I started keeping a notebook for scribbling random juvenile thoughts when I was in 6th grade. I had a crush on one of my brothers friends and I’d pour my little immature heart out on the pages of a spiral notebook with a light blue cover, hoping against hope that my brothers friend would find it, read my professions and have an emotional epiphany. We’d be boyfriend and girlfriend, go away to college together, get married and live happily ever after.

It didn’t happen, but I kept writing anyway. I kept dozens of yellow legal pads with lists, dreams, hopes, fears and ruminations from my tween years until I was 22.

That year, after my mom passed but before my father did, I got involved with the kind of boy/man I never thought I would. The kind who hit, who dragged me around the apartment (including up and down a flight of stairs) by my hair, who slammed my head into a bathroom wall and closed it in a door. Those are the highlights of the year plus I spent with him.

The worst thing he ever did to me though - wasn’t physical. It was taking my journals, reading them, and in a fit of jealousy - tearing them up and filling my car with shreds of yellow and white line confetti - my words and heart were shredded.

I stopped writing.

In the end, he came at me after I’d worked all day, gone to my second job, then come home to find him in a mood. He was angry that I needed to do laundry at 11pm and came after me. That was the night of the bathroom wall. That was the night he threw me down on the ground and when he came after me I lifted my foot to block his attack, a foot still in a work boot. That was the night I cracked his sternum, left, and came back the next day with my sister and a police officer to pack my things.

It took some time (ten years?) for me to put a pen to paper again without fear of retribution, without fear of having whatever I’d write used against me, but I have. One letter in front of the other, one notebook at a time, I’ve recovered…found my voice and my self esteem.

Now, I go further than I had before and just dump it all out there to begin with. Maybe this is why - when you all come and read but remain silent - I cringe. Part of me cares, part of me doesn’t…but in the end? It’s for me and about me. Anything and everything I write here is what it is: my evolution, my continued healing and my willingness to forgive, let go, move on.

So I write.

I’m doing it now on a keyboard with the help of pixels, a series of 1’s and 0’s, while sitting for a moment in a favorite haunt. There’s a tablet on the table next to me that contains a list of things I need to do, things I want to write about, thank you notes I need to write, places I want to visit, and adventures I have yet to embark on.

I’m whole, and I’m thankful for you - reading and joining me on the journey - silent or not.

1grace
Pronunciation: \ˈgrās\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin gratia favor, charm, thanks, from gratus pleasing, grateful; akin to Sanskrit gṛṇāti he praises
Date: 12th century

1 a: unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification b: a virtue coming from God c: a state of sanctification enjoyed through divine grace
2 a: approval, favor barchaic : mercy, pardon c: a special favor : privilege d: disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency e: a temporary exemption : reprieve

You know that part in the movie Signs where the alien has the kid in his arms and Mel Gibson has the flashback to his wife, dying? She’s pinned between a car and a tree and she says “tell Merrill to swing away” and he thinks she’s out of her mind (dying, obviously) until that moment years later when it all hits him smack in the face in the living room with the trophy baseball bat?

If you didn’t remember, maybe you do now.

My mom used to call me two things that went beyond the expected variations on my nickname or even *gasp* my real, full name. All three of ‘em. Beyond Megret, McGarrett, Meggers and the like were these two: Clyde and Grace.

Clyde was because I’m a “heavy walker”, have been since I was a tater-tot dipped in ketchup and loaded with salt and pepper. I also had big feet for my age, calves that - in relation to my thighs - resembled a Clydesdale.

Grace was a slam she used on both my sister and I, one I can only imagine she picked up in the 50’s. “Way to go, Grace. I like the way you knocked that entire rack of Funyons over when you tried to be sly about grabbing one in the first place.”

“In youth we learn; in age we understand.” - — Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

I believe, my friends, I’m aging.

December 29th of 2004, I was in the bedroom of my apartment during my Christmas sabbatical. I’d read Blue Like Jazz and Lamb over the course of that week, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt Grace. It’s something I’ve been hesitant to tell others that I knew wouldn’t understand, or those that were outside of my immediate circle. There were a few I IM’ed or emailed about it because I knew they’d understand, I remember as clearly as I can feel this sub-dermal zit brewing on the bridge of my nose that Becky was one of them.

Nearly four years later with the onset of my existential crisis, I’ve been reading again. I’ve been seeking. Exploring. Groping in the dark for the light that will help me find my way. Everywhere I look, everything I read, every conversation or tweet loosely related to my journey brings me back here: to Grace.

I am admittedly a fuckup of epic proportions. I was a horrible student, have binged and purged when it comes to caring about my career, was more times than not a complete headache to both of my parents, and have failed at a million things without even including marriage. I struggle with depression, refusing to medicate for it, I have a hot temper at times and vacillate between a fiery, quick tongue and a jaw clamped shut when it shouldn’t be. I swear too much. I talk to other cars in traffic when I get frustrated.

