tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46895629127493537532024-03-23T03:13:37.258-07:00musings of a melancholiccandacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.comBlogger900125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-31967218771434405842019-04-10T23:30:00.000-07:002019-04-10T23:38:44.045-07:00A birthday gift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 11pt;">39 years ago today,
an infant girl child saw the light seeping through the womb she'd known for
many cozy months. Muscles shifted and subducted like tectonic plates, blood and
hormones swished and swirled nosily, surely awaking this infant girl child from
her creation slumber. It was time to move from this life to the next, from her
human mother's belly into her human mother's hands. </span></div>
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Kelly is 39 today, wherever she continues. She was a lover of birthdays, happy
to celebrate her life. She often took to sunrise drives to some body of water
or a hike to a tall vista to catch the very first rays of sun that marked the
next go-round. <u>Her</u> next year. <u>Her </u>life. Oh, how she owned it. Today, in honor
of her, I renew my vow to do the same. More owning, more celebrating, more
watching the waves, more seeing it all from above. <br />
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Also, I made you a gift. Last night, I spent a few hours combing Kelly's online
presence for her birthday posts, and I've put them all together for you with links (<b>click on the dates below each photo). </b>Please enjoy spending time with this medicine woman.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWyMoMuHNvmBTby4ZIjUsXfEaqfy_1muK4P4FPSvA6eYNWh2CNcpHpJ7WjyDqBQbyuUPlbY_LuXwWV0G8likPI9p0Fx06AuFzglllNDbYt3kYyeZZzsSgo-nNeT4EcFOn1t17zmnBc3M/s1600/IMG_4685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="1080" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWyMoMuHNvmBTby4ZIjUsXfEaqfy_1muK4P4FPSvA6eYNWh2CNcpHpJ7WjyDqBQbyuUPlbY_LuXwWV0G8likPI9p0Fx06AuFzglllNDbYt3kYyeZZzsSgo-nNeT4EcFOn1t17zmnBc3M/s640/IMG_4685.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/umberdove/p/BSwXeUVFzHN/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=8t4puxvs4pzt" style="background-color: white;">2017, age 37</a></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyUoYEOKFfkvv13C0XntNpOBGtqu-bYpWJ_he2-5UZpkZ2OvvC1_EK-auGRAZ0lgo5kPTRruztxDSt9LPXyXTob-NCGW6IZpvjQxYO3oY-vUSt7fEr2DX23sLLhEVmS5-csoFgWRrfE8/s1600/IMG_4687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="1080" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyUoYEOKFfkvv13C0XntNpOBGtqu-bYpWJ_he2-5UZpkZ2OvvC1_EK-auGRAZ0lgo5kPTRruztxDSt9LPXyXTob-NCGW6IZpvjQxYO3oY-vUSt7fEr2DX23sLLhEVmS5-csoFgWRrfE8/s640/IMG_4687.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/umberdove/p/BEESjsRKrBF/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=vvj67jgda80" style="background-color: white;">2016, age 36</a></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXDCBKYiU5B6XGPHCNYVwfdpyRkDAZhBOht03dfufnXvnEwBHQLRG1VMb9VzwKeV8WmScPdrEMKg5hV_7nlZB-YSpvrlI-pyiMxZfhvOcVp5Fb4PtuJWkQISYosjm2adqu_FLrXcV8w8/s1600/IMG_4694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXDCBKYiU5B6XGPHCNYVwfdpyRkDAZhBOht03dfufnXvnEwBHQLRG1VMb9VzwKeV8WmScPdrEMKg5hV_7nlZB-YSpvrlI-pyiMxZfhvOcVp5Fb4PtuJWkQISYosjm2adqu_FLrXcV8w8/s640/IMG_4694.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://www.instagram.com/umberdove/p/1WTj4NqrC7/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=18egwn3wttueh"><span style="background-color: white;">2015, age 35</span></a></h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlvJ9EREsTX7vAWfiBnHSUSr988fS7mVSE6tCUKwq1VQs8oNR3KNV8quGKbHDo5ZjUzh83-oAKYVeZyA6jIJ7w2viqg4FZWqEX_U8MBv8G_5J4RTS4Bmpu77kK0uOs6GgLDmgFm_HHak/s1600/IMG_4691.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlvJ9EREsTX7vAWfiBnHSUSr988fS7mVSE6tCUKwq1VQs8oNR3KNV8quGKbHDo5ZjUzh83-oAKYVeZyA6jIJ7w2viqg4FZWqEX_U8MBv8G_5J4RTS4Bmpu77kK0uOs6GgLDmgFm_HHak/s640/IMG_4691.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog/2014/4/15/a-day-in-the-life-of-the-dove">2014, age 34</a><br /><br /></span></h3>
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The rest are links to her blog:</h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mwRnnPAzQER_G5HPqHl1AmrdkXs6xlGV1GgPEvzjU1_DTx7jTKosTr-rkbthpvf32aE7AobeqxuEwy_kmGEFw3bu-VD5rw619z_XVmGwA3LWaqQ4myoT9Kf06ZCB9DmtYMG54ZdwC-U/s1600/Capture.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1189" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mwRnnPAzQER_G5HPqHl1AmrdkXs6xlGV1GgPEvzjU1_DTx7jTKosTr-rkbthpvf32aE7AobeqxuEwy_kmGEFw3bu-VD5rw619z_XVmGwA3LWaqQ4myoT9Kf06ZCB9DmtYMG54ZdwC-U/s640/Capture.PNG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog/2012/04/birth-of-day.html"><span style="background-color: white;">2012: The Birth of a Day</span></a></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqyrgVhht4DzSSA49vgDUxhKPZG0Kx0DGWbrR2X8rNKh87qmiVqQPd09Qbf2Iln9h7l94PV1-W5dtuJMztauEEb5P1rNjwJtP-VHYTHjt_pYywb1-7a2hXcyPr-Jy-k_eKx8wES03vXsg/s1600/Capture+2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="1055" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqyrgVhht4DzSSA49vgDUxhKPZG0Kx0DGWbrR2X8rNKh87qmiVqQPd09Qbf2Iln9h7l94PV1-W5dtuJMztauEEb5P1rNjwJtP-VHYTHjt_pYywb1-7a2hXcyPr-Jy-k_eKx8wES03vXsg/s640/Capture+2.PNG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog/2011/04/day-in-life-of-dove-birthday-edition.html">2011: A Day in the Life: Birthday Edition</a></span></h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ZUd4gHyB18Cv1IRXXusYIMaQf7Y9NAgIvZzYvLaElAqHa_9YjpZ6oRzZ9zPpVWejFg65d7hr-Zw-9e5KVEuOWtSptjAfYfgEw62qhLCPaBaZi8vo76R5FD0_kePIc29PW8YbKWwWJ4g/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="745" data-original-width="1000" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ZUd4gHyB18Cv1IRXXusYIMaQf7Y9NAgIvZzYvLaElAqHa_9YjpZ6oRzZ9zPpVWejFg65d7hr-Zw-9e5KVEuOWtSptjAfYfgEw62qhLCPaBaZi8vo76R5FD0_kePIc29PW8YbKWwWJ4g/s640/download.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog/2010/04/day-umber-turned-30.html"><span style="background-color: white;">2010: The Day Umber Turned 30</span></a></h3>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEied69REE6oATzGNkX-ipNS_IqVheIqoF5IGeLQYMyz5L_WAWhhh7WxJJO3JPKSFCFSQaM_4HLznPT904x7kuvKN_VAEsjBX9f5_J-XeTwVx8LSmF_Xjo1yWbgAaaCdpUdyvB-WhJcog9s/s1600/b-day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEied69REE6oATzGNkX-ipNS_IqVheIqoF5IGeLQYMyz5L_WAWhhh7WxJJO3JPKSFCFSQaM_4HLznPT904x7kuvKN_VAEsjBX9f5_J-XeTwVx8LSmF_Xjo1yWbgAaaCdpUdyvB-WhJcog9s/s640/b-day.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><h3>
<a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog/2009/04/polls-are-open-and-i-had-great-hair.html"><span style="background-color: white;">2009: The Polls are Open and I had Great Hair</span></a></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /><a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog/2008/04/soooo-my-birthday-month.html"><span style="background-color: white;">2008: Birthday Month</span></a></span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog?offset=1176250080000">2007: Untitled, near her birthday</a></span></h3>
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Happy Birthday, Babe. I shall see the salt water this morning and taste the goodness of a meal and the love of our women...in your fabulous honor. Forever.<br />
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<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-29446936457802256452018-12-28T12:43:00.000-08:002018-12-28T12:47:15.037-08:00Best Of 2018: Music for writing<br />
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I need music to write.<br />
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Music, I've discovered this year especially, makes all the difference in my ability to get into the emotion of what I am writing. (I'm even considering making a suggested playlist for each chapter in the book I'm currently writing). This year, I've been able to compile my go-to music for writing, but I have two different playlists depending on the kind of writing I'm trying to accomplish.<br />
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Music while working is tricky for me because I am also extremely sensitive to auditory stimulation. I was one of those college students who would trek to the library and plant myself into a desk with the walls all up around it, just so I could have near total silence. But now, since I work at home and have a lot of solitude, sometimes that silence can be deafening, demotivating. That's when I discovered that a certain type of music actually would really help me - it had to be wordless, ambient, but also have driving beats and a strong sense of emotion. I needed to be placed into the other world and music transported me.</div>
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So, for writing where I am needing to get things flowing and moving, to really get it done, to do a lot of editing for stuff already written, I've complied this <a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/catholicbeer/playlist/0BtlxfcQnJWiiV4QdrA88G?si=SqtQv2C2SIacNER_ZyZ94w"><b>Write: Produce Mode</b></a> list. It's full of Tycho, Ulrich Schanuss, Brian Eno, and more.</div>
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<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/catholicbeer/playlist/0BtlxfcQnJWiiV4QdrA88G" width="300"></iframe><br /></div>
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<a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/catholicbeer/playlist/0BtlxfcQnJWiiV4QdrA88G?si=SqtQv2C2SIacNER_ZyZ94w"><b>Write: Produce Mode</b></a> </div>
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For writing that's meditative and painful (I am writing a book about death and grief and my dead best friend, after all), I created <a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/catholicbeer/playlist/4SFDhKYgcrtblY4h8RRhbd?si=56BeN6n6Ro-K1Es_HivWig"><b>Write: Temenos Mode</b></a>. 'Temenos' is a Greek term describing a piece of land set aside for kings or reserved as sacred and protected. Carl Jung used it to describe a personal container, sense of holy privacy, a protected space where creation happens (just writing, no editors or judgments allowed). This music is also great for tarot pulls, meditation, and naps!<br />
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<iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="380" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/catholicbeer/playlist/4SFDhKYgcrtblY4h8RRhbd" width="300"></iframe><br /></div>
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<b><a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/catholicbeer/playlist/4SFDhKYgcrtblY4h8RRhbd?si=56BeN6n6Ro-K1Es_HivWig">Write: Temenos Mode</a></b></div>
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I'd love to hear any more recommendations!<br />
Get writing.<br />
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crmcandacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-57649570477655980582018-12-21T13:52:00.000-08:002018-12-21T13:52:01.377-08:00Best Beauty/Skin Products of 2018<br />
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Continuing in my "Best Ofs" for 2018, here is my recommendations for skin and makeup products that I fell in love with this year.<br />
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I've been more focused on skincare (hello, 40!), so I did a lot of investing and testing. Here's my results in video format:<br />
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<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/f9AoBAvb-ks" width="560"></iframe><br /></div>
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<b><a href="https://youtu.be/f9AoBAvb-ks">Or watch on YouTube</a> </b></div>
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Product Links:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.burtsbees.com/product/natural-acne-solutions-targeted-spot-treatment/VM-00172-00.html"><b>Burt's Bees, Acne Solutions, Spot Treatment</b></a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.colorescience.com/products/total-eye-3-in-1-renewal-therapy-spf-35?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=google_shopping&gclid=Cj0KCQiAxs3gBRDGARIsAO4tqq1WJELMOl3dNeUDbotii-SXkNP3mTSVWQI0CHDE5UHZRK7fGjKFIs4aAqDnEALw_wcB"><b>Color Science, Total Eye 3-in-1 Renewal Therapy</b></a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.sephora.com/product/luna-sleeping-night-oil-P393718?icid2=products%20grid:p393718:product&skuId=1881390"><b>Sunday Riley, Luna, Retinol Sleep Night Oil</b></a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.sephora.com/product/c-e-o-c-e-antioxidant-protect-repair-moisturizer-P416139"><b>Sunday Riley, C.E.O, Protect and Repair Moisturizer</b></a></li>
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I have several new makeup products and tools I'm loving, too. (That's an epic thumbnail pic, haha):</div>
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<b><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Pyj8D5z-dnU" width="560"></iframe></b></div>
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<b><a href="https://youtu.be/Pyj8D5z-dnU">Or watch on YouTube</a> </b></div>
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Product Links:</div>
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<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.bourjois.com/uk/product/face/healthy-mix-anti-fatigue-foundation-50-rose-ivory" style="font-weight: bold;">Bourjois, Healthy Mix, Anti-Fatigue Foundation </a>(just realized that you can get it on Amazon!!)</li>
<li><a href="https://www.bourjois.com/uk/product/face/healthy-mix-sorbet-blush-01-raspberry"><b>Bourjois, Healthy Mix, Sorbet Blush in Raspberry Tinted Drop</b></a></li>
<li><b><a href="https://www.sephora.com/product/bye-bye-under-eye-illumination-full-coverage-anti-aging-waterproof-concealer-P411402">It Cosmetics, Bye Bye Undereye Concealer, Illuminating</a></b><span id="goog_786643831"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_786643832"></span></li>
<li><b><a href="https://www.nyxcosmetics.com/epic-ink-liner/NYX_409.html">NYX, Epic Ink Liner in Black</a> </b>(or you can get this in any drug store)</li>
<li><a href="https://www.sephora.com/product/long-wear-cream-shadow-stick-P378145?icid2=products%20grid:p378145:product"><b>Bobbi Brown, Long-Wear Cream Shadow Stick in Dusty Mauve</b></a></li>
<li><b><a href="https://www.sephora.com/product/24-7-glide-on-eye-pencil-P133707?icid2=products%20grid:p133707:product">Urban Decay, 24/7 Glide On Eye Pencil in Anatomy</a> </b>(a limited edition color, but all the 24/7 pencils are great - blendable and soft but then stay put)</li>
