sueeeus

Sometimes, it seems as though sorrows come in waves.  Recently, there has been news of friends, and friends of friends, people around my age, losing their lives to cancer or sickness, and in one case, suicide.  Lives lost.  Yet, at the same time, there has also been news of friends, and friends of friends, surviving cancer and surviving the brink of suicide.  Lives won!

One thing that news like this does is help me put my own life into perspective.  How am I living?  Am I wasting precious moments of my life, or am I living my life fully?

For a very long time, now, I’ve lost my smile.  I wasn’t actually aware of that, per se, until a year and a half or so ago, but once it occurred to me, I scrolled through picture upon picture and saw that it was true.  There are many pictures in which I’m smiling, but the smile is hollow.

Without knowing what else to do, I sought to at least put a little more effort into taking better care of myself.  I’ve taken some small steps and some big steps, and I’ve made some progress.  I’ve been trying to answer the question of how I want to live.  What do I want for myself and for my family?

It’s interesting how things can change so dramatically in an instant.  I’ve been in a sort of doldrums state for such a very long time, where I couldn’t even begin to imagine what sort of life I want for myself, other than simply know that the life I’m living is not the life that I want, or more to the point, the life I’m living is not quite complete.  If I tried to give the matter thought, I couldn’t imagine any kind of scenario that would work, that would even be possible.  My age, my children’s age, my work, my responsibilities.  My life is so full that there is barely any room to breathe, yet still, there persists an aching, yearning need for connection.

Somehow, in the midst of everyday life, the heavens have opened up and rained down on me.  In the course of doing those things which are within my reach, I’ve made new connections, new friendships.  I’m starting to meet other parents, and slowly building a sense of community.  By the simple act of letting myself settle in to this country home and this small community, the community has opened up to me.

I love where I live.  It’s beautiful and peaceful.  For the first time in my life, I feel as though I have a home.   In fact, I feel as though I am home.  It’s something I’ve been missing for so long!

And look!  A genuine smile!

I’ve been on a home organization frenzy recently, which includes an attempt to organize my photos.  As I browsed through them, I started to see some of them differently.  Namely, pictures of myself from a year ago.  Was that really me?  Who was that?

I’ve been on a journey to find myself for some time now.  I know I’ve been singing that tune for ages, but it’s different now.  Now I see where I’ve been lying to myself for ever, where I’ve disregarded and dishonored the very essence of my self for the better part of my life.  Not that it’s been wrong to put others first.  I’ve done well for others.  I’ve helped others.  I will still do so.  At my core, I’m a helper.

The thing that I noticed today is that I’m no longer hiding behind denial.  I dishonored myself.  I let myself go.  I loathed myself. I don’t know why.  I can’t say.  I can’t see.  Only that I did it.  And even so, when I buried myself so deeply, wherever it was that I’ve been (buried under a hundred pounds of fat), still, there has always been a part of ME, the real, authentic me, looking for a way out, looking for the light of day.  She wanted to live.  All along, she wanted to break free and see the light of day.  So today, with the recognition and acceptance of what I’ve done to myself, I also give forgiveness.  Because I love myself.  I wasn’t loving myself, but now I see that love and forgiveness go hand in hand.  And just like that, I’ve forgiven myself and discovered that I love myself.  I’m coming home to me.

I want to clarify that this isn’t at all about being obese, or becoming obese.  And it’s not at all about losing weight, either.  It’s not about the age old misconception that, oh, if only I could or would lose the weight, I’d be happy.  Losing some weight has given me the courage to look at myself, and to see myself.  So this is about getting lost.  It’s about fear.  It’s about hiding.  It’s about the emotional, not the physical self.  Only the emotional problems had a very physical manifestation.  As they do.

There aren’t very many people (and by people, I mean dear friends) who knew me before I lost myself.  In fact, I can only think of three —Dindu, Suse, and my sister S.  These people have loved me for most of my life (and I them).  It all happened so long ago.  I don’t even know when.  Or why.  I know of times and events that caused things to escalate, but the beginning?  I don’t know.  My sister thinks it started when I had an abortion.  She could be right (she’s usually right).  She used to say, “Sissy, that’s when you lost your mojo.  Where is my sissy?  I want my sissy back.  I miss her.”   She’s been saying that for years.

So I’m coming home to me.  Those words stir the memory of a song from my youth.  In my heart and in my head, I hear Hosea.  Come back to me with all your heart –don’t let fear keep us apart.  Trees do bend, though straight and tall –so must we to others’ call.  Long have I waited for your coming home to me and living deeply our new life.  The wilderness will lead you to your heart, where I will speak.  Integrity and justice, with tenderness you shall know.

