Those Three Seconds... Grand Junction, CO

I'm starting this post from The Burrow. The sun is setting behind a staggering of branches and twigs and trunks of skeletal trees, gleaming a soft orange yellow in the distance. Boy has gone off to play soccer, and I have the next two hours to write.

I haven't had a shortage of time to write lately. I just... have been diligently avoiding writing this post. This blog has become one of my best tools for processing life. The confusion, the wonder, the hurt, the romance.

And right now, it's taking a lot of courage and more presence in my heart and my body than feels comfortable to write this post.

I'm sitting on the fluffy brown couch in the burrow. A large brace encases my right leg, from hip to ankle. My legs are elevated on two pillows, and an ice bag rests on my knee. My right foot is nearly as cold as the ice, as the circulation has been limited due to lack of movement and huge amounts of swelling.

Two crutches lean against the arm of the couch to my left. Both wrapped in thin fabric I used to hang from the ceiling to create soft corners in harsh rooms. My father said that my fabric collected dust and cobwebs, but soft oranges and greens and burnt prairie yellows billowing from corners made me feel safe. Comforted.

Boy dutifully, lovingly placed my jug of water at the foot of the couch. Along with my bowl of fruit, cough drops and tissue. I wished I'd thought to ask for a cup of tea before he left, but my mom will be arriving with soup in the next half hour or so, so perhaps I can ask for tea then.

Those three seconds. 

I know it's unhealthy, but I can't keep my mind from going back, time after time after time, and beating myself up, down and all around for making that stupid decision.

That stupid decision that landed me here. With a fractured knee and god knows how much damage to my tendons and ligaments.

I KNEW that jump was beyond my edge. I knew I couldn't land it. WHY? Why didn't I just skirt around the edge like I'd done before? 

I went skiing with Boy's family last weekend. As I mentioned last year about this time, Boy's family dominates the slopes. They're all incredibly competent skiers, and navigate trees, moguls and cliffs with ease and, dare I say -- enjoyment. 

Me?

I just pray that I'll get down the mountain in one piece. Enjoyment doesn't even factor into the equation. At the end of the day, while others may be celebrating the good time they had, I'm just thrilled to death I didn't die.

But I really wanted to explore a third thing with Boy's family. Something we could do together. So I went skiing. So I went off that jump.

So I landed. And immediately felt afraid, so tried to slow down. Which made me fall backwards. My knees tangled, and I twisted slowly and painfully to meet the snowy slope.

My skis didn't pop off.

There have been very few moments in my life wherein I've experienced such vast, shocking, permeating pain that I didn't know if my body could contain it.

How can a human body feel this much? 

I screamed. But only a fraction of what I felt escaped through my scream. The rest coursed through my veins, saturating my body with fear, panic, pain.

Boy and Boy's family rushed towards me and removed my skis. They called for a sled. My leg was put in a splint and I was wrapped into a yellow cocoon and pulled down the slope by a women whose name I forget. She kept asking me normal things like, "Where are you from?" "How old are you?" "You ski often?"

Normal questions felt clunky and out of place.

I was put on a ski lift and carried to the top of the mountain, still bound firmly into my yellow cocoon. Once on the other side, the woman skied me down to the first aid station, Boy and family trailing close behind.

Each bump. Each second of traction that pulled my boot back from my knee on the downhill slope. Each moment of excruciating pain made me wonder,

What does this mean? What if I can't teach yoga? What if I have to quit massage school? What if I will never be able to use my knee the way I did before? 

Wondering became too painful. I shut it down and just gazed at the clear blue sky as I was whisked headfirst down the mountain in my yellow cocoon.

At the First Aid station, they offered to call me an ambulance. I declined and took a couple of ibuprofen instead. Boy's family carried me into the truck, and we drove back to their rented cabin in Silverthorn.

"I'll get x-rays tomorrow," I told Boy. "In Grand Junction. At my clinic."

We drove back to Grand Junction the next afternoon. My mother had rented a pair of crutches for me, and Boy found them leaning up against the door to our apartment.

Results from the x-ray came back the next day. A tendon or ligament had torn at my bone so intensely that a piece of the bone had fractured.

