That Glittering Instrument, the Human Soul

Dear Readers,

I keloid when I scar. Where a normal person would develop a smooth, slightly discolored surface with a cut or incision, my body sells the wound as prime real estate to those skins cells that are ready to settle down and multiply. The result is an obscene mass that's unsightly enough that growing up my mom would recommend covering them up. "Bikini's probably aren't the best idea," she told me once. Thankfully my shameful scars can be hidden by my clothes and hair, only viewable by my husband, doctor, and stylist.

As I write this a new scar is forming, still new enough that the tissue is bright and apparent. It has an interesting shape, long and thin with dollop of a feuxhawk on top. LoJo shaped, some might say. That would make sense, since it's mending that LoJo shaped hole that's been left in my heart.

It's a funny thing to think about now that I've had some time to reflect. Here was a person that I loved and cared for so much and then *POOF* he's gone. That's how it goes though, isn't it? Show up, share a few laughs, shed a few tears, down a couple drinks, and then the party's over and it's time to move on. Life doesn't care where you go, but you sure as hell can't stay here.

I'm fortunate in that I don't have any regrets concerning Loren. I said what I needed to say. I spent as much time as I could with him. I watched him age 70 years in 7 weeks. I was relieved when I got the call, happy that it didn't last long and he got to leave on his own terms. I didn't allow myself the option to grieve while he was alive, "...there will be plenty of time to be sad when he's dead." I said. And boy oh boy, was I ever right.

At work I've been approving applications for admittance to our lineman program. I love this part of my job. It's both humbling and humorous to read these applications where strong young men are vulnerable and nervous of rejection. A lot of them have their mom's or girlfriends fill out the applications for them, worried that their bad penmanship and grammar will keep them from training for a working man's job. I couldn't help but notice while going through these applications that some familiar last names came through: Lacy, Blevins, and Grady. I realized I recognized them because they are characters from the Cormac McCarthy book "All the Pretty Horses". Excited, I picked up my phone and started to text Loren about it. I got about halfway through the message before it hit me that he wouldn't get the text. And like a punch in the face, reality set in and I sat in despair at my desk knowing that had no one in my life to make obscure Cormac McCarthy observations to any more.

I think that's the hardest part, the little every day things. Listening to an Animal Collective song. Doodling on a Post-it note. Driving past the Library. Making a treat that he liked to eat. It's these seemingly insignificant things that rain down on you like a b.b. gun attack, making you flinch and irritable and angry, but not enough to take you out like a sawed off shotgun would.

Throughout all of this there have been moments of lightheartedness, laughter, and most certainly of love. Being welcomed into the Reed household with open arms has been a blessing. Receiving notes and gestures from people I don't know has been humbling and gratifying. Sharing a night of dancing and celebrating Loren left bruises on my shins, conversations in my mind, and a dance beat in my heart.

I meant for this to be more of a tribute to LoJo, but it reads more like notes from a counseling session. I don't know, maybe a friend's grief is a tribute in itself. What could a higher compliment be to someone than having someone full of sincerity say, "My life will never be the same, never be quite as good and lovely without you in it!"?

That scar I was speaking of earlier - not the unsightly scars on my head, stomach and shoulder, but rather that peculiar shaped one on my heart, I think I will display that LoJo shaped deformity proudly. If only there were a bikini to showcase my heart! A strange reminder of my strange and wonderful and very much missed best friend.

I love you LoJo, but you already knew that, didn't you?

Sincerely,
h.

Follow the Amber Orb

Dear Readers,

I've had a hard time trying to find my voice lately. It seems like my energy is all used up by the time I make it to my keyboard to type out whatever it is I need to get out of my mind. Funny how you cling to the sad stuff, isn't it? That achy feeling of grief settling into your marrow like cholesterol in veins after a big steak dinner.

My friend Stephanie gave me a gift when Michael died. It's called a Glass Baby. It's a hand blown glass orb that you put a tea light in and it glows with an amber colored brilliance. The makers of the Glass Baby say to light it when you need comfort. Skeptical as usual, I lit the candle last night. I expected it to be beautiful because it already is a pretty object. I didn't expect it to bring the comfort that it promised though. I fell asleep looking at it; Shay had to wake me up to blow it out. It was in my dreams though. It followed me there, I guess it sneaked it's warm glow into my psyche knowing that I would need it all night.

