Category: Uncategorized

I went to the grocery store a few days ago. I saw Angel, the sweetest student I have ever had. She greeted me like it was Christmas and I was her favorite aunt. Then I saw another former student and she caught me up on her entire family, all of which had been through the art room. Then I saw another student from my early days in Canon. And then a former colleague. Honestly, there have been days when knowing I am going to run into people I know and have to pour out sunshine makes me balk at going to the grocery store. I have literally sat in my car gathering strength to face all the people ready to ‘bless my heart,’ and tell me they have been praying for me. One of the reasons, I thought leaving Canon might be good was to bring me a little animosity. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss this deep bonds I have made here.

My house has not sold. It mostly has come down to the shared garage. The garage sits on the property line and half is mine; half is the neighbor’s. It works for us, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why it is a problem. Plus this house is 97 years old. Most people who can afford what I want don’t want to climb stairs and people who are young enough to relish a house with projects don’t have enough money. And I didn’t 100 percent want to sell it, so I probably put that out in the universe too.

The more time I spend in Pueblo, the more I realize that it is probably not my forever home. I think about Shayne homeless in a city like Pueblo. He is safer in a small town where everyone knows him.

I am not regretful about taking a new job. I needed to do something different. But school is school. Different geography, same challenges. I like my new colleagues and the kids are for the most part nice and I like them, but I realize that being in a classroom is a cage for me. I am like a wild thing pacing around looking for a way out. It doesn’t matter if it is art, math, underwater basket weaving, I am a cheetah ready to bolt. I thought I’d be able to muscle out a couple of more years, but I will be lucky to make it to Christmas.

It made sense to me to take my house off the market, because I am really not sure what comes next. I am having my floors sanded and refinished and I am turning my sun porch into a fourth bedroom and then I will move all my stuff back into the house. I talked to my neighbor and we are on the same page about fixing the garage situation. Maybe I will put the house back on the market, or maybe I won’t. I am just trusting that the universe is looking out for me and the answers are coming.

I. I honestly don’t know what is happening anymore.

2. My house hasn’t sold. It comes down to the garage almost every time. The garage is on the property line and I own half and the neighbors own half. The driveway to the garage also straddles both properties, but is more on my side of the line, which makes zero sense. It works and I like the neighbors, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why sharing a driveway and a garage can be a problem.

3. I am not a fan of driving to Pueblo. I am not a fan of driving in general. Honestly, if I could envision my perfect life, I’d probably never have to drive anywhere and I could walk, ride my bike, or take public transportation everywhere I wanted and needed to go, and just drive once or twice a year if I felt like a Thelma and Louis road trip.

4. And honestly, I’m not sure I want to live in Pueblo.

5. Or teach anymore. In fact, I’m pretty damn close to walking out the door.

6. It’s really not specific to my current position. I just realize that the classroom is a cage for me. I’m like a wild thing, pacing around looking for a way out.

7. I read inspirational messages everyday trying to psych myself out and be positive. Shit like–Say Yes to the Universe. Show Up. Be in the Moment. Breathe. Live for the Day. I have a whole ritual. I get up and flip to a page in the my daily oracle book. Write the message on a sticky note, or sometimes on my hand with a Sharpie and I look at if I feel like I need a reminder.

8. Lately, two messages have stuck in my head.

9. Your worth is greater than your output.

10. Envision your perfect life.

11. I go through my day, knowing that telling kids to pick up their trash, and focus on their work, and listening to conversations like this–“There’s a map by Egypt–is it a place?” “Yeah, it’s in Las Vegas”–is SO not my jam. I hate being in charge of behavior. And I’m not great at it, because why is it so damn difficult to do the right thing? Like why can’t you pick up the milk carton from the floor without being told? And why can’t you just stand in a line without talking, jumping, hitting, singing, screeching? And why can’t you turn to page 83 when the teacher says it forty-five times and writes it on the board and you were on page 82 yesterday? And I think, this is really why I went to college? And I know if I envision my perfect life it mostly involves my front porch, slouchy sweaters, and Charlie.

12. I found out that I won a grant I wrote last year to take kids on a field trip to Denver. The lady that called me said that when she read my essay, she knew that my school was going to win. I know I can write. But the things I have to say right now are pretty bitter. And if I can’t put good out in the world, then I don’t want to share.

13. Someone asked my recently if I like art or writing better. I said art was easy for me–like something I don’t think about, just do. Writing is more of a compulsion. Words pour out naked and raw. I try not to write, but then I can’t sleep. For days. And eventually I find myself typing away.

