Since some of the most important places for people to use throat lozenges require quiet. . . why don't they make the wrappers out of some kind of material that doesn't crinkle like crazy when you open them?
Just wondering.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
This really makes me squirm
After being a blocked artist for more than 20 years. . . I am forcing myself to paint.
In many ways, I live art. I am art. I wear art, I cook art, I nurture my children as art. I have made a great living for many years by creating design that I would consider art - but the kind of thing most people would call art - paint on a canvas or other traditional mediums - scare the hell out of me.
When I was a young girl art oozed out of me. I always had crayons and paint and fabric and paper and wood and whatever else I could lay my hands on, and created things with great energy. Our house was filled with art and talk of art. It wasn't until I got to college that I had my first collision with people that didn't appreciate what I did. Part of that was I didn't know how to use the mediums like most other kids my age. In high school I was a musician. I learned how to play the oboe and read music and perfected that craft. In college most of the other people in art had already learned the techniques and were then honing their skills. I was too embarrassed to ask how to paint with oils and acrylics and how to work with clay, so I muddled my way through. The other issue was that my style is totally graphic in nature. Color. Balance. My inclination to create graphic looking works was against the professors desire to churn out artists that worked traditionally. I had one watercolor teacher that would continually take my paintings off the wall before she'd begin the critique. She said my art was too commercial, and not worthy of critique. She would walk up to my work, take it and place it face down on the table, and then say "There. Now we can begin."
I refused to give in, and continued to paint whatever I wanted to paint. Inspired by Paul Klee. Not anywhere near her comfort zone.
Close to the end of my degree (which stretched for many years) (long story. it postponed student loan payments) I took the required watercolor class, which only she taught. At the end of the semester when I turned in my portfolio full of work, she wrote a note that said "I can only grade this portfolio if you include a landscape or a still life."
I went home in tears, unsure what to do. I refused to give in. I didn't paint things like the other students. I definitely didn't paint things like her star pupils. But - watercolor class was a requirement to graduate and would fail if I didn't do what she asked.
One of my roommates, a talented artist in every media, insisted that I had to do the painting and re-hand in my portfolio for critique. I had no idea where to start, so that friend threw a vase up in our window, added a single flower, and in a heartbeat did a lovely little watercolor for me. She was so talented that she was able to paint in a style that would be comparable to what I'd have done, if I knew that traditional technique.
I turned in my portfolio with her painting on top of my stack, and I received a C for the final grade.
But - I haven't painted since. I'm still deathly afraid of watercolor and its random ways. It seems unable to be contained, and I can't imagine even trying. As part of a process I'm working on for myself though, I recently decided to slay the dragon in some form. I've begun a couple of tiny acrylic paintings. One was promised to my niece Heidi before I even started it, and the other is for my husband, who has fallen in love with the painting from the minute it was begun. I can't believe I have people who would be interested in having my paintings!
I don't really even care what they do with them. I've thrown lots of art away before, and that wouldn't kill me. Mark has said his painting is going in his office, and with that thought I'm thrilled! This process makes me feel so naked and so exposed, but I am going forth even though I feel so vulnerable. I've learned that putting myself "out there" when I feel insecure is the best way to help myself grow. I'm finally learning to ignore the perfectionist in me and I'm willing to accept whatever comes out. I'm growing. I'm trying.
And so, as much as this act fills me with anxiety, I am posting my UNFINISHED paintings here. They're not perfect. . . but they're okay! In fact, they're just fine. . . and some people LIKE THEM!
ahhhhh.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Living My Life Out Loud
Many years ago when my boys were young, I was at the Rec Department waiting for the kids' class to finish, when the conversation turned to movies. I commented that my movie viewing was changing since the kids were starting to stay up later. When they were very young we'd watch family movies before bed and then could watch more action-type movies when they were asleep. Since they were staying up later the older they got, the more grownup movies were eventually squeezed out of the lineup. (Note. The adult movies weren't "adult" movies but were PG or R-rated, inappropriate for young kids)
One man who had been standing there quietly, piped in "Maybe if the kids can't watch it with you, it isn't a great influence for you, either."