I’m on my way.  Home to me.  My arms are open.  I feel the sunlight on my face.

let the light shine on me

I’m like the very hungry caterpillar.  I’ve eaten my way through the difficult parts of my life, and trapped myself in a nearly impenetrable cocoon.  And now, I’ve started to nibble my way through these walls and I can see the light of day.

Some day soon I’m going to find my smile.  I’m going to become a beautiful butterfly.  And then?  Then I will FLY!

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.

I’ve been thinking about the strength of the innocuous comment.  There is much weighty matter milling about my mind these days, and that isn’t anything unusual, but recently the gravity of certain things has elevated them to feature more prominently.  (I like the diametric play of gravity causing elevation.  If I can’t amuse myself…)*

It’s becoming clear that the prudent thing to do is look for a different job.  My job may survive, but it may not.  It hardly matters that my tiny team (there are only three of us) provides a critical skill that serves a great and diverse audience.  That is to say, for as much as it matters, the pain will not be felt until we are no longer providing our services, at which point it will likely be too late.  If or when that happens, there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Time dilutes all woes, and eventually the needs will be met in and by whatever means are available.  Therefore, I shouldn’t shoulder too much responsibility for recognizing the anguish that is sure to come, because it won’t be my doing, and it won’t be avoidable by any action within my power to accomplish.

But it is that very sense of responsibility that keeps me dragging my feet.  Just because the giant corporation doesn’t understand the value or necessity of what we do, it won’t be the giant corporation who suffers first.  It will be the rest of the drowning rats who hold a sense of responsibility for the work that they do, who will suffer, while the ship is sinking.  I hesitate to take steps in a direction that will cause undue strain on those remaining.  Yet I have to remind myself that my own life is important, and if a ship is sinking, it’s best to have a survival plan or two (or twelve**) in place.

So many of my work friends are retiring, and for me it is a very melancholy time.  I don’t know why, but there has been very little cross-pollination between my work life and my home life through the years.  This hasn’t been an issue until now, when retirement rears its head for so many of my friends.  Until now, the bulk of our waking hours of life are spent together.  We used to laugh about how we knew each other better than we knew our significant others.   We don’t have relationships outside of the office, so the sense of finality is huge, when they walk out through the office door for the last time.  I thought of an old friend who had moved to a different organization, and wondered if he’d retired as well.   I looked him up in the company directory and was delighted to learn that he is still here.  We chatted about various people we knew.  He mentioned one fellow, with a lovely lyrical name (an Ethiopian), but I didn’t know him.  I told him that name reminded me of another fellow I worked with years ago, and shared his name.  Wonder of wonders, he knew him, and in fact had helped him obtain his visa so he could remain in the country and continue working with us.  He had known him before I had known either of them.  It’s a small, small world.  He hadn’t heard from him since 1988, yet he remembered him distinctly, and the fact that we three had this connection was a marvel indeed and brought a wonderful smile to all of our faces.  It’s funny how life is.  The mysteries of the universe.  Cosmic connections.

It turns out that a position is available in the department where my friend is working.  He has been quite happy there for the last several years.  The organization is very stable with very little attrition, so it is rare for a position to open up.  I am considering applying.  A month ago, or even a week ago, I don’t think I would have been inclined to pursue this further, but today, yes.  It’s not a question of whether or not I am qualified, but a question of whether or not I want to continue to ride the wave I’m riding.  At the least I will get to interview and learn more about the position.  At the most, I will be offered the position.  I won’t have to make a decision until I have a formal offer, so there is no harm in the pursuit.

So…   I told my dear friend who is retiring at the end of the month that our mutual friend sends his regards.  “His name came up recently,” he said, followed by, “Nobody likes him.”  Now, this is an innocuous comment***, and is nothing personal.  The context has to do with the work that we do, respectively.  I work in a service-centered environment.  Our job is to keep things moving, swiftly and safely.  The other department is more of a legal branch.  My other friend is somewhat likened to a king of the administrators in which it is his job to ensure that the “i”s are dotted and the “t”s are crossed.  This necessity can be frustrating to those who don’t understand the necessity.  This is also a reason why I may be particularly suited to the job, due to my innate peacekeeping quality coupled with my ability to understand multiple perspectives.

