You Call It Hero Worship. I Say, "And...So?"

Today, 74 years ago, the first man to hold my heart and never let go came into this world. 

He taught me to read as easily as I breathe, to seek and question knowledge, to see wonder in the ordinary and made it absolutely impossible to not share his love for all things Disney and "Muffets." 

I thank him for stepping in and hearing my daily download and ending it with "I love you, honey" for more than two years now; for giving the best, safest, loving, tightest(!) hugs a girl could ask for; and for always being my hero, in uniform or not. 

I love you, Daddy. 

Happy birthday.

One Heart Boston

Great idea. Great design.

Awesome cause.

Find this great merch & more at One Heart Boston. 

All proceeds benefit One Fund Boston,

set up to help families most affected.

For more information on One Fund Boston, or to donate directly, go here. Like, now. (Really)

We Really Are One Big Neighborhood. Act Like It.

#prayersforBoston

Words To Live By

And Repeat. And Repeat Again.

We promise.

(Really, really, really promise?)

We really, really, really promise.

Of Faith And Friendliness. Still. And Always.

Every year since the founding of Halfglassistan, we've run this post on this day. Today is no different. The sentiments (still and always) are the same. The words, because I can't improve upon them, are (still and always) the same.

From Friday, April 2, 2010:

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole "love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.

And Your Patience, As Well

Miss me much? (breathe, breathe, breathe) I'm ba-a-a-a-ack.

Here we go again ...

From Me to Me

©2012 ccw/halfglasistan

Because I'm just that awesome.

Yeah.

Dream a Little Dream of We

So. I just posted last week that I do not often dream about Jamie. More to the point, I shared that if I do, I prefer the nightmares. Ghoulish as that may seem, my reasoning was that at least when I woke up from a bad dream in which my Mr. J was dead, it was no different than my reality — and easier to let go. The happy dreams? The ones in which he was still alive, we were happy and life was as it once was? Those I dreaded. To wake up from those was infinitely more painful, as I was reminded upon waking that nothing is the same. Reminded twofold, in fact, as I'm faced with the painful reality every morning when I awaken.

Until this past Saturday. I don't know why I was so drowsy. No drugs. No drink. No illness. No particular reason to be exhausted. Nonetheless, I found myself sleeping off and on all day long. I don't mean a snooze here and there. I mean a two-hour nap, a half-hour to an hour waking, then another two- or three-hour nap. Odder still? Every time I drifted off, I fell into REM sleep.

And Jamie was there. Waiting for me every time. I can't tell you what the plot of each — or any — dream was. Just that I was there, Jamie was there and it seemed blessedly normal. And I didn't feel sad when I awoke. I felt grateful.

Grateful because I'd not experienced this unconscious series of dates with my darling since his physical being left me. Grateful because his metaphysical self had chosen to spend the day with me in such a way that I could see, feel and smell him. And interact with him.

Don't misunderstand. I have felt his presence. But it's been ethereal. This? These Saturday afternoon drowsing dates with my deceased husband felt earthly and otherworldly at the same time. And I didn't awaken crying and with a tightening of my heart, a rapid pulse and short breaths.

No. I awoke — each time — calm, smiling and one time laughing.

And instead of self-pity that this is the only time this has happened, and — quite possibly — may be the only time it ever does, I will not mourn its absence.

Rather, I will rejoice in its happening. And if it happens again, I will praise it for the blessing it is.

Friday the 13th

So far, so good.


All necessary business done for the day. Clean, soft, smell-good outfit (READ: PAJAMAS) on. Any knocks on the door shall go unanswered. Any unknown phone numbers will be siphoned to voice mail.


If you really need me — you really know how to find me.


It's not that we're that superstitious (Really. Well, kinda sorta maybe not ...); it's just that odd, unusual, unexpected, unwelcome and what the hell, we'll just say it: Really. Fucked. Up. Things have somehow found their way to Halfglassistan over the course of the last 13+ months, and a random message from one of said things (READ: THE LITTLE BITCHES THAT PASS AS OVARIES — WHOOPS! — OVARY SINGULAR. ONE WENT BYE-BYE LAST SUMMER. HER TWIN HAS DECIDED TO DO A LITTLE CHA-CHA DOWN BY MY HOO-HAH THIS PAST MONTH.) was interpreted this a.m. A distraction that was most unwelcome, as we have plenty of other ... well ... really fucked up things to deal with already.


