristine paint job. I'll report back.

And so with a notable blind spot out the right side of my vehicle (adding a not-insignificant level of adventure for taking all the left turns between home and work), Anemone and I loaded up for our drive down Interstate-93. Harry took one look at the completed revamp and told me to take the roll of duct tape with us. An hour later, just as we were pulling off the highway, we blew a hole from the bottom end of the repair job. Apparently, the life expectancy of duct tape attaching metal and plastic at 65 mph is 35 miles. Learning something new everyday.

For now the skies have yet to release the anticipated rain and snow. As such, I cannot report on the resiliency of the fix-it under precipitatious conditions. I'm still sorting out how I will scrape the passenger window if I wake up to ice. I have an appointment to get the problem diagnosed tomorrow afternoon. The guy I spoke to on the phone assured me that they'd at least be able to get the window back up for me. Yah... Right.... They don't know June like I know June. She's probably gotten pretty infatuated with the duct tape too.

The adventure continues.

the Monday that follows Sunday

Exhale. Where do I want to go this morning? I've been delaying my blogging and as such many stories and thoughts are pushing up against my fingers for their voice. Start with now.

It's Monday of my last week working full-time at the Shelter. It's just after 6am so I'll have to put a limit on my typing so that I can get out the door on time. I am very relieved to be heading into the homestretch with work. It's difficult not to be disparaging about the Shelter when I hold my experience of what it has been like working there. I can say that it has been an enormous lesson in looking at my various motivations for the choices I make, particularly with respect to work. I suppose like much of our society, I have attached the notion of being of service to my work and that, often in service, there is sacrifice. It's a choice, of course, like anything, but I have had a compulsion over the years to direct my skills and training into trying to help out people and causes who very obviously are in need. The folks who live and work at the Shelter are wonderful souls and I wanted to be helpful.

I was drowning.

This broaches on another motivation.... my ego. My desire to feel my full wingspan professionally in an environment that is in dire need of help brought out my impulse to swoop in with a cape and make things better. Hubris.

And then there's the motivation that is tough to dance around. Money. And here is where I feel energy begin to move in my body in the form of fear. Last night I was visited by the demons who harass me about my lack of adult-like responsibility when it comes to supporting myself and becoming a grown-up. I have no idea how I will support myself financially through this decision to resign from my job.

This is terrifying to admit. I am sitting on this wall which divides two territories. One territory is known and travelled and yet for my heart, body, and spirit I could not find a good fit in working at a job that was making me sick even though it kept me linked to my profession and paid my bills. Because the shoe was so obviously the wrong size, I looked deeper into my soul and made the decision to spend the next few months writing. This is a territory that thrills me, scares me, excites me, and holds me and yet my travels in this land have been private, a sheltering place, separate from making a living.

And so this all brings me up against a very core issue -- if I'm not travelling a well-trod path, making a living, offering sacrifices of myself, will I be okay? Who or what will support this journey?

I wonder if this is all just a childish way to avoid growing up and assuming the responsibilities of real life. I can hear the supportive voices of the people who love me attempting to soothe my worries but this is ultimately a solo path. Each of us makes a life and chooses a route that is our own private journey. Regardless of whether we have a mate or a family or a brilliant circle of friends, each of us walks alone with our demons speaking into one ear and our spirit whispering from the quiet. As I sit on this stone wall between two territories, the tension is mounting.

68 in a 65

A fine memory from my recent roadtrip, relocating my furniture and personal belongings from a storage unit in Boulder, CO to a somewhat quirky and rundown yet charming cottage in Franconia, NH: as my friend, Bradford, and I closed in on Chicago, IL on Wednesday morning (day 2 of 3) an Illinois state trooper seemingly more interested in the westbound traffic pulled a u-turn from his median position and began tailing me down the interestate (it should be noted that I, myself, was tailing a transport truck. But nonetheless, what's a roadtrip without a story?). A minute passes, enough for him to run the Arizona-based plates on our intrepid 17' Uhaul truck, and his lights come on -- gobsmacked, I signal right and pull onto the shoulder.

