Groups of Girls

Women. We are a quizzical beast. We hide, we box and we bury those thoughts that bother. I can speak only to the nature that I experience and yet, I am defeated by my thoughts.
= why?
Those situations that claim life, the ones that become larger than us; they just happen. We don't always get to find out why and this becomes the bother.

I exist in a space where I can fight. Yet, I should not always be on such posed awareness. I feel as though there are times and places to ready the sword; the verbal lashing. And this does not need to be an always thing. 
_________________________________________________________________________________

I reexamine this thread over a span of four years post initiation.

We are on Day 4 of a worldwide pandemic that has everything sans "essential" businesses on a shutdown. Some chatter suggests the shutdown will span two weeks, while others push out to a matter of 18 months. Not really sure what to believe; I write.
I have been asked to respond to a matter of three questions each defining happiness or need in my individual manner of speaking. According to yesterday's front my emails suggested that I was in the throws of "willful ignorance," the idea that I deliberately avoid evidence that is contrary to my own belief systems. I would say that this is true to a degree. I avoid pain. I find a word-around for the things that might bring me upset, anxiety or frustration, if I can. Don't we all? At this very same time, I know how to rise when I need to. I understand that preparation for the worst case scenario is better than an unprepared life, and also that I should count my blessings more often than I tally my woes.

The catch here is tallying your woes is easy.
Negative things that occur exist in the forefront of our focus.
If someone were to ask us "what's wrong?" we could rattle off a ready-made mental listing of all the things that are not right.
"I can't sleep because I lay awake worrying. My mind is full of things that could go wrong, maybe someone lost a job, has to work from home, isn't going to get paid, there are no classes, I can't access the things I need to access, I'm concerned about food, my friends, my family. I don't understand why this is all happening, and I have no one to talk to about it..." The list goes on. Concerted efforts could probably keep it going indefinitely.

But what does that do? What relief does all that "stuffing" of thoughts and emotions do for you? For us?
Nothing.
It brings no relief, no peace of mind. Worrying does not assist breathing or sleep patterns. There is no wellness to be had from the weight of worry.
I return to the question(s) at hand:What does happiness mean to you? What do you need more of in your life?

Happiness = peace of mind. Peace of mind = not worrying, and not worrying = taking one breath at a time while focusing and refocusing my brain.
It's like the quote: 

For the time being, I am testing my own brain against my breath. And what might I need more of?

Breaths.

Retreat

Her fingers danced among the thorns, plucking ripeness from its perch. 

The fruits of her labors
                  so abundantly delicious. 

Though she was a novice at life
                         She considered herself refined in the art of living.

There were other ways; certainly
Yet hers was a place of fortified faith
                          The belief that should she be consistently committed, all rewards would be bestowed.


Thorns, like weeds - had their place. 

                          Their distinctiveness in growth was beset only by the brush strokes of color framing poignant efforts to be alive. 


And from this, she pulled a dignity of living well. Living with complete exhaustion of all endeavors toward excellence. For surely, any effort would yield some crop. 
That largess her proof of enhancing to an excellent being.

About Those Pain Receptors

Pain is unrecognizable to those souls living life in fresh perspective.
Babies.

To the rest of us, it is an expected grievance.

Elements of pain come in forms of the physical, the mental, psychological, the physiological...the emotional. The happenstance affects every part.

I was born unafraid. Courageous, even.  And now - I sat through October; my anniversary - expectant of life.  Thoughtful toward what my amazing husband of a man and I could create. We were pregnant. Able. All that we had planned and thought of had finally come to a point of culmination.

I bled.

For fourty-two days.

Two methotrexate (cancer-drug) treatments and four months later, I still wreak the havoc of what it means to be a perfectionist-idealist-mother-to-be...grieving. For months I put off the grieving. I replaced it with what I might do for someone else.  Quite an accomplished time, if i might say.

116 days.

That is the studied length of time that Methotrexate stays in the tissue of the body. I (often) hate myself.  I want for things I cannot control. I dream of things I cannot give right now. I long for serenity.
That peace that I have worked so hard for...diligently for. I want my peace back.

I create. Out of what appears as hopeless, lost, unadventured or misinterpreted. I compose.  And yet, I am left; longing...debilitated and sad.  In time, in long lengths of time, I am able to recompose. But really - I am sad.
An aching, longing, nag pulls at me.  I want to do more, be more, become more. I cannot.
If I sit. A big if...I sleep.
If I think for just a moment with my tea, I sleep.  In eleven hours - I accomplished a plethora of dreams, a recollection of plans and one sky-diving mission of which I was unaware in my slumber. But dammit, if I didn't become it.