I argued with him about it for a bit, but for years now I've thought about it. I've learned to use things like that for my moral compass. If my kids can't know something, maybe I shouldn't be doing it. If I wouldn't want my neighbors hearing it, maybe I shouldn't be saying it.
Try living your life like an open book. Make note of what you are watching, listen to what you are saying. If there are things going on that you wouldn't want broadcast on YouTube, chances are they are things that may be holding you back from being all that you can be.
I call it Living Your Life Out Loud. I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it. By using these simple markers as guidelines, I've come a long way towards living a truly honest life – and it feels good.
One man who had been standing there quietly, piped in "Maybe if the kids can't watch it with you, it isn't a great influence for you, either."
I argued with him about it for a bit, but for years now I've thought about it. I've learned to use things like that for my moral compass. If my kids can't know something, maybe I shouldn't be doing it. If I wouldn't want my neighbors hearing it, maybe I shouldn't be saying it.
Try living your life like an open book. Make note of what you are watching, listen to what you are saying. If there are things going on that you wouldn't want broadcast on YouTube, chances are they are things that may be holding you back from being all that you can be.
I call it Living Your Life Out Loud. I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it. By using these simple markers as guidelines, I've come a long way towards living a truly honest life – and it feels good.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I did something gross today
I was making banana bread, and after pouring the walnuts in I noticed a spider in the bowl. Not really small but not too big. It was the same color as the walnuts and I was really glad I saw it before I mixed the nuts in.
I picked it up with my fingers!
I touched it. Gross. And threw it in the sink and mixed up the bread and baked it.
I don't really like spiders. I'm not afraid of them, but they are gross.
The bag had been opened the other day, and was closed with a twist tie. I'm hoping the spider had just crawled into the top of the bag and was a harmless kind of Wisconsin spider - and not something that came IN that bag and is going to grow baby spiders inside my body. You see, I have a good imagination.
I picked it up with my fingers!
I touched it. Gross. And threw it in the sink and mixed up the bread and baked it.
I don't really like spiders. I'm not afraid of them, but they are gross.
The bag had been opened the other day, and was closed with a twist tie. I'm hoping the spider had just crawled into the top of the bag and was a harmless kind of Wisconsin spider - and not something that came IN that bag and is going to grow baby spiders inside my body. You see, I have a good imagination.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
An Icecube or a Butterfly
Thinking about change.
I just wrote about change.
But now that I think about it, even more than change, I am thankful I've been open to
t r a n s f o r m a t i o n
Water changes from water to ice, but it can go back to being water again.
They're different but they're the same.
I'm grateful that I've been open to being transformed.
Like a caterpillar. Once hunkered down in the cuckoon. . .
And then finally ready. . .
and transformed.
I don't think I could ever be a caterpillar again.
I mean, wooly bears are nice, but they mean a long winter and I hate winter.
I just wrote about change.
But now that I think about it, even more than change, I am thankful I've been open to
t r a n s f o r m a t i o n
Water changes from water to ice, but it can go back to being water again.
They're different but they're the same.
I'm grateful that I've been open to being transformed.
Like a caterpillar. Once hunkered down in the cuckoon. . .
And then finally ready. . .
and transformed.
I don't think I could ever be a caterpillar again.
I mean, wooly bears are nice, but they mean a long winter and I hate winter.
your one wild and precious life
My blog is random and scattered and eclectic. Should that be a surprise?
The perfectionist in me envisioned something slightly different. A theme, perhaps.
But since I started this with no real vision of what it would be, I'm seeing now that it's kind of a scrapbook.
Or maybe more like a sketchbook.
Some words, some scribbles, some things ripped from magazines for inspiration.
I think I may start posting work that I've done each day. . .
maybe.
But for today, I wanted to post this poem, one of my favorites.
I see so many people around me that seem to be stuck in places they don't want to be. Relationships, jobs, cities. Ruts.
Life is so precious and short.
I pray I never take any of it for granted. Especially the moment in life when I knew I needed to make some changes and I started planting one foot in front of the other.
Funny - during one difficult period in my life I read that what had happened to me physically probably stemmed from my opposition to change. I scoffed and said to a friend that I had no problem with change. I did it all the time. She looked at me like I was crazy and said "well you need to change," as if what I had just said was pure nonsense. She informed me that I needed to put both of my hands over my throat (the chakra for change) and affirm to myself "I am willing to change."