My dream last night was a strange one. I had made plans with Loren to meet him at a festival at a park. I kept finding other people I know and love; Chris, Jenny, Jason, my aunt Ruth, my sister Kate. I'd greet them and hug them. "Have you seen Loren?" I'd ask. "Yes! You just missed him! Keep going and you'll catch up to him," was their reply. So I kept going. Obstacles would distract me, but I kept going. All along there was a beautiful amber colored orb in the sky reassuring me with it's warm glow.

The dream had a lot of love in it, but I never found Loren. I woke up feeling like I had failed and disappointed my friend.

A few short weeks ago (it seems like years now) when the bad news started rolling in, my friend Andrew gave me some advice. We were sitting in the dimness of Tenth Street, and I was crying into square cocktail napkins as quietly as I could. "You just have to feel your way through this," he said. I've tried up until this point to avoid feeling anything. Instead I've been an over involved and most likely unbearable friend, especially to Loren. My thought process was full of good intention: if I'm there, I can try to take pressure from him and put it on myself. I can be strong for him. I can be his voice to others. I can be mad at the hospital, mad at his situation, mad at everything on his behalf so that he could just focus on being happy and positive and okay. But that's not really how it worked out. What I realized over this weekend was that I probably wasn't helping him at all. He knows I'll be whatever he needs me to be right now -- but that's no different than before he was sick. He knows that I love him so much I consider him family -- but that's no different than before he was sick. It ends up that my going to see him everyday (or at least close to it) isn't going to save him. But rather, it's saving me.

With all of these sad changes of loss and sickness, I've been lucky enough to distract myself by comforting those closest to me. I've focused all of my energy on making sure everyone else is okay. But those in-between moments where my mind can wander I become immensely angry, and my poor husband has received the brunt of that pent up hostility. He tells me that I can be either the nicest person or the meanest person he knows, but I never fall in the middle. It's fortunate that he is a Taoist and can find middle ground, because he can help me be centered as well. He's right though, my pendulum swings wide. No wonder he's on my grateful list every day...there isn't a soul on this earth other than Shay that can handle my kind of crazy.

Back to the subject at hand. The long and short of it is, I'm a mess. I cry sporadically. I bombard Loren and my friends with text messages, visits, emails, and phone calls, hustling my love and affection like a street drug. "Who wants it? I know you need it! This here is some WMD, son!"

Not surprisingly, Lucas (he is the White Lama, you know) consoled me with the wisest thing I've heard through this whole ordeal: "Mom, don't be sad. One day you'll die and you'll forget this ever happened. And we'll all come back in our next lives as penguins, and we'll all find each other, and it will be okay."

I don't know how to stop taking care of my friends and family. I don't know how to back off or allow them to take care of me. I'm not convinced that I'm capable of learning these things. But if you're on of the people (you know who you are) that I insist on being with, please know it's just my way of "feeling my way through this". I can't wait to get a fresh start in Antarctica with you. I'll meet you under the glowing amber orb.

Sincerely,
h.

"The Evil Exists is a Pair of Train Tracks, and the Devil is a Railroad Car"

Dear Readers,

I'm not sure I've told this story to you or not, but I'm going to tell it regardless. When my nephew Sam was small, around 4 or 5 years old, he got in trouble. Hands over his face sobbing, I asked him what happened. His answer: "I have choices!" followed by more sobs.

Sam taught me a great lesson that day. Choices aren't always easy, in fact the older I get the harder they are. A few short weeks ago, I had this conversation with my dear friend Michael Birkenshaw. If you haven't had the great pleasure of knowing Michael, let me paint a picture of him for you. Tall, curly haired, extraordinarily handsome and charming, known for hitchhiking, fighting hobos, finding love everywhere from the streets of Oakland to my living room in Boise. His stories reach epic proportion, and to those of you who don't know him would find them completely unbelievable; those of us who do know him shake our head and say things like, "Only Michael."

