Oh FFS

This can only end in tears.

[kimrhodes4]

A repost in memory of a Good Boy: “Mom! Can we go to the dog park? Pleeeeeeeease?” I looked down at Linus, who stared at me. When I was younger, unmarried, and doing repertory Shakespeare in Oregon fifteen years ago, I stayed in a house owned by two of the loveliest humans ever. After the the shows were all up and running, I called them and asked if they had children. When they said no, I responded, “Then I’m going to give you an experience you may have missed out on. PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLE-“ They said yes. I went to the pound and found Linus, is the short version of the story. Linus is a mixture of Mostly Border Collie, Probably Some Pit, and Various Questionable Other, according to my keen and practiced eye. But mostly Border Collie. When I adopted him, he was about four months old and full of boundless energy and intelligence, mixed with a teensy dollop of fear that one expects in a dog who has experienced a life that leads to incarceration. He was perfect. I love what I see in puppies. I see unparalleled optimism and glee. I see a zest and love of life that nothing can deter. I see spirits determined to wrestle every drop of joy from every playmate they encounter, even if it’s their own tail. I adore puppies. Linus is no longer a puppy. He trips when there are no obstacles and barks when there is no alarm. He wanders into a room and stops with an expression I remember from my father’s face right before he would ask if anyone had seen his glasses that were perched on top of his head. Linus is not filled with boundless energy and his intelligence cannot fully express itself through his muddled mind and stiff body. True, he seems pretty fearless, but that could be senility. I didn’t see the point of taking him to the dog park. “Pleeeeeeeease? Look, he’s smiling. He wants to go!” More to kill time than because I agreed, I acquiesced. We went to the dog park. And, spoiler alert…. my dog is still perfect. Huskies zoomed and Chihuahuas barked. Pit Bulls wrestled in the dust and the Australian Shepherd tried desperately to restore order to the situation. Cola, the lab puppy, pranced from group to group as each one distracted him with offers of EVEN MORE FUN! And Linus slowly and methodically peed a few times, then found a tennis ball. My heart broke as I wondered what on earth he planned to do with it. He couldn’t outrun the Labradoodle who would surely take it away from him the second it left his mouth. He probably wouldn’t be able to even SEE it past ten feet. But when he dutifully brought it over to me, I looked into his eyes and he smiled. Unparalleled optimism and glee. Zest. Love of life that nothing can deter. A spirit determined to wrestle every drop of joy from every playmate he encounters. And now, he says, if you can see it in me, you can find it in you. We played fetch for an hour. He would hand me the ball, waddle a few feet, and I would throw it to him. Occasionally he would catch it, even! Often he would approach someone else with the ball, being the fair-minded and inclusive spirit he is. Every single person he met was enthralled by him. “He’s fifteen? He’s amazing! Still so happy!” My old dog isn’t meant to learn new tricks. He’s meant to teach them to me. PS... the rain gave us an hour on his last day. Again, Taby insisted on the dog park. This time, he did not pick up the tennis ball. He was ready to go home. 💔

[kimrhodes4]

Your kid probably likes Legos. Your kid probably peruses the directions hot out of the box and carefully opens the little plastic packages one at a time, sorting the pieces into colors and sizes so they are easily accessible. Your kid probably slots shapes into place in a soothing meditative state, spending hours alone and happy. Your kid probably has an entire city built with traffic patterns and personalities for every character. I imagine your kid this way, because mine… is not.

My kid likes Legos, alright. But she wants the toy on the box. Ideas of “patience” and “process” and “space-time continuum” aren’t part of her experience. Her Lego Style has always been more of a, “Here, Daddy, make this shit happen and why isn’t Spider-Man hanging from my ceiling yet?” thing. She moves through the world like a lightning bolt, impossible to predict, leaving deafening echoes, a pounding heart, and singed hair in her wake. Every single time, she’s drawn to the IDEA of putting a Lego set together, but it doesn’t happen. MAN, does it not happen.

