After a long morning of driving around, running errands in torrential rain in a borrowed truck with a leaky cab, I needed a break. As my Brit friend had sent me a now-due package, I was anxious to scurry to the mailbox, in hopes of a sweetly joyful surprise...

In orange, flat, limp, and soaked from bulbuous raindrops, notice of a package I DID NOT WANT stopped me at the roadside.

10 years, Mark and I had tried; He was an insufferable, Holier Than Thou Confirmed Christian Bachelor, 2 years younger than I. Intellectually my equal, with as deep a yearning to have Gods favor as I've EVER had, Mark felt, for many years, like a kindred spirit.

We met on Yahoo Personals, back when it was free--that's how long we knew each other.

Mark was just starting to court me, when, one lazy Saturday morning telephone conversation was interrupted by my screaming; Daughter Emily, then only about 9 months old, had figured out how to crawl out of her crib, and HAD DONE SO, and come toddling, beaming, into my bedroom.

Mark laughed, I cried, and he later showed up to take us out to Pizza Hut to celebrate, and let my Wee One smear sauce ALL OVER EVERYTHING.

Passion-wise, Mark was a Jekyll and Hyde; Wanting, 1 or 3 times a year to "knock a piece off" after church, his guilt about sex while unmarried ravaged him; Erectile Dysfunction tortured him, charmed me with his fragile vulnerability and elicited creativity from me.

In the most recent of years, though, Mark had become sullen, sarcastic and violent. Little Emm, now about to turn 11, mused this past Christmas that he began to change, when his father was diagnosed with Parkinsons, 3 years ago.

2 years ago on this upcoming 24th of September, Mark surprised me: Upset over ANOTHER late electric bill I could not pay, Mark lashed out at me, leaving 5 distinct fingerprint bruises on my left arm, a torn skirt, and a door window broken, when I'd tried to escape his wrath and he'd thrown something my way, as a deterrant.

As I was accustomed to always doing so, I took responsibility for his out of control behavior, and sought him out to make amends for EMOTIONALLY TORTURING HIM, last Thanksgiving.

Sad to say, this April 8, a SECOND similiar incident occurred; After having been told by a neurologist that, apparently, I had NO brain dysfunction and was, in NO WAY, INFERIOR IN INTELLECT OR FUNCTIONING to ANYONE, Mark lashed out again.

5 fingerprint bruises, this time on MY OTHER ARM...but an elbow in my throat knocked me to the ground, and sent me to the hospital, stunned.

In the months since, I've read every Christian book I could find, on Forgiveness. Local ministers have urged me to just "let him go", and accept him, as part of a FUNCTIONING CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY.

Forgiveness and Stupidity do NOT COHABITATE WELL, in me.

This week, as I began to prepare myself to approach law enforcement and file charges (aggravated assault can be filed, for up to as many as 2 years, under some circumstances, in my state), I spoke to my trauma therapist, about contacting Mark by letter, to regain my possessions. Since he had my passport, it was especially important that I get my stuff back.

Apparently and without notice, Mark was thinking along the same lines; The notice in my mailbox was NOT for the beloved spoon ring that my British suitor has sent to me, BUT a DEMAND for my SIGNATURE.

Mark has sent my things back...and HE IS EXPECTING that, WITH A RETURN RECEIPT SIGNATURE, I will INSINUATE that ALL IS FORGIVEN.

Instead, I'm up, now at 2am......and I am sick with diarrhea and vomiting and I KNOW I am NOT YET READY to just let it all go...

Seems I still recall the curve of his hairy bottom...the arch of his soft white foot..the hair on the chest that comforted me so...

and I cannot yet reconcile it with the man who beat me.

Today, in preparation for friends coming to stay for a visit, in the next few months, 2 friends came over, to help me houseclean. Sherry is THE ULTIMATE "heave-ho" gal; she has NO MERCY, when it comes to getting rid of ANYTHING, that smacks of "bad vibes" or darkness. As a Christian and single Mom, Sherry has the ability to TOTALLY clear a room of bad influences, while having faith that, say, if you were raped in a bed, IT MUST GO, but ANOTHER will be placed, presumably by God, simply as a gracenote or reward, for getting rid of the "dark" object--no matter HOW USEFUL IT WAS.

My other friend, Maggie, is a bit more pragmatic; Maggie took over the kitchen, spraying (albeit, with great economy) bug spray where old roach traps were being eliminated from. She opened and shed light upon the interiors of cabinets and drawers, and, as a result, figuring out where silverware and dishes she cleaned needed to be put back.

