Abdication.
Abdication?
Ab-dic-a-tion??
I awoke with this word rolling through my brain and for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it meant.
It means: to relinquish or give up power formally. Such as a king abdicating from the throne; or a person of power resigning from the position.
Okay, great. Now I remember what it means. Why the hell was I dreaming about it?
Then a song by Sting sang in my head. It is a song that I might have listened to, maybe, a dozen times over my lifetime. The only line I know is: "Let your soul be your pilot, let your soul guide you, he'll guide you well."
I suppose the two are connected. Of course they are connected. Why else would my little brain be reciting the word abdicate with Sting singing in the background?
Then there is the separation of where your soul wants to fly you and where your responsibilities take you. For example, my soul is telling me to hop in the truck and pick up the kids in my pajamas because I am desperate to see them; yet, responsibility necessitates that I a) put on regular clothes; b) wait for a reasonable hour because 6am is not acceptable; and c) ugh, grocery shop first.
On a bigger level, I am sitting in a house that used to belong to a marriage. I made it my own - adding a pool, a puppy, flowers in the front garden and a boatload more love within. Yet, today, it feels like a heavy burden. I suppose it probably has to do with having been piloted to the top of a mountain for over a week and then landing in the same destination as always.
The difference however, between being here now and being here then is that there has been a shift in my little brain - an urging to continue writing and to watch my step, lest I fall into that same old rhythm of the past year. It's like eating pizza every day and then finally tasting its zest. It's difficult to go back to just eating it.
Make sense?
So this is my formal resignation from eating bland pizza; from being in this house and forgetting to taste its flavors. I am abdicating from autopilot, and will navigate my flight via the directions from my soul.
It should be a fun ride.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A Week Long Vacation in the Stratosphere
"...and you know it's really hard to hold your breath. I swear I lost everything there ever was to fear..."
Okay, I realize that the last post was unlike many of my other posts - it was a creative endeavor to show you all just how much I learned at the writing workshop, and it is a rather funny story. Consider the line: My hippie fell down... hard! That's funny stuff all by itself. Yet, I realize that my regular readers are breathing a sigh of relief - "phew - her voice is back", you might be saying.
Yes. That is true. The above quote is true as well. Up in those mountains, I swear I lost everything there ever was to fear. Much of the fear came from my doubting my abilities in writing, and what I realized while I was up there was that I didn't care if I was a lousy writer, right now. I want to be a better writer, of course. Yet the whole process is such a turn-on. Dorky. Sure. I like to write - how it makes me feel when I nail a sentence or a sentiment or a description.
At one point, while I was up there, I had a heavy wave of insecurity hit me upside the head. I was surrounded by some brilliant writers and I thought, "I can't compete." Then the voice of my father whispered in my ear: "Compete only with yourself." (I actually called him today to thank him). The truth is, I like writing and I will continue to do so and I will continue to improve. In the meantime, I will try out different styles on this blog (as I did in the previous post) but I will continue, also, to have the Carrie voice you are used to. (See? I just ended a sentence with a preposition!)
And so.... how was the writing workshop, you ask? On an academic level, I learned a bunch. It will come into play as I revise and revise my manuscript. You may even sense some subtle changes to my writing on this blog.
On a visceral level - way down in the gut - I realized that my life is in my own control and being on the mountain, although certainly not so dramatic as to be life-changing, made me realize some things.
I refused to turn my computer on or visit the internet. The only people that I called were Paige and Tony and that was because I can't breathe very well without their breaths. I realized that I can survive without the constant bombardment of emails, facebook messages (not that I am that big into facebook) and surfing the web for innocuous information.
So that was good.
Most importantly, I met some people up there that I think I was destined to meet. (As you know, I don't believe in coincidences). I met people that needed to speak with me and people that I needed to speak with - even if it was just for those moments of sharing stories. With some, I shared laughter. With others, sorrow. Yet the common thread was that they were genuine. For that I am grateful because I truly believe that if God made these people, he must really like me too.
I'll end with that thought, and hopefully, will have more to say about it tomorrow.