Yesterday she begged me for another one while we were at Costco. Everything in me told me it was a bad investment in money and sanity, both of which I’m carefully rationing right now. However, she made an agreement with me that she would at least LOOK at the directions and attempt to understand them before feeding the Legos to the dog this time. She was so regulated and used her words so maturely, I had to say yes.

Parents, I am writing this to remind you that our children are never done. This thing they just can’t do, someday they might. Don’t give up hope, especially when you still see it shining in their eyes. A failure isn’t a finish, it’s just a step. This is for EVERY parent, although particularly true for those of us who parent children with special needs.

We need to remember “patience” and “process” and “space-time continuum” for ourselves. And that lightning has its own set of rules.

P.S. I am not saying never give up on YOUR hopes for change. Sometimes that’s required in order to arrive at acceptance of the amazing beings they already are. I’m saying never give up on THEIR hope.

[kimrhodes4]

A Lesson

I sat on the back of the horse. “Now jump it at a canter,” my trainer said. I froze and started to cry. I was overcome with mourning because I knew my riding was over. I was done. I couldn’t do what was asked of me because my fear had me frozen. Then I did it. And did it again. My trainer laughed at the crinkles in my nose because I was smiling so hard. Fear is good. It keeps me from stepping in front of trucks and mouthing off to big, angry crackheads. But it also stops me from doing things I WANT to do, because I’m scared it will hurt. Here’s the lesson: pain is inevitable. This is life. It will hurt. But I have a choice. I can experience pain in the pursuit of something that I want or I can experience pain by never going after it. And sometimes it doesn’t hurt at all. Sometimes the joy bubbles up so hard, you turn into a bunny. Jus’ sayin’.

[kimrhodes4]

Insanity never recognizes itself. Stop breaking your back carrying around a mirror.

[kimrhodes4]

Mother whose child left too soon

Recently I was at a convention and a mother who had lost a child spoke eloquently and vulnerably about how she relates to a character I play who has also been through such a devastating experience. It made me want to be more conscious of that pain and how I can, in some small way, help people who feel it move forward. So when I saw this touching and beautiful post from a friend of mine who knows that grief, I asked to share it. She agreed, noting it is a compilation of her words and thoughts of others as well. Mothers who live to see your children in the arms of angels... you have the most courageous of humans hearts. This is for you. To my fellow child-loss Moms: No one tells you this. So I will~ No one tells you that you may want to die. No one tells you that you may lie in bed and pray for your heart to stop. That even your most cherished and beloved children and husband may not be able to rouse you from the depths of your sorrow. That even the breathtaking sunrises and majestic shooting stars above won’t give you pause. No one tells you this. I’m not talking about depression. Or suicide. Or hopelessness. I’m talking about how you may feel if a person you love so deeply, a person who you knew from birth — and was supposed to out live you — dies. All of a sudden. With no warning. Way too young. Frighteningly full of life. And then in an instant, they are gone....I lost all connection to planet earth. A window opened between dimensions and I climbed right in. ‘Take me with you,’ I repeated. Over and over and over. It was disorienting and at times completely engulfed me. But it was the only place I wanted to or could be. For months I would drift in and out of this state. I would walk for miles lost in my mind while trying to stay connected to 'the here and now'. My only memories of the actual walks is Randy, my husband, calling to check on me and tell me its 'time to turn around and go back to where you started'. And when you articulate this to friends and family, when you try to give words to these feelings, every alarm rings. Everyone starts to worry. Our culture has nowhere to put these dark feelings and sorrow. No one tells you this. Not in our American culture anyways. So now that I’ve made it to the other side, I will. Each individual mourns differently, but I have now witnessed how many people suppress their grief for fear of upsetting others. First of all, the urge to ‘die’ isn’t exactly about dying. It’s about holding on to your child with all your might, about delaying the separation for as long as humanly possible. It comes from the deepest source of connection a human can feel. From a sense that souls are entwined, like a living whole, and that when one half dies the other simply can’t go on. It is normal, it is born of love and connection, and it is okay. You will return to this dimension, feel like you can live again, but not until you’ve seen the depths of that darkness. The saying that kept me afloat on some of my hardest days was, ‘the depth of your grief is equal to the depth of your love.’ That is exactly how it felt. Secondly, if it offers any solace, in other cultures and parts of the world this feeling is a known entity. In cultures where death is tied to the cycle of life, not shunned and feared as people desperately try to elongate life and escape death at all costs, there is an understanding and even an openness to the pain that accompanies loss. In Judaism, there are periods of seven days (shiva), 30 days (shloshim) and twelve months (avelut) during which close family members are encouraged to or expected to abstain from celebrations and large social gatherings. It is understood that you will feel bereft, need to be alone, need to fall apart and slowly rebuild yourself. We need more of this acceptance and courage in the face of pain in our society. Each individual mourns differently, but I have now witnessed how many people suppress their grief for fear of upsetting others. Supressed grief is linked to depression, addiction, and can ‘give rise to delayed and distorted grief’. Let us be brave. Let us stay open to pain and hold space for what, ultimately, is not about pain as much as it is about love, connection, and life. ~Thinking tonight of an Angel and the Mama that has to wake up tomorrow with out her~

