I Dreamt of You Last Night...

I dreamt of you last night. I’m not sure why.

It was one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had, and I woke up crying, overcome with emotion. It’s been hours, but I’m still thinking about it.

In my dream, I was alone at a small town festival. You know the kind I’m talking about, you’re from the Midwest too. Whether sweet corn festival, rose festival, pumpkin patch festival, grape harvest festival, etc. -- they’re all pretty much the same.

I wasn’t expecting to see you there. This was not your small town, it was mine. So when you ran up and gave me a great big bear hug, smiling from ear to ear, my heart overflowed with joy.

Public displays of affection and showy bear hugs are not the way we usually greet each other, as much as I might secretly wish we did. But I was so overwhelmed to see you, and I happily returned the hug.

Tears of joy shimmered in my eyes but I looked away before you could see. Showing our emotions is not something we do.

As the dream continued, we explored the festival booths, rode the rides, played the carnival games, ate the food, and talked and laughed until the hot summer sun dwindled into evening twilight. The hours we spent together were magical, wonderful, and it was just like the “old days” - as if we had never been separated by time or distance or lives that took different directions.

Finally, as darkness fell in my dream world, we found ourselves standing upon the rooftop deck of an old Victorian home. We gazed in awe of the sky, each making a silent wish upon the first star of the night, then laughing as we tried to guess the other’s wish.

But that's where the idyllic moment took a dark turn. All at once, there were a dozen angry men in black clothes, armed with machetes, rushing onto the rooftop. I don’t know how, or why, but we knew they were there to kill us without a word being spoken. No, to MURDER us.

And they were blocking the only exit from the rooftop. You and I stood frozen in terror.

Our only possible chance for survival was to jump. But as we looked over the edge of the deck, we saw the distance to the ground had grown inexplicably, from a hundred feet to what looked like miles. Our choice was to stay and be killed—murdered--or jump and maybe, somehow, live.

In a split second our eyes locked. We made our decision, still without words. Joining hands, we leapt over the railing, and now, finally screaming in fear.

Once in midair, it was as if we were floating on a cloud, yet hurtling towards the ground at a thousand miles an hour at the same time. My heart felt as if it would explode. I was certain I was going to die. I knew it was going to be extremely painful, and I was afraid in a way I’ve never been before, terrified in a way I can’t describe.

But I was also strangely calm, almost happy too, because if my life were going to end, it would be with you by my side, where you’ve always been when I really, truly needed you.

I can’t explain what happened next, but somehow two incredibly tall, but equally scraggly, pine trees appeared where none were before. As we neared ground level, the pines were wrapped with beautiful white linens, which also hung decoratively from their scrawny branches.

And as we sped towards the ground, tumbling head over heels, we were able to catch hold of the linens blowing in the breeze. This slowed our speed, and allowed us to get ourselves upright. Finally, as we each released our hold on our very last linen, we dropped the last few feet to the ground, gracefully landing on our feet.

When I looked at you standing next to me, my own eyes wide in disbelief, I was surprised to see you had the most beautiful, triumphant smile on your face.  And I loved you for it.

A huge crowd had appeared, as they magically do in dreams, and they all cheered for us. Hundreds of cars lined the roadway in each direction, with people honking their horns and waving at us as if we had just completed the most magnificent stunt. I suppose we had.

We waved back as if we were festival royalty. But when I turned to smile at you again, you were gone. Not there. No goodbye, no big bear hug, no laughter, no wish upon a star.

Just gone.

The last I saw of you in my dream was your beautiful face with that gorgeous, triumphant smile. I missed you already.

And then I woke up. It was raining cats and dogs, as it often does during rainy season in Belize, thunder crashing and lightning streaking the sky. Thankfully, the noise muffled the sound as I softly cried myself back to sleep.

I’ve heard it said before that if you dream you are falling, and hit the ground in your dream, you will die in real life. Thankfully, that didn’t happen to me. Or to you.

And I am glad.

I hope the next time I see you, we greet each other with a great big bear hug. And I hope you have that beautiful smile on your face.

I Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer…..

I'm giving away my age by telling you I grew up smack-dab in the middle of the 80's, graduating from high school at 17 years old in 1985. I lived with my depression-era grandparents in a nice neighborhood in a small, comfortable town in central Iowa.

Although I wasn't an angel by any stretch of the imagination, believe it or not, I was painfully shy and secretly afraid of getting into any real trouble. My small social circle included cheerleaders, "preppies," the French Club kids, and lots of teens in Izod polos. You probably couldn't have been any more "whitebread" than I was, at least at that time. 

To say I wasn't a big fan of the heavy metal "Hairbands" mania that was sweeping away all the young people during that decade is an understatement, even if it's not that surprising.

But heavy-metal bands sporting their wild, long hair (hence the "hairbands") were at the pinnacle of their popularity during that time. Most had brutal, rough, and shocking names like Slaughter, Twisted Sister, Def Leppard, Guns'n'Roses, Poison, Motley Crue, Quiet Riot (and so on). Their dirty, trashy clothing and loud, harsh, screaming style of music simply did not appeal to me. 

I tended to lean more towards Top 40 music like Cyndi Lauper, Adam Ant, Culture Club, Flock of Seagulls, and of course, the soundtrack from "Footloose." Being raised by my grandparents also gave me a greater appreciation for older and different types of music, even though I was probably the only kid my age who actually enjoyed Johnny Cash, Elvis, Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra, and Benny Goodman. 

Dear hubby on the other hand, who graduated just five years before me in 1980 (in southern Indiana), was enjoying his youthful heyday during that decade. He spent the better part of the 80's and into the 90's doing his best to become a connoisseur of all things "hairbands" and thoroughly enjoyed the experiences of a young man coming of age in that era. And after attending bartending school (yes, he graduated!), he happily spent a great deal of his youth mostly occupied with hell raisin' and girl-chasin', and quite possibly even a little chemical experimentation. 