12. I like going to paint stores and taking my color swatch up to the paint counter and watching the person behind the counter get my can ready. I enjoy watching the precise drop of color and the satisfying noise and vibration of the machine. I wonder if the paint store people like their jobs, or if they would rather be doing anything else?

13. I am painting a new mural. Something that is supposed to inspire hope.

14. I guess it’s kind of working already, because it gives me something to focus on and get me through the week.

15. I’m going to keep showing up and doing my thing, but I know I need something where I can stretch my wild, crazy imagination, my irreverence, and my deep passion for making the world a better place. When it arrives, I hope I am brave enough to listen to what my heart is telling me and accept what the universe has for me.

1. I finally shared on my blog about my move.

2. The very same day the contract fell through on my house.

3. I am not upset…what’s the point?

4. Except 90 percent of my stuff is in a 16×20 box.

5. There are people waiting for me to move into their house.

6. I start a new job in six days.

7. I have options.

8. I settle on one idea.

9. An hour later something else seems better.

10. If there is a lesson here, I am sure not getting it yet.

Yesterday, I saw Shayne walk by the kitchen window and go into the backyard. I went out to the back and found him standing there looking at his black Pumas. He was wearing a red football jersey and basketball shorts, one black sock and one of my red Snoopy socks. He didn’t look up when I come outside.

Sometimes I think he has amnesia instead of schizophrenia. I don’t even know what to say to him. On one hand I am so mad at some of the choices he has made, but

when he looks at me I can see it all–his pain, his hunger, his exhaustion. But I that doesn’t break me anymore. So I say, “Where’s your stuff?” He tells me he has it stashed and then he picks up his bag and says, “You can look, I don’t have any drugs.” We both know I am not going to look. It means nothing. Maybe they aren’t in the bag, but they are somewhere stashed with his falling apart sleeping bag and one gray sweatshirt. I relented and let him eat the food I bought for my friends who helped me move. I wondered for a moment if I move all my stuff back to the house. Do I leave it there? Shayne asked me if I want him to mow the lawn. It’s this dance we do. He totally betrays my trust. I feed him and he does chores. He thinks it is fixed; I know it isn’t.

So what now? Honestly, I have no idea. I guess this is one of those times when the universe hasn’t shown all the cards yet. I know better than to wish for a little luck. Mom would tell me to say a little prayer. Dad would probably think weeding the flower bed would be helpful. Guess I can do both those things and finish painting a sign for a little old man I met in Florence. I am sure it will all work out.

I’m sitting on the floor in my living room in this old, silent house. I moved here because I wanted to have more space between my son’s bedroom and mine. I didn’t want to hear him when he talked to himself, or laughed at nothing. I wanted a house where I would have space to be alone and read, write, do art. I wanted to be close to work and downtown. While this house isn’t perfect, I do like it. But this week, I’ve thought a thousand times about selling it and moving.

My son is gone again. This time there will be no search parties. No fliers. No missing persons report. This time he isn’t coming back. And it is his choice. I cannot write or even really talk about what lead to this decision, except that it was so awful, that I can’t even quite wrap my head around it. It wasn’t violent and no one was physically hurt, but the betrayal and depth of the action was so hurtful to me, that I can’t even comprehend that I child that I have raised would do such a thing.

My best friend in the whole world, the woman who has known me my whole life, told me –“this isn’t about you. This is him. He is very sick and has been for a long time.” I know this, but I have to keep remembering those words.

In the last six years, I have experienced more traumatic life events than some people face in a lifetime. At first I thought, well, this is just going to make me stronger. Then I started thinking, what do I have to be strong FOR? And now I’m thinking, I’m as strong as I want to be, so enough with the life challenges.

So today I guess I am packing up all the things my son left behind. I’m repainting the room. A pale peach maybe. Something warm that makes me think of warm spring days with new green grass and blossoms floating through the air. I am moving the rocking chair that I nursed him in, to the back porch or maybe to Goodwill. Because even though it’s a good memory, it also is so very painful that I couldn’t sit in it if I tried. The room has good light. I could read in there, or maybe it will be writing studio and I will write something amazing like a comic book about a cat who wants to be president. Or maybe I will reinvent Captain Letterman? I loved him. He could make a comeback incarnated as a she with sassy red boots to match her cape?

I know that a little paint or new furniture isn’t changing anything. My son is gone. And nothing about this is right. I know I am not going to sleep at night without wondering if he is okay. If he is safe. If he is hungry. If he is dirty. If he is alive. I am never going to wake up again without thinking those same thoughts. I see him in every pair of big blue eyes. Everywhere I look, there he is. I will never stop loving him.