So, I did it. I walked around all day long, hands over throat, repeating "I am willing to change. I am willing to change. I am willing to change." . . . all the time sure that I was always willing to change and it was pure poppycock. Whateva.
Guess what? I'm STILL changing.
And looking back, that was a time in my life that I was truly blind to my own needs. I am grateful for that wise friend that didn't judge and instead simply helped me along my way.
But anyway - that wise woman was my dear friend and mentor, Kiernan.
And this is one of my favorite poems which she read in her beautiful storytelling way.
It has helped change my life.
The perfectionist in me envisioned something slightly different. A theme, perhaps.
But since I started this with no real vision of what it would be, I'm seeing now that it's kind of a scrapbook.
Or maybe more like a sketchbook.
Some words, some scribbles, some things ripped from magazines for inspiration.
I think I may start posting work that I've done each day. . .
maybe.
But for today, I wanted to post this poem, one of my favorites.
I see so many people around me that seem to be stuck in places they don't want to be. Relationships, jobs, cities. Ruts.
Life is so precious and short.
I pray I never take any of it for granted. Especially the moment in life when I knew I needed to make some changes and I started planting one foot in front of the other.
Funny - during one difficult period in my life I read that what had happened to me physically probably stemmed from my opposition to change. I scoffed and said to a friend that I had no problem with change. I did it all the time. She looked at me like I was crazy and said "well you need to change," as if what I had just said was pure nonsense. She informed me that I needed to put both of my hands over my throat (the chakra for change) and affirm to myself "I am willing to change."
So, I did it. I walked around all day long, hands over throat, repeating "I am willing to change. I am willing to change. I am willing to change." . . . all the time sure that I was always willing to change and it was pure poppycock. Whateva.
Guess what? I'm STILL changing.
And looking back, that was a time in my life that I was truly blind to my own needs. I am grateful for that wise friend that didn't judge and instead simply helped me along my way.
But anyway - that wise woman was my dear friend and mentor, Kiernan.
And this is one of my favorite poems which she read in her beautiful storytelling way.
It has helped change my life.
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA
Monday, March 16, 2009
oooo, nice.
"Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life."
— Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life."
— Derek Walcott
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Friday, March 6, 2009
Last Night's Dream
I often dream about living in fabulous houses with many, many rooms. Some are old houses, some are new, but they always have cool nooks and crannies. I'm always delighted to discover some awesome detail that I'd forgotten we had. I'll open a door or a cupboard or walk down a hallway and think "this is amazing!! Why did I forget that we had this ______?!"
Last night's dream was a little bit different. We had a wonderful new house. It was probably about 20 years old. Maybe 2500-3000 square feet, so large without being monstrous. It was a ranch, very spread out with oak shake siding. There were rooms that were cool and mysterious and there were rooms that were light and fresh. One detail I recall were some funky windows that had screens on both sides, with shelves inbetween to display rustic-looking nicknacks. The old owners had left a lantern there. While it all appeared to be old and covered with dust and cobwebs, it was just created to look like that, and the screens on each side kept it clean and tidy. The old rustic look was just an illusion.
The back yard had a large pool that at first glance looked dirty, but actually had been designed to be a green color rather than the usual aquatic blues. It was created to blend in with nature. (in my dreams there are always cool things like that, which seem to make sense but aren't usually found in the real world). Next to the pool was a wading-type pool that was also very natural green, with two adirondack chairs in it. It was so parents could sit and cool their feet while watching their kids in the connected swimming pool.
When I got the chance to finally take a swim, I found two women out in the pool with a young baby. (one of those details I have in dreams that aren't yet invented in real life was a little plug the baby was wearing so he couldn't poop in the pool. While it seemed like a great idea in the dream, this morning it seems not so.)
I didn't ask why they were in our pool. I let them swim with me and listened to their conversation trying to figure out who they were. They mentioned something about the train tracks, and waiting, and they eventually got out and left. I thought that the next time they came for a swim I'd let them know that we had purchased the house and that the pool wasn't "open" any longer.