And now, the girl who looooooves alliteration is taunted by the two words, when used in tandem, she despises the most.


Watchful. Waiting.


Considering everything is on the inside and not on some nifty balcony below my bellybutton, I find the term "Watchful" especially taunting. I'd be much more relaxed for the "Waiting" if I had a little closed circuit TV down in my business so I could actually watch it. As it is, it's really just Waiting Waiting, which I typically despise in most any context.


(insert indignant snort of derision HERE)


It's 4:10 p.m. EST. I'm going to park my ass in bed, with Nurse Tilly, a good book, remote controls and magazines for at least the next eight hours. At least. To be on the safe side, I'm thinking ass-parking may be done the majority of the weekend. Especially since our buddy Percy is here to soothe the savage beast bitch doing a polka in my pelvis. And, being as controlled as he is, he does a rather good job of keeping me in one place.


Come midnight, and it's Saturday the 14th, I have a pretty strong feeling that Percy will have set the tone for weekend. It's the other twenty-odd days that follow.


My prediction for Halfglassistan: People will be Watching us as we put our fingers in our ears, close our eyes, sing la-la-la-la and continue Waiting.


Meh. It could be worse. It could always — always — be worse.*


*Holy crap. 
Anyone else catch that flashback to the early days of Halfglassistan? 
Where the hell did that come from?! 
I. Don't. Know. But I like it. I like it a lot.

A Thousand Words — And Then Some

It's not our intention to only post on holidays, despite the fact that the merry-merry header went up today, and we haven't been heard from since 'round Halloween.

Really.

No. It's simply that we've been speechless. 

Really. 

There is much truth to the the cliche "a picture's worth a thousand words," because I have been trying to come up with the proper ones to accompany the following images since November 1. Yes, All Saints Day, another day of observation, and from 2010 on here in Halfglassistan, Mr. J. Celebration Day, as well.

The images that follow are posted in no particular order, have not been edited, altered or enhanced in any way, and are all ©2011 caryn bowen/halfglassistan. The only common denominator, to me, is that they make my heart swell every time I look at them. But every time — every time — I see something different and different words and ideas come to mind. And none of them seem worthy of what my eyes see and my heart feels.

So I'm just going to stay out of the conversation and let them speak to you, too.

I hope as many — or more— words came to you, too.

The Wonder That's Keeping The Stars Apart

Every child of the military knows where home is. Our mothers taught us that "home is wherever Daddy is."


That's been true all of my life and luckily, still is today. The SGM has been retired for decades now but just as Mom did for 30 years all over the world, she has maintained that one constant security for her children.


I've also been blessed to have the comfort and love of many others whose doors are open to me, providing not only safe haven — but also that undefinable, yet instantly recognizable essence that is home. Sisters. Cousins. Aunts. Friends. Even the familiar voices of faces I'd not seen since adolescence — one in Memphis, one in Phoenix and one in Kentucky — can reach through a cell phone and wrap me in a cloak of solace as surely as if they were tucking a blanket around me as I curled up on their couch.


But as safe — and perhaps much more importantly, loved — each of these make me feel, none has erased a singular longing.


I want to go home. My father holds me and tells me in his living room, "You are home."


I lie with my head in my big sister's lap, as she strokes my hair while I weep and long for home.


My baby sister holds me tight, both of us crying in her driveway. "You have so many homes. So many people who love you."


"No. I want my home." She holds me tighter.


I look at my godmother, who 15 years ago was also widowed in her early 40's. "I want to go home," I sob. Her shining eyes mirror mine.


And she says: " I know."


On a quiet November afternoon, in the home we had made, I peacefully held my husband in my arms as I waited for the gentlemen in the dapper suits to arrive. I calmly walked outside with them as they prepared to take him for one last ride. I kissed his beautiful face and watched as they closed the heavy black door. I turned to walk back inside, still determined and head held high. I summoned the same posture of dignity I'd tried to maintain throughout every challenge of the previous years.


