Midnight exactly. Audrie sings me two happy birthday songs - the traditional one, and one we made up just for us. I smile and snuggle in. The tears come again. Not violently like last time, but steady.

For the first time in 34 years, I think of my birthday from my mother's perspective. 

The time I was born. The story she told of how my sister peaked in the window of the hospital room with those big blue eyes as if to say 'what are MY parents doing in there with THAT thing and why am I not allowed inside?' How did she feel when she saw me for the first time? Was she the first person to kiss me? How long before the worry set in? Did she wonder how she was going to afford two kids? 

The time in our first house where I was still in diapers and a high chair and had cake all over my face. Did she make that cake or buy it at the store? Did she pick out my blue dress special for the occasion?

The time in our second house where there was a double party for me and my best friend. I fell off a bench while decorating and she rushed me to the hospital. She fainted when they re-set my arm. The party went on. Was she terrified? Was she exhausted? Was she annoyed? Did she have to go to work the next day?

The time in our third house when I got my first electric guitar and amp. Did she go with my dad to get it? Did she research guitars on the internet? Did she have to save up money and for how long?

The time we stopped speaking. A package arrived to my work address because I didn't want her to know where I lived. A necklace, I think. I can't even remember what it looked like. I didn't want a gift. I wanted to know she accepted me. Did it break her heart to send a gift to my work? Did she agonize over whether or not to send a gift at all? Did she hope I would call her and we would make up? Was she crushed when the kind gesture didn't solve all our problems?

And now today. Of course, there is sorrow in knowing my remaining birthdays will never be accompanied by the sound of her voice. But there is pain in knowing there were so many birthdays I could have heard her voice and didn't. I spent those birthdays surrounded by friends. Chosen family. I convinced myself I didn't need a call from my mother. I never thought, until today, about how she felt every time June 8th rolled around. Did she cry all day? Did she put in long hours to distract herself? Did she polish off a couple bottles of wine? Was she angry? Did she throw glass trinkets against the wall? Did she pray? Scour the Bible for verses about children who betray their parents? Did the tumors grow faster on June 8th? 

I'm trying to let go of the guilt of it. I'm trying to forgive myself for not being kind or compassionate or smart enough to find a solution besides silence during that time. Doing your best on a war-torn battlefield is different than doing your best in a motherless meadow. One place sharpens your survival skills. The other place softens your perspective. 

And that's how the tears come on this gloomy June day. A soft pitter-patter of perspective spilling out of cloudy eyes onto a 34 year-old face.

I think it's all stuffed down there somewhere. The pain. The little blind girl wearing handcuffs and a dog muzzle, choking on her own short inhales. The guilt. Shards of sharp scrap metal swirling in a tornado of time, ripping like bandaids off the roofs of shantily built memory shacks. 

DAY
There were several morning tears. Working, working, working. Stay busy. Stay distracted. They came as early as 7am. I was listening to Lights Out in my car, in a parking lot, getting ready to meet the people who were kind enough to help me shoot a music video. For a few days I prepared and conceptualized like it was any other project. Like it was any other song. I caught a glimpse of her name on my necklace. This isn't a song. This is HER life. HER death. A story told by the last person she would ever choose to narrate it. And she's not even here to tell me she hates it. She's gone. GONE. I have makeup on. I can't cry now. Push it down there, with the rest of it. That's a wrap. Onto work. Album promotion, the absolute worst part of it all. Hawking my own self-worth on social media three dollars and ninety nine cents at a time. A pre-order parrot who can't even stand the sound of her own squawk. Wondering what on earth made me CHOOSE this. I can only hit send so many times before I start feeling nauseous. Wife time. She says let's go to the movies. I agree because I get to eat chocolate, hold her hand, and most likely take a nap. Action scenes help drown out the noise I hear always. We meet up with friends after. More distractions. I'm tired but I'm into it because I get to eat tacos, drink beer, and listen to other people's stories, which also help drown out the noise I hear always. Ten minutes after we leave the restaurant a stranger gets stabbed to death a block away. A stranger who must have been someone to someone at some point. Just like her.