And in the day - I fail.  I cannot possibly be all that I need to be when those persons entrusted to my care come to depend on me. I am technically savvy, emotionally available, and with motherly instincts to beat the band (most days) but lately - LEAVE ME ALONE is all I can muster as a response.

Culmination.

Of emotion.

Sucks.

My "Be better; do better...with what you have, at the time" slogan is sadly lacking as of late.

Tomorrow - I will be better. Until then -

slumber....

So Damn Special

She called it the spin-cycle. 
The nomenclature attached to the feeling of being simply out of control with those thoughts and emotions that so swiftly carried her to a place she did not care for. In some ways it was a necessary pattern of reconciling with the forces of her depths - while in other ways, and more particularly, bothersome ways, it was an irritant of immeasurable proportions. 

"It is the thought process that evokes the spin-cycle," she thought. 

If only I could stop thinking...

And then the phone rang. 

With too many things to consider, far too many elements to choose from, and not nearly enough time for them all - I stumbled toward the clang on the counter. Why is it that this blessed phone jingles when I have finally reached a point of conscious thought? 

Faith spoke to me from the other end of my tyrannical perspective and we covered all the ground that lies between what we think and how we feel, to the inevitability of our thoughts acting on our motions.  Funny how faith is. Turns out Faith was contending with much the same things.

In two and a half hours I covered the ground of how she is feeling; mirrored by what I experience and had all the advice to hand over, just not apply.  

(INSERT Rest here) 

 

 “You’ve done it before and you can do it now. See the positive possibilities. Redirect the substantial energy of your frustration and turn it into positive, effective, unstoppable determination.”~ Ralph Marston

Chickens: Crossing the Road

I want to say that I didn't start out all insecure and scared; synonymous with the turtle who has yet to cross the road.  I began in much the same way we all do.

I was born.

That in and of itself, was enough. I was born, breathing, screaming, a crying mess unto myself - but born.  Alive.

And now?  Now, at some point in my existence of experience I have been tainted. I have become accustomed to disappointed, to outrage, to upset and lies. I have tendencies toward mistrust and criticism. I blame myself and work consistently toward understanding those things that lie deep beneath the surface of my skin.

In some manner I always seem to return to this place. It adds a touch of comfort; of familiarity. And yet - I recall listing my faults, burning them accordingly and resolving to stop accepting such self-prescribed criticism. It is as Einstein referenced when he said, "A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving...(Einstein, p. 8-11)".  

I do receive.  Just what is necessary to become the next evolution of my former being.  The catch between are the efforts necessary to become that next evolved persona. I am stymied. 

My reflections speak to a time four years ago. My efforts protrude into the next decade, and, I might add, they are quite productive. The here and now is where I falter. The attempt to know more about others than I do myself. I became accustomed to defining the "norm" and counted on my misgivings of the self.  I have such a fond recollection of the power of self. My self. I truly feel that Webster did no favor to connecting words for the sake of saving on printing costs. In my mind, myself is two words. 

Two words. 

A pleasure versus pain motif. Nothing exists in one realm without the imparting of the other. The entirety of my point being that there is a formula to all of this.  The age-old adage about some chicken and some road.  Why? Why did that particular chicken cross that particular road?  

Because there is a longing to reach the places no chicken is supposed to go. Big, vast, desirous places that the individual being longs to explore for the sake of being a better person. The catch being that we don't know what that exploration of the soul may produce until we do the work for ... self. 

Einstein, A. (1954). Ideas and Opinions, based on Mein Weltbild. P. 8-11, http://www.aip.org/history/exhibits/einstein/essay.htm

Drive.

There are of a handful of ways to progress: determination, zest, passion, and in my humble opinion, drive. Drive, in this manner is not to be confused with determination, as it is fueled by another element outside of determination. I have subscribed to determination for the better part of a decade. It is the formula of twice the "no's" to the "that's impossible", mixed in equal parts to a self-made "there has to be more than this" mixture.  That has worked many times that I have felt it would not. Drive however, is a whole other beast. Drive is feeling and ambition mixed with solid, 140-proof kick-your-ass awesomeness. 

