femmahaze

For those interested in my online absence, hello there! I've been away (from the computer). I have spent some time in the underworlds, and am stepping back topside, out of my Effexor haze. It was hurting me, and dreams had been trying to tell me so for awhile, but you know me ... I like to be beaten over the head with it.

Feeling better. I imagine what I've been through in withdrawal symptoms parallels some junkies out there. Now lookie, lookie. Whoosh! A sex drive! Passion! This Scorpio is A-L-I-V-E.

. . . and must now go churn her butter.

see more Celeb Look-A-Likes

As fascinating as the mini and mega life explosions I've experienced in the past couple/three years are, there isn't much value anymore in me reporting them. I'm hoping this period of relative silence will restore me and the visions I have of the life I want to be leading.

Triple digit heat arrived much earlier than normal this year, and I only wish I could describe the joy this adds to my days.

My poor, oft-neglected and under-appreciated Fetch is delighting in the adoption of a black kitten just shy of 7 weeks. Fetchie needed a cuddler kitty and was lonely for the company of her former black-furred familiars. He's a male and apparently was the runt of the litter. No name yet. I've tossed around Daytona III but he doesn't even resemble Daytona I. So for now he's kitty, and he's mine.

Blessed be.

After sitting in an urgent care clinic for addicts and people in severe psychological crisis with my mother and partner for six hours today ...

After being denied a partial refill for my prescription by a doctor who has never met me because he's never met me when it was quite clear to both he and I that such a denial would mean sickness for me and pain ...

After clutching what was left of my pride to my chest and presenting myself to intake staff and a psychiatrist ...

After crying tears of remorse and shame in the waiting room where my mom held my hand as I spoke of the person I became two years ago and being forgiven, in her presence ...

I am grateful that I have a will and a center. I am grateful for my education, my intelligence, discernment, and my intuition. I am grateful to La Loba and the Gods who whispered me home, and Home.

I am grateful for three incredible Feri mentors who show me the process of becoming is much more important than the so-called progress. I am grateful for my family, for friends, for Shilah the Great, wolfdog extradordinaire, two adorable, fierce baba kitties. I am grateful to my ancestors, for my Calabrese showing at the most unseemly times.

And I am grateful for the dessert I am going to eat right now, prepared by the hands of my mama.

I've been thinking on the difference between studying Feri and being a student of Feri. A wise priestess I admire brought the contrast to my attention over the summer. The currents surrounding me have made consistent attendance at weekend intensives impossible; when money is scarce, survival wins. And as I continue to study and grow, it is a consolation to me that missing this weekend does not mean I will necessarily be missing what I need to learn. I believe what I'm studying and working on is right in front on me. More to the point, the healing that has been necessary between my mom and me could go no farther as long as I was away. And since I contracted to work on my family relationships -- especially necessary in the aftermath of my manic episode of two years ago -- it's only fitting that this solar return I will be with the woman who gave me life.

I will miss several dear faces this weekend. And if my absence is merely understood as another brick in the wall of my own prison, another scene in this tragedy called my life, that's okay with me because it is not; it's evidence that I've been working hard on my life.

Life's not a contest. Neither is Feri. I'm so tired of running, though. Running away from, running toward. Mostly running away. The only running I intend to do for now is with my dog. And we'll not be racing.

Who knows which way the wind will blow? I sure wasn't expecting the phone call I received Friday from Doug informing me that his publisher had just laid him off for financial reasons. In hindsight, it shouldn't have come as such a surprise. We had some decisions to make about whether to try to stick there or not, and if not, where we should head for cover. As it turns out, coming to Phoenix was an excellent idea.

My writing chops are not currently up for an analysis of the current situation. There is much to tell. And living at this lower altitude, I imagine it will be easier to write of it when I am no longer oxygen drunk. I swear, I could sleep for hours.

Blue the Bobcat and her nemesis, Usasa Maya Baba, are engaged in the ultimate hissing warfare. Shilah is so happy to be living in a home again (with steps!) where her specialness is admired and affection is more abundant than ever. Not having seen my moms in two years, I'm just happy for the Work and how it is manifesting now that Pluto is in Capricorn to stay. I have over two years of momma hugs to catch up on.

