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You are here: Home / wordless wednesday / Wordless Wednesday – Blue skies, smiling at me. . .

Wordless Wednesday – Blue skies, smiling at me. . .

June 1, 2011 Filed Under: wordless wednesday

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Coming out of his blanket burrow. #dailybosleydog

Coming out of his blanket burrow. #dailybosleydog #dailyroxydog #dogsofinstagram

It is your wild and precious life, so take care of

It is your wild and precious life, so take care of your heart this week, okay? Whatever that looks like—it’s alright to protect yourself.

Fine. Whatever. You all called it. Are you happy?

Fine. Whatever. You all called it. Are you happy?

(We’re very happy)

(Especially Roxy, they’ve worked it out and are absolute besties)

#adoptdontshop #dailybosleydog

Oh, for heaven’s sake

Oh, for heaven’s sake

We have a foster dog! If you live near the Bay Are

We have a foster dog! If you live near the Bay Area and are looking for the sweetest boy ever, Bosley would love to be your new best friend. He’s a great size at 22lbs, super cuddly, has the softest fur and the biggest smile, he’s great on a leash, seems to be totally housebroken, and picks up on commands quickly. He had a rough time at the shelter and is a little timid sometimes, but very brave other times. And when he’s scared he comes to me for comfort and uses that protection to get acclimated. You can apply to adopt him through @underdogca. You’ll fall in love with him the moment you meet. #rescuedogsofinstagram #dogs #bayarea #adoptdontshop

A therapist told me once years ago that no parent

A therapist told me once years ago that no parent in their right mind wants to hurt their child and if they aren’t in their right mind, it is an act of kindness to get out of their swinging range. Now, a different therapist and some of my dearest loved ones helped me talk through my need to stay out of swinging range all the way to the end. So I’ve been trying to think of a little ritual or gesture to say goodbye quietly in my heart.

My mother bought me this guitar when I was twenty-one. I’d dropped out of college, moved around a bunch, got stuck back at home, tending bar at a little Italian restaurant, working as many shifts as they’d give me because I was desperate to leave again.

I had a small classical guitar that didn’t really work for the way I wanted to play. But when I got home at three in the morning I would strum chords softly in the living room, trying to chase the chatter of work from my head. One night I must have played a little too loud and woke my mom. She thundered down the stairs in her nightgown and screamed about how I was a disappointment—a failure—that she’d wasted her life by being my mother and she was sorry she’d ever had me.

In the sober light of the next day, she acted cheery, made no mention of the night before, but she took me to the music shop in Mahopac, and bought me this guitar. It’s too big for me. Hard to play. I should probably take it to a luthier to get the action lowered. I’ve also thought about getting rid of it many times, but it has a beautiful tone. And in the first part of my life the things that happened to me were always denied. This guitar gave me absolute claim to a memory. I think it was the first tool of my escape.

I tried to find a song to capture a good time we had. But there weren’t any good times. I grew up scared—even when we were laughing, even when she was having a bright day—I was terrified.

This Kris Delmhorst song always makes me think of her, and always wrecks me.

I understand why my mother was the way she was. I know it couldn’t have felt good to exist in her mind and body. So I truly hope she rests in peace. I know she loved me the best she could. I loved her the best I could, too.

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