Category: Uncategorized

I was in third grade when the Broncos went to the Super Bowl for the first time. My teacher brought in cupcakes with orange frosting and we listened to “Make Those Miracles Happen” on a scratchy, popping 45 while we ate the treats. I had no idea what any of that shit meant because I was football illiterate at eight years old. Craig Morton. Orange Crush. Bowls that are super. What?

My mom caught the fever though and would turn the channel on and cheer and scream at the TV. I don’t know what I did, but it wasn’t that. I had to learn the rules to football in physical education. Once I read an article in Cosmo about how to talk about sports with men. That article must have been well written because I can speak with knowledge about the line of scrimmage. My brother played football in high school. I was a CU Buff during the Orange Bowl years. And I live in America, so football is hard to ignore. It seeps into your brain through osmosis. For years though, I managed to check out of all things football pretty well.

I am not sure how old my son was when he got bitten by the football fever, but he had my mom for that. She would cook a big meal and she and Shayne would watch the Bronco game. It was their thing. Since the development of his illness, most of Shayne’s interests have ebbed away, but he still loves football. In my quest to help keep him tethered in reality, I try to share his interest. So football it is. I watch the games with him, discuss the players and coaches, rejoice and commiserate in the triumphs and fails of the weeks. So when I got the opportunity to take him to see the Broncos play at home in Denver, well, how could I turn that down?

Shayne has been to Bronco games, but I have not. So he was telling me what to expect and he said something about a horse. I said, “Wait? There is a horse? In the stadium? I like horses.” In theory, I know they are the BRONCOS, but a real horse? And my idea of watching a game, is being in the same room as the television and drawing or playing a game on my phone. I guess I missed the horse?

Somebody described schizophrenia like this to me once: The brain gets all sorts of information all the time, but it knows how to filter and focus on the most important details. But with schizophrenia, the filtering device is broken, so all the information is the most important at the same time. So as we were walking up the ramp in the arena, I saw the sign about the stadium holding 75,000 people, and heard the loud pop music, and saw the giant screen highlighting the morning NFL games, I looked over at Shayne to see how this is going to be for him. He was laughing at something only in his head and he seemed happy, so I thought we’d just roll with it.

I am not going to lie, being in that stadium was not what I expected. It was freaking cool. People were all dressed up and dancing and laughing and it was the biggest party I had ever been to. The opening act was a mariachi band. It was almost like having my dad there. The singer, Isabel Maria Sanchez, was incredible. It brought me back to Radio Mexicana of my youth. And then the most beautiful white horse pranced across the field. I could have gone home right then, completely satisfied, but the surprises just kept coming. During the national anthem, two giant flags were unfurled on the field, the stars and stripes and the Colorado. Seeing the fabric ripple in the air was truly awe inspiring. I told the woman next to me that it was my first game and she pulled a button out of her bag that read, “my first Bronco game.” I proudly pinned it to my shirt.

Shayne was equally excited. He did get lost once coming back to the seat. He went up and down the stairs a few times and someone noticed and helped him get back to the right section. He made the Lion King noise (that cry when Simba is presented to the animals) when the screens asked the audience to make noise and he got inappropriately angry at a call, but no one really noticed because everyone else was making noise and getting inappropriately angry too. At one point he said, “Why don’t we live in a place where I could do this every time?” Uh. I had no answer to that. And the best part? The Broncos won, even if it was lucky, they still pulled it off. We left the stadium high with joy of winning in Bronco country. Actually that wasn’t the best part. The best part was when we got home, Shayne hugged me and said thank you for the best day of his life.

I never would have thought that going to a football game would rank high on my list of memorable events. It was like being in a storybook with anticipation and fear and magic and happily ever after. I loved sharing that with my son. It’s nice to have a memorable moment that is joyful. Our moments of exhilaration have been few and far between. It gives me hope that there will be more. Shayne said that the road will turn for the Broncos. I don’t know about that, but for me, I will always remember my first game. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

When my parents first were killed, I’d reach for my phone to tell them something and realize that I couldn’t dial that number ever again. I don’t do that anymore, but there are times when I would give anything to talk to them, especially my mom. Sometimes she made me straight up crazy, but I realize how much I valued her as a person and how much she taught me. My last words to her were “I love you.” I am grateful for that each day.

One of my cousins suggested a girl weekend at a hot springs, picking Pagosa as a location. I invited my daughter, hoping she’d want to come. Even though, she is only in Albuquerque, I don’t see her as often as I would like. She always says she is busy, but I think there is more to it than that. But for once, she agreed.

