I Hope They Are Hiking Together

This photo is a repost from November 9, 2013. I love this photo because my pal Dave is completely unaware he's about to be assaulted by a rottengreyhoundlabradork that loves him. Mabel's excitement upon seeing him...or any friend was always visible in her whole body.

David passed away yesterday after an oh-so-brief and brutal battle with cancer that attacked him on multiple fronts. While he was one of the newest members of the Creekerati, he was dearly loved and is sorely missed.

If there is a heaven for me, he's walking my girl that loved him so. And Hank, and Bart, and Gizmo. Dave loved all the dogs...and they loved him.

Bright Spots in the Darkest Days

The day after Mabel died, I was booked to teach. Despite being a complete and utter mess, I kept the gig... I had a ginormous vet bill and what good would sitting home do?

I was teaching in the better school district, where the parents are often very well paid professionals and have certain expectations of how their children should behave.  This often makes teaching there a dream compared to the "hazard pay" district. But apparently all bets are off right before school is out.

I was teaching a junior math class and as I was handing out the class work I noticed a sandwich on the floor. I found the kid it belonged to and the kid he was throwing his food at and had them clean it up. As class went on, I kept hearing a strange noise behind me but as I was occupied with the school's new fangled attendance system on the computer, I never gave it much thought.  At the end of class, it was much louder. And suddenly, I realized the naughty boys had been throwing food at me the entire class and as they left the room they lobbed the remainder of the sandwich at me.

I wrote them up... the only time I've ever done that in this district... and the school sent someone to take pictures and clean up the mess.  I was on the verge of tears as the next class began. I gave them their assignment and spent the rest of the class biting my lip to keep it together. By the last class, word had spread through campus. A senior asked if he could leave for some reason and I let him. He was gone a long time. When he showed back up, just before class was out, he returned with a box full of smoothies from the local Jamba Juice and insisted I get first pick, because he had heard I'd had a bad day. 

His kindness lifted my spirits but I knew I had no reason to hurry home and was growing sadder and feeling so sorry for myself.  The day ended and I went to the office to sign out and saw him:

He was a therapy dog. I don't know why he was there...I've never seen him since. The school secretary told me to give him a hug... and I dove to the floor and just rolled around with him...not caring one bit that my employers might be looking. As I hugged him, I started to sob. And he started to lick my tears away.

Concerned, his handler came over to apologize and correct him. "He's trained not to do that."  Only when I looked up at her did she see my tears.  I could barely whisper, "My dog died yesterday." She backed away and left me with him. I cried and cried until there were no more tears and then we played and played.

I don't know where this angel came from but I'm forever grateful our paths crossed that day.

Thoughts on the Trip

The three of us are Home! Mabel Lou, Baby and I made it home. We are thrilled and happy despite a rude little flight attendant that didn't like big dogs and the fact that our flight was originally headed to San Francisco and we had some unhappy co-passengers!

This is Mabel Lou's first creek hike last night. I was pointing the camera at her and asked, "Mabel, are you HAPPY?" and this is what I got:

It was such a lovely night with friends... until Hank and Sue took off and met a skunk! I spent the evening taking supplies to their Mom. Poor babies!

+++++++++++

I haven't spent much time in Louisiana in the summer in such a long time and I was struck by so many contrasts between my two homes...


Ripoff Report:
It's odd to me what items are expensive in one place vs. the other. In Louisiana, milk and produce are much more expensive... and there's a dairy just outside Baton Rouge. But milk is about a $1.25 more in most stores! And produce prices are terribly high there...is it because more people garden and there is less demand?

I had to buy some of these for a friend in CA recently.

They were a buck a piece! Really??? What mom would buy pre-made frozen sandwiches for a buck each! That tag is from Louisiana and that price would make them .598 cents each! Why such a big price difference???

Gasoline is nearly a buck more a gallon here. Our government claims it's the "expensive" detergents required to meet California summer emissions...  Excuse me while I laugh.

I know housing is so pricey here but many other things are the same or even less...

DUCK Goose!

The first day I visited my Mom at rehab, I was over the moon to see this goose family a few feet from my car:

I'm kinda terrified of geese...I was attacked by them once on a film location!  But the bird babies got me. By the time Mom left, one of the babies was MIA. One evening as I was driving home, I stopped my car in the middle of the street because the family was passing. I was honked at and given the middle finger salute and not one vehicle stopped for the family! OK, we're talking a grand total of three cars on this remote street but still!