Who in that wild and crazy decade didn't--besides me? 

 Naturally, the hairbands and their brutal songs, with their shrieking guitars, grinding bass riffs, and pounding drum solos, became a constant soundtrack to the most beloved memories of his wild and free youth. The problem, for me anyway, is that he never got over it. To this day he is still a HUGE fan of all things "hairbands." It's always his first choice when I ask "what shall I play on the Bose today?" 

But since I adore my dear hubby, as a gift about ten years ago, I bought him a CD called "Monster Ballads." It included some of the most popular, if softer, heavy-metal love songs from that era. I dreaded the thought of him actually playing it, but I figured maybe I could endure it once in a while in between some of my Top 40 tracks. Unfortunately, he played that disc over and over, from start to end, for the better part of our last decade together. Until some days I thought my ears would bleed. 

But what's funny is, somewhere along the way I fell in love with those "monster ballads" as well. 

I'm still not a fan of the entire repertoire or the even the genre so much, but after listening to the heavy-metal love songs of our era (over and over again, thanks to DH), I've had a shift in my perspective. After hours spent soaking in the words to the songs and their possible meanings, I've found some beautiful and wonderfully poignant memories. And on the days when I'm missing my friends and family and familiar surroundings that I left behind in Iowa, or I just need a little reminder of my own happily misspent youth, I can often find a bit of solace and comfort in their lyrics. 

Turns out, nearly 30 years after my time (& theirs), I've become a "Hairbands" groupie after all. I still don't want to like them. But I do. At least their ballads. And sometimes on days like today, I give in and listen. 

So today I will pull up my iTunes account and play me some heavy-metal monster ballads. Because as REO Speedwagon, another great (if not truly heavy-metal) 80's band would say, "Baby, I can't fight this feeling any more." 

I'm thinking of you, dear hubby. And all my 80's pals. Rock on, my friends! Rock on!


REO Speedwagon's "I Can't Fight This Feeling" (circa 1985). 

I can't fight this feeling any longer.
And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow.
What started out as friendship,
Has grown stronger.
I only wish I had the strength to let it show.

I tell myself that I can't hold out forever.
I said there is no reason for my fear.
Cause I feel so secure when we're together.
You give my life direction,
You make everything so clear.

And even as I wander,
I'm keeping you in sight.
You're a candle in the window,
On a cold, dark winter's night.
And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might.

And I can't fight this feeling anymore.
I've forgotten what I started fighting for.
It's time to bring this ship into the shore,
And throw away the oars, forever.

Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore.
I've forgotten what I started fighting for.
And if I have to crawl upon the floor,
Come crushing through your door,
Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore.

Can My Village Help Me Slay My BIGGEST Fear?

The first thing I did last Friday was set out to slay my fear-monsters. I was determined to do so after vowing in my post on Thursday to hunt my fears down and finish them off once and for all.  I even went to the office and got right to work…..  Well, ok, not really the “office” but the beach bar where I do my best work. But later that day, lucky me--I got the stomach flu that’s been going around.

Instead of the dragon breathing fire, it was me, and what was coming out of my mouth for three days wasn’t fire, but something that closely resembled a scene from the Exorcist. And it was my other end that was breathing fire! After finally regaining upright mobility and a tiny appetite by Monday, I didn’t have much energy left for anything else. Finally, well-rested, head cleared, body fully cleansed, and back to as “normal” as I can be, I'm back in the saddle.

But the whole time I was sick, all I could think about was a plan that was forming to slay one of my really big fears. Because today I’m announcing something BIG! Something I'm terrified to share. I have a project I’ve been thinking about doing for a while, something I saw someone else have great success with, and I’ve decided to do it also. It's something REALLY BIG, something very personal to me, and then, I’m going do something that is even more…BIG. And completely insane.

First things first: The first Big Thing that I’m announcing is ME. Yes, you read that right, I’m the Big Thing. But when I say big, I don’t mean I’m BIG in a good way.

I mean I am BIG--in the “goddamn I'm a BIG, FAT, FUCKING COW” kind of way. And even though I lost almost 20 pounds (then gained back ten) since moving to Belize, I’m still at LEAST 40-50 pounds over what I feel is my acceptable weight range. Yep. It’s true. I’m a big, fat, fucking cow. A short, round, fat, fucking cow.

I haven’t always been a Big Girl. But while recovering from my brain surgery, my battle with my weight finally spiraled completely out of control. Though my brain quickly returned to its previous condition for the most part, the rest of my body did not and I have not been able to shed the 40-odd pounds that crept on after my recovery. It has become a BIG issue for me, both mentally and physically. Literally. Which leads me to the second, truly INSANE part of my announcement.

I’m going to share my journey to finding a healthier weight and lifestyle with you. All of it. I’m starting a new project called “New Day, New Life, New Dawn.” I promise it will take you no more than a few minutes at most to read each post. It’s going to be different from this blog, more visual, less verbal, and most importantly, BRUTALLY honest.  You can find it my first post here:  http://newdaynewlifenewdawn.blogspot.com/2014/03/in-search-of-new-dawn-brutal-honest.html

And it is there that I’m hoping to overcome my biggest fear, my fear that the world would realize how BIG I've really become. And then I'm hoping to find the courage to bare it all. And I do mean bare it ALL. Which is the truly insane part.