I stood straight and tall until I recrossed the threshold of what was now just walls and floors, windows and doors. Just a house. Mocking me. I have no idea how many steps I took before I hit the floor. I have no idea how quickly, or how many, arms wrapped around me. How many I reached for and clutched.


In the moment, I had no idea where the grotesque sounds I heard were coming from. Sounds I'd never heard and hoped I never would again. I soon realized they were coming from me, and all too soon, realized I would hear them again. And again. And again as the months passed. Even if only in my mind as my mouth formed silent screams. It could have been at 3 p.m. and I was locked in the restroom in my office, hoping the running water would mask any gasp that escaped. More often, it was 3 a.m. and I couldn't stop long enough to catch my breath, much less think — or care — about what my neighbors might have thought if they heard. 


More days than I care to admit, at the end of the day, I'd pull my phone out as I walked to my car and punched 2 to tell Mr. J that I was on my way home.


But there was no home.


Because my best friend, my confidante, my cheerleader, my protector whose eyes and arms could erase fears in an instant and my playmate who could make me laugh and sing just as quickly was no longer there.


Over the past year, it's taken me a long time to realize that the same metaphor that marked the first twenty-odd years of my life is still true.


Now Jamie's heart equals home. And home is, was, and always will be where he is.


"... and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart.)"


And as long as I can keep sight of that wonder, I'm safe at home.


excerpt from i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) ©1952 e.e. cummings 

Back Home Again In Indiana

I do love me some gritty city:

[picture the El platform with folks bundled up in hats, boots, coats, gloves and scarves. I'd actually post the pic I had to take to capture the 40-something degree weather on May 26, but I can't actually figure out how to do it yet on this itty-bitty iPhone. Quite frankly, I'm amazed I've figured this much out. The bundled up pix are not of me. Oh, no. I was wearing khaki capris, an adorable little cardigan and open-toed flats. I'll choose cute over comfort every time. I did throw on a windbreaker (um, stylish...not stupid.) but I promptly checked it upon my arrival at the Art Institute.]

And some not-gritty city:

[picture the green patina of the iconic lions standing guard over some of the world's greatest masterpieces. And, my favorite place in which to lose myself. Beyond them, picture pot after pot after pot of brightly bloooming flowers following the same line of perspective as the just-lit spherical streetlamps.]

But today? Today I may as well be in a whole other world: Northwest Indiana. Imagine, if you'd like, steel mills and small-town life. I don't see any of that. Well, I do, but not right now and not in my heart when I depart the Calumet Region. Today I see a rolling pasture, a red barn, flowers and the rich green leaves of hardwood trees. In. Every. Direction. I. Look.

And I see this, too:

[picture the majestic Leo, a Palomino whose blond mane is whipping through the wind as he comes in to nuzzle my neck. And the petite Scarlett, who shyly comes over for a carrot only after Alpha Horse has had enough and decides that, yeah, this little solid black mare with a tiny white star on her forehead can have a snack, too.]

I hope you can picture it, because it's pretty freakin' awesome. And who knows when the hell I'll figure out how to load pix through this portal?

Oh, and Jen Lancaster? I told you I wasn't a stalker. I know there's no way in hell I'll see you in Indiana.

F & F, Redux*

*AKA in which we revive the "Flashback Friday: Because I'm Lazy And I Like Alliteration" device. Although this has little to do with laziness and all to do with love. (Like how I slipped that one in there?)


From April 2, 2010
"Of Faith And Friendliness"

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole"love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.

Team Wedding

©1999 ccw/halfglassistan

The 11th anniversary of the Wedding Wedding, and the 13th anniversary of the day I fell in love with Mr. J are quickly approaching.

Snapped somewhere in that magic hour between a Friday as boyfriend and girlfriend and the Saturday in which we'd become husband and wife, that picture above is one of my favorites.

I look at our faces and see so much love and all of the hope and promise of a future stretching before us. And now, I still can look at that picture and see the very same thing.

If I had the chance to do it all again — I'd always choose to do it all again.

Because what Mr. J told me so many years ago has always held true.

We've lived on love, baby. We've lived on love.