<li><b><a href="https://www.sephora.com/product/tarteist-lip-paint-P403800?icid2=products%20grid:p403800:product&skuId=1777267">Tarte, Creamy Matte Lip Paint in TBT</a> </b>(not the quick drying lip paint! It's crusty.)</li>
<li><b><a href="https://realtechniques.com/prep-prime-set/p/1709">Real Techniques, Under Eye Reviver</a> </b>(which only comes in the full Prep + Prime set)</li>
<li><a href="https://www.morphebrushes.com/products/m504-large-pointed-blender"><b>Morphe, Large Pointed Blender Brush in M504</b></a></li>
<li><b><a href="https://www.charlottetilbury.com/us/lip-cheat-pillowtalk.html">Charlotte Tilbury, Lip Cheat Liner in Pillow Talk</a> - </b>one I forgot to add because I lost it! this pencil is epic for making lips look fuller but still natural. It's a staple.</li>
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Earrings are by <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/LynzeeLynx"><b>Lynzee Lynx</b></a></div>
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Any questions? Any recommendations for stuff you love/found this year?</div>
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candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-43131642706656244272018-12-14T12:01:00.001-08:002018-12-14T12:15:27.843-08:00Best Books of 2018I'm feeling inspired to share some of my "Best Ofs" for this past year. I'll start with books!<br />
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The fiction novel, "<a href="https://www.powells.com/book/-9780802128997"><b>Freshwater" </b></a>by debut author Akwaeke Emezi was such a thrilling story and imaginative concept, delightfully disorienting. What if several gods took up residence in one person - what would that do to their actions? It's about the inner life of a Nigerian woman, Ada. Mysterious and mystical, this book lingers with me still, months later.<br />
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I'll read anything by the formidable Jesmyn Ward, but <span style="color: magenta;"><a href="https://www.powells.com/book/sing-unburied-sing-9781501126062"><b>"Sing, Unburied, Sing,"</b></a></span> gives me chills just remembering the ending. This fictional account of a family in rural Mississippi on a fateful road-trip. As the family drives to retrieve the father from the local prison, the teenage boy encounters a ghost that only he and his gifted baby sister can see. Ward's fascination with the way the living and the dead interact is gripping, and fuel for page-turning.<br />
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<a href="https://www.latimes.com/resizer/ZB2E6DbG7sABrB3Stb7-HZbYjMU=/1400x0/arc-anglerfish-arc2-prod-tronc.s3.amazonaws.com/public/NOVB5APIVFBJXJ6YJIRYI5XESM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" src="https://www.latimes.com/resizer/ZB2E6DbG7sABrB3Stb7-HZbYjMU=/1400x0/arc-anglerfish-arc2-prod-tronc.s3.amazonaws.com/public/NOVB5APIVFBJXJ6YJIRYI5XESM.png" /></a></div>
Elena Ferrante's fictional Neapolitan series, which starts with "<a href="https://www.powells.com/book/-9781609450786"><b>My Brilliant Friend</b></a>," was recommended to me by my friend Niki and is confusingly addicting. We've both discussed how strange they are to read - how intricate and detailed. And how they shouldn't be so interesting, this account of a decades-long friendship between two girls from Naples, but it is. I'm finishing up the fourth novel now, eager to see how it will all wrap up. What I like about the series is how she shows the complexities of life as a woman and her relationships. It's also highly entertaining AND is now an HBO series (though, of course, the books are so much better because of the richness and timber of Ferrante's voice).<br />
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<br />
Now for the non-fiction/memoir:<br />
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Nina Rigg's <b>"<a href="https://www.powells.com/book/-9781501169373">The Bright Hour</a>"</b> will leave you utterly undone. She wrote it from the time she was diagnosed with cancer to just weeks before she passed. Riggs is an artist, masterfully crafting some of the most tragic happenings with a killer sense of humor, profound depth of insight and intelligence, and admirable restraint - it would be so easy to rant and rage, with every right to do so, but she doesn't. I wept when I finished, and not just because she died, but because it was such a deeply beautiful book and an example of how impactfull I want my own book to be. A favorite passage of mine:<br />
<br />
“I am reminded of an image...that living with a terminal disease is like walking on a tightrope over an insanely scary abyss. But that living without disease is also like walking on a tightrope over an insanely scary abyss, only with some fog or cloud cover obscuring the depths a bit more."<br />
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And another:<br />
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“For me, faith involves staring into the abyss, seeing that it is dark and full of the unknown—and being okay with that."<br />
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<b>"<a href="https://www.powells.com/book/-9781597096249">The Shame of Loosing</a></b>," by my friend and local author Sarah Cannon just came out and I devoured it! This is the account of Cannon's living through her ex-husband's traumatic brain injury - back when they were in their early 20s and had two small children. What could easily be a rant by a woman put upon by shitty circumstances is in fact a thoughtful and introspective journey that I loved reading.<br />
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<b>"<a href="https://www.powells.com/book/-9780998825717">California Calling</a></b>," by my very-dear friend (and mentor, but shh! don't tell her), Natalie Singer, surprised me. I mean, she's my friend (I'm lucky because I'm in a writer's group with both Singer and Cannon), so I am going to like it - but it is a fascinating piece of art that I wasn't expecting to find so thought-provoking. Here's my Goodreads full review:<br />
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36797234-california-calling" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="California Calling: A Self-Interrogation" border="0" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1512625338m/36797234.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36797234-california-calling">California Calling: A Self-Interrogation</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17402007.Natalie_Singer">Natalie Singer</a><br />
My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2311771536">5 of 5 stars</a><br />
<br />
"Every time I open my mouth in public to speak, it feels like I am on a witness stand. My chest tightens and my heart crawls up my neck. Even when I'm asked something as simple as my name, it seems like I'm being asked to account for everything that is." <br />
<br />
When the narrator was 16, she was asked to testify in family court and she found herself totally mute. This is a pivotal moment in her life, the losing of her voice. The book takes the reader through the beautiful, confusing, complex journey of Singer finding that voice all over again. <br />
<br />
I marvel at how Singer was able to see into her memory with almost shamanic magic, reclaiming the soul and spirit of the moments, in addition to the details. She had no fantastical events in her life from which to draw on, but her life, like every human life, is fraught with story and rich in curiosity. Finding the magic when looking back at one's own life is so hard to do - and she inspired me to do the work of forcing a re-frame. How Singer knows what her reader will find interesting is part of her sneaky greatness.<br />
<br />
Singer feels almost tangible. She appears before me clearly; sometimes I am her. I'm sweating on that hike in the desert when her boyfriend randomly sits down in an old, used chair and wants to reclaim it; I'm in the car during conversation she had with a California ranger in the moment where she reclaims her voice; I'm a witness on the street when she faces off with the bitch in the car who won't concede. Singer's meditative pace is a joy - in her subtle capturing of the mundane and infusing it with color and movement, not unlike a painter would paint. Not unlike standing in front of a work of art at a museum. There is so much more than we are seeing, and we know it. <br />
<br />
The form also excites me; reminiscent, I think, of the artistry and genre-bending form ala Lidia Yuknavich's <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/9214995.The_Chronology_of_Water" rel="nofollow" title="The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch">The Chronology of Water</a> or Abigail Thomas' <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1556430.Safekeeping_Some_True_Stories_from_a_Life" rel="nofollow" title="Safekeeping Some True Stories from a Life by Abigail Thomas">Safekeeping: Some True Stories from a Life</a>.<br />
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The language is sometimes poetic in lyricism, other times journalistic in concision. And while it feels like a gentle read, Singer's searing intelligence and the things she does <u> not </u> say…they cut deep. A gentle cutting, I suppose - but Singer has enough love for her fellow human to sew them back up again in the end. Instead of bleeding out, we close the book with a gift: an invitation into deeper introspection, nostalgia, and sweet little wisps of our own life's story-ghosts.<br />
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_____________________<br />
<br />
<h4>
What are your best books of 2018? </h4>
p.s. I've linked all the books to Powell's, in the hopes that if you purchase - you'll buy it used, and hopefully from an independent bookstore. I'm trying to wean myself of the convenience and monopoly of Amazon.com - and books are the easiest way to do that. Let's spread the love to the little bookshops.<br />
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<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-24094260582424175692018-06-08T11:36:00.001-07:002018-06-08T11:36:20.583-07:00The lasts <br />
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Today is June 8. On this day last year, I sat at this very table in this very coffee shop. I awaited Kelly, who texted me 20 minutes earlier, "Hi you. Any chance you're free right now? I've just finished at the Tummy Temple and have an hour until I see Aylee."<br />
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"I'm at Cafe Kopi, come on up," I texted back.<br />
<br />
She sauntered in, ordered a green juice, and flipped her hair as she sat down across from me. We'd never met here before, I had only just moved to the neighborhood and was trying out new coffee shops. She was impressed with the juice, and I was happy that my espresso wasn't bitter.<br />
<br />
It was that day, that conversation, that cup of coffee...when the news really began to go downhill, gain momentum, fuel the worst anxiety of my life (and also marks the day I stopped drinking caffeine. Anxiety and caffeine hurt each other). Ever since we'd returned from Maui a month ago, she'd been fearing that her lungs were filling with malignant fluid. She was getting winded just trying to walk from one end of the house to the other and it was not improving. She would be going later that day for a scan.<br />
<br />
She hugged me and sashayed off to her day.<br />
<br />
Bad news came in. Worse news followed it. She died five weeks later.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">June 8, 2017 June 8, 2018 </td></tr>
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<br />
I couldn't come back here for months following her death, avoiding the last place we were okay, when everything was fine.<br />
<br />
There are so many things the same. It's gloomy today, just as it was one year ago. I am wearing a gray sweater, same as last year. Hair newly bleached, again, the same. I've been here several times since and it hasn't changed at all in a year. The traffic from Lake City Way continues, the bell on the door rings with every entrance and exit, my black decaf (sigh) Americano tastes the same. Motherhood is kicking my ass, just like June 2017.<br />
<br />
And just like last year, I feel the need to fight but cannot find anyone's face to punch. There is no enemy here, just as there was no enemy then - not one I could battle, anyway.<br />
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Death would have claimed her at some point, just as it will claim all the hearts I love. I am learning how to live with death, but I am still ruined by the how, the when. The difference is that I know her how. I know her when. I would do almost anything to not know those things. To go back to this date one year ago when my worries were about wanting to be a better mom to Bowie, which I journaled about. Every single entry since then has Kelly's name in it.<br />
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Everything continued on without her, a feat I swore would be impossible.<br />
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But just like with Love, Death performs the impossible.<br />
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I feel my physical system going through these adrenaline spikes just like this time last year, when we were ramping up for...we'll, we didn't know what. I am ramping up again, awakening to phantoms, echos of bad news. Reports of this same phenomenon are coming in from the other women, too. The body does indeed keep score.<br />
<br />
"The world was ending," texted Jess recently. "Because her world was ending."<br />
<br />
Of course we didn't know that then, but we did feel the tidal wave of <u>something </u>approaching. And as the five-week countdown to the one year anniversary of her death begins, that inkling builds again.<br />
<br />
Perhaps this is what to expect every year: a reliving, a reprocessing, a re-experiencing that my body must go through. Grief people say so.<br />
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The last few weeks, I've been happy. Curious, even...about these weeks approaching. What will they feel like? Making plans to commemorate so many lasts...the last coffee date, the last day she hugged Joel in the entry way, the last time she ate at my dinner table, the last text, the last voicemail, last communal meal at Niki's, the last time she and I spoke alone.<br />
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I miss her, so I wanted to relive it. I invited myself back into hell. And so here I sit, brick after brick of lasts piling on top of me.<br />
<br />
