sueeeus

I’m glad that I wrote about exploitation the other day.  It helped me process thoughts more productively.

Exploitation suggests an offender –the one exploiting, and a victim –the one exploited.  It absolves, somewhat, the one exploited from the responsibility of the situation.  Not that I am advocating transferring responsibility for a situation to someone, anyone, or anything other than myself….

Now that some thoughts have had a chance to mill about outside of the coulda woulda shoulda trap, I’ve finally been able to get somewhere.  Now I can and do reclaim responsibility for all of it.  Maybe I was a victim, maybe not.  Well, that man on the train had no right to invade my space, and that Iranian dude had no right to amuse himself with me in the manner that he did…    ….and that ex boyfriend really had no right to do me while I was asleep.  Had I woken up and gotten involved, well hello, that would be a different matter altogether (what’s better than barely waking and reaching for the one you love, and moving together in union and harmony in a semi conscious state?  How sexy and amazing is that?!), but I did not (wake up or respond in any way), and he proceeded, so yeah, he had no right to do that.  I was curious, truth be told.  Curious as to whether he would proceed or not.  It was a test, I suppose, and he failed….    Anyway.  I am not a victim.  I don’t know why or even how some things happen the way they do.  I am no longer hungry for an explanation for any of it.  I’ve decided to let it all go.  It’s something from the past, and the minute that it became history, it lost its power over me.  I don’t know why it took me almost 25  years to figure that out, though.

I’m learning the value of the now.  The only moment for which I have complete control is the moment that I’m experiencing now.  Now!  I am who I am.  I am who I choose to be.  I am who I want to be.  I can draw from the wisdom that has accumulated through the years and the experiences of other times, and I can choose to let all of the experiences be just that.  Wisdom.  Nothing else.  They can’t bring me down.  They aren’t an anchor, holding me down or holding me back.  I don’t want to be sad.  I don’t want to be angry.  I don’t want to be depressed.  I don’t want to be gloomy.  I don’t want to be hurt.  I have no desire for vengeance.  Besides all that, I’m a firm believer that good things come, always, always, always, somehow, from the ashes and anguish and sorrows and tears.  Always, good things come.  So in addition to that certainty, I now have this revelation, this added bonus, this wellspring of effervescent joy.  This is my moment, my life, this time that I am breathing, this instant.  This is mine!  This is my life!  I’m not going to be duped into allowing the past to steal my present.  No more!! And I’m not going to let the future steal my present either.  While I may have some input as to what my future holds, there is absolutely nothing that is certain.  Nothing except for the now.  My now.  My present.  This is what I have.  It’s all that any of  us has.  I’m claiming it.  Owning it.  It’s MINE!  This is life!  THIS.  IS.  LIFE.

brown eyed girl

I am exactly who, what, and how I want to be in this very moment.  I am good!  I am kind!  I am loving!  I am gentle!  I am strong!  I am smart!  I am capable!  I am resourceful!  I am responsible!  I am lovely!  I am fun!  I am creative!  I am happy!  I am healthy!  I am joyful!  I am alive!

Hello world.  It’s me.

Me!

I’m tired, I’m worn
My heart is heavy
From the work it takes
To keep on breathing
I’ve made mistakes
I’ve let my hope fail
My soul feels crushed
By the weight of this world

And I know that you can give me rest
So I cry out with all that I have left

Let me see redemption win
Let me know the struggle ends
That you can mend a heart
That’s frail and torn
I wanna know a song can rise
From the ashes of a broken life
And all that’s dead inside can be reborn
Cause I’m worn

I’m feeling worn today.  As though the myriad fragments of thoughts of recent sorrows and former sorrows are all pooling together and finding their way to the surface, wanting to break through.  I’m feeling like a meltdown is pending.  Or else in progress.

I know that I’m tired, physically, and that a good long sleep would likely make these feelings go away.  Maybe they’re not so large at all, and would be nothing, if I could rest some more and let them drift off to a safe and peaceful place where they can feed my wisdom, but not hurt my heart.