An aside, as we were headed out on our first full driving day, wrestling with the lack of power in her Uhaul engine through Nebraska, I commented to Bradford that I would be somewhat proud to get a speeding ticket in our underpowered and cumbersome vehicle, as sportier machines and SUV's blew by us.

.... back to Officer BJ Lewis and his spirited and zealous pursuit for keeping the peace and ensuring the state of Illinois is free of dangerous scum on the roadways. He surprises us as I pull out my Colorado driver's license and the Uhaul rental contract; awaiting his presence at my driver's side window he pops up out of nowhere on the passenger side -- does the man know no conventions?!

"Do you know how fast you were going?" says he.

Surpressing a laugh and attempting to neutralize the confusion demonstrated by my transparent face and knitted brows, "No" says me.

"I clocked you going 68 in a 65."

A weighted silence, pushing down the impulse to respond with, "And....?" Further quieting my desire to add, "Did you happen to note the speed of the cars buzzing past us in the passing lane? Or the transport truck in front of me?"

Instead, "Oh," attempting to look adequately repentent and ashamed of myself while making sure I avoid eye contact with Bradford for fear of dissolving into laughter. I adjust my body position in the truck, plopping my chin on top of my hand and leaning towards Office Lewis as though his words are as compelling as a first hand account of witnessing the parting of the seas.

He continues talking, sharing his philosophy that Facebook and MySpace should be made illegal for all the danger they present to peoples' safety and privacy (this after I ask him if I can take his picture for my blog). Bradford, sensing Officer Lewis' desire to be a helper/protector, smartly asks for directions in navigating the worst of Chicago traffic. After 15 minutes or so, we're on our way with a written warning and advice that Indiana highway patrol are out in full force today - apparently I'm on their radar and should no longer push the edges of conformity when it comes to making a landspeed record in a Uhaul from Colorado to New Hampshire.

Wednesday afternoon, April 1st, Bradford and I safely pulled the gas-eating Uhaul into the driveway of my white clapboard cottage. All is well here at my new NH post -- after 3 days of unpacking and placing, my home has taken shape. I'm thrilled.

The weather since our arrival has been unseasonably warm and sunny, crossing over the 80 degree threshold and imploring the budding of new life from the earth and trees. On this Easter Sunday morning, Bradford and I went out walking and exploring through the woods beside my home. I have now taken to walking everywhere in my black rubber boots but the knee-high footwear could only run so much interference for my skin as Bradford and I bushwacked our way (somewhat disoriented and lost) through brambles and fallen trees. I consider these angry red scratches a small token of appreciation to the holiday of resurrection and the spirit of atonement -- it's a full life for me and there are often small prices to pay in the spirit of adventure and expansion.

Stay tuned.... I've resigned from my employment at the shelter. I will work full-time until May 5th and then, in honour of celebrating my 40th year in October, I am dedicating the next few months to pursuing my pleasure and passion for writing, as a gift to myself. If possible, I would like to work part-time/contractually to help make ends meet (and simply because I enjoy therapy as a professional practice) for the next half year or so but, more than anything, I am choosing to follow my heart and soul a bit more for now. After all, if not NOW, then when?

Happy spring to you -- may your search for chocolate eggs be fruitful. And keep it just under 'dangerous' on your adventure speedometer.

let's hear it for Evel

...who was cool enough to nearly make a cat-person out of me. Almost.

This past week, I sadly yet peacefully re-gifted my stray cat to a woman with whom I work and her 19 year old son who has autism. I was gobsmacked by the smoothness of life events; Evel (yes, that's right -- I changed his/her name from "3" to Evel after watching it fly around my home like the original Evel Knievel, occasionally crashing and burning) came into my world one very cold night at the start of 2010 and helped me to stay planted on the planet through some tough nights and mornings. Of course, when the woman was considering the adoption and asked me its name, I responded "Precious."