When I went inside to change (remember, we were just moving in so all of our belongings were in boxes everywhere!) I found a friend of mine asleep in the master bedroom. I made a mental note that I was going to tell her too, that the bed was ours and she would be welcome next time to take a nap in a guest room. She looked comfortable at the time though, and was suffering from a cold, so I let her stay there for the time being although also in the bed was my youngest baby, taking a nap. As I left the room I saw her roll over and pat him on the back as he slept, and I thought it was good for her to have some human comfort. Simple love like that of nurturing a baby.
I went back outside and was surprised to see from the side of the back yard, a train come cruising past the front of the house. It startled me and made me a bit anxious, as the curve on the tracks had the train turning so that if it jumped the tracks at the point the train would derail into our new house! And it was probably set up just 10 feet or so from the front of the house. I wondered suddenly how we purchased the house without realizing that the tracks were right there. Not wanting to diminish the excitement and satisfaction about the new house, I decided that we'd become acclimated to hearing the train and very soon wouldn't even notice it when it passed. I also convinced myself that trains rarely derailed and that the chances were unlikely that a train would end up crashing into that part of our house that had the master bedroom, (even though the tracks took almost a ninety degree turn right there and in real life it would probably happen every time.)
I stepped out for a bit to run to the store, and didn't notice the surroundings again, until I was headed back home. This time I noticed that the block our new house was located on was built very tightly. Although the homes across the street appeared tidy and neat at first glance they were actually part of a trailer park. The trailers were placed within a few feet of each other, and the facades that faced the street had been created to look like a sweet old-fashioned block of row houses. They varied in color but all had the same look of rehabbed homes that you see in large cities. The places where money moves into old, decayed neighborhoods and turns trash into treasures.
While I wanted to believe that the content of the neighborhood matched the pretty facade, my stomach sunk as I realized that wasn't true.
How could we have missed such details when we purchased this gem of a house? Location, location, location?!
It made sense where the ladies in the pool came from. Our backyard was the neighborhood's park. How would we end that?! After returning home, I stepped outside the front of the house to make another assessment of the situation. There was a huge commotion going on across the street where I noticed a group of people congregating around a squad car. And then I saw the yellow, police caution tape. And I heard someone talking about the murder.
Outside of our front door was a beautiful, curved, built-in bench, so I sat down broken-hearted, thinking that our dream house (and major investment) was in fact a nightmare. Two teens came and plopped down next to me and I came to realize that the bench built-in to our house front was considered by the neighborhood as the trainstop. I asked one about what happened across the street and he recited the details as if it had been no big deal. When I asked about the house, and what they thought of the house in the 'hood, he said they all wondered why anyone would build such a gorgeous house in such a terrible place. They thought it laughable. Ignorant of the owners. And then he pointed out that in the exact spot he was sitting, a teen had been killed waiting for the train one morning on the way to school. On our front bench! He said that was probably what put the previous owners and builders of this dream house, over the top.
I was filled with anxiety. Sick for the child that had lost their life, and wondering how in the world we had purchased this place which we had considered a dream - without knowing "the rest of the story." Somehow we had been totally duped. We had only seen what we were shown, without spending the time to learn the truth.
Interesting, that last night's dream turned into this morning's nightmare.
What you see isn't always what you get.
I'm wondering how much of this is tied into my disdain right now for the media. I've given up watching the news, for Lent. I'm tired of the stories I hear. The lies. The misrepresentations. I'm wondering how we can raise our kids to understand the importance of truth when everywhere around them they're seeing untruths. I'm tired of quick fixes that put bandaids on real ills (the facades on the trailer park homes). And I'm so saddened that so many young people especially, can see this all going on and think it's no big deal. Another day, another life, another lie, no big deal.
How did I get to this point in life? Where do I want to live? In my dream house? There's so much going on . . .
Last night's dream was a little bit different. We had a wonderful new house. It was probably about 20 years old. Maybe 2500-3000 square feet, so large without being monstrous. It was a ranch, very spread out with oak shake siding. There were rooms that were cool and mysterious and there were rooms that were light and fresh. One detail I recall were some funky windows that had screens on both sides, with shelves inbetween to display rustic-looking nicknacks. The old owners had left a lantern there. While it all appeared to be old and covered with dust and cobwebs, it was just created to look like that, and the screens on each side kept it clean and tidy. The old rustic look was just an illusion.