So many of us are working through such struggles.  Some of monumental proportion. Some, not so much, but in their own estimation, they are monumental.  The struggle exists for us all.  Add to that the burden of misperceptions and misunderstandings.  All these unnecessary emotional struggles!

I think about the role I’ve played in other people’s lives.  The things I’ve done to give a helping hand.  Small things.  Big things.  In some ways and at some times it’s been sort of like helping a child learn to swing or ride a bike.  I give them a push, get them started, explain how to pump the legs or pedal the bike, so that they can go forth on their own.  Sometimes a push is all that’s needed.  And sometimes the push does little at all.  If they just move forward on the original momentum without adding their own force of pumping or peddling, whichever the case may be, inertia eventually wins and all things come to a stop.  In real life, with my own kids, in the same example of trying to teach them to swing or ride, I find myself frustrated when they give up and don’t try to propel themselves.  They want the easy road.  Mama, keep pushing!  But I don’t want to push any more.  I want them to learn and become self-sufficient.

In the adult world, I guess the wise thing to do is acknowledge that when another has allowed inertia to set them back to where they were, the consequential struggle isn’t my responsibility or my concern.  It would also be wise not to conclude that my efforts were ever wasted.  I shouldn’t rue the choices I’ve made, because always, in some manner, something positive and good comes.  Even if it doesn’t look like it, or seem possible.   Always it does.  Always.

It’s hard to watch the struggle.  I don’t know why so many people don’t believe in themselves.  What is there that can’t be done?  So much can be accomplished if one just tries.  Maybe we don’t know where to start, or how to start, but if we just try, we can get somewhere.  Maybe it’s not the right direction.  Then adjust.  And maybe that’s not quite right.  Adjust again.  Just keep on.  Almost anything is possible.

Of course, this only pertains to the struggle of managing our own lives in the realm of things that can be controlled.  It has nothing to do with the struggle of coping with things that are dumped on us from who knows where for who knows why.  Like cancer.  Or mental illness.  It’s an unfair battle.  The only thing I can see there is to do, for those who are caught in this kind of struggle, is to fight, and keep on fighting.  My heart aches and weeps for the unfair battles like these that people are thrown into.

I’m struggling with my own job of single parenting.  Wanting to nip things in the bud, and not knowing how to.  Wanting to impart harmony and peace, cooperation and consideration.  Not knowing how.

I’m struggling with my own sense of self.  I know who I am, but I wonder if anybody else does.  I spill out pages upon pages of words that describe my emotional being.  I have this cloud of emotion I’m swimming in right now, and I can’t fathom anybody else being able to understand it, and therefore understand me.  And that adds a sense of loneliness to the whole mix.  But why would it even matter if anybody understood what I feel and why?  This is just a part of me.  It’s my own journey.  It’s mine.  Why would a sense of loneliness even surface?  By definition it’s supposed to be singular.  Because it’s just me, and I am only one.  And that, by extension, makes me wonder how togetherness is possible, when it’s almost impossible to completely understand one another.  Maybe that’s the crux of it.  I want to understand (everyone, everything).  And I want to be understood.  It seems that I want the impossible, therefore the crushing awareness that what I want I can’t have.

I don’t know.  I’m blathering on about I don’t know what.  Today is my departed brother’s birthday.  Probably that has much to do with what I’m thinking and feeling.  He would be 44 today.  I miss him.

And I’m tired.

I took my boys to visit my mom over spring break.  We had a lovely time.  As we prepared to leave for the airport, my mom, her husband, and I were loading the bags into her car.  I was leaning over the open trunk with my suitcase, and suddenly the trunk hatch dropped and hit my neck.  I say suddenly, but time seemed to slow down in those moments, and there seemed nothing sudden about it.  I saw the hatch descending.  I knew what was happening and I knew that there was no time to avoid it.  The corner of the lid came down directly on my jugular vein.  In those few seconds, so very many things happened, and so very many thoughts crossed over and through my mind.