Happy news comes in unexpected packaging sometimes. I am grateful.

Until I get my laptop fixed, I'm restricted in my Internet usage. Suffice it to say that I am moving forward in my goals, and that my daily practice lapsed over the last week. It had some to do with the noise being made by Doug's son and his manic tantrum-throwing, so although sitting would have been the best thing to do when I was seething and frustrated with his inability to listen and be considerate of others, I (mostly) did not. The conflict between he and I, due to his general negative feelings toward women because of whacked out relationships with his mother and grandmother, escalated into a shouting match in which he threatened me with physical violence and I responded by putting up my fists in self-defense, while refusing to back down from my position. His dad tackled him when he saw his son threatening me, and the brawl ended without anybody being seriously injured, but with said son ranting like a crazed religious zealot. Mania with psychotic features -- familiar territory for me -- sucks to be around.

Drew is now gone, on a bus to Scottsdale, where his family and friends are. I hope he gets the help he needs, because sanity-wise, he needs medication, and he refuses to take it. Medication that has helped him before. His constant criticism of my decision to take anti-depressants will no longer assail me! I won't have to listen to his obsessive playing of Muse songs on his computer and electric guitar anymore! No early morning bullshit! No late night drunken bullshit! There are still five people and two dogs in the house, but it's peaceful now.

I have become the proud parent of an Alaskan Malamute/Wolf hybrid. Her name is Shilah, and I shall post pictures soon. She and I have bonded, are continuing to bond, and she does Raja's memory justice. She is a gentle, sensitive, intelligent, beautiful, magnificent creature. And she comes with a trust fund. For the next year, all her food and medical bills are paid for, as her late mommy was a millionaire who rescued wolf hybrids and donated to an organization that helped rescue and protect them. Shilah. She loves to hike and go for walks. She loves the water, and played in the Uncompahgre River over the weekend. Sometimes we all howl together. It's a hoot to hear a Little Pup (Kim's dog) and Shilah duet. A hoot, I tell ya. Shilah's howl is deep and mournful. It gives me goosebumps.

The job at the Humane Society went to someone else. I was bummed yesterday, and today I'm pensive about it, wondering if I want to wait tables or not. I've done it before, and I may do it again.

I am enjoying the colors of autumn and the change in light, in darkness, the scent of the air, feeling the urge to write poetry.

More as it becomes available.

Like our president, I enjoy clearin brush on my land. It relaxes me and helps me clear my head, sort out thoughts that tend to run through all sorts of muck in this twitterpated world of ourn. Like my daddy always said, muck no more belongs in a mind than it belongs in a stable or a barn. And though I was born and raised on a farm in the Midwest, I shore wadn't born in a barn. I got sense, the common kind, what some might call horse sense. My mama didn't raise no fool.

But all this is just by way of introduction. I been readin the papers in these here parts long enuf to know that some folks got ab-solutely no horse sense and would most definitely benefit from some plain-spoken truth-tellin. Might just help some of y'all muck out yer gooped up mental parts. Especially alluh youse I call "urban refugees." Some of y'all got some stee-range ideas about things. Especially when it comes to Mother Nature.

I was talkin to a fella the other day from Tulsa. Seein as one of my best friends lives in that city, and she's one helluva sharp shooter with her pistol, her tongue and her fine intellect, I was unprepared for what he had to say about the trees in the town of Ouray. He was of the opinion that there were too many trees interferin with his views of the mountains, and these trees, with the exception of evergreens, needed to be cut down so as tourists could behold the beauty of the mountains with less interference. I looked at him hard, tipped my hat back to see him better and considered his point of view: Some wild things need to be gotten rid of so that other wild things are easier to enjoy, because, and these are his words, "this is a town for tourists."

Now, tourism is an important part of what makes this town go, but Ouray is more than just a tourist town. The mining roots of this town go deep, and it seems to me that trees -- any sort of trees -- go hand-in-hand with the old timers of this town who planted them. Why, they're a part of the history of this place! If we pick and choose what parts of Mother Nature are expendable, why, purty soon, we'll be pickin what parts of our history are likewise expendable. And for the sake of what? Modern "convenience."