All that said, that innocuous comment stopped me short for a moment, and I briefly dismissed any thoughts I was forming about whether or not I would pursue this particular opportunity.  It brought to mind another comment, years ago, that steered the course of my very future.  When I was moving into my dormitory as a college freshman, I met the resident adviser and we chatted for a few minutes.  I had already chosen to major in electrical engineering and minor in computer science, however, it was day 1 and I had a little time (maybe it was a week or two) to change my designation.  She was majoring in architecture.  Architecture!  I loved the thought of it.  The word itself has a delightful ring to it.  I could envision myself merrily designing beautiful structures.  Ah!  Architecture!  I asked her about it, and she said “it’s very hard.”  Innocuous.   Those three words, “it’s very hard”, changed (or rather set) the course of my professional life.  I allowed that young woman’s perspective of her own ability (or lack thereof) to compete in such a field to override my own sense of capability.  It’s laughable, even, that I didn’t so much as make a simple logical comparison of the academic requirements for engineering versus architecture, let alone ponder for even a moment the young woman’s level of aptitude or competence in relation to mine.  I had no question as to whether I would be able to excel in engineering, yet that innocuous comment barred me from any further consideration of a field that I may well have adored, and in which I very likely would have excelled.

Hindsight can be valuable if it’s heeded.  I’m glad that these thoughts have been milling about and that that particular strain emerged to remind me that there is no reason why I shouldn’t consider ambling down another path for a while.

~-~-~-~

*I’ve been amusing myself with “vaguebooking,” and chuckling to myself as I write this article and recall all the various ambiguous things I’ve posted or partaken in recently on FaceBook.  Small World.  Fool me once.  It’s funny how life is.  Cosmic connections.  It goes on and on and on!

**Redundancy!  Ah the beauty of redundancy!  Failure is not an option!

***I eventually get to the point of my opening line.

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.

In the spirit of the new year, the idea of a gratitude jar (making the rounds on FaceBook) caught my eye.  Good things, blessings, happy moments — these things are written on pieces of paper and stored in a jar.  At the end of the year, one can open the jar, revisit the moments and count one’s blessings.  Literally.

I love it!

I chose a translucent jar, so that I could see the blessings grow.  (Besides, I found it on clearance for $3.50.)

But I’m a yin yang kind of a girl,  so I thought I would round out the concept with another jar.  You know, for the icky stuff.  It’s sort of a psychological exercise, and it’s not a bad thing at all, once I thought it through a bit.  The idea is to write down the things that make me frown, cause me stress or anguish, and put them in the jar.  I chose an opaque jar with a narrow neck, so the notes can go in, but they can’t readily come out, and they can’t be seen.  At the end of the year, perhaps I will set the thing on fire for a touch of finality to letting the hurtful and dark things go.  It’s all about letting them go.  Writing them down gets them out of me.  It takes the energy that might otherwise deflate me, and puts it away.

In essence, this exercise symbolically magnifies the goodness and diminishes the badness, and wraps it all up,  happy and sad, in a thing of beauty.  And that?  Is a good thing.

captured thoughts

Be

“Be” was the defining word I chose for 2011. I didn’t do such a great job of living up to that word.  I think that now, in 2014, I am much better suited to fulfill the aspiration.

On a whim, I ducked out for a couple of hours after work yesterday to look for a daybook to use for the new year.  Nothing like last minute plans and resolutions for a brand new year.  I journal and I blog, but I haven’t been faithful to a daily log of much of anything.  Ever.  I may take my vitamins and supplements religiously for a few weeks at a time, or I may check my blood sugar faithfully for a few months at a time, and I may log my calories and nutrition for a few days at a time, but anything?  for a year?  It has yet to happen.

The open bookstore that I happened upon had a scant selection of journals and daybooks, but I found one that I think will work.  It’s an engagement calendar, really, and I’m going to give it a go.  Whilst there, I found this little heart trinket which reminded me of the defining word I’d chosen to herald the new year some time ago, and I thought, why not go for a do over.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

And so I shall.

To quote myself, “Maybe this is the year to focus on loving myself the way I want to be loved, or treating myself the way I want to be treated.”

Maybe I will find a way to… …just live, just be.

Be.

Hello 2014.  I am ready for you.

With open arms I greet you.

My body is changing.  My physical form is occupying less space in the universe, and with this slow transformation there is a new self-awareness dawning.  How can I explain this?  It’s almost as if, for all the years –so many years!– that I’ve been taking up so much space, there was a gaping chasm separating my self, the real me, from my self, the physical me.  Maybe I wouldn’t, or maybe I couldn’t look at the latter.  Maybe it was just too much.  This is not who I am, I’d say, and I’d turn the other way.  But the problem is –was–, that we live in a physical world, so there is no escaping the physical self.  That is what manifests.  And what of the inner self?  Where did that one go?  That one who might have been beautiful, smart, capable, excellent.  That one is smothered by the shell that is manifested in the physical.  I spent years struggling with self-acceptance.  The dichotomy between who I was and who I appeared to be was too great.  E R R O R.  C A N N O T   C O M P U T E.