I think about all the trauma that I have been through in the last years, and I know my daughter has been through the same, plus all the trauma of the pandemic. Most of those events happened during her teen years when she was supposed to be young and carefree. Dealing with all those things has given her anxiety and a need for security and a lot of emotions to process. She has some anger and some of it is directed to me and to her brother. She has accused me of choosing him first. It’s hard for me to refute her point. Dealing with his schizophrenia and keeping him safe and finding help for him has been an all consuming task. I can see how Darian feels left out, but at the same time I don’t know how I would have done it differently. She also thinks that Shayne is just a bad person and that he doesn’t deserve what I give him. But, he is my son and I love him and abandoning him isn’t a choice. Asking me to choose isn’t fair.

Currently, my daughter avoids her brother at all costs. I can only spend time with her if he isn’t around. I don’t love this arrangement, but I also want to share my daughter’s life too. I thought the Pagosa Springs trip would be one way to promote some healing in our relationship. My cousins weren’t going to arrive until Saturday, so I thought I would have some quality alone time with my daughter Friday evening. But of course she had other plans. I don’t know when I will ever learn that my plans aren’t her plans. She met me for dinner and blazed away when the sun came up.

So Saturday morning I found myself alone in Pagosa Springs. For about ten minutes, I was pissy and considered going home. But I decided to drive out to a Chimney Rock and check it out. I have driven through the southwest corner of Colorado a dozen times or more, but I have never been to Chimney Rock National Monument. The first thing I noticed was people looking through boxes up at the sky. And I remembered the eclipse.

I learned that Chimney Rock may have been built by ancestors of the Pueblo people for sky watching. The area was full of people with cameras pointed at the sky. I purchased the eclipse glasses and joined the party.

Then I made the trek to the top of the mountain to see the kiva ruins. The view was spectacular.

I took it all in and just enjoyed what the day had to offer. I met a couple from Lynchburg, Virginia on a year long tour of America. I met a tarantula on a mad dash away from me. The temperature was perfect and the golden leaves magical. I met my cousins and we had a great evening in a place that over looked a lake with some soaking in the springs and a scrumptious dinner. I love the women in my family. They inspire me with their strength. I wish Darian had stayed, but she has to make her own path.

I am taking the road home slowly, even though I have responsibilities weighing on me. I walked up to Treasure Falls and marveled at the scenery, just in case I never come this way again.

I can give my daughter all the grace in the world. I just hope we both live long enough for her to look through her pain and see the love that I have just for her.

Even though, I don’t remember the first time I went to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, it was a place that I visited several times as a child. I remember my little brother always liked the monkeys and I liked the giraffes and elephants the best. I remember seeing a mouse skirting along the edge of an enclosure and it sparked a story in my head about a free mouse living in a zoo. I remember my mom always a little short of breath with the climb to the carousel. She’d sit on the picnic benches, resting as we whirled around on the painted horses. I always enjoyed my time at the zoo, but I had no idea it would become so important in my life.

When I was a young mom, I didn’t have a lot of money. Someone gave me a zoo membership for Christmas when my son was four months old. Having a place to go, for free, was such a good thing for me at that time. So many days, I packed up a few diapers, a lunch and headed to the zoo. I’d carry my baby through the displays and read the signs to him. The gorilla house was new then and I remember Shayne crawling in front of the windows, then holding on the glass to walk, then running up and down, so excited to see the gorillas. His first sentence was “Tiger sleeping. Night-night.”

Going to the zoo was our thing for a long time. Over the years, I learned the rhythm of the seasons at the zoo. Summers are so busy, but the mist machines are fun and there are face painters and special attractions, like one summer white tigers and another koalas. In the fall, lights for Christmas start being hung and the crowds disappear. The cool crisp days are amazing for animal viewing. People go away and the animals come out. There are always new surprises–no matter the season.

When one of my co-teachers wanted to take the students to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo for an end of the quarter field trip, I said I would plan it. After all, I have been a hundred times, how hard could it be? I’m going to skip that answer; except to say that I don’t love being the point person. The day started out stressful. The dates on the tickets were wrong and we forgot our lunches back at school. But when we got to the zoo, everything fell in place. I was reassured that the ticket thing had happened before and it was easy to remedy. The zoo staff was so welcoming and helpful. They gave us a place to store our lunches (the ones we remembered and the ones that were delivered) and even shuttled everything to us at noon.

The kids were so excited. Many of them had never been to any zoo. One girl was crying because she loves giraffes and never thought she’d see anything that amazing. They fed the giraffes lettuce leaf after lettuce leaf and flattened pennies in the souvenir penny machine and all crowded together on the hippo scale. I didn’t have to do anything all day, but follow along and capture photos of the joy.