Elizabeth Gilbert recently <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Bjr8FFTDS3j/?taken-by=elizabeth_gilbert_writer">posted </a>about loosing her wife to cancer earlier this year and it's haunted me ever since:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">"Here is what I have learned about Grief, though.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I have learned that Grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. It comes and goes on its own schedule. Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, Grief has a lot in common with Love.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The only way that I can “handle” Grief, then, is the same way that I “handle” Love — by not “handling” it. By bowing down before its power, in complete humility.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">When Grief comes to visit me, it’s like being visited by a tsunami. I am given just enough warning to say, “Oh my god, this is happening RIGHT NOW,” and then I drop to the floor on my knees and let it rock me. How do you survive the tsunami of Grief? By being willing to experience it, without resistance.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The conversation of Grief, then, is one of prayer-and-response.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Grief says to me: “You will never love anyone the way you loved Rayya.” And I reply: “I am willing for that to be true.” Grief says: “She’s gone, and she’s never coming back.” I reply: “I am willing for that to be true.” Grief says: “You will never hear that laugh again.” I say: “I am willing.” Grief says, “You will never smell her skin again.” I get down on the floor on my fucking knees, and — and through my sheets of tears — I say, “I AM WILLING.” This is the job of the living — to be willing to bow down before EVERYTHING that is bigger than you. And nearly everything in this world is bigger than you.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I don’t know where Rayya is now. It’s not mine to know. I only know that I will love her forever. And that I am willing."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "segoe ui" , "roboto" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
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<br />
Meet me for coffee, Dove?<br />
<br />
`-crm<br />
<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-85649875306290209232018-04-11T09:51:00.002-07:002018-04-11T09:57:05.970-07:00Happy Birthday, Kelly<br />
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<br />
Dear Kelly,<br />
Happy Birthday, Dove! You were always the best at celebrating birthdays, yours and others.<br />
<br />
Today, as I was enjoying some quiet morning yoga and meditation in an empty house, the sun peaked out and shined right on my face. Like right on it! It felt like a massive gift and got me thinking about you and the birthdays and get-a-ways and celebrations we've shared the last 10 years.<br />
<br />
Remember this platter you made for Jess, Niki, and I two years ago at the Octopus Hole house?<br />
<img height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/aBP8gmnJn4lUnfKK-u4r7-94L3jBfYoV46FWj6WT8hIxgv7OqPxQSOqaW3mpYM7svynly8fQ_wGAO6N7KycNLvefmexKXj2JYw-RTqXW0A9dBzy69bAtkSR-I1l5vQNsFCu7M99dB4_1V009QMSwty44oQvRIQBiK_6MFhJCDoZTxsrQ_llLXis7FOFvW1tIi87PO474p0AGKFsfWhlP99QhwovBIck3YWs4icwo2yNqpbhMBAUiedplE_PBeC-HEFO23Dt8Q3tX4eXtiqI21LEXMUeidux7fUzeKWx-aNqlXRqVwb8Y6L5BITg22x3wIiWnXZ0d8REagOFXY9P83aK9SXzQYCp9TegswFXC2PLm_6v7Ts9E3h55-1xyexBojHeh0-oYzEUzyQDK64BdVrLXYzVkZXM8nJeA9WtPcG5l_mQi5VimVnwiBbF1v6BfCMGOSBhjJjltarE7yRDOnWjbVpoxt8QKDfT0SZAGmSCl8h4aFUKKY_AiBsabezUrptkRgu-e5coHriomSq0aAAMv28eKHTm9TGZPDAGLs-1EHgj3kpp2qtI-ibzBBQARCKQw36Wi6vMJUCzIYYlRMxuXAH9RPIhfJOqDwK7s=w1826-h1369-no" width="400" /><br />
<br />
I could stare at that perfectly sliced fruit for hours, conjuring up images of your hands holding a knife, cutting for days. This was your quintessential meal in summer or spring. In winter or fall, always a hot bowl of nourishing soup or stew with your homemade sourdough bread.<br />
<br />
You fed us so well.<br />
<br />
I feel quiet today. My thoughts wander to your mom...how this day 38 years ago, she pushed you into this world. What did baby Kelly's cry sound like? Were you scrawny or chubby? Did you eat right away or take your time learning to suckle? (I see you smirking. I know, I hate that word too...suckle. Which reminds me of a recipe of yours I read recently where you said "frothy" and then "god, I hate that word." You always left little notes like that. I'd ask for a recipe and it would be laced with goofy comments throughout...thank you for leaving breadcrumbs of yourself all over my life.)<br />
<br />
We went out this weekend for your birthday...it was strange. You were so present it was distracting. We ordered all the things and tried each other's food like always. When we let Brad choose the bottle of wine (because as you know, Joel choosing bottles of wine could put us all in debt, so we let Brad choose since it was your bday and you'd be the one choosing), the server brought three glasses. After the first pour, Brad asked her to bring one more glass. He poured out a taste for you, and just like that, all eyes were red and wet. "Here's to you, babe," he said.<br />
<br />
The first time we went out for your birthday was to Salty's. Brad had won a gift card for the crab brunch and so we went there on a Saturday, you in your flower DVF maxi, and ate a shit-ton of seafood. That's what you always want for your bday, some seafood meal with oysters, please. The last time we went out for your birthday meal, we were at Copine - ogling each other's plates, ordering too much, chatting about home-ownership.<br />
<br />
On your actual birthday, you would have gotten out of bed at some ungodly hour to see the sunrise, over a mountain or at the beach. I just spent time lingering over <a href="http://www.umberdove.com/blog/2014/4/15/a-day-in-the-life-of-the-dove">this post</a> you wrote on your 34th birthday. You would have made a day of it, and I feel sad that I can't do that today, that I didn't plan for it.<br />
<br />
But then I ask myself, <i>what would you have done</i>? And I answer that I could have gotten up at sunrise, taken myself out to breakfast, taken the day off work to meditate and embrace grief, flew to Costa Rica like we always said we would, write this damn book, establish a foundation in your name...you know, all in a day's work. I jest, but that's the truth. All of the rituals and trips and doings in the world will not be enough to express what you meant to me, never enough to feel like <i>yes! I've finally honored Kelly</i>.<br />
<br />
Even today, I want to write something epic, something profound. A wisdom bomb, you would say. But I don't have anything. I am surviving off of breadcrumbs and it's taking all my willpower to not post every single bday picture and tell every single bday memory right now...but something hungry inside of me halts. I will need that nourishment. There's a lot more birthdays without you we'll need to get through.<br />
<br />
So I will honor you in the small ways. A hot cup of chamomile from a mug I bought thinking of you. Hugging my legs to my chest in the galaxy leggings you wore. Maybe meticulously cut up some fruit and veg for lunch. Meandering through your blog and <a href="https://instagram.com/p/BSwXeUVFzHN/">Instagram </a>posts.<br />
<br />
<br />
And write you a letter.<br />
<br />
<br />
Always your friend and partner in birthday bashes,<br />
crm<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-17878917370289857342018-03-15T09:06:00.001-07:002018-03-16T14:27:30.923-07:00Found: a Spring letter<br />
We just passed the 14th of the month and for the first time, I don't immediately know how many months ago Kelly died, not without counting. Curious.<br />
<br />
Did I tell you? I am writing a book. A book about Kelly and our friendship and grief and her death and my unsatisfactory life without her. A life of bitter pain but little suffering. Part of that book will contain her hand-written letters to me (and hopefully mine to hers if I can get into her archives soon).<br />
<br />
As I transcribe these letters, I found one that feels especially timely since it's nearly the same time of year that she wrote it, only 8 years ago. Every drop of ink is just so Kelly. Her letters were exactly like sitting down to a cup of coffee with her: she'd tell me about her purchases, how people in the country always gawked oddly at her, and we'd discuss our latest developments and research in gardening. Then we'd spend hours shopping for plants. Then she'd come over and help me plant them all.<br />
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<img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/khHOb-rAorippoMDuIQIslOKAwB3pzh-Tz5HOqP1x6bR4Cpzg6mJFxR19yPgUxDWOkz-gDjdQLArBiHZ7ti4PnjN1SNiCYBkLntB34NhorsoipwFYNCaWkND3NMqMSeCiS6nweml8lzz9rzOIvBgQWgjFSucY-G5BRSiTgrOVBLNmxmUqOSAjXuMVzDtwi_EMjuJ8Myk20PORggs9VLqHLVrjq3WakGam_NCWQXiVqyqlYD8klRGrUwLtNqtZGGE4MXPT8D5cCx9aQD7EKWZCn3b7tkiZQUPAHQacIMP83HlM6XspJ7Q8-uX-vLemv5jz8lnZOujaEVrqEZLiVSEoXp424p1XkQJrlBHMFh6RL5ymjzVFL4dYiFpo-gZsbpCK9dIXi6kcQ6SSRwLnhf7udwt4fDcSu381-Oo8d1jTmXk6ycts5TrXF5oJf5wCMKNkTFPHO34I-u_A5ypqZTMuQGBSuohV8rgafVM18T0ufuNulnOugvjqaHk85qHaqzhur7jKKw-9nkTJRjZCTfZj6YC21OYZDceS3oofFsS58x1rIdBEE5U3L7YkBoU1Lt3HA6aXYBMNg8OsmAmlIeH6mpdbQtXxJ8nsr60MMFn=w2833-h1888-no" /><br />
<br />
Kelly was such a massive help to me. Without her, I feel like I am trying to lift 300 lbs of life. Maybe that's why I am always so tired. I've lost one of my main sources of energy and motivation.<br />
<br />
I am a very amateur gardener, pots only so far. But my body is naturally awakening to this desire to plant again. Last year, it took all I had to plant a few herbs, strawberries, several tomato plants, and a shit ton of lavender when she got sick - simply because it made me feel close to her. Knowing that she'd be doing the same, working in the wild, if she could, motivated me. It was my medicine to her - to do what she couldn't.<br />
<br />
We purchased several of those plants together at our annual day together in May, an edible plant sale. We've gone every year since 2012, and every year, Kelly's crate of purchased plants got bigger and bigger. We would walk back to my house and have brunch and a lazy day of laying in the sun, grab a hot dog for mid-day dinner, and do some sort of communal dinner that evening.<br />
<br />
As I read this letter, smiling for the indelible Kelly Clarkness of it all, I thought you might like a smile too - even if it breaks your heart.<br />
<br />
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<img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/2i5zTlKW2SrJzoK4xbum8aROk9BAwkqEWm4RrQFfm0QwzECQmOZPk5lu17DQEMu_EQXI7O20rbPDAmTNhWMenSNx01WsgaW0PieSAMhcFvroPYFy-5wR32HBn9Y8LBv_JchTjeXUIixrW_aM36gVOlQKosBwtKzJAccTeq_AkK94rIZj4YBUlU97AWrGQgRutLBYhCGPrb0ufTYdus5uSC1_wV0aPhWczQPzYGBvXYMYXiN0CikupojhkfoW7rpUmMNSZC-NTw747jJsFDqVAhu5cRgKMeyDZEXa3iQ-SeP0ftKDFfsULJg7NsOz9b1EeUFaXgIXyagoCNQSzfynXVwqfUZUZpbcJJD1O03BtHBBfNoQEOoY496t5qivi1Rflwq-YvN7zpYRwCZbAUoteUokYpx8y0AAieoOxbSX8OIX02CIu-XFkcba828QriHp-vAtEyOl9aut2VRKTF89AKwhOXGGCGBs22KX8qpWfNO1TavX9RXol7nIW7T5rAoNqUKbJ6vgV1_56hvWioTEr_g_5uAJlBroIabG1zSfsBiKaDN53Y3wXGNWW_bQdBrH1OboUY8iztvsbydb0Z_7tASXvwOIkwZ-ztx6jzQm=w2518-h1888-no" /><br />
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<img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_yXERf0A9tT0d9M5Ml3q5tppmK8cyyy2_TDvSipxi2BS3wtLDaD9TSQadhEfQUTpV4v0qx9Fl_aNkrAO2yET6SbWZhl0PxuYAsnWF_fZ2b3zDjx7DVDcW8S8lsxrIRZ1eagIY8SAPogBx8V4_THwOlg-Qy6QRlVTlpuVsxHY78v7J_8kmtw7C8iKZX4yue3BCCDhLpBSyNe_QdxdfVRdKK2L_61Jx_d1GM0kJ4SVIyNxDmAtfbG8pruHGnJHyI9Aaa36o5z4U4xY5d9zlZ3vmb2zGhq3hBpNs5wBAqhejIFvnYQdNnuKICDpcUw5rCXBgPCyJUAcHrMpOO9orlImDeWOOdjhzGN-O8qGpbIJGtgREhmOgmvg0mJnz7szSxUEICNDlNXCIIxM1ZShrw_7SDF9DdH5oDzTK3OdStttIdNZ6nMIANEwNhWbhnuli7L6t0-prLwOnsoHUv2s3XTUVrgU-7H7RcF3vslNgaX-beVJn3t5xByCI5tayiqKe4OJ2B3dGmVwmOCrHpkdMp_GPEaeBTp38AkKwgtOqRy6SIid2hydTiASNhB73auJ7hruwOlzRtf6dJf2KvZLTc-DR94EfN9vzsjrQpNuWB3X=w1224-h1632-no" /><br />
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<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-41036688445695269582017-11-29T14:10:00.000-08:002017-11-29T16:18:19.796-08:00I am missing<br />
<br />
There once was a me<br />
I knew<br />
<br />
But you died and took me<br />
with you.<br />
<br />
In place of me, a new<br />
confused thing will do<br />
<br />
Strange things like<br />
hoard your every shoe.<br />
<br />
The earth you walked,<br />
the dirt you knew<br />
<br />
Stained on the bottom<br />
of a boot no one else can have<br />
but you.<br />
<br />
But you, not here, left me to hide<br />
those shoes.<br />
<br />
Your quirky socks I wear,<br />
Will they walk my feet to you?<br />
<br />
The wise old owl of me used to have<br />
the redwood tree of you<br />
<br />
A tall and lanky perch<br />
from which to view<br />
<br />
The shirking prey, the darkest night, the darting truth.<br />
Tell me, my guru,<br />
<br />
What now? What can I do<br />
without the branches of you?<br />
<br />
"Stop," you say,<br />
"refusing<br />
to choose<br />
another<br />
muse.<br />
<br />
For I left, but I am not gone," you say.<br />
"And I have news for you.<br />
<br />
I am more than tree.<br />
I am all colors, spirit-hewed.<br />
<br />
Stop denying that same is true for you.<br />
<br />
I promise, my owl<br />
Everything you need, you already have<br />
deep, deep, deep inside of you.<br />
<br />
Go plant a new tree,<br />
the tree of you.<br />
<br />
Please believe me, you would<br />
If you could see you as I do.<br />
<br />
Strong as stalwart, as in your youth<br />
Firmly-planted, leaves true blue.<br />
<br />
There is no way out of this<br />
You must go through."<br />
<br />
But I am blind, wing-bound.<br />
My vision slight, talons eschew.<br />
I cannot be as I was once used to.<br />
<br />
For<br />
I am missing,<br />
I am missing,<br />
I am misssing<br />
you.<br />
<br />
And<br />
I am missing,<br />
I am missing,<br />
I am missing<br />
me, too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWKGGdHm7LkkCYZ2rHClV5HzQwQ67B5ry6xQTRPnQIgrIDOlANgqHtldT84UM-91qGM_d76G_1NlBQUn9hN6LyAHXwsg0nzgsCjj6FXSBJbUsV5C_-D_7rCeQEzCyFAsC_meAFfbv5dqU/s1600/DSLR+JSL+Visit+08.09+137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="1021" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWKGGdHm7LkkCYZ2rHClV5HzQwQ67B5ry6xQTRPnQIgrIDOlANgqHtldT84UM-91qGM_d76G_1NlBQUn9hN6LyAHXwsg0nzgsCjj6FXSBJbUsV5C_-D_7rCeQEzCyFAsC_meAFfbv5dqU/s1600/DSLR+JSL+Visit+08.09+137.JPG" /></a></div>
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<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-48743448481903591362017-10-10T12:01:00.000-07:002017-10-10T12:05:33.419-07:00Frida and field trips<br />