Well, ok ALMOST all--I won’t be exposing my naughty bits. But yes, I will be blunt and honest about my weight and what I choose to eat and how I choose to exercise. There will be pictures of my BIG, FAT, UGLY body. Maybe not the first day. Or the second. But as I learn to face my fears and overcome my struggle to return to a normal, healthy weight, you will see “before” and “after” pictures of me. In swimsuits. Because I live in the Caribbean and that’s just how I want to roll —in a swimsuit that I actually fit into and look good in.

But it’s not about being able to rock a sexy swimsuit, although that’d be cool too. It’s about me finding a way to be healthy and happy with my body again. What that process may involve, well, I’m not really sure yet but I do know I'll need help. I’m certainly not a diet or fitness expert, even though I’ve tried quite a few things over the years. And I’m hoping you, my wonderful friends, family, and online community will support me on my journey, and help me publicly slay my fear of revealing just how BIG I've really become, and conquer the dragon of BIGNESS that has resided in my body for far too much time.

There’s a saying that’s repeated by everyone who lives here in Placencia Village at some point or another, an old African proverb that states, “It Takes a Village.” I was reminded of how appropriate the old cliché still is when I sat down to write today, because that’s what I’m gonna need. A whole village of support. I hope you’ll check out my new page from time to time and help support me in my quest.

In the meantime, my dragon-slaying knife and I are off to battle the fear-monsters. Please check out my new project and let me know how insane I really am.

http://newdaynewlifenewdawn.blogspot.com/2014/03/in-search-of-new-dawn-brutal-honest.html

Have Trouble Letting Go? Not Me….Or Do I?

Recently, I have been seeing a lot of articles, blogs, and Facebook posts related to the topic of “letting go.” One of my writer friends just wrote a blog about letting go of a pair of snow skis that had become symbolic to her. Another wrote about breaking free of the dissatisfaction in his life and letting go of others’ expectations of him. And yet another friend is ending a long relationship and leaving her comfortable life behind. In addition, several of my newer friends have recently changed their plans and returned to the States, or moved to other exotic countries, and let go of their life in Belize. And every article or inspirational story I've been sent in the last week has been about letting go.

It seems everywhere I turn, someone is letting go of something—their past, their plans, their marriage, their job, their living situation, their dreams, their fears, their erroneous beliefs, their loved ones, and even objects that represent something else. Every day, somewhere, someone I know is letting go of something they don’t need, or something that isn’t serving them well, and starting anew.

Now I should tell you that I’m one of those complete weirdos who believes in signs and subtle messages sent from “The Universe.” I believe these messages can come through many sources such as physical objects, animals or nature, or even through what some call “ghosts” or apparitions. Sometimes, a sign can even be a number sequence, or just a strong intuition. But I believe that when The Universe is trying to get your attention, it will continue to boldly slap you in the face until you take notice of the message.

So, ok, I finally got it. The Universe was desperately trying to tell me that I, too, needed to let go of something. But I was racking my brain trying to figure out WHAT, because it seems to me I’ve already let go of so many people and so many things, and even so many hopes and dreams, in the last few decades. Many times, often at someone else’s choosing, I’ve let go of everything I’d known up until that point. I’ve changed schools, changed careers, changed husbands, changed towns, and even changed countries. And each time I’ve left more and more behind. Truthfully, I have restarted my life over from scratch so many times that it hurts just to think about it.

It would seem that I'm a pro at letting go! So what, then, did The Universe think I still need to let go of? Surely it couldn’t be possessions or material things. It was only a little less than two years ago that I let go of all of my beloved friends, family, and most of the familiar things in my life in order to move a few thousand miles away to Belize in search of a simpler and healthier life. And now The Universe is saying I have to let go AGAIN?? Let go of what, for God’s sake?!!

I thought about it from many different angles and finally got frustrated. To distract myself, I started skimming through some online articles I’d saved for a rainy day. Anything to get my mind off what the The Universe wanted me to give up this time. Spontaneously, I clicked on a link, and the headline of an article caught my eye, “The Real Reason Why You Can’t Write.” Intrigued, I read the first few paragraphs, and then--WHAM. The Universe smacked me again, right upside the head. But this time I finally got it.  

The sentence in bold print simply read, “Your limiting beliefs about you and your writing are what’s holding you back.” The article went on to outline how a writer's fears can stop you dead in your tracks, and how negativity and limiting beliefs hold writers back. Then it explained how to overcome them, and most importantly, how to let them go. For me, it was a lightbulb moment.

After reading the article, I can now see that I’ve continued to be sporadic about blogging, only writing and posting in fits and starts, because I still have some massive fears and lingering negative beliefs about my talent as a writer.  Even though I’ve had a few really nice responses on my blog, and received wonderful encouragement from some readers, I’m still holding back what I really want to write. My fear of how I might be perceived by my readers still weighs heavily on my shoulders each time I sit down to write.

Yes, I admit it. I STILL have that big, dark monster inside my head that shouts, “You’re not good enough! Nobody cares what you have to say! In the writing world, you are nothing! As a writer, you are just an insignificant, rambling fool in a world of geniuses!”

Now that all these signs of from The Universe have come together, it seems it's really quite simple. I need to let go of my fears. All of them. And I need to let go of them NOW.

Apparently, my silly but very real fears are the only thing still holding me back, and I need to stop talking about them and REALLY let go of them. It has become obvious that the Universe is once again telling me to release my fears about my skills as a writer, and let go of my worry about how I might be perceived. The Universe is instructing me to slay the beast of self-doubt, and write what I want to write, or just write for the love of writing.

And so I will do just that. Starting tomorrow, my fear-monster-cutting knife and I are going on a fear-monster-slaying quest, and we're going to track down that ugly bastard. It's going to be quite an adventure but I'm going to do it, even though I'm terrified. And even if I'm only doing it because The Universe says I must.