NIGHT
We do our bed routine. Go pee. Check locks. Set alarms. Sniff lavendar oil sleepy thing. Snuggle. Make plans for boxing class in the morning. Audrie drifts off in no time, and suddenly I feel it. The ache, like a current rising up in my lungs, my throat, my nostrils, my eyes. Carrying with it the pain. The little girl. The guilt. The scrap metal. In that moment I am the most alone and the most sad and the most scared. My sobs wake up Audrie but even she can't comfort me. The want for my mom is so strong I feel it throbbing in my teeth. I am suddenly two years old. I am suddenly ironed out by my own grief. I can't move my limbs. My eyes are closed but I see flashes of color. Neon purple. I see shapes that don't have names. I yell out mom between sobs, a low drone that scares me because it sounds like someone else. Summoning. I wait impatiently for her to come rushing across the universe to hold me. Audrie doesn't know what to do so she rubs my back. She rubs it forever until we both fall asleep. 

I’m laying in mom’s bed, which is now in dad’s house, in what used to be my room. It was the bed where she slept alone years after the divorce, and the bed where she laid unconscious days before her death. The bed where she spoke her last words to me. The bed that was surrounded by a steady stream of strangers who lifted up her legs to wipe and lifted up their hands to pray. I wanted all of them to leave. They eventually did, and so did she. Now there is no one but me, laying here in this bed, where her final fight morphed into her sole surrender.
 
We used to call it the glow worm. It was pimped out with electric blankets and soft pillows and padded mattress toppers and fluffy comforters. She was so stinking cute in her little matching pajamas, even with all that cancer bloat. On the weekends I visited, we watched TV in the living room until she got tired. She announced her bedtime and leaned over me and Haley for good night kisses. It gave me relief to finally hear the bedroom door shut behind her. Whew. Now I can relax a bit. Now I can work a bit. Now I can call my wife. Now I can speak to Haley in hushed, worried whispers.
 
My guilt snores heavily on this bed. Why didn’t I follow her into that room and sleep by her side, JUST FUCKING ONCE? I constantly scan the wreckage of my mind for potential white flags. This is one I could have raised with such ease and compassion. Awake in the same room was war at worst, stalemate at best. Rest in the same room – a peace too obvious, I guess.
 
I can't say for sure how mom felt during her last nights in this bed. For me, those nights were hallucinatory; they smashed and slid into each other as if whoever was in charge of my existence decided to scrap the project entirely and make pancake batter instead. I spent stir-crazy 4ams tiptoeing to the bathroom in search of a shred of sanity. I dialed Audrie in the wee hours and begged her through sniffles to come NOW. Soon, love, she’d sleepily say. After the toilet tantrums, I’d crawl back into this godforsaken bed, where the madness of night welcomed me with a hungry snarl.
 
The night Audrie flew in for the funeral, we slept together in mom's bed, in mom's room. I didn't even think of mom rolling over in the grave she was awaiting at the disgusting thought of her disgusting daughter doing disgusting things with that disgusting friend she calls her wife. I didn't think at all, in fact. My mind was the light-less part of the moon, and we moved like the wave-less part of the ocean, but for just a few moments, my unfathomable nightmare segued into a tolerable reality where deliverance was still an option. I spun a simple, prickly web of cotton panties, hairy legs, and bare breasts. It was not the silky seduction Audrie was accustomed to, yet she still volunteered as prey. She knew I was starving.
 
This is just one bed where one person died one day. (Well, she actually died in another bed that took Hospice an eternity to deliver, but that's another post altogether). I think of all the deathbeds and all the generations and all the families and all the countries in all the world and I wonder if I will die in a bed at all. Will my love be by my side or will I be by hers? Will my child or children be left with anything other than a Rubix cube of a relationship to try an unscramble? Why don’t we talk about these people and these beds and these times and these traumas? People say love is the great unifier, and I believe it is. But loss? Loss is the index finger on the hand of love, and it points to us all. What if we used that finger to connect to ourselves and each other in a God-to-Adam-Elliott-to-ET kind of way? Just like energy is restored with rest, maybe loss can give way to its own opposite. Not just within broken and hurting little me but also within a broken and hurting little world. We just have to be willing to talk about it - openly, honestly, collectively. What can be found or resurrected in the wake of great loss? How might making more room for death allow us to make more room for life?  
 
I got all that from laying in a bed. Sheesh.

I have to tell you guys a stupid story. I'll give you two versions. As it actually happened, and as it happened in my brain.

3.3.17
I begrudgingly click "purchase" on a roundtrip flight home. After putting roughly 74 trillion miles on and spending roughly 28 billion hours in my car in the last several months, I can't bear the thought of yet another drive up and down the Interstate 5, just so I can be physically present at the bank to add my name to my late mother's account.

