Men, Men, Menly Men

I make poor choices in men.

From my 8th grade boyfriend Billy (who was older and already in high school and who wanted way more than a 13 yr old was ready to give) to the man I met when I was 38, newly divorced and as raw as a 13 yr old... I make poor choices.

A stalked me and my girlfriends one christmas vacation when we went caroling, sneaking around behind us and noting details to share with me afterward to prove he'd done it.  Ahhhh, Jr. High.

B had a juvenile criminal record,  Oh, High School.

C had a girlfriend back home.  Hello College.

D hid debt and despair under credit cards and fast cars.  Welcome to adulthood.

E forgot to mention that he wasn't actually divorced... or that he had a son.  And here we go, grownup style!

F couldn't separate love from control; power and shame from attraction and commitment...but he hid it well for 14 years of marriage.  Oh, wait, THIS is "grown up style"... ok... gotcha.

G made believe that a pierced penis and a job as a correctional officer was the same thing as "strong" and "safe" and "brave" and "authentic".  Steve was wrong.

and H? H convinced himself that love and control were the same... that attraction and attachment were equal to love and commitment: and he nearly convinced a 38 year old divorcee that it was so. Ahhh, this is life!  The learning of your own infallibility and how you play out your own mistakes time and time again until you LEARN something.

ouch.

I will rewrite my own story though, and I will write about my discernment, my patience, my authenticity and transparency.  I will write of my open and welcoming spirit that does not long for whats missing but that waits for something more to add to an already peaceful perfect life.  I will write of confidence, of humor, of acceptance and joy.  And I will write of men.  Of Menly Men.  Of MY men...and of my good choices.

Freedom

Freedom tastes like sourdough bread from the farmers market, still warm; an ice cold glass of moscato; feta cheese, grape tomatoes, and basil that was grown from your own garden...

Freedom smells like a cranberry chutney candle; freshly mown grass in the warm spring air, your own warm skin in the middle of the night...

Freedom feels like waking up slowly before the alarm; the first hot shower after a camping trip; crisp clean sheets after a long day...

Freedom sounds like a million peepers on a summer night; an amateur street guitarist; the cadence of saying "yes" whenever you want to; the air on your skin...

There is a story here...

He keeps trying to write in the sand but the waves slide relentlessly over his work and erase his efforts.   Randomly he gets one word done and snaps a picture.   I watch him in sidelong glances from where I am sitting in the sand several feet above the tentacles of the highest wave.

In between glances, I gaze out into the wide, wild, endless Hawaiian ocean spreading before me and I try to breathe away the last 7 years of stress.

I see him again, this time trying to pose and take a selfie in front of his word but the waves comes and wash it away and also gets his butt wet.   He writes "Marry Me" in the sand, over and over and over again but the tide keeps washing it away, and finally when he gets it done and poses, the water just comes right up and drenches him.   I wonder if this is an omen?

I choose this moment to leap up and run a few feet closer to the tide line.   I scrawl my own word with a fierce defiant pressure, using my index finger and hurrying before the next wave comes.   I write, "REGRET".

I am left waiting, wave after wave, for the ocean to come and claim my regret, to take it away from me, to erase it.   I wait far longer than I thought I would, much longer than Mr. Marry Me, but when a wave finally does break high enough and come rushing toward my word, it only erases a portion of it.

There is a story here I'm sure...

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.  

Thankfulness day... um... whatever...

So I missed a couple of days.

Not that I wasn't thankful during those days, I was, very, but sitting down to write about it seemed to be a bit more than I could manage!

This was an entirely different thanksgiving for me.  I was feeling sort of sad and bitter about it (and lets face it, having a pity party) but it actually turned out to be a lovely day.  Turns out that eating at a restaurant for the main meal is kind of yummy, and there's no dishes!

I had my 17 yr old son and my 17 month old son with me and it was fun and peaceful and easy and I would totally do it again.  Later that day we moved furniture around just for fun and then went to some friends for dessert.  I missed my girls terribly, and I missed all the thanksgivings of my past which were full of family, friends, fun, and me hosting the huge gatherings, but I was able to fully embrace my time with my boys and feel thankful.

And now I'm looking forward to Christmas.  Ah, the music, the decorations, the presents! Fun fun fun!  This year will be the first year my baby is able to grasp any of it and I look forward to his amazement and wonder at the colors and lights.

Wishing you all a holiday of amazement and wonder as well!

