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Death. It’s inevitable.

There are two schools of thought on what’s easier to deal with when it comes to handling death.

A slow death gives you time to prepare, emotionally and logistically. While a fast death means no preparation, but also no agonizing beforehand.

When it comes to the death of a loved one this is difficult because you want to spend as much time with that person as possible but you don’t want them to linger in pain. Still, it’s nice to know you had time to say your goodbyes and make sure all the words were said.

But that’s people.

There’s another kind of death. Heart death.

And when it comes to heart death, a fast death is the ticket. Dragging your heart back out everyday to die that death again is torture. Make it fast, numb. Make it where the heart has no choice but to move on from whatever killed it. Because a heart death can only happen so many times before it just stops for good.

(Today’s blog comes from Lindsay’s DARK SIDE. Lindsay’s DARK SIDE does not come out to play very often, so those of you who enjoy the DARK SIDE should enjoy this while it lasts.)


I have a dog, and he’s the best man I’ve ever had in my life.

His name is Gus.

That wasn’t his first name. When Gus wandered into our yard in May 2011 he had every name – from Dingo, Brown Dog and Ralph to Facebook Dog and SamCarZee.

Gus was neutered and trained, beyond lovable – desperate for it, previous owners MIA… He was ours.

Gus is loyal, supportive in my career – even moving to Maryland, forced to live indoors (he’s more an outdoor fellow). Gus never talks down to me. He is supportive, sensitive to my moods and ALWAYS happy to see me.

Gus asks for little and gives everything. He loves my girls as his own. They are. He endures ridiculous baby talk and girly accessories.

Gus defends, yet trusts me to tell him who’s okay even when I’m probably wrong. Gus loves me just the way I am. Mistakes, shortcomings and all.


I hate when I lose sight of who I am, of what I stand for. I hate realizing that in some ways I was much smarter when I was younger than I am now.

It’s learning, some say. These are lessons and experiences and mistakes that make you into a stronger person, they say.

But instead it just feels like losing.

I was already a strong person. And somehow I lost that. I was completely clear and able to make decisions in black and white. Now so much seems gray.

Maybe that is learning… or maybe it’s losing. Losing your character. Losing your identity, looking in the mirror…

Who is that?


I don’t like being sick. Being sick sucks.

Being sick is such a waste of time. I don’t have time to be sick.

If you get a day off work it should be to do something fun, like harassing my children, or to get things accomplished, like finishing my novel. Not to feel like you’re dying while life piles up around you.

Yes, I realize that being sick is more than likely just a message from the universe that I need to take better care of myself. Well, I have a message for the universe too: Ain’t nobody got time for that!!

Tirade complete.


The act of making music can be completely solitary and can heal you, uplift you, soothe you, bring the tears, the smiles, the pain, the truth. The act of making music with others – singing, playing an instrument, taking it in, feeling the beat inside your chest, the harmonies coming together, the feeling of collaboration, the feeling of nailing it perfectly and seeing that the others felt it too – no words.

It will never grow old. High school band, praise team, singing in the car.


Today’s writing (really yesterday’s) is an apology. An apology to Justin, who was kind enough to include me in his writing challenge. A challenge which simply required me to write 150 words or less every day for one month. A challenge I failed on day seven.

Justin, I apologize. This is a word you may hear from me quite often during our friendship. Sometimes I screw up. Okay, a lot of sometimes.

In my defense… okay, no defense.

Apologies are important. Screwing up is common. Apologies are not common. Whatever you did wrong may not have mattered to whoever you wronged, but if it’s on your heart… Well, the truth is it just makes you feel better to admit when you’re wrong, make a point of admitting it and then – maybe this is most important – allow yourself to move on.

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