It’s so very easy to soothe this unrest, this distress, with all manner of deflections and cover-ups.   Fill one’s every moment with something, anything, so that you don’t have to think about yourself, and the Grand Canyon that separates your self from your self.  Be a super achiever.  Move mountains.  Consume mountains.  At the end of the day, though, there remains a deep and aching sadness, because you can’t really cover up the Grand Canyon.  It’s still there, and no matter how hard you may try to justify or explain or deflect or deny, the truth of the matter is that it is still there.  You can’t escape from yourself.

Grand Canyon

What I’m beginning to notice, as I sit for a moment and gaze down at the legs folded beneath me, is that the chasm is closing.  Ever so slowly.  But it’s closing.  Because when I look down at my physical self, I see my physical self.  And I recognize a faint glimmer of my self.  I can look at the legs beneath me and say, “Oh!  That’s me.  I’m sitting here.  Those are my legs.  They are attached to my body.  They are a part of me.”  And that is the beginning of acceptance.

Two things come to mind as I reflect upon these things.  Why does it take a lifetime and a radical change to deem oneself worthy of one’s own acceptance?  And why is there a chasm at all?  It’s clear to see how the chasm has grown, but not so clear to understand where or why it began in the first place.  The whole matter is tragic.  Such a waste of life.  Such a waste of beautiful moments, beautiful thoughts, beautiful breath.  Such a waste.

I don’t know who will emerge once the chasm has healed, but I do know that I will embrace her, because she will be whole.  She is who I am.  She is the real me.  Hello, old friend, I will say, when we meet.  I’ve missed you.

I’ve been alive forever.

Oh Barry.  You have such a way with words.  I sit in my living room, clinging to the few precious minutes that I have to myself before I collect my children, and your voice fills my head and my heart, transporting me back to the girl I was so many years ago.

The timbre of your voice, like velvet, fills me and warms me.

My home lies deep within you, and I’ve got my own place in your soul.

I feel within me the stirrings of beauty, the dawning awareness of the magic of music.  Music fills.  Transforms.  Transports.  Breathes life to a parched heart.  Gives hope.

Music fills your heart.

My young mind is taking in the world around me.  I am filled with emotions.  I am going through the metamorphosis of child to young woman.  I feel everything.  I see beauty.  I am filled with wonder.  I am awestruck by the magnificence of God’s green earth.

I write the songs that make the young girls cry.

I yearn for love, although I know not what love is.  I ache for something that I can’t put words to.  I have an emptiness that I can’t describe.  To belong.  To be cherished.  To be wanted.  To be understood.  I don’t know who I am, but I feel.  Oh, how I feel.  I am emotion.  I am music.

I am music, and I write the songs.

I want to wrap my arms about the world and fill it with all the love that I have, that I am.  I want to wash away all the tears, comfort all the sorrows, and heal all the brokenness.  I am love, and I want to sing.  I am music, and I want to sing.

It’s from me, it’s for you.
It’s from you, it’s for me.
It’s a world wide symphony!

That girl, so long ago, still lives within me.  Who was she?  What were her hopes and dreams?  The years, like layers of dust, have accumulated and obstructed the clarity of youth.  My sense of beauty is tarnished.  My sense of wonder is shrouded.  My sense of awe is eroded.  My sense of self is masked.  But the music!  The music takes me back.  The music reveals my soul.  The music sets me free.

Now, when I look out through your eyes, I’m young again, even though I’m very old.

What does a twelve  year old know of life and love?  Everything!  The innocence of youth allows hope to exist unfettered and pure.  To see and understand eternity.  Eternity!

I’ve been alive forever, and I wrote the very first song.
I put the words and the melodies together.
I am music, and I write the songs.

What did I know of the path ahead?  What did I know of the cares of the world?  We were poor, and though it tugged at my heartstrings to see my mother’s anguish over how to make ends meet and somehow maintain a semblance of sanity amidst the bedlam in which we lived, I didn’t understand.  Worldly things were not my concern.  There was a roof over my head, food on the table, shoes on my feet and clothes on my back.  So I was rich, and I was free!  I could dream!  I could hope!   My heart could sing!  I could get lost in the music.

I write the songs that make the whole world sing.
I write the songs of love and special things.

Now I am my mother.  The cares of the world are on my shoulders.  It’s up to me to see to it that my own children have a roof over their heads, food on the table, shoes on their feet and clothes on their back.  So they can be rich, and they can be free.  So they can hope and they can dream.  So their hearts can sing.  So they can get lost in the music.  There is a sense of wistfulness that the woman I’ve become has replaced the girl that I was.  But the music takes me back, even if but for a moment, and reminds me that I am still the girl that I was.

I am music, and I write the songs.