In my years of coming to the zoo, I have watched the evolution from animal jail to animal conservation. The cages have come down, the pits filled in, the concrete taken away. On my journey through the zoo this time, I noticed how the bones of the old zoo from my childhood are still there, but only because I know where to look. The last remnants of old are currently being deconstructed, the bear pits and the cages that once held tigers, then monkeys are gone. Also gone is the playground where Shayne learned to climb and jump and then later helped his sister learn to do the same. The carousel I rode on as a child, and my children rode on is also down. I have faith though, that it is being carefully restored and painted for another generation of kids. The construction made me nostalgic, but at the same time, I cannot wait to see what the new plans will bring. I am sure it will be even better than before.

The zoo was a place of wonder for me as a child and a place of peace for me as a young woman. I am so glad that it came back into my life at this stage. I loved watching the magic and contentment touch the lives of my new colleagues and friends.

When I got home, my son was under a blanket. He said the voices were bothering him, making it hard for him to move. I sat on the couch next to him and took his hand. I told him about the field trip to the zoo and a new area was being built. He didn’t say anything for a long time and I thought maybe he didn’t hear me. So often he doesn’t respond to what I say, but later he said, “Maybe there will be a capybara exhibit. Or flamingos. Or a butterfly meadow. We’ll have to check it out.” And he squeezed my hand.

The shadow of the boy I knew is still there, but only because I know where to look. Sometimes I want that time again, but life is hard enough without wanting things in the past. I could spend my energy looking back, but then I would miss out on all the great things right now. I can only move forward, believing that there is more joy to come.

I have always been a morning person. When I was really young, my grandpa came to stay with us for awhile, and he was a morning guy too. I remember coming down the hall, wrapped up in a blanket to watch Andy Griffith, my only choice back in the day. My grandpa was sitting outside saying his morning prayers and the sun was barely peeking above the garden fence. I went outside that morning and sat near him on the low rock wall that lined a path through the lawn and listened to the birds and watched the sky change. It felt powerful. Like all the possibilities for anything were right there.

I think back to the happiest, most creative times of my life and the one theme in common is the early morning, languid starts to the day. I would get up in the dark and listen to the night noises of crickets and spend some time writing or painting and gathering my thoughts for the day.

Lately, I have been using my mornings to work on a memoir. I used to think memoirs were written by aging rock stars who had one good song. But that’s just me hiding behind a joke. All the signs in my life point to–WRITE. So even if no one ever reads it, I am working on my journey through darkness and finding the way to the other side. Sometimes it’s hard to get the words on the page, not because they aren’t there, but because they are there too much. Allowing them to spill forth takes a lot of strength.

I just finished teaching a literature unit about memoir in my curriculum. It was from Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson. She is a writer and wrote a memoir about her childhood in Brooklyn and South Carolina. She writes about her grandfather and her memories of spending time with him and a lot of other kid memories of family and games and the early love of words and stories. She writes in verse, but it isn’t rhyming and cutesy. It’s lyrical and powerful, even haunting. I don’t know if my students loved it, but I did. It was familiar and inspired me to keep working on my own words on the page.

I went to Antonito a few weekends ago. My aunt and uncle were parade marshals at the Labor Day parade. I stood on the corner with my cousins to wave like crazy when Uncle Bobby and Aunt Orlinda drove by. Then I spent the afternoon hanging with my family. We sat in chairs in the front lawn and talked of old times. I have so many memories of growing up in that front yard next to the train tracks. I asked my cousins if they’d ever move back. They said no. I never lived in Antonito. But I would. I would buy one of those old buildings on Main Street and paint the story of the Taylor’s on the brick wall across from my Grandpa’s old shoe shop and I would get up early and write until the sky got its color.

Maybe that day is coming. Right now though, I am just enjoying this time of reflection and peace. I am soaking in the morning light and trying to listen to what the universe is giving me now.

When I was in Michigan a few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit the Henry Ford Center. I was unexpectedly blown away to see all the cars that basically shaped the twentieth century, but I was also really impressed with the mission to carry on Ford’s legacy of innovation and creativity. The day we were at the center, we saw a glass blower and a weaver. The center embraces that art is the birthplace of innovation.

I learned that there was a high school on the campus. Just because I was so intrigued, I looked it up and saw there was an English opening. It felt like a dream job, high school English in a place focused on the power of creativity. While I was in Detroit, I put in an application.

The Henry Ford Academy called to offer me an interview. Of course they did, because this is how my life works. I have to say, at any other time in my life, I would have been over the moon with a chance at such an opportunity, but I declined the interview. For the first time, in a very long time, I am happy. I feel like I am exactly in the place I need to be.