The job left to me, while these two did their part, was to go through books and laundry, to figure out what could be sacrificed. As I hoped my budgeting would get better, I had a tough time, parting with my "fat" clothes; I DO love to eat, and my beloved oysters and some of the best of Americas fruits and vegetables are coming into harvest and into the grocers. Hoping I would eat MORE and BETTER, I nonetheless realized that 5 laundry baskets was simply too much for a single woman to own; I filled three large garbage bags full of clothes, quietly tossing them to the curb for their final trip to the Funeral Pire/Dump.

Usually PROUD of my growing and extensive library, I had to face the DARKEST of revelations: My collection of books-numbering, conservatively, 600 texts-WAS COMPRISED OF ABOUT 42% DYSFUNCTION-based books.

As I've recently been shown by neurologists that, all my years of antisocial behavior and reticence to be anywhere NEAR a confident, functional woman was TRIGGERED BY ENVIRONMENTAL INFLUENCES, the stack of "sickie" books tore at my heartstrings.

I gazed upon them, in silent grief, a lump in my throat, unable to speak:
For most ALL MY LIFE, I'd taken the word of aberrantly traited, incestuous parents and unfaithful, polygamous, narcissistic husbands, and READ EVERYTHING I COULD, to fix that about me that was ALLEGEDLY FLAWED and UNACCEPTABLE.

As Sherry realized I was staring at a pile of something, she examined one or two of the volumes: We KNEW they had to go, and THEY NEEDED NOT to be PASSED ON, to others, who might also fall victim to their cruelty.

While there's no doubt, then, in my mind, that it will take awhile-perhaps many years-to crawl out from under the learned negative behaviors I've so thoroughly and willingly displayed, I don't have to look at my bookshelves, ANY MORE, and believe the lies of the Past.

Sometimes, one NEEDS an opportunity, to REFINE and REDEFINE the Self.

When it comes to love, I'm a very skittish sort.  While I want to dive in, headfirst, offering honesty and passion, affection and loyalty, the walls and tests that others put up seem to be game-playing formalities I must run the gamut of, in order to recieve and have the honor of, GIVING love.

That's all a crock of shit, to me.  I've got soft skin and am a great kisser and cuddler;  daughters to friends, lovers to husbands have all admired those qualities of mine.  Ever loyal and to a fault, it's I, that have been cheated on, taken for granted, and basically tested.

Looking back, it's these qualities of softness and loyalty and faithfulness, that constitute the most wonderful, about me.  I don't understand, then, why all of it was tested, by an Ex-husband, who had an affair and a child, with a secretary, then referred to me, as his MOST HONORABLE WIFE.  What was I supposed to call THAT MAN?  THE MOST HONEST of ALL BASTARD HUSBANDS?

These days, I'm looking for someone, as eager as I am, to dispense with the childish prerequisites, and just jump into loving.  I'm good at commitment to a man, and even better, at the loyalty and honor stuff.  I frankly am finding all the emotional flirting and dancing about in the disguise of caution and carefulness, just tedious delaying of love and joy.

Kudos, cuddles, kisses, and more, then, to the man that can move past all this, and just jump into loving.  I've yet to meet him, but gosh, what joy and happy passion awaits!

As I recover from a week of stomach flu, my goals have gotten simpler.  With my energy at a premium, it's all I can do, to sit upright in a chair for 10 minutes at a time, and do ANY ONE THING.  As humility and time teach me lessons in patience, I've been examining what, in my environment, I TRULY NEED, truly WANT to have, in my life and as a part of my surroundings.

Today, I'm trying my best, NOT to look at my collection of Build A Bears.  Begun years ago, when I had to muddle through 10 months of viral pneumonia, my daughters gave them to me, to comfort me when it was too dangerous for me to be around germ-laden humans.

I have come to love them, though I cry, at the sight of them, now.

For the last 9 months or so, my daughters and I have been estranged.  On a night when their father thought his sex life was more important than the illness my daughters had passed onto me, I last saw my daughters.  I was as terrified of their father, as the girls were, of the knife in my hand, that they saw me, trying to use to keep him from violating me.

That night, when my Ex would not take "no" for an answer, when my boundaries were violated and my health, denied importance....that night, when my Ex wanted our 2 preteen daughters in the care of a mother who couldn't even stand up?

That night was the last I saw, of my little girls.

As negotiations have meandered, terribly slowly, through the court system, in hopes of a reconciliation between my daughters and I, their birthdays have approached.  Sure they've grown and changed, in the last several months-as I have-I wonder if their gifted Build A Bears are worth anything.