Kinda like in Ridgway, where the town recently hired someone to kill as many skunks as possible -- turned out to be 69, at least so far -- because they're usin culverts as their dens and folks are askairt of skunks because they don't want to be sprayed.

I know as well as you that skunks have a bad reputation -- kinda like me -- because they can spray stinky stuff on critters that threaten them. That stuff does smell to high heaven and can be a dickens to remove. But what many in these parts -- urban refugees -- don't understand is that it takes a long time for them to make more of that foul-smellin fluid, and they don't go around sprayin every livin thing they come across; it's their last defense. And shore, I've met a dog or two who made the mistake of tanglin with a skunk, but I've never met a person carryin the unfortunate scent of an unlikely encounter. Fact is, a skunk'll warn ya fore it sprays by stampin its feet and puffin up its purty tail, givin you the chance to retreat. But that's in the unlikely event of meetin one face-to-face. They're wild, after all, and don't take kindly to palaverin with humans. They're also twilight creatures, comin outta their underground homes as the sun's settin or risin. I like to watch em, if I'm lucky enough to see em nosin blindly around for food -- they don't see so well, turns out -- round sunrise or sunset. My husband, a bona fide rascal, has earned the nickname "Dances With Skunks" because, for some reason, they fearlessly approach him as we're drinkin our mornin coffee (which, incidentally, contains a chemical found in their spray). He would run away in fear, at first, when this happened, then learned they wasn't no threat, and come to just silently watch em when they'd come up, polite-like, to say good mornin, fore disappearin into the dawn.

You can say what you want about things, but when you go killin somethin you're not gonna eat, you'd best have a good reason and yer facts straight, or Calamity Jaimie and folks like me are gonna take issue with ya. Urban refugees movin in is changin things, buildin homes all through these San Juans we all love, and disturbin the natural order of things because they can, no botherin to ask if they should.

And yes, I have a problem with that. My name is Calamity Jaimie. They call me Calamity for a reason.

* * *

The late Ed Abbey and Stephen Colbert, as well as Baxter Black, and, of course, Calamity Jane, inspired this. Lemme know whatcha think. Constructive criticism is welcome.

I live in an enchanted place. My heart's home. My eyes' desire. After three (?) weeks of seeing through a haze, I can perceive clearly again with my eyes. After over half a year of wonky depth perception courtesy of a lost contact, the world is crystal clear and so brilliant in its splendor that my heart fills to the spilling point and releases its waters through my eyes. To smile while crying is the craziest kind of joy.

During my morning sit a couple days ago, a doe approached within four feet of me. She was grazing, looking for the apple I'd dropped in my vicinity from the tree in the backyard. I'd not the visual acuity to see her in sharp focus, but our eyes met briefly. At this point, I was observing her instead of myself, and just being as still as possible. She got a whiff of me when the breeze picked up and displayed her reaction to my human smells by walking away.
Encounters with deer are a daily occurrence here. I've never had the opportunity to be so close to them, or any other wild creatures, and with such regularity. They are clearly used to being around people, yet their feral natures keep them always at a distance, just beyond the reach of a tentative hand. I'd no idea that fawns have a vocalization for calling to their mothers. The first time I saw a doe appear after hearing the call, I felt like I was watching Bambi with his mother. It was a simple, childlike association. A longing for innocence lost filled me.

At present, I am just in awe. And profoundly grateful.

Simple things, like cooking a meal for my loved ones, give me such pleasure. Simple things, like being able to gaze at the stars, bring me such joy.

"It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything."
- Tyler Durden, "Fight Club"

* * *

And if you don't want to be down with me
Then you don't want to pick from my appletree
And if you don't want to be down with me
You just don't wanna be down
- Erykah Badu, "Apple Tree"


* * *

I see people, all kinds of people
I see them everyday
Wealthy people, downtrodden people
People still finding their way

.
.
.