Sorry to digress, back to my conversation with Michael. He had just returned to Boise from his adventures in the Bay Area. "Michael," I said, my nurturing instincts kicked into full gear, "I know you think my life is boring. Working a regular job, coming home and making dinner for my family. I know that a conventional life is something you can't fathom. But I worry for you, I worry about the decisions you make. I worry that you don't have food or a safe place to sleep. It's okay to have food and a safe place to sleep. You have people who love you that would take you in. You don't have to take the burdens of street life on." He smiled his heart melting smile at me and said, "Heather Plummer, I love you. I love your family. I'll find stability eventually. Please don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

I knew that talking Michael out of a life of self discovery wasn't possible, but I wouldn't be me if I hadn't have tried.

I wish that it had been surprising news yesterday morning when I found out that Michael had died. He was trying to get back to Boise by way of hopping trains, and somewhere in Oregon they found him by the tracks a broken man. I can't help but stand by Michael in his reckless choices now, even though I tried to talk him out of them. It is tragic but true that he was destined for a life less ordinary. Often with extraordinary experiences and moments of beauty, even more often with harsh realities and strange circumstance. One of the last things I said to him, sitting in Alia's eating bagels and drinking IPA, was that I wanted the rights to write his book. He said he would write his own and I could be his editor. It's sad that we won't have that chance now.

The last couple of weeks have weighed heavy on my heart. I don't like thinking about or watching my friends suffer. But with great pain comes great opportunity to love. I have never in my life had so much heartache. But I have never in my life been so grateful and full of love either.

Loren had me play the piano for him yesterday, and the only book I recognized was the LDS Hymn book. He asked me to play "Be Still, My Soul". What a comforting song, whether you're a pious person or not. "When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone, Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored. Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past, All safe and blessed we shall meet at last."

I love you Michael Birkenshaw, it was a pleasure to know you. I hope you found what you were looking for.

Sincerely,
h.

Honce

Dear Readers,

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Today, right now, this is my mantra.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You've heard me talk about my friend Loren before. As far as friends go, he's the creme de la creme. Cream of the crop. Top drawer. More family than friend. More friend than family. He is my Lojo, and I am his h.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He told me a little over a week ago that he was sick. He didn't need to tell me, because I know him as well as myself, and I've known for a long time that he was sick. They put him in the hospital for observation.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He told me a little less than a week ago that he has cancer. He needed to tell me this, because I know him as well as myself, and I never would have imagined that it was cancer. They're keeping him in the hospital for treatment.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

This is one of those situations where I feel like Dorothy while she's in the house in the tornado on her way to Oz. Everything is spinning around her out of control, and she just holds tight to Toto and watches strange images fly past the window. My friends and family are the house, giving me a sense of familiarity and structure, keeping some of me together. Toto is the small things I hold onto that I feel I have some sense of control over; visiting everyday at the hospital, buying anything I can think of that might seem appetizing for someone who really doesn't want to eat, sending mundane text messages to anyone and everyone I could think of wanting even the smallest update on the current situation. In the meantime, I watch everything else through this crappy little window. A broken washing machine, dirty dishes in the sink, even eating a regular meal fly past this window reminding me for just a moment that there's something else I'm forgetting to do.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I'm taking a day off today though. I'm talking a lot with my husband. I'm trying to land my house in Oz, and walk down that crazy yellow brick road until I find myself back in Kansas again. I've received so many supportive emails, phone calls, and text messages, each one with love for me but more importantly with love for Loren. Each one is so very much appreciated. Each one saying, "If there is anything I can do, let me know." To you all I say, keep doing what you're doing. Support and love Loren, his friends, his family, and yourself. Keep sending those messages, if even through your thoughts. I'm realizing more and more that it's not me going to the hospital everyday, it's not finding things to buy for him, it's not sending mundane updates and trying to feel like I can have control over this situation that's going to help him. It's not helping anyone, not even myself. It's me loving him, loving my friends, loving my family, and taking care of myself that will help him the most. I encourage you to do the same. Trust me, it's easier said than done.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I question whether or not writing this blog is the right thing to do. It seems a bit contrived. If Loren reads it, I don't think he'll mind (do you Lojo?). If anything, it helps me to write it down and see things in a tangible fashion. It could probably use a bit more satire. I could tell you about the male nurse named Jamie who won the title of "Most Cliche Person of the Week". Or I could tell you about the patient I over heard yelling at her nurse because they offered her a nicotine patch in lieu of a cigarette (for some reason smoking's not allowed in hospitals), and she's "No damn quitter..." so why would thy offer her a patch? Or I could tell you about going to Chris' messy house last night, sitting on the floor with Lucas, looking around at the most unlikely group of people who I am so lucky to be so close with, watching "Adventure Times" and enjoying each other in a new way. But I guess I should keep it simple, like my mantra today.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Sincerely,
h.

