It started with a lie. Actually, it never really started. My battery wasn’t the problem; it was simply my starter. I tried to explain to the repair shop foreman that my battery wasn’t very old. He didn’t listen. When I tried to tell him again that I was pretty sure it wasn’t my battery, he said I didn’t know what I was talking about. I was stuck. I’d arrived by tow truck.

He said they would look at it and let me know. Go have a seat. Off I ambled to the designated waiting area. There was one couple already waiting. There was the smell of a neglected coffee pot and standard waiting-room, flat-screen blaring sports. It was the first Saturday of the year, the day after New Year’s Day Friday. Most people were on a mid-winter break. People seemed stunned, extra holiday dazed.

The couple left after about twenty minutes. I can do my job remotely so I just started looking at work emails and drafting answers. Time slipped off into work mode. Another customer wandered in and then another.

Someone from the dealer’s staff checked on the coffee and began to half-way start a fresh pot. I looked at the time. I walked back over to ask the foreman how it was going. Apparently, the mere sight of me walking back towards his desk annoyed him. He just shook his head like I needed more than words and turned his back. I ignored him ignoring me.

 I told the foreman that I really wanted to be able to communicate more effectively with him. I asked him if there was another way for me to explain myself. He looked at me like I’d asked him if he wanted a scoop of poop ice cream. Asking him for an update was apparently almost an Original Sin.

And that is how the first Saturday of this New Year started, or like I said when I started writing this, it never really started.

The car did get fixed. It turns out that the battery wasn’t dead. I found that out today when I took it off the floorboard of my back seat into the auto repair shop where I’d bought it a year and a half ago.They tested it and it wasn’t dead. I’d been lied to.

I want to start my New Year over, so for me it hasn’t started. That is my starter lie. I am starting over.

Thirty years condensed into thirty minutes (plus two hours)

Yesterday, I visited with a friend that I had not seen for over 30 years. She and I met when I was a freshman in college. She was 1 year older and wiser.

We sat together over a leisurely breakfast and tried to catch up on each others lives in about two short hours. She started by reminding me of two things that she remembered that had happened during the two years we shared in college, the reasons why she still felt connected to me.

Big things can happen when you are youngish. People that you love can suddenly, unexpectedly die. We briefly touched on those goose-bumpy memories. I got teary-eyed.

Next, she wanted to know how I had landed in the mountains. She was genuinely entertained by my stories of living in an isolated, off-grid log cabin with no running water at 9,000′ for six years. She smiled hearing my tales from working at Caribou Ranch Recording Studio and which famous rock stars I had cooked for and driven to perform concerts at Red Rocks.

We traded abbreviated versions of our adult lives. We swapped life-stories; the good, the bad, the happy, the sad. We are both divorced, have children in their 30’s, and have grandchildren that we adore. We are both happy, healthy and grateful.

I am writing to encourage anyone who reads this to look up long-lost friends and reconnect. She looked me up and found me on Linked-In. After a few emails and a phone call, we discovered that we were going to be in the same area at the same time.

It was well worth the effort. She told me the part of those stories that I was not aware of. The way she retold them; I was a hero. Wow, I had no idea. Thanks friend!

Great-Grandmother Cavazos explained that when a girl had the burden of a sad heart the best way to help was to braid her hair. That way, the pain will stay in the braid and not spread to the rest of the body. Be careful that the sadness does not escape. Keep it simple but tight. Quietly hum while you braid, it gently soothes the sorrow into place.

If pain lodges in your eyes; they will rain burning tears.
If it lands on your lips; they will speak unkind things that are not truthful.
If it gets on your hands; it will scorch your coffee and burn your toast.
Sadness seeps in like an offensive odor and leaves a bitter after-taste.

When you see sadness, braid it.
If you sense it, braid it.
Catch the pain and lock it in.
If you don’t know how to braid, learn.

You are capable of everything.
Your roots are as strong as a century-oak; its shade a sheltering sanctuary.
Leaf-piles are alive with possibility.
Little acorns patiently await their future.

Release the desperate grip of melancholy, even if it comes from a lonely heart and the intense ache from the longing for your loved-ones.