The back yard had a large pool that at first glance looked dirty, but actually had been designed to be a green color rather than the usual aquatic blues. It was created to blend in with nature. (in my dreams there are always cool things like that, which seem to make sense but aren't usually found in the real world). Next to the pool was a wading-type pool that was also very natural green, with two adirondack chairs in it. It was so parents could sit and cool their feet while watching their kids in the connected swimming pool.
When I got the chance to finally take a swim, I found two women out in the pool with a young baby. (one of those details I have in dreams that aren't yet invented in real life was a little plug the baby was wearing so he couldn't poop in the pool. While it seemed like a great idea in the dream, this morning it seems not so.)
I didn't ask why they were in our pool. I let them swim with me and listened to their conversation trying to figure out who they were. They mentioned something about the train tracks, and waiting, and they eventually got out and left. I thought that the next time they came for a swim I'd let them know that we had purchased the house and that the pool wasn't "open" any longer.
When I went inside to change (remember, we were just moving in so all of our belongings were in boxes everywhere!) I found a friend of mine asleep in the master bedroom. I made a mental note that I was going to tell her too, that the bed was ours and she would be welcome next time to take a nap in a guest room. She looked comfortable at the time though, and was suffering from a cold, so I let her stay there for the time being although also in the bed was my youngest baby, taking a nap. As I left the room I saw her roll over and pat him on the back as he slept, and I thought it was good for her to have some human comfort. Simple love like that of nurturing a baby.
I went back outside and was surprised to see from the side of the back yard, a train come cruising past the front of the house. It startled me and made me a bit anxious, as the curve on the tracks had the train turning so that if it jumped the tracks at the point the train would derail into our new house! And it was probably set up just 10 feet or so from the front of the house. I wondered suddenly how we purchased the house without realizing that the tracks were right there. Not wanting to diminish the excitement and satisfaction about the new house, I decided that we'd become acclimated to hearing the train and very soon wouldn't even notice it when it passed. I also convinced myself that trains rarely derailed and that the chances were unlikely that a train would end up crashing into that part of our house that had the master bedroom, (even though the tracks took almost a ninety degree turn right there and in real life it would probably happen every time.)
I stepped out for a bit to run to the store, and didn't notice the surroundings again, until I was headed back home. This time I noticed that the block our new house was located on was built very tightly. Although the homes across the street appeared tidy and neat at first glance they were actually part of a trailer park. The trailers were placed within a few feet of each other, and the facades that faced the street had been created to look like a sweet old-fashioned block of row houses. They varied in color but all had the same look of rehabbed homes that you see in large cities. The places where money moves into old, decayed neighborhoods and turns trash into treasures.
While I wanted to believe that the content of the neighborhood matched the pretty facade, my stomach sunk as I realized that wasn't true.
How could we have missed such details when we purchased this gem of a house? Location, location, location?!
It made sense where the ladies in the pool came from. Our backyard was the neighborhood's park. How would we end that?! After returning home, I stepped outside the front of the house to make another assessment of the situation. There was a huge commotion going on across the street where I noticed a group of people congregating around a squad car. And then I saw the yellow, police caution tape. And I heard someone talking about the murder.
Outside of our front door was a beautiful, curved, built-in bench, so I sat down broken-hearted, thinking that our dream house (and major investment) was in fact a nightmare. Two teens came and plopped down next to me and I came to realize that the bench built-in to our house front was considered by the neighborhood as the trainstop. I asked one about what happened across the street and he recited the details as if it had been no big deal. When I asked about the house, and what they thought of the house in the 'hood, he said they all wondered why anyone would build such a gorgeous house in such a terrible place. They thought it laughable. Ignorant of the owners. And then he pointed out that in the exact spot he was sitting, a teen had been killed waiting for the train one morning on the way to school. On our front bench! He said that was probably what put the previous owners and builders of this dream house, over the top.
I was filled with anxiety. Sick for the child that had lost their life, and wondering how in the world we had purchased this place which we had considered a dream - without knowing "the rest of the story." Somehow we had been totally duped. We had only seen what we were shown, without spending the time to learn the truth.