The morning after the adoption I phoned to see how the first night was: she responded that cat and son were bonding nicely and she snapped some shots of him with his head on the cat's belly as he/she slept on the stairs. All is well.

In honour of the beast who made my life sweet for a few short months, I'm putting some shots from our last couple of days together. Sometimes life seems to distill down to memories and photographs.

For two weeks I have swapped 8lbs of cat for 150lbs of drool and muddy paws. These last two pic's are of Wiley (sheep dog) and Red (chesapeake) whom I am dogsitting while Becky and Harry are out of town. Maybe it's not about being a dog-person or a cat-person but enjoying what is. Perhaps I could apply this lesson to my work.... and to people.

happy as a pig in....

Spent this weekend visiting my friend, Greg. He operates a lambing and hog operation in northern Vermont and, while I can still smell the poop in my pores, the fine memories will no doubt last longer. I don't want to spend too much time writing tonight but I thought it was time to add a note of update.

My internal weather patterns continued to roll with some storms for a while but March came in like a lion last Monday and since Thursday this week it has been unseasonably warm and sunny. Today I drove with June's sunroof open (and, of course, the check engine light still ablaze). Last Wednesday I moved through a particularly interesting experience with work and I was left buzzing awake through most of the night -- apparently my wiring has become unaccustomed to the excitement and high of doing what I love to do, therapeutically. More to follow on this when I feel more inclination to write about it.

I have stabilized some, it helps to be around tonnes of animals, some of them just a day or two old in the world, others topping over 500 lbs with personality to match. I also got to run a chainsaw (thank you Husqvarna) and cut some felled trees into logs, ....nothing makes me so happy as power tools in the outdoors with sunshine and trees all around.

I'm attaching some shots from the weekend so you might better comprehend why I'm feeling the inclination towards sheep farming.

every day is Sunday

I've been hiding myself, avoiding putting onto this screen some of the deeper parts of myself that are at my surface -- perhaps I don't want to make them more real by sharing them with the people who care about me. Perhaps I don't want to make them more solid by owning these parts more openly. Part of me is reticent to be misunderstood and judged and part of me doesn't want to have you worry about me. Ultimately, I know I'm well -- I'm struggling with some profound dragons but I'm safe.

There has been depression circling my system. I've wondered whether to attribute it to the relative lack of sunlight in New England compared to Colorado in the winter months. I've wondered if it's simply a consequence of having made poor choices and created a life for myself which is not fulfilling nor enjoyable. I've wondered whether I have a chemical imbalance in my brain. Essentially, I've been moving through despondency and greyness. Even as I've avoided bringing my words to this medium, I have been burning through the pages of my journals attempting to discern what is happening in my life. Every now and again I take a walk through the woods and fields as a reprieve from my work and my wrestling and I find a bigger perspective...

It used to be that Sunday mornings were a time when I felt acute pain rise up and confront me; Sunday was the day when the normal schedule of "doing" collapsed and the spaciousness threatened to unhinge me -- where would I focus my attention so that I need not look at my disquiet? During the week I could tackle issues, strive towards goals, distract myself with a social life; essentially I could feel like a 'normal person'. However, when I awoke on Sunday morning the veil would be pulled back on my grief, my pain, the fears and doubts I have about myself and life in general. On Sunday mornings I would get the sense that I was hiding from a core threat to my sanity and it was waiting for me in the dark corners of my psyche.

Since I left "life" as I constructed it in Colorado, I have disavailed myself of many of my usual hiding places. My relationship with my partner provided a great deal of distraction because there were so many issues we were always trying to fix. My work with Monarch was busy and chaotic and provided me with a platform on which I could develop not only my skills but my ego. I earned a higher income which afforded me 'pretty things' and could soothe my inner ache for beauty and filler, at least temporarily.

Conversely, here in northern New Hampshire I spend my time between work at the shelter, walking in the woods, or alone in my home. My work is absurd -- any wish to be good at my job is thwarted by circumstances beyond my control. My salary only covers my basic needs for food, shelter, healthcare, and transportation. I spend 80% of my time completing documentation that no one will ever read and the kids with whom I work don't give a shit about my therapeutic prowess. While I look to my nearby friends Becky and Sue (in Boston area) as social lifelines, I am very lonely for my family in Ontario and for my support system in Colorado.

