2020-06-10 Three Types of Death

All those days I wasted lamenting
All the sunsets I missed with my eyes fixed on a screen.
All those neurons bounced around aimed at connection in pursuit of answers.
The real opportunities missed as the clock ticks down to zero. Or near zero.

Did you know that when you are pronounced dead, there’s a timer somewhere in the world that starts ticking down. 48 hours.

In the biz, we call it the death date time out clock. The Organizations that are interested in the eyes of the deceased don’t necessarily agree with those who are interested in your skin, or heart valves, or bones. Or your organs. There are markets for all these things. They are just material. All the parts of you might be valuable. Depending on what kind of life you’ve lived.

At the end of life. Your body is physical potential that exists beyond whatever happens to your essence. From now on, I’m going to try and use the word essence instead of soul. The soul is so overused. Abused. It’s cliche. The universe forbid clicheI

Anyway, back to the death date time out clock.

Saying “Death date” simplifies things a little bit too much though. In the biz, it’s actually CTOD. Or certified time of death. (Because people just love acronyms).

Maybe nobody was in the room when you died. Then we don’t really know the actual Date and time of death. In that case, it’s LTKA or Last Time Known Alive. That’s kind of sad. Someone so alone that they just died and there was no other human being there to witness it hold their hand or think a thought that might allow their essence to surf away to a better place.

That’s something, you know. What if human thoughts created wavelengths that allowed the essence of the dead to ride up and away instead of float down and settle into the carpet, and floorboards and earth below. I wonder if dying alone is some eternal tragedy. That the point we miss in life is human connection. that in death, those connections are a bridge. Doesn’t that make you want to be with people?

It does for me. I hate this pandemic. I miss people.

Asystole is another type of death date. Maybe you’re heart is hooked up to a machine that measures the beats. I suppose there are thousands of people in hospital beds and in hospice and nursing homes that have some sort of heart monitoring going on. Asystole is an event. The moment that the beat turns into a flatline.

Like LTKA, asystole can happen when nobody is around. But it is less likely. If you’re hooked up to a monitor, probably you are already under some sort of medical care that’s being managed by other people. They are watching and are hopefully nearby to assist if you go into cardiac arrest.

Sometimes, though, nothing can be done. And it’s just the end. And the date and time are recorded and the timer starts.

48 hours. How quickly can people work to follow all the right protocols in order to give you one last opportunity to give to your fellow human beings. Isn’t that something? That you can still give more to life even after you are gone. One last gift from the dearly departed.

If there is a tally somewhere keeping track of your good deeds. If there’s a supreme being with a clipboard and pen, checking off boxes and writing names on a special guest list, would that final gift be enough to get an invite to some eternal happy place?

What if you were a rapist or murderer. If, as your dying wish, you donated your eyes to some blind child or heart and kidneys to a dying person, would that be enough to turn the tide in your favor?

Isn’t it absurd to think about. The idea of heaven or hell or the idea of an omnipresent being lurking around and keeping score. I find it so absurd.

But if it keeps the believers in line, so much the better. Some people aren’t born with a moral compass and for them, I believe organized religion is a good thing.

For the rest of us, probably it’s enough to come to an understanding that the more sunsets we can see and the more people we can connect with, the better our life will be. And it’s not really worth wasting neurons on the questions of what and why and how and when. The questions are not the point. Time well spent is what matters.

I’ve got more to say about this, but ain’t nobody got time for that (including me).

Peace and Love,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-05-05 What a Girl Really Wants 🍷

Yesterday was a long day. Just a blur. And I’m tired. I had that thing happen again, where I was inspired to write something but I was in the middle of something else and couldn’t just drop everything to get that down.

I thought, foolishly, for the hundredth time that it would linger around long enough for me to remember later when I had a break. But I never got that break and it slipped away you know. Out the back door like a clandestine lover. Now she’s gone and didn’t leave her number. No way for me to find her again.

Not that what I had to eat yesterday is interesting to anyone, but it’s revealing:

  • 8 oz cup of coffee with an excess of vanilla creamer
  • 2 pieces of peanut butter toast
  • 1 small apple
  • 1 pre-packaged rice crispy bar
  • 2 Pagoda Egg Rolls (frozen snacks heated in the toaster oven)
  • 4 Pagoda Crab Rangoon with sauce
  • 1.5 glasses of red wine (actual amount is subjective 😜)

Sadly, those last 3 things were at like 8:30 pm and I was so out of focus by then I couldn’t think straight or enjoy it (or remember any conversation I had with Jim).