Interesting, that last night's dream turned into this morning's nightmare.
What you see isn't always what you get.
I'm wondering how much of this is tied into my disdain right now for the media. I've given up watching the news, for Lent. I'm tired of the stories I hear. The lies. The misrepresentations. I'm wondering how we can raise our kids to understand the importance of truth when everywhere around them they're seeing untruths. I'm tired of quick fixes that put bandaids on real ills (the facades on the trailer park homes). And I'm so saddened that so many young people especially, can see this all going on and think it's no big deal. Another day, another life, another lie, no big deal.
How did I get to this point in life? Where do I want to live? In my dream house? There's so much going on . . .
Monday, March 2, 2009
An Aha! Moment
The list of titles was intriguing: “Channeling Grace” “Illuminating the Afterlife”“Meditations to Live to Be 100” (ug. Not sure I like that one so much. Who wants to be 100?) “The Power of Slow” (note to self: order that one.)
And then I saw this: “Fearless Love” by Gary Renard. In the description I read “Q: Fearless love seems reckless. How do you find the courage to love fearlessly?” “A: Remember what you really are: Immortal Spirit. This might appear reckless to those who identify solely with their body, because as a body there is much fear of damage and death. Immortal Spirit is free of fear and therefore free to be…fearless”
“Fearless love is not love the way the world commonly thinks of it. It’s an all-encompassing kind of love that is innocent and unflawed. It excludes no one and includes all.
A flash went through me and I realized that somewhere along the road I’d come to a new chapter in my life. I’m not completely sure where this chapter goes, or even when it started, but I know for sure that it’s new. And good.
For years I was able to recognize that I was terrified of love. Not so much of love itself, but of losing love. The typical “Fear of Abandonment” that I was able to name and understand. Afterall, I’d lost my mom when I was 16, my dad when I was 24, my oldest brother the year after that, along with my grandpa. I was pretty experienced at having love yanked out of my life. But I’d experienced that in more subtle ways, too.
My mom was an alcoholic. A lovely, tender saint of a person, who found her way to the big, green, gallon jug of wine every afternoon. By dinner time and after, she was pathetically licking her lips over and over and over, saying “I love you.” “I love you.” “You are a good girl.” “I believe it you.” “You have your head straight on your shoulders.” “I love you.”
It made me sick. Because really, if someone loved you so much, would they be hiding away under the ugly mask of alcohol every day? It took me years to figure out that the contrast in what I was hearing and what I was experiencing, was very confusing for a young girl. It took me a lot of discerning to figure out that her drinking was her problem, and not mine.
A year after she died, my dad remarried. While I was happy for him, the chaos of introducing another (crazy) family into our household was insanity for me. I had to put my real feelings on hold while I was forced to acclimate to a new life. A new family. We weren’t the Brady Bunch. It felt more like intrusion to me.
Our stepmother didn’t know us, and she didn’t understand us. We were a loud and boisterous clan of ten that worked as one. Although only two of us were at home, we still were a group, but only two of us were experiencing the ugliness of what was going on at home with the (unwanted) addition of a new family into our space.
Everyone outside was saying “Look how happy it all is!” “How wonderful!” … but inside that house happened things that were foreign to the way we had grown up. When we my brother and I had the courage to speak up we were told that we were bad. That we needed to be accepting of our new family and our new (crazy) stepmother. We were reminded that our father was happy again and that what we were being was unaccepting and judgemental.
There was nothing loving about any of that, to me.
It was no small wonder then, when a beautiful young man asked me out, treated me like a princess, introduced me to his solid family, and swept me off my feet, I was head over heals. I could escape the insanity at my own house and was accepted into his where I was introduced to worldly things. A beautiful house on the lake, an international famlly, cultural foods, new arts, and an affinity for the finer things in life. It was a fairytale come true.
We dated about a year before we were engaged, and although by that time most of my family and friends had seen through him and knew it would be shortlived (or hoped, at least) - I was enamored. So, I worked hard to forgive and forget each episode of infidelity I experienced. Afterall, he loved me sooooo much, and I loved him more than anything. A young girl’s folly.