I finished my first full week of the new school year teaching middle school language arts at Harrison K-8. I am happy to report that I didn’t have any panic attacks and that none of my days ended in tears. My teammates are wonderful and everyone has been warm and welcoming. So far the kids have been great and I am enjoying my days. I come home and have the energy to go for a walk, or ride my bike, or work on a project. I am so used to just surviving, that this new feeling of contentment is hard to trust. But I am trying to soak in this new place of joy.

The first unit of the literature series that I am to teach is about childhood. As I have been preparing for the unit, I have been reflecting about the year when I was in sixth grade. I remember it as my favorite year of school. Ironically, I was at Harrison then too, the old, original Harrison site when sixth grade was still part of elementary. The new wing had opened the year I was in sixth grade, so my classroom was brand new and had a feeling of modernness that the rest of the building didn’t have. I was so excited ti be in a new space.

I had the best teachers that year. My home room teacher discovered that I could type and she let me skip spelling and work on my stories. She told me that I was a born writer. She also taught us art, not crafts with construction paper, but drawing with perspective. She laughed aloud at my comic strips about sarcastic soccer balls. I wonder what happened to those; I would like to read them again. My reading teacher handed out McDonald’s gift cards for perfect tests and completed book summaries. Most of the work was independent and I blazed through it, so I could just read. I remember reading Gone With the Wind that year and The Outsiders, and Summer of the Monkeys. I kept my family in free fries, milkshakes, and apple pies. My math teacher had a big booming voice and he told stories and showed us how math was used to build skyscrapers and highways. He made me care about math for life.

Sixth grade put the whole idea that maybe I could be a writer or an artist or maybe a teacher in my head. I was always a good student, but sixth grade opened up my thirst for creativity and pushed me to excel. Because I became so invested as a student that year, my parents made a decision to send me to private school in seventh grade. So while all my friends were talking about going to school downtown with lockers and bells and sports, I was getting ready for uniforms, nuns, and meeting girls from all over the world. My years in private school are a story for another day, but I often see that leaving public school at the end of sixth grade was a road that probably took me to an entirely different destination than if I had joined the kids at Canon City Junior High.

I did eventually walk through the halls of public middle school, but as a student teacher. I was teamed with mid-career teachers who were passionate and having fun everyday. All the middle school teachers would crowd in an old supply closet for lunch and laugh and joke. It honestly felt like a big family. Everyone was warm and welcoming and went out of their way to help me. I felt supported and part of something great. Maybe that’s why middle school has always felt like home for me.

When I left teaching middle school, I was ready for a change. Art was a good fit for me, but I never felt completely comfortable at the elementary level. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the kids and made some life long friends with coworkers. I know I influenced literally hundreds of kids, but there were always things at the elementary level that made me feel impatient and antsy. I used to think that part of me had a middle school rebel brain that couldn’t be turned off.

My years of personal trauma have left me shattered and shell shocked inside. For a long time, everyday felt like a battle. I got up and tried to push all the feelings, memories, pain away, so that I could move ahead. But pushing away the fog just made it swirl around me more, trapping me, confusing me about the path forward. Traveling through the fog and trying to teach lead me to a place where I didn’t think I could move anymore. I felt frozen in a space with danger all around me.

Even though, I have spent a lot of time working on healing, I am not there yet. I was so scared to go back into the classroom this year. I didn’t want to be frozen again. When I stepped into the middle school at Harrison, I was embraced with warm, exuberant, vibrant welcomes. It reminded me of how I felt when I first stepped into a middle school setting all those years ago.

On the first day, I sat in the cafeteria at the “new” Harrison, next to my old middle school colleague and listened to my new administrator talk about the theme of the school year–Into the Storm. He told us that American bison stick together and meet storms head on, while cattle turn away from storms and often get lost or separated from their herds and don’t survive. I know he was making a metaphor about facing the school year together and meeting the challenges head on, but the metaphor was exactly what I needed. It made so much sense to me. The fastest way to get out of the storm is to go through it. Stay close to the herd. Feel. Experience. Run to. Not away. Go through. Not around. Get to the other side. Reach for the sun.

Into the Storm. A metaphor for a new way of traveling.

Last night I went to the high school football game. Just inside the gates of the stadium were three men who were part of the original middle school team when I student taught. They each have given me advice, served as my mentors, made me laugh, made me feel welcome. I went over to say hi. They greeted me with hugs and huge smiles, and it felt like a sign for me. They were there at the beginning when I was starting my journey and they were there again last night, cheering me onward.

Maybe the eye of the storm is calm. Maybe that’s where I really am. Maybe the wind and peril and confusion are still out there. I don’t know. I just know for the first time in a long time, I feel like there might be an end to the storm. I have found my herd again and I know the path forward.