There was some commotion as my mom and her husband realized what had happened.  Her husband felt somehow responsible, when there was no cause for blame or fault.  I’m not sure if they understood the gravity of what was taking place, though.  Meanwhile, I placed my hand on my neck, feeling for blood.  At the same time, I assessed the corner of the lid, to determine whether it was a sharp corner or a smooth corner, and whether it was ragged, jagged or rusty.  It was a slightly smooth corner, which increased my odds of survival.  A sharp corner could have made a more acute injury.  I was still feeling for blood, and I considered all my first aid training.  I renewed my CPR and first aid certification last month, so the information was relatively fresh.  How long does it take to bleed out?  How long does it take to call 911?  How long would it take for responders to arrive?

I concluded that if the vein had been pierced, I had roughly three minutes left to live.  I also concluded that it would be pointless to call 911 (yet) and that my mom and her husband would be overly traumatized by any action they would need to take.  I took it calmly.  I thought about my boys.  I thought, what a shame for it to happen this way.  A freak accident, and that’s that.  That’s the thing about freak accidents.  They happen unexpectedly.  I wasn’t afraid of the dying process.  If I had three minutes, how would I spend those three minutes?  I had a deep sense of peace and calm.  No regret.  Nothing at all mattered.  At least, none of the things that I would have thought would matter, mattered –whether my house was in order, whether my paperwork was in order, whether my finances were in order, whether my work was in order.  There are so many details about dying that one can burden oneself with.  The thing is, if life is over, none of that stuff matters.  Of course it would be sad and difficult for those who survived me, to have to go through my things and sort out my business.  But none of that went through my mind in those moments.   Those things were of no concern to me.  If those were my last three minutes, I was glad that I was with my mom and my boys.  There was no time for anything other than to just love them for the moments remaining.

Calm acceptance.  I think that best describes the moment.  Calm acceptance, peace, and a wash of love.  I’m surprised that I didn’t feel horror that my boys would witness their mother’s tragic demise.  After the fact, when I think about this sort of thing, I am terribly horrified that my boys would ever see or experience such a thing.  But at that moment, it wasn’t in the realm of things that mattered.

I had a sudden, deep appreciation for the fragility of life, and the gift of life.  It’s truly a gift, to be given the opportunity to spend a lifetime, however short or long, on this planet.  There are so many things that distract me from savoring the joy of every breathing moment.  The stresses of life.  It’s such a crime to be overtaken by these stresses and allow them to rob me of my joy.

…shaking my head…

So.  No blood.  At least, no gushing wound.  Phew.  I was deeply relieved, but still concerned.  I wondered if the vein had been bruised or otherwise structurally damaged.  I was about to fly home, and wondered about the effect of pressure changes on a compromised artery.  I know that deep vein thrombosis is a concern for some, when flying.  I wondered if there was a chance that something catastrophic would happen, and thought to myself, “I’m not out of the woods yet.”

Thankfully, no puncture, no rupture, no clot (that I’m aware of).  It’s only a surface wound.  Thank God.

Close, but no cigar.

close, but no cigar

As always, I wish that I could cling to the epiphanies that I have and not allow the daily struggles to cloud my perspective.  I want my boys to grow up well and safe.  I want to raise them.  *I* want to.  Me!  I want to live life and value life.  I want to treasure every moment.

Now that the frightful moment is passed, I am grateful, GRATEFUL, that there was no tragedy, that my mother and her husband and my children were spared a traumatic and gruesome experience.  I am glad that I get to live another day.  I also wonder how many chances we get.  How many close calls do we experience that we are not even aware of?

Life is a gift –a beautiful, glorious privilege.

I am so very glad for it.