The worst thing about everything is I know that this is just a waiting place. I just don’t know what I’m waiting for. All I can do is try to move forward and use all this strength that has been building to help see me though to whatever the future holds.

I finished the painting this weekend. I thought I was done on Saturday, but then realized that I hadn’t signed my name. And somebody told me the trout needed spots. I thought it over and went to the levee one more time.

When I got there, there was a woman struggling with the lock. I got out of my truck and showed her the trick to lifting the weight off the chain. It sort of made me laugh to myself because the first time I had to deal with the lock, I was near tears. It turned out that she was starting to prime the square right next to mine. Her first day and my last day. I was super glad to be on the other end of the job, than where she was.

I repainted the fisherman because he had a few different shades on him from the purple rain fiasco; I touched up some of the outline around the fish, and I added some spots. I tried to add the number of spots in my dad’s name, my three uncles who were (or are) fisherman, my cousin, and my grandpa, but I don’t think I got the right number because it didn’t look right to me, so I had to add a few more spots, but the spots are for them. Then I put on my fishing vest with the zippers, zipped in my cell phone and repelled to the bottom of the mural and signed my initials and then took a few photos.

When I rode my bike around to take pictures, I went the long way so I could see the mile of murals. There are about twenty paintings now, a lot more than when Maria and I first came upon them in June. I got to mine and took a couple of photos and then rode across the footbridge and up to my truck. Then I didn’t know what to do. Usually, I leave then. But it felt wrong to me. I finished this great big project and what? Just drive away? So I sat at the top and enjoyed being done.

I’ve been trying to figure out what comes next in my life. Not like next in what project I’m going to do, but next in my life. Like act two. I’ve been doing some reflecting on the “why.” I always thought writing was my jam, but I’m wondering about that more and more. Writing is like my soul, my breath. Art is like my playground, my renewal. This mural was one of the hardest things I have ever done, mostly because of the physical aspect of it, but also because of the size. It made me realize that my art is still growing and I’m still learning and changing and I have no idea where that will take me.

In some ways, getting up in the dark and driving to the levee, putting on my gear, and descending a concrete wall has given me confidence and purpose in ways that I didn’t have before. Does that mean I want to do it again? I don’t know. For now I am going to celebrate that it’s finished and trust that I’m on the path to the next leg of the journey.

Today when I went to the levee, I felt like it had been weeks since I’d last been there, even though it was only four days ago. My work week was so stressful that it felt like a month instead of three days and I’ve been kinda sick and have come home with a headache everyday. I’ve barely slept because I can’t stop thinking about stupid shit that I can’t really do anything about. I really, really hoped that painting would work its magic and bring me some peace. So early this morning, I got up in the dark and got my stuff ready to go to the river. I saw the sun rise in a spectacular orange pink glow and sat for a moment just taking in the cool morning air.

The painting drops twenty-four feet from the top of the levee. I’m working on painting on the lower half of the mural. I’m a lot closer to the river and I’ve become accustomed to the sounds of the water. Fish rise and splash. Geese are silent accept when they take off in flight or come in to land. Ducks quack as they swim. The flyfishermen talk to each other and sometimes to me. I’ve met Greg and Anthony and Joe. They catch fish across from me and say the mural is an inspiration. Today though, I was alone. Sometimes I hear shouting and I look up and it’s always some guy crossing Fourth Street Bridge on foot ranting to himself. I can’t tell from where I am his age or his appearance, but it makes me think of my son and I wonder if Shayne yells and talks to himself when he goes on his walks and runs. Things are better with him, but also worse in ways I hate even thinking about.

I was nervous about painting the river. To be honest, I’ve been regretting the blue. The river in reality looks more green. I realize that water is largely a reflection of what is around it and in it. But I started off with blue and if I change it now, I’d have to redo everything. And there is no way that’s happening. There is a woman painting a fantasy landscape close to my mural. I have watched her change her scene seven or eight times. I keep thinking, “Oh my gosh, how is she affording to waste so much paint.” I also watched her drop a bucket of spray paint into the river. She chased after the bucket and recovered some of the cans, but it made me realize how ultra careful I have been, both with my supplies and my decisions.

Last weekend when I was working on the splash up from the fish, I walked across the footbridge to the other side of the river to make sure it looked right. The first two times I walked across, I didn’t remove my harness and it rubbed on my thigh, leaving a rope burn. When I started out on the third time, I realized my leg was bleeding, so I took off the harness and realized that I needed to stop painting for the day. Rope burns on the levee. Is that badass or crazy?

