Anxiety is a Bitch

https://www.everydayhealth.com/anxiety/anxiety-and-depression.aspx (Getty Images)

Generalized anxiety doesn't play by any rules. It can strike when you have a ton of stress in your life, or it can strike when you're relaxing at home on a Sunday afternoon. It can also be surprisingly absent during your darkest or most challenging moments, and absurdly ever-present during what you would otherwise describe as some of your happiest times. The randomness of it is its most frustrating aspect.

This has been a summer of anxiety flares. Who can say why? I have a wonderful husband, and we are stupid happy together. I have a job/career that I love and find meaning in almost every single day. I've surrounded myself with positive people and relationships. My finances are in order, and we're able to travel somewhere exciting every year. Our health is good. Our cats are good. Sure, we live in a gigantic sprawling metropolis, and we're witnessing escalating climate change, and our president is a monster, and it feels like the world is unraveling, and social media is completely skewing all of this and messing with our psyches yet is totally addictive. But otherwise life is really excellent! 

I struggle with anxiety every single day of my life, and have for as long as I can remember. Sometimes it's totally manageable, just a little nagging doubt or worry in the background, and I can fairly easily distract myself and carry on. But it's still there. If I'm talking to you, or you see me leading a tour at a museum, or laughing in the hallway, or swimming with sharks in French Polynesia, or wearing cat ears at the local pumpkin patch, or quietly sitting at my desk sipping tea -- I guarantee you that in every one of those moments, I'm hyper-aware of the sensations in my throat or stomach or intestines, and I'm worrying about what will happen next. Will I be sick? Will I humiliate myself somehow? Are you judging me? Should I be doing something different? I think it's obvious to everyone that I'm a bit of a control freak, and a bit high-strung/high-energy, but I think I do a very good job of disguising the worst of it!

Every 7-10 years, the anxiety flares up, and I have a harder time than usual controlling it. I had a bad spell shortly after my parents divorced, again in tenth grade, and again at the end of college, and again about ten years later, and now again about 10 years from the last time. To be clear, I'm having issues all the time, and Xanax is my best friend (what a cliche), but these flare-ups send me home from work early, my eyes full of tears and my heart full of shame. They keep me up night-after-night, my body tied in knots on the couch, wishing I could curl up beside my sweet, sleeping husband, but feeling too sick and insane to relax into sleepiness. They make me fear all the good things in life that I would otherwise look forward to: new challenges at work, an exciting vacation, hanging out with friends.

So I'm back in therapy, which I HATE. And I'm supposed to wean off of the Xanax, even though it's the ONLY thing that's ever given me peace. And I'm supposed to start taking some fancy psychiatric drug that may change my life if I can ever get over my fear of the potential side effects. Wish me luck!

rules of the game

The longer you live, the more death you will encounter. Rules of the game.

At first death seems distant. You know it's out there, you hear about it in vague ways, in the news, from older people, someone else's grandma. Or maybe you encounter death at a very young age, and you carry that burden around for years and years until the rest of us begin to understand. Either way, death makes more regular appearances as life marches on. We, the living, march on, and the dead fall down beside us on both sides.

Until death knocks on your door, it remains a fuzzy concept. Of course death never knocks. Death slips in under your nose while you're chatting on the phone, or in the shower, or walking home from work. It doesn't wait for you to get ready. Sometimes it comes partly announced. Maybe you knew it was in the neighborhood and might be stopping by, but it's still a shock when it steps over the threshold. Often it comes completely out of the blue. Perhaps you witness it quickly move through the room and leave with your beloved. Or perhaps you simply hear that it came and went, and left your world forever changed without touching a hair on your head.

What is it about death that makes us look up toward the sky? That causes that primal wail to well up in our throats as the tears begin to fall? That forces us to clutch at our head in astonishment and disbelief, unable to contain the reality of its doings in our simple fleshy noggin? We don't weep for the dead, of course. We weep for those still living.

Do we become more sensitive to death once we've met it face to face? I've known of death for years. I've wept for lost cousins and grandparents. I've mourned their departure while knowing there were others who were grieving much more deeply than I. And so I mourned for the living and wondered at how they carried on with such a vacuum in their lives. But I didn't dwell on it too much.

