Responsibility. May I redefine our approach to this word? We run from it, we are burdened by it, we swallow it like Robitussin because we believe it will make us better, yet gag on it all the way down. What is responsibility really, but the ability to respond. Implying that we were present in a situation, in a conversation, in life, and that by being involved, we have a certain authority. Our authority is a privilege creating a response-ability.

It is now the "magick hour", according to filmmakers and directors everywhere. The gentle twilight of the setting sun that makes everyone look beautiful, that casts sensual artistic shadows - a lighting technique that is unmatched by any theatrical spot, any digital remastering, any Glamour Shot studio. I'm sitting at my favorite cafe, feeling like someone should take my picture, thinking back on the past seven days. My mother asks me today, "Tonya, with your lifestyle like it is, do you really have anything to detox?" Which was poignant because I usually pursue emotional/mental catharsis through the extreme physical state of cleansing, and either my developed peaceful mind (har-dee-har) or my geographical location in Los Angeles prevented that from happening this time through. Instead, after seven days I am just really, really clean inside - my skin looks amazing, I have lost several pounds, certainly unburdened my digestive tract, and best of all, felt much of my residual STOMP aches release as my muscles decide it is safe to let go again. Those are all fantastic side effects, but mom's right, that's not really what I was after. I tell my mom that I am a bit disappointed in the results and that I may continue a modified cleanse, adjusted for an active lifestyle, for another week to see if any lurking demons are brave enough to face me head on. But I really feel that that's not the case. Perhaps the epiphany for the Chaos Cleanse is much simpler yet much more profound: I'm okay. This time, I'm really okay.

There is one thing that came up though. Just this morning in a loaded dream in fact. My father and I are sitting together enjoying a meal of greens and hemp seed butter. I decline an offer of conventionally grown lemons, throw out the iodized table salt my mother so adores, and feel complete connection sharing health with my dad, knowing he really understands me and that he is benefiting too.

Now, my pappy and I have always had a great relationship. When his 17 year old Valedictorian graduated and instead of going to college, moved to Indiana to become a factory rat, he said, "all I want is for you to be happy". When at 21, without an apartment or cash, his small town baby packed her suitcase for NYC over nite, he shed those touching daddy tears and told me I could do it. There hasn't been a moment in my life that I have not felt his complete unconditional love and I have done my best to express mine in return.

But as extreme as I am in one direction relating to health, dad is in the other. And it hurts me. It scares me. I have judged him. I have educated him. I have tried to change him. And I have done it all only out of complete unconditional love. And the misguided pomposity to think I know what is best for him. And the selfish desire to share a long life with the hero, the superman he is to me.

What all this comes down to is feeling responsible for my father’s health. And my relationship to responsibility. Not a burden, but a privilege meaning I have been present in his life. And if I choose to respond, like I am able to do, that will, without ever changing a migraine headache or irregular heartbeat, open up an authentic conversation between us and in that, turn my great relationship with my father into an extraordinary one. And isn’t that what I really wanted all along? No matter how much time either of us has on this earth, I want to understand him, and I want to allow myself to be understood.

So much for no catharsis.

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