Still Kind of A Big Deal Around Here

The following post is from one year ago today and was titled Kind of A Big Deal Around Here.

It still is.

Always will be.

And it's worth repeating.

Enjoy ... And LIVESTRONG.

©LAF

Today is LIVESTRONG Day.

Why today? It's a cancerversary. On October 2, 1996, Lance Armstrong was diagnosed with advanced testicular cancer, and before he knew whether he would survive, he started his foundation to fight cancer.

But the Lance Armstrong Foundation (LAF) does so much more than raise funds or awareness.
It helps people affected by cancer.

It inspires the will to fight — and the courage to keep going.

It keeps you fired up — and channeling your inner badass.

It makes you feel like you're part of something much bigger than yourself — and reminds you that you are never alone.

It reminds you to hang tough and keep believing that prayers will be answered.

It teaches you that "unity is strength, knowledge is power, and attitude is everything." 

It helps people affected by cancer. 

I know. 

And if you've been to Halfglassistan before, you know, too.

If you're new here, just click on those links above and see how a little yellow bracelet, a slogan, and everything they represent carried me and everyone I love through one hell of a year.

LIVESTRONG.

Squeeunion

SQUEE

verb to express delight; noun term of endearment for one who squees; usage: "She squee'd when she realized she'd see her squees soon." Frequently adapted to form new words, as in squeeunion

Yeah. Call me cheesy. Call me silly. Call me goofy and girltastic.


I don't care. 'Cause you're right — on all counts — and you can also call me happy. And excited. And grateful beyond belief.


Tomorrow, Halfglassistan is hosting the inaugural Squeeunion.


Yeah. That's right. You can now call me what I'm currently (um, okay, always) calling myself: All. Kinds. Of. Awesome.


Over the past year, there have been few things that I could count on unconditionally, so those things on which I could rely became very precious. One of those things was a little red dot. Day after day, week after week, month after month, very little in Halfglassistan was certain.

(Kinda the whole point of founding this little land of mine. If you're new in this parts, I recommend starting here and taking a look around. I promise that for every anxiety expressed, there's equal or greater happiness to be found.) 


That little red dot, though, was a constant. A simple indicator that a message was waiting became so much more. A reconnection of three high school friends quickly evolved into a sisterhood whose story was being written in Facebook message threads. Seemingly random subject lines give no clue to the content within. We write of our pasts and our presents, of laughter and love, of tears and triumphs — and most importantly — how all of those have become intertwined.


Tomorrow after months of virtual hugs and hand-holding — and 25 years since the three of us have shared oxygen — my sweet SPG and CVZ are arriving in Halfglassistan.


Let the squeeing begin.

Flashback Fireworks

Hey, hey, hey — happy, happy, y'all!


I love the Fourth of July, and can always find a reason to celebrate. A reason, that is, beyond the Army-brat-infused overwhelming pride of all things red, white and blue. Reasons as simple as a bright sun in the sky, a cool drink in my hand and the promise of a firecracker night.


Or reasons as simple as last year's: That Samuel L. Chemo was on the job, some chick named Neulasta was joining in, and Tilly was pulling LIVESTRONG duty right beside us.


Wow. This year's reasons to celebrate are that I'm feeling all kinds of awesome being back on the job, Mr. J is continuing to kick cancer's ass all over the damn place, and Tilly is still wonderfully Tilly. And just like last year, we're still celebrating simply being able to celebrate. Which is reason enough, in my not-so-humble-opinion.


And — because it's still a damn good story (check back next year; you'll probably see it then, too), from July 5, 2009:


Saturday. In The Yard. Think It Was The Fourth Of July.

I love the Fourth of July. This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show. 

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress:

A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.

There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking, "Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.

But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.

When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.

And ... BOOM! HISS! CRACKLE! SNAP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! SSSHHHHCCCCOWWWW-OW-OW-0W! (that's what it sounds like to me; feel free to suggest alternate spellings below ...)

The finale! 

We cheer! The kids beside us cheer! The kids on the road cheer!

Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.)and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know).

Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why.

Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn.

I'd tell them: "Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house  ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."

But they won't ask. And they wouldn't listen. I wouldn't have.

Happy, happy, y'all.