I stumbled upon drive recently.  Unexpectedly actually.  Come to find out, I am without zest if not for failure.  And as life would have it, I have failed. A lot. Drive appeared at the intersection of this is how amazing your life is (just out out of reach) and that blase  feeling of going through the motions day after day.  My internal workings operate most of time on formulas.  I wouldn't call them math formulas, or even of a chemical nature. They're life mixtures of circumstances to experience.  My drive comes in small, stabbing, insecurity measures of an "I may be less than thou" facade, and I fain at the time I will not feel that = drive. Drive, as one would have it in the day and life of an antiquated letter-writer, socially-soluble listener of issues, and want-er for the best and better of all for everyone, woman of my stature - is a well practiced skit in the Ego.  I don't like ego, so this is a *huge* deal.  My entrance on stage during the first airing of "Drive" involves my right eye being squinted, left hip out with hand upon it (nails are probably painted cherry red) and the heels I don are the neon orange ones that speak to my second and third layers of personality.  In this presentation, my other identity is unafraid, absolutely not insecure, ...unhinged.  My hair is big -  in a Farrah Fawcet kind of way, and my smile does not elude to the thoughts that would be fondling themselves while sifting through old ashes. 

Damn ashes. 

Burned and still rendering ...

No, not rendering.  They're dead. This is drive, after all. Drive in its present form is one helluva mastermind. That siren red lipstick is going to be a daily occurrence, and the plan meeting drive is  unabashed, completely assured, and salable. Gong to work on delineating what needs be the constant: food, for one. Food brings friends.  Friends bring stories. And stories bring support (this is assuming the food is good).  My food is good.  Drivers have good food.  Hang on, woman with drive...does that mean I'm a driver?  I'm a good driver for that matter.  Either way - my fingernails may have dirt beneath the nail bed, and my feet will most definitely contain earth-matter, but I will still be polished.  To the point that seeking "drive" is going to be on everyone's next best doers list.  Sign on up; I love company and I could use a hand in maintaining focus. 

 

Angels in the Wings

I summon the courage to leash myself to a phone line, clipping the curtailed wire to my scarf and get on my best “I am a state agent” voice as I answer calls. This being day two of living life like Freyda Perrl it isn’t very bad. I’ve noticed I’m smiling more, judging less and kicking my feet whenever I get excited. So far I have made excellent efforts at living life like I was nearly six months old.

*Ring* Ring* … “call from Claims” comes the automated voice. I run through my introduction to find the gentleman on the other end is a retired State Trooper – a man whom I know personally. He has answered many a call from me with my residence being in his jurisdiction and luck of him being on the other end of my cries for assistance. Keep in mind this was during a time when domestic situations were a daily occurrence; some violent, most heart-breaking, and many of them involving a very young, innocent boy.

In any event, I verify his call and then cross into a “Hey, I know you!” conversation. I explain who I am and my recollection of him as he banters back and forth reminiscing on who I might be as he can’t see my face. He remembered and gasps with a, “I have been looking for you!” Thirty-four years on the job with every level of perpetrator in his crosshairs of justice, and he has been looking for me?

“I’ve looked for you,” he exclaims. “You were here and then, all of a sudden, you were gone. I would go to where you used to work and describe you because I couldn’t remember your name. No one would give me any information as to your whereabouts, so I figured they were protecting you because of how violent your ex was. But here you are.”

We followed up our conversation with me wishing him luck with his new endeavors and him congratulating me for getting out alive.

I paused.

There really are angels out there, masquerading as regular people yet serving to protect others. He must have impacted the ebb and flow of my life – like the butterfly effect – at points outside my call to my fellow NYS agency. There is no way that he could not have. Investment of energy, even of thinking; is impacting another person’s life. And only now, almost a decade later do I find out that he was quite significant to me being where I am today. He has had some impact on my health, most-definitely my mental well-being and maybe even my survival.

My birthday being a few days ago, and at the commencement of reaching thirty-three the thought occurred to me that Jesus was sacrificed at thirty-three. An awakening that maybe I had not accomplished all that I set out to do at 18 – not nearly as much as Jesus had done by this age. Hysteria of having my life to this point marked with a large, red “F” took hold and I froze. My thoughts stayed only in that thread…what have you done? What do you aspire to do?

…to help, to feed and nourish, to aide and support, to encourage, assist and fight for those I love; for the under-represented, the discouraged and the sad. To change fear to strength and work from the inside-out while making the outside shine. That is what I want to do. But how? What does that all mean? On a higher level of understanding, I feel that I have done that; am doing that - particularly after processing my phone call. I have expended energy, love and care toward those that encircle my life. Still, it is not enough. I am ravaged by this urge to do what I am, not just be what I do.

Drawn. I am drawn to a calling not yet found.

By Purpose & Passion: Connecting the Dots

If all great changes are preceded by chaos, this is going to be epic.