If you'd like to read the article I'm talking about, here’s the link: http://menwithpens.ca/why-you-cant-write/

If you'd like to read my writer friend's blog: http://denisejackson.blogspot.com/2014/03/letting-go-of-stuff.html

Don't Let Your "Nevers" Keep You From Your "Nexts"

After retiring to the Caribbean at a young age, and sunning myself on the beach for over a year with little to occupy my mind other than which cocktail to choose next, I created this blog in an attempt to "find my NEXT self" through the process of writing. 

When not reading and writing, which are my first creative choices, I have been doing quite a bit of work "behind the scenes," taking a variety of online training courses and reading every website ever created on how to not only find, but DO what you love. 

I've listened to what seems like 5000 videos and podcasts, and attended heaps of online webinars, all geared toward teaching me how to create a personal website, market a blog, create a product, generate traffic and, possibly eventually, generate some revenue as well. I've also signed up on a couple freelance worksites and done some testing through them to see if that could give me some direction on where I want to go next in my life. But I've learned I don't really want to "work" for someone else. I don't want to exchange my hours for dollars, especially not for someone else's benefit. 

What I want to do is create. 

I want to create something of value, and in exchange for that value, I want to use any revenue I might generate to travel even MORE of the world, and experience life even more fully. And then share those experiences with others. I want to not only see and experience what's here and now, but also what's next.

But I was still kinda stuck. I still hadn't found one thing that really made me feel excited. I'd been searching for months and months, and coming up empty handed. I began to wonder if I was ever going to find my "next thing." 

And then, I attended an online class on how to make videos with just your iPhone, an iPad, and a little music. It was eye-opening. I had never made a video or any kind of movie clip, but I had all the equipment. I love sharing both pictures and videos, and the idea was that you can use either or both to interact with your "tribe." (Did y'all know YOU are my tribe? Well you are, and I'm glad!) 

I had never done anything like this, but it was EASY. And the end result was AWESOME! I was finally EXCITED! I could do this! And so I did.   

Below, you will find my very first assignment from the class. My task was to include it all--video, background music, other sound, and pictures. It's a little over three minutes long, not what I would typically put on a website or blog post. But I created the video with the idea that it might convince our two best friends to come back and visit us again here in Placencia. (I hope it works!)

You will see many pictures we took during their last visit, and one of their favorite spots, the Barefoot Beach Bar, which also doubles as my office two or three afternoons a week. It was a windy day and the water was rough, and I should note that I intentionally included the wind noise so it would feel almost as if the viewer were right here with me. 

I had NEVER done anything like this before, but I think I'm going to make a NEXT video soon! And it might just be my NEXT big thing- I am that excited about it! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this it. Click the link below to view the video and please let me know what you think (and if you'd like to see more videos of Placencia)!

A Windy Day at the Office in Placencia, Belize

The Hummingbird Test

A few months ago, we adopted a young street dog, a mixed-breed of unknown origin, a mutt that here in Belize is called a “potlicka.” She was under a year old with a sleek reddish coat, white sox on her feet, a white tip on her tail, and desperately in need of good nutrition. She needed a name that would fit with the rest of our pack so we called her “Foxxi.” Gradually, our mini-doxies, Kitti and Bunni, accepted Foxxi as their new “sister” and she learned to trust us, even though she was at times mischievous and full of puppy antics. But she was also smart,  quickly settling into our routine, and responding well to her basic obedience training.

However, I knew something was not quite right this morning when I spied Foxxi slinking around the north side of our wrap around deck. Glancing at the house sideways, she quickly slipped past the multiple glass doors that frame our octagon-shaped rental house. Her head was lowered and her back hunched down. It was obvious to me, after working with dogs most of my adult life, that she was up to no good. It appeared she had something hidden in her jowls that she knew she shouldn’t. Of course, I sprinted outside to investigate immediately.

Sensing me directly behind her, Foxxi stopped and lowered her snout to the floor. There, ever so gently, she deposited her prize on the deck boards. Fearful of a possible reprimand, she backed away a few steps.

With golden-tipped wings on a tiny green body, the hummingbird lay perfectly still. Its wet feathers glittered in the sunlight. Covered in bubbly, still-warm saliva and barely breathing, the tiny creature remained on her back where she had been deposited. Her beautiful, miniature body was just big enough to keep her from falling through the small space between the weathered boards.

Though her body did not move, her jet black eyes quickly found mine. Our connection was intense, electric, and immediate. I felt my heart constrict as her obvious terror pierced my normally emotionless heart. Her silent but desperate wish for survival shot straight through to the deepest chambers of my soul. She was helpless, paralyzed by shock and fear, and facing certain annihilation, yet still pleading for her life with her inky black eyes. Not a sound was made, yet I had never felt anything so strongly. I knew I had to try to help her even though the chance of success was slim.

I worried that even a single, spoken word could send my tiny friend fluttering into a panic, which would result in swift and certain death in the jaws of Foxxi, who remained watching intently from a few feet away. Communicating only with my eyes, my mind, and my heart, I silently instructed my feathered friend that she must remain perfectly still for me to be able to help her.

Turning my attention to Foxxi, I prayed that the hand signals we had been practicing would be cemented in her brain. Giving a twist of my curled first for the command to sit, two fingers swiped downwards for a command to lie down, and a palm towards her face for the stay, Foxxi obediently complied from several yards away. Giving the stay signal once more, as firmly and confidently as I could, I calmly stepped away and hoped that Foxxi would remain in the down-stay we had practiced for months and rewarded with pieces of cheese and peanut butter treats.

