So Coco asked me what I did today while she was at school. How exactly does one tell a first grader this:

I sat down at the computer and wrote an article for my blog.* While writing the piece, I started to cry - my own story made me cry. It was this story about you and your friend and the great summer you had but now you have to say goodbye and how I did that once too and it made us both sad.Meanwhile, in the back of my brain, I’ve been humming over and over the true meaning of my destiny. What is my destiny? Not my job or mothering or marriage or which style I should wear on a daily basis**, but why did I come to this planet? What role do I play in this cog of human/planet/animal/water/etc. interaction? How do I help our consciousness rise to a new level so that we quit killing each other and stomping out goodness and live in harmony love and joy instead?

I read an article that said once you know this, the pieces of your life start falling into place and LIGHT shines where you thought impossible. Heck, after roaming around for years in darkness, I thought it was time to lift the veil and shine a bit myself. I want to know so I can get on with the business of living IT. I read this article, which said to ask myself that exact question: What is my destiny? Open a blank document on your computer and type away at the answers. It will take a bit to wade through the ego responses: make money, security, own lots of cats and dogs, and on and on it will go.

This is the tricky part: you have to type until you cry. That’s right. All out tears gushing down the cheeks with sniffles coming up right behind. After twenty minutes, my cheeks were as dry as a bone. But I was an enlightened being! And an overachiever! I was supposed to figure this out in ten minutes.

An hour passes by. Zip. I made lunch and tried again. Another hour of typing. I began to get so desperate, the answers began to look like the resume of a lonely zoo keeper/waiter. What was wrong with me? I went back to the website and reread the instructions. It said that if you get a little teary-eyed at something along the way, that is a clue. For example, cry when you hear a song playing or read the word: water. Bingo! I had cried, but I was sure sitting in front of my computer writing about my daughter’s summer vacation wasn’t my destiny, it was a part, a connection. Blue Clue number 1!

So, several hours into this, I started again. I could tell the ol’ ego was getting tired, so maybe I had a chance to get past the little fellow and clear out the gook.What is my destiny?Another 1/2 hour went by. Should I start drinking? Should I chant? Boy, the cobwebs just weren’t shaking loose. The bad little witch in my head kept nagging at me to just STOP IT! You have no destiny! You were put on this planet to wash dishes, store unfinished books in your closet, and never really master Yoga. My brow was fully furrowed; I dug my heels in; I wasn’t giving up.

Then, IT happened. I am not kidding. I began typing this long paragraph and wouldn’t you know it? The tears gushed. I mean both-cheeks-you-can-stick-your-tongue-out-and-taste-them drops. I didn’t want to blink or swallow for fear I would loose this semi-weird place of consciousness I had been zapped to.I found it! My destiny! I found it! It was a pile of incomplete sentences and dangling participles, but it made sense to me. I stared at the window. What a relief. Now I can get on with the business of living it.So, to answer your question Coco: What did I do today?I found the reason I came to this planet.So, as I type this I’m thinking….did I actually SAVE it?*I have a hard even explaining blog.**Still trying to find the perfect Eileen Fisher/Gap/DKNY/garage sale look.

Wouldn’t you like to take a cute little artist home to cuddle? Then head on over to MyArtPlot.com.

What’s that you say? The Artists are not for sale, it’s their stuff? Sorry. Scratch that first part.

There’s not enough venues on this planet that gives artists a platform to sell their wares. I know. I’m an artist. I’ve even owned an art gallery and sometimes I had to hold people in head locks and tickle them till they peed in their pants to buy something. Well, here’s place - MyArtPlot - if you are an artist, you can give it a shot. If you want to buy art too, give it a look.

Be patient with the template, I was not completely clear on the layout of the whole system, but I did not yet delve too deep. I was too excited about the sharing of ideas to wait any longer. If we all spent more time looking at art and creating art, heck, we might have world peace.

Check it out. Who knows, maybe you’ll finally sell that painting in your closet.

