My heaven is now. But so is my hell.

Every other weekend I get into my car, pop in an audio book, and traverse through an often treacherous mountain pass to be with a portion of my family. A hundred and twenty miles later I am greeted at an old Victorian door by my husband who is holding out a glass of red wine for me while my two smallest children scream BE THE MONSTER!!! The two-hour drive gets old, as you can imagine. There's the inclement weather to contend with. The critters, frozen and dead, and those that are debating about whether to become frozen and dead. There's also the RVs. The darkness. And, UGH, the speed limit. But the smiling faces and squeals of delight upon my arrival at Allan's Victorian door.... THAT is like Bon Iver music, freshly-brewed coffee and my Grandpa's way of singing "wa wa wa wa wa..." in that it NEVER EVER gets old. In fact, it always makes me get a bitter swill of guilt in my mouth for a few moments, remembering my last two hours of driving and all that filthy-mouth bitching that I SPEWED at the top of my lungs, the same mouth that is now planting kisses on my babies. But all I have to do is remember the semi-truck that wanted to race me at 11,000 feet elevation on the highway at next-to-zero visibility and I immediately forgive myself my verbal indiscretions. I'm magnanimous that way.

Anyway, this is how my bi-monthly visits begin. I readily accept this because then for two straight days I am in heaven. I eat Allan's delectable meals -- pot roasts, turkeys and stuffing, homemade chili, chicken soup -- and I savor my favorite wine and the stimulating adult conversation that he so kindly offers. I chase my kids along the river walk. I play with fluffy puppets at the library and twirl in circles to The Kinks and Emmylou Harris and Billy Joel and all of Allan's other CDs until I literally wanna puke. Sometimes I eat breakfast at Nana's. And then I play monster some more and get writer's cramp from three-plus hours of coloring with nubby little red, blue and purple crayons. And I read stories about foxes in soxes, and I take naps flanked by two little girls that wriggle and squirm and make my neck hurt. Then I look down at my watch and ABSOLUTELY BEG time to please crawl, crawl like a turtle with four broken legs and a two-ton shell on its back. At least until I get back to my other two kids at which point I will humbly beg time to crawl once more.

But it never happens. Time. It relentlessly ignores my humble supplications. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say that time actually refuses to even walk for me, jogging steadily on Friday evening and then getting a second wind by about noon on Saturday wherein it then dashes for Monday morning like a contestant on the Amazing Race. I find myself pouring more wine when I feel this happening, working hard to stave off the WHY ME beast that is so SKILLED at luring me into that gorgeous, comfortable, satisfying cave of SELF PITY which is cleverly disguised as ALLAN'S BED. I've actually gotten quite better at resisting the beast over the years.

To my complete and utter surprise, yoga really has helped. I also need to be on a steady diet of Oprah, Eckhart Tolle, Pema Chodron, Obama, Dooce, David Sedaris, Rob Brezny, Martha Beck, Elizabeth Gilbert, my kids and any other inspirational, non-dogmatic Teacher of Life that gives me warm fuzzies and life-sustaining PERSPECTIVE. I know it's unthinkable to many, but I could give two shits about a nebulous, far-away heaven. I don't care about my next incarnation, either. And I have absolutely no fear or respect for a portentous, Old Testament-style hell. I'm pretty irreverent about next month, if the truth be told. I've mentioned it before... religion isn't for me. I understand DOING and I understand BEING. I don't understand WORSHIPPING. What I really need is just to get through this moment. Right here. Right now. I'm only self-piteous when I start futuring. If I start thinking about walking back out the Victorian door, back toward the highway where I'll once again dodge the deer and try to not hate the people driving SO slow that fifteen cars are piled up behind them begging them to PLEASE just get a flat tire already, then I will lose my footing on whatever bit of stoicism I've grabbed hold of in regard to my nontraditional familial situation. When I stop and calculate how many days out of the year I actually get to be with my babies and husband, I have to seek out My People in desperate search of a pep talk.

So far it's working. This is what they say: Breathe in. Breathe out. In again. Out again. Listen. You hear that? It's the birds chirping, they say. Smell that? It's rain. That coffee your husband prepared? Isn't it, like, the best thing that the universe ever created?? And, mmmm.... this coat.... it's so good at it's job, wouldn't you agree?? This is the stuff that matters. So be here. Listen. And smell. Taste. And touch. BREEAATTHHE. Accept. Oh, and maybe you can be of service to others in lieu of wallowing in the bed. It's the surest path to inner peace, which is what you're REAALLLLY after. Check your motives, while you're here. Are they okay? No? Motivated by aversion, greed, or ignorance? Forgive yourself already. But then tweak. Adjust. When you think you know it all, remember that the truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new. And go ahead and flatulate! But go to the bathroom first. DUH. Just relax. Laugh at your body's disgusting audacity. And then move on. For crying out loud, MOVE ON. But not so far ahead that you lose sight of right now. Now is where it's at, Cat.

The teachers are getting through to me. The Crazy Beast is dying a lot slower than I'd like. But dying nonetheless. Speaking of the beast, today I had an epiphany. Mid sentence. As it was happening. I realized that my husband can't win. And, truly, I am sorry, love. According to M.J. Ryan, this means that I am officially AD HOC, which is better than post hoc but not as good as pre hoc. M.J. RYAN.... she's the latest addition to my list of teachers.

Anyway, you packed me a lunch and brought me coffee before I'd even gotten out of bed at 5:30 AM today, Allan. The part of my brain that you always accuse of being "prone to suggestion" was totally under the influence of The Beast at that particular moment. (Cut me a break, it was 5:30.) But as you already know, I saw the lunch and the coffee at 5:30 in the morning as a sign that you were kicking my ass out. No, seriously. The Beast is quite the storyteller and the story he generally tells me is that I am not worthy. So OF COURSE you want me to get the hell out. You've got crap to do. You need to return to your regularly scheduled life, he said. The BEAST. He can be just as pragmatic as you are and even more convincing. I was in the way, he said. BUT!! At the exact moment that I accused you of getting rid of me based on his assessment of the situation, I realized that it is physically impossible for you to win because when you DON'T pack my lunch or bring me coffee, I ALSO take that as a sign that I am not worthy and, therefore, you want me to get the hell out already so that you can return to your regularly scheduled life.

It's crazy, okay? I'm saying it for you. But M.J. Ryan is convinced that it is also progress. Because there was a time when I drove away with coffee and lunch and cried all the way back home, convinced that we were history because.... lunch and coffee??? That was just bad juju. I mean, who does that??

But I caught it happening today. Today was different. I'm even trying to make my drive back home a more positive experience. Sunrises are nice. And I appreciate the guys that clears the snow from the road. And traffic is fairly light at 5:30 in the morning, I must admit. David Sedaris is cracking me up, too. I even realize that the fact that time is passing quickly is a good thing. My childhood lasted 20 YEARS longer than it should have. Which means that the only time that time crawls is when it sucks. Which means that my life is the ANTITHESIS of sucks. Before you know it, I'll merely be eating my lunch and drinking my coffee while complaining that you used too much onion and were stingy with the half and half.

Baby steps.