​I have to spend $300 to fly to physically sign one little document? I know it's a credit union, but don't they have the technology for me to do this remotely? Oh well, what's another $300 sprinkled lightly on top of the $10K+ layer cake that is my thanks-for-dying-come-again credit card debt? At least I'll get to see my sis and my dad. And at least I'll make it back in time for recording on Sunday.

If you didn't know, I'm releasing a solo album in July. Not only do I want to, I have to. I've been diligently booking a tour surrounding the release date, and without an album, it's pretty impossible to break even on tour, let alone put a dent in the up-front expenses of creating an album in the first place. I usually try to fundraise for such things, but fuck a fundraiser when your mom is dying. Even though the entire process from financial challenges to deadline pressures is stressing me the fuck out, this album is pretty much the only reason I am getting up in the morning, and for that I owe it to my will to live to finish it on time.

How the hell am I going to finish it in time? How am I going to pay for it? So much for that string section, you gotta leave in those synths you hate. So much for that publicist, you better start begging for your own press now. FUCK. Get it together, Lindsay. Just finish the record. Just hang on; you can do this. Don't worry, your flight will land in time for you to go to Sunday's session. Be positive.

3.10.17
I wake up, brush my teeth, and stuff my mom's will in my backpack. I squeeze Audrie and kiss her on the cheek, indicating that it's time for her to take me to the airport. I tell her I'll miss her. I also tell her I feel sick to my stomach.

I'm going to die in a plane crash. Or Audrie's going to die on her way to work while I'm gone. Or Haley's going to die on her way to pick me up. Or my dad's going to die from this ear infection he can't quite kick. FUCK Lindsay calm down. You're all fine, and you will all eventually die, but it's not likely to happen all at the same time, so chill out.

But I think it's going to be me, today, in a plane crash.

I settle in at the airport. I people-watch and observe funny things. I post about those things on Facebook. I drink coffee. My eyes well up with tears and I quietly allow them to spill down my face. I try not to sniffle so people don't observe me and post about me on Facebook: "There's some greasy-haired, braless lady sitting all by herself and crying at my gate. I hope I don't have to sit by her on the plane."

This is the first time I'm going home and mom won't be there. I remember all the times I drove home and wandered aimlessly around Marshall's home goods section until Haley got off of work so I didn't have to go to mom's by myself. I'm such an asshole. Why didn't I just go straight there? Now there is no there. I could travel any place in the world and she would never be there when I arrived. 

I pop a Xanax on the plane and wake up in Fresno, safe and sound. Haley picks me up. I put on a bra and clothes that make me look like an acceptable person, and together we go to the Social Security office. We sit in the waiting room for hours. We see lots of broken people who speak broken English and live in a broken system. The security guards have guns and are also broken people. They conjure their I-have-a-gun-and-know-better-than you voices to yell at people walking through the front door to "STAY BACK UNTIL YOU ARE CALLED," but there is no signage posted, and people therefore think it's A-okay to walk through a door, because, well it's a fucking door. The biggest asshole of them all gets into an altercation with a male customer at the metal detector, and literally throws a fucking penny at him. A penny.

Why is it so hard for government organizations to communicate effectively and work efficiently? Put a fucking sign on the damn door so people know to wait. 'Oooh, I have a gun, my penis is bigger than yours. I like yelling cause it makes me feel important.'

I start to say some of these things loudly to my sister and she shuts me up so we don't get kicked out. I try to focus my attention elsewhere.

Aw, that baby is so cute. I want a baby. How are we ever going to afford having a baby? I hope I'm a good mom. I hope I'm not 56 by the time I feel emotionally and financially prepared to have a baby. Aw, that lady's pants have a pretty tulip print. Mom's favorite.

I point out tulip pants to my sister and we take it as a sign that mom is there with us, ready to fight the evil forces of the Social Security Administration together. We have the spirit of scrappy Jackie on our side, and we feel good about it. Our number is finally called. We explain our mother's situation. That she paid into social security for many years, and upon being diagnosed with a terminal illness, was denied disability and put on a two year waiting list for Medicare. Two years later (just in time for death!) she was sent a Medicare card and a $400 bill that would cover Feb-April.

The woman assisting us remained robotic and emotionless. Mom didn't qualify for any assistance then, and we don't qualify for any assistance now. And regarding Medicare, mom never sent back the portion of the card opting out of coverage (you know, because filling out paperwork is a super easy thing to do when you're lying unconscious in your bed, and because Medicare is apparently like our president in that it doesn't require your consent before it grabs you by the pussy), so she technically still owed $134 for February because she didn't stop breathing until the 7th of the month. We asked the woman if there was a way to waive that stupid charge, and she brought us an appeal form to fill out.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? So let me get this straight...she was punished for dying too young, we are punished for being too old, and now we are expected to PAY for assistance she never received  in the first place, and the only way to avoid paying it is to go through some lengthy appeals process in which we will probably be denied? Man, it must be hard to do your job. You just make people sad all day.