Only a few feet away and just inside the door, I was able to grab a wash rag, which I quickly returned with and used to gently dislodge my new friend from between the boards. Foxxi remained watching, hoping with every bit of her quivering body to be released from her stay. My new friend’s soulful eyes remained fixed on mine, trusting me as I cradled her on the wash rag in the palm of my hand.  Giving one last, silent but forceful hand signal for Foxxi to remain in her stay, I rushed downstairs with the hummingbird.

Placing the makeshift hospital bed on a lounge chair cushion, I was amazed to find she appeared unbroken and unharmed in any way. Her gaze never left mine as she allowed me to gently dry the slimy wetness of her wings and back. Within what seemed like hours but was certainly not, she gradually began to relax and breathe normally. I was thankful I had also grabbed the camera, and took a few quick pictures. Within a few minutes, she rolled from her back to a sitting position, and then she stood, walked a few inches on her wobbly little legs, and flexed her wings a bit. Another minute later and she fluttered onto the arm of the chair where she rested for a bit.

After a few more moments of regaining her composure, it was obvious she was anxious to return to her natural habitat.  At long last, she spread her wings wide and looked back at me for what I knew was one last time. As I returned her soulful stare, I strongly felt the words I could not hear, and her final communication to me. “I am a symbol of Belize. As you have saved me from certain death, I shall do the same for you. Belize will harm you no more.” And then she took flight.

A single, solitary tear ran down my cheek. I had been given a test. And I had passed.

When I returned upstairs a few minutes later, Foxxi was waiting, still in her down-stay in the exact same spot I left her.  She had passed the most important test I had given her as well. We celebrated with pieces of cheese and homemade peanut butter treats.

I am very proud of both of us.

Is Belize Putting Arsenic In My Coffee?

I often think of Belize as a beautiful, exotic woman, one who I admired long before I got to know her well. Belize’s history is mysterious, her culture is fascinating and amazing, and her terrain is filled with a wide array of beauty and environmental riches. And she graciously welcomed us into her community and has allowed dear hubby and I to live a lifestyle we could only have hoped for prior to our move here.

She has been especially good to dear hubby, allowing the business he started here to grow by leaps and bounds, along with his favorable reputation in the village as a “plumbing angel.” She also helped him lose nearly 50 pounds easily, while I’ve continued to struggle losing 15 or 20, or even remain healthy at all.

But sometimes I get a nagging suspicion that Belize has been so kind and generous to dear hubby, and not so much to me, because she would like to force me out of the way and have him all to herself. Matter of fact, I think maybe she’s been quietly trying to get rid of me by sneaking arsenic in my coffee for the last 18 months.

 Okay, I know it’s weird to think of your newly adopted country as a beautiful but sinfully devious woman who’s slowly trying to kill you, or at least send you running back home, just to “steal” your dear hubby like a mistress might do to a wife. It’s awkward and ridiculous to even put into words, but nevertheless, it’s the way I’ve started to feel.

It was only a little more than a month after our move to Placencia that I got the first faint taste of her arsenic. I was awakened about 5 a.m. by a fast, sharp pain in my chest, and a distinct burning sensation. My tongue and face went numb, and my body ached. Oh DEAR GOD-I’d been stung by a scorpion. I was safe in bed, sleeping with dear hubby and two tiny, helpless dogs--but Belize’s pet scorpion chose me as its victim. I was only sick for a day or so, but the sting will haunt my nights forever. And I’m sure Belize was hiding under the bed, silently laughing with that scorpion for days.

Only a month or two later, Belize slipped her poison to me in a different manner through an unseen cohort. What originally appeared as a minor bug bite turned into a huge, oozing, decaying crater. Turns out it was a spider-bite of the poisonous variety, most likely of the brown-recluse family. Luckily there was a salve that stopped the necrotizing and saved my wrist after weeks of searing pain, but the scars are deep and ugly and I keep them covered in public to this day. I imagine Belize snickering in the shadows each day as I put on the decorative, finely woven bracelet I had crafted by a local artisan to cover the evidence of her wicked prank.

A few months after that, Belize injected her poison directly into my bloodstream via tiny insects, which attacked me so viciously I developed a serious infection and a major allergy to their bites. My face, arms, and legs began to look like I had leprosy. Turns out it was their poison and infection trying to fight it’s way out of my body. Of course, her delivery was so sly and sneaky, it took us months and several doctor visits to figure out what was going on. I often thought I tasted the poison in the back of my mouth during those months as I shifted lazily from bed to couch and bed again, I just didn’t recognize the flavor. I can only imagine Belize’s hidden delight as she watched those invisible insects gnaw at my tender flesh while I slept.

Her latest attempt to force me to run was delivered most recently via another malicious insect. This winged predator must be named after the person you’ll want to see when it bites you: a “Doctor” fly. Generous soul that she is, Belize sent three of them to me the first time. One bite is enough to send some people into allergic overload, as it did for me, but a fourth bite a few days later almost sent me to the hospital. After days in bed unable to move because every joint in my body was screaming with pain, and a round of the strongest antibiotics I’ve taken to date, the giant lumps of infection started to subside. My joints were released from their agony but in my drug-induced haze, I’m pretty sure I saw Belize hiding in the corner of my bedroom, chuckling at her ingenuity.

I didn’t taste the toxin in the beginning because it was disguised by her beautiful presentation and the sweetness of her brew. Over time, however, the tainted nature of her beverage has become more apparent. And sometimes when the house is dark and the night is silent, I fear that if I ever return to my motherland, it may only be to die a painful, poisoned death. Lady Liberty will only be able to hold me stiffly in her stony arms as I draw my last anguished breath, crying out, “Why did Belize try to kill me? I was the one who loved her first! He only loved her because of the simple and HEALTHY lifestyle we thought she would provide for ME!  But I loved her MOST!!!”