"If the ligaments and tendons are still intact, then this can heal on its own. However, if anything is torn, then you'll need to have surgery on your knee," the doctor told me. "I'm making you a referral to Rocky Mountain Orthopedic. You'll need to schedule an MRI."

One trip to Urgent Care (my right leg went icy cold. It felt like it belonged to a dead person and was scaring the crap out of me), one trip to Rocky Mountain Orthopedic later, I still know nothing about my knee. Except that I have a fracture and tendons and ligaments could be torn and that I could need surgery and could end up paying six thousand dollars before my insurance finally takes over and pays my bills.

six thousand dollars... that's... that's enough to pay for two years of life on the road. The life that makes me happiest. Two years of life. 

I've had to stop teaching yoga at the college, Yoga West and Movement Therapies. I've had to quit massage school for the time being. I've had to write my college professor an email telling him that I won't be in my photojournalism class for a good long while.

All the strategies I devised for making Grand Junction a safe place for me... have been broken. Right along with my knee. And now that what brings me peace and relief and joy has been taken from me, I can't even leave. Because I can't MOVE. 

I feel so trapped. 

I visited Judy on Thursday. Judy is my old gardening boss who has been through hell and back and freaking kicked hell's ass on her way out.

"I had knee surgery when I was sixty," Judy told me. "It took me a while to recover, but it shouldn't take you so long. You're young and strong. It'll be better for you. And... you need to stop thinking about that six thousand dollars as years of your life. Keeping your body healthy is the most important thing. That money isn't wasted. Maybe you can find a way to feel gratitude about having the money you need to take care of your body when it's hurt."

Judy made me an Irish Coffee. And Judy doesn't mess around with Irish Coffees. Two thirds cup coffee, one third cup Jameson and a mammoth cloud of whipped cream on top.

We drank our coffee and talked about gratitude. I cried a lot, pet her cat a lot and did my best to absorb the stalwart spirit of Judy.

I've spent hours crying on Boy. Mourning the temporary, but heavy loss of so many of my joys. I always tell him through my sobs that I'll get better. I'll find some way to divert my passion.

"I can't teach yoga. So maybe I'll paint more. I can't study massage. So maybe I'll learn anatomy. I can't take my journalism class... so maybe I'll play the piano again..."

Don't give in to feeling empty, Bourget. It's hard to not let empty be all you feel, but try. You've had your moment. You've allowed yourself to grieve -- fully grieve the loss of these loves -- but now think about all the space in your life. You can choose to look at that space and think, "empty", or look at that space and think, "opportunity." 

My MRI is scheduled for Tuesday and I'll know the results by Friday. In the meanwhile, I'm going to keep working at the House as much as I can and try to fill those spaces with other, neglected joys. Joys that have been pushed by the wayside because there was no room in my life.

I'll have a GoFundMe account created as soon as I discover whether or not I need surgery. So if you have the means and would like to contribute to my healing, I would be just ridiculously grateful. This isn't life or death. This isn't the end of the world. But it broke my heart to give up my yoga jobs, drives me mad to feel so trapped, feels like hell, and as my father would say, it's a "monstrous inconvenience."

Hello, this is Boston's Heinous Weather -- Boston, MA

I'm starting this post from the tiny kitchen of The Loft (Boy and I have names for everything -- including our apartment). Our old roommate painted the metal and plywood table white, with a weird design in the center. And the rest of us roommates have decided to embrace the weird design by constantly chipping away at the white paint. I see a star, a skull, the silhouette of a face and a few nightmarish monsters. 

We make art. 

Other things on the table include a bottle of Umcka, cold + flu, a half empty box of tissue, a few cough drop wrappers and a mug of steaming chamomile tea. 

Oof. Boston and it's hostile weather. See what you've done to me? 

I started feeling ill in Denver airport. A little headachy, a wee bit fatigued. 

That's normal. I nearly always get stress headaches in airports. 

By Monday morning, I'd developed a painful cough. By Tuesday, my nose had begun to run. By Wednesday, my face felt like someone was cutting extremely juicy onions inside of it. I led the GSA group for the House, a Safe Place for Western Slope Teens sandwiched between a bag of cough drops and a box of tissue. And for some reason, the rambunctious teens were quieter than usual -- as if they knew how nearly dead I was feeling, and thought that one wrong word would cause me to keel over. 

Maybe I should always pretend to be sick for GSA...

