All in a Day's Walk

Although my right femur is no longer broken and I'm walking as well as one can expect at seven months, I'm still "expressly forbidden" by my spousal equivalent Steve, to walk our three dogs without any help.  He doesn't want me to fall again!  Maneuvering the three dogs on their leashes is no easy task since two of them weigh 90 pounds, and the third one becomes a ferocious little bitch when she sees other female dogs walk by.  But I have no choice when Steve and our live-in friend, Brian, are both unavailable, and the dogs are begging to go to the park! 


So, this morning as soon as Steve left for work and while Brian slept, I braved it (as I've done many times).  I risked being pulled, tripping, falling, and getting tangled up in the leashes because I love my dogs and they love going for walks.  


When we got to the park, I saw my neighbor, Mr. Johnson, an elderly man, walking by himself.  I'd never seen him beyond his front yard, so I asked, "what are you doing out here?"  He surprised me when he said he was stiff and needed some exercise.  (I couldn't help thinking that  he ought to give his dog some exercise!)  


My history with Mr. Johnson goes back several years.  I've watched him acquire puppies since 2003, plant them in his yard on a short chain where he leaves them to rot while they live out their short lives. I plotted a few years ago to steal a sweet pitbull puppy he had named Bouncer, but Bouncer was one of the lucky ones.  He broke free from his chain.  Most of the dogs I've seen in Mr. Johnson's yard simply die young.  I've called Metro Animal Control over the years but it never helped.


As he usually does whenever he sees my dogs, Mr. Johnson said, "oh, those dogs, they is honeys"  "Oh yeah, they's honeys."  I said, "Yes, they are!"  Then he said, "We lost our big dog."  (This didn't really surprise me, since I had recently noticed a new little dog chained up in his front yard.)  "Oh?"  I asked.  "Yeah,...she died,"  he said.  "the heat got her."  I felt my rage rise up through my cheeks as I got sick to my stomach.  I had seen that beautiful, sweet and friendly rottweiler chained up outside in the hot sun all summer.


I asked Mr. Johnson how old the dog was.  He said, "I don't know, she was my daughter's dog."  "Maybe, 10?"  Incredulous, I said, "I think she was only about one, wasn't she?"  Then he said, "Well, we all gonna go sometime."  And I said with a disgusted smirk, "Well, I'd rather it be later than sooner.


Trying to impart a little wisdom upon his ignorant, deaf ears, I said, "It was a hot summer.  That's why I keep my dogs in the house all summer.  It's too hot to leave dogs outside.  Is your daughter going to keep the little dog in the house?"  He shrugged, then said with his shit-eating grin, "I don't know."  I wanted to scream:  "YOU AND YOUR FAMILY NEED TO STOP GETTING DOGS!"  Instead, I held my breath, smiled politely, and somberly walked my dogs home. 


I was still upset as I ran the water for my shower.  When I started to get in, I noticed a huge grasshopper struggling to hop up the side of my tub, trying to escape the water, fighting for survival.  For an instant, I thought of killing the grasshopper.  Instead, I ran and got a couple of paper cups and helped him out of the tub.  I covered one cup with the other until I got him outside and released him on the front porch.  I wondered if the grasshopper felt afraid while he was inside the cup.  I thought of how I had his life in my hands.  Then I thought of Mr. Johnson and his innocent rottweiler, and how that poor helpless dog didn't stand a chance in this world.


I went and lay on the couch with my dog Spike, buried my face in her fur, and cried.

Cicada Sense

The cicada insects were here in Nashville for several weeks this Spring/Summer, and they were everywhere.  They flew into my hair, rode into the house on my dogs' backs, even got caught buzzing in Steve's pants.  Then, as abruptly as they showed up and seemed like they'd be here forever, one day I noticed they were gone.

In a way, this is like my recovery.  One day I abruptly broke my leg, and while it felt like it would be forever before I would walk again, one day I stood up and began walking.  Now, I'm driving and back to trying to earn a living.  When I see friends lately they say, "wow, you're walking already?  You've healed so quickly, time has sure flown..."


