Land of Osbourne

  Some angels are collected. Others are recognized. These are my favorites—not because they’re the biggest or the most ornate, but because each one holds a piece of my story. The green angel was a gift from Jeanette many years ago. She reminds me of a fountain angel—quiet, timeless, and gently flowing. She feels like continuity and calm, like something that nourishes without asking for attention. She’s always felt protective in the softest way. The solid pink angel is especially dear to me. Jeanette painted her for me in ceramic class. You can feel the care in her—the hands, the time, the intention. She isn’t perfect, and that’s exactly why she’s perfect. She’s friendship turned into form. The seraphim feels like the realization of hope. Not hope wished for, but hope arrived. She carries that energy of finally exhaling, of knowing you’re still standing after everything you’ve walked through. And the small golden angel—she reminds me of my grandma. She may be little, but she holds i...

I’ve talked about Crohn’s disease here before, so this isn’t the beginning of the story. It’s more like a pause in the middle—one of those moments where you stop, look around, and take stock of where you actually are. I was diagnosed with Crohn’s in 2001, after a bout of food poisoning that flipped my body upside down and never quite put it back the same way. Over time, my large intestine became about 90% scar tissue. That’s not dramatic phrasing—it’s just the reality. Scar tissue doesn’t heal. It doesn’t reverse. It doesn’t care how well you behave. For a while, I was on Stelara, and it helped. Then life happened—insurance gaps, reality gaps—and I was off it for about a year and a half. When I finally had another colonoscopy, the news landed quietly but firmly: the Crohn’s had spread to my ileum. That moment held a lot. Fear. Grief. Anger. A strange sense of inevitability. Also—relief. Because now I knew. I’m back on Stelara now, every four weeks. And here’s the part that’s...

  A Land of Osbourne Tale of Chaos, Catitude, and Cranial Drama It was about two years ago, around 4 a.m.—that witching hour when the house is quiet, John is at work, and the universe decides now is the perfect time for nonsense. Marshall, my little Indiana Jones kitty, apparently woke up feeling bold. Heroic. Adventurous. Ready to conquer new lands. And by “new lands,” I mean the angel shelf above my bed. He went for the jump. He missed the jump. But he somehow, in true Marshall fashion, managed to grab two angel statues on his way down. One of them? Yeah. It clocked me in the head like a divine fastball. Did I wake up screaming? Did I leap out of bed in panic? Nope. I muttered something spiritually profound like “ow,” rolled over, and went right back to sleep. Sometime later, I woke up sweating. That weird, sticky feeling. I reached back to brush my hair out of my face… …and my entire hand came back covered in blood. Instantly wide awake. I looked over at my pillow. Also covered ...

 

  Every once in a while, I catch sight of something on one of my shelves that pulls me back through time with the gentlest little tug. Tonight it was my dance trophies — the golden silhouettes, the raised arms, the shine of a world where rhythm was everything and my tap shoes practically lived on my feet. One trophy in particular always makes me smile. The big one. The bold one. The one that says “I LOVE DANCE.” I won that for student choreography… on my very first try. Not my best routine — not even close — but somehow, that early attempt earned second place. Beginner’s luck? Maybe. But I like to think it was the universe giving me a wink and reminding me that dance has always lived somewhere in my bones. But my best work? Oh, that routine has a heartbeat of its own. I choreographed a tap number to Roy Clark’s “Sally Was a Good Ol’ Girl.” A song full of personality, sass, and a rhythm that practically begged for taps that flirted with the beat. I built that routine fro...