Begin again

and so we begin again
dancing around the sharp pieces
of fallen stars
in bare feet -
because wearing shoes is too easy
and people like us?
we do things the hard way
over and over again
starting
stopping
and then we begin again

I dance -
the jagged self conscious movements
of someone who does not know what dancing is
step here, hands there, awkward, stiff, wrong...

you dance along -
your shadow over all the shattered stars so I don't see them -
trying to mimic me
because you can't stand to be looked at
singly
alone
in your own light
but your movements are out of rhythm
off beat
a step behind here, a step ahead there,
a left instead of a right, and what we create is ugliness.

and so we stop
and breathe heavily
tired
so tired
and stare at each other with eyes swollen by feelings we can't let go of.

and then we begin again
dancing around all the shattered pieces of this mess we've made
by ourselves
no one else to blame
and neither of us able to finish the hard work of cleaning up -

I pick up some bits and flotsam of brokenness
and you scoot some under the rug
I try to carry the largest bits, but I drop them with bloody hands,
you point
you laugh
you kick some of the brokenness toward me
shaking your head
and walking away
walking away
walking away

and I begin to dance again
in the middle of shattered bits of fallen stars
and find they sparkle a little still
without your shadow

What If

What if he said, "I'm sorry".
What if he really, really, meant it.
What if he asked me, "Please, could you ever forgive me?"
What if he understood when I said I couldn't.
What if he said he would spend the rest of forever trying to earn it anyway...
What if he said, "I was so wrong..."
What if he meant it, really really meant it.
What if he told me all the ways he was part of the breaking and destruction... and what if he owned all the things that broke MY heart?

What if he saw the light, the revelation, the truth, the whole entire messy scary thorny disgusting shameful horrible "thing" that was...and was real and authentic, finally?

Would any of it change who I have become?
Would I suddenly be different?
Would I be less angry?
Less scared?
Less worried and tense?
Less full of bitterness and sorrow and regret?
Would I lose the grief I've shouldered every day for more than four years?
Would I be less sure of myself? Less aware of my own heart? Less focused on my children, my soul, my future?
What would happen to my sweet sweet treasure that I was gifted with, the big brown eyes that melt me, the tiny face that spins my heart and soul...my littlest angel who isn't mine alone?

What if suddenly he took all the "I'm sorry"'s that I've given, all the "forgive me"'s that I've sobbed, all the "I was wrong to do this, and that, and say those things" that I've written and said and meant - and he finally believed me, and accepted it.

What if nothing... what if "just this" is "just this" for the rest of forever...

What if this is ok?
What if me, being strong, is better than what was?
What if me, being wiser, is better than what was?
What if my sweet treasure, my littlest angel, could only "be" because of all that came before?
What if all of us, being more mature and with wide open eyes, are stronger and safer and better off than before?
What if what we all have learned leads to something bigger, braver, deeper, truer, and more real than what used to be?

What if, yes, what if this is ok?

Someday

Is it silly to weep over this? To wonder if I missed my chance? To dream of finding some connection like this, even now?

But I'm not unhappy alone...  I'm not. I don't want to be tied down, to compromise, make room for and be flexible with... I don't want to share my space, my kids, my life... But still, it's human nature to want love, connection, to want to find that perfect soul mate who just "gets" you without trying.  Or maybe it's just MY nature to want that.

This Jess Penner song is the theme to the wedding video of a friend of mine who married for the second time at age 40.  She is crazy cornball goofy in love with a man who is crazy cornball goofy in love with her. They were together long enough to maturely decide that this marriage thing was exactly right for them. They are smart, intelligent, thoughtful people.  But also total goofy cornballs.  Their life is by no means easy - a blended family with teens, jobs, sports, their own individual jobs and extra curricular activities... but there is such respect and support for each other, such joyful accommodation of each others whims, such genuine interest in each other, that it stings a little, this emptiness of mine.

I wish them so much joy.  I know they deserve it.  Can I wish joy for myself as well?

Late Night Phone Call

She calls when I am just 15 minutes into the show.  It used to be our show.  We would wait all week for Thursday nights, planning for it with excited giggles and imagined events.  When Thursday finally arrived, you would find us gathering snacks and blankets and fluffing up pillows, and then we would take over the couch and the remote control.  I love that she calls right at the moment I have queued up an old rerun of our old show.  It’s karmic. I hope.

I hit pause and answer the phone to hear her wild burst of laughter.  Laughter or hysterical crying? I’m not sure until I hear her voice saying, “Hi mom!”  My brief moment of concern is washed away and replaced by joy.