Of all the things I’m not though, I am not a hypocrite. I know my flaws better than all of you combined and I beat myself up for them regularly.

How fitting; then, that Grace keeps coming…the reminder of what it is, and the peace it brings me and the want and drive and compulsion I have to be a better person every day. To speak from the heart when it hurts and the inherent (and problematic) want better in the lives of everyone I know. Learning to love freely, and accept love without question. To work and work and work to show compassion and to understand those it’s difficult to wrap my feeble little mind around.

A few months ago, Mary Jac and I reconnected after a year apart. I won’t go into details about that, but what’s important is that we each arrived back in each others lives at just the right time. We were in the same spiritual and psychological black holes, and together, we could pull ourselves out. We could lean on, lift up, fireman carry, counsel, coddle, and just flat out hug the stuffing out of each other while the bad man 30 feet up told us to put the lotion in the basket.

It happened over coffee before a cardboard box visit, one of us said “I want a new tattoo” and the other yelped with glee “me too” and when asked of what, the answer was “grace” followed by another “me too”.

So this last weekend when it was burned in us so hard and so fast that our eyes bled saline and we held each other in the dark (both physically and emotionally) I knew it was time. I knew I didn’t want to go a day for the rest of my life without thinking about it and feeling it.

I’m a transmitter. Sometimes I’m sending the signal, but more often, I’m receiving. And my mother? I like to think she was trying to tell me something then, even if she wasn’t. Because it stuck right where I needed it to, in the vulnerable places where I have no choice but to admit my flaws, and to try to do better.

Carlos/Los/Raggamuffin Soul is always doing something provocative in his tattoo clad corner of the bloggosphere, last week it was a new take on collecting and creating community where you might not expect one. In response to his request on the Splat Your Tat post to “on your page, place the image of your tattoo and the story behind it” I give you this foggy explanation.

I got my tattoo shortly after my 18th birthday as an ignorant “it’s my body I can do what I want (and it’s finally legal!)” statement. It was a gift from a friend I’ve since lost track of - Erica Ash, and it was inspired by another friend I’m still in touch with - Gaea - who had the same ink put on her shoulder a year or two prior. At the time, I chose to replicate it because of the message one interpretation of the ankh provides: eternal life. I knew too much about loss for someone my age and it resonated with me in a way that nearly made me vibrate. The message, and the feelings the message brought still make me close my eyes for a brief unspoiled visit…a few moments alone with gratitude and sorrow and hope.

Perched in my seat at the Larry Allen studio in Anchorage, I was told to sit sideways in what reminded me of a dentists chair and I was told to push my arm against the back of the chair so my shoulder was flexed. I did as I was told. I remember it didn’t hurt until the end, mostly it felt like someone was writing something over and over again with a ball point pen, a sensation I wasn’t unfamiliar with having just been released from high school. In those days of course we didn’t have cell phones (only the rich people had them, and they were the kind of satellite phone that had their own purses) so we’d get bored and write on ourselves. So that’s what I knew, and that’s what it felt like to me. I don’t think we were there more than an hour.

I considered other locations for it, but my shoulder seemed the most fitting since - in my infinite 18 year old wisdom I didn’t think anyone would ever see my back. A year or so after getting it I was in California, living with my dad and in a move that was *very* not me, I joined him and in the hot tub one night. Maybe I was sore, maybe I was bored. Either way, he saw the tattoo and he wasn’t thrilled, but I was his daughter and he knew what the package was all about so he let it go.

I’ve never been more horrified and relieved in rapid succession in my life.

In the years since, there have been countless occasions I wish I hadn’t put it there. My first semi-formal office Christmas party where I wore a cute little black number with spaghetti straps, and countless work functions since then. I’m fortunate that I now work for an organization that could care less about body art of any shape or form, and it’s become an non-issue in that part of my world.

The challenge with it of late is that I believe in once piece of flair at a time, and while I still love the message; there are others I’d like to add to my body but can’t bring myself to. Why? Because I have a flair compulsion. I have one piece on my truck (a breast cancer license plate), one on my body (I wear mostly solid colored clothes and usually only one piece of jewelry - frequently recently colorful earrings) and otherwise am pretty flair free. Except, of course; for my ankh.

I often wish I’d waited, that I’d been more creative or at least more of an individual, but I didn’t and I wasn’t and that’s the story of my tattoo.

Each of us has some characteristic that makes us special and unique, and not in a 5th grade sex-ed “we’re all different” kinda way. I could easily say my qualities are my chicken lip or my lame eye, or even my potty mouth/sailor vocabulary. This morning I choose to approach it from another direction, because sometimes it’s fun to play with the numbers.