Do not let it corrode you into deep ruts, dividing your body from your soul.

Step-up; away from sorrow, step-up; away from sadness.
Wake to the birdsong of the new morning; hear the sounds of your new day.

Learn to braid away pain and set your spirit free.

I am sitting on a couch I like, in the home I love. I have loved this place for thirty years. Can one love a house, a home, a place? This is the house that I had offered to rent for a month to neighbor-friends almost exactly one year ago. They were going to sell their house and begin to adventure across the states. I own two places. One on an island, where they were my neighbor-friends and one in the Rockies. They wanted to kick-off their fantasy adventure with an entire month backpacking in the mountains. They knew I had a Colorado home that I occasionally rented to select guests. We emailed one another about the possibilities. It never happened. They thought it would expend too much of their allocated travel budget. I’d occasionally see them around the neighborhood and we would exchange warm greetings. I didn’t see them at the annual neighborhood holiday party. I heard he had been diagnosed with cancer. I saw them walking up from the beach a few months ago. I barely recognized him. We stopped and chatted briefly. She sounded optimistic, he only smiled. I felt deeply concerned for them. I wished them well.
Last night, after a magical day that ended with picking and eating wild currants in the flower-filled woods, I checked my email. One made me cry. It was from my neighborhood association. It contained a tribute to Patrick. In less than one calendar year, he had died. I re-read our email exchanges. They were dated August 2014.They never sold their house. They never took their trip. They would have loved this place. Now, I wish I had just told them it was free. Too late.

My Message to you

A whiplashed heart does risky things to avoid further injury, insult, injustice.
Ever feel like you’re being judged for some of these survival behaviors?

Friends fretted lovingly and family quietly fashioned complicated life-lines.
I toiled at aimless distractions pretending they worked…

Then I moved. Back to a location that I had once fondly identified as home.
The peace and comfort I recalled were no longer housed in that location.

I worked to remember what I dreamed before the attack of the whiplashed heart
and the beginning of my much discussed and over analyzed “decline.”
I wasn’t certain I could reimagine the specifics but I had a rather general idea.

So, I accidentally slipped off the edge of what was left of my vanishing dignity.
It was not a leap, as leap implies grace and timing. Accidents aren’t timed.

I stumbled into the dark abyss of my very own unknown prison.
Directly into screaming head-winds and impossible expectations I’d induced.

Clumsily I crash-landed into a fleshy, human heap.
Slowly, I recognized I was every single element of this humbled remnant-pile.

Rumpled and dazed, my tortured heart was still pounded in perfect sync.
I was very much alive. Inhale, exhale. This action repeats without intention.
This basic process steadied me. The chest rises, and falls even while asleep.

Nothing that ever really mattered was wounded beyond recovery.
I could sit up. I could walk. I could still move – move on. Onward.

So, sometimes we stumble.
And during the fall, we recognize how our soul soars along to guide us.

Listen for the wing-beat of your soul. Your quiet heart always hears it.
Nurture that solid connection. Feel that steady beat. Sing that simple song.

Born on Friday, June 24, 1955, I appear to be about one year old. It’s a faded, black and white print. A thoughtfully composed snap shot; it’s living proof of four generations. It was taken outside and has the feel of a shimmering, summer day. In the background, the front door is framed by flowering bougainvilleas. I always wondered who took this photograph. I consider this question every time I see a snap-shot. Who deserves credit for capturing a historical moment, stopping time at that precise instant?

It is taken at my great-grandparent’s residence on their property in Raymondville. At the time, it was a genuine Ruby Red grapefruit farm. My young, attractive mom is tenderly holding me and her poised mother is gracefully securing a rambunctious two year old, my brother in her grip. Dad, beaming with amusement, is strategically situated in the center. My grandfather is standing slightly angled, directly between his parents. They are lined up behind us. We’re all properly positioned, yet great-grandfather doesn’t seem happy. In fact, he died shortly after; August 23, 1956, He was 73. It was a timely gathering.

