Bliss

A few weeks ago, I posted about how I’d been working at making friends with Winter this year.  It’s been going well overall, I think.  I’ve spent a fair amount of time outdoors every day, whatever the weather, and I’ve cultivated some winter-appreciation activities indoors and out.

I just have to say it now, though: I’m done.

Really.  Stick a fork in me.

Winter, I am so over you.  And you know what?

It’s not me.  It’s you.  You’re one cold, relentless bastard.  L.L. Bean recently notified me that the snowshoes I have on backorder are expected to ship for delivery in June, and here’s the thing: I actually believe it may still be snowing then.  You see what you’ve done to my hope, Winter, you heartless S.O.B.?

We can’t go on like this.  I need a little “me” time.  A little space and distance.  A little goddamned Vitamin D.

Here’s the deal: I’ve booked a flight to Miami and am looking forward to some sun and fun with a girlfriend.  In the meantime, I am shamelessly dreaming of Summer.  That’s right.  Summer’s my favorite, and there’s no sense denying it any more.

Hell, there are pictures that absolutely make me drool.  My god, the memories…

First, there’s the way summer days evolve into summer nights:

There are the modes of transportation:

There’s the food and drink:

There’s Fourth of July:

There are lush gardens and flowers for clipping:

Even the storms are pretty:

So, though there is more snow falling outside right now, I will not grumble.  I will simply snuggle in to dream of Summer days.  You can’t steal my bliss, Winter.  You’ll run out of bluster soon, you cold, hard meanie, and in time I will once again feel like this:

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Stitch

Years ago, when The Boy was still small, he and I watched the movie Lilo and Stitch. For those unfamiliar with the premise, Lilo is an orphan being raised by her older sister. Stitch is a space-alien-critter who happens into their lives and (of course) endears himself to them over time. There’s a poignant moment near the end of the film where Stitch, referring to Lilo and her sister, says, “This is my family. It is small and it is broken, but it is good.”

This was the moment when The Boy, all young and naive and bright-eyed, enthusiastically said to me, “Just like us, Mommy!”

I had to hide out in the bathroom crying for a good hour or so.

Single parents will understand. That whole broken-family thing will nail you in the gut every time. It doesn’t matter how great a parent you may be, or how the world is changing to accommodate different family structures. Single parents always feel second-best. And they always worry that their kids do, too.

I thought of that Lilo and Stitch moment recently, as I found a copy of the DVD while I packed up the last of my belongings still remaining at my former home in the wake of my recent divorce. Here’s where my convoluted life probably requires some ‘splainin.’ The Ex, about whom I’ve blogged until y’all likely wanted to scream get over it already, is not my first ex-husband.

That’s right — I’m 41 and twice divorced.

Yay me!

The Boy’s father — let’s call him Tee — and I met when I was young and foolish and he was old and horny. He was a lot older than me.

A lot.

So much older that, after my family first met him (whilst I waited for the dropped jaws to to be retrieved from the floor) one of my smartass brothers deadpanned, “Well, I think it’s nice. Dad didn’t have much of a father figure. He could use someone to look up to.”

Ouch.

In the face of such quips, I did the only thing I was likely to do at that stage of my life. I married Tee. It didn’t take us long to realize that what we’d done was idiocy. Two weeks after the wedding, I packed my bags and left.

And then I found out I was pregnant.

In hindsight, I think Tee and I get an ‘A’ for effort. We did our best to make the unworkable work. Ultimately, we parted ways, fought and made a couple of attorneys richer for a while, then settled into co-parenting amicably. Tee adored The Boy and was always a great dad. For a number of years, Tee actually worked for my family, managing their golf business. He played golf with my father and brothers. He joined my family for holidays. It was about as good as it gets for an odd couple like us.

Still, I was ever aware that The Boy and I had this awkward, broken little family. His father was old enough to regularly be mistaken for his grandfather. I wondered if we would ever escape the weight of past errors.

Then I met the man you now know as The Ex. He was handsome and funny and, I thought at first, just quirky enough to fit right into our awkward, broken little family. I dared hope he might be Stitch to The Boy’s Lilo.

Over time, though, their relationship became one of the major issues in our marriage. They were just too different, and I was forever caught in the middle. There were other issues, too — stuff I couldn’t make up for any novel. As one who appreciates life most when it’s drama-free, I knew something had to give.

So, once again, I found myself divorced. I worked my tail off to keep things amicable, and before long I landed in the most unusual of situations: living as The Ex’s neighbor. Serving as his housesitter and dogsitter while he was away on business trips. Continuing to help him with management of our former home and rental properties.