Cut to my trip to the thrift store this morning: I see a local peacock family crossing my street. I stopped. Mom looked beat to bits...like a coyote got a hold of her. I was most surprised to see a big male helping her tend the two chicks.

And the three other cars that I encountered??? They all stopped and watched! There's something to be said for us nutty Californians!

God is Everywhere
Funny but that sort of sums up my religious philosophy but, in the case of the South, I mean it literally! It was to the point where it was starting to offend me and I'm a very spiritual person who also believes in leaving others to make their own dang minds up. If you ask me, I'll tell you what I believe and why but I don't go around trying to lead a flock anywhere. Heck, there as days I feel I've done a good job and if me and dog are still alive at the end of it!

But there are NUMEROUS religious television channels on 24/7! My personal favorite was a charlatan who insisted God would bless me if I only sowed a "thousand dollar favor" to plant a "triple favor seed" with the Lord....(That's ONLY 84 dollar a month!)  By "the Lord" he meant his ministry.   When I think of some of the dim witted, but kind-hearted folks I know that would fall for this crap, it gives me greater understanding of the old Southern phrase "he needed killin!" I really don't understand how the FCC can allow such cons on the air!

And then with the 4th of July even the local yokel news anchors were throwing around "God Bless America and God Bless YOU" at the end of their commercials advertising their fireworks spectacular. I only ate out in a restaurant a total of three times but one of them was selling little crosses and stitched pillows reminding me that Jesus is Lord. If you want to find the Lord, I'm certain He's in the South. Or you could at least find a replica to purchase!

But all of this made me wonder... WHY go to church? You can preached at endlessly, tithe and order religious ephemera all from the comfort of your air conditioned home!

Patience for Patients

Taking care of my strong and willful mom was an eye opening experience. So many issues of my own inadequacy from the constant criticism are way too near the surface. I couldn't help but think of taking care of my sister just six months before.

No matter what I did for my sis, there was that kind, sweet little voice ALWAYS... "Thank youuuu! Thank YOU!" for everything. She knew she was hard to please but she always said it. I remember trying to move her. I couldn't lift her but I knew she could hold onto my neck. I would tell her we were dancing. "Take a step right, take a step back." She listened and I could maneuver her where I needed her to go, cheek to cheek. She would kiss me and thank me.

I would change her diapers and she would look up at me and apologize over and over. My response was always the same, "Hey, you changed mine! Now it's my turn!"

And while it's natural for my mother to long for her lost child gazing through the perfection colored glasses of loss, I wish, just once, I could feel like the good daughter I know I am. One who is not always wrong in everything she does.

Dust to Dust

Velvet wrote an excellent post whereupon she considered her own funeral and inquired if any of her readers had ever done the same. Since I have, I'm blogging about that subject. I do urge you to read Velvet's post first, especially the 2nd paragraph!!!

Although I am the youngest in my tiny family of four, at the ripe old age of 47, I think I have pondered the thought of death far more than anyone. My mother, age 88, is by far the healthiest and the youngest of us all! As down as she gets sometimes, I don't think she really considers death very often... at least not her own. My sister, age 68, is on her third round of cancer and I am certain that she does not consider death. And my dear brother in law just doesn't speak of such things. He married into a family of three outspoken, hard headed and strong women...he doesn't get to speak much at all except to referee from time to time. This makes him qualified for Saint-hood in my book.

Sometimes I wonder if it's in my Piscean nature to analyze death. Those who are really into astrology say that a Pisces child is neither of this world or the next...but somewhere in between. I would say this is true.

 

 My Maggie May is the sparkle in the pink of this worry stone. 

One of the longest short stories I've ever written was about the subject of death and how many people that have been taken from me. Southern children are not shielded from death the way many of my California friends do with their kids. I remember going to funerals at quite a young age. I lost friends to the mishandling of firearms at ages 8, 15, and 19. I lost friends and relatives to cancers at ages 16, 18, and 28. I lost my father at 11 and my grandmother at 19.  Sometimes I feel I know more people on the other side than alive in this world. I live with lots of ghosts.

I am certain my father has visited me just as I am certain my aunt did right after she died. My uncle has been a presence in my life since his absence from this earth. Heck! I'm just as certain even my DOG came back for a visit! With all of that going on... death doesn't scare me. Pain, yes; but death? Nah!

