16 posts tagged “love”
Humans are scary.
Jason said it here. To me, it sums up the basic social interaction debacle many of us are faced with when trying to sincerely and deeply relate to each other. It's the reason some of us feel like we've been holding out our hand in the darkness waiting for the brave soul we desire most to take it...and the reason many of those desired souls seem to do anything but reach back.
Sometimes the most frightening things in the world, are the things we desire more than anything. The more we long for them it seems the more elusive they become. Same works for people, I suspect. The more we rest the very root of our happiness, peace and fulfillment on them, the more they...well, they freak the hell out. There's a lot at stake in loving ourselves, and loving someone else.
I mentioned in my reply to Adrienne this morning, that I can honestly say everything I've ever wanted, I've received. I don't say that with any air of supremacy like I've cracked some magic code. Hell, anything but. I think Life and God, or the Universe or whatever you call that force that shapes and guides our existence is out there listening to every thing we express. Every positive and every negative. Not just what we say out loud we want, but what we silently express we feel we deserve. Sometimes those are two separate and distinct things. And we're more inclined to get what we believe we deserve, rather than what we say we desire. And there's nothing more terrifying than getting what you (truly and honestly) believe you deserve.
Some of the things I've expressed (either in action or my own embittered disappointment) have come to me as clearly as any good thing I've ever wished for myself. It's what we do with the wishes granted, that truly define our existence. And, you know what Adrienne, you're right. People ARE impatient. Chalk me up as one of those impatient people, shaking my fist from time to time at a sky that dares warm my face with sunshine. I have things I have deeply desired, for years. And in all this time, some of those deepest desires have yet to be fulfilled. I'm 35. I'm not married. I have no children. And yet, there are many desires that have been granted beyond my wildest dreams. They didn't come overnight. They came at the price of plenty of long scary days and terrifying nights. But here was the primary difference between the wishes granted and the personal ones yet to come:
I was ready for some. Not ready for all. There's something I believe that must accompany any desire. And it's readiness for the arrival. Sometimes, we think we're ready, we feel we're ready...but for reasons buried deeply within our subconscious, or even in the greater world around us...it simply is not time. I think my desires granted have come because a) I never stopped believing I could achieve them, b) I was willing to endure the creepy moments never doubting for one moment that they would come, and c) I knew clearly what they were to begin with.
If I would dare try and assign a logic to things spiritual, I would say that's the key to the manifestation of things desired in our lives. Stepping away from the theories of The Secret and other personal manifestation theories, I do believe there is a quiet equation to things coming to us. There is a spiritual "resonance" we have to project, that alerts the powers that be to our readiness. Or if you want to look at it from a more secular standpoint...circumstances have to be right for your desires to come to you. And you have to be willing to hang out for a minute because life doesn't always work on our watch.
You might be ready for love, but sometimes that love ain't ready for you. Sometimes that love needs to experience some things to make it ready for you. Sometimes you have to experience somethings to increase your readiness for it. Sometimes we aren't as sure as we adamantly state we are. And sometimes...we just don't believe it's possible.
I've had a long standing desire for that love that endures all things, for that curly haired big eyed boy sleeping contently on his father's chest - an image that's haunted my dreams for more years than you would even believe if I told you. But there have been many times I thought myself unworthy of it...and that's probably chased it away. There have been times when in fear, I clasped and grabbed and tugged and pulled and pushed to "make it ready" for me...and that probably chased it away too. Finally, there have been times when like it or not, that desire has its own cooking to do, to be ready for me. I can't possibly control all those elements, nor is it my ability to "see" all the curves and bends my road is to take. What I can do, is learn whatever I need to learn, find patience where there is none, live with an understanding that I can't possibly control anything but my own optimism, or pessimism and willingness to extend my hand knowing that all wishes, in their own way and in their own time, are granted.
Maybe that makes me a dreamer. And, dreaming itself, can be scary. But I'm alright with that. Because it's better than trying to live this life without it.
Valentines Day, is a day of fuckery. Please know that even in a relationship, I have made it abundantly clear that if you come anywhere near me with roses and candy red hearts I will likely give you the gas face. Why? Because everything about the holiday is forced. Everything about Valentine's day is candy coating over whatever your reality might be. And if you know anything of me after all my blabbering on this thing, you know I'm disinclined to approve of candy coated life.