Up until third grade, my best friend lived just across the driveway. Our mom’s were great friends, in fact the neighborhood was full of mother’s. In one block of 17 houses, there were 36 children. Imagine that. We played kick ball in the street, tag up and down the sidewalk, and wandered in and out of houses as if they were exotic escapes from our own tribes. There’s stories of hospital runs, falling off ladders (that one was a parent!), stubbed toes, sunburn, and fights. My friend moved to the suburbs, and I will never forget her driving away as she sat in the back seat of the station wagon, waving. I was left behind. I can’t even remember if I cried.

This summer, my daughter got a taste of that. The number of children roaming the neighborhood is a lot less: four plus a baby and a toddler. Throughout the summer vacation, doors slammed as the kids entered each other’s houses to play and play and play. Forts were made, houses mussed up, and a few fights ensued. This was a gem of life my daughter got a taste of, one that is so quickly dwindling away in our middle-class lives: freedom to roam; freedom to pursue an afternoon without the barking of mother’s to watch out, be careful or you’ll fall!; freedom to come and go almost as you please.

This morning one of the kids left; she was here only temporarily while the construction finished on their new home. Coco and I have gotten used to people coming in and out of our lives. Her friend came over before Coco left for school to return some clothes (the girls got in the habit of redressing themselves at each other’s houses). I promised the little girl I’d search for that pair of missing jeans that must be hiding somewhere in our house.

Coco waved good-bye and returned to the kitchen to eat breakfast. Her face was a bit pale. I told her that they’re moving just down the road - about five minutes away. Coco nodded, but we both knew it wouldn’t be the same. We’ll have to return to "play-dates" and arrange times and drive, even if it’s just down the road, it’s not next door.

Coco cried and I held her for a minute because she knew all this too but can’t spell well enough to write it down. I turned back to the stove and flipped her pancake. She wiped away her tears when I plopped the crooked little guinea pig-shaped cake on her plate.*

Mom, she said,

I need some more chocolate chips to finish the mouth.

I pulled back her hair so it wouldn’t fall in the syrup.

Moving into a new house is a lot of work, she said with chocolate smeared on her upper lip.

They have a pool now and rocks to climb on.

As much as I would like to gloss over the "difficult" parts of life, I think of what Picasso said: Don’t turn away. Nothing is so awful that we can’t face it, nothing. And I’ll add this: as long as we have each other.

*Imagine the practice this takes!

The kids are off to school….the kids are off to school….I am all alone for the first time in…..eons?

I stood in the kitchen and couldn’t even figure out what to do with my arms. Nothing to cook, (the dishes I’m ignoring), no hair to brush, socks to pull up, pebbles to clean out of someone’s mouth…what do I do with my arms? They feel funny.

Ah! Cappuchino.

Wait….what’s that? The kids are back….the kids are back….

And so it goes.

Tomorrow, my little guy goes off to school. I filled out forms - just like the other moms did. I gathered papers from doctors - just like the other moms did. I got two little passport photos for his file - just like the other moms did. I paid the tuition - just like the other moms did.

I didn’t linger long on the questionaire where it asked what Addison can and can not do:

Walk?

No.

Out of diapers?

No.

Speak?

No.

Eat by himself.

No.

Draw?

Finally I could check yes.

I understand teachers need to know about bathroom, physical, and linguistic basics, and I’ve soften my defensive protests when it comes to comparing Addison to his peers. My son may not be able to run around at recess like the rest of the kids, but how many dance like the dickens to the entire Shakira CD? Or how many kids act out several folk songs in Spanish? And what kid, wherever he goes, has gaggles of girls fawning over him? Maybe I could suggest a few blank on next years form?

Is this kid a complete, fantastic original?

Yes.

Funny?

Yes.

Speaks four languages in gurgly babbles?

Yes.

Eats avocados; blueberries, papaya, and carrots with joy?

Yes.

Faced major medical obstacles with flying colors?

Yes.

Tomorrow, Addison will get on the bus, though he’ll be carried and need extra help, he’ll join the ranks of "normal" while staying true to his SELF.

Most mothers I know are task-master wizards. I fall in that group. In some ways, it is a requirement because otherwise our planet would fall apart. And I am not being metaphorical here. So it always takes me by surprise when the simplest of ventures can make me cry.