Dance Yourself Clean

Dear Readers,

There's is something that I love to do. I have loved it since I can remember. Something I love so much, I do it every day. Eat? Well, yes, but that's not it. Watching television? Oh, I love that too, but no cigar. I love to dance.

The idea of me dancing may surprise, even repulse some of you. Even more surprising is that I have my upbringing in Rupert, Idaho to thank for it. I took a few ballet lessons from a woman named Ann Marie upstairs from what is now a Mexican wedding dress shop, but she moved shortly after I began. After that, I had to turn to the best teacher of all: MTV. Hours and hours were spent in front of the television, dancing around the small living room like I was the guest of honor at Studio 54. I would dance to anything and everything, but rap was my favorite. And when I finally made it to junior high, the thing I looked forward to most were those awful dances in the gym. The "DJ" would pump such classics as "The Electric Slide", and "Unforgettable". It didn't matter how crappy the music was though, I was killing it on the dance floor all night.

Please understand that I was never the kind of dancer that was able to memorize moves or routines. I never had a desire to be on a dance team or clog professionally or anything like that. My moves were always unrefined, spastic even. However, when I moved to Washington D.C. and started dancing at clubs there, I learned some things that white girls from Idaho typically don't have the privilege to. Often being the only white girl in the club, I was taken pity on and was some what of a novelty. My beautiful friends Suki and Giselle would keep a close eye on me, and critique me at the end of the night. Before I knew it, I was killing it on the dance floors there as well.

Now, here we are in Boise. And I have a husband obsessed with music. We have 57 days worth of dance your heart out good times music on our iTunes playlist. Shay hates to dance, but he can put one hell of a set together. I would feel bad that he doesn't dance with me, but I have a list of friends who gladly will. And we all take our dance time seriously. My friend Deana had a birthday party last week, and she had Shay dj at it, and we danced for the entire 4 hour set. Once, in my friend Loren's basement apartment, our friend Pat put on a personal dance party for 8 or 9 of us and we danced all night. Some of my best times over the last few years involve Jenny, Lojo, Chris, Courtney and a dance floor.

So this morning, as I get ready to bake a cake for an order, I will put on LCD Soundsystem's newest album, and will "Dance Myself Clean" until the cake is ready frost.

Sincerely,
h.

"Home is Where the _________ is"

Dear Readers,

A week or two ago at work, my lovely coworkers Becky and Sarah and I were checking out this really cool journal. The journal asks you a new question to answer everyday, and has space under each question to answer said question every year for five years. The purpose is to see how different you are year to year. Like I said, it's really cool (I didn't buy it however because I know it would just be another book added to the pile on my bed stand that would soon be forgotten). Anyhow, one of the questions that Becky read out loud to us was: "Where is home?". A seemingly easy question to answer at first, but when you spend 2 weeks thinking about it, it quickly becomes convoluted.

When I hear the world "home", I'm immediately taken to 810 5th Street, Rupert, ID. The house I grew up in, and the one my parents still live in. Although many things have changed about the house over the years, it harbors the same familiar feeling that you probably will never find anywhere else than where you grew up. Every sound can be heard in that house, so forget about sneaking out. And yes, Mom will know if you're watching something you shouldn't be on television even when she's at the other end of the house. But is this really my home now? It's been so long since I lived there or even used it as my permanent address. But as the sign says that hangs over my mom's kitchen entry way, "Home is Where Your Mom Is".