Perhaps its because my father made the gas face at the "holiday." Perhaps it's because this holiday seems to (intentionally or not) give great anxiety to those who deem themselves "loveless" because someone isn't dropping at least 70 bucks on an assortment of "love themed" junk. Perhaps it's because many who do partake in the holiday do it, not because they want to...but because they fear what may happen to them should they not. Whatever it is, every year I look at this holiday and I wonder how we got herded into this crap to begin with.
This post was not going to start about Valentine's day. But it's a fitting lead in to some news. As you probably know, I've been toe dipping into something that has had some promise. And I told you I wouldn't be sharing too much of it. And I didn't. Without telling you the hows and whys of how we fell rather awkwardly into the friendship category...ah hell...it's a holiday week. Why not.
Nine Things I Learned This Go 'Round:
1. Don't be afraid to put your dealbreakers out there. There's nothing wrong in the 'getting to know you' stage, with really clarifying what you want, for yourself and in life. Also, when it's tastefully appropriate, be sure to establish those things that make you toss the entire bit in the garbage. If you're upfront, you can save a lot of time and a lot of heartache.
2. Mean what you say, and say only what you mean. This has always been a rule I love, but I'm learning how to appreciate the benefits of direct, open conversation. One thing the Lawyer and I did, and will continue to do as friends, is always let each other know how we feel and what's important to us. It may have been hard to do sometimes, but I'm learning that if you are truly dealing with an adult, it's always, always immediately rewarding. No matter the end result.
3. My dealbreakers, are REALLY dealbreakers for me. I've never been a line in the sand girl, persay...but I'm learning that as I get increasingly comfortable in my skin, I am finding it easier to find my voice in areas of concern, doubt and disappointment. My days of grinning and bearing it, are truly, behind me. I'm not afraid of being alone. I'm afraid of not being true to me.
4. No matter how your heart breaks, someone can and will melt your heart. (Again) And it's usually when you least expect it.
5. Allow someone you respect, to show you what it's like to be on the receiving end of you. I am grateful, grateful, grateful for this latest opportunity. He has taught me what it's like to be on the receiving end of me. And you know what? That's not a bad place to be.
6. Partings don't always have to be "scenes." In fact, if most of your partings are scenes, perhaps you need to look at who you've been dating. If you keep ending relationships with a flower pot upside the head, you might wanna take a harder look at how you love and who you tend to want to love you. I learned that in my history, every ending, ended peacefully, and usually with love still in tact. I am most proud of this.
7. Let things come to you. I read this on a tea bag not too long ago. I sighed audibly when I read it, it resonated with me on so many levels. It's so easy to let fear force you to act, to make choices, to pull, to push...to do something/anything. I am learning more and more, to keep my hand open. There's no need to grab, no need to clasp, no need to pin your life's hopes and dreams on any one person, or thing as if it is the very source of your happiness. YOU...are the source of your happiness. And what's right, will always find it's way to you. There's is actually very little we have to do, but be.
8. It's okay to know when you know. So many times we all get immediately involved in the "public assessment" of our relationships. We feel a need to let others opinions about what it is and what it isn't steer our interpretation. We need endorsement. No, we don't. Trust yourself. That is unless a friend uncovers that your person of interest is wanted in three states for molesting koi fish or something*. Then you might want to reconsider.
9. If it happens once, it's an event. If it happens twice, it might be a coincidence. If it happens three times, it's a habit. Know whether or not you can handle it. In this instance, I did a good job of establishing for me, what my personal dating dealbreakers are. The first time a breaker popped up, it took me a minute, but I addressed it. The second time it came up, I noted it and waited to see if he acknowledged it. He did, and we discussed how we wanted to handle it. The third time, we peacefully and amicably discussed our differences and what they meant. When I think back on all the times I didn't do that and where it got me...I see progress. And that makes me feel good.
So the sun sets on that little romance. But I'm not at all sad about it. I needed it, I learned from it and I'm not regretting one moment of it. I don't suspect he is, either. And that's the way the cookie crumbles.