She tells me that her friends were all just laughing at something funny, reminiscing about their first words as babies.  A topic brought up by my face-book post of her baby brothers first word spoken just that day.  What was her first word? Oh, a four letter word referencing bowel elimination.  Yup.  That sent her off into more giggles and I could hear her friends in the background laughing along with her. They are not surprised, it is apparently still her word of choice, I hear them saying in the background.

It is good to laugh with her.  It is good to be on the phone with her, laughing.  She is my delight but things have been strained lately.  My life and choices, her life and choices, are  all at odds with each other and it’s been hard to find the closeness, the love, the fun, the groove of our hearts beating together as they once did.

We chat some and I avoid anything too tense.  I've written her a letter and she hasn't received it yet so I’ll save the tense stuff for later, tonight I want to just enjoy the laughter.

When we hang up, I start up the show again.  It’s lonelier now, watching this show without her here.  My bowl of snacks and my icy beverage aren't as good, un-shared as they are.  The show isn't as suspenseful without the whispered premonitions and our running commentary.  The theme song at the end makes me weepy and melodramatic.  I laugh at myself a little, do the dishes, and tuck myself into bed.  My daughter, 3000 miles and two time zones away from me is just getting into the groove of her night.  All is as it should be I suppose.   

A Day Off

Cut yourself some slack, they say.
Give yourself a break, they say.

So today I had cake for breakfast.

And I made the baby laugh so hard that he fell down right on his padded little bottom. And then I laughed right along with him, both of us laying on the floor giggling to each other.  There is incredible peace when you look deep in the eyes of a laughing baby.  I think I saw a glimpse of God.

For the first time ever, I "smudged" my house.

And myself.

I breathed in the smoky trails of sage and thought about peace, and safety, and protection.  I breathed out that peace too.  I wafted the sweet smoke over the living room where we gather to play, onto the dishes we eat from, over my son's bed where he sleeps and grows and dreams, and all around the door so that peace will wash over those who enter, and those who leave.  I gave myself a break.

And I cut myself some slack, refusing to feel guilty for still being in my pajamas at lunchtime.

But I also got some clutter cleared.  Papers filed, phone calls made, appointments set.  And it felt... peaceful.

For this moment, I refuse to feel pain.  I will not acknowledge sorrow, frustration, loss, grief, anger, or self loathing for this moment in time.  Maybe it will be just one moment, maybe a whole hour.  Maybe I can get the whole day in... but I won't worry about that right now.

For now, I will just focus on these single moments of laughing into my baby's eyes, breathing in smoky sage, the taste of frosting on my tongue, and the feeling of power in taking a day off from everything else.

Surfing the Waves

Lately life has felt like I'm a wee bit of driftwood caught up in some never ending storm.

I know there is solid ground out there.
I know there is blue sky hidden by the black clouds.
I know that calm waters are just outside the next rolling wave.
But I'm getting weary, and more than a little seasick.

I can't really remember where I came from, where I was, all warm and basking in the sun on a beach, when the storm snuck up and swept me away.  I don't know where I'm going to end up when this storm is over either.  Some other beach? A deserted island? or just adrift, forever, in this vast ocean?

Forgetting the metaphor and just being frank (who wouldn't want to be Frank? ba da dum!) I was feeling a bit like I was getting my life together.  I was moving forward, onward, facing fears and being brave and stepping out in faith to reclaim my life.  I made big changes and while things weren't perfect, I was feeling a sense of confidence and hope and optimism.  I felt peace. And then, not.

Well of course that's the problem isn't it? Once you are feeling grounded, something swirly happens to unbalance you and it's all about seeing HOW you  manage the swirly bits.  That's what character is right? What you do when the shit hits the fan; how you behave when no one is looking; the ways you manage when you fall in hot water... my character is seriously lacking!

A friend of mine has this huge network of support.  Friends, family, co-workers.  When times are tough there are backyard barbecue's, fire pit marshmallow roasts, childcare offers, supportive emails and phone calls, heck, even neighbors drop in.  I guess you reap what you sow - and I guess I haven't sown much.  That's pretty pathetic really, and another sign of my character (or lack thereof).  Not to say I don't have friends because, I do. Really.  Real ones!  One's that offer tea and wine and silly text messages to cheer me up.  Friends who shout "Yay!" and "You Go Girl!".  Friends who are only an email or text message away.  I know I'm lucky, fortunate, and blessed but I can't help but feel that I should have sown more, given more, reached out more.  Ok, it's entirely possible that I'm wallowing in self pity right now... possible, even likely... ok so more than likely, let's just call it out - I am wallowing in Self-Pity.  It's unattractive, I know... I'll stop now.