Until it touched me directly. It knocked me down, and although I still stand, death has changed me forever, and each subsequent death builds upon the solid foundation of grief and disbelief that now resides within me. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking among ghosts, and that's a comfort, almost as if I can see through this mortal veil and have an inkling of understanding beyond my mundane corporeal self. Other times it's like a tidal wave of emotion that wells up in my tender eyes, constricts my aching throat, weakens my shaky knees, and refuses to accept a reality that cannot be escaped. Death cannot be escaped. It keeps coming, it keeps taking, until there is no one left.

menagerie

The Cloverdale menagerie lost an extremely valued member last May (RIP, Zoe Topaz), but we have recently acquired two new members. Dharma and Karma are female leopard geckos. They've been here about a month, and I think they're doing well, but it's so dang hard to tell with reptiles! Are they happy? Are they sad? Are they healthy? Are they sick? Are they bored? Are they the same as they would be anywhere else, or are they miserable in captivity? Is there something more I could/should be doing for them? These are the dilemmas of creatures that you have to keep in a terrarium. Obviously they don't have the freedom that cats and dogs are allowed. But do they need it? Who am I to decide? I will always be torn between the desire to possess animals and the belief that they should all be free to live their own lives. It makes life interesting, I suppose. And I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Xander is doing great. Maybe he's a little slimmer, and a little slower now that he's 15+ years old, but he's still totally himself, and he snuggles and eats and freaks out like he always has. He was definitely "off" for several months after Zoe departed, but I think he's fine now, and I think having Marzoid around helps keep us all distracted, if nothing else. Marzipan is now 5 years old and has lived with me almost as long as she ever lived with Mom. She's come a long way, baby. She sleeps with us every night, and voluntarily climbs into my lap frequently. She's feisty as hell, but she's also smart and dynamic. I wouldn't quite call her my "friend," but we're closer than we've ever been, and she LOVES Mr. G. Sometimes, especially at night, I can't help dwelling on the image of her being with Mom when she died. I'm sure she was sleeping next to her in bed, and then wondered why she didn't get up in the morning. Or the next day. God, how horrid. But she's mine/ours now, and I guess I'm glad?

nhm

NHM Rocks. I've been working at the Natural History Museum for almost three months now, and it's everything I dreamed it would be. I love, love, love it! I can see myself staying here for a long time. It's still early days, but I feel happy and connected, like this is MY museum. And it'll only get better.

One of the coolest things about NHM is that it's the oldest museum in town. The original museum. It opened in 1913 as the County Museum of Science, History and Art. Some major things have changed since then, but this year is our centennial year. We still have the awesome original building overlooking the rose garden, beautiful marble staircases, funky old hallways and cabinets full of specimens, a gorgeous stained glass rotunda, and original diorama halls. Plus there's a ton of awesome new stuff too, like the dinosaur hall and age of mammals exhibit, and all the exciting new stuff opening outdoors this summer.



















The halls are full of stuff like this thing, a giant ammonite. I can't pretend to know exactly what this is (yet), but it's old and it's awesome. We have dinosaurs, dioramas, one of the few active taxidermy studios, shells, gems and minerals, zuni fetishes, mesoamerican ceramics, skeletons, birds, live reptiles and insects, gardens, and some cultural stuff too.

The dioramas are my favorite. Many of them were originally created in the 1930's and they remain today, full of nostalgia but still educational and artistic if you give them a chance. Many people absolutely love them, but some folks probably think they're ratty old vestiges of days past. Take a closer look though. They're FULL of beautiful animals, preserved and posed just so in natural social groups, engaged in natural behaviors, with myriad details of foliage and other creatures throughout each display. They're freaking awesome!

And then there are details like the antique taxidermed parrot who shares our office. I have a great roommate already, but the parrot really make our house a home. Some folks are lucky enough to have offices within the old diorama halls. They have warthogs and snow leopards watching them as they type on their keyboards and have their meetings. How lucky are they? A secret (or not so secret) ambition of mine is to befriend the taxidermist. Also the guy with the big beard in Vert Paleo. I've always gotten on well with men with eccentric facial hair in the workplace.

I love you baby sloth who lives in the classroom where we hold orientations and training sessions. I love that I get to do things like help carry a donated bear skin upstairs; that people ask me to make signs that say "carnivore, herbivore, and omnivore"; that my office mate has a pile of insects and a human skull on his desk; that I get to work events like First Fridays, Bug Fair, and Reptile Appreciation Day; that POW stands for Pavilion of Wings; that people appreciate my desk echidna.