*No koi fish were harmed in the entirety of this relationship. The lawyer and myself remain avid fans and supporters of err..fishkind.
Once upon a time, I used to write every little thing I felt...or at least what I thought I was supposed to be feeling.
I wrote it in journals, I posted it in blogs and blabbed it up and down the street to whomever would listen. In the moment, it felt wonderful. Looking back, it became problematic. Not because the writing was bad...mostly because the writing wasn't always sincere. I can admit now, that sometimes all the glitter I raved about, wasn't really all that sparkly. Sometimes, I just needed other people to feel like it was so I could relate to the feelings and emotions and bonds I thought so many other people had. More than wanting to be in love, sometimes...I wanted to be accepted as being lovable. Having someone to fawn about seemed as good a proof as any that I could be...valuable. And even that, even now, is so painful to admit.
For many, many years I believed I couldn't be lovable unless I had external proof. So, I did what so many people do...I took a little bit of love, and I made it into a love so much bigger than me that I finally collapsed under the weight of my own creativity. As I look back on all those days and entries, I almost can't bear to read them...because all I see is that part of me I had yet to mend.
That's all a part of growing up, right? Right. But what to do with all those rambling wide eyed postings of love and lust and unfettered adoration? Especially when what I believe love to be now looks and feels and IS so, different? It's a bit like trying to put on your eyeglasses from ten years ago. A minute too long and your head is pounding and you're feeling a bit uncomfortable. Flat out queasy.
I keep all those things I thought about love neatly locked in a keepsake box. And there are many days when I want to burn it. But something compels me to refrain. I'll trust that those words serve a purpose. Problem is...what to do with the thoughts and feelings and experiences of now? How much do I say? Do I believe in jinxes? Am I just as giddy and wide eyed and potentially foolish as I once was? And if I am, do I care to display that readily for the world?
I find myself at an interesting crossroads these days. There's a tiny flower, blooming at the base of me, in a soil I've been spending a lot of time trying to cultivate. People around me shift and change...I shift and change. My needs and wants and how I define them...all changed. And it feels better (and potentially more frightening) then I could ever express.
I'll be honest. I see lots of over the top expression of love and adoration plastered all over the place. People expressing undying love and passion and pink hearts and stars and sprinkles and unicorns and shit. I see loads of grandiose expressions of undying affection that later get deleted and swept away like ashes from a once blazing fire. Our online existence only exacerbates our ability to jump into...and jump out of too many things. One thing I've begun to believe, at least for me, is that sincerity and integrity and the tenderest of love is often quiet, purposeful and rarely in need of spotlights, sonnets and fat cupids with pointy arrows. It is like that little plant, growing at the base of each of us. Precious. Sweet. And fruitful when nurtured by the integrity of action rather than the charm of word or appearance.
This feels different. And while I want to race around the room, giggling and carrying on (and here and there, I do)...I don't want to go on and on about it, at least not in front of an audience. I've lost my love of sweet, sugary confection if indeed I ever truly had one. I don't feel a need to have this budding...bud...authorized, reviewed or stamped for approval. I, unlike the me I used to be, don't need this one to show me why I am lovable. I've found my own reasons and they feel just fine. I'm hoping not to look back on these days and cringe at my ramblings, or roll my eyes into my head. I want to look back on this experience, read these words and no matter how it ends, if it ever ends...and say...
...that's all the news that was fit to print.
So, yes. I'll share. A piece here. A whisper there. The rest will tell its own story, in its own time.
My living room matches my mood perfectly this morning. A sleeping donut of a dog curled on her pillow by the fireplace, occasionally raising her head to see if I'm still sitting here, still typing. A steady rain is falling this Friday morning. I am feeling especially reflective, recalling a long conversation with my (former) office husband, "J."
Kindred spirits are we, but with painfully different habits. He teases me about being a loner, preferring my own company many times over the allure of big groups or as another friend would say, "meat space." He, on the other hand, is a loner uncomfortable with a space uninhabited by great and superfluous distraction. What a dubious contradiction. We watch, we take copious mental notes and try to download everything into some sensible format that will better aid us in our study of people. Always searching. Always curious. Always inquiring. He laughs at the human condition. He tells me I take it too seriously; take it inside myself too deeply. He is probably right.