When I was a kid,, back to school clothes were a big deal. Mom and I would go to Pueblo and do all the stores. I remember going through the stacks of shirts at KMart, and pants at Germer’s and hitting the mall. I’d get everyday stuff and usually a new dress for picture day, and new shoes, and a lot of times a new coat too. I’d lay all my clothes out on my bed and take off the tags. Mom would always wash them first to get off the store cooties, but I’d hang up my first day outfit in the closet because I wanted it to have that fresh, crisp newness to it. Even after I started going to Catholic school and wore a uniform, Mom and I’d still go back to school shopping and I’d get shoes and some clothes for dances and weekends. When I started student teaching, Mom went with me to Haven’s downtown and bought me a blue dress that is still hanging in my closet, because I can’t let go of that memory.

At some point in my life, I gave up going back to school shopping for myself. I had to buy school clothes for my kids and pay bills and a mortgage and shopping for myself just became totally unnecessary. Plus as an art teacher, all my clothes had paint on them anyway. Last year, when I left the art classsroom, I knew I needed some new clothes, so I went thrift store shopping with my daughter. She sat me down and asked me about what I liked. Here’s how that conversation went.

“I like soft things.”

“Good, you should touch the clothes, because texture is the most important because that’s what you said first. “

“I also hate sleeves, high waists, floral prints, animal prints, plaid, and button down blouses. And collars. I hate collars on shirts. ”

She stared at me, and then she sighed and said, “Fine. Stay here and I will get you some clothes.” And I have to say, she did a fair job because everytime I wear the clothes she picked out, people compliment me. Clothes got fun again.

The school district does a big kick off where all the employees come together on the first day. It’s a time for introductions, information, and inspiration. My first kick off was in 1995, when I student taught. One of my elementary teachers greeted me that day with a hug and welcomed me to the district. I used to enjoy the first day, but over time my joy has eroded. When my parents died, my HR director told me that I could just do what was comfortable for me. I skipped the kick-off. As my trauma continued, walking into the crowd at the beginning of the year became like its own little source of trauma.

I was completely overwhelmed about everything about going back to school, especially the kick-off. I am afraid of having panic attacks again. I am afraid of the conversations of why I left, why I am back. I am afraid of meeting new people and being in a new building and managing all the balls that get thrown everyday. I am afraid that I am too shattered to put myself together and be everything I need to be to do this job. My new principal had asked us to wear purple to the first day kick off. So I was also was worried that I didn’t have anything to wear. A trip to the mall seemed like the way to handle it all–instead of overthinking back to school, I overthought purple.

For the record, I don’t hate purple, but I have opinions about it that aren’t necessarily flattering and it is not my go to color. I decided I wanted to wear purple camouflage pants to school the first day. Since I have to touch the clothes first, on line shopping isn’t my first choice. I set off on a pretty impossible task to find purple camo pants locally. Of course, I couldn’t. And after checking an Army supply store and taking in the rows of camouflage clothes and posters of soldiers and weapons, I decided that camo could be perceived as symbolically representing going into battle and that is not the attitude I want to convey. I did say I overthought this, didn’t I?

Next I tried a Western boutique that I have been in before. It has a classy, but comfortable vibe and the salespeople are nice. I bought a very nice blouse with an almost watercolor looking flower print, even though I HATE button downs and floral prints. I also bought a purple tank top and some gray soft brushed denim pants with purple flowers embroidered on the pockets. A whole outfit. I could have been done, but I wanted shoes. And I needed make up and a new lanyard. So I went to the mall.

I was still thinking about purple camo, so I went into Hot Topic when I got to the mall. On the sales rack was one pair of purple plaid pants. I spotted them immediately and they were my size, so I tried them on. I could see with the right shirt and belt, that I could pull them off, even though the phrase “clown pants” went through my head. Perfect for school spirit day. I felt a little ridiculous, buying pants at a store for edgy teens. But I felt like I was ready for school as far as purple went.

The morning of the kick off, I put on my new flower purple shirt, and brushed denim pants and looked at myself in the mirror. Flowers. Buttons. A collar. I couldn’t. I took it off. I looked in my closet and found my Prince T-shirt. It sort of worked with the gray pants, but I hate the texture of it and I didn’t know if wearing a rock music t-shirt was a good first day look. I didn’t want to look too casual, like I don’t care about the first day of school. So I took the T-shirt off and looked in my closet for a purple flowy top that I remembered I had. Technically it’s more of a purple sage. Okay, so gray. It also has spaghetti straps. I didn’t want bra straps peeking out, so I tried some brand new silicone breast petals that I have never worn. I read the directions and sort of wondered what sort of gravitational force held them to the skin. I also wondered if I wore them to school if they’d fall off. Maybe they’d come lose with sweat and slide down my body and fall to the floor in front of everyone. Oh great. I had just given myself something else to overthink. I tried on the new purple tank top, with a real bra and realized that the clown pants might work. I put them on. I looked like Donny Osmond. Flashy, yet wholesome.