Banking in Costa Rica involves waiting in line. Since going through a divorce, I’ve had to go out and do all those things that once we, as a couple, had taken care of years ago. I needed a new bank account; credit cards; and checks. I’ve approached each banking task with great caution, carefully monitoring my actions, feelings and connections to money as I go. I’ve been a culprit and victim of financial chaos and am determined to never have that “happen” to me again.

This morning the line was short at my bank. Good time to get those checks. Checks are rarely accepted here in Costa Rica, but they can be written for such things as rent, school tuition, etc. I sat down in front of the well-groomed clerk. Although she had helped me open my account, she didn’t recognize me (must have been the new haircut*). Though this woman was young, her hair was pulled back tight and her brow furrowed when she spoke. It added ages to her soul. I began to stumble about in my use of the Spanish language. She corrected me several times and then just stared at me. I suddenly felt as though I was sitting in front of one of those stern nuns I’d had in grade school.

What did I do wrong?

that little voice said in my head.

I repeated what I had said and began to add hand gestures, which is a sure sign of losing a grip. The clerk was offering me no relief in my struggles.

The little voice, otherwise known as the bad witch, now sat right on my shoulder, said:

Stupida! You do not deserve such things as checks. What were you thinking?

Then, this other voice (we’ll call her the good witch), takes a bit longer to wake up because it usually goes to bed later at night, said:

It’s only some lousy checks for goodness sakes! Keep going or you’ll be a weiner!

After continuing along like this for a few more minutes, I realized we were stuck on a content issue. I wanted to know if it cost more to order less books of checks, or if I got a discount from ordering more checks.

No. The checks cost the same regardless of how many you order,

said the tightly wound clerk while tapping on the computer keys and avoiding eye contact.

See! You’re getting somewhere!

said the good witch in my head. I sat back in my chair and took a breath.

See that wasn’t so hard

The clerk looked up at me and said:

You have an account that doesn’t allow for checks. You’ll have to open another account to permit the writing of checks.

I gathered my bag and said thank you. The bad witch sat on my shoulder and chuckled.

See! Stupida!

My eyes welled with tears. I left the bank thinking I’d walk out with an order for a few checks and instead faced a demon in my soul. It has nothing to do with checks. This teller probably had a fight with her boyfriend before she left for work and is past due on her water bill, plus her dog has a cold. I’ve probably opened a hunderd checking accounts in my lifetime; I was caught off-guard and found a lesson at the bank. I wanted to know about my issues with money and boom! There it was. I don’t feel worthy, yeah…that’s it.

Guess what you bad little witch? I am.

I am.

*words still out on that haircut.

This program has been interrupted due to marginal Internet service. According to my sources, six people in scuba gear are swimming somewhere in the sea meticulously returning life to tranquility and optiminum speed. Tune in soon for new post. Thanks for listening.

Please, this is important. Tell two friends about Oink; and they’ll tell two friends; and they’ll tell two friends; and so on; and so on….

Occasionally melancholy splashes at my heals. I get wet in memories. I drove around doing errands this afternoon and the English speaking radio station was saturated in songs from the late 70s and 80s. ELO, Doobies….what’s that one….The Power of Love….of yeah…Huey Lewis. I mean, come on. How could I not walk down memory lane?Since my marriage has ended, I start to think about all those people who wandered in and out of my life. Men and women. I miss some old women friends so much sometimes I can start to cry at the cafe when I see the empty chair across from me and remember how we used to wile away the hours over French bread and wine.I don’t know what exactly it is I am missing. Do I imagine relationships better than they really were? Am I just vying for a time that really wasn’t as happy as my memories make it out to be? I have these ideas that I am going to email this person or that. But I hold back. I feel like I am going to mess up their lives. A lot of times, things ended between loves and friends on an “awkward” or “touchy” note.Yet there are these chunks of my life I can discuss with no one, except that ONE. I miss laughing over those stories. I even miss the smells: coffee, cigarettes, cheap carpet, cat boxes, snow, dishes undone, and my favorite, sawdust. I wish I could see some of the people of my past as the person I am now, without leaving that child completely behind. I’d do it even better this time around. It’s just the nature of it all.