Still, when he's had his fill of it and the residue starts to leave an undesirable sheen on his skin, he seeks me out and admits that he's lingered in the wading pool a bit too long. I hover closer to him than most, because he reminds me of my other half. He feels so familiar to me. His tenderness is a distant reminder of the love I lock away in places I don't make public. J says things, processes things in the same manner that love does.
He is tired, he says. People are a disappointment to him, he says. He can't seem to find quality people. I smile a melancholy smile, and ask him where he's looking. He says there are none. How many days have I felt that? I tell him that's it not that there aren't quality people in the world. It's never that simple. There are three sorts, I think. There are quality people, trying to move through this world authentically and be honest and open about who they truly are. And then there are quality people hiding behind painted masks, afraid to come out into light. Afraid they will be rejected. And then...there are the lost souls. The ones who lost any semblance of quality a long way back with no desire to regain it.
"J" works in a bustling club in the land of deviance and hedonistic pleasure. No, literally. He's in Las Vegas. I wasn't being dramatic. He is the doorman to an exclusive spot, making absurd amounts of money as he picks and chooses who walks through the doors for a night of whatever. He keeps an eye on the crowds, taking his copious Libran notes. I tell him he will be hard pressed to find the quality he says he is seeking, there. He says he knows that. Doesn't expect to find it there...but isn't it anywhere else? Isn't there any quality anywhere?
Everywhere but the places we look, I reply.
We talk for well over an hour, the pace of our conversation rising and falling like silk dancing in an ocean breeze. I enjoy him in ways I once enjoyed another. His innocence and his wisdom. I sit with my own melancholy after we've ended our call. J calls me "kiddo" just as he used to. I feel J searching, just as I feel his. And I know there is nothing I can do to fix it.
All I can do, is smile and appreciate the lessons. Love with a clear mind and open heart. The rest, really isn't up to me. It never was.
Today is that day.
Though Barry knows he has slaps coming, he kills me with this.
And Melissa? Please, if my platonic crush was EVER in question.
For all the birthday love, the tweets, the messages and acts of kindness I am touched to weepy, girlie, mushy tears and JUBILATION. If you guys were here (we'd be making a mess of someone's restaurant and not reading this), I'd also be crying tears of contentment all over you. Yes, because I do that. Don't worry, I clear it out of the way quickly.
And by the way, if there ever was a song to replace the standard "Happy birthblah blah blahhhhhhhh," it might be this lovely dedication.
I love you guys.
Photos with tiara (and the story behind it) to come.
Cheers,
Me
It was overcast. The mornings always seemed to start that way when we were together. No matter if it was here or there. Most people love to wake up to birds chirping and a brilliant sun bursting through the slates of venetian blinds, but not us. We loved the romantic melancholy of cloudy skies. I suppose in retrospect it matched the stormy waters that quietly raged within us both.
I had lay awake for at least an hour, but with no clock in the room, I couldn't be sure. At some point in the night I had peeled out of the t-shirt he gave me to sleep in. At some point, I was overcome by my heat and his. Just thinking about it seemed to raise my temperature again and I kicked his thick comforter away from my skin. I focused on the sound of his measured breathing. His snores ceased which meant his eye were soon to open. I used to love those moments, stolen, quiet and exclusively mine to study the curve of his full lips, the slender bridge of his nose, a stark contrast of African and generations of other races he had yet to chronologically map for me. I would marvel at the size of him, how much space he took, laying diagonally on a queen sized bed that seemed like a twin in comparison to his height and broadness.
Almost as if he could sense me studying him, he turned on his side, away from our window and toward the wall. I would have felt the slow creep of pout had he not slid sleeping fingers along my thigh, under my knee, raising my leg and pulling it over his hip like a breathing blanket with a pulse. It was really too warm, but I never minded. Whatever he wanted. However he wanted. His back faced me, but I knew his eyes were gradually opening to let in our cloudy morning light.
"My back hurts." He mumbled groggily.