My personal heroine, Maggie May

I do worry about what would happen to my dog and if I ever have enough dough to do a proper will, I want to make arrangements for her.

I want to be cremated. Part of me feels that I just don't want to take up one iota of space in this world of too much after I'm gone. I remember hearing that cancer continues to eat your flesh after you die and the mean bitchy part of me would want to slap that cancer in the face and say, "Fine, you may have killed me but I'm taking you with me!" Cremation is a sharp deviation from the way I was raised...forever at some too damp cemetery in a dang rainstorm.

My mother gets so upset that "no one visits Daddy" or her brother. Or that no one is taking flowers to them. Even as a child I would say to her, "Why? They're not there!" Still, I do confess to visiting my own father's grave site every time I'm in Hattiesburg. I've left flowers and flags and even Krispy Kreme's there. But I think that's more about me having so little time with him and that so many of the places we were together have been torn down. My father built Hillcrest Hall on the University of Southern Miss campus and I sometimes go in to touch the plaque that bears his name. I'm still surprised that I, the baby of my family, have changed my whole family's thoughts on cremation. Before, the thinking seemed to be that only the damned were cremated... Kinda like a pre-burn before Hell? But, I know Mom wants to be cremated and my sister has given it thought.

I have to say that as a beadmaker, I've gotten to incorporate cremains in glass for a handful of customers. It has been some of the most meaningful work I've ever done. I wouldn't mind leaving a few tablespoons of myself to certain loved ones for that purpose.

 

The Allie Heart - made with the ashes of one of my hiking buddies, Rottrover's Allie. 

But it's a weird thing growing up knowing that your entire family will probably die well before you and leave you all alone in this world. So that's another factor in my not wanting a grave. Who would visit? Would I even want someone standing there crying? Not so much!

But some part of me does long for a grave...because of a television show! I wasn't a big fan of Northern Exposure... I've seen maybe five episodes. But there was one scene that stands out for me. There was a teen named Ed whose good friend Ruthanne was turning 90. He was upset trying to find the perfect gift for her. So he took her hiking up an Alaskan mountainside where he presented her with a deed to a six foot by 3 foot rectangle of property. Yes, he had given her a grave! I was appalled and as I waited for the actress' reaction, I was most surprised. Ruthanne smiled at her gift and said to her young friend, "Why Ed, you've give me the most unique opportunity. May I have this dance?" The show closed with the two of them dancing on her grave.

I still have my dog, Maggie's ashes. She saved my life and I just feel I need her with me. Mabel, when her time comes, will most certainly want to be in her beloved creek but I know I will make myself a memento of her in glass. But when my time comes, I want to be scattered, with Mags, near some peaceful body of water. Which is why, when I find myself in such a place, I always dance a little jig...just in case.

Can You Hear the Angels Singing?

I love hiking in the early morning and from the middle of the valley we most love, there is an excellent backlit view of Mt. Luken's. On a cloudy morn, the rays of sun  stream up from behind the mountain or, if it's later in the day, down from the sky. I stand there in awe, waiting for the choir to begin!

For All My Dog Lover Friends

Discovered this on Facebook...

GoD and DoG by Wendy Francisco

Made you smile, didn't it?

GoD & DoG on Facebook

Be Happy - Part Two

Well, I certainly got the wind taken out my sails since posting part one of this...in more ways than one.

After coming to the conclusion that I was responsible for my own happiness, it is still a chore to remember that. Life gets me down and I fall into old patterns. But I find it interesting that every single friend I have is struggling with positivity. While this is most likely a sign of the times we are living in (under???), it could also be that we are are all at the age where we are beginning to wonder what life is really supposed to be about.

Without fail, all of my friends are either seeking a job or are currently grossly under-employed or both. It's a struggle to find a way to be positive when you send out resume after resume and nothing happens....or when your business is failing. And while most of us learned a long time ago that our happiness is not tied solely to our jobs, the lack of income definitely plays with the positivity we feel on a daily basis.

Several of my friends have all passed around the cd for The Secret. Cliche? Yes.... but I didn't realize how negative I sounded until I started listening to that book. And I have to say the positivity is helping me mentally and emotionally.

Example - I know I posted a photo of a very large root in my backyard ages ago. I've been digging and hacking at that root - larger than fire logs - for months. At first I enjoyed the challenge, but then it became a source of frustration. I would walk past it and curse. The cherry shrub I bought to plant there nearly died in our wind storms and so I cursed the $50 I spent on that shrub.