Today is Thursday. And Thursday, I took a sick day. Which is why I'm able to write a blog at 3:30 in the afternoon. I even went to the doctor, but all I got was a prescription for amoxicillin and a recommendation to stand over a pot of boiling water with a towel over my head to create a tent for the steam. And then stay there for ten minutes. 

Which sounds like some ancient form of torture. 

I left my host's triple decker apartment Friday morning at seven, and disembarked the metro (which Bostonians call, "the T")at Park Street Station. Because it's familiar, and when I'm traveling alone in a big city, I like to start with the familiar. Where I know that if I get too cold, I can easily escape into a cafe and warm my fingers on a mug of steaming coffee. 

Which I promptly did. 

After it had somewhat warmed up (the high was 30 degrees, so "warm" is a very generous term indeed), I reluctantly left the cafe, tucking my chin into my thin scarf and wandering out into the cold. 

This cold... feels like it's moved in. Like, rented out my chest. "Hello, this is Boston's heinous weather. I've had the full tour of your lungs, and well -- I'll take 'em! Great pair. I'd like to move in immediately, if you please." 

I spent the next two hours slowly ambling through parks, trying to keep my gloveless fingers warm in the shallow pockets of my sweater. 

Throughout the entire walk, I couldn't stop thinking, Gosh... this would be SO great in non-pneumonia inducing weather...

Bostonians are hardcore. So hardcore, that I have a strong suspicion that these runners are not human at all. They are either robots, or have undergone surgery wherein their lungs were exchanged for those of an emperor penguin. 

After walking alongside the Charles River for what felt like a thousand Game of Thrones winters, I crossed a bridge, found another coffee shop, and warmed my innards with a hot bowl of very healthy carrot, ginger soup. Into which I promptly plopped an outrageous helping of Trader Joe's triple cream brie and charcuterie I'd been carting around in an empty yogurt container. 

Classy. 

"CAUTION, UNSTABLE TABLE." 

Yelled a note written by hand and taped to the table at which I sat with my carrot, ginger soup and my laptop side by side. 

Classy. 

"Nice pants," said the young man sitting at the enviably more stable table to the right of me. 

"Thanks, got 'em in Mexico." 

"Yeah, I thought so." 

"San Cristobal." 

"Yeah, my mom sells clothes in Mexico." 

"Really? Well, they're awesome. Always a conversation starter, that's for sure. I once had one of those Santa Clauses who ring bells outside of stores stop ringing his bell to shout after me, "NICE PANTS! Where'd you get them?" So. Even Santa wants my pants." 

We talked for a few more minutes, and I asked what they'd recommend I do with the rest of my frigid afternoon in Boston. They said that since it was cold, I might think about visiting Boston's public library. So I lingered with my empty carrot, ginger soup bowl until I felt ridiculous, then walked to the nearest T station and boarded the train heading for the library. 

The square across the street from the library 

The courtyard of the library. 

The library closed at five, and I was kicked out onto the snowy streets as the sun was setting and the temperature was dropping. My couchsurfing host texted me to let me know the whens and wheres about the restaurant we were meeting at that evening, and I began to slowly walk in the general direction.

The rest of the evening (other than the brisk trip back to my host's apartment) was just fabulous. Cocktails and appetizers with my host and a friend of hers. Then a fire and wine and puppies at her coworkers house. Wherein we talked about travel, politics and how how corrupt and evil the administration of Harvard's library is.

I never thought I'd heard the word "evil" connected to a library. 

But regardless of how wonderful Friday night was, the whole of Saturday was my favorite.

Saturday.

Was just the best.

An old friend from my college days who had moved to New Bedford for grad school came to visit me.

Robert.

I like you. :) 

Robert picked me up from my host's apartment in Savin Hill at about 8:30. I soberly complimented him on his long, luxurious locks and then probably said something silly, like "I'm so happy you're here..."

We went to coffee and then spent a couple of hours wandering around Boston's aquarium, wading through half of Boston's extremely energetic under three-foot tall residents.

"This is the problem with coming on a Saturday," Robert commented as we valiantly forged ahead, fighting for our rights to gaze upon enigmatic cuttlefish just like the rest of the munchkins.