Okay, I realize that the last post was unlike many of my other posts - it was a creative endeavor to show you all just how much I learned at the writing workshop, and it is a rather funny story. Consider the line: My hippie fell down... hard! That's funny stuff all by itself. Yet, I realize that my regular readers are breathing a sigh of relief - "phew - her voice is back", you might be saying.
Yes. That is true. The above quote is true as well. Up in those mountains, I swear I lost everything there ever was to fear. Much of the fear came from my doubting my abilities in writing, and what I realized while I was up there was that I didn't care if I was a lousy writer, right now. I want to be a better writer, of course. Yet the whole process is such a turn-on. Dorky. Sure. I like to write - how it makes me feel when I nail a sentence or a sentiment or a description.
At one point, while I was up there, I had a heavy wave of insecurity hit me upside the head. I was surrounded by some brilliant writers and I thought, "I can't compete." Then the voice of my father whispered in my ear: "Compete only with yourself." (I actually called him today to thank him). The truth is, I like writing and I will continue to do so and I will continue to improve. In the meantime, I will try out different styles on this blog (as I did in the previous post) but I will continue, also, to have the Carrie voice you are used to. (See? I just ended a sentence with a preposition!)
And so.... how was the writing workshop, you ask? On an academic level, I learned a bunch. It will come into play as I revise and revise my manuscript. You may even sense some subtle changes to my writing on this blog.
On a visceral level - way down in the gut - I realized that my life is in my own control and being on the mountain, although certainly not so dramatic as to be life-changing, made me realize some things.
I refused to turn my computer on or visit the internet. The only people that I called were Paige and Tony and that was because I can't breathe very well without their breaths. I realized that I can survive without the constant bombardment of emails, facebook messages (not that I am that big into facebook) and surfing the web for innocuous information.
So that was good.
Most importantly, I met some people up there that I think I was destined to meet. (As you know, I don't believe in coincidences). I met people that needed to speak with me and people that I needed to speak with - even if it was just for those moments of sharing stories. With some, I shared laughter. With others, sorrow. Yet the common thread was that they were genuine. For that I am grateful because I truly believe that if God made these people, he must really like me too.
I'll end with that thought, and hopefully, will have more to say about it tomorrow.
60s Night at Wildacres
Inside the Jack Kerouac beat, where the music and haze was as natural as a birdsong and fog, the current generation took a step back or perhaps into a time warp where modern tie-dyed shirts, peace signs, “Love you, mans”, go-go boots and mini-skirts were pulled from bins or purchased for this particular dance.
It was 60s night at the Wildacres Writing Workshop.
Bongs and joints, demonstrations and chants, nipples and dirt were missing from the mix and the authenticity was blown when, at one point I believe, the electric slide was a dance choice. (Although, in its own right, watching hippies boogie, woogie, woogie was quite entertaining).
In particular was one man (perhaps wearing his original sixties gear) with long hair down to the middle of his back, a beard to match and his own song rolling through his bones – which caused his eyes to droop to slits and his quarter-sized lenses to smudge – who swayed to his own beat; the Byrds or Grateful Dead humming a tune while the tin roof rusted on the Love Shack for everyone else.
An Afro-wearing ex-pastor – who, two nights previous, danced to the beat of his own i-pod while the other attendees of the impromptu dance party sat dejected on the sidelines – paused with his hands in the air, waiting for the beat between “tin roof” and “rusted!” and bobbed his head and body to the rhythm of the chorus.
Dancing beside him was a Girl in a red-bandana and a beaded rock-and-roll necklace who was as grateful to be smiling on that dance floor as she was to have given birth to her two beautiful children. She had solidified her friendship with the Afro-wearing ex-pastor when she informed him that his i-pod two nights previous had shit the bed.
Her interest in wearing his Afro resulted in a quick game plan to dance beside someone as sexily as an Afro-wearing ex-pastor and a Girl wearing a red-bandana could. They conspired and the Byrds-induced Swayer with the long hair and smudged glasses was their chosen one.
They shook their hips, jumped to the beat and waved their arms inside the swarm of other dancers who were doing the same. They moved toward the Swayer, into and through a week of dialogue, critiques, rough drafts, Chekhov, a few reflections of their loved ones (she with a memory of her brother doing the corn cob dance at her wedding, him remembering the tenderness of his mother’s smile), thisness, readings and applauses, criticism and praise, and into pockets of new friends, old friends and friends that were OLD old friends creating a vortex of energy that pushed them closer and closer and closer to the Byrds-induced Swayer.