When my kids whine or have pity parties, I get annoyed. I tell them to quit.  I redirect them.  I think I'll have to do a little tough love on myself!  I think I'll have to take a deeper breath, recenter myself, and hold onto my surfboard for a bit more wave-surfing in this storm.  I know it will end, storms always do... so it's just about holding on a little longer.  I can.  I know I can.  I bet I'll come out of this a pretty darn good surfer!

So, here's to sunshine behind clouds, solid ground under the waves, blue sky above me, and better surfing skills... Cheers!

Simmering

*for Lee because he asked...


resentment bubbles
low and slow
steaming
vapors wafting
on winds of change
I smile...

anger bites
bitter stings of
pinching needle teeth
waiting for the flinch
I shrug my shoulders...

bitterness coils
ugly
and sour
green pus
infects every breath
I hold in the sigh and pat your shoulder...

revulsion crawls
along vertebrae
whispering
whimpers of
shuddery loathing
I clench my teeth and say I'm tired...again...

I cry without tears
I scream without voice

Fraudulent
Phony
Fake
Inauthentic
Untrue
Unwhole
composed of bits of lies I tell you
to survive each day I live
I hate my lies
I hate myself for every word I never speak
and for the weakness of my own soul
for my own hypocrisy

don't look at me...

Weather Proof

I weathered my first week of going back to school.  I got through the first week of Medical Terminology and learning a bazillion prefixes and suffixes and root words.  I wrote an essay, and took a test also. I wore scrubs.  I packed my own lunch. I did my homework.

I weathered an ER trip with my baby which was prefaced by a fall and an obscene amount of blood and incorporated my downstairs neighbors (whom I do not know at all - they come and go in the middle of the night...very creepy) driving me and my screaming bleeding baby to the ER in MY car.

And then weathered a pediatrician visit and a pediatric dentist visit with a baby who did NOT want anyone touching his mouth...but for whom "mouth touching" was a necessity.  Poor boo...

I weathered "THE TALK" with my 17 year old son... oh we've had 'the talk' before but this was about "THE TALK"...as in, "it's going to happen so what do I need to know..."  At least he asked.... ya know?

I weathered some post divorce backlash that left me humiliated, shaking, and demoralized but only very briefly.  I regrouped and remembered who I am, what I'm doing, and what I'm actually worth (and how none of that is dependant on my ex's opinions, or anyone elses for that matter...)  I am reading a book on shame by author Brene Brown.

A friend is weathering a huge personal commitment involving 3 days, camping, and mountains to hike as a fundraiser for battered women.  I'm thinking of thinking about thinking of doing it with her maybe next year...

It's been stormy this week.  But the skies are clearing and I'm none the worse for the weather... I'm feeling calm, strong, and firmly rooted.

Now I'll have a cup of tea, some toast, and take a minute to enjoy the calm.

Sing me a new song

I love music.  I'm a fan of sappy emotional songs that are often, sadly, linked to TV Dramas or Indie Romance Films. Although I'm a sucker for most country songs too.  I'm mostly a fan of lyrics over the actual music.  Lyrics speak in ways that I can't, and express my feelings so beautifully over my own awkward ramblings.

When I was at my most happiest, content, and "normal", I listened to a lot of contemporary christian music.  I was deep in my relationship with God and loved using songs to praise Him and to just be joyful.  When my life got really hard and then quickly spiraled into something resembling a Made For TV Hallmark Movie of the Week, I ran as far away from God as I could.  I figured if He couldn't protect me, then I should focus my attentions elsewhere.  But hey, that is an entirely different story.  I'm talking about music.  So, when life got crazy, I gave up my contemporary christian except for a few favorites that I sang to myself and I moved into the TV Drama/Indie Romance soundtrack period of time.

Certain songs I assign to certain experiences. I'm pretty sure a lot of people do that, but I have a lot of experiences that are rooted in grief and loss and confusion that have an entire soundtrack built around them.  The problem for me is that I do it, assign these awesome songs to these not-so-awesome experiences, and then every time I hear that song, I RE-experience all the feelings I had originally.

I just watched Silver Linings Playbook and had such compassion for the way the character totally loses his composure with one certain song.  I also really understood how he could hear the song even when it wasn't playing - and have the emotions and reactions play out even though there was NO SONG.  I get it.  I'm not an undiagnosed bipolar on serious meds, but I have my own reactions to songs and I too can hear them playing when they aren't.  And I don't like it.