<br />
Last night, I lost it. Like properly. Like big, ugly tears. I couldn't see and I couldn't stop.<br />
<br />
Last week, just a few minutes before leaving my therapy session, I lost it. Less ugly - there was someone watching, after all. But no less big and broken.<br />
<br />
I broke down during those particular instances NOT because Kelly has died and is dead. Well, not directly.<br />
<br />
Last week at therapy, I cried because my therapist asked me to identify some heroes for an exercise we are doing. I said Frida Kahlo almost immediately and when she said why, I choked on my sudden tears. I said because of her immense suffering and her wild power and her fucking resilience in the face of extreme tragedy and her ability and dogged determination to learn to paint and express herself from that place of persistence and pain.<br />
<br />
I cried because I realized I had actually just described Kelly.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFx95LfOuB4u8zWaEPy1fqvMjRKQ78yZZ561HnxTWVx7WpUEAxmnQ35qGohEhnz2CXchXjsDYzVfXerQVhEu4iUc2bKZjR8bHJj156Lhm2IWykRCvOrLhtxmxF2YOmB5bpu06tEs76yPA/s1600/IMG_3655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFx95LfOuB4u8zWaEPy1fqvMjRKQ78yZZ561HnxTWVx7WpUEAxmnQ35qGohEhnz2CXchXjsDYzVfXerQVhEu4iUc2bKZjR8bHJj156Lhm2IWykRCvOrLhtxmxF2YOmB5bpu06tEs76yPA/s1600/IMG_3655.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Anger" an early prototype of a tarot card for a deck Kelly was flirting with making</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Last night, I cried because I got an email from Bowie's school saying I wasn't picked to chaperone Bowie's first Kindergarten field trip. I not only wanted to go see a play with her, but I also wanted to make sure she was taken care of in the special way she needs right now (Kindergarten has been a tough for bathroom times). And for some reason, getting an email from her teacher saying, "I will take care of Bowie" made me weep. And then I wept for teachers who answer fucking emails all hours of the day after spending every ounce of energy on kids. And then I wept for the people affected by the California fires. And then I wept for the victims in Las Vegas and their families and friends...for Puerto Rico, for Spain, for Mexico, Houston, for women and minorities (and our climate!) in America under this President. And then I wept for this planet and the end of everything, how the knowledge that everyone I love will die means something different to me now and how it feels less hopeless but more deeply, deeply sad. And then I wept because there is so little time to get our life's work done and I've been wasting it. And then I wept because I am grief-tired and didn't mean to waste it and felt judged by myself.<br />
<br />
And then I wept for Kelly and for how she was so much of my daily living and guide toward mystical lands and hand-holder on the mutually paced path of self-discovery and maker of massive salads and bringer of green smoothies and wearer of billowy skirts with combat boots and speaker of truth in the dark and preserver of privacy and believer in mother and then, and then...<br />
<br />
sitting in the hot bath with cold tears running down my face,<br />
I remembered when she told me that she thought I was doing it right. That I was a good mother.<br />
<br />
That's when I lost it.<br />
I wept for me.<br />
<br />
For me, for me, for me. For Bowie not getting to know Kelly as an adult. For Kelly not being here to help me with my sacred altar. For all the new ways I'm required to be that I don't want to be.<br />
<br />
And I didn't want to stay there because I didn't want to feel sorry for myself, surely other people's loss is greater - Brad, Kathy, Jay, surely it's not my place to feel sorry for myself, look at how beautiful a death we were given, look at the life she lived, look how I got to love her, look how rich this soil is, look at how much more color the world has, look, look, look!<br />
<br />
But I couldn't lift my chin this time.<br />
I couldn't look up<br />
I couldn't look at other people's sorrow anymore. I could only see mine.<br />
I didn't go looking for her in my tarot deck or the night sky.<br />
<br />
And it was time to face the me part of the grief. Weeping for little Candace, young, pitiful, incensed, raging and indignant. I thought of Bowie wailing about a necklace she lost and I imagined what it would be like to so unabashedly express loss.<br />
<br />
Likely, it looks just like this.<br />
<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-86302470715480292812017-08-23T10:32:00.000-07:002017-08-23T10:32:23.943-07:00Where she lives now.<br />
<br />
I feel myself coming back to life,<br />
if that's what you want<br />
to call it. Life.<br />
<br />
Seems like a massive stretch.<br />
I resist and resent it.<br />
I don't want to start putting the broken pieces back together<br />
When your physical form isn't one of those pieces.<br />
I'd rather stay shattered.<br />
<br />
I said I could never go on<br />
without you; here I am<br />
though.<br />
Going on.<br />
<br />
I scry into this crystalline ball of murk,<br />
a cocktail of guilt, anxiety, exhaustion, and excitement.<br />
<br />
There are a lot of faces here.<br />
They speak.<br />
Where is mine? Where is my voice? Will I find it<br />
without you here, megaphoning my voice back to me always<br />
Gently holding, fiercely protecting, lovingly knowing<br />
my desperate, soul-shattering need for solitude.<br />
<br />
I scry into the eyes of women<br />
new and old<br />
and see such deep, knowledgeable, wild<br />
pain. So comforting, reassuring<br />
that you are still close.<br />
<br />
My spirit rages against my ribs, tearing its own flesh since it has no garment to shred from its corpus.<br />
But the anger has also taken a rest.<br />
Now the fear, the fear that as the days go by, you'll begin to fade.<br />
Writing that last line, "you'll begin to fade"' that's what finally got me crying again, after days and days.<br />
<br />
I keep thinking about the title of a book that I might read.<br />
"<a href="https://www.amazon.com/After-Ecstasy-Laundry-Heart-Spiritual/dp/0553378295">After the Ecstasy, the Laundry</a>."<br />
The what's next after we shared a moment standing at the veil and you held my face before you parted the curtain and said, "Find me in your imagination. I will always live there."<br />
<br />
I took your hands, blew into them my owlwind, and trilled for you. Releasing you, yelling go.<br />
<br />
And then you slipped through a white, gauze-like curtain.<br />
But I lied, I didn't want you to go. I don't want you to go.<br />
Please, don't go.<br />
<br />
You did.<br />
So now what?<br />
Nowthefuckwhat?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkDSzOYrvUI_tKOYvePWrQfEv6l3W-aqQOfXe8VxqVGNb2gxt8zcIEBsYX5nChYBIpR2EQfkyp7U8implJeWMV_ywXvZurIY0JHg6Jloj1vWLAhHUCKWrJ9HX-ff92lYsUvvsbxDcL4c/s1600/IMG_3179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOkDSzOYrvUI_tKOYvePWrQfEv6l3W-aqQOfXe8VxqVGNb2gxt8zcIEBsYX5nChYBIpR2EQfkyp7U8implJeWMV_ywXvZurIY0JHg6Jloj1vWLAhHUCKWrJ9HX-ff92lYsUvvsbxDcL4c/s1600/IMG_3179.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The tears, after days of dryness.<br />
Sweet, welcome<br />
waterbathbaptism<br />
The tears remind me of your hands again<br />
holding my face.<br />
And pointing me inward<br />
to the you and me that is not under threat, scrutiny, admiration, interpretation, or definition.<br />
<br />
"Find me in your imagination," you whisper again.<br />
I ask the deck, where the fuck do you live now?<br />
She says back "in your imagination."<br />
<br />
So you've taken up residence in the most creative space of my inner self. Okay.<br />
<br />
Truth sayer,<br />
Miracle maker,<br />
Heart breaker,<br />
Death slayer,<br />
I hear you. I hear you with my ancient owl heart and repeat it back.<br />
<br />
Pursue yourself.<br />
Pursue yourself.<br />
Pursue yourself.<br />
Pursue yourself.<br />
<br />
That's where you live now.<br />
<br />
-crm<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-59711958468652427902017-08-16T10:07:00.000-07:002017-08-16T10:27:02.409-07:00The story of your death day<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Later, I want to tell you the story of your Death Disco - how </span></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">surprisingly</span> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">beautiful</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> it was for us all. But for now, I leave this here,</span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the transcript of the story I told, the story of your glorious death day. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEidmW46zIO5CkAEz6b19URx8nhraYUf6KcR4_RLBl13KKXwUnSTN8y36X8pODVbjVyLkoj10JF8z7PUaGQSoh5Ja4G0v81eLtfXKmMpI0-ydMU_CR-UiobUEekouJrwhmQTUc8PdHUO4/s1600/6815595533_23dc80c0a0_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEidmW46zIO5CkAEz6b19URx8nhraYUf6KcR4_RLBl13KKXwUnSTN8y36X8pODVbjVyLkoj10JF8z7PUaGQSoh5Ja4G0v81eLtfXKmMpI0-ydMU_CR-UiobUEekouJrwhmQTUc8PdHUO4/s1600/6815595533_23dc80c0a0_o.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Photo by Kelly Clark: "<a href="https://flic.kr/p/bogH6P">Five Things Friday</a>" </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Join me in this sacred space as I tell the story of Kelly’s beautiful crossing over into the mysterious afterworld. For us, it was a day drenched in joy and wonder. The days afterward held considerably less that that, but on that one magical day in July - we were rebirthed by death. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is my strong hope that you too will be given new life by bearing witness to this story.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">___________________</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When you took your last breath of this planet’s oxygen, I was in the back seat of my car with another man. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That "man" is your 1-year-old nephew, Roscoe. Your sisters Aubrey and Laurel, who Joel and I had just retrieved from the airport, were inside a store we’d stopped at en route to your home. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joel was in the front seat when his phone rang. It was our Allison and I still don’t know the exact words she said, but Joel hung up 30 seconds later and I said, “What?” </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Kelly’s dead.” </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The news, so perfunctory and unceremoniously delivered felt like the one time a Shaman used a massive owl wing to blow air onto my back and my face. The eerily powerful owlwind of you had washed over me.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I knew there was a reason I didn’t wear mascara that day. Kelly, I don’t think I ever will again. No, that’s a lie. I will and we will discuss it, forever. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Because our particular flavor of soul contract was made of old wisdom, the worship of curiosity, attraction to mystery and self-knowing, the love of a well put together outfit, and eye makeup. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was such a beautiful, hot July day and I had the car windows down. Joel got out of the car to intercept your sisters and I heard the most holy, sacred curse bellow from Aubrey. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"God</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Fucking</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Damn it," she screamed, clawed her belly, and bent over. </span></span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Laurel was stunned silent, frozen, a hand covered her mouth, grasping for the impossible breath. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">_______________</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">About a half an hour after you passed, we pulled up to your house after what felt like the longest drive of my life. Your dad was sitting on the steps, ready to receive us. I quickly hugged this man I had never met but always knew, left him to greet his daughters, and made a B-line for you. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I ran into Allison, who was rose-colored with pain and also hugged her but couldn’t linger even for a second as those long-ass tendrils of your crone hands grew from the bedroom down the hall into roots and vines around the corner, winding around my heels and neck - pulling me into your death embrace. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I crawled onto your bed and grabbed your face and Oh! Oh! I was so happy for you. I kept whispering in your ear, “I’m so happy for you, I’m so happy for you, You did it! You are so brave. Oh this is so interesting!”</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wailed, so says Robin - though I didn’t hear it and it wasn’t even nearly as loud as it needed to be. I kissed your soft skin and whispered to you. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I worshiped this ultimate act of self-love, to know and trust that this is for you and for you alone and everyone you were worried about and holding onto this life for - that we are all going to be okay - we will take care of each other as you orchestrated. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Brad stood up from his seat at your right, and I grabbed your hand. I held it forever, kissing it for so long. Noting that we needed to do your nails. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I grabbed a file. I knew we wanted to prepare your body for the last most important event of your life, your death day...and as you told me, you needed to look good. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">_______________</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was time to call the women to us. After a few hours, they all arrived. We all wanted to spend time with you, bearing witness to this moment. I also felt you wanted time with us, for us to see and be and love on a Kelly free of that GodFuckingDamnit cancer. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">We celebrated, and continue to celebrate, your liberation from: ketogenic diets, chemo x 3, broken back bones, </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">lymph-edema</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">, radiation, deep fatigue, crippling anxiety, persistent nausea, no appetite, not being able to breath. </span></span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet that body still felt so impossible to let go of. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because despite all it had not done for you and for us, it was also so glorious, always poised and stretchy and confident and perky and olive-skinned, willowy, strong, and whole. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I filed your nails, there was a moment we got to be alone. You asked me to play "<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Miseducation-Lauryn-Hill/dp/B00000ADG2">The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill</a>" and I was like, “Really??” And you were like, "Yes bitch."</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I laughed, and we hung out with Lauryn.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And soon the ritual began.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Your mother brushed your hair and put lavender oil in it - clipping a small locket of hair for keepsake. We wandered your property for botanicals and flowers. I put them all in a pot of water in your creme-colored Le Creuset dutch oven - which you loved. </span></span></div>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We steeped the petals and herbs and foliage to make your holy water - scented with lavender, fern, pine, sage. Your mother cut the shirt your were wearing off (that fucking neon shirt) and we tore it up to use for washing rags. Using your carefully curated mug collection, we dipped our mugs into the water and dipped the cloth into the mugs and washed you as we cried and passed around a bottle of whiskey. </span></span><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"We should sing," someone said. But what? Does anyone have any song?</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And another said. “Sea of love” and we laughed because why that? But it was perfect. And then we sang “Sea of love.” And as our voices sang “Come with me, my love, to the sea, the sea of love. I want to tell you how much I love you.” And then “dream a little dream of me” as a prayer to you to please visit us from wherever you must go.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And as our voices floated out the open window above your head to so you to began to float in bliss. Women, singing as they work, women singing over the bones as they have done for generations. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">_______________</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After you were washed, we put alternating umber and white colored dots around your eyes, your afterworld makeup mask. We put this gorgeous red warrior stripe down the down the center of your lips. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kelly, you loved it. We could all feel how INTO it you were. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We soaked small California poppy petals, fushia petals, and sage leaves in oil and make a necklace of them at your collarbone and around your belly button. We poured lavender, frankincense, and cypress oil all over your feet, hands, legs, belly, torso, collar bone, arms, and hands. Oh how we indulged in those expensive oils, pouring and pouring. And the room, oh the room smelled so amazing. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We tucked masses of fresh lavender and bee balm under your neck and head - bright pink palms of petals that looked almost like earrings. Between your torso and arms we tucked hydrangea and echinacea. On your head was a crown made of ivy and cedar leaves.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We wept softly still, as the ancient hands made ready this vessel which had housed the soul and spirit of the woman we loved. Who loved us. There was such joy in the room that we got to be all together like this. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We painted your middle fingernails only, so you could return to earth with a great big fuck you to cancer. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Middle fingers up, bitches,” I heard you say with a laugh.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">_____________</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We finished getting you ready and called in the men, who placed a crown of ferns at your head and sage leaves at your feet and hands. You were ready.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We then opened a bottle of champagne to toast you, pouring a few drops in your lips and belly button. We rang the singing bowl three times. Oh how goddess-like you were, like Titania, the queen of the fairies.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We hugged, we laughed, we wept, someone put food and drink in us, we made such irreverent jokes and you were there, bounding around in curiosity, excitement, and love. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We lingered there. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And then it was time. We wailed. I fell to the ground on my knees and saw nothing but heard the young innocent cries around me. All of the children inside of us, all of the growing young women, the middle aged women, and our ancient crones...they all wept and wept and wept. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Through this sea of tears, you were carried into ancestry. As if the swell of our wailing waves propel you to the ancient ones. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually, the wailing died down and we gradually began to come and go out of the room. In my time with you, I kissed your hands and studied your left arm - the tattoo too long covered by a sleeve. Hatch - it said. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I studied the markings, wanting to make myself drunk on you. Knowing I would never again behold this earthy visage.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5JvtENmZUhQXs4ORcSUevvXDIqvNdUO3bYPsl_-rCbQnspECY1_7GKw799xUHFotPatiI77A6ZsqiSq93ykkF26HL6yEtGWRoA03tI_jEHOcXw4VcyzsH67Nf27QYxDIR2DOE9KBkIY/s1600/IMG_2605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5JvtENmZUhQXs4ORcSUevvXDIqvNdUO3bYPsl_-rCbQnspECY1_7GKw799xUHFotPatiI77A6ZsqiSq93ykkF26HL6yEtGWRoA03tI_jEHOcXw4VcyzsH67Nf27QYxDIR2DOE9KBkIY/s1600/IMG_2605.JPG" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The holy water cooked in your favorite Le Crueset dutch oven.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuKCDcVfwBn3ahSq_JZdTqjzPVUCk4LUlNjgRlCbtNhRbCoWDnPz1jGFLn-QeOKtMu7xZbk2D_vwsntSKF7bGvt8-1A3rxNzPpduEJRP-_waPdByU09aiIqy498sIUhv1rNlZ3ltr2o0/s1600/IMG_2606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuKCDcVfwBn3ahSq_JZdTqjzPVUCk4LUlNjgRlCbtNhRbCoWDnPz1jGFLn-QeOKtMu7xZbk2D_vwsntSKF7bGvt8-1A3rxNzPpduEJRP-_waPdByU09aiIqy498sIUhv1rNlZ3ltr2o0/s1600/IMG_2606.JPG" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Jess's hand dipping into the holy water</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div style="height: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>x</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At sunset, the call was made to have your body taken from us. Four of us sat in the room with you as they wrapped you in soft white cloth and placed you tenderly into a beautiful red velvet bag. I was nervous that this part would be gruesome, but it too was beautiful. They lovingly left your death outfit on, and we sent you with a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcM-H0aKecHgMbgeXlLp5DYNbZR9wi_XtuL_Byj34dMvBOZZHeDntQCpxSLvunx21EN8XbX2Yfe6UmURSxqt-RLsbjs1ErUnJJ_EESmpqymt2E50vqFO9542xj5B1xZ-xuOR2rfmN0-v4t/s1600/OddPrimaryAndOthers.jpg">great horned owl wing feather</a> and a piece of <a href="http://www.crystalcircle.com/db_pics/pics/m/calcite6b.jpg">danburite</a>. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We walked out behind you ringing a bell and beating three drums, your funeral mourners. Yet, it didn’t feel sad to me, it felt sacred. Like the absolute holiest ground I’ve ever walked on. As they placed you in the car, we put a <a href="https://rosybluhome.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/sweet-grass-2-780x5261-1.jpg">braid of sweetgrass</a> on your head, and kept drumming as you drove away - kept playing until we couldn’t see the car anymore. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2NdBYdiiFyg36b4EOU5hoqfpDPxTY-BVwLwoJh5VBtP-apS9QMplYQaDAU0holeGx2z0AZm7kX-VI0K8YvId2fsrbFAEAJqpMfiNK1A7WQuGPZRa4TlL3bdOUgPhRpVO-fT-XD16Hko/s1600/10173854384_f691c57a37_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="1244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2NdBYdiiFyg36b4EOU5hoqfpDPxTY-BVwLwoJh5VBtP-apS9QMplYQaDAU0holeGx2z0AZm7kX-VI0K8YvId2fsrbFAEAJqpMfiNK1A7WQuGPZRa4TlL3bdOUgPhRpVO-fT-XD16Hko/s1600/10173854384_f691c57a37_o.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="https://flic.kr/p/gv2Esu">Photo </a>by Kelly Clark </span></td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;">And you, you eternal cowgirl...true to form, you rode off into the sunset. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;">_______________</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Many hours and much whiskey later, we burned every GodFuckingDamnit cancer book in the house we could find. And with it, we burned away the cancer from you, from Brad, from the house, from us all. Cancer's grip on you fell into ashes at our feet. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Be well, bird."</span></span></div>
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-12918273077716155372017-08-11T10:16:00.000-07:002017-08-11T10:16:34.981-07:004 weeks: Grief as amniotic fluid and raging rivers<br />
Kel -<br />
<br />
You took your last breath 4 weeks ago today. Since then, we've grown close in your new form, and I feel a crippling amount of gratitude for this gift.<br />
<br />
MaryBeth did a pull for us every night that first week, and girl! You came through (which feels so appropriate, you always loved tarot and are the one who made it okay for me)!<br />
<br />
Your message is clear: WRITE.<br />
<br />
Write and write and write and write. Write into the confusion, into the dark, into the distracting parts of it. MB said to create from this grief, maybe think of grief as my amniotic fluid holding me as I transform into the new me, as my synapses rewire.<br />
<br />
And I ask, how do I climb into that birthplace? How can I access that place where all life begins? But I see and hear that I am, in fact, already there. So what can I do except pick up a pen and write.<br />
<br />
The last great moment we had was this beautiful afternoon where Tice, Niki, Brad, Joel, Robin, and I were gathered on your bed making jokes. You told one! Your eyes remained closed and breath was precious gold, but you spent it to say, "Cortez! Make me a damn quesadilla." Of course, it was hilarious. You always have been.<br />
<br />
I rubbed your feet. You wanted to be touched, always. The sweetness of it broke my heart. Tice picked up your guitar and started playing little bits of songs here and there. We were so scared, we didn't know what to do. But he followed his true self (which, you would definitely say, is always the right thing to do) and in that moment, the music was everything.<br />
<br />
The tune landed on "Harvest Moon" by Neil Young, which Brad immediately trolled Tice for it. We all laughed, but it was actually so, so, so perfect. His and Niki's voices lulled us into the quiet place. Your face suddenly began to twist and I felt my heart jump with worry that you were in pain, that we were disturbing you.<br />
<br />
But you weren't in pain. We weren't disturbing you. You began to cry, overcome with emotion - no doubt a mix of fear and love.<br />
<br />
You said in the sweetest voice that I will never forget, "I love you all so much."<br />
<br />
_____<br />
<br />
When things began to feel normal again, I felt like I was finally coming up for air after so many breathless weeks, weeks of being beaten around by rapids on the most punishing, unsympathetic of rivers while trying to stay afloat on a raft punctured on every side.<br />
<br />
The ride has stopped and we've disembarked. Thank fuck that's over - we all say to each other in shock, disheveled and beaten up. Checking to make sure everyone is okay.<br />
<br />
But shit, we landed in the upside down world. I don't want to breath here, the air feels toxic. Can we go back? Let's make a new boat.<br />
<br />
If I swim upstream<br />
If I fall into the sky<br />
If I eat water<br />
If I stay awake all night and sleep all day<br />
If I do everything backward...<br />
<br />
Will it bring you back?<br />
<br />
But the river,<br />
the river is gone.<br />
<br />
For now, I will lie in the pasture of my shriveled soul<br />
Hug my lover<br />
Kiss my child<br />
And send a lantern to help you find<br />
the new you.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-39246297048499434442017-07-24T16:09:00.001-07:002018-05-29T16:44:15.815-07:00How to establish boundaries with the dead.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Hello 39, welcome<br />
to Hell. I go<br />
in a new kimono.<br />
<br />
One mourning dove reminds us<br />
"This is it. We are in the nightmare," she says. <br />
<br />
If that is so, then here in the dark side of our dreams,<br />
the gin glows.<br />
Big chunks of labradorite gifted by the dead now become the gin's rocks.<br />
Take the stones, drop them<br />
in your drink.<br />
In nightmareland, you eat the earth<br />
she bounded on, anything to be close to her bones again.<br />
<br />
Like the aboveworld, you carve time<br />
out for yourself, but still in Hell you are.<br />
You try to take a break<br />
from grief, for self-care,<br />
to visit the land of the before times.<br />
Tell it, "okay stay outside while I get a massage."<br />
<br />
Have you ever had to practice boundaries with the dead?<br />
<br />
Grief is a clueless, needy extrovert,<br />
a friend with no sense of solitude.<br />
Gregarious as fuck.<br />
No, you cannot come over unannounced<br />
I'd prefer if you texted before occupying every synapse, bronchioli, and eyelash.<br />
Still, Hell<br />
<br />
I'm taking up residence here.<br />
The rent is goddamned<br />
expensive, but the views<br />
oh the panoraming, expansical, multiversalicious view.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dear Dove,<br />
What are you now?<br />
<br />
Are you the steam coming up from the mug you gave me?<br />
Are you the smell of chamomile and lavender?<br />
Are you the lightdance dabbling across my journal's white pages?<br />
Are you the Mexican blanket shrouding my head?<br />
Are you that cobweb, my cat, this air, this palm plant, that flicker?<br />
Are you god?<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
I know you are new to it,<br />
still learning how to be in this afterplace.<br />