The title alone would likely draw all kinds of traffic, if I didn’t have search engines blocked.  Not that I want traffic.  I write for myself, blah blah blah.

I’ve got these thoughts swirling about in my mind that I’ve never had the courage nor taken the time to ponder very deeply, let alone put to paper.  But I think it’s time.  I’m not sure how cohesive it will be, but I’m going to give it a shot.

…why I don’t like …

I don’t like to give or receive oral sex.  In general.  Or at least not much.  Maybe if the moon is waxing gibbous and the planets are aligned just right.  It’s been a matter of contention throughout the better part of  my sexually active life.  Why is this so?  Simple.  It’s because of negative associations that are embedded in the memories of predatorial coercive experiences from my youth.  It’s very difficult to release such associations, and it’s not particularly easy to talk about them.  Why would I want to talk about them, anyway?  Avoidance is so much easier.  Just don’t go there.  I don’t want to think about icky things that happened long ago.

…keeping numbers low…

I, as a human, am a sexual being.  I, as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent, am a sexual being.  I yearn for connection, for a fullness that is hard to describe.  And I don’t yearn for variety.  Dear God, no.  I don’t get that, about people.  Wondering what it would be like with this one, that one, or the other one.  As if people are flavors of ice cream to try.  I find it gross.  Icky.  There are many icky connotations when it comes to me and the ideas that are trapped in my mind revolving around sexuality.  So sex as a sport, sex as recreation, are icky to me.  I’m so not interested.  Ick, icky, pfthtft, blech.

I have no interest in the dating scene.  I’ve been terrified of it all along, from the very beginning when I found myself adult and single.  Because, as far as I could tell, dating meant having sex with various people.  It shouldn’t mean that, but somehow I ended up harboring that interpretation.  Maybe because when I was young, it seemed that the male prime directive was to get laid, not married.  They wanted to play the field.  I wanted to settle down.

I don’t want to go on exposing myself to others in the pursuit of Mister Right For Me.  Enough is enough.  I want to keep my numbers low.  Or as low as possible.  There is too much at stake, with such frivolity.  Not just physical, with the risk of disease, but the emotional toll is steep.  And I’ve never been frivolous, really.  Serially monogamous, as they say.  But I suppose it’s all relative.  I suppose I could be considered a trollop in some circles.  Because my numbers…  My number is 13, I think.  (I don’t really want to count any more.  I think it’s 13.)   Anyway.  In my own estimation, I have not been frivolous.  I’ve only ever wanted to be with just one.

…in an ideal world, there would have only ever been one…

My number would have been low, in an ideal world.  My number would have been one.  I would have settled in to life with my person, and we would have learned each other, grown with each other, and built a life together.

I know people, my age, whose number is one.  I applaud them.  It’s hard to fathom how they were able to manage it.

…letting go…

It’s not an ideal world.  I have my issues that constrain the relationships I find myself in.  I have a yearning, a hunger, an ache to let everything go and immerse myself in the moment.  I want to release all the constraints and let them flow away so that I can breathe and move and honor each sensation that my body can feel.  How much of this depends on another?  How much of this depends only on me?  Has anyone ever truly let go with me?  Have I ever truly let go with anyone?

…ripped off…

For so much of my adult life I’ve felt like I’ve been ripped off, sexually.  Negative associations aside, I still have a hunger for intimacy.  The man I married was more interested in who-knows-what-until-3 am than going to bed at a reasonable hour and enjoying some midnight magic with his wife.  I literally had to ask him for a deposit when I thought I was ovulating, and that was pretty much the sum of it.  A deposit.  Pathetic.  But I do have two wonderful children now, so it wasn’t for naught.  And therefore it was worth it.  Worth every miserable minute.

I suppose that most of the feelings of ripped offedness (I don’t care if that’s not a word, I’m using it anyway) stem from the marriage.  He probably felt ripped off too, because I wasn’t into giving blow jobs.  That, and he favors big booty and little bustage, and my endowments are exactly the opposite.

