The Girl Who Married a Bear

Lately, I’ve been re-inspired to try blogging again. I’m not kidding anyone but myself to say I wouldn’t like to engage in conversation with a kindred community. I love it in the real world, but I realize it can also be enjoyable in the virtual world. However, finding bloggers who resonate with me is sometimes difficult. There’s really only a handful. And sometimes, the ones I once liked I outgrow, usually because I find the writing voice becomes hollower, echoing more and more as their popularity soars with a particular audience’s voices, until soon, they all start sounding the same. I get bored quickly (and somewhat uncomfortable) with too much of that. I love sharing the things I get excited about, be it a book, a blog, British comedy, local travel, women’s history, life. Which brings me to Milla. She’s a Finnish girl who married a Bear and lives with him out in the great northwest woods. She’s a real person, writing about all the things I like — basically just sharing the sh*t friends share without getting into marketing what is essentially the role friends once played in our lives. What I wore, what I baked, where I went, oh the stars are beautiful on this brilliant winter eve, what I believe, what I read, listened to, thought. All that was real and true before it became about a brand and money. Because, unlike what the title of the book proclaims, I do care what my friend had for lunch (but more especially, breakfast, because, you know, I like breakfast more). I might not remember it by tonight, but I do care.

My Love of Almost 17 Years

When my ex- moved out, I got this little guy a month later. Almost 17 years together, longer than my marriage. He died Thursday night and I am ripped apart. My heart is broken. The thing about a dog is the unconditional love — they’re always happy to see you more than any other friend you’ve got. I will mourn this little guy for a long time.

Books, Movies and the Characters

A favorite movie was Harold and Maude (seen it about three times), above info courtesy of Black Dog Finds. I’m on a quest. haven’t figured out what it is yet, but I do know I’m on a quest.


We sometimes search for an entire lifetime, and perhaps never find our true love. Not necessarily a person either. In my case I was lucky, I found my love in not just one lifetime, but in two. When I met her in this lifetime, we already knew each other so well, we just picked up where we’d left off previously, and many times we didn’t need words to communicate. We could read each others’ thoughts when we were together (and sometimes when we were apart).

She died when we were in our late twenties, and that was the first time I knew the raw physical ache of emotional, psychic loss — and I howled, keened, beat myself as the deeply grief-stricken do. I pulled through to the other side, as she was pulling through to the other side. We still communicate wordlessly to this day as we once did a long time ago.

Down the Rabbit Hole

So…finally…down the rabbit hole that is Facebook. Where I’ve been lately. Other than doing a website for the retreat. Which is what led me to Facebook — reading that it’s a good marketing tool. Only I got sidetracked from the marketing. Because in the end what this whole retreat is about for me is process and connection. And I am connecting! I’ve avoided facebook forever even though I’ve had another account on it for awhile. It was just one more thing — in addition to a blog — that could possibly push me further away from my goal of real time connection. Ensnaring me with its wily ways, luring me to spend hours in front of a screen, after I’d worked so hard to wean myself from hours of daily blog reading.

In June 1974, my family and I stayed in a quonset hut on the edge of the Pacific, where we spent our last few days in California, before leaving Camp Pendleton to return to the east coast.
I was used to moving every two years as we were a military family, but as I grew older, it became harder.

I started feeling torn between two places when my father moved us to Cape Cod from Virginia. He was going to Vietnam (hard enough), and I was entering 4th grade. I missed Virginia terribly (all I’d ever really known was the south and military community). Until we moved to Ohio when my dad came back from the war. Then I missed the cape. We came “home” to our Cape Cod house on school vacations and summers. We moved back here after Ohio so my dad could finish college, and although I was glad to be back, I missed Ohio and the friends I’d made there.
Then my dad finished his degree and he received orders to go to California, something we were all very excited about. It was new and different to us. A place I’d dreamed about. But dreams and reality don’t always jive.

We moved there when I was going into high school and although it was a small, private all-girl’s high school where we were all new to each other, it was still not easy making new friends. I was a shy, sensitive and self-conscious fourteen-year-old. At an age, when breaking into new friendships is especially vulnerable. I missed my friends back “home” on the cape.

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years I went to a Junior Red Cross camp at UCSD that was a lot of fun and opened me up to California and its possibilities. My parents flew me home to Cape Cod for the rest of the summer while they stayed in California with my sisters.

Sophomore year at San Luis Rey Academy was easier as I reconnected and deepened connections made the year before. My first year in a new place was becoming my transitional year, so by the second year I became somewhat acclimated. And attached. Forming tender bonds that I knew could be broken by time and distance when I moved. Still, you do it. Knowing the risk. You make the connections. And form the attachments.