Was the occasion a May Mother’s Day or June Father’s Day tribute? Or a party for a birthday? Great-grandmother Blanche’s birthday was May 8. Maybe it was in her honor; she would have been 72. In 1956, Mom turned 20 on July 15th; that would have been worth celebrating but maybe it was for me. First birthdays are generally significant. Or perhaps, it was the mystery photographer’s birthday?

A few years later, in 1958, great-grandmother Blanche died. She was with one of her daughters; either aunt Pearl or aunt Judy in Austin. It wasn’t aunt Virginia because Virginia mainly stayed in Raymondville. In 1961, my parents evacuated to the Valley and left the five of us with their parents so they could go back after Hurricane Carla and find us another house. Aunt Virginia still lived in the family home. She didn’t work. Virginia had worked when she was 19; she’d been employed as telegraph operator. In 1961, I was six. She told me tales and sang softly while she polished her beloved mementos.

When great-grandmother Wahler died, an Estate was established as a means of providing support to aunt Virginia. Around that same time, but after Hurricane Carla, Virginia was confined to Jennie Sealy Psychiatric hospital. I remember that we would visit her frequently. After she’d been there awhile, she earned a day-pass. We would drive her to the beach. She and mom would go for walks while Dad built us miraculous sand structures. I recently discovered a snap shot taken during one of those treasured times.

Fast forward twenty years; now I am the young mother proudly holding my own one year old daughter. Another precious photo of four generations. It was taken in my grandparent’s den in Colorado at my grandfather’s last birthday on May 3, 1979. My daughter was 15 months old, and I was 23. My Aunt Alyce represents Mom’s generation in the photograph, since mom was not able to join us. Her image may not be apparent in the portrait, but her spirit was present indeed. Mom’s dad, my maternal grandfather died nine months later at 72 in February of 1980. I don’t remember who took the photo.

One May 8th, on great-grandmother Blanche’s birthday, in 1982, I had another daughter. I did not name her Blanche, she required her own name. We all live far from one another, but when we do get together; we remember to gather for the official generational photograph. The lasting legacy of a family’s love story might best be revealed by simply trying to answer the question of who is not visible. Who took the snap shot?

Apparently, I have a defect on my #12 Chromosome. No one takes credit for this inheritance; no family member displayed the symptoms. Likely, it’s a version you get when one of your genes betray you; a private mutiny. Regrettably, as a mutant of the chromosome community, I can pass along this blunder. Indeed, a lamentable legacy. I reviewed issues that are linked to a botched Number 12; what a montage of abnormal anatomy and freaky physiology. Am I the human equivalent of Generation Loss; the loss of quality between subsequent iterations when one is making copies? I am a simple error in duplication.

Heart Valve Problems:
(I do have a sticky heart valve) Periodically, my heart races and every now and again, it tightens like a hard, clenched fist. I wonder; is this the bitter end? Am I having a heart attack? Has my heart gone mad? Sporadically, I’m short of breath, dizzy, and bone-tired. Everybody’s heart aches sometimes, right? In reality, these discouraging signs are all indicators of my diagnosed mitral valve prolapse. Fear not; courage calms a brave heart when it beats too fast or loves too hard.

Trouble with spatial visualization:
(what you need to ace math and be an expert at parallel parking) Eureka; I’m exceptionally inquisitive but in fourth grade, I had an Anti-Christ of a teacher. Since then, I’ve circumvented all subjects remotely requiring mathematics. Mr. Fuller was the diametric opposite of an educator. He was a bully; his belittling means converted each day into a long-division nightmare. To defend myself from that amount of negativity; I discounted him. I carry the remainder into all procedures involving division and multiplication. Additionally; into all areas requiring that any two objects have to be parallel.

Recurrent ear infections;
(underdeveloped Eustachian tubes) Did I understand? The doctor said I spent too much time playing underwater in the pool? At the visits to the ear, nose and throat doctor, were they talking swimming pools or gene pools?