It was a chapter.  I’m glad it’s over.

…surrender…

There is something to be said about surrender.  When you carry the weight of your world on your shoulders, the burden is heavy.  How can you let it go?  It takes a certain level of trust to be able to let go, to surrender.  Such moments, however fleeting, are sweet and glorious.  Like honey, smooth and amber, flowing gently, covering everything with a soothing glow.

…mid life…

I’m no longer young.  These thoughts and feelings have been with me for most of my life.  When better to address them, if not now?  I could rue the waste of years and moments that could have been spent loving more fully, or I could gird up and say it’s better late than never.  So now is a good time to address these things.  Or at least try.  I’m on a journey inward, looking for myself.  Finding myself.  Revealing myself.  Unearthing myself.  Discovering myself.  Healing myself.  I must.  Because life beckons.  And I want to live.

…morality, what is it?…

The question of morality has quite an impact on thoughts and feelings revolving around sexuality.  What is morality?  It seems to vary from person to person, and it seems often to be steeped in religious background or  upbringing.  What is it to me?

Is it immoral to go through life, one partner after another, in a seemingly endless quest for ‘The One’?  I would generally say no.  That is, unless the partners overlap against their will.  In which case it’s unkind and unfair to the  unknowing partner.  In other words, unfaithful.  Not good.  Not good at all.

Is it immoral to have sex outside of marriage? I’m thinking along the lines of damage control, rather than religion.  Generally, religion provides rules, guidelines and boundaries designed for our safety.  Not that the intent is never butchered and what results is a far cry from any of that.  The intent of religion is noble.  The execution thereof, not so much.  So I think in terms of damage control.  Sex is personal, intimate and emotional.  It just is.  Well, maybe not to testosterone crazed men.  I’m not a man.  I speak only as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent.  For me, sex is personal, intimate, and emotional.  To share it with another means sharing intimacy and emotion with another.  It opens a channel of vulnerability.  It seems best, logical even, to keep the impact minimal.  Keep the numbers low.  In an ideal world, my number would have been only one, and I would be married.  But that’s not my world.

Is it immoral to take one’s sexual needs into one’s own hands?  I had a friend who once said, “Better to cast your seed into the belly of a whore than spill it on the ground.”  I’m surprised at myself that I would actually remember a statement, verbatim.  I generally only remember nebulously, without the clarity of detail.  Yet I remember that particular statement.  Distinctly.  Probably because I wholeheartedly disagree.  One, because the attitude propagates a profession that is demeaning to humanity, and two because in so doing, more than one person is involved, hence the possibility of hurt or anguish is amplified.  Masturbation makes complete logical sense.  Nobody is hurt, nobody else’s emotions are involved, no diseases are spread, and a physical need is addressed.  It’s merely taking care of business.  There is a physical need, a tension that grows and can lead to distraction.  Best to nip it in the bud rather than let it lead to something destructive.

That said, I sort of struggle with my Catholic upbringing and the sense of shame associated with such unmentionables.  Masturbation.  It’s hard to even voice the word in thought, let alone write it down.  Religious upbringing aside, it still makes logical sense to me, so truly, at the end of the day, I have no problem with it.

…loving…

I think about loving.  About making love.  I imagine two people, fully immersed in each other.  Skin on skin.  Touching.  Tasting.  Nibbling.  Fingers gliding gently and slowly along curves of limbs.  Bodies tangled up in each other.  Breathing each other’s air.  Feeling everything.  Every point of contact a distinct sensation.  I imagine drifting off to sleep in the warmth of each other’s presence, waking, but only barely, and moving again with each other, tangled up again in semi-consciousness.  Loving each other in waves.  Surrendering completely to each other.  Falling asleep in peace.  Comfort.  Safety.  Waking up in harmony.  Warm.

Smooth.

Honey.

Love.

Is such a thing possible?  If I can imagine it, it must be so.  It must.