After the aquarium, we met up with my couchsurfing host at a bar for a few of New England's hard ciders. Robert's friend, Suvinda, also drove over from New Bedford to share the afternoon. And I nearly immediately invited myself to join in on her and Robert's adventure in India next year.

Girl... you've got about zero shame when it comes to asking people if you can tag along... 

But, Suvinda's extraordinarily welcoming and told me I should definitely join her and Robert in India next year.

Which I will.

After a few minutes of debating whether we should go out to dinner or just buy ingredients and cook at my host's home, we decided on the latter. So we scurried over to the nearest Trader Joe's, bought the groceries we needed for salad and a spaghetti squash pasta meal, and then Robert drove us all back to Savin Hill. Where we chatted and cooked and feasted for the rest of the night.

My journey home commenced at 5:45 am on Sunday morning. And about twelve hours of travel later, I arrived in Grand Junction.

It's been tough to settle back into the routine of working 40-50 hour weeks, taking a college class, attending massage school and writing a book. There's no room for spontaneity in a schedule that crammed. There's no room to feel free and open to life being life. People being late, me falling behind, drivers going five below the speed limit all feels like the end of the world because of the tension of GO! GO! GO! I feel exhausted and stressed nearly all my waking hours.

How much longer can I do this? God... I want to be on the road yesterday. With nothing to do but write, take photos, and do whatever work exchange I've found myself in. This life? Is so stressful I can't stop getting sick. 

For my photojournalism class on Tuesday, I was given the assignment to take a stock photo for Kleenex. This is what I came up with.

Boy was an excellent model. And gives a very accurate performance to what I've been feeling all week.

Boston... like, no offense... you seem really awesome... with all your parks and excellent cafes and freaking phenomenal seafood and European architecture... but move your heinous weather out of my chest. Please and thank-you. 

White Ribbon Day -- Boston, MA

I'm once again writing from The Thinking Cup Cafe. My window seat has been nabbed, so I sit at a tiny table near the line of caffeine craving Bostonians.

I overhear conversations about Barcelona's soccer team and the problems with Trump and Bernie.

Although politics and soccer are not my favorite topics, I enjoy eavesdropping on them much more than dealing with the confrontational fellow who sat nearby two days ago. I occupied this very tall, writing in a red composition notebook. I heard a gruff "Excuse me," and wondered briefly what it could be about, but didn't bother to look up.

"Excuse me," I heard it again. I looked up. A middle-aged, shabbily dressed, wild-eyed fellow sat at the table across from mine, staring at me and flashing a sinister smile.

"Yes," I reluctantly replied, looking up from my writing.

"I couldn't' help but notice..." the man started and faltered. I waited expectantly for him to continue. But he said nothing and just flashed his sinister smile again. "My name's Joe."

"Hi Joe. Good to meet you, Joe," I said quickly, then tried to return to my writing.

"I was hoping for your name," Joe intercepted my attention from my composition book.

I looked up and said nothing.

"You have a job?" Joe continued to press.

"I teach yoga," I replied.

"I read minds," Joe's teeth glinted as he reverted to his cheshire grin. "You... have a very good mind."

"Oh. Thank-you," I gritted my teeth to keep myself from blurting out all the things on my mind that he clearly wasn't picking up on.

"We've got all this space between us," Joe stared at me with his wild eyes. "You mind if I -- " he motioned toward the empty seat at my table.

"No, I'm sorry," I said firmly. "I came here to write."

I returned to my notebook with purpose and didn't look back in Joe's direction. Although that terrifying smile kept flashing across my mind the way it forced its way across Joe's face.

So yeah. I'd rather listen to politics any day.

Looking around the cafe, I notice that Bostonians don't wear many bright colors. I see black, dark blue, grey and dark purple. I feel slightly awkward and even more out of place than usual in my red boots, bright pink pants, bright purple jacket and green hat.

I'm representing all the colors. 

I left the hotel yesterday at 11:52, eight minutes before check-out. I set off towards Boston Common, found a bench, and willed my freezing fingers to write. I watched a golden retriever romp about for a few minutes, running from person to person, trying to get one of the park goers to engage in a playful chase.

Should I go? I wrote in my journal. I really want to, but I don't want the awkward embarrassment of trying to lug my suitcase into Massachusetts's State House. 