I said all of that out loud except for the 'are you fucking kidding me' part, because I knew she wasn't fucking kidding me.  

3.11.17
We do the thing at the bank with no incident. We meet my dad at Starbucks but it's loud in there and he has a bad ear infection, so we opt for lunch at quieter CPK. I am so tired; my personal size pizza looks like it would make a great personal size pillow for my bowling ball heavy head. We eat spinach artichoke dip and tell dad he needs to take care of himself. He picks up the check and tells us we need to do the same.

I can't handle something happening to my dad. I CAN'T. What if his ear ache is diabetes? What if he dies?

It's my last night so Haley and I attempt quality time in the free hours that were once occupied by mom. I pace around her apartment; she knows I'm sad and tired and restless. She assigns me comedic impressions in hopes of alleviating some of my pain. I attempt them in hopes of alleviating some of hers. We smile a little, cry a little, and eventually retreat to our individual computers and the distracting, isolating glow of bed-time streaming. 

Why is everything I watch about mothers and daughters or parents dying? Maybe it always was, and I just never noticed it. I wish I could feel her with me. I wish I could feel peace. I wish my dreams were comforting and not nightmarish. Just one more episode, maybe it will help me fall...

3.12.17
It's still dark out when Haley takes me to the airport. I tell her to call me when she gets back home because she lives in a sketchy neighborhood. I'm tired but excited to know I'll make my recording session today. I fish around for my headphones and realize I left them at Haley's. I buy a magazine, pop a Xanax and board the plane. The pilot tells us the weather in San Diego is bad and the flight attendant tells us we can't take off until they replace some motor. They replace it and we're up, up, and away.

I'm going to die in a plane crash today. At least Haley made it home safe. I'm so sleepy.

I'm awakened from my Xanax nap to hear the pilot saying something about the fog. The airport won't let us land. He can't see the runway. We circle around San Diego for an hour or so. I drift in and out of sleep.

I'm going to die in the ocean. I'm so sleepy.

I wake back up to the pilot saying we have to land in Palm Springs so we don't run out of fuel.

I'm going to die in the desert. I'm so sleepy.

We land safely in the desert. We are not allowed off the plane just yet because this kind of plane doesn't typically come through this airport and they are trying to locate a ramp that is the right size for the door. The pilot makes a joke that the only way out is the inflatable emergency exit slide and we don't want to end up on CNN. The flight crew warns us to shut the windows because it's hot and that motor thing is still messed up so there is no air available in those little twisty thingies. There is no more water on board either. I take off my hoodie because it suddenly feels too tight around my neck and my armpits are fully sweating.

I'm going to suffocate. Ok, think Lindsay. You can take another Xanax to calm down, but you haven't eaten and you want to be alert. You don't want to be Kristen Wiig in Bridesmaids in front of all these strangers. I need to get off this plane. I need to get off this plane. I need to at least ask them if they have snacks. Oh my God, here it comes. Stop crying. Deep breaths. It's ok.

A few minutes (or few hundred hours) pass and we are finally told we can get off the plane, but if we do, we are "on our own," meaning the airline or airport is not financially accountable for any additional transportation plans, rental cars, luggage routing, etc. I raise my hand with a few others and volunteer for this option. As I'm about to reach the door, a flight attendant stops me. The pilot addresses the passengers. We are now allowed to "try San Diego" again. There is no guarantee we will be able to land and there is a possibility we could be re-routed to another airport again. 

No fucking thank you. Let me off this God damn plane now. It'd be different if you had water or air or snacks or were certain of a swift San Diego landing or could even let me stick my head out of that open door like a dog on the freeway for five minutes while I regained my composure, but nope nope nope. If I stay on this plane I am going to die. My lungs are collapsing as we speak.

I find a table at a restaurant at the airport. I order a hamburger and openly weep between bites. Same greasy-haired braless crying lady, different airport. (Side note, aside from me and a shitty wifi connection, the Palm Springs airport is quite lovely). Audrie, my wife in shining armor, is on her way.