A neighbor teased me as I helped The Ex dig one of our tenants out of the snow that had drifted against the apartment door.

“Forget about you writing another book. He should,” he said, nodding at The Ex. “He took your house and your dog in the divorce, and here you are still taking care of both! Now that’s a story!”

Haha. Funny neighbor. There’s a guy who’s lucky not to have taken a snow shovel to the face.

But a lightbulb went on.

There’s keeping things amicable.

And then there’s being a doormat.

The Ex had not been particularly kind to me for years. I walked on eggshells in my own home. When I begged him to help save our marriage, he was willing to do exactly nothing to that end. And yet, every time he appealed to me for help, I was there.

I began to wonder why.

I also began to wonder if I could truly move on while living so close to him that I saw him daily. We would walk and drink beer together at the dog beach while our pups played. Sometimes it seemed nice, as if we should win a medal for being the Best Divorced Couple Ever. More often, though, it was just weird and painful. Sad.

A child’s movie might seem an unlikely catalyst for change, but when I found that Lilo and Stitch DVD, something clicked.

I’d been small and broken too long.

The question was how to move forward. I took inventory.

The Boy is currently living with Tee, attending community college, and trying to figure out the path ahead.

I have plans for a small house I’d like to build. I need to save money toward that goal while helping The Boy pay for college.

Meanwhile, Tee has an in-law apartment in his home, something he and I had spoken about recently. It’s been in need of renovation since he bought the house years ago, and he wondered if I might be interested in doing the work in exchange for an affordable place to live. At first, I thought he was crazy. It sounded like the sort of thing likely to end in an episode of Dateline.

But then again?

Maybe not so much.

Tee and I have functioned as friends and coparents for over 15 years now. And I realized that, while I have been living in one of the most beautiful places in the world, it’s no longer the right place for me. Every lovely aspect of the area is steeped in memories of The Ex. And if the memories aren’t enough, there he is in the flesh: driving past the front of my house in his car, past the back of my house in his boat, walking on the beach, calling me for help with this or that.

While there may be no geographic solution for most problems, this may be an exception.

One of my very best friends lives right across the street from Tee, on the river where she and I swim together as often as possible in summer. Several other good friends live in the same neighborhood. I don’t know what’s in the water there, but it’s Good People Central. And I need good people around me right now.

So I’ve found someone to sublet my little piece of paradise for the duration of my lease. I’m working on making the apartment at Tee’s my own, an affordable place to call home while I find my way forward. The Ex seems to understand that I need to move on, and has promised to enlist a proper dog- and house-sitter.

Here’s a snapshot of my life right now:

I am 41 years old.

Twice divorced.

Escaping my second ex-husband by moving into an apartment owned by my first ex-husband.

And feeling better than I have in a while.

Truth is stranger than fiction, right?

The other night, Tee and The Boy and I were surveying the progress on my new digs, talking and laughing, and a thought made me smile…

This is my family.

It is small, and it is broken, but it is good.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Boat

*TRIGGER ALERT: MENTION OF SEXUAL ABUSE AND RAPE*

My brain is sometimes troublesome. Good stuff happens in my life all the time — magical stuff, even — and my skeptical brain seeks to discount it. Lately, though, a seemingly endless series of coincidences has brought a variety of good people and growth opportunities into my life. The more I’ve focused on what I want and need in life, the more life just serves it up.

Awesome, right?

Except for that damned nuisance brain of mine. It always looks for the logical explanation behind miracles large and small, always seeks to discount the magic, always seeks to pull back the curtain on the phony wizard. And somewhere, in the deepest, darkest corner of that grey matter, a nasty little voice whispers: You think this good stuff is for you? You think you deserve it?

Enter Mandy, author of the blog Life Unfurled.

Once upon a time, I fought social media kicking and screaming. I understood that as an author, I needed to post, blog, and Tweet ‘til the cows come home. But I wanted to do it about as much as I wanted to eat those same cows (I haven’t eaten beef since age 12, and I haven’t missed it). I got comfortable with Facebook, worked on the blog, and am more or less keeping up with my least-favorite: Twitter.

But last week, the #MondayBlogs hashtag on Twitter (launched by Rachel Thompson, author of Broken Places) led me to the post ‘Sink or Swim’ on Life Unfurled. Mandy struck a chord with me in discussing the divorce she is going through. I contacted her and struck up a conversation, which we eventually moved from Twitter to Facebook.

You know, so we could converse in more than 140 characters at a time.

We discovered much in common: we’re both self-employed, both about the same age (OK, she’s younger), both on our second divorce, both wondering how the hell we got where we are. She lives on a boat — something I continue to contemplate — and even looks like she could be my little sister.

