Well, here I am, pressed totally dry. I am an empty well waiting for something to fill me up, and I mean fill me with good, quiet, cool well springs. This woman is burnt out. I never believed in burning out; I thought people who needed some time out and away were weak and easily discouraged. And here am I emotionally vacillating between unasked for tears and a "Yes, I can do this" mentality.

Only how, I don't believe myself when I say, "I can do this." Vacation is coming and I am hanging on my one thin fingernail and hoping for a miracle.

So many people called me on Saturday (I was driving in Vermont — evidently, not far enough away) because there they all were, a shooting or "all these police from everywhere" or bloody clothes in the road." When I got back, I was no wiser but the street was still cordoned off. The whole thing is so very tragic. A 25-year-old man, who probably meant no harm but to himself, carrying a knife and acting out movie scenarios and not following through so that in the end, no one got hurt but him. And maybe it was what he wanted, just simply to die, to not go on, to leave this earth but not by his own hand. In a way, it was by his own hand even though he did not pull the trigger. He died on a wet street in Schenectady on August 1, 2009. Surrounded by onlookers, both the curious and the concerned.

And the officer who did the shooting, how must he feel? I don't think I could ever be in the position of choosing my life or someone else's. I could never be a soldier or go to war. I find it hard to intentionally hurt anyone; maybe I take too much on myself and maybe I am simply not rational. Who knows?

Right now, we are racing around trying to find a starving cat with a broken leg — the dance teacher, her helper and myself and four children. Bringing with us a half pound of bologna and a box of dry cat food and a plastic sundae dish from Stewart's. We broke into groups and combed the vacant lots. Finally, we decide to leave some food and come back tomorrow and try again. A fool's errand perhaps, but I am an old hand at grabbing strays of all kinds and rehabilitating them.

It's all about persistence, luck and not being afraid to be a public idiot. Just ask anyone, Judy Atchinson has a big mouth, big ideas and is stubborn as hell. Which is why I'm still hanging on with one bloody fingernail.

And making things even more ridiculous, I am sitting here in the "Muddy Cup Cafe," where three of us decided to have a meeting on neutral ground and guess what, this cafe has the loudest band in the world. Sort of zydeco music, their motto being "We may not be good, but we're loud!" And I can't leave because I'm waiting for two other people and there is this foolish man nodding and smiling and waving to me from two tables over and the light is bad and the air conditioning is cold and I just want to get up and go home and hide with Bert and Ernie, my dog and my cat, respectively. I want to lay this burden down and just walk out and away. Walk anywhere but here, just vanishing over the horizon into the stillness of the twilight.

It seems I am always surrounded by people and they all need a shoulder to lean on, and I am that shoulder. But by now, there's a waiting line and folks are getting impatient. So again, I am asking, can any of you out there hear me yelling and screaming and can any of you come on over and be a spare comforting shoulder?

I swear the music is getting louder. Listen, you are reading the words of an old rocker here. I did the concerts, I held up my lit lighter, I danced in the wet grass, I even sang along with the throng.

But now, now life is too desperate and time is going by so quickly that playing at being a world changer is not relevant. Now the only thing that matters is doing it. Getting right in the middle, getting dirty, getting hit by the slings and arrows of contention and coming through on the other side.

Last week, a little boy of 8 at QUEST told a little girl of 7 that she was dirty. This little sweetie, entirely undaunted, drew herself up and responded, "At least I can go home and take a bath." Totally unchastised, he said again, "But you're dirty now."

I had to speak then, from my vast age of 67 years, and I said, "If you're afraid to get dirty, you'll never get anywhere ever, ever, ever."

Getting dirty is how you make life happen, it's how to get things done. Afterwards, you put on those nice clothes, wash your hair and go out to party. But that's afterwards, not before. Work first, party later, and sometimes, if you do it right, the work is more fun than the party.

The best people I know, know how to get down and dirty. They garden, they pick up trash, they get down on their hands and knees to play with children, they play fetch with dogs, they cook, they truly inhabit their bodies as well as their world.

I remember Dr. Jones talking about her child's day care. Everyone stripped (children, that is) and staff came out with giant cans of whipped cream and voila, a food fight followed by a spray-down with the hose.

Or, how about crawling around with a bunch of kids to collect ants for your very own ant farm? Or, going out in the rain to stomp; stomping with great vigor in mud puddles. The mark of good parents is not necessarily sparkling clean kids, but kids who are allowed to explore and experiment. One mother's finest hour was driving around town on a very limited budget to buy crickets for her son's iguana. Yes, clean underwear and socks are important and lord knows you have to brush your teeth but after that, making mud pies and rolling in the grass and climbing a tree are the very best parts of childhood.

Sitting in a parking lot on Albany Street yesterday, I observed a black man and his dog. I was fascinated by the relationship. A young man, late 20s or so, dressed in jeans and sneakers and shirt and a small, black, long-haired dog, whose coat was surely tested by all the heat and humidity. The guy had more hair than the dog, but never mind the cosmetics. That man and that dog had a real love thing going on. He and the dog, alone in the parking lot, did, "Sit," "Stay," "Walk on your hind legs," "Come," and "Leap over sticks" all done with finger clicks and whistles and everybody had a good time. The man, the dog and me. And I took these treasured moments home with me. And I am putting them in storage to pull out and remember the next time I am emptied by grief.

Sir, I do not know your name, not even the name of your dog, but I feel I know you and I owe you a large debt of gratitude, both you and your lovely little dog.

Thank You