But when you figure out how to, will you please send the answers?<br />
And also, your new address?<br />
<br />
I'll be watching.<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
~your wise old owl<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-29124245656421089372017-07-09T10:27:00.001-07:002017-07-09T10:27:10.428-07:00inequity<br />
<br />
Little pink flip flops<br />
Big green oxygen machines<br />
<br />
New Prada sunglasses<br />
Pirate eye patches<br />
<br />
I have so much to tell you when you return to yourself.<br />
<br />
I bought some lilies to plant<br />
I weeded the dogwood bed<br />
I signed up for a writing class<br />
The raspberries you transplanted are bearing<br />
The weird plant I didn't know what it was? It's fushia! Kelly, it's fucking fushia.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiay_4b7HhCytNeGNjZeP8kuVDqhNvfCZDvEI4A1p6jGjdmy846KwbJm9cvpKmA_fkSZ4hzvW1PasPk9dx38PBF7oYCD9QRmlY_yWdiuWkKtMX1VlW75fYo0nBpSSLc7MPjkYHS0UmLAZA/s1600/IMG_2559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiay_4b7HhCytNeGNjZeP8kuVDqhNvfCZDvEI4A1p6jGjdmy846KwbJm9cvpKmA_fkSZ4hzvW1PasPk9dx38PBF7oYCD9QRmlY_yWdiuWkKtMX1VlW75fYo0nBpSSLc7MPjkYHS0UmLAZA/s1600/IMG_2559.JPG" /></a><br />
<br />
You're having trouble breathing<br />
My lungs burn with my own breath<br />
How dare it continue in plenty when you feel it in scarcity.<br />
So I make it share.<br />
I grab the deepestgoddamned breath I can<br />
And exhale in your direction. A galeforce of life.<br />
In those moments, am I breathing for you?<br />
<br />
I have this desire to dip my fingers into claymud<br />
Wipe black stripes on my cheeks<br />
Approach the darkness as one of its own<br />
war paint sacred<br />
self-adornment<br />
<br />
We all feel so shitty unless we are in your physical presence. We are disembodied until you somehow reunite ourselves with our own souls. What sorcery is this? You, always magic AF.<br />
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Oh how desperately I ache to take you away with me when I leave your house. To go west, to the salt water. To go shopping, to walk around the plant nursery, to have you stand at my counter and chop strawberries. Oh how guilty I feel to walk into my home and feel so safe when you are so scared.<br />
<br />
Stand up.<br />
Stand up.<br />
Stand up.<br />
Stand up.<br />
<br />
<br />
Summer, meet cancer.<br />
Cancer meet Life.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-69781114479796112572017-06-30T23:25:00.001-07:002017-06-30T23:25:52.301-07:00Bowie Andromeda, 5 year old slideshow<br />
Happy 5th Birthday, Goose.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="480" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/AnhUKXiJRDw?rel=0" width="853"></iframe><br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-22255229591819112142017-06-22T14:16:00.002-07:002017-06-22T14:36:46.925-07:00"I will take the sun into my mouth"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
what is this feeling?<br />
like i could take on the world<br />
like the world could take me down<br />
<br />
this inching up to the fear, fearing it<br />
and this wide open wingspan holding all the world's fear, everywhere<br />
<br />
seeing flying specs of matter with my side-eye<br />
that vanish when i try to look right at them<br />
<br />
this both holding and caring for<br />
and being held, being cared for<br />
<br />
like a child screaming 'hold me' yanking at the legs of her mother<br />
i make demands, bowing to the body of the nothingeverything that is out there.<br />
please<br />
please<br />
please<br />
please<br />
please<br />
please<br />
please<br />
please<br />
<br />
seeing nothing but the threat to Kelly's breath, my scope narrowed to pinpoint<br />
while glimpsing it all, the expanse vast from where i stand above the earth<br />
<br />
hands that can do nothing<br />
hands that can do everything<br />
<br />
iron-clad<br />
stripped naked<br />
<br />
morningnight<br />
nano-secondsmillenia<br />
headstails<br />
lightshadow<br />
topbottom<br />
leftright<br />
darkmatterlightmatter<br />
expandcontract<br />
emptyfull<br />
sunmoon<br />
creationdistruction<br />
birthdeath.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
who. what. where am i<br />
in the middle of this?<br />
<br />
i am water<br />
terrifying<br />
and vital.<br />
safe and scary.<br />
blue with clarity, black with depth.<br />
i contain multitudes of beating hearts that eat each other.<br />
<br />
i am paradox. i am poem.<br />
<br />
Courage, dear heart.<br />
Courage.<br />
<br />
-crm<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I will wade out<br />
Till my thighs are steeped<br />
In burning flowers<br />
<br />
I will take the sun in my mouth<br />
And leap into the ripe air<br />
Alive with closed eyes<br />
To dash against darkness<br />
<br />
In the sleeping curves of my body<br />
Shall enter fingers<br />
Of smooth mastery<br />
<br />
With chasteness of sea gulls<br />
Will I complete the mystery<br />
Of my flesh.<br />
<br />
Of my flesh.<br />
My flesh.<br />
<br />
-Bjork "<a href="https://genius.com/Bjork-sun-in-my-mouth-lyrics">Sun in my mouth</a>"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-11698798083371698142017-06-15T13:13:00.003-07:002017-06-15T14:04:45.808-07:00There's always more.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
A tsunami has begun to form. We stand at the receding shoreline, desperate to change what we fear <u>might </u>be the impending future, watching the water rise in the too-close distance. It's hard to see anything good anymore. We feel helpless, unable to shhh the ocean floor like we'd calm a baby, our hands are instead full of other hands, the hands of our gathered beloveds, standing chained together by the light of her.<br />
<br />
Good. Bad. Whatever is to come, we cannot stop it. That hasn't changed. That will never change.<br />
<br />
Fear mounts, but so do we. We saddle up our weary but persistent souls, curious about the unknown trek. There is every hope, but still, we are scared. More scared than ever before. Breathing like we are being chased by a predator, yet there is no threat to fight. We have no weapons to pick up, no ground upon which to stand.<br />
<br />
We wish for physical combat instead. Would expelling our bodies' energy make it easier to exist in this pain? I look at us, my friends, I see our riot gear, but we've been abandoned by our opposers. Dumbfounded by the total, utter absence of an enemy.<br />
<br />
Are we knocking at the last door?<br />
<br />
What will happen? What will happen? What will happen? Sticking, repetitive, answer-less questions.<br />
<br />
Is it the end of the world?<br />
<br />
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<br />
Last week, we received some seismic-shifting news about Kelly. The cancer isn't responding to targeted treatment, so the doctors want to go wide. There is fluid in her lungs (well, until they extracted it a few days ago), a new inflammation on the liver. Chemo is back on the table. We await scan results. It's scary news, but that's all it is. It's not a prognosis. Not by a long shot.<br />
<br />
It's hard to walk the line between being a good friend (trying to read what she needs so we aren't demanding that she always know what she needs in every given second, supporting her without smothering her, not demand that she comfort us right now, protecting her boundaries), and being good to yourself (letting yourself feel it all, investing in solitude, pursuing ease, protecting your boundaries). I have walked around in a daze the last few days. I can't focus and I don't really care about anything else. My world has stopped and yet, I can't say why. She is here, I can call her, I can drive to her house, I can hear her custom owl-hoot-hoot text tone interrupt a corporate meeting, making me smirk for the collision of the two worlds.<br />
<br />
Here's what I am finding comfort in:<br />
<br />
<b>The moment.</b> I have her. She is here.<br />
<br />
<b>Music. </b>Oh music - it can reach inside places and shift everything. I helps me feel both the weight and the weightlessness of the situation...the always persistent cosmos...the gorgeous, fleeting, terrible human experience...all of it.<br />
<br />
<b>Writing</b>. I decided Friday morning when the news first came in that I needed to write (and probably go back to seeing a therapist regularly as this is likely beyond my scope) for no other reason than it's the only only fucking thing I CAN do. I know the power words possess to shake up our the way we act and behave, how they help us find our way back into the bravery we were born with, and how they can remind us to marry the inner and external self - in ourselves and in others.<br />
<ol>
</ol>
<br />
Because with humans, what you see (even when you see with your third eye) is never, ever what you get.<br />
<br />
<h3>
There's always more.<br />There's always more.<br />There's always more.<br />There's always more.<br />There's always more.<br />There's always more.</h3>
<h4>
There's always more.<br />There's always more.<br />There's always more.</h4>
<h4>
There's always more.<br />There's always more.<br />There's always more.</h4>
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-10728697168184368012017-05-18T15:17:00.000-07:002017-05-18T15:32:54.989-07:00One room.<br />
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<h3>
<br />I am in the middle of vacating a home. This particular room, though now empty of things, contains multitudes:</h3>
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My sister sleeping on a futon while my niece slobbers on the TV screen with her hands as she steadies her newly-walking self.<br />
<br />
Emily and I crying while we watch "Wuthering Heights."<br />
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Painting the room <i>cathedral gray</i>.<br />
<br />
Making it my very first studio, my me-only space to read and write.<br />
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Sitting staring out the window, watching Joel garden. Separate togetherness.<br />
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One drunken night when we newly discovered, and filmed me dancing to, an ABC song.<br />
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Slowing morphing it into a room for a baby.<br />
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The first time Joel put Bowie in her crib, 3 months after she was born, and ready to move out of the bassinet right next to our bed.<br />
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Nursing Bowie in the early morning hours, staring out at the dead-but-always-fruiting pear tree (oh<br />
how I will miss that tree).<br />
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Sister back for a visit, sleeping on a mattress on the floor after a drunken Madonna concert.<br />
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Bowie moving out of this room into her big girl room - me reoccupying it eagerly.<br />
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Kelly, setting up shop in here even though it's way too small for a big working table. Just because we wanted to be in the same room, working. Separate togetherness.<br />
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The great book purge of 2015, when I decided that I was done with the men of antiquity dominating the shelves.<br />
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Standing outside the closed doorway for countless amounts of cumulative minutes, listening to Bowie cry. <i>Should I go in? Should I stay out? </i>Motherhood's eternal question.<br />
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KJK picking up my camera to snap a beautiful moment as I fed Bowie - me so grateful someone captured it.<br />
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House guests sleeping on a variety of makeshift bed combinations - Jackie and the kids sardined in,<br />
in-laws during the first days of Bowie's life, my mom lots of times, friends and family always.<br />
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And that afternoon light. Oh the afternoon light.<br />
<br />
So many mantras scribbled on paper and posted as reminders. Many revelatory tarot pulls. Tons of the deepest yoga breaths.<br />
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Smudging for the eradication of cancer, for the clearing of toxicity, for the fragrant cleansing.<br />
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All in the smallest room of the house... a room of my very own.<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-56537751818099321082017-03-28T10:24:00.001-07:002017-03-28T10:24:49.544-07:00Especially write.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How do you know your own thoughts? Do they come to you freely or do they fight for your time? Do you hear them when you are occupied elsewhere with dishes or watering plants, are you in conversation with yourself when you look at the sky or when you drive home? When you hear them, are you sure they are your own?</div>
<br />
I spend a lot of time reflecting, which is important to me. But I also don't usually talk about those thoughts or write them out. I am in my head, often stuck there unless I can either do yoga, go to therapy, or write. Especially write.<br />
<br />
These activities keep me from spinning out - or at least help me spin out with intention.<br />
<br />
I was doing <a href="http://soyala.com/">luminary sessions with the this ball of light</a> (seriously, five sessions have shifted me in ways I never knew possible), but even a "therapy" session isn't exactly spending time with myself - with my voice alone. Writing has always been this for me. Not nature, not long walks, not staring at the ocean - those all help, but my thoughts run too fast and too free for me to hear them well. And that's fine. Not all thoughts are meant to be pinned down - and many will flee for fear of capture.<br />
<br />
But when the thoughts that want to be unpacked come along, the best treatment I can give them is writing. However, like any writer, I absolutely abhor doing it. And yet I ache for it at the same time, the simplicity of purging on page, of making my mind slow to match the pace of my hand.<br />
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<br />
On Sunday, I opened my journal to write and realized how long it had been since I had written anything for myself. There are many good and valid reasons for that, but I also realized that when I am disconnected with writing, I'm also disconnected from the conduit to myself.<br />
<br />
Things change so fast. This time last week, I was happily plodding along in the day-to-day, thinking about my upcoming trips to Mexico and Hawaii (both happening in April!).<br />