I wanted to get most of the river done today, but it just got too hot. I was wrapping up my last strokes when I heard someone yell, “That’s the best one yet!” I didn’t turn around because I didn’t register that it was directed at me, until I heard “Hey, painter woman!” I stood up and looked across the river. A guy on a bike said, “You’re doing a great job!” I don’t know if it’s the best mural. There are some seriously cool paintings, but I’m liking how it’s turning out. I like the darkness of the river, and I love how it is setting off the fish.

People keep asking me if I’m done, or when I’ll be done, or if there is a time I will just have to call it done and walk away. I don’t know the answer. I started with a grid, but that’s not my usual process. I usually just eyeball everything, and if I mess up, I redo it. I started with the fisherguy and I made a paper stencil using my grid system and taped it on the wall and traced around it. I eyeballed everything else. The levee looks flat, but the cement actually has grooves and bulges and you can feel the curves under your hands and feet, it changes the dimensions of the painting just enough, that a grid is helpful, but not perfect. I think my guy is too small and jenky and I am going to redo him. And I need to lighten the sky on the left, so it matches the sky on the right. And I haven’t done the fly or the fishing line yet. However, I’m close to finished. I have enough paint and as long as nothing tragic happens and I don’t drop my supplies in the river, I’ll be in good shape.

Here’s the thing though. This mural helped me get through Shayne’s last mental health crises, my cousin’s death, and my sadness at my family returning to the Middle East. Even if my work week is stressful and challenging, I know the levee is waiting and everything will look better after a few hours of painting. I guess this mural is feeding my soul. Not sure when I got to be so “woo woo,” but I almost don’t want to be done. For some reason, I keep thinking about driving in the truck places with my father as a child. He always listened to “Radio Mexicana.” I loved watching my aunts and uncles dancing at weddings and parties and going to watch the dancers at Fiesta Day at the fair. I have this vision of Folklorico dancers under an adobe archway, something with rich, warm sun colors. Or maybe a harvest scene with chili or peaches. Something new that I’ve never painted before, but something that honors my heritage, my family, and my community.

But I am not going to get too ahead of myself. I’ll finish this and then see what comes next.

My son is back on his meds. It’s been about a week and I can tell the difference. He can talk again. He printed out the NFL pre-season schedule. He is keeping track of the scores. He told me about the Las Vegas Rams game. News to me. I didn’t know they left Cali. Football means absolutely nothing to me, but he likes it. He used to watch the Broncos with his grandma. She’d fill him up with taquitos and homemade lasagna. Today he even went to a restaurant with me and ordered his own food like a person. He is clean and shaved and you wouldn’t know him as the skinny wild eyed man on a missing person’s flyer from a week ago. I know the voices haven’t disappeared, but the meds make them less obnoxious. It’s not like things are perfect, but I’m choosing to look at the bright shit.

I spent a lot of time at the levee this weekend. I got the fish done. Mostly. There are a few things I still need to do to it. The eye is too small. Up close it looks great, but this is a piece of art that no one really sees up close, so everything needs to be exaggerated and bold. I’m not sure what I’m going to do next. I was going to do the fly next, but realized that maybe I should do the sky first. So I’ll probably do the sky. I’d love to work in the morning before school, but I just don’t see how to get to the site, paint, and get back to school before the kids walk in the door. The evenings are too hot. The heat collects on that concrete all day. The two times I tried to paint in the afternoon, the waves of heat made me queasy and shaky. I can’t hang on a rope feeling like I’m going to pass out. What would happen if I passed out? Would the ropes hold me in place till I came to? I definitely don’t want to find out, so I stay off the wall in the heat.

Every time I finish painting for the day, I ride my bike across the river and take a picture. It’s such a different perspective from a distance, so today, I took my camera down on the wall and took some up close shots. It makes me nervous to take my phone down on the wall. I don’t want to drop it in the river, although, losing my keys in the river would definitely be worse. They fell in the paint bucket today. Of course they did, because I never can do anything without having a key issue. You should see me open the gate to the levee. The chain weighs like fifty pounds and I have to use my whole body to keep the tension off to turn the combo numbers. I hope to God there is no video camera recording my struggles with that gate. I don’t mind writing about my issues, but filming them is an entirely different thing.

School started this week and my brother and his family went back to Bahrain for another year. To be honest, I’m going through the motions of doing what I’m supposed to do. I greet kids, high five them, put out their supplies, clean up the paints, try to be upbeat and cheerful. That’s the perspective I’m going for–freaking fantastic. Honestly, I feel a little shell shocked. I guess it’s not that different than watching Shayne start the meds again–a facade I’d so like to believe is real. Except, my faith in that reality is so shattered, that I don’t know if repair is possible.

I guess I might be good at perspective with a paint brush, but I’m still working on figuring out how it works in life.