Because I had spent so much time getting dressed, I walked into the kick off with minutes to spare. Before I had time to overthink where to sit, my old elementary teacher, a board member now, came up to me. She gave me a hug and said, “Welcome back.” It was like full circle. I can’t say it took away all my anxiety, but it did make me remember that I was home with my friends who love me. It reminded me of my old excitement and stirred some sort of forgotten passion. I know the purple pants aren’t magical, but all day I felt okay. Actually happy, and that is magical. I am ready to let go of the fear and step into what comes next.

My son turned thirty. Since his diagnosis, birthdays have been turbulent. As a young boy he got a heavy dose of goal setting in school and set goals for himself for every year of his life. In some ways, the goals were impossible to achieve in the best of circumstances. For example, one of goals was to run an ultra marathon by the time he was eighteen. Most organized ultra marathons don’t even let kids participate. When the voices started hijacking his life, each birthday became a symbol of another year of failure. We have had more than one birthday with him in a full on psychotic break and missing. There was the catatonic birthday and the birthday that included a grid search for his body. So I was nervous about thirty.

But turning thirty was uneventful. He sent me a picture of a house on Zillow. The house was in Detroit. The text read, “Unless you are buying me this house, for my bday, I’d be happy with seeing Mission Impossible.” We went to the movie and then joined the day drinkers at Old Chicago for an early dinner. The server brought a cookie and a scoop of ice cream and the bar joined in singing the birthday song. When we got home, he went to bed, exhausted from the effort of being a person with a birthday. I sat on the front porch. I didn’t think about HOW I have a child who is THIRTY, instead I thought about my own thirtieth birthday.

Thirty is too young for a mid-life crisis. But I sort of had one at thirty. I woke up one morning and decided that instead of bitching about my life, I should change it. I wrote a resignation letter, sold my stuff and left Alamosa. I was a single mother of a kid about to start kindergarten, but I didn’t doubt that I’d be okay. I also had my parents, so it wasn’t like I was taking a giant leap without a safety net.

I have thought about that decision more than once. The ability just to trust in a giant leap of faith. I am more educated, have more money in the bank, and my kids are grown more or less. I could do the same thing now, except that I can’t. My ability to trust in the universe has been damaged and my safety net has been repaired with off brand tape. In fact, some days I feel like I have fallen into the net and am struggling to be free from the ropes and tape and all the debris that has collected over the years.

A few weeks ago I went to Albuquerque. I did the round trip adventure in one day. I am not a long haul driver and I get sleepy driving. On the way home, my mom was in the cab of the truck with me. I didn’t have a vision or anything, I just felt her there. She was there to keep me company, to keep me safe. I could feel it. Then on the way back from Detroit, I pulled over on two separate occasions because my eyes were closing and I just couldn’t stay focused. I fell into deep, deep sleeps and my dad came to me in both. In one he was helping me cross the sand dunes as I carried a baby in my arms. In the next, he was coming to pick up a friend; he stopped by for a visit. He told me that everything was fine and he was there, I’d be okay. It’s time to fly.

I have been thinking about the flying thing. I know what it means. My dad was a paratrooper. He made combat jumps in the Korean War and Viet Nam. Once on a road trip, he told me about the training and tests he took to become a jumper. He said sometimes in the battles, he saw lights, like angels, showing him the path.

So while I was at the movies celebrating with my son, all my Pueblo friends were back at school getting ready for the new kids. I think I feel guilty for leaving Park View. I loved those kids and know I made a difference. And not everybody chooses to work in that neighborhood. I want the best for them, yet I know in my heart that I needed something a little easier, a little lighter, for my own mental health.

Teaching is not easy or light anywhere. I have agonized and agonized over my decision to go back into the classroom at all. I am doing another year. Just language arts. It feels feel full circle. My first year as a teacher; I taught sixth grade language arts. I know I can use my art skills and get kids to connect to words and stories and build their confidence with writing,. I’ll be in a building with strong women who have been my rocks on this journey. I can ride my bike to work and the view from this school is the best in town. I will be closer to home, so maybe I can help Shayne stay on his meds and keep the voices from domination. For myself, I am going back to college to get some graphic arts skills. It’s time to focus on the things I want in my life and go get them. My dad is right. It’s time to fly.