They sell dinosaurs in the gift shop AND the cafe.

And then you find random things like this awesome illustration just lying around the copy room.

change of scene

I've been walking under this sculpture on an almost daily basis for over two years now. Tomorrow will be the last time I do so as LACMA staff. It's time to move on. Honestly, I was ready to move on a long time ago. I tried to stick it out and make the best of it, which I did, but my departure is long overdue.

LACMA is a cluster fuck in many ways (pardon my language). Museum standards, professional ethics, teamwork, trust, cooperation, responsibility, communication . . . all of these words are meaningless within the massive dysfunction that is LACMA. That being said, there are many wonderful people there, and as an institution we somehow manage to accomplish an awful lot.

I've enjoyed working on a wide range of exhibitions with a ridiculous number of colleagues within and without the museum's walls. From the elegant David Smith sculpture retrospective that traveled to the Whitney and Wexner Museums; to the popular Tim Burton exhibition with his eccentric chihuahua-toting assistant; to the awesome Ai Weiwei zodiac animal installation; to the beautifully complex Fashioning Fashion tour to Berlin and Paris; to the fabulous California Design exhibition of mid-century modernism, now set to travel to Tokyo, Auckland, Brisbane, and Massachusetts; to the recently opened Drawing Surrealism exhibition; to name a few highlights.

 

My problems with LACMA are legitimate, and shared by many others. But my reasons for leaving, and the fact that I never felt at home here, have at least as much to do with my parents dying as anything else. I remember sitting at Black Cat Cafe with Zoe on my first day, reviewing the exhibition schedule, discussing which projects I'd be working on, and being filled with excitement and enthusiasm, ready to dive in whole-heartedly. Then Dad died. I was disoriented and distracted, but I attempted to limp along, partially because I knew that's what he would have wanted, and partially because I didn't know what else to do. I was a zombie, going through the motions but not really present. Then Mom died, and my world crumbled. I had to leave to cope with the emotional and logistical challenges of sudden orphanhood. Nothing about LACMA, or hardly anything else in life, seemed important anymore. I returned after a leave of absence, and tried to reinvest myself, but in hindsight this was an impossible task. My career at LACMA was doomed from the beginning and perhaps never meant to be anything more than an insane transition phase.

So my priorities changed. I realized that working behind the scenes with jaded disgruntled colleagues was not satisfying. I felt impotent and unable to contribute anything to the chaos swirling around me. My job became little more than a paycheck. The passion was gone. And the negativity outweighed any positivity. I also realized that what makes me happy, what gets me excited, is working with animals and museum visitors. So I increased my zoo volunteering, and started applying for public-oriented jobs at the Natural History Museum. And it finally paid off.

I cannot articulate how appealing the idea of a FRESH START is to me at this point in my life. It's not LACMA's fault, and perhaps no one can understand, but every time I walk the halls I think of my parents and the many days I dragged my hollow soul through those passageways, galleries, and offices; struggling to remain focused during meetings; the endless days sitting in my office trying to get through exhibition agreements and emails while trying to simultaneously make arrangements for each of my parents' memorial services. There's the bench in the east garden where I talked on the phone to my father for the last time, his speech slightly slurred and loopy from the leukemia quickly stealing him away from us; and the street a few blocks away where I received the phone call from my neighbor in San Diego telling me that my mother was dead. I just can't be here anymore. The place is too heavy with grief, too full of negative experiences. So I'm leaving, tomorrow.

at the sanitarium

At the sanitarium you can escape reality. When life is too crazy, too chaotic, too unpredictable. You need to get away from it all and let yourself be tended to for a while. Step away from the hustle and bustle, the rat race, the demands of modern society. Retreat to a relaxing atmosphere in a peaceful setting surrounded by natural beauty. Allow yourself to be cared for by gentle, understanding staff who are happy to turn away your friends and family when they come looking for you, telling them "she's in one of her moods today," as they gaze out at your silhouette resting in a lounge chair in the distance where the vast lawn meets the quietly lapping waves of the sea. After they've gone you might find yourself wandering leisurely through one of the gardens or green houses, or sitting on the shady porch with the resident cats, or enjoying an icy cold drink poolside. When you're feeling sociable again, perhaps you'll join your fellow residents for a light hearted game of tennis, or an evening concert under the stars. When you're feeling especially emotional, you might pick up brush and paints, or pen and journal, or pop into the little cabin on the edge of the property to smash dozens of china plates to pieces until the emotions subside. Of course there's always the spa, with its sugar scrub, aromatherapy massages, and refreshing facials. Come. Visit the sanitarium. And let your crazies be gone.