And last week, I decided to change my point of view. Instead of cursing that root, I stood there and visualized what my shrub would look like planted there, healthy and growing. The next day, I noticed several large feeder roots that were attached to the large one. I cut them with shears and suddenly the root was moving a bit. A few more whacks with my axe and it was out. And my shrub is planted and springing back to life.

It is a daily struggle to be aware and reject the negative thoughts in my head - to figure out a positive way to say what I mean. But I'm working on it. And, I am making myself make time to do something I really enjoy every day...hiking, torching, beading. And I'm making an effort to be present while doing those things. And maybe that's a start.

Maggie on my Mind

Ode to a Friend

by Holly Dare Copyright 2002

It has been a week and still I am in shock. The pain seems too much to bear. It is amazing to realize what huge part of my life Maggie is. It’s overwhelming to realize that life can change in an instant.

It all starts so innocently. Maggie has a huge cactus stuck in her front right paw. I run to her, taking off my sweatshirt as I sprint. I drop to my knees, wrapping my hand in the thick fabric and yank. She limps back to the Jeep.

I pull out the myriad of photos I have taken of her over the last six years. I love taking pictures… she loves posing: a match made in heaven. I laugh out loud at the ones with her goofy looks. Maggie has a tendency to get her upper lip hung up on her canines, causing her to look like a dog-clown. My favorites are of her smiling. Or the ones where she looks as if she’s bearing the weight of the world; she must be thinking of the year she spent in Rottweiler Rescue or the first year of her life, when no one loved her at all.

As I look at each photo, caressing them as if I can feel her fur, I can see myself reflected in her eyes. I wonder what I ever did to deserve such love and devotion.



As I drive her home for the first time, I turn to look at her in the backseat of the Celica. She looks frightened but she is smiling, happy to be going somewhere… anywhere. I let her in the back gate to snoop around the yard and then unlock the back door. She bounds in the laundry and makes a beeline for my four-poster. She looks around with satisfaction as if to say, “This’ll do quite nicely.”

“No girl, THAT is NOT your bed!” I tug her down and show her the crate I expect her to sleep in. That night, she struggles against getting in it. As I lock the door, I comment about how much training she has in store for her. Little did I realize it was me who would be trained in matter of months.

The limp gets worse as the days tick by. I take her to a vet near the house and we are given something for inflammation. We take our evening stroll. Maggie is excited to see the peacocks preening in the sun. She stops to rest. She did that the other day running with her friends. I have the sinking feeling that something is wrong.

I give her the medication before bedtime. The last time I gave her this pill, when she was three and suffering from displaysia, she slept so much. The pill will not have the same effect tonight. Every ten minutes, she groans and changes positions. Even when she gets in bed with me and I rub her tummy, she cannot get comfortable. She lumbers through the house barely placing weight on the front right paw and landing with a thud on her left. The raised foundation of the house vibrates with every step she takes. I get up at four and begin a cleaning frenzy. My mother and sister are coming for Mother’s Day.

Maggie needs OUT! I feel her tugging at my arm and my covers. She’s whining. I can’t wake up. She jumps on the bed and off again. I’m only vaguely aware of her. She’s whining and poking me with her nose. She goes to the sliding glass door and runs her head back and forth across the blinds causing the light from my neighbor’s backyard to stab violently into the room. She’s at my side, poking again. I…just can’t… wake up. In the few months we’ve been together, Maggie just touches the blinds with her nose and I am up. But not tonight. Again, she swings her head back and forth across the blinds and I finally realize she is sick. As I stand up, I can’t quite figure out where I am and I suddenly need to throw up. Head spinning, I bolt from the bed as she pukes on the carpet. I throw the blinds open and shove Maggie through the laundry room and into the cold January night. I’m running to the toilet when I smell it…the rotten eggshell odor of gas. I pull a phone outside and call the gas company.

After I give the gas lady my address, she instructs me, “Don’t turn anything on. Don’t turn anything off. Any spark could cause an explosion. You may be outside for a couple of hours so get your coat and get out of the house.”

“Yes Ma’m. Thank you.”

“You’re very lucky…You realize your dog saved your life don’t you?”

I hug Maggie close and promise her, “You have a home as long as I have a shopping cart, baby!”