Detroit is not a day time city and it doesn’t do Mondays at all. In fact, I found the emptiness kind of eerie, like a ghost town of skyscrapers. There were no people in business suits rushing off to work. There are no corner markets, or Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner. The traffic lights are working, but there’s no reason to wait for a walk sign. There are no cars coming. I saw one jogger and and a few street people out and about, early like us. One man hit us up for spare change. Shayne gave him two dollars and then they struck up a full blown conversation about life on the street. Shayne told him that he’d been homeless before and then they prayed together. I watched this unfold. I can barely get my son to say two words in a row to me most days.

We discovered this thing called “the people mover” which is a train that loops the downtown, but high in the sky. The stations are full of art and there are great views of the street murals. I was super excited, snapping photos, and then I saw the baseball stadium and I wanted to get off and go see it. There was a woman laying on the sidewalk, completely passed out. Shayne said, “This is so sad. We can’t just leave her here.” He actually watched her for a full minute to see that she was breathing and then took his sweatshirt off, and put it on top of her. I snapped photos of the giant tigers in front of the stadium, but couldn’t get the woman on the street off my mind.

After spending a long time getting off and on the people mover, we decided to go to the Henry Ford museum. While waiting at the bus stop, an older man came over with a shopping cart and a random metal pole, like maybe part of a tent. He commented on Shayne’s green t-shirt, which was covered in paint. He has other clothes, but he almost always looks like he purposely took his clothes from the garbage pile. Shayne asked the man a question about brown pants which made no sense. But the man answered and they had a little chuckle.

I got on the bus and I was going to tell Shayne that he didn’t have to engage with every homeless, crazy person that we met, but then I swallowed my words. He was being nice and genuinely interested and what was it really hurting. When our stop came, the man’s metal pole got stuck in the door way and he couldn’t get his shopping cart out of the tram. People started cursing and yelling. Shayne turned back and dislodged the pole and got the cart down onto the ground. We missed our connecting bus, but I decided that it didn’t really matter. The museum would still be there. We got Detroit pizza and sat in the sunshine instead.

The restaurant was in the theater district, which I guess has the second most theater seats in the United Staes. The Fox. The Fillmore. The Gem. These buildings were built when money was flowing. There is marble and brickwork that is unbelievable. The word that came to mind was opulent. I felt like I was on a scene of a movie. A dystopian flick. The war is over. The city didn’t burn, but most of the people did. The survivors are still emerging from the shadows to see what can be salvaged.

Shayne said he liked Detroit. He said it felt like the place that he belonged. I could see it too. There was a light in him that I haven’t seen in a long time. I like Detroit too. It doesn’t feel like home to me, but I understand it. It’s a place with a rich history, but has seen its share of darkness and pain. It’s just trying to figure out how not to wallow in the despair and find the light for what is next.

My very first memory is riding on my dad’s back as he waxed his 50’s era Chevy truck. It was turquoise and white. I can still picture the gleam of the chrome on that summer day. I spent half my childhood sitting next to my dad handing him tools while he worked on a vehicle. I can never remember a time in my life when I didn’t love cars. Going to Detroit has always been on my secret bucket list.

I was ready to turn around and go home yesterday, or maybe end the trip in Chicago. I told my son what I was thinking and he said, “I want to go to Detroit.” He rarely offers an opinion. So I asked him why. He said, “Because I don’t want you to give up on your dreams.” I wouldn’t say Detroit is a dream, but it was definitely a destination on my mind.

For all my friends and family freaking out, I am aware of Detroit’s reputation as a dangerous city. I just spent a year in Pueblo which actually ranks higher on the danger scale. I figure I have traveled enough to keep myself safe and so we left Iowa City headed east not west.

A few things happened on the way. First off, we detoured and backtracked to see the future birthplace of James T. Kirk.

Then we pulled way off the interstate for an emergency bathroom spot. This trip has made me seriously wonder about adult diapers. Believe me, that’s not something I really have wondered about before! We spent thirty dollars on gas and snacks and won twenty-five on a scratch ticket, so that felt lucky. Then we stopped off at Indiana Dunes. I am also trying to see all the sand dunes in America. The sand is soft and warm, but didn’t feel as magical as other dunes I have explored. I guess because these dunes are up against the lake shore and it feels like a beach. In my mind sand goes with water, but it still was nice to walk barefoot and feel the soft texture of the sand sift around my skin. And I have never seen the skyline of Chicago from across the lake. But I definitely didn’t get that powerful feeling of awe as dunes usually leave me with. Instead that came for me later that night when I rolled into Detroit.