I am:

- Left handed : 7 - 10 percent of the population
- The proud producer of B+ blood : 9 percent of the population
- ENTJ : Under 2 percent of the population rank as ENTJ

Now it’s your turn to play along…what funky bit makes you distinctively you?

My oldest brother Brian was home for the summer from college, and spent his nights packing ice. He’d come home in the wee hours, quickly falling into a deep, beer induced sleep as the rest of the world was starting to rustle and rise. He would have been 21 and I would have been 14 or 15. Maybe we were both older, it’s hard to tell. Brian was in school a long, long time.

That summer he was using a friends car to get around Anchor-town: a late 70’s model bubble shaped gray/silver Honda station wagon. When his shift ended at 7 or 8am and he fell into bed, I’d track down the keys and sneak out of the house with them. Then I’d scoot out of the neighborhood with the car.

I know I didn’t have a permit, because I didn’t bother with that until I moved to California when I was 18. I do know that I’d driven before, when I pulled a similar number with Kevin and the Pontiac. It’s a miracle I didn’t kill anyone, trying to maneuver that beast and it’s willy-nilly steering when I barely had the coordination skills needed to regulate speed and point it in any one direction at the same time.

The Civic was different though, she was my first experiment with a stick. Luckily, the car had been well loved and driven within miles of it’s death, which meant the clutch was nearly gone. Half the time, I’d start her out in second gear. I barely had to touch the clutch pedal to change gears, and I think I actually figured out I didn’t have to touch it at all. I learned to “gear down” to stop, because the brakes were almost out.

On the days I’d successfully snatch the keys, I’d usually rush over to pick up a friend to join me for the adventure - usually Jenny, I think - and we’d go to the grocery store or the 7-11 or Chez Denoi or somewhere equally thrilling just to explore, observe and enjoy our new freedom.

Looking back, it’s amazing the places that we thought to go - the places we found charming and alluring and the places that made us feel grown-up when we had our first taste of stolen independence.

It’s also interesting to consider what life lessons I took from those grand theft auto-ish moments: if that’s where my wiring for geographical change = sanity was cemented, if that’s where I found that driving brought me freedom and a form of meditation that still exists in me today, if that’s where I found my first tastes of and love for adrenaline and adventure, or if that’s where I taught myself to size opportunity and be spontaneous.

The memories are foggy, a good number of years and miles have passed…and if I’m practical about my memory and weigh in the surrounding reality of that time in my life to average it all out I can conclude that I may have taken only that car out half a dozen times.

All I know for sure is that it felt like an entire summer of freedom, and I don’t think Brian ever figured out what I’d been up to.

All around me, people are having babies.

Last year it was in the water at the office, this year it’s airborne and infected Austin, Anchorage, Atlanta and Raleigh. The list goes on, the creation continues.

In response, I’m slowly refining my baby hat knitting skills so they actually fit the little people I’m making them for and are completed in less than a decade. The latter is more difficult than the former.

What I still haven’t perfected is my one line response to the inevitable question from women completely effing high from baby hormones or momma pheromones and/or those don’t know me and therefore know better: when are you having kids?

“Never” should be a simple enough answer, but alas it misses the palette of those hungry for my psychological and genealogical history.

Instead of accepting my offering at face value and supporting it, a series of questions and unwanted opinions always follow: Why not? Everyone wants kids. What – are there medical issues? You could always adopt. I have this friend who…, You’d be a great mother! I didn’t think I wanted kids either but they’ve changed my world blah blah blah.

I have a theory there’s something that happens to women after they lay on a table in a room full of strangers all staring at their hoo-hahs while they push everything in them out: a fraction of their common sense and tact are left on the delivery room floor with the soiled sheets and their once charming inhibitions.

Now sitting squarely in my mid 30’s with an ankle biter glaringly absent to some eyes, the queries come more frequently with sharper edges and less understanding than I previously thought possible, given that this is 2007 2008 and we’re in America.

If I’m not probing women of baby bearing age about why they want to have children, then verbally assaulting them with reasons not to have children (followed by endless prattling about my thoughts on what they should do with their bodies instead), then why is it socially acceptable for them to reverse the argument?

I spend more time daydreaming about this than I should, and work through various scenarios ranging from cartoon anvils being dropped on heads, to one line zingers about how I used to be a man, to the simple truth blended with the immature (”I don’t want to and you can’t make me”).

I’ve settled on this one line, which I hope to employ in the near future to answer any and all post-”Never” follow up questions in one sweet candy crusted package: mind your own fucking business.

Too harsh?

There is no 20/20 vision involved. Not in my hindsight, not in my present sight.

Behold - my youth. Snicker along with me and consider it my gift to you in honor of my 35th year and note there will be no refunds or exchanges.

The complete set is available here, should you wish to print them and trade them with friends.