I tried to hear what he said, but I was a giddy teenager all over again. Throbbing with the excitement of being desired, pulsing with the wonder of where that warm sliding hand would eventually wander. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. He embarrassed me in the most innocent of ways. Nudity never felt so good.
"Where?"
I used my hands to find the point of his pain, and eased away the knot in the small of his back as the knot within me tightened. Sexual tension, a ticking clock that would nag at me, reminding me there was a flight over twenty minutes away that held a seat for me. I was to return to a place that felt less and less like home...and not even 24 hours after I arrived. Another impromptu flight, a careless expenditure I tossed aside because my grandfather was dying and I was in desperate need of waking up with this man to convince me that I was not going to perish along with him.
"We have to get up soon, or I'm gonna miss my flight."
He sighed in agreement, but neither of us moved. So many silent conversations, between my mind and his. He could care less about that flight time. Catch the next one his hand suggested. I relented by pushing deeply into that ache along his spine. He was angry. With me because I was so far away from him. With himself because he felt an emptiness without me. With his past for preventing him for saying all the things he wanted. With his future for issuing another opportunity for him to push his dreams even further way.
He slid his hand behind his hip and found my fingers. He locked ours together and pulled me closer. The war was beginning. Push me, pull me. I could feel the wall rising and his efforts to tear it down with the same hands that gathered the bricks. Soft morning lips kissed my fingers. I wondered how such a simple gesture could be more intimate than the clawing embrace we used to tear into each other the night before. I couldn't see his eyes, but I blushed from the sentiment found in his bringing my hand to his chest, so I could curl my fingers in the hair there.
He would flutter back into a fitful sleep, his hand wrapped in mine, mine wrapped in him. I wondered if flights could run like trains. There would be no leaving him. Not that I ever wanted to.
Later, we rode to the airport in uneasy silence. I kept my face to the window so he wouldn't feel the additional tug of the sadness pregnant in my eyes. He kept his eyes on the road, his thoughts safely buried beneath a stone-faced expression. safe from the penetration of my intuition.
"Do you think you could see yourself living here?"
His voice startled me. I was busy about trying to read his mind. I turned my face to his and nodded. In retrospect, like a child. His eyes twinkled in that way they always did when he was distracted by my innocence.
"You don't even know anything about this town. Why do you think you could live here?"
"Because you're here."
I suppose my naivete has always made it easy for me to say the things time and wounds teach you to keep to yourself. But I don't regret that wide-eyed honesty. He knew it was as true as anything when I said it. I do too. There is a sweetness in that innocence that hurts me now...but I would never change it. Moments like that are too rare in our lives. Open, blind, free love. No fear to bind it. Not sure I'll ever know that sort of innocence again. But I'm glad in that moment I did.
His eyes soaked up that moment. He said nothing. I suppose he knew better than to believe in the blind utopia that I did. But he let me dream a little while longer.
His kiss before I left his truck held all the fear I knew nothing of. I understand now, the lines around his eyes, and that pained wrinkle at the corners. A wince time would teach me, over time. But as days turn to months and months to years...the sweetness of that morning will remain with me for a lifetime. That...and a love for an overcast daybreak sky.
The answer is a resounding, YES.
Asked what's the best thing about the single life, Barrymore, 31, told PEOPLE at Wednesday's Hollywood premiere of her new romantic comedy Music and Lyrics: "Just look at my face – I can't stop smiling!"
So it isn't scary at all? "No! I'm very happy."
Barrymore, who recently split with Strokes drummer Fabrizio Moretti, continued, "I think it's important to give someone your heart and trust them and not be cynical. At the same time, I think being independent and strong and happy on your own and by yourself, it's probably what will make you a better lover.
- Drew Barrymore Says She's Loving Single Life, AOL Entertainment News
There are two crowds gathering this week, those who will be celebrating Valentine's Day in the typical manner and then those who either mock it or find ways to beat it to death, kick it in the ass or ignore it entirely. Then there might be that not so noisy, third group...slipping quietly between the pro and con.