Most significant, though, was something I discovered when I went back to her blog and read every one of her posts. She is a survivor of sexual abuse, and as a result, she is battling PTSD and anxiety.

As most people close to me know, I too am a survivor of sexual abuse and rape. Beginning when I was just 4 or 5 years old, I was abused by a teenage boy who had myriad problems and took them out on me when he babysat. In my own teenage years, I trusted someone I thought was a friend, and found myself the victim of a violent sexual assault.

In the years that followed, I became the poster child for the symptoms of PTSD commonly suffered by survivors of sexual abuse and rape. I had an eating disorder. I cut myself. I was depressed. I abused alcohol and drugs. I had zero sexual boundaries. I attempted suicide.

Again, these are things most people close to me know. I was fortunate enough to receive excellent medical help and counseling in my early twenties. I learned that being secretive about these awful things that had happened to me only exacerbated the shame that fueled my self-destructive behaviors. And that I had no reason to be secretive.

No one invites abuse or assault.

That shame belongs to the perpetrators alone.

It’s been a long time since I keenly felt the pain of those earlier chapters of my life. I took my last antidepressant pill in 1998 and have since managed my mental health through diet, meditation, and exercise. When you see me post on Facebook about crossing the finish line at a sprint triathlon before you’re even out of bed and think, Damn! She’s crazy! Yup. Absolutely. And all that physical activity is how I keep the crazy from eating me alive.

I’d been thinking quite a bit lately about sharing my experience with my readers. Though the pain of my past seems far removed to me now, some of the difficulty I went through as I weathered my divorce in the past year reminded me that no matter how much we might like to believe we can leave certain chapters of our lives behind entirely, we are all the sum of each and every one of our experiences. Amidst the sadness and loss of my divorce, that nasty little voice buried deep in my brain would sometimes creep up: What did you expect? You thought you deserved better?

Only now, my heart responds, Why, yes. Yes, I do.

This, I have realized, is the reason my painful past is worth sharing right now. When I read Mandy’s posts in Life Unfurled, I knew our paths crossed for a reason. She began her blog with the intent of releasing the burden of shame that isn’t hers to carry. I set that burden down long ago, but I still live with some of the scars.

But I live.

I live, I live, I live.

And she will too.

My brain may still doubt all the wonderful miracles life keeps sending my way. That dark little part of it might still cling to the training it received from people who hurt me. But in this mortal realm, my smarty-pants brain is stuck on board with my heart, and my heart is at the helm.

As Mandy wrote in her introductory blog post, “let’s support each other in the lives we dream of living.”

Sometimes we just need to know how many people are in the very same boat.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

In addition to #MondayBlogs, author Rachel Thompson began #SexAbuseChat on Twitter — every Tuesday beginning at 6 p.m. PST, survivors of sexual abuse and rape can join in the conversation.

If you need help, link here to RAINN for a list of international resources for victims and survivors of rape, sexual abuse and incest.

And if you have difficulty finding the help you need, please feel free to PM me through my Facebook page. I’m not a counselor by any means, but I will gladly listen and help you find the support you need to live the happy life you deserve.

Much love,

k.c.

Dream

Passages are a funny thing to consider.

One soul leaves this world.

Another enters.

Certain lives may never intersect or overlap, yet one may still impact the other.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in 1968, five years before I was born.  He didn’t know my parents, and they - young white people getting their start in the world - surely felt their lives in New England were worlds removed from his death in Memphis.  They wanted a kind, gentle world for their family, so they appreciated Dr. King’s words.  They may have nodded, hoped, said a prayer, even shed a tear or two.  And then they moved on.

That is white privilege.

To agree, to hope, to pray and even to work for a better world - all in the absence of fear.

It’s an odd thing to try to understand.  As a white, middle-class female, it’s not something I asked for.  But there it is.

I remember being in elementary school and learning about the assassination of Dr. King.  I remember going home terrified that my own father - an intelligent, eloquent man who never hesitated to stand up for what he felt was right - would suffer a similar fate.  While clearly the intent of the lesson had been to illustrate our nation’s history of racial inequality and the impact of the civil rights movement, I’d somehow missed the crucial part.  My young brain couldn’t grasp the inane notion that skin color could have anything to do with hatred.  What I’d gleaned was that using one’s words to help others in this world could get a person killed.  What I’d felt was that such a world was surely insane, and terrifyingly unpredictable.

In time, I came to understand that my father, a white male, had the best armor possible.  This only amplified my belief that the world was an insane, terrifyingly unpredictable place.  As a child, I was certain my father was a great person - but I knew it had nothing to do with his gender or skin color.  It was because he was smart, kind, funny, and pretty much always carried candy for his children.  What sort of idiocy had been law in our country long enough that adults didn’t get what was so clear to a child?