I try to love you, I try to love them
I try to love me too
Some are easy, some take work
People, you know that we do

- Alejandro Escovedo, "People (We're Only Gonna Live So Long)" from Real Animal

I still haven't responded to some comments yet. If you're wondering why, it's because I'm up to my wazoo in tending to other matters. I promise to do some catch-up soon.

So. Mikey Lutin, my favorite astrologer, has outdone himself again. And again, I refer you to something you might want to read: http://www.michaellutin.com/youreundersurveillance.htm

[Mikey, like me, sometimes rebels against proofreading and editing his writing. We anal-retentive types do challenge our own hocus-pocus, and tend to let up on ourselves in the must mundane places.]

Something to chew on for even the most impassioned astrology naysayer.



* * *

[My tag "immanentizing the eschaton" is tongue in cheek, by the way. I read "The Illuminatus Trilogy" earlier this year and have a peculiar, mad affection for that wonky book and its mindfuckery.]

Want to know the state of the nation before the Democratic National Convention lands here in Denver next month?

http://www.westword.com/2008-06-26/news/duck-and-cover/

Wish I knew html to give it to you clean, but you should definitely go read that. No bullshit.

I could tell you other things that would similarly disturb about how the City of Denver has prepared for the peaceful demonstrations slated to occur. Things to do with new "crowd control" technologies purchased by the City. Things that make tear gas seem quaint.

But I'll save all that evil goodness for another post.

Looks like Denver is in for it, folks. The vibe here among working class joes and janes ain't good. The sense of desperation and anger among my people is palpable. The powers that be want this city to burn.

Seattle, I think we may have a situation on our hands.

Okay, so what's below is not exactly indicative of my best writing. It's old, and needs improvement. But it has something in it that I want to develop. And I just found it, looking back through old blogs of mine. I'm pasting it because it represents my intention to push my writing to the front burner of my life.

While I was initially thinking that maybe going down in my medication was beneficial, both to my writing and general well-being, now that the situation has worn on longer, it's just become disruptive, painful, and icky. And it's been a catalyst for me developing inner strength and enhanced ability to observe myself when I'm especially "in it" -- I intend to use this as a springboard tomorrow, when I'll be able to get going again on the correct dosage.

My cognitive functioning is plllbth right now, and that was the driving motivation behind me giving traditional treatment for depression a chance. I do not like -- in fact, abhor -- the mental dullness and cognitive inabilities I've been having lately, and am going to use the mental clarity I'll have available to me again very soon ('cause the checks arrived today!) to develop my writing. It's become very important to me again, which is another victory in mining the passion that was subsumed beneath angst previously.

Editing other people's writing is a surefire way for me to kill my own; I can see so many ways to express something that I lose my creative flow and just analyze the shit out of the ideas instead. I'm also no longer in a haze of pot smoke that casts the illusion I am writing something really grand when, in reality, it's crap. Live and learn.

Tomorrow I will also be performing another exercise of will development; last trimester's homework seems to be the stuff I'm focused on right now instead of this one's assignments, Feri peeps. This has to do with me applying for a job at Petsmart. I haven't worked retail since college, and that was a brief stint. I've tended to really abhor Corporate America, but autumnsfolly related her experience working for Petsmart when they were a much smaller entity, and she gave them her stamp of approval, which goes a long way with me. It's amusing to me that I was so convinced that working for family-owned and -operated businesses was the only way to go; that's where I've been least fortunate and most screwed over. Who knows? Corporate America might surprise me.

My digging into my shadow a couple posts ago was initially going to be about my resolve that it would be okay for me to push my boundaries into the world of big box stores (I really do love shopping at Petsmart, after all), and that my degree wasn't meant to paralyze me from doing what needed to be done or to give me some kind of superiority complex, when my roots are very working class. Rather, it was a process of me learning and gaining an understanding of the world around me, which I am aim to continue in the form of this new experience. It'll be a lens to help me better understand myself, and I'm feeling happy that my interest in writing is rising up to be embraced concurrent with my job plan for tomorrow. Being a Petsmart employee is not going to define me the way other jobs have tended to in the past, and my ego will make plenty sure of that by devoting itself wholeheartedly to developing my skill in my writing craft. Just watch.