For me, they are a painful reminder, of a time when I, a mother in her mid-forties, could NOT STOP an man I'd divorced, a decade ago, from micromanaging every hour of visitation I had, with the girls.

For this, I have lost lovers.....for this, I've been burdened, with high drama from a needy man.

For this, Build A Bears are a very sad marker of a time in my life.

Tonight, I'm preparing for an archeological excavation.  Wanting to move to a new residence, I must deal wtih my packrat, hoarding based NON-METHOD of housekeeping.

In order to begin to pack boxes full of what I want to have in the next phase of my life, I must first determine what of my belongings truly ISN'T authentically me.

Having been diagnosed, many years ago, with a fractured, never-fully formed personality, an easy way to clarify and identify myself is to treat my gleaning, housecleaning and packing process, like an ARCHEOLOGICAL DIG.

Even when my now-preteen daughters were 5 and 6, the thought of using formal archeological excavation and salvage techniques was a fun way to approach household piles of messes.

Basically, the procedure is to take one clearly defined, limited area and clear it, layer by layer, top to bottom.  The final step is to thoroughly clean and leave the cleared area in the best, most well-preserved condition possible, hoping to match the original condition it was found in, before messes and hoards of goods inhabited it.

I've lived in this house for 6 years.    With hardwood floors, cabinets and paneling, copious amounts of Murphys Oil Soap and torn shirts to be used as cleaning rags will be necessary.  They and trash bags and sorting boxes will be my tools, facilitating the discovery process.

What information am I hoping to reveal?  For one thing, just how many Bibles (one of my many collections) do I actually HAVE?  As I determine whether I like photography or nonfiction writing more, my home archeological dig findings should tell me, with certainty, which of these creative outlets has at least produced more product.

A question of weighed risks is already surfacing.  As an epileptic that has been seizure-free for over a decade, am I secure enough with my muscle control and functioning, to keep and begin to use the smoky glass tumblers a now-deceased neighbor gave me?  If not, the choice to give them to someone else will shed subtle insight, on both my eccentricities AND insecurities.

As a friend on another continent has promised me a long-ached for face to face visit in 7 weeks' time, I wonder if this season of discovery and refinement will lead to a time of joyful revealing, as my outward nature is examined.

Like the broadway musical character Pippin, I too, have "...wanted magic shows and miracles, mirages to touch...".  In the end of the stage show by the same name, Pippin himself learns a lesson I'm heeding here:

"....I wanted such a little thing from life
I wanted SOOO MUCH!.."

He finally concludes, revealing what gift his own process of discovery showed him:

"....Well, I wanted worlds to paint
and costumes to wear!

I think it WAS HERE
'cuz it NEVER WAS OUT THERE".

Like Pippin, I hope my journey of discovery reveals lovely opulence in my life, too.

Sometimes, the heart DOES just need a second chance;  Tonight, lessons from my own experiences are benefitting the newest addition to my household.

When I went to meet the dog advertised on the Save A Pet website as "Peanut", I honestly didn't have much faith in him.  Based on my having succumbed to stereotypes, I kinda figured that any dog with such a name had to be a playful airhead, who'd just as soon wrestle with any one of the neighborhood stray dogs, as give an owner the time of day.

Knowing, however, what it's like to be underestimated, I was willing to meet this young man.  Mind you, I wanted a companion for Ruby, but her OWN airhead tendencies don't need to be encouraged;  "Peanuts" wasn't going to get away with too much, based on my predetermined level of scrutiny.

Thank God, I know a thing or two about noise and chaos!  With a few other dogs in the house "Peanuts" had temporary residence in, he wasn't particularly pleased to be distracted from wrestling with a terrier mix that was chasing him about the main room.  Seeing my veterinarian friend Maggie and I approach, he let out a low but decidedly annoyed snarl, and disappeared out of reach.

Between all the animals in one room and the well-meaning owners' apparent oblivion to the stench of urine, it occurred to me that "Peanuts" was the calmest and quietest animal in the room...

HUMAN or CANINE.

Despite barely glancing at him, I realized this little man, despite all the activity of human, canine and feline, HADN'T BARKED.   Instinctively, I realized that, as I'd historically had a nasty habit of 'acting out" in the midst of noise and negative influences, "Peanuts" was probably doing the VERY SAME THING.

I COULDN'T GET HIM OUT OF THERE, FAST ENOUGH.

Like myself, "Peanuts" calmed in the quieter environment of my little cottage.  While dog Ruby alternated between exuberance at having a new house canine companion and ABJECT JEALOUSY, this new little man explored his new environs, without so much as a grunt in the direction of Rubys' angst and drama.