Yesterday was White Ribbon day. Celebrated on the first Thursday of March, White Ribbon Day is a movement that attempts to redefine manliness in an effort to end gender based violence. The following is an excerpt from their website:

About Massachusetts White Ribbon Day Campaign

As part of an international human rights effort, the Massachusetts White Ribbon Day Campaign invites men and boys to be part of the solution in ending violence against women.

On the first Thursday in March, men throughout Massachusetts speak out to:

 change societal attitudes and beliefs that perpetuate and make excuses for violence against women!

 promote safety and respect in all relationships and situations!

 build a network of resounding voices that will support and advance the initiatives and efforts of Jane Doe Inc. and its member organizations to promote the safety, liberty and dignity of survivors!

Follow this link to learn more about the White Ribbon Campaigns around the world.

Our personal pledge for this campaign reflects what we envision and want to create: Finding a solution to end men's violence against women. This will take all of us working together, and being part of the solution means putting the pledge to help into action.

Do I want to get yelled at and kicked out for bringing all this luggage with me? No... I really don't... maybe I'll just go get a coffee instead. But... damn. That sucks. I'll regret not going later. I know I will. Okay. I'll just try and I'll appear as non-threatening as possible so nobody thinks I have bombs in my suitcase. Here we go. 

I timidly entered the security line and said to the stiff looking guard in the most apologetic tone I could manage, "I'm so sorry... I had to check out of my hotel at 12:00, but I really wanted to attend the White Ribbon celebration. Is it okay if I take my luggage? I understand if it -- " 

"As long as you're not plannin' on movin' in," the guard interrupted me. 

"What?" I couldn't quite understand what was happening. 

"Well," his eyes twinkled, "we haven't got any extra rooms," he said as my luggage was scanned. 

And that's how I ended up at the White Ribbon Celebration with my luggage stuffed under my feet in a packed auditorium with the governor of Massachusetts and many other persons of importance. 

Jane Doe's executive director, Debra Robbin, introduced the event. She was followed by Governor Charlie Baker, who shared about his role in ending domestic violence. Thaddeus Miles, the director of MassHousing and community service followed him. Then Andre Tippet, Executive Director of Community Affairs for the New England Patriots took the mic and talked about how to end sexism in sports. Then we heard from Captain Brett Millican, the commanding officer of Boston's Coast Guard, who talked about ending gender-based violence in the US armed forces. 

That fellow is the governor of Massachusetts. 

But my favorite presenter was Charlie Lake, a young transgender high schooler of 17. He shared a profoundly vulnerable, powerful poem about his struggles as "Taylor".  And what he learned from living in a feminine body for so many years. And that acknowledging and cherishing the feminine is not something that makes men weak. It's something that makes men whole.  

There was a hip hop artist, a sheriff and another representative of Jane Doe.

Then we all stood and took the Massachusetts White Ribbon Day Pledge

I WILL PROMOTE respect, dignity and equality.
I WILL SPEAK OUT against attitudes and behaviors that contribute to sexual assault and domestic violence.
I WILL REMIND myself and others that gender and violence is a men's issue that affects all of us, regardless of our backgrounds and identities.
I WILL CONFRONT sexism, homophobia, transphobia, racism and other forms of oppression.
I WILL FIND OUT how to help when I suspect that someone I know is a victim or offender of sexual assault or domestic violence.

Gosh... I'm so happy I went. What an experience. What a surprising, profound, uplifting experience. 

I made my way to Park Street Metro to commence my journey to Harvard Sq to meet my couchsurfing host. Boston's metro is ridiculously slow, but I'm still pretty much in love with it because A) it's public transportation in the US and B) it's all in English. So I have no problem understanding the announcers. And sometimes the announcers are feeling really bored/creative, so use silly voices. Which makes me roll my eyes on the outside, but fall in love on the inside.

I met my host in Harvard Sq just after five pm. We exchanged a few pleasantries and then hopped on a bus heading towards her gym. She had invited me to join her for a yoga class, and I'd been all too happy to oblige. On the way to the gym, we chatted about travel experiences and the difficulties of obtaining visas. We walked through the gym doors at just after six pm, and while we were stuffing our things into a locker, my host let me know that the yoga class didn't start for another hour.

"I'm going to run. You can run, or..."

"I actually mostly haven't eaten all day..." I said as my stomach grumbled in agreement. " Is there a place nearby you would recommend?"