rep tiles

Finally the new reptile and amphibian house has opened at the zoo. LAIR -- Living Amphibians, Invertebrates, and Reptiles -- is a super cool environment to get up close to a variety of gorgeous and amazing creatures. Out front is a cleverly designed donor wall of "RepTiles," or plaques that you could purchase in people's honor that are then arranged in the shape of reptile scales. Very cool, right? I ordered one for Dad over a year ago, and now it's finally in place! Yay, Dad! :-)

art communion: buddha

Last week's art communion was with this glowing Buddha Shakyamuni from Burma (early 20th century). He stands in a dimly lit gallery devoted to images of the Buddha in modern Theravada traditions, and is one of many artworks here that were commissioned and donated to Buddhist temples and monasteries to bring merit to the donor and their loved ones on special occasions. This may explain why this figure is more ornate than one might usually expect from a Buddhist sculpture. He's carved from wood, gilded with shimmery gold, and inlaid with glass details in his robes and headband. He's somewhat opulent; perhaps as a way of showing the dedication and devotion of those who donated him to the temple. Of course you always want to give the very best.

This Buddha is exceedingly graceful, and perhaps even gracious in his pose. His elegant drapery hangs loosely on his long slender frame, and his delicate hands hold his garment out almost in a gesture of courtsey. Although his body is slight, his face is still pleasantly round with folds of flesh under his chin. The reddish pigment combined with the gold gives him a very warm, earthy appearance, embellished with small blue flowers of inlaid glass. His bare feet stand upon a lotus blossom. Perhaps due simply to the passage of time, his face retains the most gilding, and is thus his most radiant feature, with that ever-present gentle smile of transcendence.

art communion: reliquary bust

Today I visited this Flemish Reliquary Bust, ca. 1510. I've always loved her beauty and serenity. She's carved from wood, with polychrome paint and gilding enlivening her features: rouged cheeks and red lips, sorrowful green eyes, golden tresses braided and coiled up beneath her headdress. She has a bit of an under-bite, giving her almost a double-chin, and her mouth puckers out like a duck bill.

She's incredibly life-like even five hundred years later, although somewhat stiff in that medieval-early-Renaissance way. The pigment on her skin is full of tiny cracks, with major losses on her nose and chin, but they don't detract from her naturalism. They may even enhance it. A security officer said she was "creepy," and the fact that she's a reliquary probably only adds to that. Was something of significance hidden inside this bust? Perhaps a former possession of the sitter, or a body part? I don't know. Reliquaries are generally damn creepy, but I love her. She's very narrow from the side -- almost two-dimensional -- but so beautiful from front and back. Her headpiece is almost like a helmet, and her Rapunzel hair seems to go on forever.

There she rests, day in and day out, gazing out at her medieval neighbors and passing visitors, yet clearly lost in a world and time of her own. One of the side effects of spending time in the galleries is interacting with the public. Mostly that's a good thing. I love hearing people's thoughts about the art they're seeing, however naive or emotional or philosophical. I love that they're coming to an art museum of their own volition (most of them), looking for some kind of enrichment or stimulation. I love being able to answer their random questions and connect with them about works of art made by our predecessors through the ages. I need to move toward the public side of museums. Being behind the scenes has its excitement, but the real turn-on is how art (or animals, history, or whatever subject) can connect you to your fellow human beings, both living and dead.

art communion: skull rack

Today I spent some time with this Skull Rack (agiba) from Papua New Guinea, ca. 1925. I know next to nothing about the cultures who created this art, but I pass through the Oceanic gallery on a daily basis, and it's always one of my favorite collections to see at other museums too. Perhaps because it IS so enigmatic to my uneducated eyes. Why is this skull rack guy smiling, for example? Is that even meant to be a smile? He looks very cheery to me, but perhaps I'm misinterpreting something. His backside is unfinished, and the base is worn. I assume he was perhaps attached to, or embedded in, some kind of wall or structure, and would stand upright ready to receive new skulls.

