One Mile


It has been about 67 days, give or take. Today I caught up with my laundry. Caught up—as in washed, dried and folded in neat piles stacked safely across every available flat surface far away from the snip snapping teeth of my new, not quite 6-month old Belgian Malinois/dragon mix. Folded laundry, put away in dressers or hung on hangers gives me the illusion that my life has some sort of order. Today is a rare day that I am also caught up with my creative work, so I’m extra on top of my shit. Not only that, I was able to go back to bed after the early morning feeding of my small dog-dragon hybrid, two mornings in a row, and attended a sound healing meditation in an authentic Mongolian yurt last week.

So, yep—I’m SO totally organized and enlightened.

Not so much—but I am making an effort.

During the meditation I saw very clearly the colors red, yellow and violet, and then saw a snake in the road on my way home—information I can use to understand more about my experience currently as a wandering human. I am taking a minute to recognize that I am actually taking time for myself, a practice as a natural giver and healer that is somehow difficult. Doing for myself what I do so well for others—often until the well is brittle bone dry, is a challenge.

It has been about 67 days, give or take.

I got a new puppy.

My daughter and I named him Rhettford LaRoux. He was taken from a suspected meth house and sick with Parvovirus and PICA. He ate rocks until he had a belly full of gravel, so we set off on a mission to heal his gut and correct his nutritional imbalance.

I began a new, part-time job.

A job that is more transcendent gift than job. I paused my work with animal massage due to chronic tendonitis in my elbow. I miss working with my dogs. But, if I am not able to be wholly present with them during a healing session, I am doing both them and myself a disservice.

Now, to focus on what is, and find another path

I turned 50 years old.

I’ve spent the better part of the past 20 years helping my tiny baby grow up into a good human. I’ve lost track of time, so turning 50 came as somewhat of a surprise. I still can’t really alphabetize without silently reciting my ABC’s, or tighten a nut onto a bolt without saying, “righty tighty, lefty loosey,” and most days I don’t really feel much like a grown up. And, because of a few poor choices and some unfortunate personal circumstances, I’m no more financially stable than I was at age 25.

Now, to focus on what is, and find another path

I can make a hella tasty soup from few ingredients, fix a washing machine, run a chainsaw, think creatively, act with compassion and love, continue to learn, and make my daughter laugh—and right now, that’s all that must matter.

Sometimes each step forward feels more like a mile.

But, there really is no other way.

Forward, one mile at a time.