I'm going to miss my recording session. FUCK FUCK FUCK. Ugh, Linds. You should have just sucked it up and stayed on the plane. But I would have straight-up died if I stayed on that plane. Just be glad you are alive and on the Earth. I hope Audrie's okay. What if she dies on the way to come get me? I'd never be able to live with the guilt. Why didn't I just stay on the plane? Why can't I get my Internet to work? How am I going to finish this record? This is totally a story I would want to call mom about. She'd comfort me and we'd laugh about it later. Wait. No we wouldn't. She wasn't that kind of mom to me. I probably wouldn't even tell her this happened. Remember that time you cried in front of her about your record and she acted like you weren't even there? It doesn't matter if you miss her or not, she wasn't the type of mom you called for this kind of shit. 

Audrie picks me up and I pass the fuck out on the way home. That night I take a Xanax again. My third this weekend.

Back to Melatonin starting tomorrow, you don't want to invite a drug addiction to this grief party.

I try to fall asleep before the emotion ghosts come to get me. Too late. I sob for about five minutes straight. Audrie goes to the bathroom and gets me tissue. 

Daylight savings my ass. This was the longest day of my life. I wish I could feel her with me. I wish I could feel peace. I wish my dreams were comforting and not nightmarish. I have to work in the morning, hopefully I can fall asleep soon. I need to renew my AAA. I need to email that promoter. My gas bill is due. Mom's gas bill is due. I need to reschedule my recording session and...

It’s International Women’s Day, so I figured I’d try to unpack my personal thoughts on the subject today. Maybe I’ll revisit my political thoughts on the matter later.
 
Pssshhhh. You thought I could separate it? That’s a j/k if I ever heard one. We’re not talking about funding for potholes here. We’re talking about the human, emotional, painful, mental, physical, societal, cultural, racial, financial, EXTREMELY political, and dare I say phenomenal experience that is having a vagina.
 
It took six days for my mom to die, and in that surreal fog of a week, I have never been more convinced that women should rule the world. They should have been ruling the world all along. Men reading this might take offense to that, but I’m not saying it as a diss. I admire men’s ability to do a lot of things, like aim urine, simplify thoughts, and walk alone late at night without fear of being raped. I wish I could do all of those things. I realize I’m making gross generalizations, but fuck it, I don’t want to talk about men anymore. I want to talk about how women astonish me, especially in crisis. Because as Jacqulyn Kay White feebly yet ferociously exited the earth for six straight days, it was the women (young and old) who stared skin-stretching, bed-shitting, bile-spitting, throat-choking death in the face for hours at a time. Our tears flowed, our bodies ached, our hearts mourned, but we sucked it up and hunkered down.
 
We were cooing voices drowning out death rattles. Soft palms on furrowed brows. Cool lotion on hot hands and warm socks on cold feet. We were casseroles and sandwiches. We were morphine syringes and clean towels. We were baby wipes and adult diapers. Scooped fingers in a mouth full of mucous. Floor sleepers and turn takers. We lifted boxes and furniture. We cried like babies at gas pumps and walked like zombies through grocery stores.

We asked questions and listened intently. We hugged and held hands. We knew when to make ourselves scarce. We knew when to make ourselves known. We gave assignments. We took direction. We made plans. We made compromises. We made amends. 

We let go. We hung on. We let go. We hung on. We let go.
 
Women do it all right, but we’ve done it all wrong. ALL THIS TIME. We don’t need the praise to participate or the raise to contribute. We quietly accomplish without recognition or reward because the motivation lives inside of us. She’s there, shining and splendid and unscathed. She gives without grumbling and takes without trampling. She laughs at money, ignores power, spits at greed, and demolishes false idols. She’s most likely God herself.
 
What if we revealed her to the world all at once? What if we trusted our sons with her knowledge and abilities? What if, on simultaneous worldwide display, she provided not a trivial beacon of hope, but a universal benchmark of compassion, strength, grace, and character? What if weapons and war and rape were as unacceptable to her as she is to men? What if she was no longer a passionate request? What if she never needed permission in the first place? What if she was an unapologetic, unnegotiable demand? 
 
***
I imagine my mom reading this and rolling her eyes because the word feminist tasted bad in her mouth and because her God had a penis, I think. But she managed to create two of the nastiest women I’ve ever met, so as far as I’m concerned, she’s Betty fucking Friedan.   

Dear Mom,

You would think 2.5 years would be enough time. Enough time to re-connect, enough time to heal, enough time to memorize, enough time to prepare. Turns out 2,025 years wouldn't have been enough time. Pre-grief is not a thing.