Before any physical contact had been made, a well-versed man of prose (whose eyes held the velvet warmth of a Werther’s original), stood outside the vortex of bobbing heads and jumping Jacks and watched as the swirl blew the man down.
He was caused to exclaim: “My hippie went down hard!”
Indeed, the hippie had gone down hard. He sat splayed on the ground looking up at the Afro-wearing ex-pastor and the Girl in the red-bandana with a question of “What’d you do that for, Man?”
The Afro-wearing ex-pastor and the Girl in the red bandana locked eyes that reflected a vision of them bent and holding their sides in laughter. They extended their hands, heaving the hippie back to his feet whereby Nights in White Satin began playing in his head.
In tempo with their plan, the girl pulled the red bandana from her head and slipped on the afro, while the ex-pastor did the opposite.
Their heads sprang into the air; they caught eyes and jumped, shook their heads and hips, waved their hands and arms, and resumed dancing around the swaying hippie who had gone down.
Hard.
It was 60s night at the Wildacres Writing Workshop.
Bongs and joints, demonstrations and chants, nipples and dirt were missing from the mix and the authenticity was blown when, at one point I believe, the electric slide was a dance choice. (Although, in its own right, watching hippies boogie, woogie, woogie was quite entertaining).
In particular was one man (perhaps wearing his original sixties gear) with long hair down to the middle of his back, a beard to match and his own song rolling through his bones – which caused his eyes to droop to slits and his quarter-sized lenses to smudge – who swayed to his own beat; the Byrds or Grateful Dead humming a tune while the tin roof rusted on the Love Shack for everyone else.
An Afro-wearing ex-pastor – who, two nights previous, danced to the beat of his own i-pod while the other attendees of the impromptu dance party sat dejected on the sidelines – paused with his hands in the air, waiting for the beat between “tin roof” and “rusted!” and bobbed his head and body to the rhythm of the chorus.
Dancing beside him was a Girl in a red-bandana and a beaded rock-and-roll necklace who was as grateful to be smiling on that dance floor as she was to have given birth to her two beautiful children. She had solidified her friendship with the Afro-wearing ex-pastor when she informed him that his i-pod two nights previous had shit the bed.
Her interest in wearing his Afro resulted in a quick game plan to dance beside someone as sexily as an Afro-wearing ex-pastor and a Girl wearing a red-bandana could. They conspired and the Byrds-induced Swayer with the long hair and smudged glasses was their chosen one.
They shook their hips, jumped to the beat and waved their arms inside the swarm of other dancers who were doing the same. They moved toward the Swayer, into and through a week of dialogue, critiques, rough drafts, Chekhov, a few reflections of their loved ones (she with a memory of her brother doing the corn cob dance at her wedding, him remembering the tenderness of his mother’s smile), thisness, readings and applauses, criticism and praise, and into pockets of new friends, old friends and friends that were OLD old friends creating a vortex of energy that pushed them closer and closer and closer to the Byrds-induced Swayer.
Before any physical contact had been made, a well-versed man of prose (whose eyes held the velvet warmth of a Werther’s original), stood outside the vortex of bobbing heads and jumping Jacks and watched as the swirl blew the man down.
He was caused to exclaim: “My hippie went down hard!”
Indeed, the hippie had gone down hard. He sat splayed on the ground looking up at the Afro-wearing ex-pastor and the Girl in the red-bandana with a question of “What’d you do that for, Man?”
The Afro-wearing ex-pastor and the Girl in the red bandana locked eyes that reflected a vision of them bent and holding their sides in laughter. They extended their hands, heaving the hippie back to his feet whereby Nights in White Satin began playing in his head.
In tempo with their plan, the girl pulled the red bandana from her head and slipped on the afro, while the ex-pastor did the opposite.
Their heads sprang into the air; they caught eyes and jumped, shook their heads and hips, waved their hands and arms, and resumed dancing around the swaying hippie who had gone down.