My suspicion of Belize’s intentions for me is growing. She is still beautiful, and I think I still love her, but I have caught glimpses of the ugliness underneath her veil. I once thought Belize and I were allies, finding common ground in our love for dear hubby and our wish for a simple, healthy life, but now I’m beginning to think she’s the worst kind of friend, a traitor and a backstabber. Don’t get me wrong, I still love Belize, and I know there is goodness in her soul somewhere. But right now, I still have the coppery taste of her poison in the back of my throat.

So although I’ll still be friendly, wave to her in the neighborhood, and even talk to her on the street, I think I’m going to stop inviting Belize over for coffee, at least for a while. I’ve found I don’t like the taste of arsenic.

Dealing With My "It"

I know some of you might not understand this, and that's okay. But I feel the need to share something that's happened recently.

I've lost my words. They are gone, slipped away like a thief in the night, deviously slinking off under cover of darkness. It's a writer’s worst fear.

Yes, I have no words.

For the last three weeks, the tools of my trade have chosen to remain locked up deep inside my head. This happens occasionally, but their absence frustrates me immensely. I’m angry with them for hiding from me, and I hope that by sharing this, it will help them return. Because no matter how much effort I expend, no matter how desperately I try to liberate them, I cannot convince them it is safe to come out. They choose to remain behind the cold, steel bars of my mind. Even though I have swung the gates to their prison wide open and the padlocks hang limply by their hasps, my frightened words refuse take advantage of their independence.

It makes me angry as hell that my words choose safety and confinement over freedom and adventure. They have been my own personal chain-gang for most of my life, even though I only recently started sharing them openly. But I treated them well. I guarded them lovingly and only used them wisely, like a good steward, even as I gently bound them to the core of my being. If I could just visit them in their jail cells and show them the ugliness of their apathy, I could convince them to break free of their self-imposed confinement. But today, as with yesterday and the day before, I am denied. No visitor's pass for me. They have rejected my presence and retreated to the farthest corners of my mind, burrowing deeper in the chambers of my subconscious.

It’s not the first time my words have hidden from me. I also know it won’t be the last. It’s a difficulty I have had to wrestle with since the day my brain aneurysm exploded. Luckily, this inability to liberate my words is usually short-lived. And it is the only deficit I was left with after the neurosurgeons repaired the raging tornado, a burst blood vessel, in my brain.

Only a few months after repairing the destruction, the surgical team excitedly released me from their care. They rejoiced, declaring me fully recovered and "functionally normal." They instructed me to live my life exactly as I did before, or exactly as I wished. To live as if “it” never happened. But for me and my words, “it” did happen, we have the scars to remind us of it, and we have never been exactly the same. And now, together, my words and I seem to suffer from some type of occasional, imaginary, if not neurological, post-traumatic stress disorder, and we retreat to safety when overwhelmed by the outside world.

When "it" happened, when that hateful aneurysm exploded, I fought hard for control of the epicenter where my words reside, the center of my brain. In the end, I won the battle. But "it" --that vile anarchist -- left behind a few hidden land mines filled with the poison of disorder and disarray. Occasionally I step on one and it causes my thought processes to stumble. Then fall. And that's when my vocabulary and my communication skills get scared and run for cover. I cannot describe how much I HATE that "it" still has negative effects on the clarity of my thinking. And I DESPISE that “it” still has the power to periodically imprison my words and disrupt my ability to fully express myself.

Luckily, each time I have lost my words, I have found my way back to them fairly quickly. As my words begin to peek out from hiding, I soothe them and gently caress their scars. Soon, they begin to recover, just as we did four years ago, bound together in the unimaginable pain. But even though my words will eventually reemerge, they will avoid venturing too far from their safe haven. These days, they clump together near the entrance, timid and awkward, eyeing each other nervously. They desperately yearn to escape and scamper about, joyously and unrestricted, as they did before "it" happened. But they are not quite daring enough. At least, not yet.


Even though the ability to make my words work for me has never been exactly the same, I have found ways to work around "it." I watch closely for the land mines and I force myself to explore the landscape anyway. I forge on, unwavering in the quest to find my words and force them back into the daylight to use them for self-expression. Although it is hard work, I remain determined to find my words each time, and once again bend them to my will.

So for now, I shall keep hunting for my beloved words until I succeed, and coax them outside again.  I know that with a little luck, my words and I will soon be reunited. And together, we will once again thrive. Freely. Joyously. Boldly.

I have vowed to myself, and to my words, that I will not let “it” change or define us. And I will not allow “it” to EVER rule the ability to use my words. I will not let "it" hurt us easily, and I will fight "it" forever. I will NEVER let "it" win.

There is no moral to my story today, no lesson to be learned from my lament. I have nothing to offer you in conclusion, because I have no more words--this essay includes every word I have been able to hijack. All I have to leave you with is this weak and wordy dissertation, the byproduct of my anger and frustration in the absence of my words. I hope it is enough.

As for me, I am going back to work. I have some word-hunting to do. Wish me luck.

That's What Writers Do, Honey, They Write Books

A couple days ago, I was chatting with dear hubby about another month-long writing challenge I’m participating in as part of my journey to develop my skills as a writer. I mentioned to him that I’m using some of what I’ve learned to make progress on a book I started a few months ago. Suddenly alert, he sat straight up and stopped me in mid-sentence, eyes huge and surprised, and asked, “You’re writing a BOOK?!”  I stammered, “Um. Yeah. I’m a writer now; remember when I timidly announced that to the world a few months ago? That’s what writers do, honey, they write books.”

Several days later, I’m still not sure if his surprise was at the idea I was actually writing a book, and that I have the ability to write more than just random thoughts in a “frivolous blog.” Was he shocked I am writing A REAL BOOK, meaning something of “substance." Was the thought that I could string the overabundance of words in my head into coherent sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and eventually an actual book, more than he could fathom? I didn’t ask--because I don't think I want to know the answer.