Maggie is still struggling to find a comfortable position. I lie on the floor beside her and beg God to let me find the splinter in her foot. The paw is ice cold. I know I have to get Maggie to her regular vet.

I open the front closet to get her leash and she half stumbles, half runs to the front door, ever eager for a walk. “No honey, we’re going in the car.” She turns and limps out the back door. As I watch her, I realize Maggie is no longer holding up the paw. Her toenails are dragging along the concrete. Still, she jumps into the Jeep. Getting her down to go into the vet’s office is another matter. Maggie will not let me pick her up and ease her to the ground. Beverly, the Rottie Rescue lady, arrives and comes over to say hi.

She looks at Maggie’s dangling paw. “Oh, this is not good. I just put a three and a half year old down last week with bone cancer and it looked just like this.” I hate her for her abrupt honesty.

Beverly helps me get Maggie down and we go inside. The vet is in surgery and another Rottweiler has had a stroke, so we wait. I begin to bawl. Maggie May is my reason for living; she’s kept me going when nothing else would. She’s seen me through a bad love affair, career changes, a stressful move, not to mention a fire and a flood. Maggie has been my rock through so much that I truly believe she is an angel in a dog suit. I never knew I could love this much. Losing her is too painful to contemplate.

The vet finally sees us. He barely touches her shoulder and my normally docile, sweet baby tries to bite him. He sedates her and tells me to check in later. The news is not good. It is cancer in her shoulder bone.

“If it hasn’t spread, your only choice is to amputate. And then, in my experience, it comes back within 6 months in about 65% of the cases,” he says dryly. “You really need to see an oncologist before you make a decision.”

I drive her home in a fog of silent tears. I get her to step down backwards on a stool and she hobbles just inside the back gate and drops. She is dragging the top of the foot now. I line her six beds up from outside to inside so that Maggie can sort of fall from one to the next. I pull a mattress on the floor to be by her. The house is a blur of activity with the arrival of my mother and sister. Maggie stirs out of the anesthetic haze the second she hears her Granny’s voice. Neighbors and friends stop by to hold her and give her cookies.

Somewhere in all the chaos, I make a decision about the day ahead. I start to think back on the last few months and all the signs that something was wrong: The limp that was noticed by several friends yet remained oblivious to me; Maggie was so tired after walking and her breathing was… different; She rarely jumped on my bed anymore. I thought of how painful it would be for her to get in and out of the car and how much pain she is in now. And I knew I owed her more. She was my hero and heroines deserve to leave the world with dignity. And lots of love. And a little steak.

“MAGGIE MAY,” I yell. “Why in hell do you always have to lay here?” I am pointing at the flower bed underneath my bedroom window. She has dug a hole and buried a favorite miniature rosebush for what feels like the 87^th time. I continue my tirade as the poor dog scrunches herself up into a ball. “A year and a half and that rose has never bloomed and it never will if you don’t quit burying it in dirt! I’ll never understand why you have to lay here when you have a perfectly fine four bedroom house with six beds of your own, not to mention two queen size beds and ceiling fans galore to keep you cool!” She looks up at me with sad, sorry eyes and I feel like the fool that I know I look like.

The sedative wears off around 11. Even though we had fed her catfish and chicken broth, Maggie is quite upset at having been put to bed without her dinner. I fix her kibble, she eats and wants to do one of her favorite things: star gaze. She always loved to stare at the heavens. On this night, I sit near her and wish that love could somehow cure cancer.

We spend the night crying in pain. Hers is physical, mine is a heartache. I try my best to not let her see me cry so I smother my face in my pillow, keeping my hand on her behind. Around 5:30, I try to adjust the sock on her paw and she nips at my hand. I know she is not herself. The paw has managed to grow even colder.

Mother sits outside with Maggie, while I cook her a ribeye in garlic and butter. She wolfs it down. Then, a squirrel heads for the mulberry tree and its all you can eat Springtime buffet. Maggie forgets her pain and dashes to the trunk of the tree, remembers and drops onto her tummy, ever watchful of the squirrel.

Mother and I head into the house to eat breakfast, thinking Maggie would be busy with the squirrel. Maggie has other plans. Not one to miss a meal, she comes hobbling in the living room and lies down near the dining table. I give her a popover with berries and whipped cream and she is thrilled.