Hard.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A New Day on the Horizon
The coffee is strong this morning, warming my tongue and throat, heavy in its aroma and in its ability to perk me up. It's Tim Horton's, after all.
I awoke grinding my teeth again. My jaw and neck ache from it, yet I realized as I stepped out into the 80 degree weather at 5:55am that for the next week or so, a shift in my life will occur. I also realized that the two pieces of pumpkin pie left over that I made for Paige and Tony will likely get thrown into the garbage can because they won't step foot into this house for over a week. The dogs are going to be in a tizzy when they wake up every morning next week and I'm not there to kick them out of the way as I groggily descend the stairs to let them outside and then feed them. I wonder if Gracie will sit on the rug in front of the kitchen sink and look up at the coffee maker while it doesn't brew.
I am leaving my responsibilities for this house to Jessica. Last night, she pulled out a sheet of paper and said, "Okay, what are my duties?"
We started with the pool and the chemicals it needs; how to get the filter up and running; how to vacuum; how to dial my friend Bryan's number when she gets confused - he's my "on-call" pool boy.
The next thing we talked about was the lawn - mowing and watering the sod; watering the hanging flowers in the front; keeping Enzo from tearing up the wet sod and rolling in the mud puddles (lest mopping be on her to-do list).
Oh, the dogs. Up early, feed, let out. Oh, the duties that are required because of the dogs. Every detail left to the imagination.
She became visibly overwhelmed at this point.
Garbage and recycles go out on Sundays and Tuesdays.
I'll leave an emergency number with her in case any of my family needs to get in touch and my cell phone coverage is jacked.
Have fun!
Since she works full-time, it's a lot to handle. So, I vacuumed the pool last night, put in some of the necessary pool chemicals, mowed the lawn and will weed-wack later this morning for her. She crossed those things off her list and was a little less overwhelmed.
I will be free of these duties! I will be forced to ignore the nagging voice in my head that pushes me to make appointments for the kids (physicals due), the dogs (shots due), and myself (dentist due). I will be forced to ignore the scrolling grocery list that invades my brain every other day. I will be forced to know that I may not be able to answer any emails or phone calls from prospective employers. I will be forced to let go of the ex angst. I will be forced to be engaging and creative and less worrisome.
Oh, and I'll have to learn to walk without the heavy baggage of my usual loneliness that comes from the absence of Paige and Tony. I might have to drink some V8 so I am not walking at an angle.
I anticipate that this will not be as relaxing as a vacation on the beach but that it will have a longer-lasting effect on my psyche and well-being. How many people can spend a week in the mountains with people who are similarly obsessed with writing? I am lucky. But more importantly, I will be practicing the essence of me. Free.
The coffee sure tastes good this morning. Next week I will be tasting it a few thousand feet above sea level, and a few thousand feet closer to heaven. Tasting Tim Horton's in the mountains... should be a treat.
I awoke grinding my teeth again. My jaw and neck ache from it, yet I realized as I stepped out into the 80 degree weather at 5:55am that for the next week or so, a shift in my life will occur. I also realized that the two pieces of pumpkin pie left over that I made for Paige and Tony will likely get thrown into the garbage can because they won't step foot into this house for over a week. The dogs are going to be in a tizzy when they wake up every morning next week and I'm not there to kick them out of the way as I groggily descend the stairs to let them outside and then feed them. I wonder if Gracie will sit on the rug in front of the kitchen sink and look up at the coffee maker while it doesn't brew.
I am leaving my responsibilities for this house to Jessica. Last night, she pulled out a sheet of paper and said, "Okay, what are my duties?"
We started with the pool and the chemicals it needs; how to get the filter up and running; how to vacuum; how to dial my friend Bryan's number when she gets confused - he's my "on-call" pool boy.
The next thing we talked about was the lawn - mowing and watering the sod; watering the hanging flowers in the front; keeping Enzo from tearing up the wet sod and rolling in the mud puddles (lest mopping be on her to-do list).
Oh, the dogs. Up early, feed, let out. Oh, the duties that are required because of the dogs. Every detail left to the imagination.
She became visibly overwhelmed at this point.
Garbage and recycles go out on Sundays and Tuesdays.
