Listening

I putter in the kitchen, slightly unwillingly but nonetheless doing it. The sounds of laughter and voices drift in waves from the living room and I want to be back there in the middle of it, joining in, not here in the cold kitchen with the dirty dishes, dried up dips, shriveled olives, and sticky floors. It's always the mom-job though, the clearing and cleaning and puttering, and I resolutely put on some holiday music and begin scraping and combining and tossing. As I work, the sounds from the living room become sweeter than any music I could ever find on the radio though, and I turn off the old JVC and start listening. I listen to this blended family of his-n-hers-n-theirs and as always my heart is shattered into fragments of love, loss, guilt, regret, resolve, and gratitude. I don't know where this family is headed, any one of them, but I know every decision and choice I make will impact each of these precious souls. And some days I don't want to make any choice or decision at all for fear of hurting these good and sweet people currently present. The laughter is near constant, puntuated by the variety of voices telling stories, remembering past moments, and those who add embellishments. The low rumble of the older boys sets the foundation: the two college boy-men with their facial hair and endless legs and appetites. The girls voices rise and fall in a dance around them, piercing giggles from the two younger sisters in high school and the slightly fuller voice of one of the boys' college girlfriend. And weaving it all together is the bird-like chirp of the toddler that connects them all to one another irrevocably. The staccato laugh of one will set off peals of laughter from another which causes the wheezy breathlessness of a third and on and on until they are rolling on the floor with tears streaming down their cheeks imploring each other to "Stop, stop, I'm dying! Please stahhhhp". And that is sometimes what I say to myself - with tears streaming down my cheeks - Stop. I'm dying. Please stop. I so very much love these half grown people, and the tiny little toddler that ties them all together with his little bird voice and his wet kisses and undeniable self righteous demand for attention. And yet... I am alternately full of gratitude for the partner with which I share these amazing spirits, and full of the desperate need to let go of a relationship that just doesn't work. I want to listen to my heart, but all I can hear is the laughter and love of these children.

Sifting

When I first came, I held my agenda tightly, in fisted hands, and spoke it out loud.  I was serious, focused, meaningful.  I was "with purpose"...

When I first came, with my fragile and vulnerable agenda, so heartfelt and full of intention and promise, I opened up to listen, to hear, to consider and contemplate.

When I first came, with open mind and open ears and seeking soul, I was thirsty and hungry but only for the healthiest of morsels, the richest bits, a tapas of unsampled tastings.

And so I listened.  I contemplated and considered, I tasted, purposefully, the offerings.  And now I'm finished.  

I leave here with my agenda, crumpled and smudged but still intact, and still held tightly; with my intention still active, my hunger and thirst still present, and my focus only sharper...and I leave not unfulfilled though - for I have seen things new, fresh, and uncovered that I can reframe for my agenda - I have new questions, new challenges, and even a new place to begin... 

I won't give up.  I have miles yet to travel and places to explore, but I leave here because this place is not the place for me to safely do so.  I leave because I know the safe place is out there still, and I deserve to find it.  I leave because I can... Because I am free to do so, because I have the choice.  I leave because in the sifting out, I see the fluff and the chaff that belongs to the wind, and I see the hearty bits that belong to me.  Those are the bits I hold carefully and keep from harm, those are the bits I carry forward into the next safe places.  

I didn't even get a lanyard...

(From the poem by Billy Collins)

Another Mother's Day come and gone. 

I keep trying to approach the day realistically and without expectation but I failed; no surprise really but I'm trying to take my failure in stride.  As a friend of mine once said, "...well that seems to be true of so many other things in your life, it's just never enough"... Oddly she wasn't being mean but rather speaking ironically.  Though her words didn't hurt me, since they were so radically true, they have never left me and I think about them often.

And this Mother's Day may be a case in point.  Part of my day was genuinely, perfect.  Briefly, I felt spoiled and treated with exception.  But I was also dissapointed and let down by specific people...And a small bitter part of me felt embarrassed even by those same people.  