There is no getting around it. I've seen enough pink and red this month to last a year or more. Each tribute by way of card, gift, commercial or event designed to squeeze another extra few quarters and nickels and dimes from our pockets and force us into acknowledging a holiday or being shamed into solitude for being brazen enough to dismiss it. For relationships, it seems the tension about what to do, how to make it somehow unique from what others are doing and somehow significant seems to be far more important then ensuring that you're actually expressing a true emotion that you're currently feeling. With the "other" l-word in overdrive this week...what are you supposed to do if you're actually idling comfortably in "like" with no urgency to drive faster or slower?
Are you any more or less romantic based on the actions you take on the 14th of February? Does the activity on that specific occasion matter any more or less than your deeds and sincere thoughts on any other day? Does your ability to "outwit, outlast and outplay" (thanks Survivor for the basic rules of existence made marketable) your fellow man or woman truly make you the most suitable candidate for the title of "Valentine's Day Achiever?" Sure most of us will smirk and say, "of course not." But underneath that polished exterior of the correct sayings and logical interpretations of what the day is and isn't...are we truly convinced?
Many of us make Valentine's Day a measure of worth, no matter how we rationalize otherwise. We either run around openly shooting arrows into the air, or grumbling and sniping at invisible cupids from dark, dank bunkers. But no matter which angle we overtly or subconsciously subscribe to - we're feeling something. A fear that we're not loved, or worse...lovable. A panic that we will cease to be relevant if we lose the love we believe we have today. An anger that somehow, the love we have isn't the love we wanted. I say take all of those weathered, beaten and mangled ideaologies and burn them in the nearest pyre - because none of that matters. And it's only true as you make it. Love, your self on February 14th, with as much passion and commitment as you can possibly manifest and watch those monsters vaporize before your eyes.
I am single this February 14th. But I don't dread this February 14th at all. On that morning, I won't wake up to breakfast in bed, or surprised by roses at the door...but I won't secretly loathe anyone who is. Have fun with it and enjoy it however you see fit, I say. My Valentine is my very life and all of the true, sincere, giving, strong, wise, courageous, insightful and beautiful interactions I experience with you. Yes, you. As Bjork would say..."all is full of love." And I mean to experience every drop. Not just when cupid says, but every day.
I’m goin’ higher and higher
I ain’t gonna sleep
Some times you just have to let it go (Let it go, let it go)
Leaving all my fears to burn down
Push them away so I can move on"
- Goapele
First time I heard this song, I was driving in my truck, a snowy winter day in Suburban Philadelphia, on my way to work. I was about a month away from my surgery date, and just a mess of different emotions. I can see it...feel it as if it was just an hour ago. The surgery was going to change my life. Some people give birth to 8 lb 7 oz infants. I was preparing to give birth to a fibroid tumor of the same size. I had a basketball in my abdomen. And I had no choice but to deliver it. The surgery meant so many things to me. It meant a major procedure, the first time alien metal objects would enter my body. It meant discovering if I would be left intact enough to bear a child, as opposed to a non-cancerous growth of the same size. It meant reevaluating my future with him. Could I bear his child? Would he ever want me to? Would my time run out before he decides?
I look back on that day and the moment this track began to play, because it was that eerie to me. As soon as I heard that 4th line of that verse, my eyes filled and spilled over liquid anxiety. Down my cheeks, leaving dark chocolate drops on my heavy winter coat. It was hopeful, but mournful, innocent but eerily wise. It reminded me that the hardest thing I would ever have to do, would be the very thing I needed to do. For my own survival, and happiness. I would have to let go.
I am a bleeding orange fire in a liquid sky.
I've always struggled with that. Acquiesing to the universe, and letting my God steer me with the faith that I have all I need to weather each storm. Unwilling to have a course move in any direction but the one I'm most comfortable with. I was trapped in an impudent belief that my journey has to follow a very specific course that I constructed. So why was nothing happening as I willed it? Why was my master plan so riddled with holes?
I can't make sense of ways bigger than me. Trying to, is missing the greater point. It's as bizarre as holding on to something you claim to want released. I am melancholy, sad and experiencing the most tremendous peace of my life, today. And I couldn't make sense of it if you begged me to. I have no net. I have no way of knowing what's around the next bend...but I'm not worried about, either. At least not today.