I probably vented about my irritations from the day or lamented about how every month my period is so unpredictable and how annoying that is or how I need to figure out how to consistently refer to a person as “they” when I’ve never had to do that. I’m trying, you know. I’m trying with regard to everything but at the end of the day I’m pouring that glass of red wine and throwing my hands in the air like I just don’t care.

And that red wine goes down sooooo easy.

Funny tangent.. I have my favorite brand of red wine. People who know me – who REALLY know me, know this about me. I found it years ago. It’s called Jam Jar and it’s a sweet Shiraz. It’s not a wine
connoisseurs wine. It’s more like a wine-cooler connoisseurs wine. It’s sweet and best served cold yet it has the same %alcohol content by volume as a regular bottle of red wine. It’s my Jam. And as an added bonus, it has a screw off top. Yeah, super classy.

They stock this at two places in town I’ve found. Whole Foods and cost plus world market. It’s cheaper at cost plus, when you buy like 4 or 6 at a time (which I refused to be shamed for doing). I’m not going to cost plus cuz of the pandemic right now but can get away with a random trip to Whole Foods because Of other grocery needs.

It’s still a crap shoot though. Sometimes they have it and sometimes they don’t. Two trips ago they were out (and my supply is desperately low), and I’m so loyal I just didn’t buy any wine. Whatever.

Last time I went was last week and they had 4 bottles left. But.. to get the 10% discount there, you gotta buy six bottles. So I picked up 2 other random bottles. I suppose it’s good to try new things because you never know when you’ll find a new favorite thing!

So the new selection was chilling in the fridge when I poured the last ounce of my original stash of Jam Jar last night and I was like… now seems like a good time to try the new thing. But I was so tired.

I pull the bottle out and what does it say about me that my heart sank in disappointment at realizing it was a corked bottle. Oh my goodness. So much extra work.

This, people, is how you know that the pandemic has not affected my life at all. That my emotions are being dictated by woe at having to find a corkscrew and exasperation at not getting dinner until 8:30 pm and with irritation about my period being unpredictable.

Such hard problems. 🙄

And how about the fact that what I end up writing about for an hour, when I have it, is my favorite red wine, instead of something way more interesting like that sweet secret that slipped into and out of my mind yesterday, never to be seem again. That’s the real tragedy.

I suppose that’s enough nonsense for one day. I guess, anyone who reads this will really, REALLY know me. More than other people who should but don’t. But that’s life I guess.

Cheers to Tuesday, 🍷
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-05-04 A Zone 7 Beauty Thriving in Zone 5

(Happy Star Wars Day Friends.. May the Force be with you today and always!) 😘

It’s a rainy Monday in Nebraska and my list of tasks never seems to lighten up. Instead of going there, though, and dwelling on the endless caravan of sideshow attractions, I’m gonna sit in the dirt and marvel at the earthworms that find their way to the surface.

In the last week, I’ve dug into the dirt with my favorite shovel. I twisted the big, unearthed clumps with my garden claw, and then raked it all smooth again.

Yesterday Jim and I grabbed our masks and jumped in the Jeep. We went to a local hardware store store and went our separate ways there. A half an hour later we came back together with our respective carts full of garden goodness. His was all landscape project odds and ends. Heavy stuff like bags of rocks and some pretty solar lights, cuz he’s Jim and lights are his thing. And that’s just one of the things I love about him.

My cart? Porting soil to mix in with the dirt from last years pots to prep them for annual color all season. But that was not my primary objective. Nope. This trip was all about bed #1 of 3. The one that’s dedicated to tomato’s and peppers and marigolds.

Last year was a good test of my new space. I had too many tomato’s and peppers so this year I have Dialed it back to 3 regular tomato plants- better boy, big beef, and celebrity. Two different variety of bell peppers, and one Anaheim (I’ll have to find the Anaheim somewhere else cuz they didn’t have those. The marigolds are to ring the border of that garden and that’s my tradition.

Yesterday I only got as far as planting the veg I bought. The flowers will have to wait till one day this week. And it won’t be today because lots of rain and lots of work to do.

