I've been thinking a bit about personal deadlines and when to allow yourself rest and when to allow yourself work and when to allow the work to be enough and when to allow it to be deficient.  It's an inspiring life being surrounded by others who think on the same things.  Kelly works hard, terribly hard. There is no wishy-washy "Maybe I'll try my hand at art for a while to see if maybe I'm good enough."  She is head's down, buried in foliage and silver and paint most days.  I must say, I got to see her more when she wasn't so successful, so it doesn't really benefit my social life - but it is certainly motivating for me in my own craft.

Which brings me to my good medicine.  Today I began a writer's workshop with the subject of writing on Inner Change/Personal Transformation.  I sit around the table with eight other (rather magnificent!) ladies who are grappling with being a writer and being a human, and it has put a serious bee in my bonnet.  

So let it begin, I say...the flurry of an writing so much that I feel beautiful exhausted from the work of my soul. Just like she does.

It looks like an ordinary plain ol' diner mug.  Actually, that's exactly what it is.  But for me, the matching set of heavy white porcelain mugs holds a story, one that attaches me to the mugs forever.

Things for things' sake is never my goal.  However, when things you own carry bits of your life story, stories you never wrote down or forgot to remember, then they are worth more than their own monetary value.  But when you pick up the book, mug, or vase - suddenly you are transported...standing frozen in the living room as your memory takes control of all motor functions.  Oh, I love that.

In college, my best friend Jackie and I would take road trips to Ashland, Oregon.  The Oregon Shakespeare Festival resides there, and it was only a 2.5-hour drive form Redding, California, where we went to school and shared an apartment.  In fact, we did this so many times, I've lost count.  My favorite time of year to travel to Ashland was during Fall.  Shakespeare cries for Autumn, and I answered that call as best I could.  How we as college students ever afforded the expensive tickets, gas, and food is beyond me.

I have a lingering suspicion that I owe Jackie a lot of money from that time in our friendship.  

We would be sure to arrive early to make a day of it. By 'a day of it,' I mean food.  FOOD.  We have had so many amazing meals, more and more decadent as our pocketbooks grew to adult sizes. 

A few times we even stayed the night in a modest hotel.  It was during one of these weekends that we walked cheerily into a diner on the main street.  I couldn't even tell you the name of it, much less recognize it if we went back.  It was relatively empty, which was fine by us. We may have still been a bit inebriated from our pre and mid-play wine. We were on a quest for dessert and coffee. 

Dessert and coffee is our thing.  I mean, aside from wine, dance parties, hot tubs, road trips, scorching summers, sneaking candied apples into plays, food fights, and hysterical laughter  - often about something not even remotely funny to others in attendance (we've endured many a sideways, albeit loving, look from her husband).  So, aside from all of those other things, dessert and coffee is our thing.

It was the perfect mug.  I begged to be ours.  It was the quintessential, vintage diner mug.  It was so heavy and had this slight hourglass curve to it, just the right size for your hand to slip through the handle and cuddle the heat of the entire mug (I've never seen Jacks hold a mug by its handle).  It also had the cutest little matching creamer.  We had to have them, and we said as much in between bites of bread pudding and chocolate cheesecake.  

Jackie said quietly, "Let's steal them."  I was shocked!  (You see, despite my surly demeanor, inside I am a rather huge weenie, bound and chained to societal rules and scared as hell of being caught.  However, Jackie has this devilish streak about her, which is just about the most surprising thing, since she is really good.  Like, really good inside.  But that girl, despite being so outwardly innocent-looking, sweet, kind, and shamelessly giving, is anything but insipid.  She has this secret underbelly that almost no one has access to - one of the great privledges of my life).

Despite my pusillanimity, I queried her on the logistics of the operation.  How would it work?  Would we pay for our meal and THEN sneak them into our backpack?  If I was going to be a criminal, I was going to be an organized one, damn-it. What's the plan?!