Yesterday, I required a nap. As I lay there, somewhere between asleep and awake a thought came to me, and I said it aloud.
"If I had to go back, and repeat all of these steps again - the pain, the loss, the sadness as well as the joy of knowing him, learning him and loving him and the entire evolution...I would do it. Without hesitation."
Those same tears came. The same ones that spilled so readily that day in the truck, years ago. My intuition knew then, what it knows now. And on those precious days when I let it speak to me, I experience the essence of truth and acceptance.
Sometimes you just have to let it go....and accept.
Your experiences. Your history. The pain. The joy. The heartache. The rise. The fall. To do so is to acknowledge that every little event has its purpose. There are no mistakes. There are only life markers...and what you choose to make of them.
He called again this morning, but I knew he would. You know by now that that's the way we've always worked. When I opened my eyes hours earlier, my heart whispered to him a quiet, "I miss you, Big Cat." I didn't kick my own ass over it, I just acknowledged the sensation. No fear. No shame. But with a great awareness that none of that, of this...changes what is. And the feelings, none of them, will kill me. I answered the phone, with no anxiety, I just said hello. As I sipped my morning coffee, we shared a morning laugh and few minutes of conversation. I wished him a good day, and hung up. And I missed him when it was over. But no feeling, bad or good was designed to last forever.
It is, what it is. I smiled. I'm not trapped by my feelings anymore. I can love him, always. And I will. But there is still a journey that I must take. And the same goes for him. I can't blindly rest my hopes on those paths crossing. My heart is open. And so are my eyes.
I push away fear. And I trust that there is no reason to look down. I'm exceedingly grateful for that.
So I asked for it with Anatomy of a Shirt. Remember?
Found his workshirt, and it started me on a journey of brief reflection. Oh the things we say, that we never say. I put
And so the consumption always begins. I get lost in the sauce. And I realize how much time has passed since I've read an email, received an IM, a text message. The phone rang on Thanksgiving, but I didn't have the courage to answer the phone, nor the stomach to hear the same old script.
And so I was sitting with this shirt, wondering basic things like..."is he okay?," and "how did his father's surgery turn out?," and "I really hope he's doing well." But then of course if I'm to be really honest, all that translates into, "is he over me?" Because that's what all those cleverly worded questions are really about now aren't they?
Call me crazy (and rest assured, others have)...but I believe there are some connections you make throughout your life that are soul connections. That is not to say that each soul connection is a good, or happy-ending one, but they do exist. More importantly, I believe they are here not only to serve as relationships, or to bring love but to also teach lessons. The lessons are required for reasons we may never understand.
I'm no more over him, then he is over me. All we've done is make a concession that for a variety of reasons, both fair and unfair, right and dysfunctional...we cannot be anything more than this. Lovers wearing the masks of those unable to love. Perhaps hating would make it easier. But then, I've never been concerned about easy. I've been far more preoccupied with what feels right. And I know better. Better than to make either of us a victim. Better than to have what I feel classified away by anyone who hasn't walked the path that he and I have. We know each other, far too well. We practice bi-level conversations. And never the two streams shall meet.
I sent up the silent cry after finding that shirt. Where are you? I'm afraid. I don't know where you are. Can you hear me? The next day, amid a busy work day, my phone rings and it's him. I'm right here. I'm never too far off. I hear you. And that bi-level conversation goes a little something like this:
Me: Hi
Thank God.
Him: Hey Kiddo. How you doing?
You answered the phone. Thank God.
Me: I'm good. How are you?
I've been worried, I was afraid you totally disappeared. I'm not ready for that. I miss you.
Him: I'm alright. Been working double shifts. Started a new job.
I might slip off the screen, but I never disappear. You know I never would. I know you worry.
Me: How was your Dad's surgery?
Are you working on that relationship with him?
Him: He's doing alright. You know how he is. I told him he comes up with a new way to get attention every year. Did your Dad have his surgery yet?
Yes. I'm working on it. We're speaking. Don't worry. What about you? You working on yours?
Me: Not yet. I'll be flying home to take care of him.