My father told me about the Florida courthouse where he first practiced law.  Technically, Jim Crow laws were done for, but right there in the courthouse, next to the scales of justice, the words “WHITE” and “COLORED” remained inscribed in stone above the drinking fountains.

And people still used the fountains that matched their skin color.

How sad, how silly, I would like to say now.  I would like to look back and shake my head at the insanity of the past, gratefully beyond it.  Yet 2014 proved that the racial divide in this nation remains far from bridged.  There is quite a bit that is sad, yet nothing that is silly, about that.

I don’t believe this means we are doomed.  I sometimes think this nation’s past is so painful, we almost viscerally need to believe we’re done with it.  It hurts too damn much to consider the ways we might have benefited from an ugliness with which we disagree, or the times our behavior may have been guided by unfair instincts.  Still, we might do better to acknowledge it, to own up to the way prejudice can seep into the marrow and infect generations.  To look it in the face and say: I will not let you infect my children.

My daily experience with people is that they are generally good and kind.  I believe we are capable of bringing that goodness and kindness to our every interaction.  Call me Pollyanna, but I cannot read or hear the words of Dr. King without thinking he is still the key, and his dream is still possible.

I hope and pray 2015 is the year we each commit in our hearts to being done with drawing superficial lines.

That we work at treating each other gently.

That we take a moment before we speak, before we act.

That we remember that each of us is not the flesh and bone structure we see on the outside; it is the soul within.

With love and gratitude for the life, lessons, and memory of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Dream.

- k.c.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Ripple

For most of my life, I have been lucky enough to live near the water. Salt ponds, rivers, bays, the ocean — I never cease to be amazed at the variety of landscapes possible in liquid form. There are days when the wind whips the surface into whitecaps, evenings so still the water is a mirror for the sunset. The change of seasons brings different birds and fish. Where I live now, the winter brings seals to my back yard.

One constant with any body of water is what happens when you touch it. Dip a toe, wade in, toss a stone — the water will ripple. That ripple will stir seaweed, send crabs scurrying. It’s one of the things I love most when I am on my paddleboard. I can see the impact of my movement on my surroundings: the swirl around my paddle, the gentle wake behind me. I can also so clearly feel the effect of my environment on me: the waves made by a passing boat, the wobble of my board as a fish passes underneath. I can feel my connection to everything in the world.

The ripple effect is something I tend to think of literally, given the way my life is so connected to water, but most probably think of it as a metaphor: each action we take has a ripple effect on others, often in ways we will never know.

I’ve been floundering a bit lately, having a tough time finding the meaning in some of what I’ve been through in the past year. It sometimes seems nothing in my life goes as I imagine it will. The reminders of plans gone awry are everywhere. I go for beach walks with Kimba and see The Ex and my former dog, Harry. No happily-ever-after there. I sit at my desk with the ashes of Tiny Tim, waiting for a warm spring day to release them at the dog beach. So much for my dreams of seeing him playing there with the other dogs, all-terrain wheels making up for the mobility he lost.

I’ll be honest: on bad days, I sit at my desk and look at Tiny Tim’s ashes as a symbol of all I’ve tried and failed. I wonder what the hell the point of any of it is.

And then last night I heard from Erica, one of the Guardians of Rescuewho’d helped save Tiny Tim. There was another dog the Guardians had been working to get safely from Oklahoma to Long Island, a blind Lab called Tiny. Of course, I noticed the name, and I followed his story. I was glad to learn he’d arrived safely in Long Island and was given a new name, Tulsa, in homage to the starting point of his journey.

What did Erica tell me that caught me off guard?

Kasia, the woman who drove from Brooklyn to Oklahoma and back as part of Tiny/Tulsa’s rescue team volunteered to do so in part because of a blog she followed. It was a Girl on a Wire post about a dog named Tiny Tim she’d seen on the Guardians of Rescue Facebook page. It moved her to tears, and ultimately, moved her to help another dog named Tiny.

Whaddaya know?

Miracles do happen.

The dog I tried to rescue may have passed, but he just rescued another dog. Tulsa will find his family, and his story will inspire others. Tiny Tim won so many hearts, and he is still changing lives.

We really are all connected. And while I still may not know what the hell the point of any of it is, I’ve been reminded: there is a point. We just have to trust.

As Kimba ran on the dog beach this morning, I tossed pebbles into the water. Some dropped with a plunk, others skipped across the surface. A cormorant emerged and looked at me, perturbed. A little farther away, a seal popped its nose out of the water.