At any rate, he proceeded to tell me he was proud of me for finding the courage to pursue my long-held, semi-secret dream to write a book. And even though he’s going to be embarrassed that I’m “outing” him as a sensitive guy, he was so supportive, proud, and impressed that he even got a little teary-eyed as we talked about my intention to write a book. It was a precious moment of validation and encouragement for me, and I’ll always cherish it. Soon afterwards, he headed inside to get a shower and I sat on the deck to watch the beautiful Belizean sunset. And then I thought about it a little more.

And then I got a little pissed.

Because I know damn well I had told him (more than once) I had started writing a book! And I KNOW I’ve mentioned it in my blog at least once or twice, which he insists he reads loyally. So, if he had actually been listening to me when we’d had this chat previously, OR if he’d been actually reading my blog as he swears he does, he should have already known that little tidbit of information!

That begs the question then, is he NOT listening to me when we talk? He usually holds up his end of the conversation, so I thought he was paying attention. Or, is he not actually reading my blog? Which means he’s fibbing about reading it for some reason? Maybe both? Or is there something darker and more sinister at play here?  I’m not sure, but whatever the answers to those questions are, it seems the idea that I’m writing a book, a REAL book and not “just a blog,” hadn’t registered in his brain until that moment.

I was angry and my feelings were hurt because I was positive I had told him before. I had been scared to say it out loud, even to the person I love most, but I said it anyway. I had already bared my deepest fear of ridicule and rejection by revealing to him my secret plan to write a book. And he hadn’t even taken notice. He hadn’t paid one bit of attention. He may have been listening--but he hadn’t HEARD what I said.

I never told dear hubby about my hurt feelings. I just tucked them deep inside my heart with the rest of the emotions I hide there on a regular basis. What I also didn’t tell him is that I’m actually working on writing TWO books right now. One is fun and entertaining, and one is a dark and emotional journey of survival in a cold, hard world. They are as different as night and day from each other, and each is cathartic to write in its own way. But I didn’t tell him any of that because I was afraid he wouldn’t listen, or rather - he wouldn’t hear.

And my writer's confidence is still too fragile to make myself vulnerable to not being heard a second time.

Sometimes all a person wants is for someone to care enough to HEAR what they have to say. Please, take a moment to think about that the next time you are having a conversation with someone who matters to you. Put down your multi-tasking devices, your phone, computers, tablets, and turn off the tv, whatever it takes. Take the time to listen to that someone with an open mind and an attentive heart. And make an effort to really HEAR what they’re saying. Because it might be incredibly important to them. They may be telling you their deepest, darkest secrets, their dreams and desires.

 And they might not have the courage to tell you a second time.

Bold, Black, and Beautiful (and Forever)--And I Love It !

Yummy!

Last week, on the way home from getting my eyelids tattooed, I stopped to grab a frappuccino at a little coffee shop in the village called Brewed Awakenings. They have all kinds of great hot and cold coffees, blended fruit smoothies, shaved ices, shakes, and other delicious drinks, as well as pastries, snacks, and free wi-fi. I hope to spend more time there soon because it’s the perfect atmosphere to do my writing. You can check them out here on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/brewed.awakenings.7?fref=ts

WAIT – BACK UP! Did I really just say that I got my EYELIDS TATOOED? Yep. I did. I tattooed my eyelids. But not in the skull and crossbones, barbed wire, tribal ring, or roses and fairies-kind-of-tattoo way that you’re thinking.

Before  - No makeup

I had a perfectly simple, bold, black line tattooed at the edge of my eyelids, on both the upper and lower lash lines. Yes, I now have PERMANENT eyeliner. It’s bold, it’s black, and I think it’s beautiful. And yes, it's forever. In the words of my stepmom, who immediately messaged me on Facebook when I mentioned I’d had it done, “ISN’T THAT A LITTLE DRASTIC!?”

Well, no, at least I don’t think so. Because wearing eye makeup simply makes me feel “put together." It makes me feel like I used feel when I was still myself--you know, the self I was before my brain surgery, and the self I was before we decided to move to Belize where I sweat all the time and haven’t been able to wear a stitch of makeup because it just melts off and runs down my face.

During the Process

It may surprise you (or maybe not) that I haven’t felt like myself, or even very “put together” for quite some time. My once razor-sharp memory and near-perfect eyesight now fail me routinely. My body has betrayed me, becoming unfamiliar and bloated with fat while I recovered from surgery, and leaving me with a closet full of skinny-girl clothes that mock me from their hangers. Previously tanned and blond, I am now scarred and pale, and gifted with an unruly mop of shorter, darker, curlier hair that stands straight up in places thanks to the scars on my skull. And I can barely even get my hair to go straight or “bleach blond” anymore. All this, plus being unable to wear any makeup, left me feeling like a fat, bland, washed out, bizarre version of my former self. Nothing about me seemed the same, at least on the outside.

Finished! 

Except my eyes. Thankfully, I still have the big, dark, soulful eyes I was born with. Eyes that sparkle and shine, and are highlighted by long, full lashes. Eyes that, with just a little bit of eyeliner and maybe some mascara, still “pop." Eyes that sometimes help me to project the animated, lively person I feel like inside, and help people notice the hidden, playful personality behind the bulky trifocals I am now damned to wear.

So while it may be vain, having permanent eye makeup simply makes me feel good. It helps me feel more like myself and it helps me to project the REAL ME beneath the surface, something I haven’t done for a long time.

One Day After - You can't even tell they're a tiny bit swollen!