My well-roundedness can sometimes be lost in translation. This is the thought pattern that occurs as I perch; the glorified receptionist whose brain and exuberance are metastasizing. With each phone call that comes through, I answer with less enthusiasm than the one before it; counting the tick-tick-tock of state issued equipment. I write, I think, I paint, sketch, pray, plan and scheme while working – yet, I am not complete until I go home. “Don’t gripe or complain” the voice o’er my left side calls – “you’re working while a majority of the population is unemployed”.


“But don’t forget,” comes the right, “that every day you’re not doing what you should be, you are losing time that you will never get back”. The arguing and logic lines continue like this for some time until one or the other gives in to economic reasoning. The economics of it dictate that I continue working to continue working. My illusions of grandeur shrivel to a pile of well-formed, yet slow-to-implement remnants of what I should be doing. And at some point of my reckoning I succumb to perspective – keeping oddly positive about those situations clearly out of my control. Like the dried remnants…with a shift of perspective they garner new light as dehydrated intentions. So, in essence, they are simply in storage until the timing correlates with the water supply in order to bring those intentions back to life.

Meanwhile, I am eluding the happenstances that squeeze the energy and vitality from my limbs. It is not that I have no plans – only that I have far too many for a day. A new moon occurred just the other day as I was busy stoking the stove. It is as if each time I turn around, someone has grown or moved, or is in the process of transitioning to something, someone or to somewhere else.

I am standing still.

It passes too quickly and not fast enough.

Relevance of the Score Keeper

Initially, the idea was to weigh happenstances against experience and decipher enough of the situation to tell if I had progressed. In theory, the idea was manageable – upon initiation however, it is proving quite difficult. The lines of reference are skewed to allow for only small portions of progress when I really feel like I am walking backwards, instead of forward.

And so, I am contemplating.

Contemplation always seems to help in some manner. Life perspective is a multistep scenario: see it. Process it. Implement it. Allocate the outcome by screening out the troublesome. I am, I believe – looped in the processing stage. A lot. What this amounts to is that I keep score against myself rather than for myself; an epiphanial-tragedy. That is what I shall deem this exercise of a thought-provoked existence. Epiphanial-tragedy. I get a great idea and make dire efforts toward initiating or implementing it for myself or family, and then …I falter. So in essence, the score-keeping is the marked effort that is in fact, holding me back.

In an essence, our daily processing becomes the start of a new story every day while altering the ending as we go; an endless do-over opportunity. The magic however, is in the act of letting go of the process; the score-keeping and enabling that whole “like begets like” action to occur by putting out there what we want to get back. My mother would often say that “the more you give, the more you get,” which to the ten-year-old, insinuated the physical giving: clothes, belongings, money. The same is true for the metaphysical – love, care, energy – these elements when given, bring more of the same in return. And how does one plagued with the epiphanial-tragedy keep score against that? Instead of a savings account, it is an investment portfolio chock full of high-yield eternal stocks.

It’s like country singer Dwight Yoakam emphasized in his song, Waterfall: “my heart still believes that love for what we need, can be enough”. It can and is enough – so long as the tally marks don’t form alongside the action. And with that, we do have an everything.

For He who is Her All

She waited with bated expectation for the man who governed her world.  He would present just as soon as the silver lining to their already magnificent dream, appeared.  They knew it would happen, and on most days she was able to forgo the wart of worry that was slowly metastasizing on her forehead, for the Chardonnay conversationalists she touted to in the evening.  They seemed to understand her speech as she recalled the memories of her man and they would nod in agreement as her eyes drifted upward toward the window with query of a new arrival.  Fridays were her favorite day because they closed the gap on all of the concern brewed in 1-degree weather throughout the week.

She remedied to remind him at each turn of conscience that he was the very reason for everything in her life.  Often, he would smile, get a warmed expression and remind her of the same.  The onslaught of romanticism would grow each time that she saw him and somewhat sicken her Chardonnay guests.  It was worth it though.

Never would he be caught, senility or not, without knowing - with absolute certainty, that she loved him and that destiny had befallen their marriage. 

To Know Her is to Love Her

Are you aware that October 20th is the official holiday of “Sweetest Day”? Yep. I got an email notification this morning indicating as much. The irony in this case is that I just sat with you last evening and I can see you’re laden with worry, but you are as silent as you are strong. There are some times that happen when the bother is allowed to pass on its own. This, however, is not one of those times.