[kimrhodes4]

BellI’mListening

I have feelings. You KNOW I have feelings. I’ve had such feelings that in the past they have affected my mental health. I’ve been fortunate enough to get help before I damaged myself physically, and the emotional scars are sexy. (Kidding. I mean, they kinda are, but I’m also learning to soften them.) That’s not my deep connection to this subject.

My father killed himself. He had a number of challenges he was unable to continue confronting. He was an alcoholic. He was bipolar. He had OCD. He also had, I believe, other undiagnosed issues. And he wouldn’t talk about it.

How could he? He’d been taught that his mind was his to control and any aberrations where his to herd back into the fold or ignore until they perished. If you cannot beat it into submission, ignore it until it goes away. Talking is for the weak and no one fucking wants to hear it anyway, deal with it until it’s gone.

Or until you come across a love letter you sent your now-dead wife when you were first married and decide the gun in your drawer is the only thing that will FINALLY make the pain stop. When you battle depression, it only needs to score once.

I could’t reach him. I tried. So I will infuse every fucking tear I continue to shed with the fervent wish that his lessons don’t have to be learned that way by others. We can make that happen by changing the way mental health is seen in the world.

Right now, we say, “Get help,” to those who need it and can’t see the wall of thorns we are asking them to climb through. I can’t fight the demons in your head for you. But I will cut the brambles and help make your path smoother. I will help it change. I will listen. And I will not judge you. 

Except to tell you that you have worth and value.

[kimrhodes4]

Happy New Year

We get to be kind. We can start by being kind to ourselves.

[kimrhodes4]

Goodbyes

I put my big, goofy horse, Tonka, back in his stall and walked back the long way. Like I always do. Because Bacardi's stall is en route when I take the long way. I quit drinking and started riding. I found it ironic that "my" first horse was called Bacardi. Seemed that name was destined to kill me, one way or the other. Bacardi was an enormous fleabit gray. He was reluctant to canter, but then would swap his leads and shoot across the ring on a whim. He was my first fall. And my second. But generally he was patient and kind, didn't put up with my bullshit, didn't let my fear become his fear, and he challenged me to ask for what I wanted. He was the perfect teacher. A little over a year ago, he started limping and I moved on to Tonka. But I always saved a treat for my First Love and my long walk back. Yesterday he was gone. I was assured he was retired for real, (as opposed to "retired" to a quick end.) He earned it. I'm sure he didn't give me a second thought. But I cried. And I am grateful. I'm glad I took those moments, even when I was in a rush. Because we aren't always given a chance to say good-bye.

[kimrhodes4]

praise of an old dog

“Mom! Can we go to the dog park? Pleeeeeeeease?”

I looked down at my daughter and my dog, Linus, who stared at me.

When I was younger, unmarried, and doing repertory Shakespeare in Oregon fifteen years ago, I stayed in a house owned by two of the loveliest humans ever. After the shows were all up and running, I called them and asked if they had children. When they said no, I responded, “Then I’m going to give you an experience you may have missed out on. PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLEASE CAN I HAVE A DOG PLE-“

They said yes. I went to the pound and found Linus, is the short version of the story.