…running out of steam…

As is so often the case with me, all these thoughts that are milling about, that need to be sorted and pondered and placed, are sketched in outline and I find myself winded, unable to think further or write further.  All these important thoughts on the verge of clarity.  Lost again in the quagmire of my harried mind.  All these words penned, and yet no epiphany.

At least it opens a door for more thoughts to process.  At least I’ve mustered the courage to mention the unmentionables, so maybe next time, when I can put some thoughts to form, I just might get somewhere.

But not tonight.

Recently I had dinner with a friend.  It was nice to have some grown up time.  I sort of feel like I over-talked.  It’s such a rare occasion, to spend any one-on-one time with another adult woman.  She’s also a relatively new friend.  Most of my friends have been friends for decades and we have history together so that when we talk, I don’t feel like I over-share.  Or rather, I feel comfortable sharing.    I don’t worry too much about over-sharing on my blog(s).  I have three of them, so that I can unload to various degrees with each one.  This blog is my tried and true, but I’m too cowardly to be completely raw and honest with or about certain things.  I have a separate blog for that.  I don’t bother with stats, so I don’t know how many people read that drivel.  I also have an intermediate blog, which is a bit more anonymous than this one.  I  had intentions for that one to be a real ‘break through’ venue, in which I actually made some progress with the issues I cycle through.  It’s just more of the same drivel, though.  If I were brave, I’d just merge the three here, where people who I know In Real Life can either roll their eyes or share their lovely words of friendship, camaraderie and encouragement.

I met this friend while church hopping last year.  I call myself a Christian, but I don’t call myself a religious Christian.  I struggle sometimes with the social expectations of labeling oneself as a Christian.  If you’re a [good] Christian, you should go to church.  If you’re a [good] Christian, you should tithe.  If you’re a [good] Christian you should marry, stay married, not get divorced, and of course if you are not married, you should not indulge in the lusts of the flesh.  Ahem.  I’m clearly not a [good] Christian.

walking the line

I tend to be of the mind that all that is my business, and it’s between me and God, and not a matter for a congregation.  Maybe part of the struggle I face is that the needles of Catholic guilt are deeply rooted within me.  I’m predispositioned to be on guard and feel as though I’m on trial.

There was a time in this rocky relationship when D said (also based on counsel from his church going friends) that God was not blessing our relationship because we weren’t married and we were having sex.  Fine, I told him back then.  I’ll be supportive of his convictions and abstain.  It never lasted, however, and he may try to say it’s because of me, but I’ll maintain that it was not.  I think he’s only interested in abstinence if marriage is on the table and the abstinence has a finite [and short] limit.  Since marriage is not on the table, the prospect of ongoing abstinence is quickly discarded.  I don’t know why I’m even writing about this.  There’s not a whole lot of crazy action going on around here anyway.

I suppose it’s because of something my friend said.  She’s since tried to assure me that she didn’t mean to be judgmental or religious, and she hopes that she didn’t jeopardize our friendship by saying such.  It was just a comment about valuing myself, and honoring myself, and that being physically intimate with someone while unmarried is a disservice to my heart and to my self.  I think there was also the bit about sin and going against God’s will sprinkled in there somewhere.

I actually agree with the aspects of valuing and honoring oneself, and respecting oneself enough to make solid and sound boundaries.  I also recognize how being casual with one’s holy of holies can certainly be a disservice to one’s heart and very self.  The struggle is the marriage bit.  It’s been a struggle for most of my life.  I’ve wanted to be well married for most of my life, but the opportunity didn’t present itself when I was young, and when my biological clock was thundering loudly, I took matters into my own hands and made a poor marriage decision.  Granted, I’ve chosen not to hold any regrets for that decision, because I am blessed to be the mother of two very fine boys.  I am, however, counted among the masses of the divorced.  Now I have a broken family, and perhaps in an ideal world there would be an opportunity to marry well.  I don’t want to just marry.  I want to marry well.  Or not at all.  Therein is my quandary.  I am in a relationship.  It is rocky.  I don’t know where or how it will go, but I don’t see marriage when I look into my crystal ball.