Something has you tied up; something has you withdrawn. I have my own lists of guesses as to what that might be, but more than guessing I think that you need to be reminded often of what everyone else sees when they look at you. I’m taking a leap here and speaking for most, if not all, of humanity when I say that we see strength. We see ability. We see and experience a beauty of you that is incomparable even the definition of beautiful. We see the most-incredible springing to life of a being that God could make. We see, and most of us know, that the process of becoming can be a slow one. …One that is not easy, not always happy, and certainly not light - But one which is worth it. Particularly when it is someone as becoming as you are.

You will be taxed with this weight. You will be responsible for an incredible load that seems, at times, too much for someone so young, so trusting and non-judgmental. Quite frankly, you will be responsible for this because God gave you a heart that is entirely too big for your body. It was no mistake – there is reason even in that. Mostly, because you can carry it and ultimately, because it is the process of blooming. So let that spirit shine on – forgive often, worry less, and let it be. Exist in some acceptance that there is plan and there is purpose for you. And if nothing else, know that I plan to celebrate Sweetest Day with you, if you’ll have me. Times like these are sought after by many. You are at the helm dear one – so shine on!


…and we see love.

The Legacy

At some point in every parent’s life, I believe you reach for the idea that you might be so lucky to leave behind a legacy with your life. By example of living well and learning much, you want for your children to replicate your good deeds and recall your greatness. You wish for the difficult times to evaporate into loving memories of how doing right is always harder, but always worth it - how your efforts as a parent made the life you led momentous to the life your children will lead.

When you reach for this legacy, what used to be personal highlights: anniversaries, birthdays, the coming of age, sleep – they lose importance against the needs of your family. Nearly overnight your husband and children are prioritized. You bask in their happiness, their joy and accomplishments, taking little to no credit for what, intrinsically, you know has been in due part to your being their mother. You just smile.

This is how a legacy is born – where the rewards are reaped years beyond the seeds being sown. But aspirations for great heights, for excellence as a human being, for repenting those mistakes made and finding they were grand gestures to completion – they were counted. And eventually, maybe on the eve of some forgotten anniversary or the happening of another birthday – every piece falls into perfect placement ~ your legacy is born.

That is today.

You have done it Mom. You have been the action and reaction to what it means to live on Faith, and act on Love. We, as your children, are indebted because there is no greater accomplishment than what we have been granted as a Mother. There is no reason to ever not try harder and appreciate more, because we have front-row seats to excellence in life.

Thank you Mom.

And Happy Birthday.

Evermore,

Your Children

This Ain't Nothing

Friday’s mental siphoning usually happens on the drive to and from work. Considering options, the weighing of alternative routes, and roads less traveled – it generally shows up in blips and blurbs of thought. Today being a Friday, the course continued as I ticked away the minutes following 18-wheeled flatbeds and milk haulers up the Thruway. I give friendly waves to the milk haulers. I figure we need them to know they’re important and are of the few and proud left helping to feed this country.

My mp3 player buzzes on with the song Every Reason Not to Go and I am reminded of my dear baby sister playing that same song and singing along as a reminder to my brother. At the time, he was dreaming of the consideration to work at crop harvesting and the very idea of him leaving left all of us excited, yet sad. He stayed; for now. But I could hear her singing as I listened and put my blinker on to move into the right-hand lane for someone who appeared to have a much more important place to go than I.


Thoughts: *every reason not to go…how about every reason TO go? How about that? Let’s see, number four-hundred and seventy three would be:


 - No matter the direction you point from our house at the center of Main Street, you would find friends, family, love


- Where we work hard with the feeling of sweat on our shirts Monday through Friday, and even Saturdays – but we pray for the chance to do it again the next week


- Where Sunday morning church service is a reminder to do better, to do right and to do the best that you possibly can every day


- Where street signs stand as memory markers for years of reminiscing on what it means to be raised well


- Where greenery flourishes: happy plants equal happy heart


- Where there’s good food on the table and music in the air


- The stars! January through December they’re outstanding, all wrapped in a blanket of Milky Way and falling periodically through the night sky with just the right amount of time to place a wish


- Where accountability marries responsibility – that’s a good one


- Community – have we forgotten? Family, friends, neighbors working to support encourage and understand each other – that makes a community


- Where I will write my books, paint my art, raise my family, teach and cook and clean and entertain those well off and less fortunate than I which gives us culture.