Like myself, then, he needed PEACE.  Within his first three hours, he was allowing me to remove a restrictive harness prior owners had used to keep him from forging ahead during walks:  On leash and collar with me, he didn't do this at all, staying right by my side in the drizzling darkness.  As the border collies across the street, the chihuahua down the block and the 2 juvenile black labs next door barked out a cacophanous and cautious warning welcome, my new companion observed it all studiously and silently.

At my best and past my own nervousness, I don't make a lot of noise either.  When i realized my best required a change of environments, it became simple, to pass the blessing lesson on, to those I care about.

As I changed my own name, when I discovered MY BEST SELF, I gave "Peanuts" the opportunity to do the same.  Sitting outside in the remnants of Tropical Storm Fay, I recited a litany of names, til "Peanuts" responded to one....

and he's decided he's "Sammie" now.

Well, I FINALLY got around to it:  I faced the numbers on my bank account....And found I'd, out of parnoia, protectively SAVED nearly $200.00 this month, rather than OVERDRAWING.

For weeks, now, I've been monitoring how much toilet paper I use.  Never mind, whether it's two-ply or 1 ply or polka-dot!  Food stamps don't pay for paper goods, so things like that have to come out of my $600.00 monthly income....

And two hours ago, accompanied by a breeze courtesy of Tropical Storm Fay, I walked to the nearest retail store-a tiny little American "dollar"-type store, replete with generic supplies of all kinds-and spent over 90 minutes, perusing the aisles.

"Need", I kept repeating;  "What is a NEED"? 

$31.26 later, I crossed a vacant lot on my way home, laden with three plastic sacs full of staples.  Grabbing an extra sunny yellow bag before leaving the stunned saleslady with a smile (hey, I even got some trail mix with chocolate bits in it-God sure allowed CHOCOLATE to make the necessities list!), I stopped at a lone pear tree I'd discovered on one of my walks, and quietly picked 12 small but sweetly soft greeen orbs for display and delight, in my little living room.

Yesterday, after reading of my shame over my innocent state, my crochet friend Jo mused at my writing talent, but yearned for a happy story....

How simply delightful it was, today, to read the labels of the various laundry detergents, and know my fondness for reading both ingredients AND numerical values would enable me to find a lavender-scented laundry cleaner with the most economical number of loads available, within my price range.

Grateful and mindful that I have a companion, Rubys needs didn't go unattended to:  I found chicken and sweet potato jerky dog chews in a sampler size of a dozen for less than $2.00, and a stuffed fleece fish toy with a squeaker that she can take naps with, for only a few pennies.

Nearly, though, I broke into tears, when I stumbled upon a 21 oz can of a dusty memorial of my childhood:  My Grandma Lils beloved "Bon Ami" cleanser for pots and pans was less than $2.00, and a much needed item, prior to packing away for safekeeping skillets and other cookware I rarely use.

Now that I'm home, I realize that few adults ever take such langorous stock of the stuff of daily housekeeping.  I know that I hold holy, the patterned toilet paper I DID purchase, as well as the blank prayer journal that I allowed myself.....

You can bet the first entry in THAT, will be a praise to God, for success in figuring out just how rich I truly am.

It's hard to let go, sometimes.  Other times, though, when things we value are being destroyed as fast as they are discovered, it's a lot easier.

Sophie, the dog mentioned in the blog before this one, had begun to destroy my clothing.  For 2 weeks, she'd taken dresses and underthings out of the laundry, and eaten holes into all.  I've no budget for clothing, and it seemed nothing was sacred to her.

Sophie, last week, was exchanged by a no-kill shelter, for the little lady you see here.

Born on Valentines Day, RubyBluz shares my birthday.  As I'd heard that chihuahuas were protective, I thought she might be just the security I needed, in a house where I'd been assaulted and raped, on three different occasions in just as many years.

I like CUDDLY dogs, though;  an anorexic chihuahua sure didn't seem like my idea of THAT!

As her first week here at Quarter Acre Wood ends, Ruby is proving to be JUST CUDDLY ENOUGH.  She's spirited and polite, but all purposeful;  her 3lbs prances from back door to front, surveying the property, and checking on my level of serenity and calm.  Unlike Sophie, she's most content, when I'm writing or reading, as I'm in one place and settled;  my kitchen and laundry duties take me to various rooms, and she isn't so calm, when I'm moving about.