I’m on a path of rediscovery and awakening.  I’m working on unearthing myself from where I’ve been buried for most of my adult life.  I’m taking care of me, in very small steps.  I can’t imagine being a wife, because I can’t imagine a husband.  This is all stuff that rips D’s heart, and I can hardly have a conversation with him about it. I don’t want to hurt him.  None of this has anything to do with him.  I’m not rejecting him.  I’m choosing me.

I don’t think that being serially monogamous has been that destructive to my soul.  Yes, with each relationship there has been fallout.  I’ve had to pick up the pieces of my fragmented heart and patch them back together.  Scar tissue is strong, though!  This grisly tough battle scarred heart is still beating.  Will I become celibate if this relationship ends?  Probably.  Am I ready to be celibate now?  Maybe.  If we were happier in this relationship, then definitely not.  But we’re not all that happy.  So I don’t know.  Maybe.

Where does all this leave me now?  Sinner or not, I am a child of God.  I know that  his love for me is greater than my love for my own children.  What I am going through are the growing pains of life, and I am making and learning from my mistakes, just as my own children are making and learning from their own mistakes.

I am happy to bid adieu to 2012.  I would say that 2012 took me for a ride, but it would be more honest to say that I let 2012 take me for a ride.  I could call it the ride of a lifetime.  Woohoo!  Put a bright spin on it.  A ride indeed.  I think I may have experienced some of the highest highs and the lowest lows of my life in good ‘ole 2012.

It’s all good, really.  My life is full.  My children are happy and healthy.   We have a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food in our bellies, and warm beds to sleep in.

There is beauty and wisdom in all things, no matter the circumstance.  It just takes a certain perspective to be able to see it.

I won’t say that losing one’s children to the slaughter of a mad man has any beauty in it, but the shock and the horror force (some of) us to take note of our family circles, be more vigilant, hold our children more, and be more grateful for every little moment, and embrace it all.  Even when we’re at our wits end and drowning in frustration.  All these things are trifles.  I want to drink it all in.  Treasure. Every.  Moment.

The time that the children are children is fleeting.  I blinked my eyes and see so many of my nieces and nephews and my friends’ children are already grown.  Grown!  Where did the years go?

My hair is turning (more) gray.  My skin is starting to show its wear.

Professionally, I did well in 2012.  I had some lofty goals and I had actually admitted defeat to myself as well as my boss that it was unlikely that I’d be able to finish the super project before the end of the work year.   I pressed on, and somehow (by the grace of God and the skin of my teeth) I did it!  I felt like a superstar, and it was a great sense of accomplishment.  I don’t think it really mattered much to anyone but me, that I finished by the deadline, but it did matter to me, and I was/am pleased with myself  –pauses to pat self on back.  I suppose I ought to acknowledge that being a superstar for a moment barely compensates for all the days that my performance was distracted and disjointed from the emotional fray that I was buried in for the better part of the year.

Spiritually I’ve had some growth in 2012.  Not the sort of growth that a mainstream Christian might acknowledge or agree with, but I’ve learned some things and for that I’m grateful.  I thought that I wanted to settle into a church family, but realize that I’m truly not drawn that way.  I love the people, I love the worship.  But I belong to a church that is not made with hands, and that church is my home, wherever I am.  I don’t hunger for the company of a congregation, and I’m secure in the knowledge that I am a child of God.

This year has been a rough ride for me emotionally.  I’ve endured much.  I’ve made my loved ones endure much.  I tried so very hard to do more than I am able to do.  Like that image of a circus performer spinning plate after plate after plate.  I had so many plates spinning, but I just couldn’t keep it up, and they all came crashing down.  Lord, how I tried.  I gave it a good shot, though!