My passion is for animals, and I am going to do what an ample part of me does not feel like doing tomorrow because being around them is my will. It's that simple, and that complex.

* * *

she knew it was a pot of daffodils at the end of the rainbow. somehow she found this comforting. sleep woke her groggy, and she gasped when she surfaced from the depths of wordless dreams. the sun had managed to invade her room while she slept, and though she had reminded herself that the sun was a necessary agent of the day, she much preferred to wake at clouds, not rays. gentler conditions stretched her into waking with a smile, not scowling at bright air.

* * *

Doug and I went on a walk this evening down to Alameda, popped into a store for some cool drink, and were sitting outside on a bench, talking and watching the sun set, when a man who exuded positivity walked by with a friendly greeting. A few moments later, I noticed two large dogs in a work truck poking their shaggy heads out the window and staring in my general direction, one of them barking in a friendly kind of way when I started talking to them. Old English Sheepdogs, they were. When he came back out, I asked if they were his, and if they were what I thought, and when he said yes, I told him how gorgeous they were. He walked over, talking his doggie talk, and opened the door. They bounded over to say hello to me, and I got some kind of good lovin', let me tell you. Mother, son pair. I'd never met Sheepdogs before, and they were far cuter in person than in photo. I could just feel the love vibrating my heart chakra (from me and them, methinks), and I thanked him, and them, for making my day. Pandora and Doggie Blue Bear gave me some much-needed affirmation that my intentions are on the money.

I'm grateful. Thank you, Raja, for guiding my steps even now. I do believe you are.

Could it have been that I was overmedicated?

The past few days I've been adjusting to a reduced dose of the antidepressant I take. The impetus was financial, as The Watch managed to convince the person hearing Doug's unemployment case that he was lying, when it was the other way around. So no more unemployment benefits for Doug. It was three against one -- publisher and editor husband-wife team and recently promoted associate publisher -- since my testimony was deemed irrelevant before the hearing began. I seriously wonder if the publisher paid off the person hearing his appeal. Evidently, the truth was deemed "not credible." I could go into a rant about this, but I won't. Kala awaits.

So I realize that to avoid being without the meds, I'll just cut the dose in half, which I've done before. Which is unpleasant, mostly because of the resulting Discontinuation Syndrome, which is like being really sick and strung out, all at the same time, but which is infinitely better than not having the drug in my system at all. Then there's the rebooting process afterward, where I am scattered as different parts of me come back online. A process which this Witch doesn't care to discuss anymore.

This time, however, has been different, and I'm scratching my head as to why. It's like I've been held by the Gods in healing light, protected from the worst effects of the dosage reduction, and as my body's been adapting to the change, I've been noticing parts of myself waking up. Like my passion. It's reemerging. Like my confidence. My mental flexibility. My ansty "let's get this party going" Self, which is looking around me, assessing the damage that's been done since part of me went underground. I even look different to myself.

Some things are still in process, being taken down and uploaded again, but I have this sense that I will soon be able to write again. I haven't been able to write a poem in over a year, and that one came out with an ease comparable to that of the truth escaping Dubya's lips. For example, I was responding to something autumnsfolly posted over the weekend, and the words were flowing out of me, to my amazement, instead of trudging relunctantly out. And what I wrote was kind of funny, in an "old me" kind of way. I didn't have to force it. So I feel certain things bubbling inside that I haven't felt in many moons, and I'm excited by the force of it. I'm also rather astonished by the force of my emotions, which have also been partially dormant. I've been observing them as they arise and letting the tears come with the sadness, grief, and dismay, and the renewed sense of guilt and shame that I carry in the aftermath of becoming Manic Me a year and a half ago.