- And mostly – the reason to go: Family. (They are my heroes, they are my weakness)



All that I could muster at this point, was the desperate plea: “God, please protect us and show me how…”. As I spoke, a car pulled in front of me from the right and my shuffled mix of songs switched to the next in line. The crystal hanging from the rear-view mirror dangled like a pendulum and I look ahead to the car that was so hasty in their driving. That’s when I noticed the license plate ahead read: “UR VALUE”, the song played on with the words “This Ain’t Nothin’” and the sun shining through my windshield passed through that pendulum and showered me in rainbows. Promise. Remember the promise.



And there was peace.

The Right to Write: Monarks

I am mostly raw. Bare bones adjusting turns to keep Spring winds from gusting through my rib cage and bringing about too many gasps from the floating head on top of a spinal column with slight curvature. Yesterday’s ravens made carrier pigeons look as bedazzled as a peacock – as they laughed mockingly at my forward (slowed, but still forward) movement to make things righted again.

At 12:23pm I received a phone call from the school…something, something full body rash…something, "yes, pick him up."  Engage instinct. In less than an hour I arrived at a monitor affixed to a brick wall and adjusted my dress in the mirrored doors. I pushed the big, black button, wishing it were red and then answered the static-ridden “*garble, garble can I help you?*” from the wall box.

“Yes, I’m here for my son”. The doors unlock.

And as quickly as I am inside, the desire to get back out again jumps to the front of the line. I go through the motions though: sign the pink sheet, initial, date, half-smile, palm breath-check, quasi-admire art work that’s outdated, sigh on the inside, decide which one of the three clocks in the room I want to reference for the time (they’re each different) …and wait.

The waiting part gets the most response. Similar to visiting a zoo to find the lioness on the outside of the bars – you’re gawked at. It is the perfect opportunity for onlooker to throw supposition and what-if theories into the wind and see whose gossipy ad-libs are most favored. Like, “maybe they let her out on purpose?”. I could have saved the Monarks time by proclaiming them all winners and chewing on my arm or sucking on the end of my sweater sleeve. That seems too easy though. I’m not sure what my latest ailment by their count is anymore. I would have to throw the wow-factor in there if I wanted to trip them up.

I started thinking *maybe unkempt and woodsy…or becoming a deliberate fashion faux-pas…possibly painted and rail thin, make them think I’m depressed and medicated*. I stopped when I realized I had just described 78% of the population or thereabouts. Turns out that acting normal and keeping it together is more of a host for presumption than drooling on yourself or eating random paint chips. I had thought myself amusing for wearing dangly earrings that clanged against my necklace like wind chimes; certainly, straightening my hemline before being seen publicly would make them wonder. Eh, anyway.

I queried the art work for origination, read something about a “community of learners” and counted floor tiles on my way to the classroom. I waited again. And then two, three, four ladies came out, gave me the once-over and then returned to their learning den. Lioness. Outside. Bars. No words uttered, but I filled in the script with what I knew was being thought: “Oh, yyyoou’re his Mommmm, ohhhh…”. I almost wanted to do the thought-process aloud for them: “Now you take what you see and add it to what you thought you knew about me. Just like legos! See how they don’t match? Yea, that means that one piece doesn’t fit with the other one. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make sure you have the right information to go with the correct observation, okay? Ohhkay.”

*big smile, lots of teeth*.

Not long after I had my son in-tote and we skipped out the front doors; saying goodbye to the wall box until our next showing.

The Road

I remember the day you were sick and would only calm your crying when I would rock-a-bye you in the blue chair that now sits on my front porch. You were four when I left and hard as it was to go, it was something I needed to do. More than a decade later and my actions are driving to get my family home. Funny in a way – how I left, collected my own little family and now want to show them what I had (have) as a wonderful life.

So why did that late night conversation wear on us so? I think it’s because we wish for time that has passed too quickly while we might have been asleep and desire to change the circumstances that leave us wondering now. And you – you’re more awake that I was at your age. In the words of John Lennon, “you may say that I’m a dreamer…” yes, I am. A blessing and a block dreaming is. For me, dreaming is a coping mechanism (for escape) and a planning tool for reality…for manifesting.

And for us – this whole journey, both my independent journey and yours…have been intertwined and crossed many times o’er. They’re supposed to be. In a way, they have been reflections for the other person. Kind of like me running a test, failing, and relaying back to you not to do that same thing. In that case, I’ve been like a researcher. In the meantime, you encourage, inspire and assist with so very much of my life that I’m forever indebted to that huge heart of yours. And both of us walk, talk and speak the line. We try to anyway and that is the point. To continue doing what is right, what is best and what should be done, regardless of the circumstances we find ourselves in. I know that I get stuck somewhere between want and need at times. When I think that things should just be easier, be clearer…be over, and they aren’t, that is the real test of faith. For the moments in time when things could have gone differently we have to recognize them as insights for that moment. We are here. And here, we are together.