I’m definitely in my happy place In the garden. It’s sometimes painful work, turning dirt and bending over and being on my knees, making things just so. But it’s so satisfying. And I think being alone for a little bit is great for my mental health. Somehow I’m able to shut off all the voices in my head that are urging me to do this or that.

I’m able to forget about the website work that needs to be done or the issues with the new design or the dirty dishes or the un-vacuumed floor or some seeder data that’s going to need to be loaded into the dev database for testing. It all melts into some place in the corners of my mind and I am able to focus on how I’m shaping the mounds of dirt around me new little babies.

This one likes “wet” feet and that one likes well drained soil. They have different needs just like people and as long as you know how to treat them, they will thrive and be happy. Some plants are “hardy”. This means they can tolerate too wet, hot, dry, or cold conditions (to a certain point). They don’t need as much tending cuz they will be all right.

If I were to tag myself with some characteristics, I would say that I’m hardy but prefer Zone 7. I mean, my life was just meant to be in Zone 5, and now I’m putting down even more roots. I can tolerate a lot. I’m low maintenance and mostly just want a good balance of being left alone and having great conversations with people I love. Like a Stella Daylily. Coming back time and time again regardless of the care or feeding I’ve had. Always reaching for the sun.

Yellow has never been my color though, so perhaps some orange variety or the tiger lily, spots of freckles in view when I’m happily in bloom. And so it goes.

The best thing about the hard work I put in to my garden is the times I can just walk back there and look at it and know that I did that with my two hands. I tend the plants and I they do the only thing they know how to do, which is live and grow. And then.. on one magical day in July or August, I’ll be able to pluck some tomato or cucumber or cauliflower or pinch off a head of dill or some cilantro before it flowers and Make something delicious to eat. Or, in the case of my cherry tomatoes, pop them right into my mouth right there in the garden. Glorious.

All right. That’s enough garden talk for now. Ive got to get down to other business. All those melted away things are starting to creep back from the corners and taking shape again behind my eyes. Mondays. 🤷‍♀️

No rest for the wicked,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-04-29 Mathematics and Other Tragedies

I could draw myself into a spiral. I could pretend to be a straight line or paint my life as an isosceles triangle in perpetual motion. The faster it spins, the more the points blur into circles that create borders that can’t be penetrated.

If I was reborn as a star, would I have five points or six? Or Seven!?? Would I be a better poet if I was a broken heart, or the zig-zag white space between the two separate halves.

Hearts don’t ever break in half. It’s never an equitable split. Most are fragments shattered like that round dish that was dropped on accident or because it was too hot to touch. And there are never any answers for that. Just possible explanations and plausible deniability and revisionist history. What geometric shapes are those? It must be a chapter I haven’t gotten to yet.

I’ve spent so much time with my face on the the floor because of gravity.

I’ve spent so much time enduring air travel trying to escape gravety.

I’ve spent so much time trying to learn how to finish this geometry so I can finally move on to algebra 2.

I fear there’s a long way to go before gravity will start making sense.

So many apples. So little time.


You’re welcome for that nonsense. You know a lot of the poetry I write is sort of nonsense. Or based on little connections in my brain and sparks of thought where one thing just leads to another. I think the closer I get to finishing this mfa program, the more my brain will feel the freedom of writing what I want to write again for me, and my sanity.

I’ve spent so long studying craft that it’s altered my perception of reality. It’s hijacked my creative instincts in some way. Or perhaps it’s that my life is just good now so I have less to muse about.

Here’s a secret (spoiler alert, some “poor me” might slip in here). Once upon a time I was in love with a guy. And having been previously conditioned to have a fear of commitment, I was unable to go all-in. Right up to the day that I realized that’s all that was left for us. So I tried it.

I convinced myself with this little nugget of logic .. if my heart gets broken, then I’ll just have so much good poetry. Yes, I actually told myself that. That was me bargaining with myself to tip the scales in the favor of the “all-in” option. It worked.

Then, wouldn’t you know it all fell apart after that and my heart got crushed. And then you know what happened? There was no fucking poetry. I just cried all the time and couldn’t write a single line of a single poem. I wrote a lot of journal entries (mostly because I didn’t have close friends to talk to), but the empty space where those poems were supposed to be crushed me even more.

I had trusted myself, and was betrayed. So I said “I’ll never do that again”.

