The world needs to know the truth. If you are a nurse, WANT to be a nurse or all the like, brace yourself. Your wits, your sanity, it's all out there-- pending, swinging out on a limb awaiting for it to be snatched by some swooping eagle that then soars to the end of the Earth to give it to some dainty kid on the beach. Not so cool.

So if I was a recruiter for nursing, this would be my honest draw-in: "What do you want in life? Do you want a rewarding and satisfying job to make all the difference in a person's life? Do you want to care for people in a way that's life-changing, life-giving? Well, what the HELL are you thinking getting yourself into nursing? GIRL, please." I would then show them the poster in the break room of the patient and nurse holding hands with the slogan--"Nursing: Where hearts and hands meet." I would next hold up a poster that is a TRUE depiction of real life nursing: A nurse held up against a wall with a fork in hand about to attack while the patient just sits on his/her bed smashing the call light over and over and over again. The slogan would read: "Nursing: Where saving lives really becomes questionable."

The irony of IV pumps exists in that when they beep, or malfunction, they do so in an attempt to make a hell of a choir out of their sounds. They must pre-arrange who is alto, soprano, etc. I find it even more lovely when I am in the room with a patient, fixing the pump and he decides to ring the call light again to let then know it's still beeping. I want to prize him with a badge of honor, thank him, I will now willingly admit myself to the Psych ward. These sort of days are when mimosas are the sweetest things on Earth.

I mean is it too much to say I imagine myself out in the meadow with 50 IV pumps, all of them singing, DINGING the hell along, and I hear the cued rap music, "Let's GO (let's Go)....If you wanna you can get it, let me know (let me know). I'm about to break this thing up. LET'S GO..." Next I pretend to be in that scene of Office Space with Michael and Peter where they beat the fax machine with the baseball bat.... playing Fight Club until the little piss pumps can pump and ding forever no more.

So how's that a depiction of real-life nursing? The irony is ever-so incredibly tormenting in that, i still want to do this. You realize that you have to give them yourself along with the lack of patience and the anger. You learn to shake your head, scream in the break room as you fling yourself from wall to wall and somehow, love them like your own family. (And anyone could be your family here in West Virginia). Because really, they are my family. I'm just like them, they're just like me, and here we are, truckin' our own little puny selves mightily along.

Conscience was once the chamber of justice.

This is what my own two eyes bellied themselves into this morning: "His demise should be welcomed by all who believe in peace and human dignity," said Obama. "Tonight we can say to all those who lost loved ones to al-Qaeda terror, 'Justice has been done.'" Bush called the operation a "momentous achievement" that "marks a victory for America, for people who seek peace around the world, and for all those who lost loved ones on September 11, 2001."

My own contorted gut trembled, twisted and terrifyingly, after attempting to process the words of the forerunners of our political system.

I must question the validity of a just system that promotes murdering of murderers, despoiling the innocent by taking loot as we then parade in our prowess around in our own means of power-- regulating lands, continuing to keep the Southern Hemisphere in debt and impoverished to pay for our Northern ways of life expenditures. Half of our every tax dollar in the past 10 years has been secured to militarism defense-- all the while people have no access to equitable health care and our schools crumble in education.

We only killed 5 million people in the last 10 years, but we got the one! Yep, justice has been done. Why, America, why? You are stealing from our hungry children, wasting the ideas created from education and inevitably vanishing hope for future generations. You are staining the very sense of any sort of humanity.

We are destroying ourselves as a mean to protect ourselves.

The exploitation, the in cognizant ignorance. I am afraid your unjustifiable means of justice are rotting my soul. And I will be dead soon, rotted, and all those who feed on the ideas that at the core, life is sacred.

We must reclaim our lives America. No one is going to do this thing for us.

Ventilation, baby.

MMMM...world. Air. Spring. Sun. THEY'RE BACK. I don't think they ever went away, I just had vacated to another universe in my mind for awhile--and that universe was not all that great--- almost felt like the whole Being John Malvovich thing for awhile, but then again not really. Anyways-- I'm here and now that I'm back on the farm, EVERYBODY'S back. The rain, the birds, the geraniums are erupting, and I am at the edge of my seat waiting for the Japanese eggplant and the Kohl robi to shoot their bodies upright and glisten mightily. They are teaching me so much skill in how to posture oneself towards the sun, how to grow courageously, rooted, and to be confident. Sometimes I even imagine that all of them-- even the cosmos flowers, the broccoli florets and even Maze and Blaze the goats-- that the plants would uproot themselves and dance over to me with the goats and bunnies and chickens-- we'd all dance to Donovan Frankenreiter's "Free" and then roll down the mountain together. Welcome to Betty's imaginative world of life.