The Recipe

Blue and clear glass canning jars with the lids reused, were washed and placed bottoms-side up in the dish drainer in preparation. Yes, there was enough room on the shelf high above the food products and deliberately out of reach. The red step ladder was placed beneath and the curtain pulled back to disclose the space that would soon be closed up for good.

Bitterness went in the first jar with the lid fastened tightly and the jar pushed all the way to the left. Jealousy was next and the contents were siphoned down as the jar was tapped repeatedly on the counter to get the product to settle. Anger, resentment and jaded went into wide-mouth containers. It seemed she had bulk of those, though spite, malice, fury, cynicism, and annoyance ran a close second. Every pain and poison was poured and ladled into their new glasses houses. Some blue, some clear – they each had a home and would hereby be measured by volume, not by weight as they were far too heavy to carry any longer.

Hatred, in its abundance took up the space of three jars – the biggest ones. Four quarts each made a full dozen in quarts of poison. Shameful. What was left after that, she swept from the floor and wiped from the counters into a dust pan. This was promptly emptied into the toilet and flushed. Twice. Regret, envy and worry were the last to go and were layered like a sand sculpture, revealing swirling folds of red-hued pain now encased in the tallest of glass testimonials. She guessed that this might cure her affliction with heartburn hereafter.

And then – like a cookie crumble-crusted and cream-filled hot pocket of goodness, she started again. Faith was the bottom layer and a requirement for this home-maker guru. Courage, adventure, and determination were mixed to a fulfilling base. Spunk, bravery and valor would be blended with spirit to develop a savory crust but would be set aside for the moment. Flavors and energy had to marry while she folded mojo, moxie and grit in on themselves to balance such a rich concoction. These were her most favorite ingredients – splashes of moxie and drizzles of mojo.

The nourishment was sure to be satisfying, yet leave her hungry for more. It was designed this way as an ideal fuel source. The taste would be inspiring; the delivery impeccable. She gave thanks in advance for what she already knew would be bestowed upon her. Joy, peace, contentment and calm were whipped to a stiff peak and refrigerated only until she could pour on the mojo, moxie, and grit sauce, which had become exquisitely aromatic. Lastly, she grated a fine coating of trust over the top and set down her tools.

A step back. Idyllic temptation.

While it baked to a convection perfection she would draw closed that curtain on the top shelf and wipe down the counters. And salivating in anticipation, something about her just knew that this was the answer all along.

Evidently

1995 was the year of the penny picked up and measured in due profit to her cause.  

Of late, she militated wanting to say something valuable but stifled it for the solution of vagueness she knew it marinated in.  With a deep breath in pulled down past her diaphragm and into the belly, she mustered the courage to back up all statements with faith that all would be well in the end, everything would work out as it was supposed to and the push and pull of what to do and when was the exactness of free choice and humanity. 

The surging pulse grew from the inside.  It beat like a base drum from a far-off hillside but grew closer every time she feigned her preparedness to speak.   She had a buffet of thoughts and subjects to choose from, yet it was never enough of that one thing to expedite the voice.  A dull “well” would usually surface, followed by the ever-anticipatory “Nothing”…still, no golden-globe.  

What kept her silent?!  Heads up, tails up it didn’t matter.  Friend or foe, she would listen and friend or foe she would empathize.  Yet, there was still nothing to be said about the greater challenged she was facing.  Mornings were similar to evenings…similar to afternoons and the same as the in-between times.  Silent. Nothing to say. The swell of energy for verbiage would often result in tears and they ran back down the face; materializing as the unspoken words she sought.

What goes up...

Evidently, she was not supposed to speak right now. Proven perspective when one sense is not 100% the other senses magnify to make up for the loss.  Logistically then, not speaking actualizes listening.

Turns out what is more difficult than speaking what she is not exactly certain she should speak of?...listening without speaking.  Tasked.

Brick by Brick

A solar flare at 5am burst rays of light through dusty drapes and shone like spotlights on the many home projects not yet completed. “Yeah, yeah” I murmur as I turn the other way and flop down on my feather pillow just in time to have the alarm blare in my face and blink 5-2-2…5-2-2…5-2-2 a.m. until I fist pound the snooze button on top.



My definition of friend has changed, as has how I define commitment, achievement, passion…depression. It could be that Cinnamon, the nurse practitioner was right when she told me that I didn’t “look depressed” five years ago. Curious if she would change her opinion today? Of course, does it matter when the greater challenge is taking someone named “Cinnamon” seriously?