Yeah, so that’s that melodramatic charm of mine coming through again.

Fast forward 4 years and I’ve finally found a few lines and arranged them into a poem and it was such a clinical process that I actually learned something about myself and also about the art of making poetry. That was the point I guess. It passed the JP test and made it into my thesis manuscript.

I’m attached to the idea of it more than the poem itself.

After my heart was broken in 2016 I turned to a guy friend for comfort. I thought I loved him too. Which is a blurry line.

I loved the idea of being in love with him.

I loved the way he spent so much time with me and listened to me and held me when I cried.

He was always clear with me “we” could never be, so it was safe. I didn’t have to worry about the unknown quantity in the air after I said “I love you”. I knew the response and that was in some fucked up way, really comforting.

If you tell someone you love them, the Tough part is in having their response be unexpected.

What have I learned? That I really loved Matt, and that I really loved Josh but for different reasons, and Vis, and of course Brian. Stitch all that together and the picture becomes more complete. It’s a complicated shape. Still a bit above my current geometrical comprehension, but I’m nothing if not a diligent student.

What other option do I have anyway? That’s life.

Thanks for hanging in with what was not intended to be a rehash of my broken heart again. But, I will take all I can get.

XOXOXO 😘
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-04-17 I’ve Got Too Much “Poor Me” in My Poetry

To be fair, I’m really referring to just the one poem I’ve reworked a hundred different ways and each time I try to sneak it into my manuscript, my mentor says “nope”.

To be fair, he’s only seen two versions of it and not the fifteen I wrote before or the 30 I thought about writing but didn’t or the hundred times I cried about the central subject matter when I was living it in 2016.

I’ve got a handful of poems that he’s tagged as “too melodramatic” and I get it. He says it turns the reader off if there is too much “poor me”. I get it. I really do. I read Natalie Diaz and Rachel Mckibbens and Robert Creeley and even good ole Emily and there isn’t a drop of “poor me” one can squeeze from any of it. So I have to figure out how to lament about my poor broken heart very “matter of fact” like. Either that or just give up. Sometimes I wonder about that option.

Take the last 24 hours for example. I met with the Poetry crew for the new lit mag last night and we had a good chat. In the sprit of getting to know each other better, we shared out a sampling of our own stuff. I only needed to read as far as the first persons poems and I already felt like I didn’t belong. Pile on poems from the other two and I end up feeling like I have no business in this business.

I have to remind myself that everyone has a different style and voice but it is hard not to compare AND not to feel a little like “poor me” is the best I can do. My poems are boring. The subject matters are very “so what” and once I start down that road, all shapes of doubt start to follow.

What’s a girl to do?

I haven’t written anything worth while this semester at all because I’ve been too busy revising and the world has been too busy with its pandemic and aint nobody got time for first draft nonsense (well, lots of folks do actually, just not me).

So how do I take my stupid unrequited love broken heart poem and make it matter of fact? I mean, the section of the manuscript is called “In Cataclysm” so what do you expect?? How about something like this….

I said “I love you”
And he just turned and walked away.
Echo of silence.

I cried after parent teacher conferences
And every day and night after that.
Echo of silence.

The election came and went
And I couldn’t even care.
Echo of silence.

I became a hollow bone white husk
and no-one seemed to notice.
Echo of silence.

I hosted a New Years Eve Party
and drank myself down the drain.
No more echoes. Just silence.


(I left out the part where I wanted to die. Cuz that crosses the line into “poor me” territory). Perhaps the answer is to kill myself in the poem. Just matter of fact like. Dead, done.

I hosted a New Years Eve Party
and drank myself to death.
No more echoes. Just silence.

That’s attempt 221 folks. Put another talley on the board.
Now switch all the abstractions to images and waa-laa!

I swear, if it is the last thing I do for this damn thesis it will be to figure out some way to get this stupid poem into a format that is acceptable.

I little part of me (OK a big part), is just so sick of revising poems. I’m starting to have all sorts of ideas for other projects and just want THIS project to be done. Yes, I want it to kick-ass, but I’m over it.

There I said it. Maybe if I get all the “poor me” out of me in this blog, I can just go edit those poems like a boss and be done. That’s enough pondering for now.