Linus is a mixture of Mostly Border Collie, Probably Some Pit, and Various Questionable Other, according to my keen and practiced eye. But mostly Border Collie. When I adopted him, he was about four months old and full of boundless energy and intelligence, mixed with a teensy dollop of fear that one expects in a dog who has experienced a life that leads to incarceration. He was perfect.

I love what I see in puppies. I see unparalleled optimism and glee. I see a zest and love of life that nothing can deter. I see spirits determined to wrestle every drop of joy from every playmate they encounter, even if it’s their own tail. I adore puppies.

Linus is no longer a puppy. He trips when there are no obstacles and barks when there is no alarm. He wanders into a room and stops with an expression I remember from my father’s face right before he would ask if anyone had seen his glasses that were perched on top of his head. Linus is not filled with boundless energy and his intelligence cannot fully express itself through his muddled mind and stiff body. True, he seems pretty fearless, but that could be senility. I didn’t see the point of taking him to the dog park.

“Pleeeeeeeease? Look, he’s smiling. He wants to go!”

More to kill time than because I agreed, I acquiesced. We went to the dog park. And, spoiler alert…. my dog is still perfect.

Huskies zoomed and Chihuahuas barked. Pit Bulls wrestled in the dust and the Australian Shepherd tried desperately to restore order to the situation. Cola, the lab puppy, pranced from group to group as each one distracted him with offers of EVEN MORE FUN! And Linus slowly and methodically peed a few times, then found a tennis ball.

My heart broke as I wondered what on earth he planned to do with it. He couldn’t outrun the Labradoodle who would surely take it away from him the second it left his mouth. He probably wouldn’t be able to even SEE it past ten feet. But when he dutifully brought it over to me, I looked into his eyes and he smiled.

Unparalleled optimism and glee. Zest. Love of life that nothing can deter. A spirit determined to wrestle every drop of joy from every playmate he encounters. And now, he says, if you can see it in me, you can find it in you.

We played fetch for an hour. He would hand me the ball, waddle a few feet, and I would throw it to him. Occasionally he would catch it, even! Often he would approach someone else with the ball, being the fair-minded and inclusive spirit he is. Every single person he met was enthralled by him. “He’s fifteen? He’s amazing! Still so happy!”

My old dog isn’t meant to learn new tricks. He’s meant to teach them to me.

[kimrhodes4]

PJ Party Pooper

I wanted to check in and tell you why we cancelled the pj party in Hawaii. Briana couldn't be there because she's working, we didn't have a viable substitute I was aware of, and I didn't want to try and carry it alone. I know, I know, "Meh," you eloquently and astutely say. "That decision should be up to us, not you." No. We value you too much. We value what we all have created together too much. And we are too aware of a culture than can equate spending with love that might shame you into not meeting your own needs, so we did it. We are humbled and amazed that people value what we offer so much that they are willing to spend my monthly food budget to be a part of it. That also means we refuse to settle for anything less than what we think you deserve. At least, TRYING for it. We are sorry you are disappointed. But we would rather you be disappointed and keep your money than be disappointed and broke.

[kimrhodes4]

worms and worth

You know that beautiful story about the boy throwing starfish back into the ocean? I’ve referenced it before, so I will just skip to the end where the old man says something like, “You can never save them all, it won’t make a difference,” and the boy replies, “I made a difference to that one.”

I’ve also probably told you this before: I save worms. Yes. The Southern California tradition of watering lawns in the dark brings up the crawlers who inevitably get stranded on the sidewalk when the sun rises. I picture them in exquisite agony, loved ones watching from the topsoil in tears screaming, “Johnny! No!” holding each other and sobbing, “Why? Why did he have to try?”. I think of a joyful reunion as the handus ex machina snatches them from death’s maw and places them gently into cool terra firma at the last moment. I content myself with a world tipped slightly toward the balance of good, thanks to my actions.