Components of my skeletal frame are not entirely developed:
Following traumatic accidents, abnormal irregularities were incidentally discovered during emergency room MRI’s and Cat Scans. A passenger both times, the second wreck was more serious and semi-life-altering, but obviously, I lived. With all knowledgeable members of previous generations deceased, I had my DNA analyzed in an effort to unearth the source of my inexplicable abnormalities. I reluctantly agreed to additional diagnostic procedures. Verifiable evidence of my atypical inheritance was uncovered but no definite answers. More tests opened the door to more questions. I now graciously ignore queries from puzzled specialists. I prefer to remain an enigma.

Hemochromatosis;
(high transferrin saturation rate)
Translation; I have too much iron in my system. Caucasians of Northern European descent are at highest risk, and symptomless, silent carriers can pass the defect on to their descendants. My DNA test revealed that in fact; Mom’s, maternal side was Northern European. Intrepid Norsemen, they voyaged across the ocean from the Scandinavian Peninsula of distant Denmark, frosty Finland and the upper-most reaches of northern Germany. Fortunately, Dad met Mom and contributed his hot-blooded, Iberian Peninsula genes to the paradoxical mix. This select family formula balances the fire and ice equation and keeps me from rusting. The Danish birth certificates are bona fide and truly iron-clad.

At the bottom of the alphabetized list of “Diseases and Disorders from Chromosome 12 Defects” is Von Willebrand Disease. It is the “most common hereditary coagulation abnormality.” People with Type O blood have decreased levels of clotting factors. Naturally, I’d have Type O positive. It’s called universal, it’s so common. My #12’s ultimate, regular, irregularity.

Seriously, I am grateful. I scanned some of the other diseases you can get if your #12 is damaged. You don’t always live; you die early or suffer long with agonizing disorders. For sixty years, I’ve lived pretty well. I only have vWD Type 1. It’s named after the Finnish doctor Erik von Willebrand. He first described the disease in 1926. It’s the reason I ended up in the hospital after a miscarriage; I’d “bled out.” No pulse and no blood pressure, standard symptoms of my completely commonplace coagulation aberration. A quirky Finnish connection; does this confirm a Nordic root of my defective # 12? Most likely, it’s just a coincidence.

Finally; it has been clinically diagnosed and reconfirmed repeatedly so now I wear a Medical ID bracelet. It has the official name of my disease and the prescription clotting medication I require engraved on it. I carry my desmopressin; a handy nasal spray, all the time; nearly. With the aid of fancy pharmaceuticals I hope to stick around a few more decades with my defective # 12.

I only saw it from the place where the mirror is cracked and only when the light from the morning sun hit it just right. I only heard it when I was wearing one of their old wind-up watches.

I eventually covered up the crack by tucking a carefully chosen photo into the mirror’s wooden frame.Then I stopped wearing the watches and reverently packed them away in soft, velvet boxes.

I had to give myself a break from the sights and sounds. Nothing was particularly frightening but the collective weight of their wordless pleading was overloading my daily responsibilities and my very being. “Tell the story.”

The images were like the ones I’d seen when I had my first, near-death experience. Mostly, sepia-toned stills like the kind you would see in cherished, old photograph collections, only these images would move a bit.

Polite tight smiles would relax into a slight grin. Piercing eyes would pause and twinkle. Everything, everyone would become more inviting and less intimidating than the original view.

I would remember being in that very location and feel the event that was holding them to that space and time. The cry of the dove cooing, or the smell of blooms would penetrate my thin, skin shell.

At first, I tried to not be pulled in their direction. I fought it; frightened that if I went along, I would not be able to find my way back to the life that I’d been living. I had three young children and I did not want to leave them.

A mid-pregnancy miscarriage had caused a frantic rush to the emergency room. No pulse and no blood pressure were the urgent problems for the medical team but I was only aware of a sensation of tumbling through a tunnel and seeing, and feeling the pull of deceased ancestors.

I was somersaulting and each time I came up from one full rotation, I would see another relative’s image. In all, I saw a dozen family members and then I was at the end of the tunnel.

From a crack flashed a blinding light that made me squeeze my closed eyes even tighter. An unrecognizable voice gently whispered, “Sorry, you have to go back. You still have work to do.”

Instantly I was back in my very own 32 year old, human body form. Hooked by lines and wires to the life saving equipment of the modern emergency room; alive but forever changed and charged. Tell the story.