But while the cicadas shed their skins and become a better, more beautiful version of themselves with a new sense of purpose, I've fallen back into my old self:  The me that is worried about money, frustrated by my decreased productivity, and stressed (which shows up physically as a burning red hot ear).  I actually caught myself telling a friend the other day that I liked it better when I couldn't walk because I was so much easier on myself--I was helpless and innocent!--This is craziness talking.  


My leg is healing beautifully, but my life is not.  My emotional healing is proving to be the ugliest part of this journey.  At 15 weeks into this experience, my leg hurts constantly and I'm not fully functional, yet I expect myself to be.  My friend Julie likened me to a toddler who is struggling to walk and gain independence.  Yes, just like a toddler, I'm finding myself throwing tantrums because I want my way and I want it now!  I expect my life to be back to normal, but then again,  I'm discovering that I don't want it to be like it was before my accident.  I don't want the stress, the fear, or the overwhelm that seems to be ingrained in me.


So, I'm striving each day to get out of this old skin and fly gloriously like the cicada--with purpose, patience, grace, and acceptance of what is--and damn, sometimes it's an ugly process.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Steve and I were awakened in the middle of the night again last night by the sounds of loud thunder and pounding rain.  As I lay in bed listening to the rain's continuous rhythm,  an old ditty, one I hadn't thought of in years, was running through my head.  "It's Rainin'," was one of the first songs I'd ever written, 17 years ago, during an especially low point in my life.  

In August of 1994, I was living in Vancouver for the summer with my then husband, pursuing acting work.  The t.v. and film industry was booming in Vancouver, and my ex was getting quite a few jobs, because he had dual citizenship.  Although I auditioned plenty, I couldn't get arrested.  I wasn't a citizen, and I was a female in my late 30's--three strikes against me as far as acting roles were concerned.

I combed the classifieds daily, looking for something, anything, to fill my time.  One morning, I saw an ad for a lead singer in a country band, and I figured, what the hell!  I'd never sung country songs in my life,  I didn't even listen to country music, but I figured I could bluff my way into the job, since I had fronted pop bands (albeit, very few) in Los Angeles. 

On a Sunday, I drove down to meet with the band leader in a small run-down house about 30 miles south of Vancouver.  He seemed to be in his mid 40's, with not much to show for it.  After our introductions, he asked me to sing a couple of songs.  I had some karaoke tracks of pop songs which I sang to, and he apparently thought I was qualified enough because he sent me home with about 25 country songs to learn for a gig the following Wednesday.

Over the next three days I spent all of my time memorizing the lyrics and the tunes.  I showed up eager and ready for the gig at a VFW hall and had a blast.  It was a three person band:  The band leader who played guitar, the bass player, a drum machine, and me.  The rest of the summer we did weekend gigs playing at VFW halls, seedy bars, and nursing homes.  I got  $50 a night.  


One late night, while on a break, I ran across a magazine article written by Pam Tillis about songwriting, and how to write from title.  On the drive home, I thought up a title and came up with my first pathetic attempt at a country song, called "Ten Times A Day."  (A catchy little title, I thought!)


Singing in the band, and writing my songs (while my husband criticized), became my lifeline that summer.  My marriage was crumbling.  I cried often over my failing acting career, and contemplated suicide more than once.  As I wrote bad songs, my soul was soothed.  One dreary and rainy morning I wrote, "It's Rainin'."  The first line of the chorus began, "Rain, Rain, Go Away....it was catchy and uptempo...and although I can remember my melody clearly right now, the lyrics are tucked away, forgotten, in a drawer somewhere. 


That Vancouver summer was a huge turning point in my life.  Of course, I didn't see it at the time.  When we returned to L.A., my husband asked for a divorce,  I signed up for songwriting classes, and a new chapter began.


Today, on this rainy day, I'm wondering if this lengthy broken leg recovery period is another turning point.  


Time will tell.