I don't like that, while listening to Pandora and cleaning the house, a song can come on that makes my thoughts and emotions all jumpy, fragile and brittle, right there in the middle of what WAS an ordinary safe and vaguely pleasant time.  I don't like that while I'm putzing around the grocery store or driving to work and a song comes on the radio/P.A. system that sends my heart into a solid lump dropping to the bottom of my stomach.  I don't like that my son can be looking up songs on you-tube and something comes along that takes me back, back, back to a time I do NOT want to revisit.

I need new songs.  I need to find the music that is a soundtrack to THIS life, my life NOW.  I need songs that remind me of the times my kids and I laugh until someone cries or pees, songs that take me to the moment they put my newest baby into my arms for the first time, songs to make me remember sitting outside roasting marshmallows over our fire pit while the stars shone overhead and everyone I loved most was there with me.  I need songs to make me smile when I hear them, laugh and sing along, to dance.

Sing me a new song...

Transition to Courage

We are all always going through transitions in life. I know, as a parent in particular, I transition with my children through stages of life all the time.  Currently one son is learning to drive, a daughter is finishing her first year of high school, my baby just started walking - so many changes to roll with and readjust to all the time.  That's all a part of life, of living, of growing. But I am also going through a lot of personal transitions.

In fact over the past 4 years I've completely changed almost every part of my life, transitioning from a stay at home mom in a 4 bedroom house with a white picket fence, a minivan and a garden to a single mom in a third floor walkup in a sketchy area of a big city, living paycheck to paycheck and almost hysterically dependant on foodstamps.  And today I find myself struggling to accommodate yet another transition in my life.

I've lost so much in the past few years. I've gained a lot of wisdom and insight, but the things I've lost have marked my soul forever.  I've come to a pivotal point in a relationship though and I'm so afraid of letting go.  I know I want to let go, I know I need to let go, I know that letting go will be healthier and smarter, but I'm so afraid of losing one more thing in my life, one more person, one more safety net that I rely on. I find it so hard to just release myself and see what will happen.  I imagine the worst, because I've had "the worst" happen and I feel realistically justified in assuming that the worst will come true.  I try to imagine the best - and then self doubt kicks me down.

It's all fear based.  A therapist told me once that I may never escape fear, that I might walk hand in hand with it over every decision that comes my way, however I have the choice to embrace fear and use it, or to let it lead me.  Right now I am being led by my fear and it's not a lot of fun.  I can stop it but it takes a measure of courage and I'm not feeling very courageous right now.

As I'm writing this, I realize I am talking myself through the entire issue, I am therapizing (is that a word? It is now...) myself.  It's pretty helpful actually.  More productive than sitting on my couch with a carton of ice cream thats for sure! I know I've come a long way in the past year alone, I know I've been brave, been courageous, been smart and strong and self sufficient and self reliant. I am proud of my accomplishments, of the ways in which I've planned to move ahead. But I find myself stuck at this point, in this relationship, because of fear.

It's time to let go, roll into the transitions it brings, and put fear in the back seat instead of the drivers seat. Its time to let my courage rise up and light the way.

The Truth Is

The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing and should therefore be treated with caution ~ JK Rowling

I think about all the truths that you felt so strongly about sharing with me - and how deep those truths scalded into my soul, and the ugly vivid scar tissue they left behind. Even though I know with all the truth I have of my own, that YOUR truths were only true for YOU, I am still scarred by them.

I think about all the truths you've spouted from vengeful angry lips, truths borne of fear and insecurity, truths molded by your past, by your own vivid scars, truths grown from desperation and manipulation - and I feel their roots weaving down into my soul irretrievably like some weed gone wild and out of control that overtakes an entire garden, choking it from light and growth.

I can find no more room for your truths, as untrue as they are. I can find no more room for stretching to accommodate, no more ability for folding and bending to maneuver, and no more strength for holding up under your terrible unbeautiful untrue truths. The truth is, I am done with you and your truth.

I have found no beauty in truth.

I think about all the truths I never spoke aloud, truths I hid in my mouth like forbidden candy, tasting of guilt and fear instead of goodness. I wish I had been able to share them, I wish I had been able to hold them out to the light and let them find their own beauty, let their purity shine all around us and lighten up the dark we scurried around in.  But I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't.

I think with regret of all the truths I never spoke, or of truths I whispered and then hurriedly and apologetically took back, of truths I denied myself - and the more I think of them, the more they begin to grow again, to take root, to poke past the shadows, to become exposed.  My truths.  My baby truths. My tender, fresh, still there, truths.  I am growing truth.

Perhaps there is beauty yet to be found...