It's high tide in my mind, and there are so many childhood memories crashing back in. Driving. We sang along to Give Me One Reason by Tracy Chapman. You let me hold the steering wheel from the passenger seat while you prepared your next handful of sunflower seeds. Shopping. We took trips to the coast every summer and you bought us clothes for the new school year. You sat in the dressing room and re-hung items for me while I moved onto the next option. Mornings. We were in your bedroom where the smell of coffee drifted upstairs to meet us. You tried on 10 outfits at a time and called yourself fat.

I can't see your face, mom. I can see your legs in the drivers seat, separated by a paper cup filled with spit-covered shells. I can see your hands on the hangers and your purse on the floor. I can see your stomach suffocating at the mercy of your pantyhose. But I can't see your face, so I rely on pictures for that. I cut and paste you in according to whatever decade it was and whatever hairstyle you had. There's a picture of you in the bathroom getting ready. I use that one when I try to remember how you stretched your jaw long to apply mascara.

When you were sick, I never knew what to say. So I focused on actions. Clean your fridge, hold your hand, fold your towels, pay your bill. I baked you a German chocolate cake when you surpassed the 2 year life-expectancy prognosis. You blew out my make-shift match candles, squeezed me tight, and told me to never leave you again. I ate what I wanted to say along with half a cake I wasn't hungry for. I took a picture of that moment and I use it to imagine your face.

In one of our last conversations, you told me I wasn't the daughter you wanted and admitted you weren't the mother I wanted. It was more lament than insult, but it still presses into me like a dull knife. You said it like there weren't 47 more days left to do something about it. For the record, you were exactly the mother I wanted. You were exactly the person whose acceptance I craved. Whose pride I solicited. Whose strength and character and eye-makeup I mimicked.

Your last words to me were Annie-bo-banny. A pet name you gave me along with my real one. I might be lying to myself, but I took those words to mean that I was in fact the daughter you wanted after all. You wouldn't call just anyone that.

I never wanted a daughter until you died. Please tell God or whoever it ended up being to give her your face. I just want to see your face. 

My mother died on February 7th. Time marches on, and I find myself starring in a play of my own life. My character is busy. She works, records, books shows, pays taxes. She likes drinking coffee, boxing, watching Jeopardy. Her most impressive performance is when she puts on pants that zip and gets to work on time. A few noted differences, though. She eats a lot of lasagna made by people who love her, and she's always on the phone with strangers. I play her, but I am not her. I am just some chick who cries hard at night. 

I've always struggled to communicate with my mom, but now that she's gone the struggle is real, as the kids say. I do take comfort knowing she is no longer toting around a bunch of sick, traitorous cells. She is no longer in pain, and that fact picks me up off the floor every day.

But I am in pain. My thoughts on the experience of having then losing then having then losing my mother are too numerous and severe for my brain to accommodate. I feel them scratching my throat, eating my stomach, pinching my hips, melting my eyelids. So in order to sort them out, I've decided to categorize them (because I inherited a quite the organization gene from mom) and write about them. 

Disclaimer, there will be some negativity because, lest you've forgotten, I'm fucking sad. And when I'm not fucking sad, I'm fucking frustrated, or fucking exhausted. One of the most obvious reasons our society doesn't regularly discuss grief and loss is because we're actively trying to avoid those things. Unless it's wrapped up in a Muddy Waters song or something, no one is exactly thrilled to answer the door when sadness knocks. But we're missing a real opportunity here. Avoiding these conversations means avoiding a chance to better understand and peacefully accept the inevitable. It means avoiding a chance to better understand and peacefully accept each other. ​Hard as it is to stare grief in the face, I've found much inspiration, love, gratitude, compassion, and strength in her eyes. I will write about that as well, promise.

A few topics I want to write about off the top of my head (then sorted alphabetically, of course):

Anger, Apathy vs Ambition, Compassion, Empathy, Event Planning, Exercise, Expectations, Family, Friendship, God, Greed, Guilt, Loneliness, Marriage, Memories, Men, Money, Music, Peace, Politics, Possessions, Preachers, Privilege, Questions, Sisters, Smells, Songwriting, The Dead Parent Club, The Future, The Industry of Dying, The Nuthouse, Therapy, Traveling, Women, Work

Hey peeps! Just updated my LWYT playlist on Soundcloud with a bunch of rough mp3s available for streaming and download. Something to hold you over while I work on my new solo album! Let me know what you think or if any song in particular resonates with you!