<br />
Then Friday afternoon, we put in an offer on a house - our 6th offer. Our search for a house has spanned the last 1.5 years, and frankly - I'm detached from the whole thing. Later that evening, during our family viewing of "The Lego Movie," I looked down at my phone and saw that the house status was moved to pending. This has happened before, so I told Joel, "Oh, this went pending. Too bad."<br />
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But then our realtor called Joel. While still on the phone, Joel threw me an animated thumbs up that looked sarcastic. But then he got off the phone and told me the news; we'd won the bid. Surprised and a bit in shock, we resumed our movie. We spent the weekend in a little bubble of bliss - peacefully looking at Pinterest boards for new furniture and casually plotting out the house to see what could fit where, what projects needed doing, etc. I wasn't stressed, though I was still in disbelief. I think I still am.<br />
<br />
But Monday hit hard. Calls to escrow companies, transferring monies...just a lot of little details coming at me. In the meantime, I have to think about packing and saying goodbye to this beautiful house - which will be a significant source of grief. Plus, our April plans haven't changed. We very well may be signing papers in Maui. Who are we and what have we done to ourselves?<br />
<br />
When will we move? How will we tell our landlord? Will I take my raspberry bush? Are the old bookshelves coming with us? Should we sell the old bar tables? Will the couch fit in the new place? Where will the paintings go? When the heck am I supposed to pack? Will we still buy a new mattress? How will the cat adjust? Should we retire the bedroom set neither of us really like? What will the utility bill be at the new place? What will it be like to drive Bowie to school from there? Are we in over our heads?<br />
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To keep myself from choking on the excitement, anxiety, and to-do lists - I've decided to journal every day in April. Nothing fancy, nothing profound. Even if it's just lists and lists. I don't want to lose myself in this process and be so caught up that I can't enjoy it.<br />
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As I sat on my yoga mat this morning, like every morning, trying to invite my monkey brain to rest, I wondered - if I can slow down for just even 5-10 minutes per day to observe - will there be uncovered richness in these details? What could I learn about myself? What if I didn't try to slog through it through but instead gave myself permission to thrive amidst the chaos?<br />
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A mantra has been ringing in my ears since my coworker shared it with me last week,"Don't do more. Resist less."<br />
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There is no right way to be Candace in April of 2017. There is no planning myself out of this mess. It's time to be. It's time to resist less.<br />
<br />
I have no idea what it looks like to stop resisting. None.<br />
I'll let you know.<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-33951496090830744112017-02-06T20:32:00.002-08:002017-02-07T10:45:29.037-08:00the time in between bath and bed, and the ROI of parentingBear with me here, I have like 20 minutes to write this (but it's a new practice in unfiltered writing).<br />
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Joel gives Bowie her baths, as part of our carefully constructed and always tenuous "share the work" agreement. In a not too uncommon, unplanned twist of events, I supervised the child bath. I usually distract myself by cleaning the sink, scrubbing my makeup brushes, or playing with how to create a cut crease on a hooded eye.<br />
<br />
If I don't occupy myself with these things, I'll reach for my phone - which I do try to avoid. I hate the idea of a picture Bowie's forming in her head of her mother with a device always in front of her face, but it is what it is. I'm over judging myself for it...which is entirely different than giving up the fight. But that's a different blog.<br />
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Tonight, she caught my attention because, in the interim between the last bath I supervised and tonight's bath...a few weeks, a month maybe?...she could completely submerge her head in the water and hold her breath for five seconds.<br />
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It shocked me because, just this last summer, she would barely even put her face in the water, much less have the skill and agency to do it herself.<br />
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And in the 'in between' time of the evening (the time where Joel is reading Bowie stories and I am just finishing up the dishes, lighting the twilight candles, and pouring myself another glass) all my thoughts from the day come rushing at me. Today, one of those thoughts swimming in the sea of political murk and hope was the ROI of parenting.<br />
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For those of you lucky people who have never worked in a corporate setting, ROI means return on investment...the reward, the sign that all the rigor you put forward and risk you took in the beginning of your endeavor is starting to pay off, and your back to making money instead of shelling it out. (Disclaimer: this may be a reductive definition, I sure as hell am not spend my in between time opening up a tab and looking up ROI on Wikipedia...I do that shit all day long for real work).<br />
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The ROI of parenting...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bowie's drawing after watching the Women's March on Washington.</td></tr>
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It's odd how good I felt about Bowie dunking her head in the bath water, like the super smug kind of good. Yep, I am shelling out money and time for swim lessons because someone told me that responsible, healthy, enlightened parents teach their kids how to swim...and here I am seeing a total return on that.<br />
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She's making tangible, provable progress toward a goal of becoming another amphibious human.<br />
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It's working! I am winning at parenting. She won't drown!<br />
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It felt especially good because she drove me crazy today - we've hit the sassy phase, plus she's playing with all kinds of learned helplessness that triggers me. Today of all days, I was grasping for ways my parenting is "working." The swimming thing felt good. Was there more ways I was winning?<br />
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And then I stopped short at that cold question. Was I really looking for an ROI on something as unquantifiable as a relationship between mother and child?<br />
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Damn you, age of reason! (FIST)<br />
And oh thank you, age of reason. (SIGH). But that's a different blog.<br />
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There is very little data or feedback in parenting. And in a society that...I'll let a friend explain it: <br />
<br />
...<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; font-variant-ligatures: inherit; font-weight: inherit;">ours is a society that </span></span>honors<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: inherit; font-variant-caps: inherit; font-variant-ligatures: inherit; font-weight: inherit;"> and celebrates the mind {the masculine, intellect, drive, mental toughness, and so on}, but neglects and, often times, rejects the sweet balance that the heart provides {the feminine, empathy, compassion, strength through vulnerability, introspection, creativity, and so on}."</span></span></span><br />
<div>
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BQKBrT5h2vg/?taken-by=kael.klassen&hl=en">found here</a></span></div>
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Yeah, in that kind of society - I have to remember to invite the feminine voice along too. To ask my heart what it thinks of my parenting, too...since it has such a different set of data points. </div>
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Bowie's not going to give me proof because she's not an experiment. She's not here to teach me how to be a better parent or help me undo the damage done to me. That's my job. </div>
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She's not here for any other purpose than to live out her soul's work. I hope to be one of the people clearing the runway for her to do it. </div>
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<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-54080259118809780652017-01-11T09:34:00.000-08:002017-01-11T09:38:30.310-08:00Year in photos, 2016<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="415" src="//www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/x58398p" width="660"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x58398p_year-in-photos-2016_creation" target="_blank">Year in Photos 2016</a> <i>by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/candace-morris" target="_blank">candace-morris</a></i><br />
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I usually publish this video slideshow of the year on New Year's Day. But this time, it took me a bit longer. I don't think that was an accident, either. I think the truth is that 2016 broke my heart in so many ways on so many levels, and I didn't want to go through the good stuff; I didn't want my mind to be changed; I just wanted 2016 to be the fuck over.<br />
<br />
But every single time I create one of these slideshows, I relive every memory, every small moment that - when captured - seems insignificant. But set to music and bookmarked by many other small moments - each minute becomes so damn beautiful.<br />
<br />
I'm so thankful to be alive. To have Joel and Bowie. To have a community of friends that I would die for. To have family who knows me. To have money for big and little things. To have freedom to shave my head if I want to.<br />
<br />
So this is my peace offering to 2016. May she rest in peace.<br />
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crmcandacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-25136967044020428552016-09-13T21:29:00.003-07:002016-09-14T09:35:57.891-07:00The pure pleasure of just trying <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've just returned from my first ever hip-hop dance class. My body is so deliciously tired, used, and stronger somehow. I'm so drowsy, I can barely type. I don't remember the last time I've ever been so body tired ( I'm lying. LABOR!).<br />
<br />
I've suffered a dance-less existence for too long. Every therapist I've ever seen has prescribed "dance more!" in just about every session.<br />
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The desire for a dark dance floor and loud (but just the right kind of) music quickens my heartbeat like it used to when I'd spot the guy(s) I had a crush on in college. It's that brand new, unbridled, unused joy bubble reserved for novel experiences that slam your awareness into NOW.<br />
<br />
I felt that rush of excitement this morning while walking to do some work at a coffee shop and thinking about class tonight. As I strolled along the familiar street, I contemplated that rare quickening, the joy only accessible to me when I dance. Absolutely no other time in no other circumstance can I tap into this particular, specific kind of joy.<br />
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I think people assume that because I make a spectacle of myself on the dance floor, that I would not find this class uncomfortable or look awkward or that I would pick it up easily. Error.<br />
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As I stumbled though new movements (WTF hip hop! Why you have to stay so low? Man, my thighs!) and conditioning exercise (I did NOT just sign up to do planks, oh hell no) with my flabby arms and thick ankles, I decided to thank my body for movement. I hugged those puffy, strong ankles and smiled at them. Those ankles are as endearing to me as Joel's gray patch of hair behind his left ear or Bowie's ill-timed demands for hugs and kisses. <br />
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As I danced, I felt my body feeling foolish. I looked silly. I couldn't get the simplest of steps, despite my years of high school cheerleading and illustrious career as a dancing wedding entertainer.<br />
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Not too long ago, if I'd endured that kind of imperfection in a new experience, I would have cried myself all the way home. I would have felt my heart beat anger and disappointment through my veins. Worst of all, I would have quit. Just like that. Because if I didn't KILL it the first time, it would have meant I wasn't supposed to be a hip hop dancer and I wouldn't want to waste my one precious life pursuing something I wasn't good at.<br />
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Nah. It's time for a new way to be.<br />
<br />
That's why I've embarked on a new campaign to rewire how I walk this earth. Phase one: Unteach the know-it-all inside of me that she has to be perfect. Taste and see that the real pleasure of life is buried in the trying and trying again. Feed my dance-shaped curiosity and know that once I master this silly hip hop walk we learned tonight (it's fucking fierce when my teacher does it, but I somehow end up looking like a creepy upright octopus), I will just want something else to master, another thigh-burning sway o' the hips to get good at. And then, I'll look stupid once again.<br />
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And that's the point. Learn something new, look stupid, keep doing it, find joy, learn something new, look stupid, keep doing it, find joy.<br />
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Let's call it full on fool acceptance. Unlearning perfection and poise. Saying YES to the whimsical, unconcerned, costumed freak who wants to jump around like a lunatic asshole and laugh about it.<br />
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I don't have any guarantees of this, but I have a hunch that cultivating some crazy might just help me tap into a formidable source of power. An unbridled, scary with joy, thigh-strong monster of a woman that just might gobble you up on the dance floor.<br />
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-crm<br />
