Greetings my lovely feral, dark, and bright ones,

It’s Friday morning, which means it’s sheet-changing day.

Yes, that’s one of my rituals.

The bed has been stripped, the ferret room has been cleaned, and somewhere in the middle of all of that I remembered—again—that I need to order more ferret litter.

Shit.

Maybe writing it here will finally make me remember.

The girls have been fed, which means I’ve already enjoyed the glamorous experience of starting my morning with raw chicken on my hands while cutting open quail eggs.

Nothing says good morning, beautiful quite like ferret breakfast.

When everything is ready, I yell:

“BREAKFAST!”

And here they come.

Four female noodles charging toward the ramps because apparently breakfast is the one word every ferret learns fluently.

Everybody else this morning:

CHICKEN! QUAIL EGGS! BREAKFAST! RUN!

Mimzie, halfway there:

“Excuse me? Are you planning to help me here?”

She just stopped and looked at me.

Apparently room service wasn’t enough. Her Royal Highness also required transportation to the dining area.

So, naturally, I picked her up.

Yes, Your Highness.

And delivered her the rest of the way to breakfast.

Barra, meanwhile, is becoming this pudgy, ridiculously fluffy female noodle, while Summer and Mimzie remain my slim little girls. Jasmine is still holding her own at five years old. She’s lost some hair, but she’s spry, playful, eager to eat, and right there with the others.

Everybody fed.

Ferret room clean.

Bed stripped.

One ferret personally chauffeured to breakfast.

My work here was done.

Well, except for the sheets.

And the ferret litter.

And approximately seventeen thousand other responsibilities because apparently adulthood is a subscription service you cannot cancel.

I blow-dried my hair a little, got dressed, grabbed my magic bean potion, and eventually wandered out to the BBQ pit pad.

And this morning?

You can smell the rain.

The ground is damp. The birds are busy singing, and Chloe is the only dog who decided to sit outside with me.

I’m grumpy today.

No great spiritual reason.

Nothing happened.

Nobody pissed me off.

I’m simply grumpy.

Apparently my personality selected GRUMPY from the dropdown menu and hit Save.

Adulting Is Highly Overrated

There is one thing sitting quietly in the back of my mind this morning that feels really damn good.

The bills are paid.

All of them.

This is the first year of my adult life where everything has consistently been paid early or on time.

There isn’t much left from this paycheck because I focused on the bills first, but that’s okay.

They’re paid.

That’s what matters.

There is a peace in knowing everything is taken care of that I don’t think I fully understood until I experienced it.

But let’s also acknowledge something:

Adulting is fucking exhausting.

You work.

You pay bills.

You buy groceries.

You clean things.

You change sheets.

You take care of animals.

You remember appointments.

You remember to order the ferret litter.

Okay.

Apparently you don’t remember to order the ferret litter.

But you get my point.

Sometimes I don’t want to adult.

Sometimes I want to be immature.

Carefree.

Playful.

I want to experience something with the ridiculous excitement of a child instead of immediately wondering how much it costs, where I’m going to put it, how much time it requires, and whether there’s a bill due first.

I don’t want to become a child again.

I want to stop believing adulthood requires me to abandon the parts of myself that still know how to be one sometimes.

Goddesses, A Little Assistance Please

So I raised my hands toward the sky this morning and asked my Goddesses for a little guidance.

Give me some peace.

Give me some rest.

Please let me eventually get some damn sleep.

And while we’re making requests, could we keep the call load small today?

I’m part of a pilot program at work now where I’m on the call team instead of taking chats and backline tickets. I actually don’t mind the calls. Most are pretty easy, and when they get complicated, they go to the backline queue.

I’m not asking the Goddesses for a miracle.

Just a quiet Friday.

A little rain in the air.

A manageable call queue.

More coffee.

Maybe some sleep eventually.

And enough functioning brain cells to finally order the damn ferret litter.

Surely that’s reasonable.

Release the Hounds

It’s been a long three months, especially since Mom passed away.

I’ve been clearing out the proverbial closets of my mind and soul. Old thoughts. Old beliefs. Expectations. Guilt. Versions of myself I’ve been carrying around long after they stopped fitting.

I started doing shadow work around this time last year, and somewhere along the way I apparently had the audacity to think I might eventually be done.

The Universe and my Goddesses found this adorable.

Because nope.

More stuff surfaced.

It has felt like an Arizona monsoon inside my head. Everything rushes in, makes an enormous mess, and eventually washes away some of what needed to go.