This agiba is made of wood, with big round eyes, and patterns resembling scales, feathers, flames, or waves carved into his sides/arms/ribs. The center of his torso looks like an upside down fish, with that ominous black hole in the center, mirroring the black circles of his eyes. His eyebrow looks like a boomerang. There are three skulls attached to him with cords, and one empty harness awaiting a fourth skull. Apparently people would attach the skulls of their enemies and/or their ancestors to such an object, and each skull is modified with mud elongating their noses and cowrie shells for eyes.

The Oceanic galleries are very humid. I don't know if this is intentional -- to create that tropical island environment -- or merely a result of poor air circulation. The walls are light with a faint pattern of dripping paint, which is honestly a little bit creepy. And of course there are the bizarre green benches which I think most people presume they're not supposed to use, but they're quite comfortable! One whole wall is windows, which gives the gallery a very pleasant atmosphere, but it's also a tease, inviting you out into a sculpture garden full of trees and Rodin sculptures, but offering no obvious way to get there.

art communion: smoke

My new goal is to spend 15 minutes each day in the galleries with ART, communing with an individual artwork. My hope is that this will help remind me why I work in art museums (which one sometimes forgets during moments of frustration and exasperation), and will also offer me at least one moment each day for quiet reflection and pseudo meditation. Art enriches the mind and soul, and there's TONS of it all around me if I only take the time to "look."

My first encounter is with Tony Smith's Smoke, 1967. Yes, it's obvious. I walk around and under it virtually every single day, as do many other staff members and visitors. It dominates the Ahmanson atrium, almost too massive and dynamic to be contained by its walls. It's big and black, bold and powerful, geometric and organic. It's scale and simplicity are pleasing visually, physically, and psychologically. It's my favorite type of sculpture: mid-century minimalism on a grand scale.

Smoke forces you to interact with it by its sheer size and imposition. It could be lovely outdoors, but in the atrium it confronts you, expanding within its limited space, bursting at the seams, ready to escape its holding cage. The hexagonal spaces it creates resemble honeycomb, and the continuous flow of people beneath its legs are like busy bees coming and going from the hive. I love this work, and I will cry if it ever leaves.

cousins-once-removed (or some such thing)

Sometimes the loss of old connections can bring about new connections. Since my parents' passing (and as a direct result of said sad events), I've made some new friends, forged deeper relationships with some existing friends and family across generations, and found a whole new crop of cousins. There's a whole slew of cousins from my Dad's generation, and a couple from Mom's side, who are now my facebook buddies. I'd met them all a few times over the years, but we never had any direct relationship to speak of, and it's been decades since I'd laid eyes on any of them. Now they're all around, and they're quite an amusing bunch, full of humor, insights, and support. They mostly live in Texas, so I doubt we'll ever spend much time together, but it's nice knowing they're out there. Kin. Blood.

escape

I'm compelled to keep traveling. I get depressed and moody if I don't have a trip on the calendar or in the works. It's something to look forward to and plan for, from the smallest weekend getaway to a trip to Italy to get married. Part of this is obviously feeding my desire to continually escape reality; at least certain aspects of reality. It feels better to be outside of the usual mundanity of life, on holiday somewhere different, away from the daily patterns that wear on me so. It doesn't even have to be a "vacation." Any excuse to leave town and escape routine is a welcome change.

Since September 2010, I've been to San Francisco 4 times, Texas twice, San Diego 500 times, Italy, and Hawaii. I just booked a trip to Seattle for March, and I hope to plan a trip to Portland later this year, and ideally Christmas in Hawaii again (Oahu and/or Kauai this time). Of course money is always a concern, but I just can't worry about that right now.

flint

Meet the latest addition to our family: Flint! He came to us by way of our dear friend, Miss Kelly Grace, having been recently orphaned and found wandering around a local estate sale. He's super cute in every way, but the thing that really gets me are his little eyelids. They're squinched ever so slightly like he's laughing, or about to cry. Never mind the amazing detail of his tiny fingernails and toenails, and the stylish Steiff tag in his left ear. They say "There's a Steiff for everyone," and this is the one for me. Damn it, I may have to start carrying him around in my handbag, so he's always close at hand.