The situation I'm in now is an indirect result of me finally being treated for depression through conventional, instead of alternative, means (and to anyone who wants to debate me about the efficacy and wisdom of going either route: bring it). I began to climb out of the abyss, one halting step at a time, and then I was above ground again, when the revolving door team of state-employed psychiatrists, after glancing briefly at my chart and asking me about my symptoms and side effects, decided that since I was responding so well, why not up the dose another 75 mg? That, coupled with me beginning to sit and align and run energy that'd been inaccessible to me before I read yezida's book, found me at the opposing end of the bipolar spectrum, completely manic and completely unable to assess myself and see the truth, rendering my psychology background as null as the void I'd just emerged from. While Manic Me is loads of fun, she is also, unfortunately, moderately psychotic. I made bad decisions, ran up my credit cards, effectively ruining my credit, damaged my relationships with friends new and old, almost killed my relationship with my mother, who booted my violently unpredictable self out the door (because I had moved in with her after Doug and I moved back to Phoenix from Oregon so I could get help). I also became one of the Scottsdale police force's most hated citizens in the process. (Heh. There are some interesting stories there.) I could go on, but hopefully you get the drift. I essentially ruined my life, did permanent damage to my relationships, and humiliated myself all in one messy ball of knotted yarn.

Where I'm at right now, I'm not sure if I've coherently explained anything in this post. Some of the words are flowing, but the ideas are halting, and then the ideas are flowing while the words are halting. It makes it hard to communicate and assess that communication. Passing phase.

The horror and sense of loss are very acute right now. They are also very welcome because they indicate reanimation is occurring in these tired old bones. Time to bleed the heat to rest.

I just learned the following about Bjork, whose Sun, Moon, and Neptune are in Scorpio, after checking my Free Will Astrology scope:

"I have to re-create the universe every morning when I wake up, and kill it in the evening."

A part of me stood up, did an ass-shaking boogie, and shouted out, "Finally, someone who understands!" This is what life is like for me these days.

If I didn't do this upon waking in the form of my sitting practice, I would fall back into the patterns of yesterday and surrender my Will to the past. If I didn't kill my "universe" in the evening before falling asleep, the potentials of tomorrow would slip out of my hands and fly away. The messages encountered in REM sleep would be lost upon me. I have to make myself anew each morning and eat myself up at night.

This is how I rebuild myself and my life.

* * *

I've developed a bizarre fondness for one of R & G's things. This thing has become a sort of substitute pet, and it is a large stuffed lizard that makes sounds when it's moved. Preschoolers refer to such things as "stuffies." I have discovered that I sleep much better if I curl up with it at night.

That's right: I delight in snuggling with a stuffy, and I am a 30-year-old woman. It approximates my cats, who typically snuggle in close or on top of me.

And yes, it cracks me up, too.

* * *

R & G's goldfish are displaying a behavior I am not familiar with, and it just so happens that they do it very frequently when I'm looking at them. Initally, I remarked that they were "yawning" at me, even though I realize fish don't yawn. I got some understandable shit from R & G, then R saw it and could vouch for me that I was not, in fact, hallucinating. [a-hem.]

Does anybody know what this is and what purpose it serves? I swear, every time I'm looking in one particular tank, one of the fish "yawns" directly at me. Which has lead to some speculation on my part that this is the multiverse's way of telling me I'm kinda boring.

Just you wait, though. I feel a breakthrough coming on.

* * *

"Gold lion's gonna tell me where the light is." -- "Gold Lion," the yeah, yeah, yeahs

This whole interacting with the unseen thing could really mess with your sanity if you were a true believer (as yezida has cautioned against becoming). Critical distance is my friend. For example, I was just sitting here, staring at the "Post an Entry" page on my LJ, really at odds with what to write given all that's happened recently, and I was stumped and about to chuck the idea when my cursor moved from the middle of the screen, highlighting categories starting at "Communities" and moving left, displaying the subcategories for a moment or two at each, before it stopped, pointing at "Journal." No subcategories displayed.

Sometimes I wonder if I really have a Fey ally or if I've invented that notion to comfort myself. And then I dive into believing it and attempting more contact, asking hir what (s)he desires from me and this happens, leading me to wonder if I'm losing my cracker. Holding many possibilities within me and leaning toward one is the best I can do, folks. I'm certainly open to successful approaches to dealing with this matter.