My children are the very heartbeat of my soul.  Daily I am brought up breathless with love for them.  They are also all (with the exception of the baby) old enough now to be responsible for navigating the holiday on their own.  And they didn't.  No card, no handmade token, nothing.  Not. A. Thing.  It happened on my birthday in December as well.  I raised ungrateful thoughtless children apparently.  Sad...

I am working thru those feelings now, and allowing myself to feel the bad feelings while still embracing all the goodness that Mother's Day held as well.  I don't want to devalue the joys of yesterday, the delicious bits of love that came my way so generously, so I am trying to let the hurt be there in the shadow instead of the forefront.  I can't NOT feel sad or hurt, but I CAN choose to let the happy feelings be the ones I dwell on and remember.

My children are bright and talented and creative and so funny, they are incredible gifts and I wouldn't trade them for a token card of acknowledgement, so I want to be grateful, and I want to embrace the concept of "enough".  My day, such as it was, was enough.  

The Fight to Write

Long ago, my writing flowed from me.  It was fun and easy and I had followers and blog-friends and everyone I knew, knew that I wrote.  

I wrote about my kids, my life, my faith, my work, and love. When my life got messy, blogging was often a way to work through darkness and fear and worry.  Right or wrong, divulging too much at times, ignoring boundaries other times, writing was my outlet and my connection.  Then came a time when I couldn't write.  For reasons not of my own choosing, and against my every desire.  I couldn't share, tell, divulge, explain, or connect in written word online.  It was so hard for me to shut down.  I lost so much of the good that I'd written, lost 3 years of memories and stories, and lost connections, lost an entire way of processing.  I tried to write secretly, under a fake name with a new blog - in fact I started to do so multiple times... But I'd lost my fire.  I didn't have bright shiny things to write about that would balance the dark and the fear and all my writing seemed forced or bitter, and I would start up a blog but lose interest when I couldn't find a way to write my own truth without being such a dreary bore or a whiny bitter drama queen.  And oh how I was a whiny bitter drama queen!  

I joined a writing club and wrote prompted, mostly fictional shorts and some intense poetry.  That was good, satisfying, enriching even and I was beginning to blossom there but I had to give that up for the boring reality of time constraints.

When my newest little nugget came along almost two years ago, I assumed the joy and delight would translate into flowing writing once again.  The truth is, writing is no longer easy.  I fight to write the peace and joy, it takes thought and caution and effort.  I still find it easy to be a whiny bitter drama queen - but actively  try to shed that from myself daily.  Not just in my writing, but in that place inside my heart that drives my voice, my thoughts, and my actions.

Maybe it's just that, 5 years after the chaos, I'm only now beginning to come up into the light.  I've made brief forays, but it's now that I can find ground to stand firm on.  Maybe the way I've changed, the way I've been changed, is that I simply am slower, more cautious, less "off the cuff".  Maybe writing is one more facet of my old self.  I feel sad thinking that it is my new truth though.  I feel like I want to fight against the loss of writing but also like I am tired now of fighting against things I can't control and am ready to be graceful about my losses.  Graceful and accepting. 

I've had to redefine so many parts of myself: who I am, who I was, who I want to be, what I like, what I don't like...and it's a daily process, very often like building a sand castle at the tide line -that I hesitate to draw a line and declare that I AM or am NOT something.  It all could change tomorrow.

I used to love writing.  Now? I don't know how I feel about it and perhaps that's where I will leave it.  Maybe some days I will fight for it and some days I won't and one day it will be clear to me what the outcome is.

Peace

I find myself now

In the quiet hush

Of acceptance

And savor the taste

Of inner strength

That walks hand in hand

A shadow of discontent

Flirts with my heart

But I breathe deep

Exhale deep

And settle my soul

Acceptance

Inner strength

Peace

I find myself now

Where I once was lost

And I plant myself

Into this safer place

I focus on enough

On knowing when

It is

And accepting what it is

And I breathe deep

Exhale deep

And settle my soul

In peace