Permission to Live became part of that shadow work too.

I gave myself permission to stop performing, choose myself, outgrow things, change, and reclaim pieces of myself I’d lost along the way.

And now I’m ready for what comes next.

A phrase popped into my head this morning:

Release the hounds.

I have absolutely no idea why.

But there it was.

RELEASE THE HOUNDS!

In my head, this should have been an incredibly dramatic moment.

Ancient gates flying open.

Fog rolling across the ground.

A magnificent pack of mystical hounds charging toward freedom.

The woman inside me finally unleashed.

Powerful.

Symbolic.

Spiritual.

And then my brain immediately went:

Who let the dogs out?

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

So much for my dramatic spiritual awakening.

Apparently the Baha Men have been hired to provide the soundtrack.

Now instead of mystical hounds charging through ancient gates, I’ve got Who Let the Dogs Out? stuck in my head while Chloe is sitting beside me like:

“Well, technically you did.”

Fine.

But I’m keeping release the hounds because underneath the completely ridiculous soundtrack, that’s exactly what this next part of my life feels like.

Release.

Unleash.

Let her out.

The woman underneath the responsibility.

The grief.

The expectations.

The years spent being practical, dependable, productive, mature, and whatever other exhausting adjectives adulthood keeps demanding.

I’m ready for lightness.

Youthfulness.

Joy.

Hope.

Curiosity.

Playfulness.

I want to be silly.

I want to discover things.

I want to try things.

I want to change my mind.

I want to get ridiculously excited about something that doesn’t matter to anybody else.

I’m not interested in becoming younger.

I’m interested in remembering that getting older doesn’t require me to stop being young inside.

I’ve spent the last year doing the shadow work.

I’ve given myself permission to live.

Now?

Release the fucking hounds.

Are you ready for it?

Because apparently one of them has yarn.

Apparently, I Crochet Now

Yes.

According to ChatGPT, I crochet.

This was news to me.

I don’t crochet.

I don’t know how to crochet.

I don’t know how to knit, either.

Here’s the especially funny part:

I actually would like to learn how to crochet or knit someday.

But wanting to learn something and already knowing how to do it are two very different things.

ChatGPT apparently skipped the learning portion of the program and promoted me directly to crocheter.

Which is particularly hilarious because…

HAVE YOU SEEN MY CRAFT COLLECTION?

Diamond art.

Miniatures.

Craft supplies.

Finished projects.

Current projects.

Projects waiting patiently for me to remember they exist.

Responsible Rae is quite certain we have enough.

Unfortunately, somewhere inside me apparently lives a tiny craft-store goblin whose entire purpose in life is to follow me around whispering:

“Ooooooh. We could make that.”

Responsible Rae:

“WE HAVE PROJECTS AT HOME.”

Craft Goblin:

“Yes, but we don’t have THIS project.”

Responsible Rae:

“Where are we going to put it?”

Craft Goblin:

“Irrelevant.”

Responsible Rae:

“When are we going to make it?”

Craft Goblin:

“Also irrelevant.”

Responsible Rae:

“We already have unfinished—”

Craft Goblin:

“LOOK! SHINY THINGS!”

And now ChatGPT has apparently handed the little bitch yarn.

Wonderful.

Naturally, when ChatGPT informed me that crochet was one of my hobbies, my response was essentially:

“I DO NOT CROCHET. I DON’T KNOW WHERE THAT EVEN CAME FROM.”

And thus began The Great Rae Crochet Incident™.

Gemini Enters the Chat

Meanwhile, Gemini had been assembling its own little file on me.

Because apparently what every woman needs in midlife is not one artificial intelligence confidently misunderstanding her.

She needs two.

Gemini informed me that I’d been a “rental townhouse dweller since 2007.”

Interesting.

I moved into this townhouse in 2023.

I lived in a different townhouse from 2019 to 2023, and before that, I lived in apartments here in Tucson.

So somewhere in the digital universe exists an alternate Rae who has been sitting in the same Tucson townhouse since 2007, crocheting peacefully for nearly twenty years.

I hope she’s happy.

I hope her bills are paid.

And honestly, I hope she remembered the ferret litter.

At this point, Alternate-Universe Crochet Rae is probably more organized than I am.

Although she apparently hasn’t moved house in nineteen years, so maybe she just has more free time.

The Great Rummage Sale of Rae

The whole thing made me laugh, but it also made me think.