In fact, I don't even know anymore if I enjoy work as a therapist. I wonder if I didn't simply migrate to the field as a way to avoid my existential and psychological demons; a way to keep myself occupied while hoping to simultaneously construct a sense of self that makes up for my core feeling of being a mess.

So, I fear that I am succombing to self-pity. That was not my wish. While every part of me is screaming to get out of my present circumstances, to somehow intervene in my own life, I know I need to stay and see what is 'here'. When I say 'here', I don't mean New Hampshire, I mean 'Martha'. I have studied addiction and compulsion enough in my life to recognize my own compulsion to move and keep moving -- change something, do something. At least transitioning is a good distraction. As long as I keep altering something on the surface of my life, I'll never have time to attend to the depths and what lurks below. My other compulsion is to be a 'fixer' and this desire to repair something that I perceive is broken connects too fluidly with being a chronic mover and changer. I suppose that as I was striving to amend a faulty family system or offer relief to a suffering client, I was rubbing a salve on my own personal sense of being defective.

The other reason I am resisting the desire to leapfrog on out of these uncomfortable circumstances is that it seems to me that there is integrity in leaning into my own experiences of insanity and depression. In my field of work as well as in my practice of being human I want to foster a practice that there is not sane and insane and that the goal is not the uncompromising pursuit of happiness. I don't want to take a pill for this as our pharmaceutical industry would coach. The least I can do is 'walk my own talk' and be willing to hold my seat through the greeting of my demons. Maybe integrity is only part of it, maybe the other aspect is a belief that true healing requires moving through something rather than moving away from it.

Anyway, I have gotten tired of the sound of falseness in my voice through emails and phonecalls to you. I am tired of pretending because it's creating another layer of suffering in my own experience. How am I? I'm hurting. Many days I am depressed but I know how to put on my clothes and walk into the world, feed myself, clean my home, pay bills. Many moments I am moved to tears by the beauty of this world in its myriad forms. I know how to call a friend and arrange a visit. I am grateful to the intelligence of life that caused a stray cat to wander into my home so that there is someone to look after other than myself. I feel both crazy and courageous.

the waxing and waning affection of the moon for the earth

Ah, Valentine's Day. It's a challenge to hover precariously between cynicism and sappyness for this loaded holiday. On the one hand, how lovely to dedicate a day to celebrating love and the intimacy of connection. On the other, how ridiculous to reinforce the illusion that love is something that can be boxed, bundled, enveloped, or otherwise reserved for couples.

I feel both slopes of slipperyness and myself don't wish to slide down either side without critical thinking. In giving this more thought this morning I began parsing out 'romance' from 'love' in hopes of finding a resolution, at least for another year. 'Romance' feels as though it has been lost to the world of commodities; traded like any other mineral or agricultural product. My sense is that romance becomes focused on form as opposed to space, or in Gestalt terminology a figural manifestation from ground. 'Love' on the other hand resists being captured or contained; it seems as though love finds its essence through movement rather than product -- much like the distinction between 'religion' and 'God.'

When loving (switching the stagnant noun to its active verb) gets lost to romance, I wonder if the illusory sense of security, as reinforced by romance, isn't groped after so as to quell the ultimately disquieting vulnerability and moment-to-moment presence that loving demands. Perhaps there is nothing innately faulty about romance until it is offered as a substitute or salve.

My caveat -- I type this entry alone in my home, except for my cat (now I'm truly freaked out), who offered me no expressions of his undying love on this St. Valentine's Day, unless you count the usual deposit in the litterbox. Maybe this is love in action, cleaning up after someone simply because he's here and I can. And there's something about watching him sleep that reminds me to breathe, slow down, and open up.

My loving to you. May whatever you long for be yours, if only to pass over and puncture your heart momentarily -- not to be restrained, only to be cherished.