So no, it doesn’t seem drastic at all to me. It’s a simple thing that I could do to help me return to feeling a bit like my “old” self, one small thing to feel “put together” again. And it's one small step towards feeling just a tiny bit more normal.

Funniest "Selfie" ever taken! (Immediately afterwards)

Did it hurt? Of course it hurts a little, after all, it’s hundreds of tiny needles piercing your eyelids thousands of times over. But honestly, I didn’t think it hurt that much, and I had imagined much worse! Of course, it is very close to your eyeballs, which is a little scary and yes, my eyes watered and burned a little, but only during the process. And the topical ointment really works to numb most of it. Afterwards, I had little bit of swelling for one day, and it just felt like I had scratched my eyelids, which is exactly what was done. But that was it.  No REAL pain. REALLY.

2nd Day After - No makeup!

In my eyes (pun intended), it was a very small price--in dollars and in discomfort--to help me get back to feeling a bit more like my old self -- back to my confident, vibrant, ALIVE, and pre-aneurysm self.

So, welcome back, old self! We’ve still got some more work to do to get back in the groove, but damn, I’m happy to see you. I hope you stick around for a while, I've missed you.

**Many, many thanks to my friend and tattoo artist, Sandy Baum Azancot, of Pirate Gyal Tattoos, https://www.facebook.com/PirateGyalTattoos who did such great work, and who was kind enough to indulge my blogging habit and take the "during" pictures for me. If you’re thinking about getting it permanent eyeliner for yourself and have questions, just let me know, I’d be happy to tell you more about my experience. Or just get in touch with Sandy, I HIGHLY recommend her work!

Why I Am Child-Free -- The "No-Bull" Version

I’ve been working on a new post for several days, and I had crafted a nice, well-rounded article about the reasons I chose not to have children. It was an amusing commentary that could have been published in any women’s magazine, or any number of websites geared towards women’s interests. A masterpiece in the making, or so it began, but I was struggling to finish and actually post it. Finally I realized that the reason I was wrestling so furiously with getting it “just right” was because it was all just nicely-worded bullshit. I wasn’t being completely truthful about my reasons for not having kids, or sharing my honest feelings about why I chose to remain child-free. The piece was just a pleasant, polite, and politically correct pile of garbage. So, as I’ve done numerous times before, I sent that collection of wasted words straight to the trash bin.

Because here’s the real deal, my friends, the no bullshit version--I didn’t have kids because I don’t LIKE kids, and because I JUST DIDN’T WANT TO. I know I’m viewed as “odd” compared to the majority of women, but I just don’t like kids that much, and particularly not babies. There are a few children I have come to enjoy for brief periods of time and kids can be great-- for other people --but they’re just not great for me. And I understand that for most people, babies are a miracle of life, a blessing of their love, and the physical evidence of the passion they've shared with their partner. And I’m genuinely happy for their delight with their offspring and their perceived "beauty." But it’s a rare occasion that I can say I’ve ever seen a truly beautiful baby.

For some reason, my eyes only see babies as miniature old people, wrinkly, bald-headed, angry geezers swaddled in once-soft blankets that are now stiffened by green or yellow spit-up. My brain registers infants only as tiny, frightening aliens who frantically wave their pudgy little arms while making furious, ear-splitting demands, screaming for attention while squiggling and squirming and wallowing in their own waste. Don't even get me started on toddlers or teenagers. And since this is my story, I'm gonna I call it like I see it: most children, no matter the age, just aren't that appealing. At least not to me. Sorry, but I'm not really sorry. What I am is honest.

I have known since I was quite young that I wasn’t born with the “baby equals happiness” gene. I’ve never been the kind of girl who played with dolls or who exclaims "isn't it adorable!" when I see a baby or small child. And I don't coo, except when it comes to puppies. I can count on my two hands the number of times in my life that I’ve held a baby, and every single one has screamed the entire time, begging for their mommy to save us both from our shared terror. And even though I do love and care for the people in my life to the best of my ability, I think my nurturing skills would probably be classified as clumsy and erratic (at best). I just don't have a "motherly" bone in my body, except for my puppies. And that’s my simple truth.

But in the spirit of "No-BS-Day," I will admit there was a brief, psychotic moment in my (very) young life when I was so wildly, deeply, madly in love that I recklessly turned to my man and declared “we should have a baby!” Yes, I actually uttered those five words-ONCE. And I am eternally grateful to that man for knowing me better than I knew myself, at least in that moment, and for having the infinite wisdom to gently decline. Thanks to his common sense and sound judgment, I was spared decades of misery and regret, a lifetime sentence of motherhood--the byproduct of which would have been a living, breathing, daily reminder of a man who later painfully betrayed my trust, broke my heart into a million pieces, and crushed my soul into the dust without a single glance backwards.

And a heart-breaking, life-long prison sentence of regret, epic and miserable in proportion, is all I can imagine when I try to picture what my life would have been if I had given birth to a child. Not just his child, but any man's child. That's a pretty good justification for NOT having a baby, don't you think?

So there it is folks, that’s the REAL deal, the god’s honest truth, the politically UNcorrect, no BS version. I’ve never once regretted not having children. I'm glad I didn't, and happy that my near-lapse was only a temporary blip on the radar of my youth. Luckily, I had the confidence, the support, and the resources to stay faithful to my choice over the remaining years, not every woman is so fortunate. Not being a mother is also one of the reasons dear hubby and I were eventually introduced--mutual friends knew neither of us had, or wanted, children. If I had been serving my sentence as a mother, we likely never would have met at all. And my life would have been VERY different--in a not-so-good way. So I know I can say I'm VERY glad--in a VERY good way--that I made the choice to NOT have children. And I am very happy without them, in a no-bullshit-kind-of way.