Since leaving Rupert, I've lived in 19 residencies. Two in Logan, UT, one in Washington D.C., and 17 in Boise, ID. Obviously some of these residencies are more memorable than others. I'll never forget living in Logan, it was one of the best and most miserable times in my life. And my stint in D.C. has stayed with me as well. As for Boise, I have a hard time remembering where everything happened. I did learn some good lessons though: never find a roommate in the newspaper, never go back to church and move into a house with 8 other Mormon girls, never trust a roommate with a child when she asks if you'll keep an eye on her daughter for a bit and then find out later that by "a bit" she meant she was going to the Oregon Coast for a week and you're stuck with her 3 year old and no money or appropriate food. I'm sure I referred to all of these places as "home" at one time or another, but honestly I never felt like I had a home until I met Shay. Even then, we didn't live together, but I discovered with him that "home" was a feeling, not a physical place. After being together for a decade, I still find that he is my home. And when Lucas came along, he became a part of that home. So maybe it's more appropriate to say, "Home is Where Your Heart Is".

With that being said, my affection for Boise has grown significantly over the last few year. Particularity since I've had Lucas. And by Boise, I mean mostly the downtown area, although I don't mind venturing out to Milwaukee to go to Target once in a while. I love walking down 8th Street and seeing all the familiar faces. I love knowing that there's hardly a place of business downtown that I don't know someone. I love that when I hear someone nay-saying B-Town, my Mama Bear instincts kick in and I start to get angry and tell the people not to let the door hit them on the way out. I love the people in Boise, especially my group of creative, talented, and amazing friends that I'm sure could never coexist anywhere else but here. So I guess you could say that I've found a home in Boise, Idaho as well.

There are so many possible answers to this unassumingly bated question. I know that I'm very blessed to have so many answers. But now I have to go and clean my apartment, because unfortunately feelings won't do it for me.

Sincerely,
h.

Sad Little Monkeys

Dear Readers,

As you might have gathered from my last post, I'm going through a very introspective phase. In an effort to become a better person, I find that I'm becoming less and less self assured and confident and more and more anxious. This just doesn't make sense...right? Ah, but wait my dear kittens, I believe it makes perfect sense. Perhaps me being more self aware has taken away from the time I used to put into to helping others.

I learned on a very interesting PBS documentary last night that having personal relationships is sn essential component in one's health. In the same way that we must feed our body and protect it from the elements, we must nourish ourselves with friendship and love. There have been studies done where baby monkeys (I know this is awful, but the studies were done in the 50's before scientists had feelings) are given everything they need to support their physical well being (ie food, water, etc.) but were denied the company of others. You know what happened? They died.

Unlike those poor little monkeys, I have been very fortunate in the fact that I've always been surrounded by wonderful people and an excess amount of love. Strangely, the things I remember and hold on to most are the negative things said and done to me. Whether it be a grade school classmate that tormented me or a boss giving me negative feedback at work, I hold on to the things they say and replay them in my head the way Idaho radio stations play horrible 80's rock over and over again. During this the past week or so while I've been so selfishly introspective, these are the things that have been bringing me down. It annoys me how much energy I waste on these memories and on the anxiety they inevitably causes. By allowing this anxiety to grow stronger, I have to take more time for meditation to calm my self down. By the time I calm down, I'm exhausted, and I'm sure the energy I've created has helped to exhaust those around me as well.

So I quit. I don't need to sit around and think about what I've done wrong, what I can change, and what I can do better. Instead, I want to focus on loving and supporting the people I'm so lucky to have in my life. Please don't take this out if context. Professionally, I will of course do my best, whether it be folding clothes at work or baking cupcakes for a wedding at home. But personally, I need to focus on people who need my attention more than I do. I couldn't bear the thought of having sad little monkey in my life that I didn't help to nourish because I was to busy feeling bad about some stupid thing said to me in junior high.

Come to me little monkeys! I will adopt you and love you! But I will not give you cash...that you'll have to find elsewhere.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S. I wrote this on an iPad, please be kind about any typos that may have occured :)