AI had taken pieces of things I’d said, mixed in assumptions, and constructed a version of me that was almost Rae.

Humans do that too.

Other people give us labels. Families give us roles. Relationships create versions of us. Life circumstances require us to become certain things just to get through them.

And sometimes we do it to ourselves.

Maybe that’s what this last year has really been.

One enormous rummage sale of the soul.

Everything comes out of the closets, and I get to decide:

Keep.

Toss.

Rediscover.

Question.

Absolutely not mine.

There will be things I dust off and wonder why I ever stopped loving them.

There will be things that don’t fit anymore.

There will probably be things that make me stop and say:

Wait… THAT’S me?

And apparently there’s a basket of yarn sitting in the corner with a sign attached:

BELONGS TO FUTURE RAE. MAYBE.

Fine.

She can keep it.

But somebody keep the craft goblin away from it.

Apparently, the Goddesses Answered

And somewhere between the mystical hounds, the Baha Men, Mimzie demanding transportation to breakfast, Alternate-Universe Crochet Rae, and the tiny craft-store goblin running around inside my head with yarn, I realized something.

I’m not grumpy anymore.

Well, shit.

I went outside this morning, raised my hands toward the sky, and asked my Goddesses for help.

I asked for guidance.

Peace.

Rest.

Something to help me get through the day.

Apparently, they sent me humor.

They sent laughter.

Not exactly the answer I was expecting, but considering I’m now sitting here laughing so hard I’m crying instead of grumbling into my magic bean potion, I’m certainly not going to argue with the delivery method.

Apparently my request went something like this:

Me: Goddesses, I need peace. I need rest. I need some help getting through today.

Goddesses: Best we can do is a ferret Uber, the Baha Men, and a craft goblin.

Me: …

Goddesses: You’re laughing, aren’t you?

Well.

Fuck.

They’re right.

Maybe peace doesn’t always arrive quietly.

Maybe sometimes it comes barreling through the gates while someone screams RELEASE THE HOUNDS, the Baha Men start playing in your head, Mimzie calls for an Uber to breakfast, and a tiny craft-store goblin runs past carrying yarn she absolutely did not have permission to purchase.

Apparently the Goddesses understood the assignment better than I did.

I asked for help.

They gave me laughter.

And somehow, that was exactly what I needed.

Maybe that’s part of what I’ve been trying to find all along.

Not manufactured positivity.

Not pretending the difficult things didn’t happen.

Not forcing myself to be happy because I’m supposedly finished grieving or healing.

Just allowing myself to laugh when something is fucking funny.

Allowing myself to be ridiculous.

Allowing myself to play.

Allowing myself to feel light without immediately wondering whether I’ve earned it.

Message received, Goddesses.

Message fucking received.

Welcome to the Book of Rae

That’s how this new series was born.

I’m calling it The Book of Rae, and it isn’t only a name for the blog series.

I’m actually building one.

I’m saving everything on my Mac and in my Google account—the facts, lists, preferences, memories, discoveries, contradictions, things I love, things I hate, things I’ve outgrown, and things I still want to try.

Maybe someday I’ll print all of it and put it into a binder.

A real Book of Rae.

New pages can be added.

Old ones can be updated.

Things can move as I change.

And if I eventually learn how to crochet?

Somebody update the damn binder.

Because after fifty-five years of being Rae, I’ve realized there’s a surprisingly interesting question left to answer:

How much do I actually know about her?

That’s what we’re going to find out.

Some chapters will probably go deep.

Others may be completely ridiculous.

We might explore childhood, colors, scents, music, creativity, home, beliefs, contradictions, things that make me happy, things I’ve forgotten about myself, things I want to try, and things that earn an immediate:

NO.

I don’t know exactly where this series is going.

For once, I don’t want to.

That’s part of the fun.

I’ve spent enough time digging through the shadows.

Now I want lightness.

Joy.

Hope.

Play.

I want to find the woman who comes running out when somebody finally opens the gate.

And apparently when we open it, we’re getting mystical hounds, the Baha Men, a chauffeured ferret, a craft-store goblin carrying unauthorized yarn, and an alternate version of me who’s been crocheting in the same imaginary townhouse since 2007.

Honestly?

Release them all.

Let’s see what happens.

And let’s establish one thing for the official record:

I do not fucking crochet.

Yet.

The story isn’t finished. Neither am I.

Until next time, my beautiful, lovely, feral, dark, and bright ones, keep looking into who you are and find your true self.