He's named after a young chimp from the early days of Jane Goodall's research with the chimpanzees of Gombe National Park. The real Flint had a tragically short life, but the new Flint will have a life full of only roses and sunshine.

press release

I'd like to announce that I'll be stepping down from my current position to pursue research, writing, and scholarship. After many years of devoted service to the museum profession, I feel that now is an opportune moment to leave my current position and return to my original passions of reading interesting books and traveling the world in the pursuit of beauty, stimulation, happiness, and new experiences. It has been an honor serving alongside all of you, and I wish you only the best moving forward.

tooths!

Take care of your teeth, people. My teeth are my weakest physical feature. I count myself lucky. Better my teeth than my liver or some important internal organ. But it still sucks, and as such, I should take extra special care of them with fancy toothbrushes, flossing, and REGULAR DENTAL CHECK UPS. After college I went almost five years without visiting a dentist, and when I finally built up the courage to go, I paid the price with a nice root canal and crown.

I was then a good girl for quite a while . . . until the last year and a half or so. Granted, I've been busy and distracted with other things, but I recently noticed that one tooth in particular was looking pretty sketchy, so I finally dragged my self into the dentist. I love my dentist, and especially my hygienist, but like many people, I HATE sitting in that chair having tools stuck in my mouth and tasting and smelling all the nasty dental tastes and smells! Today I had my second root canal, and I'll be back in a couple weeks for my second crown. Boo! But at least they can fix me up, and at least I'm finally back on the dental hygiene wagon. Don't let this tragedy happen to you.

peccary

Hooray! My peccary is finally a reality on the new conservation carousel at the Los Angeles Zoo! This very special carousel showcases rare and endangered animals from around the world, and plays mellow gold music (instead of the usual sickening music box tunes). And no two are alike. In addition to my peccary, there's an armadillo, a gorilla, a chimpanzee, an okapi, a red river hog, a pronghorn, a lion and a tiger, a seal, a giraffe and a zebra, a baby elephant, a couple token horses, and a large praying mantis, to name only a few.

In a major fundraising effort, each carousel animal cost $25,000. Luckily for me however, there was a raffle for a free animal at one point, so I bought a $150 ticket (not expecting to win, but figuring it couldn't hurt to support the overall cause in my own small way), and my name was drawn! It was announced at the Beastly Ball this summer, and I think there was general pride and happiness that a volunteer should be the person to win such a prize. My first thought was to choose the armadillo, in honor of Dad, but he was already sold, so I chose the delightful peccary, which has special significance to me and Mr. G. But what do you know, the peccary and armadillo are side by side on the carousel. Yay!

italian ashes: venice

I swear this is the last entry about ashes for a while.

Venice. Everyone loves Venice. Mom had a special fondness for it. Almost an irrational fondness for it! Of course it's a wonderful place to visit, but one of the main reasons I wanted to go on this particular trip was specifically to make sure I could scatter some Mom ashes there. It's very important that she be there, and I know Dad would be happy to be there too. So we hopped on a vaporetto and cruised the Grand Canal.

There was a noisy gaggle of Italian teenagers crowding our boat for the first half of our journey, but happily they disembarked somewhere in the outer lagoon, so we were then able to have the open-air back section to ourselves. It was quite chilly and breezy, but I attempted to discretely deposit their ashes -- one canister at a time -- over the back edge of the boat and into the Canal. This way they can flow throughout the city, up and down the waterways, past the decrepit palazzos, under the many bridges, around the gilded gondolas, and soak up all that Venice has to offer.

Unfortunately, in my nervousness about getting caught or reprimanded, I was hasty, and soon realized that most of the ashes had accumulated on the edge of the boat instead of falling directly into the water! Dang! And if you know anything about anything, it's pretty clear that this isn't just "dust" on the back of the boat. I tried to casually brush it off with a rolled up map, but to little avail. So, Mom and Dad are cruising the Canal on a boat instead of in the water. You might envision them sitting back there dangling their feet in the cold water, enjoying the views. Eventually, they'll blow off or get rained on or something, and ultimately become one with the waters of Venice.

I still have plenty of ashes to spare, so perhaps I'll take them with me to Hawaii at Christmas. It's not a place they ever visited or expressed interest in, but I'm sure it's beautiful, so why not? Mom's sister Joyce has scattered her ashes in a few scenic spots in Rocky Mountain National Park. And I'll definitely take her to Cannon Beach up in Oregon some day. Until then, I guess wherever I travel, I'll bring them along too (one way or another).