Maybe because of doing a lot of backroad driving, I haven’t felt like we have been through major cities on this trip. Detroit is a big city and I was blown away when I got downtown. It was a little like dragging Main, but on steroids. People were cruising in souped up cars with loud reverberating music. People were on the sidewalks waiting to get into clubs or just watching the cars. I could have done some serious car watching myself. I saw one guy driving a Lincoln convertible that was as long as a house. I saw a Caddy with different color doors, and a Charger with the hood taken off on purpose, the engine dazzling under all the neon. I looked over at Shayne and he was soaking it in. For once I could see he was alive, and energized and the pulse of the city brought him closer to the boy I remember. I went to bed, dead tired. So much has happened in three days. I got up once at three in the morning. Shayne was sitting out on the balcony, still taking it all in. I can’t remember when the last time he was so excited and alert.

I am glad that I didn’t turn back. The automotive empire may be gone, but Detroit is still here, tough, bold, and proud. It is learning how to reinvent itself. I cannot wait to see how that unfolds.

One of the goals of this trip was to get to Iowa. I wanted to cross it off my been there, done that state list. I guess I had this illusion that I would stand by the Welcome to Iowa sign and snap a selfie or something. I didn’t know the sign was going to be in the middle of the freaking interstate and I would see it and exclaim–“There it is! I guess we’re in Iowa!”

Iowa has a ton of associations for me. My roommate in college was from Ottumwa, which is also where Radar from MASH was from. My son’s father is from Iowa. My high school bestie went to medical school in Iowa. I could go on. Visiting Iowa has become kind of a quest for me. I have been to all the states around it without ever going through it. Twice I have right on the edge of the border and not crossed the line. I signed up for the Great Bike Ride Across Iowa, but had technical difficulties with registration and just didn’t retry. So getting to Iowa has become like one of those goals, like climbing a fourtteener or running a marathon–hard to accomplish, but maybe worth the effort?

Since getting to Iowa was the THING, I didn’t really have a destination or activity planned. We stopped off at the zoo in Omaha before “crossing the border.” A stop off at that zoo, isn’t just a stop off. The zoo is HUGE and has all the things–rainforests and deserts and insects and water parks. My little boy son would have loved this zoo. My grown up son loved the zoo for about two hours, then I could see that he checked out. Probably too much for him. I also wonder if he brought his medicine. I am not seeing outward signs of him losing his shit, but subtle stuff reminds me that he is fragile. He needs rest and too much stimulation bombards his brain and makes him feel attacked. I haven’t actually seen him physically take his medicine either. I asked him if he brought it. I asked him if he is taking it. Both yeses. But he also tells me what I want to hear. So it’s a strong possibility his pills are on the counter back home. If that’s the case, going home today is probably the plan. However, that MIGHT be difficult.

My tire popped on the interstate yesterday. It’s been a minute since I had a flat, but I do know how to change a tire and I have the tools. A sweet farm kid stopped off and offered to help and I let him because I was pretty sure he’d be faster than me. It happened near a town called Atlantic. Long story short there was no tire to fit my car. I did learn that you can use the INTERNET to search for stores that have the exact tire you need. There were exactly three stores in Iowa with the size of tire I needed. All very far away from Atlantic and only one open on Sunday.

So taking the backroads and driving 45 miles an hour, I set off for Iowa City. At first it was kind of fun, rolling through the green country sides with weathered barns, and rolls of hay, and horses and white tailed fawns standing with their ears up. Shayne and I ate a dinner of food I had packed and it was like we were on a picnic in an old timey movie. Shayne said, “Maybe we’ll see the field of dreams out here…” and then we passed a sign labeled Madison County. And he said, “Hey, Bridges of Madison County.” And sure enough we were on the scenic byway for covered bridges.

At any other time in my life, I would have stopped and gone to all six of the existing bridges, but I was driving on a donut in the middle of nowhere. Most of the roads to the bridges are gravel and I was already miles and miles away from my destination. I did take one detour to one bridge which turned out to be on Francesca Lane. We also saw the Warren County Fair and a balloon festival in a field. The balloons weren’t up yet, but a kite flying completion was underway. When the darkness settled in, I was over the backroads, and ready to go home. We made it to Iowa City safely and I had a good night’s sleep and the car tire is being fixed.

We are in a hotel right next to Iowa State. –home of the Jayhawks. The city has a nice vibe. A river. Art. Ducks. Iowa State has an excellent writing program. I sometimes wonder why I didn’t think I could be a writer when I was younger. I have to remind myself to focus on the path that I am on, not the one that I didn’t take. The guy just called to tell me that my car is ready and I noticed that Shayne’s medicine is on the floor next to his bag. I guess trusting the journey is a lesson I am still learning. It really isn’t about where you are going, it’s about how you get there and what you learn on the way.