I am five months into the greatest defining moment of my life today and yet it’s that solar flare highlighting my stagnated home projects that controls my thoughts. To be honest, those thoughts also compete with a failed political system, rising gas prices, the search for employment and neglectful parents. I go to work each day thankful for the consistent schedule yet yearning for the impassioned mind of being home and being free.

A friend spoke just today of this wrestling jive. The “rebuild to fall” of everyday situations we plan and ponder, create, step back, admire and then *crash*. The Jenga brick supporting most of the weight gets pulled too quickly and the tower falls down. In that respect, we are somewhat of a thick-headed …no, persevering population huffing and puffing in our tumbled messes and then reorganizing until we have another base on which to build. Brick by brick the plan is reconstructed with adjustments made where we guess our weak points were the first time.

The supports of strength come through on our rebuilding with the relationships we cultivate; prioritizing those closest to us first and fashioning our thoughts of hope and faith with functionality and some linear logic – at least enough to get those mental blueprints stamped approved. As it was, I am a particularly mutable substance transformed with all things musing and dissolving into a useful element of empathy. How depleting this can be. I am committed however. So my choice is really not a choice, but an assured response to do what is right, necessary and expected of that mutability.

Rebuilding ...

Cessation

Downside: My face is breaking out as if I’ve just hit puberty. I grab the extra-strength cleanser received from my dearest esthetician friend and slather my pores to shut them up. Morning rolls around and I realize I fell asleep in my day clothes again with my knitted scarf choking the stale air out of me as it is still wrapped around my neck. The cleanser has managed to create pools of sloughing skin on my chin, right cheek and left temple. Joy.

I make a mental note to reorganize the bedroom later and put those pillow cases in the laundry. Turns out that fleece bedding, though warm, wicks away all moisture and does nothing for your complexion. Those pesky sun spots are off-setting the dry skin patches now that I look closely at my reflection in the iridescent lighting of a cold, tin building.

How did I end up here?

If I had a belted jacket and some padding to slam myself against, I might feel more secure with this placement. And for as much as I know I shouldn’t say that, my hurdles of stalled motivation are growing larger by the day. So far this morning, I have adjusted the thermostat four times and tried to rework the dirty looks I am inspired to give to the guard who is never lacking a sarcastic retort. I recount the times that my heart has smiled in this most recent past and I realize that it hovers there; my heart. It stays in a place of comfort, afraid to push out into the cold because we are not quite ready to step ahead. There’s no boo-hooing, just adrift. My daily conversations with God tell me to wait – that I have put it out there and now I must just wait. Physical symptom number one which occurs when I become impatient and stressed…my eyes twitch - that’s happening. Just behind my left eye socket an irritating little finger scratches at my temporal lobe reminding me that I am not quite where I want to be and can do nothing about it at the present moment.

Buggers.

Barely, if at all.

I have barely acknowledged the velocity and impact of a life unexamined, or in right perspective - acknowledged the continuance of hurt from those elements of a life unexposed.  I want to write, to paint those stories of news for experiences which have led me to this place.  I am afraid.  I want to expose those tyrants that draw blood and do not stop - though it seems for all my efforts, they continue without pause, and (particularly) without remorse or countenance. Their faces are hidden in ways that escape me. I see them for whom  they are but to outside persons, they are as normal as the definition.  All that said, I write in metaphors and operate in hallucinations.  Why?  It is painful. It's brutal.  The struggle day in and day out with what I have been left.  I care not for the material, but rather for the emotive context of things.  And that is exactly what was bruised and battered. 

Although I sound like I'm whining, I'm not.  I'm simply pissed.  ...and baffled.  And aggravated at this exchange.  If you could see him.   See the way that he operates in daylight versus the behavior that happens when I show up on-scene.  And how does one get that part into the light?  It is not for lack of trying, I assure you.  A year ago I wrote a resolution that led to the impending New Year.  I swore I would be more forgiving, more outright, more...forgiving.  And in honesty, I have.  Yet he does not forgive me.  I am tired of struggling with my thoughts and emotions with no return but a beat-down via those powers-that-be.  Those same powers that promise to uphold the law and "protect and serve". What a joke.  Truth is, I want a return.  I want an apology, and a listening ear as invested in my speak as I am when I promise to listen.  I want someone, something to make this right and so far, it just drags...on, and on...and on...and on...and on.

On some days when the sun is high in the sky and I listen intently to the silence, I am fine.  I can understand and progress on blind faith. Most days are like that really.  Blind faith.