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Now I must go watch Beyonce dance and sit humble before my queen.<br />
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<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-47665982823917941342016-08-10T21:00:00.001-07:002016-08-10T21:07:14.023-07:00What the island water gave me.Back in April, we took a trip to Oahu.<br />
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Oahu folded me in so gently, earlier than most land. We awoke just before sunrise on our first day, so we threw on shoes and walked the 200 feet from our beds. The sand was cool and fine. The water, quiet and expectant. The light, unholy in its consummate beauty.<br />
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We attended a wedding, our main impetus for going to Hawaii. At the reception, Bowie made her debut as a dancing fool.<br />
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I do not listen to popular music, so you can imagine my surprise when the song 'Uptown funk-y up," (as she affectionately calls the Bruno Mars song) and screamed at me to remove her carefully arranged bun and threw her head around like the demons of dance had possessed her. I stood in awe of her for a short minute before I answered the call of those same demons myself.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFByZQd0gLPvdi1uuipJBh2sp18ffonhFZ3hBEhqZzJ1TdMQs93_OWJrRxn7B3sEoLbyTXHRe9aI2UlpqZYnvUX433G5Z1ECETN8BK5a7F-dY49CAX-uwxcgzL1rqMVV49sHJQoUL6YVY/s1600/IMG_0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFByZQd0gLPvdi1uuipJBh2sp18ffonhFZ3hBEhqZzJ1TdMQs93_OWJrRxn7B3sEoLbyTXHRe9aI2UlpqZYnvUX433G5Z1ECETN8BK5a7F-dY49CAX-uwxcgzL1rqMVV49sHJQoUL6YVY/s640/IMG_0031.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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A moment in time. I sat lounging under a short beach umbrella with Tim and Julie sunbathing on my left and Jess and Joel sharing a bottle of cheap rose on my right. Ben lying contentedly on the shore as the waves pushed sand up his shorts. Phoenix and Bowie playing separately together, lost in a world of sweet sand and sea.<br />
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One evening Jess and Joel went shopping for dinner and Ben and I stayed back at the house with the girls. We sat in the fake plastic Adirondack chairs as the stars and I were invited to romp around in Ben's playground of a mind. The gentle breeze cool enough to pull my sun dress over my knees, but warm enough to keep me from breaking the spell by fetching a sweater. We looked deep into the night sky and found Jupiter.</div>
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One tequila morning was spent chatting with the always scantily-clad Jess. She had asked Ben to please save her from toddler hell, so Ben and Joel took the girls down to the beach. We were out of Pinot Grigio and decided to polish off a bottle of tequila instead (did I mention it was morning?). It's not every relationship that can handle some of what I told her, but Jess isn't your everyday kind of gal.<br />
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I can still feel the warm water of the outdoor shower as I helped Phoenix de-sand herself. We lingered there, with her chubby arms held tightly around my neck, still unsure of the water.<br />
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Holding her while she learns to trust being held.<br />
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Another moment. Jess swam off in the distance, Joel sat on the shore, Bowie buried herself in the sand, Ben answered the call of a far off island and took a trek, Phoenix stood on the wet sand, yelling at her Mom to fucking take her back into the water.<br />
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I swam in utter solitude, surrounded by these people I've decided are everything..<br />
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No breaking waves, just a rock-a-bye undulation.<br />
Green and turquoise and deep gray blue water, warm as the sand. <br />
The liquid salt so fine you didn't notice it, but felt lighter, easier to love somehow.<br />
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I lifted my feet, laid back, and began to float.<br />
I thought of the people and souls inside of me. The archetypes I contain, the multitudes Whitman spoke of in Leaves of Grass.<br />
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And I felt something gently swim away from my being. Something good and lovely, but that needed a break.<br />
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The absolute authoritarian reigning supreme inside of me: my judge, my skeptic. She was dethroned. She's so fucking beautiful and wise and vigilant and terrifying and damn strong, but she's tired.</div>
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I didn't even cast her off, there was no battle. She just wanted a break, she wanted to quick dip in some salty solitude. She mermaid-ed herself out of me, gently twisting with one easy ebb toward the shore.<br />
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But it wasn't permanent, because I'm learning that no part of me wants to be cut out. But, with the precious break, she came back to me having been bathed in solitude - that is, we reunited with a softer focus and a kinder lens.<br />
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It's what the island <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/What_the_Water_Gave_Me_(painting)">water gave me</a>.<br />
crm<br />
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Lots more photos <a href="https://goo.gl/photos/GkZPXXkZUiCBtHUe8">here</a>:candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-91509179280428736702016-06-30T18:41:00.001-07:002016-06-30T18:43:27.558-07:00Bowie Andromeda, 4 years oldTo my one and only daughter on her 4th birthday. Let's continue to worship the great questions together, yes?<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uv_P4nanvXY" width="640"></iframe>candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689562912749353753.post-32685022525918999782016-01-11T22:49:00.000-08:002016-05-10T10:22:41.874-07:00Why I named my daughter Bowie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Despite having tried for 6 months to get pregnant (which is shorter than many but longer that I was prepared to hold out my hope for), I found myself pregnant and miserable during the holiday season of 2011.<br />
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I wanted the baby, but I never wanted to be pregnant. I didn't know it would feel this way until I saw the pee stick reveal a positive line - well, technically two positive lines. Two = pregnant. One = not.<br />
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I knew I was pregnant before science confirmed it. Not surprising, really. Knowing is kind of my thing.<br />
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On the morning I found out, Joel and I celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary. He was working at home that day. I had woken up at 5am, took a pregnancy test, saw a quick negative, and went back to my barren bed bleary eyed and pissed. But when I woke up for real at 8:30am, I knew I was pregnant. To help keep me sane, I tore into the bathroom garbage for evidence, and indeed I saw a negative turned positive.<br />
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Heart beating fast, I unwrapped my last clean $20 pee stick. This time I read the directions and 3 minutes later, the test confirmed what my body already knew - hell, I hadn't even missed a period yet. I was 3 weeks pregnant, hyper vigilance and all.<br />
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Relieved, yes. Excited, no. Happy, kind of. Feeling dread, completely. I walked out to Joel as he sat at our tall kitchen table. I wore a black and white striped shirt and black jeans. My hair was recovering from a bad cut. I was barefoot and cliche.<br />
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I bashfully told him that it we had completed our mission. He smiled, but I saw in his smile exactly what I was feeling - WTF have we done?<br />
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Flash forward three weeks and you'll see a bitchy and crazy tired Candace attending a holiday party with Joel at the Showbox in Downtown Seattle. It's an 80s themed party (the best) and here I am, unable to make any kind of outfit work (WTF! This never happens to me!) and unable to drink (WTF! How am I supposed to face a room full of strangers?!!) and advised not to dance (WTF! I PERISH).<br />
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I did okay for the first two hours. I faked my gin and tonic with lime and seltzer. I tried really hard to smile and converse. But when the DJ began to play the 'Sixteen Candles' soundtrack, I nearly began sobbing - everything inside of me aching to dance.<br />
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So I told myself I would dance very lightly. Whatever that means. If you know me or have seen the spectacle that is Candace dancing, you'll know I don't do it...well, lightly. Think <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGVZOLV9SPo&list=RDIGVZOLV9SPo">Pat Benetar</a> (esp at 3 min 15 seconds in) meets the gal from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzALZjoIx0g">Flashdance </a>(I wish) channeling every choreographic move from <a href="https://youtu.be/ozoTzkCeO-A">Footloose </a>and <a href="https://youtu.be/ozoTzkCeO-A">aerobics competitions</a>.<br />
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So I did it. I tried to hold back, I really did. And I thought I was okay until about 25 minutes in and I felt the familiar wet heat. It was either a lot of dance sweat, per my usual. Or it was blood.<br />
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I walked ran to the ladies. Oh god, don't let it be blood. Don't let it be blood. Just as many women have prayed for no blood and for blood for billions of bloody fucking years.<br />
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It was blood. I grabbed a bunch of toilet paper to sop it up. It wasn't a ton, but still - it was blood. I left the bathroom, told Joel we needed to leave immediately and politely excused ourselves from the dance floor and friends.<br />
<br />
On the car ride home, the cold and dark felt so good. I was so hot. We discussed going to the hospital. We wondered if something was wrong with us because we didn't feel anything. We were both eerily calm, very flat affect. I didn't care. I couldn't care. I didn't even have time to get attached to the little thing inside of me, the dread hadn't passed yet (btw, the dread didn't pass until Bowie was 4 months old, just for the record. And it's started again as we think about her enrolling her in kindergarten next year).<br />
<br />
At home, my toilet sits just under a window that somehow always boasts a kick ass view of the moon. On this particular December night, it was crazy clear and big - our moon. Managing blood and the worst fear I've known before or since - the wanting of something that doesn't want to stay - I texted my sister, the only person aside from Joel who knew I was pregnant.<br />
<br />
The conversation went something like this:<br />
Me: I was dancing at Joel's holiday party. I tried to dance like a normal person. It didn't work. I am bleeding now.<br />
Her: How much...and other medical questions.<br />
Me: Not too much, but still.<br />
Her: If the baby wants to be, it will be. There's a star man, sister, waiting in the sky. He'd like to come and meet you but he thinks he'd blow your mind.<br />
Me: Let the children boogie.<br />
Her: Look out the window, you can see his light.<br />
Me: If we can sparkle, he may land tonight.<br />
<br />
This wasn't uncommon, we often have nothing but lyrics to say to each other. It's our thing.<br />
<br />
That moment, when she said the thing about looking out the window, I looked hard and fast at the moon, directing all my wishes and power so hard at the moon. I wanted the baby. I knew it in that moment. If she made it, I'd name her 'Bowie.' In part for Teresa, in part for the moon path she'd travel, in part for David Bowie for giving us words to make the moment bearable.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/FQIZOYSmzslC01G662q3MTll4_PbsW7L2qf-U-ka4ZNjE1nsGcGooPgGTnHJapH_H8xNCOmV-q5R5eGHZMcDe2vB3oV7qWyL83WgkU7ijaGp4bzPmT-Hw7o0o7kpoihoMWRVEvWnrlS7m8vcWNvwW14o-a1u3qGw6fzdAIKWb0cjtQ1dhBTyDTC1Kw4fIHMDZa2GKee25scLb9MwcFlT8xEQoed_oiyTzNJhgSGFG5TI5vJvD1zm3SwRH-bzazLJQUM233LQk6RT9V6lNq5fl6YxCTcXSBbh0za46eb5VOyXc4opKGLKSrY381upcbpPEE9Np1RAv_4Dj68Q8l0jU2XvmIhT5oy7ThXZVZWZGZiKJHQqwu1KjOVPhVIEoBZrrXQyUqysvQiYnI500vMc7J94KFOF3WRKGmj2Y6qr3b6zpYoyiSxyNTnDGnrXtz_vQK0KRV1CubqU1SN6NEMeig_a9F-QwoV7OLZi4S4tiIcRd_EX5rEBE0806GTPuPht35qVUyq9_DkwxxbMOTZx2h-nWV-rIm1iOTAKDx5nZ9u3QHG5ScjNEPqUYlOtgWsLfXS2yQ=w1082-h1620-no" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/FQIZOYSmzslC01G662q3MTll4_PbsW7L2qf-U-ka4ZNjE1nsGcGooPgGTnHJapH_H8xNCOmV-q5R5eGHZMcDe2vB3oV7qWyL83WgkU7ijaGp4bzPmT-Hw7o0o7kpoihoMWRVEvWnrlS7m8vcWNvwW14o-a1u3qGw6fzdAIKWb0cjtQ1dhBTyDTC1Kw4fIHMDZa2GKee25scLb9MwcFlT8xEQoed_oiyTzNJhgSGFG5TI5vJvD1zm3SwRH-bzazLJQUM233LQk6RT9V6lNq5fl6YxCTcXSBbh0za46eb5VOyXc4opKGLKSrY381upcbpPEE9Np1RAv_4Dj68Q8l0jU2XvmIhT5oy7ThXZVZWZGZiKJHQqwu1KjOVPhVIEoBZrrXQyUqysvQiYnI500vMc7J94KFOF3WRKGmj2Y6qr3b6zpYoyiSxyNTnDGnrXtz_vQK0KRV1CubqU1SN6NEMeig_a9F-QwoV7OLZi4S4tiIcRd_EX5rEBE0806GTPuPht35qVUyq9_DkwxxbMOTZx2h-nWV-rIm1iOTAKDx5nZ9u3QHG5ScjNEPqUYlOtgWsLfXS2yQ=w1082-h1620-no" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
She made it.<br />
And damn, that girl boogies.<br />
<br />
Tonight, I've spent the evening listening to David Bowie on spotify, drinking wine, watching videos of his concerts, following links like a crazy person. I've wanted desperately to join with the souls in Bowie's hometown as they sing out live in homage. I wanted to dance all night. I have wept. It has felt so good. That I could feel this way about someone I never met, simply because of his art - his words, and every thing he stood for - that is a kind of god feeling to me, if ever there was one.<br />
<br />
David Robert Jones, you hot tramp. I love you soo. I'll try not to blow it.<br />
<br />
<br />
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1947-2016</div>
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"I don't know where I am going from here, but I promise it won't be boring." </div>
<br />
<br />
Look out your window, I can see his light.<br />
crm<br />
<br />candacemorrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13893739347394561554noreply@blogger.com1