Speaking of Betty, I have had major bladder issues since referring to myself as Betty here in Appalachia. Is it a mind trick, body? I mean just because I name you BETTY doesn't mean you get to act like a old timey fart. Please, God, I don't want to wear Depends at the age of 23.

Spring also blows in a different sort of aroma in the whole hospital environment. I have had a couple of patients anticipating death pass away these first few weeks of spring, and it's such a different sort of graceful peace that tunes the room. I remember one sweet older woman who had passed through a grueling grips to breathe with continuous retractions and gasping with a 40% Venti mask on. From course chest expansions to a slow, teetering sort of calmness, her life seemed to have dissipated from within her own skin. Her body lied in an aching stillness as blazing sun rays peaked themselves through the windows, kindling light towards her form. It was re-illuminating each of her features-- as if the sun was tracing her being once again to her frame. The wind howled against the walls-- blown to shatter. The family, friends stared, hoping to see. And they must have looked for what might have been forever. Looking, looking. But we all knew. We just knew we didn't know. It's one of those seeing moments when they found jewels in the mud, stars in the sun, and sweetness in the salt water. The woman reminded me of my own grandma--- as she waded out her days in my room back in Georgia. Her personality dripping from her own sweat, speaking more than words. She was done chasing anything down, and the life force was freeing up inside her. The link between living and being dead thinner, and thinner until in her face and body and mere movement, you recognize finely the beauty of having come through.

Most of my good friends here are dead authors, just waiting for me, and actually all of us, to take their words to rewrite something out for a new generation. But one of my most special friends my grandma had told me about--- she used to speak at the university in Atlanta on her thoughts of life and how to live. Here is one of my most prized poems, as I remember it recently with these patients in these early days of spring. It's called "When Death Comes."

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Moment of Confession: I am a Junkie.

"Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure." -Rumi

Alright, I have officially come out. I'm an addict of the junkyard. I love old people, and I love trash. Not trash that is actually garbage trash, but rather old junk that just needs a little creative kick for it's sparkle and glitter and glam to shine back. This includes furniture and old sticks, trees branches, preserved dried flowers. I don't know how but these treasures somehow find me. I put myself out there, and WHAM-- they hit me. If you are a lover of the rustic/natural/vintage/thrift store/flea marketing, I encourage you to take a gander and totally steal these ideas. Reuse what's already been beautifully created. Restoration is a most glorious sight to behold. Beware though, finding treasures means you are always up for a wild adventure when it seizes you.

Here are some ideas:




These two are pictures of a found ladder made bookshelf, old sticks in the woods, and a futon and dried eucalyptus given to me by my farm friends. Seriously cheap, seriously fun.

Next:






On the left is a an old rusted stool turned nightstand. On the right are old crates found outside the bakery/antique store. Great storage. Working on sewing fabric to cover clothes soon enough.





Mmm...if you are a lover of flowers like me, let your souls soar for a taste of these. Drying flowers is super easy. Watch this video to see how ridiculously simple the process actually is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxVvjgI2YWw





And the mirror: $4 at Goodwill.













Other ideas....







Here is a window with no wind found next to a random shut-down building. How to find a beautiful cottage quilt? The Geris seriously have quilts coming out their ears-- I have never seen so many in my life. The collage on the right is an easy way to hang those posters without the frame. I just put fabric behind the poster, added some random weeds and then an old wooden frame on the other side with dried lavender on a slice of wood. Dried lavender is like light to a room. It brings the aesthetic as well as the fragrance. Sheer delight.

And last but not least....my treasure of all treasures:



Something I have never understood in my life is how we have to have a pretty white porcelain tank take up so much room for our human bodily waste to tunnel itself through. It's strange for my brain to probe. So, because flushing every time you void wastes 2.2 gallons of water when already 1/3 of the world doesn't have access to clean water, it doesn't quite make sense why we kind of make this thing of a weird sort of porcelain golden calf thing. So, in response, I have laid out old Spanish moss around and on top of it to try and recreate it's natural "appeal." It's no whole in the dirt-- but trust me, you will piss in pure peace of mind. :D

"Buy, buy, says the sign in the shop window; Why, why, says the junk in the yard."
---Paul McCartney

Press on in the world of junk dear friends! And may your imagination and creativity soar as you give and care for others amidst the process.