Him: People make such a big ordeal out of little stuff. Spending so much time going over little stuff.
Me: Well I did that with my surgery, and sometimes I think people do that because they're afraid.
Is that what you think of me? Do I make ordeals out of little things?
Him: Your surgery was a major thing, _____. Doesn't even apply. That was a real crisis.
Don't think I ever thought that was insignificant. I know what that surgery meant, and still does.
He tells me of a person at his job with a similar personal situation that reminded him of where he was a year ago. It begins a random scattered conversation about lessons learned, issues and how they always seems to resurface. Regrets. Translated...I hear...
I'm frustrated. I don't understand why I made some of the choices I did. Don't know how to prevent from making them again. I don't want to hurt you. Don't want you to go away either. Because you never know...one day perhaps all the pieces will fit together. Maybe one day I'll have answers for the questions that haunt me. But I have no way of knowing that for sure. Until then...there's pieces of me you can't fix. It's up to me.
This time, I didn't offer okays. I didn't say, "Hey it's alright. You did your best." Because he didn't. And we both know that. But I did let him talk, free of override.
Him: Hey, my break is over, I have to head back in. But you were on my mind. (trails off)
I miss you.
Me: I'm glad you found another job. Sorry they're working you so hard. You take care.
I miss you too.
Him: I'll talk to you later. Shoot me an email, alright?
Answer your phones when I call, would you?
Me: Sure. I'll talk to you later.
I'll try.
And I do try. I try to forget. I try to remember. I try to let go. I try to hold on. I try to push time forward and I try to make it stand still. And I manage to do each of those things, on repeat. Everyday. And those are the pieces of me, that he can't fix.
I was cleaning out the closet, going through my seasonal ritual of cleaning out old clothes to give to charities. I happened across a shirt. Heavy wool tartan, thick lining. His favorite workshirt in the fall that Austin pretends is winter.
I did what I always do. What any love junkie in the privacy of their home would do. I lifted it to my face and inhaled deeply. And it did still smell of him. Natural him, clean and soapy with just a hint of fabric softener. No cologne, he rarely wears them. I didn't cry this time. I smiled instead. A knowing smile of accepting the things I cannot change and allowing my feeling of love contained, to breathe.
I hear horror stories of love that went insanely wrong. I hear tales of heartbreak and woe and I know our story will never measure up to most of those. It was a wrong place, wrong time sort of love. All the pieces were there, but we just couldn't seem to make them fit into a cohesive work of art. But there is no hate. No anger. Just a little melancholy smile, a remembrance that our moments together were funny, sweet, warm. Memorable. And ours to remember, exclusively.
I went through a period of hating him...because the cheering section seemed to think it was the thing for me to do. But...I struggle with hating someone simply because they don't want what I want at that particular moment in time, and hate never looked good on me. After all, I know I played my part in it all. I made choices, and so did he. He lied about some things. So did I. I saw his truths, and he saw mine. We never were really good at weaving tales. We excelled instead at making messes of the facts. And for that, we both share some responsibility and regret.
Couldn't be friends. Not the kind of friend he wanted me to be. Not under the circumstances. Lots of affection, and a long long history has made my lens irreversibly colored. So I keep my distance, and he does the same. We politely check in, but our email-only conversations carefully skim the surface. It's better that way. Cause we know we're apt to make messes. But I can still miss what we did get right. And appreciate that I had it in the time I did. And I do.
So I'm stuck with this shirt. The unyielding part of me wants to bury it back in the corner of the closet. Hide it from myself, to discover it again later, smile and remember. That's the part that also dares to wish that one day he'd return to claim it, and me. The other part of me wants to return it to the rightful owner, because no one should be without their favorite shirt. That's the part of me that accepts what is, and feels ready to move on, albeit on shaky new legs. The final part of me, wants to donate it to someone else...on his behalf. That's the little bohemian in me that likes the notion of clearing us both of the ties that have bound us. But I suppose that's not really my "job." Until I sort out what to do...I think I'll just sit with it for a while. Maybe it will tell me where it wants to go.
Good thing is...when I sit with things, the best solution always comes. And its like my friend Bev always used to say. "If you don't know what to do...do nothing."