Here’s the thing, though. They don’t KNOW. I mean, they might. Sure, somewhere under a tastefully manicured lawn there could be an entire wormy shrine to me with a likeness carefully crafted in castings where the tale of a benevolent weirdo is passed down through generations. But probably not. I actually don’t make a difference in those lives that I know of, I merely imagine it. 

But I DO know I make a difference in my own life. I step out of my head and act in a way I consider sacred, that touches the infinite with my limited and mortal self. I breathe in air that is a little more kind. I meet eyes with a little more humor. There is a smile that is a little closer to the surface and a little more willing to greet another. My spirit is expressed and I know worth.

How much more spirit can I bring to my life when I help a human? How much more worth can I bring to the planet?

I don’t ask you to help because I pity these children. I don’t ask you to help because I want them to thank me. I don’t ask you to help because I need a fucking tax break. I am asking because I care about you, genuinely, and want to share the feeling of power and elation that comes when we tip the scales for good.

If you can’t make this financial choice, then I encourage you to find another way to give yourself the gift of being good today. You deserve it.

*in case it wasn’t abundantly clear.... I do not think children are worms. I do think worms are awesome. However, I think children are significantly more awesome. 

http://bit.ly/cal18_a

[kimrhodes4]

WORLD: screamstabslashhatefearnohurtwrongblooddeathneedneverhave MY CHILD: I defy you, World.

[kimrhodes4]

not. badass.

I gotta come clean with you. I keep hearing the phrase “badass” bandied about and applied to me. I am not a badass. I play one on TV.

We are shooting a television show and I need to have certain abilities that do not come naturally to me, so I am working and pretending with guns and violence. One of my trainers, a man whose radiant power is eclipsed only by his radiant kindness, began teaching us disarming techniques. He held a toy rubber gun, the color of a bath ducky. It was the most cheerful decoy weapon on the planet. The moment he pointed it at me, I burst into tears.

On set, the first scene I had to employ a firearm at an oncoming threat, my body froze and I couldn’t pull the trigger. I screwed the shot because I was shaking. (It did turn out that the gun was wonky as well, but I knew I had been unable to do it.) It was pretend, but my body didn’t know that. I didn’t react from my mind. I reacted like me.

The first time the monsters rushed out of the haze into my eyeline, I scampered like a bunny. “Cut! Kim, you have to take the shot before you run!” Right. Right. Sure. I knew that. The sweet human inside of the costume would check in with me between every take. He knew I was terrified and was taking care of me. I needed reassurance it was fake and I was safe. I needed reminding that he wasn’t really a monster. Every. Five. Minutes.

I am not a badass. I’m coming clean with you so you know that if, on your off days or in your daily life you are scared and might look to some of us for inspiration, I am just like you. I whither under scorn, I struggle to make myself understood, and I nearly piss myself facing shit that can’t possibly hurt me. That’s just how I’m made. And that’s okay.

When I went out to my first weapons-training date a couple of months ago, I had a mini panic attack in the car. I called Matt Cohen. He is a personal muse of mine. Kind and wise, with a current of rage running under his being that he suppresses on a daily basis. I relate so deeply to this. I knew he would help me.

“What’s up?”

“Matt, I’m going to train with guns and I’m scared.”

He knows my story. He knows why. “Yeah,” he answered. “Guns are scary. But here’s the thing… you have a job to do and you don’t have the information you need to do the job. Go let knowledge take the place of fear.”

I have a job to do that is my life. We all do. I look at people who seem fearless and I envy them. But I look at myself, my tiny little mountains I climb, and I am proud of my tiny little wins. I am proud when I can choose to let knowledge take the place of terror.

I offer you this: I am not fearless. But I can be brave. So can you.

[kimrhodes4]

Joint the theme of Holy Shit We Have Chairs... #wayward

[kimrhodes4]

It happened today, people... I had to ask for large print sides. #waywardsisters

[kimrhodes4]

There. I gave the borrowed dog back. Fine.

[kimrhodes4]

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Listen closely. Achievement unlocked, I say! @sarasteer