Time to Make the Donuts,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-04-16 Lottery Ticket Happiness

Every time I drive west across Nebraska on I-80 I’m full of hope and excitement about what’s to come. If I’m driving west on that long stretch of boring interstate I’m driving away from home and toward something fun and different, people I love and mountains I marvel. I know that soon I will be wrapped up in feverish conversation, catching up, and clinking glasses in cheer.

Maybe I’ve got concert tickets at Red Rocks or plans to hike some new wondrous scene. So many opportunities for capturing pictures and words and memories.

When I’m in the car driving west it’s like the best feeling. It’s freedom. Everything about it is freedom. I gather snacks that are not good for me and allow myself to get that gas station cappuccino that’s loaded up with sugar and nerds or sweet-tarts or something else that’s pure sugar and throw in some giant bag of Chex mix to balance out all that sweetness with salt and crunch. I allow myself guilt free snacking and singing out loud to my favorite tunes. All of that is freedom.

I have a tradition of stopping in Ogallala Nebraska before I drive across the border into Colorado. I whip the car down the exit ramp and find a gas station to buy a lottery ticket.

I’m not a lottery ticket purchaser normally, but the mood of the road trip changes a person. If I won the lottery, it be cool to win with a ticket purchased in Ogallala. What a headline, right?!

“Omaha woman wins millions in Ogallala”.

That would be priceless even if I never collected a dime.

Then, as I cross over into the desolate sparse grassland rolling hills of Colorado, which are only slightly less boring because the scenery has changed, I have a little sliver of hope in my possession. I can keep my little hope-secret tucked safe inside the pocket of my coat or backpack or snug under the clip of my garage door opener above the window visor. And there it will stay.

At random moments on my trip I can think about it and dream what it would be like to win. What would I do with those millions? Oh how my life would change and what power I would have to change the lives of others for the better. My kids would not have to worry about how they would pay for college and my parents wouldn’t have to worry about how they would be taken care of as they grow old.

And there would be so much more. You know. I could give and give to all the organizations I believe in. Maybe spear head some plan to turn garbage into fuel for the future. Of course it would not truly be endless, and I would still have to choose, but the hope of it is freedom. And that, in turn, makes me happy.

If only to think about it for a brief moment.

Then I get where I’m going and have my fun and eventually have to say goodbye and get in my car to drive hone. Somehow the drive home takes twice as long and is 4 times as boring. Why is that?

Nothing to look forward to. Work and responsibility and the hum-drum of the everyday. On my way I may or may not stop back in Ogallala to have them check my ticket. I’ve probably lost interest and just want to get home.

Sometime later I might find that ticket in a pocket or in between the pages of a book I haven’t looked at in months or in a folder holding other flat memorabilia from the trip. It will remind me of the good time I had. It will remind me that freedom and hope are priceless, and that money really had nothing to do with those feelings. As long as I have enough for gas to get me there and back and load my bag up with snacks, I’ll be happy.

That lottery ticket is worth every penny. Also I just like to say Ogallala.

Ogallala, Ogallala, Ogallala! Oh haha I love you Ogallala!

I can’t wait to start planning again!

Cheers to Road Trip Daydreaming in the time of Covid,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-02-29 Cheers to Leap-Day and the Double-Dot ..

Today feels like a bonus day. Yesterday I wrote about some goals I have. Those are more general in nature and anyone who knows me knows that I also like to have little weekly and mid-tier monthly goals too. I have a white board that lives behind the door of my office that has a list of my monthly goals.

In the first few days of the month I check it, erase what got done, and replace that with new stuff. Yes, I always have things that don’t get done so each new month is a new color (that way I can tell how old something is). Right now though, the white board is blank.

Everything happening at the start of this has sort of hijacked my normal routines. I let it all go. Now that I’m back in action, I’m excited to begin again. But what’s that got to do with today being a bonus day (Besides being an extra day of the year)?

It’s that I get to ignore March and all the tasks I’ve committed to doing during that month (if only for just one more day). Ha! 😜

Also, it’s going to get up to 60+ degrees outside today and Jim and I have plans to get out there and enjoy that. That will probably include some measure of yard work or at least assessing the damage of the winter on the back yard. Hopefully it will also mean exploring someplace new.

I had great sleep last night and I feel as though I can take on the world today. And I haven’t even had any caffeine yet. If I have coffee I’ll probably start feeling like I have god-like super powers. it’s like the stars are aligning and the perfect time to work on projects. Goodness knows I’ve got a lot of balls in the air (even if they are mostly in my head).