We take pictures of her and get her into the car. I can see in the rear-view mirror that she is smiling and my heart breaks all over again. The nurse asks me to muzzle her and the doctor takes her into the surgery room. He shaves her arm as I tell her what a good friend she is. He gets out the needle and I sing her the “Maggie May Song” - just a stupid ditty that I sing on our walks.

“She’s a beauty booty bee and a
Beauty booty bye.”

The needle enters and she jerks back. I take her head in my hands.

“And I love her all the day
and I love her all the time.”

I see a gray cloud forming over her eyes. I move in closer and continue singing.

“She’s a good old girl and her name is Maggie May
And I love her so much every day.”

Her breath is short. I say, “Thank you so much for all your love. I love you. You’re the best good girl. I love you.” I move even closer, “I love you!”

She lets out a deep, long breath. The vet removes the muzzle and I move to the other side as they lay her completely down. Her tongue is hanging down and I lift her head for one last kiss. I hold her for a moment and then smell her feet one last time, inhaling their earthy odor deep into my lungs.

I am sleepless and surfing. I find a canine cancer site. I am wondering if there is anything I should have done for Maggie. A woman writes of her dog not eating. It drags its body into the darkness of the garage during the day and then comes into the house during the black of night. I’m glad that I was not that selfish with my Mags.

I walk the mountain trail at Crescenta Valley Park alone and am awestruck by all the side trails I never noticed when I was there with Maggie. I know it is a sign of the proverbial window opening when a door gets slammed in your face.

Insomnia again. The house is so quiet – except for my tears. When I’m not crying, I pray for a sign. Just a sign. Any sign will do.

I gather up pictures and take them to an artist friend. She is going to paint Maggie’s portrait on a little valise that I will use as an urn.

The ashes arrive and I sob when I find her metal hip joint loose in the box. At least I know the contents of this box belong to my baby. Having her ashes makes my pain, my loss, even more real.

I can’t sleep. I pace the floors looking for her. I listen for her breathing, for the tinkle of her collar, the thunder of her feet on the deck when she was chasing a squirrel. I wonder where she is when I put on my tennis shoes. I roll over and close my eyes once more.

A baby girl with dark hair is holding my fingers as she tries to walk. She takes each step cautiously. Suddenly a squirrel runs across the yard and she lets go of my right hand to point at the squirrel and squeals in her little girl voice, “Skirrel!!” The squirrel startles and makes a run for the mulberry tree. “Skirel!!! SKIREL!!!!” Her delightful squeals jerk me awake.

I stumble out on the porch, tears falling on my nightgown, and sit on the step. I bury my face in my hands and wonder about my dream. Was that Mags? Was that my sign? If she’s a baby, who’s taking care of her and loving her?

I wrap my arms around my legs and rock my body back and forth. There, under the bedroom window, is a fully open yellow and pink miniature rose. A feeling of peace settles over me as I realize that God has shared one of His babies with me for six years. And now, she is His baby again. He is loving her.

Maggie May, June 25, 1994 - May 8, 2002

There IS a Plan???

I was very excited about the coming fall thanks in part to my extended teaching schedule. I had been booked for around 30 classes at one art store, including a set of four glass fusing six-week long series. I have been longing to teach a longer glass series and was so excited about this opportunity. Not to mention access to a much bigger kiln as a job perk.

I found out today that the store is closing. Not only have I lost the classes I built my whole crazy fall schedule around, I've lost a significant amount of income.

I can't remember if I mentioned that I'm taking jewelry fabrication at Santa Monica college. I signed up for the class to get me on campus early enough to take glass blowing. After one session of glass blowing, I dropped out. (It was too freaky watching all those newbies struggling with the furnace door while dangling a red-hot punty and strewing hot glass stringer all around the room. Plus, I'm trying to work smaller in glass... not bigger.)

Leaving class on Thursday, I looked around the art quad at all these crazy art kids. It's so painfully obvious that we see the world slightly askew. I marveled at the fact that I never even had the nerve to set foot in an art department my first trip through college. But now, some 25 years later, I fit right in. And it's taken me so long to get here. And I'm not ready to give it up.

The thought of needing a "real" job to supplement my income scares the heck out of me. I found myself remembering a blog by another lampworker's husband that I read only yesterday. Re-reading that short, sweet post has brought me a great deal of comfort in spite of feeling like my world is falling apart.

And it's true. There is this part of me that knows I wasn't supposed to be there, teaching all those classes. There is something else planned. I'm just not privy to the blueprints yet.


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