Surprisingly, she doesn't bark that much;  While she's shown an adverse suspiciousness to men with facial hair, she greets Meals on Wheels volunteers (being handicapped, I qualify for this service) by dancing at the door all excitedly, as I check in with them and thank them for their kindness.

Ruby doesn't like seeing me touched;  she warns EVERYONE who comes, that they must clear her security check FIRST, before they are welcome in our home.

She's already taken charge of the house, and those three pounds have made me feel more secure than any larger dog EVER did.

Funny, how God can pack so much discipline and loyalty, into someone so very tiny.

It's 4am on a Saturday, and I'm happily awake.  This week has been filled with drama, triggered by the playboy-irresponsible machinations of an Ex-husband who wouldn't grow up and take responsibility for my preteen daughters;  a court hearing was held, and the results have drained me, even more than the very hearing itself.

Having been preparing intellectually and emotionally for this melodrama for a few weeks now, I've been neglecting my housework and other relationships;  when someone has reached their saturation point with one's neglect, however, attention-seeking behavior is sure to follow......

I honestly DON'T think what has transpired the last 24 hours was my dog Sophie's preferred manner, of getting my attention.

I found Sophie, a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen of 53 weeks in age, in a local shelter, at the end of this past May.  Admittedly, she didn't seem terribly bright when I got her, compared to other dogs in my history, but I loved her looks and settled in, for having an average fluffball, that would share my antique bed and my newly acquired thrift store purchased loveseat.

Sophie, it seems, has adopted, with a great deal of cynical humor, my quintessential single ways.  In doing so, she has proceeded to challenge my values!  If I was paying too much attention to cable television,  Sophie was quick to attempt to treat the cable remote like a doggie candy bar;  teeth marks also have appeared on expensive leather-bound diaries and schedule books, and I can only be grateful that my favorite 35mm SLR camera is mainly a heavy metal model, so far impervious to her oral displays of jealousy.

This week, though, Sophies behavior got WORSE;  by Wednesday, I was convinced I had the worst-behaved dog in my county, probably my state.  I planned on asking a single veterinarian friend of mine if SHE might help me find a more suitable home for Sophie...

Alas, before I could have that conversation, Sophie demonstrated pain and illness;  by Friday afternoon, I was gratefully pumping this curmudgeon of a canine, with Clavamox antibiotics, and stroking her fur, as I quietly held her and apologized for not giving the girl the time and attention that might have aborted the pain her urinary tract infection obviously has had her in, all week.

After having fallen asleep with her on that too-short loveseat, I awakened at 3am, to find Sophie trying to climb off my lap;  by the time I realized what was happening, I was sitting upright on one end of that loveseat, while Sophie sardonically proceeded to chomp down on a pink baseball cap my youngest daughter had given me, and I'd really not liked, anyway.

As I write this, I know that I have found a match in temperament;  when I see my vet friend Maggie today, I'll NOT be talking to her, about GIVING SOPHIE AWAY.  Instead, I plan on speaking in hushed, grateful tones, of this now companion canine daughter, who has my sense of the irreverent, loves the creature comforts of antique beds, and who thinks chicken noodle soup is the very thing humans should give a neglected and sick canine.

I am privileged to have Sophie;  I am privileged, to find such a soulmate in love. 

Dear Dear World and God;

I understand why, every now and then, some choose to fast.  The deprivation of food was actually THE EASY fast;  doing without television and radio, or outbound telephone calls has been truly humbling.  I had no idea, how all that noise masked the loneliness I've felt.

Now, though, I have RESPECT.  I sit here, writing the best writings I've done in months, knowing that I can hear The Divine, rather than commercials for mass produced distractions.  It hasn't occurred to me, to check to compare my bossom to anyone elses', I have luxuriated, over the feel of foam as I did my dishes, in preparation for this time..

The physical fast has been challenging;  I don't like a dull headache, all around, and yet, at some point, I had to let go of the tension that produces many of them.  This also meant letting go of analyzing other peoples' motives, when I didn't want to face my own.

I have found compassion and a slowness to criticize;  I've found that I'm not so willing to be who I am not.  I have found that music is the red-headed woodpecker, knocking for food on the telephone pole outside my bedroom window, and I love that cacophony so much better than any Buddy Rich drum solo...

I understand, too, that to repeat this fast too often, would be to lose the spiritual and thought-insight I've gained.  As I was bulimic in my teen years, this cannot become a way of purging or self-mutilation..

I understand now, that if tv and multimedia go away, I can subsist on so little.

There is so much more to life, than what I have done without..

Like my crochet, my life is varied and full, colorful and rich.