In other related news, I got my second set of written feedback from my mentor yesterday with comments about my manuscript and revisions. I almost don’t want to open it because I don’t want to kill my Saturday feels. I think I’ll file that away in the “do this in March” list.

I’ve spent a lot of years of my life perfecting the art of procrastinating so this is just one of the classic go-to moves. On the outside it seems like I’m super organized and goal-oriented but on the inside the truth is it’s all just a play to categorize things into the future.

That bit is a dirty little secret so let’s keep that on the DL.. Ok?

Speaking of feedback. One of my most oft used punctuation marks is the double-dot “..”. For me it has come to signify something more than the end of a sentence but less than a full ellipses.

The ellipsis, “…”, is commonly used when there’s a continuation or more content that is not included in the text.

What I’m affectionately calling my “double-dot” (as of this moment) is like a longer pause, for contemplation. Where there might be more to consider but it’s up to the readers interpretation.. It’s not like actual defined text or content is missing. It’s an invitation to consider what else there could be within the context of ones own experience.

Yeah. I’m declaring the double-dot as official new punctuation today. Can I do that? Yes, of course I can. I mean the English language is always evolving and today is a good day for cool new stuff. Someone, somewhere, In the not so distant past put the words gigantic and enormous together and came up with ginormous. In 2007 it was officially added to the dictionary.

It’s been a long time since we had new punctuation to work with. And since punctuation is apparently one of the biggest problems with my poems, I might as well embrace it.. or fight it to the death.. or make my own mark on literary discourse.. Literally. 😂

Too much? Of course! 💃💃💃

So you heard it here folks. Yours truly has just invented the double-dot. Now when I read the question in feedback from my mentor that they don’t know what that is, I’ll just explain that it’s new and “all the cool kids are using it”.

How did I get from leap-day to the double-dot?.. 🤷‍♀️

Happy, Thank You, More Please,

~Miss SugarCookie

PS. Today’s featured image is a view from a hike on Maha’ulepu Heritage Trail.. Shipwreck Beach to Punahoa Point

2020-01-14 A Fast Moving Train

Full speed ahead. 18 days to go and last night before falling asleep I touched my forehead to his forehead in bed and asked for him to help me with my anxiety. He promised me it would be alright and that when it comes to it, he’ll talk me away from the edge. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That’s all I’ve needed, all my days.

I’ve spent the last hour googling love poems and marriage poems and reading through old and new poems, funny and poignant, long and short. I need a few for the reading we are having as a part of the ceremony and it’s one of those details I’ve been procrastinating. One of the many details.

Things are moving fast now though. The days are numbered (for real!) and as the numbers get smaller, my unease becomes more intense. My to-do list today is about 75% wedding related and 25% work and school.

I’ve been pulled into a project for work which may take like 5-10 hours a week and yesterday I got the feedback for the first half of my MFA thesis manuscript and I’m itching to pour through that. I’m easily distracted by these shiny objects but I can’t put off some of this wedding stuff any longer. What I’m trying to avoid is a mad scramble the last 7 days where I lose my mind.

But.. if I do, Jim has promised to talk me away from the edge. I’m keeping those words in my back pocket.

Getting a little cray-cray is probably unavoidable at this point. I need to just focus to get stuff done. I haven’t been able to write much since returning home from Res. I start but then I just sit thinking and can’t seem to find any words. Even now I’m struggling.

I think I’m gonna cut and run for today.. before this post turns into a Tuesday to-do list.

Peace and Love,

~Miss SugarCookie

2020-01-01 MFA Res Day 4 – Sisters of the Star Blossoms

This is the day I’ve been waiting for All My Life

All My Life, Life

My All, I give you my all, all my alll

And everything I have acquired. All

That has been imprinted upon me by this

Cruel and magnificent life. My

Brilliant insignificance and you, your

Unanswerable questions and unknowable elusive answers and endless abstractions. Yes, I noticed it. Thank you. For your gift of the tools and desire to unwrap them. A thirst for Christmas morning. So giddy with anticipation and wonder. Laying awake wondering if it’s time yet. The silhouetted shadow cracking light into the door saying it’s time. Pulse quickening, eyes jumping out of bed and rushing still in a nightgown. Unprepared and as prepared as I have ever been as I was born with all of the essence I had before I met you. Down the stairs, rushing hand on the wooden banister, skipping every other step and picking up speed, Seeing the lights of the tree, twinkling in the dark morning. A bounty spread under the branches, spilling out on the living room floor. Pausing to bask in the wonder for an impossible moment and rushing in. Reckless abandon, fingers sliding under the seam and tearing, ripping, turning over. more tearing revealing. Wild joy as I hold my treasure up, beaming, for the camera to capture the moment. The gift and i In our inaugural moment. Together at last, never to be separated again.