I don't remember Jackie's answers to these asks.  My guess is that she simply just asked the server about them.  Was the set for sale, and how much?  Though an obviously odd request, the server went into the back and then reappeared with the box containing two mugs and a creamer.  I am actually not even sure if we paid for them, or if she just gave them to us because we were so darn charming, AND because we followed the rules, I might point out.  Somewhere in the subsequent 15 years, we decided I would own the mugs, and Jackie would retain the little creamer.  

As I sip black coffee out of that mug this morning, and as I wait for Bowie's nap in order to call Jackie for our bimonthly chat, I think nostalgically, fondly, even weepily of that time in our lives.  I think I'll watch 'Much Ado about Nothing' tonight, perhaps even while sipping out of the almost-stolen mug.

I struggle to precisely describe the relationship.  She's my best friend, sister, spiritual journeyer, soon-to-be aunt to my children, life partner. Her mother passed away last week, and it has been one of the hardest things to watch Jessica have to endure -  from the initial shock at the beginning to the disappointing lack of ritual at the end.  Our country deals with death in such a sterile, un-spiritual manner.  The body disappears and we are left floundering to find closure on our own.   She needed something more, and I had an idea.

Jessica has something ferocious and mystifying about her.  Her blood runs purple with royalty, pumping hard and fast.  Her body cannot contain her.  She deals with her pain honestly, without apology or self-consciousness.  As I watched her address the crowd of people present to honor the life of her mother, I marveled at the poise that comes only in the wake of mourning.  She has been cleansed by fire, brightened by torrents of tears, renewed by the support of others.  I nearly had to cover my eyes for her blinding presence. It feels too sacred, almost embarrassing, too private and pure a thing to witness someone genuinely just BE, especially when that particular state of being is shrouded in the black of mourning.

Her husband spoke words at the end that still send shivers through my bones.  He broke through the polite composure of memorial services, and instead lead each individual soul - one by one- through a battle cry, each of us into the wellspring of our own personal grief, not only at the passing of Denise, but also the confrontation of each human with the notion of death.  

I've said many times that there is no way to mourn death appropriately.  But somehow I feel that, if there were, it would look exactly like how Ben and Jessica do it.  Soulfully, honestly, fiercely, courageously embodying the pain and letting it wash through them instead of living in denial or allowing themselves to be comforted by trite phrases and empty promises of an afterlife no one really knows exists. 

During the personal sharing of Denise's family and friends, I composed a memorial of my own.  I am not one prone to public speaking, but I am one inclined toward the permanence of words.

Denise's passing seems particularly poignant to me as I anticipate becoming a mother.  I knew her as a mother, and have always revered and deeply analyzed how she managed this.  Jessica spoke highly of her, loved spending time with her, daily connected with her via phone calls, and aspired to be like her.   I wanted to see the formula she used to produce such a sustainable mother/daughter relationship.  I assumed they got along because she and Jess were like each other.  That was not the case - it was Denise and I that had more in common personality wise: Type-A, very organized, deeply mysterious and introspective.  That a woman like her could exist having created a woman like her daughter encouraged me so.  For instance, I genuinely thought that in order to be a good cook, I had to emulate Jessica's kitchen personality.  Denise taught me otherwise - and like so many people said this past weekend - she helped me realize the potential inside of myself.  Never doing it for me, only nudging gently and pouring me chardonnay, but still - I love to cook now because of Denise Green.  Specifically, she taught me to drink while I cook.  Four years ago, I cooked my first soup and all the while sipped a martini through the process, somehow trying to imbibe Denise's spirit itself.  Now, each meal begins with the glorious sound of a Chardonnay bottle popping open, a pouring of one glass, and the enjoyment of her presence standing right behind me, imbuing my spirit with cuisinal courage.  For the rest of my life, each time I open a bottle as I prepare to chop, dice, and julienne, I will commune with her spirit as I cook for my own family - the far-reaching effects of which no one can fathom.  Since food is essential for survival, it seems inconceivable to continue living without Denise, the one who feed us.  However shall we manage...

As she lived well, so shall she be remembered well.  Cheers to you, DMG.

* Abalone = Emotional protection/balance, Barn Owl = wisdom, seeing hidden things, associated with the underworld, Sage = used for restoring personal energy field, depression, and the expulsion of negativity.

More photos here.