Then a June morning comes in 1974. You say good-bye to schoolmates who are finishing the year without you, and you look back out your car window to watch a shimmery, rosy dawn break over a receding Pacific horizon as you make your way east across desert and a vast continent. You think you’ll probably never see those people again, I mean how could you, the world’s a big place and how can we possibly keep touch through the years…when those things are going through your 15 year old mind on a foggy California morning, how could you possibly imagine almost 40 years later — that you’d see dawn break again over your California friends as you greet them on Facebook?


My laptop crashed on me the other night and I am hoping it’s just the battery. I am one of those foolish people who did not back up her files on a portable hard drive. On the other hand, not having the laptop available forces me to connect with people in real world time and space, and that is always a good thing, though I am enjoying keeping up with some of my new blog friends, and hoping to meet them someday even.

Don’t have an edited photo handy and Marty will need this computer soon, so I’m leaving you with a quote from my Simple Abundance reading from today. It’s one of my favorites and I quote it often:

“Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.” -Jane Howard

Dreams, Mermaids, Flowers and Rainbows

“What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed? And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?”

~~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Yesterday when I needed it most, I saw a rainbow in the distant sky. I was amazed because there had been no rain, but there it was, just a piece, but just enough for me to follow it until it disappeared. I needed its promise of possibility.

Today, I met up with my girlfriend and after tea showed her the beautiful Giving Tree gardens in East Sandwich on the Old King’s Highway. We walked through parts I hadn’t yet explored too much, both of us crossing the suspension bridge over the marshes. As always, the space there was welcoming, full of grace, hope and dreams. The Samuel Taylor Coleridge quote is from a box in the garden filled with letters to the world written by other wanderers and dreamers. There is a magical pen provided for those of us who dare…to dream and share our dreams with the world.

The mermaid is from the gardens and reminded me of a certain dancing mermaid.

The Giving Tree

I don’t know if it’s the positivity (is that even a word? Do I care?) of Mondo Beyondo, full on Indian Summer here, connections with friends or what, but I am charged lately. Meaning the crash will come but for now I’m riding the big Kahuna and enjoying it.

I had stopped at the Giving Tree gardens last week before heading home and my cell rang…it was my chum (I like that retro sorta Nancy Drew/Dana Girls word, don’t you? chums are our adventure friends), Sophie. She’s back from California for a couple of months after two years away…we play hit or miss with contacting each other, when something reminds one of us of the other, we give a shout out. Sometimes we connect with a real voice, sometimes we just connect.
I was so surprised that she’d called me…delighted and flattered actually because she’d only been home a day, but she saw Marty out on errands, he reminded her of me, so she called. The call was also very mondo beyondo for me.

Sophie’s one of the bright spots in the Cape Cod world, she gets how small and stifling the cape can be for wild dreamers (Provincetown being an exception, thankfully). More and more I’ve been paying attention to my call to performance art. Art in time or art in space as Nerissa blogs about (couldn’t find the particular post). Maybe create a poetic mystic druid I inhabit for solo productions at festivals, or heck, just busking. Kathryn Rose introduced me to this concept when she performed on the street in Amherst a spring ago. I started researching and started seeing more about one woman performances like The Belle of Amherst.

Sophie’s been in theater now for several years and is an accomplished stage actress (as well as in a Sam Diego’s commercial locally); her call felt like the universe is listening to my whispers. Perhaps she’s my teacher, I don’t know. I feel like the bird in that Dr. Seuss story…”are you my mother? Are you my mother?” only it’s “are you my teacher, are you my teacher?” And I’m still not sure if performance is my thing, or what form it will take if it becomes so. But who cares? It’s kinda fun finding out — like the Nancy Drew mysteries I used to read.

Red Katherine Rose photo from her myspace page


We’ve known each other for a long time — almost all of our lives — yay! Since we were about 13. Not many of those friends left for me, but I am slowly reconnecting with them when I can. I went to the courthouse yesterday to look up someone else I knew from Junior High days and it felt so good. A homecoming of sorts — back to who I was before the real world creeped in. Who were you when you were 13? I read that recently in a book — usually, the question is, who were you when you were 10, or some variation, but this time it was, who were you when you were 13?


While I can’t afford SAW yet again this year on my birthday (my 50th fell right during Squam last year), I am excited about the art show on Saturday. I am hoping to see many “rockstar” bloggers that I read including Denise, Pixie, Susannah and I think she is going too. Oh yes and the divine Thea with whom I must book that photo gig I won on this lady’s blog this summer. I hope to someday meet Stef, McCabe and Lea.

** when I am blocked and can’t write I move — my hands, my feet, whatever it takes to release the block — when I was stuck over the weekend, I made tree charms, walked and biked. Yesterday I blogged and edited photos (I started shooting in RAW — no idea what it is, I just listen to people who know more — so my learning curve with photography continues to creep along), today I visit my middle school girl pal for an organic breakfast.