"Well... there's a Trader Joe's about a fifteen minute walk from here..."

"THAT," I responded with more certainty than I've felt in days, "tell me how to get to THAT."

So I bought cheese and chocolate and bananas and sausage and your and peanut butter cups. Hallelujah. Holy Cow.

The yoga class was great, but I've noticed that I have a hard time enjoying other teacher's classes these days. I've become too critical.

NO! INJURY! Don't tell people to jump back to high plank! That can hurt the rotator cuffs. Which is HORRIBLE. Half plank, lady. Jump back to HALF PLANK. With elbows in and knuckles pressed down and -- 

But in spite of my mad mental mutterings, I still managed to enjoy the class. Then I followed my host through neighborhoods, across intersections and metro stations as we journey back to her triple decker home in Savin Hill. Where I ate at least six Trader Joe's peanut butter cups and then promptly passed out.

Being a Grown-up -- Boston, MA

I'm starting this post from the corner chair of room 540 at the Omni Parker Hotel. For how luxurious the hotel as a whole is, the room is pretty basic. Two beds, too many pillows, a mirror, a TV, a chair and a desk. And the walls. Are paper thin. So thin that my coworker and I got security called on us last night for our unruly behavior of... ummm... talking.

"There has been a complaint," the security guard said stiffly. "This is your first official warning."

"Uh. Okay. Thanks," I flashed an irritated smile and shut the door. "What the heck?"

Danielle complained about the silly incident this morning before I walked her to State Street Station to take the metro to the airport. The woman at the desk listened to our story, smiled sympathetically and gave us vouchers for coffee (this hotel has also done away with continental breakfast).

"If we can't even talk and laugh in our own room," I vented to Danielle, "then I think there's something wrong with the hotel. I mean, I have no problem with them asking us to talk more quietly -- but they could have said something like, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but we've received a complaint about the noise. Maybe you could tone it down a little? Just because the walls are so thin." I would have responded to that so much better than, "This is your first official warning." Jesus."

We walked out the revolving door and headed down School Street towards the metro stop. After asking three different people how to get to the metro station, two different people how to buy the ticket and Danielle's card declining three times, a very kind fellow just let my her use his pass for the trip.

Other than the incredibly brusque security guards, Bostonians appear to be super friendly and helpful. 

I hurried back to the hotel, feeling absolutely chilled to the bone. It's 21 degrees right now. With humidity. And a 12 mph breeze. Next week, the weather warms up to 67 degrees, but today, tomorrow and Saturday?

Blistering highs of 35, 35 and 39.

Note to self. Don't visit Boston in early March. Ever. 

My host can't meet me until 5:00 this afternoon, and check-out is at 12:00, so I'll need to find a way to keep myself warm for the five hour interim. Any other time of year, a five hour gap between housing wouldn't be an issue at all. It would be an opportunity to have some alone time wandering about a beautiful new city.

But 21 degrees, humidity and breezes do not make this vagabond feel like wandering. They make this vagabond feel like curling up into a tiny ball in a giant mess of blankets and pillows. With perpetually warm hot chocolate close at hand.

Our first day of training was spent learning about how to implement voluntary services and understanding the effects of historical trauma. Although the information was interesting and useful, I was able to realize one of the reasons I could never work at a desk job.

Sitting.

For eight hours.

Is a horrible, terrible thing.

We were given an hour and a half lunch break, so Danielle and I stretched our legs and hurried down to Quincy Market in search of something to eat.

However, as I'm gluten-free and Danielle is deathly allergic to dairy, even the vast Quincy Market couldn't provide something that satisfied both of us. Danielle apologized for being "picky" as we searched for other options.

"Um. No. You're not being picky. You want something filling that won't send you to the hospital. That's normal." 

We finally settled into the dungeon-like Hub Pub, where Danielle ate steak and I ate some manner of seafood goodness. Boston is full of seafood goodness. Seafood goodness in the form of Nantucket stew, clam chowder, crab cakes, lobster, and fish of many sizes, colors and flavors. 

Also, donuts. Based solely upon my observations over the past three days, I am thoroughly convinced that Bostonians survive off of seafood, Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks, sandwiches and falafel. They need nothing else to survive and live a happy, fulfilled, Bostonian life.  