Second Full Moon in Scorpio in a row. How very... unusual.

More as it becomes available.

I've just discovered something weird, and that is that my responses to my friends who take the time to comment to my entries are not getting posted or apparently even sent. This sucks because y'all have probably been thinking I'm ignoring what you write, when that is not the case at all. I truly value the responses I receive; they've been a lifeline to me during my time in this backwards town, and I've spent lots of time composing my responses back to you.

I'm clueless as to why this is happening, but I'm going to try to find a remedy. Does anyone have ideas as to why this is happening and how I can fix it?

Sometimes I wonder how I must seem to others. Less now than I used to, but whenever life-changing events come my way, they do so in ways that are chaotic and painful, and I can almost feel a neon sign flashing "Warning! Warning!" when I share what it is that I'm in the midst of resolving.

I really do not want to be a drama queen. I abhor drama, yet I seem to create it wherever I go, or court its interest in me by associating with people who create it for me. Both, really.

I'd like to say all is well in the land of femmahaze, but that would be a big stinky lie. I'd like to tell you what's gone down in my life since Winter Solstice, but I don't know how without dredging myself through the absurd, the bizarre, the cruel.

I celebrated the Spring Equinox last night in Naturita Canyon, an area that was part of a large Wilderness bill being proposed by Rep. John Salazar (D-Colo.) until local ranchers organized to fight the canyon's inclusion in the bill. I celebrated with some Tibetan Buddhists who performed a very elaborate rite for Spring, and the experience summoned a joy and buoyancy that I've not felt since Raja's death. At one point, I wanted to shout out his name and hear it bounce off the canyon walls as the Tibetans chanted, and I stopped myself. There was a measure of self-consciousness at work that stopped me, but my hesitation made way for this thought: it might have been Doug's controversial columns that advocated for protecting the canyon under Wilderness designation, among other things, that lit the fuse that led to Raja being shot last month.

The huge bloodstain in the snow where his lifeforce leaked out and the crimson trail leading toward an old shed behind the house suggested a violent death. The ranching property the house backed up to was hard for Raja to resist because they dumped pieces of elk carcass back there, and all the dogs in the neighborhood, not just Raja, gloried in their gory findings. Our yard began to look like a pillaged graveyard, and we used to joke that we could make a pretty interesting dinosaur skeleton out of their findings and leavings. Raja disappeared into a snowstorm when he was taken out for his night-night pee. He was clever, and willful, and he would wait and wait for your eyes to glance away so he could sneak out of sight and take off at full throttle. That cursed night, he never returned.

I felt I could no longer dwell here after that. Calls to the EPA and Dept. of Fish & Wildlife yielded no discernible justice. Doug was laid off during the week of vacation he took so we could find a new place within commuting distance to live, capping off my loathing for the elitist consumer paradise that is Telluride.

Now that I've given myself another badly needed haircut and grown accustomed to functioning with my lone contact, I'm ready to pick myself up and move onward and upward (or downward, in terms of elevation). But that's not to be. Waiting for an unemployment check that never comes, scanning the classified for jobs that amount to kissing rich people ass, I am forced to confront my very real limitations.

I do not know how long I will be grounded here. I have to make some very tough choices. As the next weekend of Feri training approaches, I anticipate my absence will be hard to explain. How can I reconcile the trials I have faced with the wish birds that landed me here? Why continue in a path that contains so many dangers? I don't know, except to say that it is the work of this God that I continue on the path I have chosen.

Sometimes I think praying to know myself in all my parts is not such a good idea. Other times, like now, I believe that this knowledge will give way to something more than senseless misery and self-perpetuated suffering.

My fellow Feri peeps: please take good notes next weekend. I'll have some catching up to do.

Thank God Herself for the Buddhists and their will to create a loving community grounded in the Earth, love, and compassion. Thank Her that there are people in the nooks and crannies of this community that I can relate to when I find them. Thank the Gods for this first day of Spring and the full, sensual, silvery brilliance of a Moon, both of which, taken together, promise resurrection after a time of dying.