So many gifts to open. This

is what I have been waiting for.

All my life.

***

Yesterday was the last day of 2019, the last day of December, the last day of the decade. The end of the SugarCookie that was and the beginning of the SugarCookie that will be.

We sipped and talked in the lobby of the lodge. We wandered into the library lounge and congregated at the bar and then out again. We settled into overstuffed couches and chairs and put our energy into oracle cards, Kuantans Yin, each choosing one and reading in the book what it meant for us right now, on the precipice of a new day, month, year, and decade. I received Sisters of the Star Blossoms which was impossibly appropriate for my situation right now in life, down to the details only the universe knows.

We wrote wishes for 2020 on paper and then ventured out into the cold Nebraska night to stand in a circle and burn them, sending our wish to the universe. Ritualistically Placing our trust and faith in a higher energy. I believe that if I believe it, the magic will happen.

(Just watch the polar express and try to prove me wrong).

We milled about a little longer, then hugged and exchanged well wishes and wandered down the hallways, some going up and down stairs leading to our separate rooms to sleep and wake up new and changed.

That was four hours ago. I’m not necessarily refreshed of course as four hours is just a long nap but I’m jazzed and ready to roll. Today is my workshop and that’s exciting cuz I love it and also nice as I don’t have to prepare, just show up and listen.

I have two back to back lectures starting at 9am first. Before that I have to get dressed for the day and eat something. Before that I have to finish this walk.

In order to do that I have to finish my current thought. I have so many swirling it’s hard to cut it but I need to do that. I’d probably stay here in the basement for another hour if I had the time. I don’t have that luxury though so I’m going to have to just end it.

With gratitude and love,

~Miss SugarCookie

2019-12-27 MFA Res Day 0.5 – Midnight in December

6PM on December 27th in Nowheresville Nebraska and it might as well be midnight. Last time I was here I had to request a new room after 3 days because of a wasp problem and this time? It might be a neighbor problem. Time will tell. I’m not next to my friends anyway so they can put me wherever. Put me back home or wherever. Or whenever.

I looked at the first two or three days of the schedule and tried to consume it. Tried to put some ginger snaps in my mouth before and after to make it taste better but it doesn’t. My hearts not in it and all of a sudden this feels like a big mistake. I’m going to write a thesis? A What?! Are you looking at me when you say those words. I don’t even the hell know what a thesis is. I don’t know if I can learn the definition in time. Too many other things to do, you know, and never enough time.

It’s so dark and I’m already missing home. The cats and the kids and Jim. Not the dishes or the laundry though. Nine days not doing laundry is truly the definition of a saving grace.

There’s dinner tonight and as dark as it is now it will feel like a late night snack. All 62 of us sneaking down to the pantry to pull a plate of some baked chicken and sauce de jour. Please, oh please, let it be marinara tonight. With some motz cheese and maybe a noodle or two to twist onto my fork. Who doesn’t love a midnight snack?

The schedule for tomorrow has six events I want to go to and the day after that is 7 and already I’m exhausted because I haven’t slept for three days. I’m exhausted from not sleeping for the next 3 or 5 or 8 days and I don’t believe I have enough Xanax to get me through.

Oh my but how it is cold at midnight in Nebraska. I suspect the temp in this room is a fickle as my grandmother said it was her prerogative to be. Just scooch a degree up and watch her say “you want it hot?! Fine.. I’ll show you hot”. Every room a different shade of grandmother in this chateau. “Lodge” is such a rustic word. Such a hard square word that sort of chokes you when you try to say or unsay it.

I’m afraid it’s too late to unsay this little adventure. And this post. And what’s about to happen now. Soon it will be 1AM and for the love of all the trees in the world, please let me be sleeping by then.

XOXO,

~Miss SugarCookie