We reluctantly returned to those loathsome chairs for another three hours of training. I believe my favorite part of the conference was just sharing a space with hundreds of other men and women who have similar struggles. Sharing stories of things that worked and things that didn't. Feeling very much less alone. 

After the very beneficial three hours of learning about historical trauma whilst trying to remain still, to suppress yawns (tired yawns, not bored yawns), and remain focused (and mostly failing miserably at all three), Danielle and I were freed for the day. We spent a few minutes figuring out where to eat, settled on a place called 75 Chestnut, and then stuffed hands into pockets and ventured out into the icy afternoon. 

The Boston Commons park has an ice skating rink.  I can't imagine how magical this would be with snow on the ground. 

the State House

Old, brick sidewalks. One of the interesting aspects of Boston is seeing how the old is juxtaposed with the new. Skyscrapers getting cosy with old clock towers. Cobbled sidewalks next to asphalt streets. Old brick buildings with a fluorescent "Chipotle" sign in the window. 

 Danielle and I found our restaurant with no trouble. 75 Chestnut was located on... 75 Chestnut. The menu was so incredible that I did the irksome thing Boy sometimes does and asked the waiter to surprise me with one of the two impossibly delicious looking dishes. But he wouldn't let me. He made me choose.

"He didn't  play along," I moaned to Danielle after he'd retreated into the kitchen with our orders. "They always play with Troy."

But even though I was bitter at having been forced to choose, I was not unhappy with the choice. 

Danielle's steak. Girl likes her protein. 

Nantucket stew. Is not gross. It has shrimp, scallops, salmon, swordfish, halibut and sea bass. Half the ocean was in this bowl. Which I, incidentally, was unable to finish. 

I'd hoped to stroll about the city for a bit longer, but Danielle was cold and tired, so we walked back to the hotel. Where I worked on a blog and she read until we turned out the lights and went to bed, exhausted from a long day of suppressing yawns and trying not to fidget. 

We slept until 11:45. When the fire alarm sounded and everyone in the massive hotel was asked to meet in the lobby as the fire department investigated the reason the alarm had been activated. It was, of course, a false alarm. But it was a false alarm that totally ruined the rest of the night for both of us. It's hard to drift back to sleep when your senses have been abused for the last twenty minutes with violent ringing and a woman's voice saying on repeat, "May I have your attention... May I have your attention, please. The fire department has investigated the -- " 

The next day's training was over trauma and secondary trauma. I learned a lot, but again, my favorite part was just feeling connected to the other people in the room. The most powerful moment was when we all had to write down three ways secondary trauma manifested itself in our lives.

My three.

#1 -- There are days I can't stop crying.
#2 -- An overwhelming sense of hopelessness
#3 -- Anxiety -- inability to sleep.

Then we were asked to mill about the crowded room. We'd give someone our card and read theirs. Then move on. Exchange cards. Then move on. Exchange cards. Then move on.

I saw all three of mine on other cards. Everyone nodded. Everyone understood. It was like handing total strangers a list of my weaknesses and having them tell me, "It's okay. These are my weaknesses too."

The Museum of Fine Art is free on Wednesdays after four o'clock, so I boarded the metro after we were released from our training at four thirty. I asked Danielle if she'd like to tag along, but she was feeling a bit ill (probably from her mighty suppression of yawns and fidgets), so decided to stay in the hotel room.

I'm not big into pots, and the Museum of Fine Art boasts a lot of pots. Pots and Egyptian statues and African masks. None of which pique my interest. However, their selection of Picasso did, my interest, pique.

The selection of American art was superb. And I really just can't get over how much Jack Black looks like Paul Revere.

As I'd been able to spend so little time walking through Boston, I decided to forgo the metro and stroll back to the Omni Parker House.

It was bitter cold.

But there's absolutely no way I could live with myself if I'd spent two full days in Boston without a single stroll. 

My body was goose pimpled for hours afterwards. My fingers were stiff. I tried to buy some Lebanese food, but couldn't hold onto the pen to sign my name.

Boston's cold goes deep...

Unless you're a fan of the cold, don't visit Boston in early March. Or go ahead and visit Boston, but bring wool socks, long underwear, multiple jackets, hats, gloves, scarves, face masks -- all the things.