I watched the ripples.

And I smiled.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

The sweetest hello

Resting safely

Tiny — now Tulsa — seems pretty happy to be making the journey to find his forever home.

Love Thy Neighbor

If Arnold P. Abbott has wasted a minute of his 90+ years on this planet, I’d be amazed.

That his lifetime of service and good works could culminate in jail time is simply unfathomable.

Born in Massachusetts in 1924, he was a pre-med student exempt from military service in the wake of Pearl Harbor.  He chose active duty, served as a combat infantryman in North Africa and Italy, and was awarded two purple hearts.

After his discharge from the military in 1945, he earned degrees in Journalism and Political Science.  He worked in sales, wrote and published poetry, fiction, and book reviews, and embarked on a political career through local and county offices.  He was elected a delegate to the Democratic National Convention in 1964 and caused a stir when he insisted - in defiance of the convention - on the seating of the duly-elected Negro Mississippi Freedom Delegation.  Some must have seen the wisdom of his stance; he was again elected to the Convention in 1968.

In 1970, Mr. Abbott moved to Florida, and with his wife, Maureen A. Abbott, he cared for the homeless and championed their rights.  When Maureen passed away in 1991, Mr. Abbott founded the Love Thy Neighbor Fund in an effort to keep his wife close to his heart and to build on the foundation they’d established.

He and his volunteers have succeeded.  Weekly they feed upwards of 1,400 people what are likely the only healthy, balanced meals they will receive.  And in keeping with Mr. Abbott’s philosophy of offering a “hand up, not a hand out,” Love Thy Neighbor offers a nine-week Culinary Skills Training Program.  Participants are provided with temporary housing, and they graduate with knowledge of all aspects of food preparation and sanitation.  They can then go on to continue their culinary education at McFatter Technical College - without cost - or apply for jobs in the food service industry.

What does that mean in Broward County, FL, where the tourism and restaurant industries are paramount?

There are over 45,000 jobs for the taking.  Love Thy Neighbor gives homeless people the tools to succeed in these jobs.  They forge relationships that prepare people to move from the streets to gainful employment and safe, productive lives.

How has the City of Fort Lauderdale responded?

With an ordinance onerous enough to make public sharing of food virtually impossible.

Now, I admit, I say this without having seen a printed copy of the ordinance.  I exchanged a series of email messages with Mayor John “Jack” Seiler regarding the situation, and while he at first seemed genuinely interested in working with Mr. Abbott, my requests for a copy of the ordinance and my offer to provide whatever is necessary to bring Mr. Abbott’s public feedings into compliance with the ordinance were ignored.  Personal communication was replaced by a form email, and I got the message: the homeless in Fort Lauderdale are supposed to interact only with the government for assistance, not with their fellow citizens.

This is where I get cranky as all hell.

There is a clear shortfall in the services the City of Fort Lauderdale is providing to the homeless.  If they’re doing such a great job, how are there so dang many people for Mr. Abbott and his volunteers to feed?  And why can’t the city pitch in and help so there are none of the public safety issues with which Mayor Seiler seems so concerned?

Look, I’m a Miami native and I understand that the sheer number of homeless people in this area has caused problems.  The homeless migrate to warmer climates so they won’t freeze to death.  And yes, some of them are criminal and/or mentally ill.  There are some ugly reasons people end up without a roof over their heads.  Also, if you feed them, they stick around.

But these are not seagulls we’re talking about - they’re human beings.  If you choose not to help them, fine.  But Mr. Abbott is doing a selfless thing from the heart, and he’s doing it well.  It’s wrong that his personal liberty and well-being should be compromised as a result.

My belief is that, in the United States of America, if one feels compelled by conscience or religious conviction to provide aid to others, his freedom to do so should be protected. Mr. Abbott has successfully sued the city once before, securing the right to feed the homeless on Fort Lauderdale Beach, and he’s determined to do so again.

That he is even in this position at age 90 is wrong.

If you agree, here are a few things you can do:

Contact Mayor Seiler.  Email him: jack.seiler@fortlauderdale.gov  Or call him: 954-828-5003  Be positive.  Be respectful.  Anticipate a good outcome and believe we can make it happen.

Sign the petition to have the ordinance repealed.

“Like” the Love Thy Neighbor page on Facebook.  Stay informed and share with your friends.

If you’re in the Fort Lauderdale area, volunteer to help Love Thy Neighbor.

Get informed and have a laugh at the same time with this clip from The Colbert Report.  Satire at its best.

Celebrate Veterans’ Day by letting Arnold Abbott know his service to his country and his fellow man - during WWII and since - is appreciated.