"Great things are done when mountains and men meet."

These mamas of mountains meet my literal mama and dad. My favorite thing in the world is to bring people here, let the silliness of life surface and then "mountainize" them! The effect of mountainizing the "commoners" (aka non-present living Appalachians) is always, always worthwhile. It's this sense of feeling their physical bodies working with the mountain, the gaping closeness of the wild wind, they can sense the expanse of height, but can't yet see it. They get nervous, unsure of what to anticipate, then they ramble, ramble ramble, asking questions then SHABAM-- they're there. They've arrived to the summit. Then we're all so fiercely pumped to feel like we're on top of the world, letting the wildness of life have its way through us that we skip and frolick around like giddy little goats excited to be alive, excited to see, simply excited. Surprisingly, this is exactly how it occurred with my favorite people in the world-- mis padres. I find that the moment when your parents stop being the ones who gratify all your wants and needs, and you can see them as people, individuals with wild pursuits, outlandish stories, and the very hearts that out poured love and more love into that kindred soul of yours, you have just swallowed a big chunk of wisdom and received your first pair of big girl panties. You know life is a crazy type of beautiful when you, along with the ma and pops, can scurry around like 5 yr olds in a sweet love that reminisces of when you actually were 5 years old. Playing is this rush of love, this rush of goodness. It's the things like saying "Shut up" or randomly tackling a loved one that says "Hey, I like you." It is this insane comfort of knowing that they know you, you know them, and that's enough. Nothing more, nothing less. When I see them again, I remember all their weaknesses and follies, and yet their hard work and their sacrifices shine as brightly as the rays of light radiate. But it's almost in their absence I capture them fully, while in their presence I further along our celebration of being together. Here I am, this physical, grown manifestation of their shared story, their shared mystery communicated in living form to the rest of the world. And this love takes root in me, inexhaustible, always there, resonating warmth, reminding me and the world I see of this special beauty.

On the other hand, here are some current mind thoughts. It's the baby goals in life that make all the difference anyways.

1st goal: inside life ALWAYS reflected outwardly. This means: When betty here is feeling messy and disorganized (which is always), the outside must reflect her accurately. This right here may be the reason why I have made few friends thus far (except the jolly ole geris), BUT my hope is to be authentic and open, receptive to people. You can't pretend to look pretty, make up and the like are no fool. This has been encouraging thus far, and I have never felt more free doing else wise.

2nd goal: Time is all a metaphor. Not a fan of clocks-- I feel like they are a routine outlet sort of "fun sucker" that makes your life have to be "orderly" and god forbid "on time." I am a professional, don't get me wrong, but time is not my God. Adventure contradicts the sheer constituents that time has to offer. When unsure, go for the wild-- the sun dial you made in third grade. (If you need one, I can make them-- $10 dollars a pop too pricey?)

3rd goal: Remember what a day means. Sometimes, when I have a couple of days off, and none of my 3 friends are off either (Eh, I may have a total of 4 new friends), I always try for one day to do nothing...not even sleeping. But in doing nothing, I'm always doing something. These are some of my most fun. I always thought when I wasn't doing something, I was missing out on life, not "learning." Untrue. A true learner somehow awakens in a moment and feels like a cornea transplant and a pair of new lens were applied within-- this explosion of vision, of understanding, illuminates what went undiscovered prior to awakening. The world opens up like a big giant snow globe where fragmented pieces start attracting their way towards each other to form the big picture. Or a little picture to later on create the big picture.

Even though I don't know why I'm here in West Virginia, I feel like I've already received a transfusion of it's blood. We've developed this sort of relationship, kinship of sorts. It's roots have nestled their hinges down to my roots, my own evolution not far fetched at all from the rippling spirit that exists here. My DNA double helix is taking an inclining to deese har Appalachian chromosomes. I see it, changing me, and I like it...a lawt. To the mountains and beyond!

I like it spicy, not ICY.

“In the depth of winter I finally learned that there within me--and there within all of us-- lay an invincible summer.” -Albert Camus

Well, I can't say I feel any better coming in after running outside my apartment, kicking the snow, grabbing the ice and breaking it, cursing at the downfall of sleet and ice and everything else that makes the body shiver to the bone. It's got me. Those damn winter blues have driven me to madness (and most certainly not for the last time). I thought about flinging random snowballs as cars passed by, but thought that may be a little too extreme for the moment. Winter drags on and on and on, makes the soul bitter, like DEATH that pervades the exterior somehow takes over the interior, too. I'm angry at you, Winter. Winter brings out his rawness that may have eclipsed past all those "learning, growing, and harvesting" seasons. My own heart has witnessed the most terrifying things just in this past week. The unexpected deaths of patients, children, and the raging, terrifying effects of sexual abuse of an infant. The cruelty of this harsh world seeps into reality, revealing its hidden heartache. Death comes without an itinerary, no need to explain-- just bruise, bruise, bruise the inner heart, again and again. The only friends of compassion to give are my own pitiful tears. I drive home from work crying with Neil Young's "A Heart of Gold" on repeat. Even the baker down the street saw my puffy face and scorched red eyes, and offered a meager solace, "It all gets us sometimes, honey. Keep it trucking." This of course, brought the river of tears back as I shook my head and tried to conceal my weakness as I thought, Basketcase betty--back in town. Death came knocking without their consent. No sense to make of it. Nothing else to offer. Nothing else to give. Only in the fragile, heart-wrenching depravity of death, can a mere glimpse of grace, of life, be found. I hate it, and yet am reawakened amidst it all at the same time. Chesterton, who wrote The Man Who Was Thursday, speaks words that somehow makes sense to my soul. He writes about Syme (the main character), who explains his thoughts on the man who was Sunday and eventually comes to say, "Bad is so bad, that we cannot think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain evil could be explained." I know exactly what he means.