Of course that too came crashing down on me eventually. And in the midst of all of that I, like my mother, learned that alcohol was an amazing mask for all things uncomfortable. So I lived that way for years…
Going through the motions.
----------------------------------
Ah, the cliffhanger.
I don’t have time to write more today. The real meat and potatoes of this story, like I wrote in the beginning, is my newfound realization. That deserves more attention than the few minutes I can take right now - but I’ll be back.
In memory of Paul Harvey, who passed away last week, I must recall still “the rest of the story…”
And then I saw this: “Fearless Love” by Gary Renard. In the description I read “Q: Fearless love seems reckless. How do you find the courage to love fearlessly?” “A: Remember what you really are: Immortal Spirit. This might appear reckless to those who identify solely with their body, because as a body there is much fear of damage and death. Immortal Spirit is free of fear and therefore free to be…fearless”
“Fearless love is not love the way the world commonly thinks of it. It’s an all-encompassing kind of love that is innocent and unflawed. It excludes no one and includes all.
A flash went through me and I realized that somewhere along the road I’d come to a new chapter in my life. I’m not completely sure where this chapter goes, or even when it started, but I know for sure that it’s new. And good.
For years I was able to recognize that I was terrified of love. Not so much of love itself, but of losing love. The typical “Fear of Abandonment” that I was able to name and understand. Afterall, I’d lost my mom when I was 16, my dad when I was 24, my oldest brother the year after that, along with my grandpa. I was pretty experienced at having love yanked out of my life. But I’d experienced that in more subtle ways, too.
My mom was an alcoholic. A lovely, tender saint of a person, who found her way to the big, green, gallon jug of wine every afternoon. By dinner time and after, she was pathetically licking her lips over and over and over, saying “I love you.” “I love you.” “You are a good girl.” “I believe it you.” “You have your head straight on your shoulders.” “I love you.”
It made me sick. Because really, if someone loved you so much, would they be hiding away under the ugly mask of alcohol every day? It took me years to figure out that the contrast in what I was hearing and what I was experiencing, was very confusing for a young girl. It took me a lot of discerning to figure out that her drinking was her problem, and not mine.
A year after she died, my dad remarried. While I was happy for him, the chaos of introducing another (crazy) family into our household was insanity for me. I had to put my real feelings on hold while I was forced to acclimate to a new life. A new family. We weren’t the Brady Bunch. It felt more like intrusion to me.
Our stepmother didn’t know us, and she didn’t understand us. We were a loud and boisterous clan of ten that worked as one. Although only two of us were at home, we still were a group, but only two of us were experiencing the ugliness of what was going on at home with the (unwanted) addition of a new family into our space.
Everyone outside was saying “Look how happy it all is!” “How wonderful!” … but inside that house happened things that were foreign to the way we had grown up. When we my brother and I had the courage to speak up we were told that we were bad. That we needed to be accepting of our new family and our new (crazy) stepmother. We were reminded that our father was happy again and that what we were being was unaccepting and judgemental.
There was nothing loving about any of that, to me.
It was no small wonder then, when a beautiful young man asked me out, treated me like a princess, introduced me to his solid family, and swept me off my feet, I was head over heals. I could escape the insanity at my own house and was accepted into his where I was introduced to worldly things. A beautiful house on the lake, an international famlly, cultural foods, new arts, and an affinity for the finer things in life. It was a fairytale come true.
We dated about a year before we were engaged, and although by that time most of my family and friends had seen through him and knew it would be shortlived (or hoped, at least) - I was enamored. So, I worked hard to forgive and forget each episode of infidelity I experienced. Afterall, he loved me sooooo much, and I loved him more than anything. A young girl’s folly.
Of course that too came crashing down on me eventually. And in the midst of all of that I, like my mother, learned that alcohol was an amazing mask for all things uncomfortable. So I lived that way for years…
Going through the motions.
----------------------------------
Ah, the cliffhanger.
I don’t have time to write more today. The real meat and potatoes of this story, like I wrote in the beginning, is my newfound realization. That deserves more attention than the few minutes I can take right now - but I’ll be back.
In memory of Paul Harvey, who passed away last week, I must recall still “the rest of the story…”
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