Observatory. Perspective.

When I got here to the big WV, i had lots of interesting ideas rolling inside of me to try out, to infuse, to dare. If there is anything in this sweet world of activities I love, it is fierce competition--I don't care if it is Irish rugby or a sweet chokeslam by the Undertaker at the infamous Wrestlemania. Either way, there is something that is unleashed within when solid competition results in some ephemeral sort of victory. It simply awakens us (hence validated by the popularity of something called....ESPN, is it?) Anyways, I had a couple of choices: 1.) Join a wimpy league of sorts of older post-primal multi-gender wannabe athletes who would rather reflect on their times of physical vitality than actually push themselves to something of value. No thanks. 2.) Attempt to coach. Spread the fierceness and hunger to the little ones and let the holy rage leave them drooling through their vastly young, youthful nights.

Here I am three months later after a basketball season with 9 and 10 year old boys left aghast, quite stunned. Fierce can hardly convey what when on. First, the boys laughed at the sight of their coach, being that a sophisticated and quite amiable young woman would dare to usher them into the long-awaited hoop dreams of intense basketball elite-hood. I didn't think they could handle this. I infrequently screamed, "Get hungry boys!" Well those little rascals understood that dis here Wo-man was gonna work their little tails and have so much fun they'd pass out with pure delight. To sum it all up briefly and nonetheless perceivable, we ended the season with our biggest success as this: The boys understood the difference between offense and defense. This was huge-- though it was not all the fierce intense insanity I'd hoped for, and though it was exhausting, it was finally attained. We ended the season shooting on the right basketball hoop. And, they came to understand and respect the feisty wit of a woman in the realm of sports. It was like, Boom-shakalaka, boys.

So to celebrate our crazy wild, intense season...I loaded the boys up for a run to Cicis--the place of many bathroom runs and the sketchiest (if even real) pizza ingredients known to man---we played with the claw machines and i whooped tail on ice hockey. I wanted to ask them if we could hang out after season and play, but, I, uh, knew I couldn't. I just knew our time of insane competition had come to an end. Fun at the heart of it, but done. They just showed up, played with their hearts, smiled just to hold a basketball, and life was simple.

On my way home I started to get really carried away by feeling this awry sort of sorrow for them. That soon enough they'll reach adolescence-- they'll start feeling more accepted by society for trying harder at intellectualism and their sports and impressing the ladies; they'll begin the neurotic tendencies of trying hard to be good, to be happy, to try whatever it takes to be at home in their own reckless, wild souls. I even look back as I tried so hard-- as a person, as a Christian. Tried to think great thoughts, tried to reconstruct long words and tried to give big hearty advice with great wisdom. But the truth is, everyone, somewhere, somehow-- 8 years old or 98 years old have come to grips with the shattering love of life, love of God at some point. The rest of our crazy, unwinded trails take off to somehow convert that loaded mystery that encountered us into words, lots of words, then the studying of those words and blah, blah, blah, blah. And then so we try to put this love thing into our lives. We try and try and try. We say, "Hey you, love, I'm trying to put you in my life here. Woulda just do that for a second?" Over and over, trying and trying. We think with our minds to try and understand our minds. We try to control ourselves with ourselves. We pray, honestly from our hearts, but end up just trying to listen to ourselves pray prayerful words. We push words to love, but our own wretchedness loves the splendor of the way our love looks rather than love itself. We try, and we suck at trying. Where is it in us where we become like the children again, to respond to life and love as unthinkingly and unknowingly possible without a mere wince of the eye? Maybe, yes, it is good to "know", but maybe not to know in the sense of understanding. Even as I'm writing this I feel this ache of slander that's been torn out. Noooo!! Seek, try to understand hence your "Faith may dwindle"!! That's what's been shoved in my brain into the afar abyss--- But this is how it is with truth. It keeps shocking us.

Shock. Then another. Then another. Until I'll I wanna do is escape that heinous rhythm that makes me feel powerless and nothing, but entirely loved, entirely at home, and somehow, impossibly possible.

"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.