Physically, the twists and turns and ups and downs have taken their toll.  Whereas I’ve maintained my weight for most of the year, the past few months have seen a dramatic change in overall physical well-being.  From the moment that I made the decision to re-find myself, I’ve put on weight and my blood sugar has climbed.  Something’s got to give, I suppose.  I’m trying not to panic.  I’m attempting to take it in stride and breathe deeply, knowing that things will settle once I get a stronger grip on the emotional side of my life.

So where am I now?  I don’t really know.  In transition, I suppose.  I’m not settled.  I’m not where I want to be.  But I’m changing and standing faithfully where I need to stand.  I tell myself not to be afraid.  I tell myself that everything will be okay.  And it is.

adieu 2012

Belief is vapor.

Understanding.  Is that more true?

What is truth?

Change We Must

… Spock, “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield,” stardate 5730.2 …

It’s been written that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons. I can’t say how many troubled people are the product of a troubled home environment, be it drunkenness, drugs, depression, abuse, and the like, but I can see myself, and my brothers and sisters. I see these people, who I hold most dear, and think of them, who they are, the people they’ve become. I’ve watched them grow up, raise children, marry, divorce, die. I’ve watched their children grow up, raise children, marry, and struggle.

I’ve seen what happens when a troubled person becomes a parent and tries to overcompensate the shortcomings of their youth in order to avoid raising another troubled person. And I’ve seen it backfire with tremendous force. As it would. And I’ve seen us develop those traits that we despise most in our parents. When we promise ourselves while we’re young that we will never, ever be like that. Never. Only it happens. Somehow, it sidles up and slips right in, and the next thing I know, it’s like I’m having an out of body experience in which I look at myself in shock and horror as the voice of my mother or my father is issuing forth from my own mouth.

In the stars His handiwork I see

On the winds He speaks with majesty

When I was young, I clung to those words, and many like them.  They gave me great comfort, and grounded me.  They came from spiritual songs and they planted a seed within me that eventually took root.  In a way, I think they formed me.

~*~*~*~

I’ve been thinking a lot about my life path.  I know I’ve written about it before, when counting my blessings and contemplating gratitude.  When I put my mind in that place, I realize that every moment of trial and tribulation was a moment well spent, because each of those moments contributed to my life path that put me here, now (or there, then).  I have so much!  I have my children.  It was by no means an easy journey, and I suppose accomplished more by brute force than by faith, but accomplished just the same.  It was the dream of all dreams.  Granted, it didn’t come in the packaging I’d envisioned, but I can see now that even that near decade of a life less lived still placed me here, now.  And here, now, at this moment in time, I am effervescing with the thrill of seeing a future with endless, magical possibilities.  Here, now, at this moment in time, I am bursting with the delight of this very moment.  This.  Very.  Moment.  It takes my breath away.

~*~*~*~

I recall contrasting my marriage to the relationships of others I know, and marveling at the friendships they shared.  I recall thinking, how is it that something so simple and divine as friendship can be seemingly so readily had by all these others, but not by me?  Am I so imperious that there is no place for a meeting of the minds?  Why is it out of my grasp?  It ripped at my heart, and completely confounded me.  Ultimately, it jaded me.  I was resigned to doing what I could to make my marriage work, so I was resigned to accepting the fact that that level of intimacy was not written in the stars for me.  I was defeated.

Until.

My life path changed.

The epiphany and ensuing flurry of events that brought me here, now.

~*~*~*~

I believe in miracles.

~*~*~*~

The universe conspired so that my life and that of another collided.  We are thrilling in the joy of discovery.

~*~*~*~

We are speaking.

We are listening.

We are hearing.

We are laughing.

We are crying.

We are learning.

We are understanding.

We are smiling.

We are healing.

We are treading ever so softly, Skills and I, to gently tend this garden we are growing.

We are thanking God, and bowing down in humility, reverence, and gratitude.