I'll leave an emergency number with her in case any of my family needs to get in touch and my cell phone coverage is jacked.
Have fun!
Since she works full-time, it's a lot to handle. So, I vacuumed the pool last night, put in some of the necessary pool chemicals, mowed the lawn and will weed-wack later this morning for her. She crossed those things off her list and was a little less overwhelmed.
I will be free of these duties! I will be forced to ignore the nagging voice in my head that pushes me to make appointments for the kids (physicals due), the dogs (shots due), and myself (dentist due). I will be forced to ignore the scrolling grocery list that invades my brain every other day. I will be forced to know that I may not be able to answer any emails or phone calls from prospective employers. I will be forced to let go of the ex angst. I will be forced to be engaging and creative and less worrisome.
Oh, and I'll have to learn to walk without the heavy baggage of my usual loneliness that comes from the absence of Paige and Tony. I might have to drink some V8 so I am not walking at an angle.
I anticipate that this will not be as relaxing as a vacation on the beach but that it will have a longer-lasting effect on my psyche and well-being. How many people can spend a week in the mountains with people who are similarly obsessed with writing? I am lucky. But more importantly, I will be practicing the essence of me. Free.
The coffee sure tastes good this morning. Next week I will be tasting it a few thousand feet above sea level, and a few thousand feet closer to heaven. Tasting Tim Horton's in the mountains... should be a treat.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Waves and Waves
In the ocean of life, faith is the anchor of the soul. I've mentioned this before. It is on a book mark that my Mom bought me over 15 years ago and it has hung from every rearview mirror of every vehicle I've ever owned. It is sun-faded, a little tattered on the edges, but golden in its strength. It's funny because this was the first thing I thought of as I opened my eyes from a very sound sleep this morning.
In the ocean of life, faith is the anchor of the soul.
Man, the ocean gets turbulent sometimes, doesn't it. It whips you around like you're an ant in a tornado. Doesn't seem like you have the slightest chance of survival. And then, magically, it calms and you are left contemplating the most beautiful sunrise you've ever set eyes on. And oh, the fish that are within it. Bait and hook, hook and bait all day long. Not only is fishing entertaining, it feeds you!
In the past three days, I've gotten phone calls out of nowhere for job interviews, for dates and for social events. I was sitting in turbulent waters, contemplating the weight of that anchor on my shoulders, and whammo, the waters changed, the tide turned and my anchor began drifting like it was a feather on very powerful, breathtaking waves. What is in store for me?
It feels like there has been a bend in the ocean, that I have moved beyond looking at the horizon and actually am part of it now. Like the pink and gray backdrop of that horizon line has somehow pulled me into it. I wasn't even trying to get there. But magically, the phone started ringing.
I have a phone interview this afternoon with a billion dollar corporation doing work that I can do with my eyes closed - writing and negotiating legal contracts. Yawn. It does call for some traveling though, so it may not be a winner for me because we all know my number one priority are my babies and traveling kind of works against those priorities. Unless they mean traveling from my bedroom to my office to finish my work. Wouldn't that be nice? After I finished setting up that interview, my phone rang again with an opportunity to begin work as a manager for telecommunications for a previous company - this was piggybacked by another potential opportunity.
All this, after looking for something since January.
I have a date on Thursday with a "nice, Italian boy who has a crazy streak". Boy, that sounds familiar! It's a blind date but the age and physical stats sound promising. It's merely a date and a mere date is all this girl can handle at this point. I look forward to a couple beers, the niceness and the craziness. The last thing I want is a relationship, so crazy and nice sounds appealing.
The kids will be going with their dad this afternoon for their vacation. I will be mapping my drive to the mountains of North Carolina for one of the only things that doesn't weigh my heart down with the thought of being away from them...
Big things bobbing up and down in this ocean. The next storm awaits - boy, does it await - but I'll just grab onto my anchor and wait for it to pass.
In the ocean of life, faith is the anchor of the soul.
Man, the ocean gets turbulent sometimes, doesn't it. It whips you around like you're an ant in a tornado. Doesn't seem like you have the slightest chance of survival. And then, magically, it calms and you are left contemplating the most beautiful sunrise you've ever set eyes on. And oh, the fish that are within it. Bait and hook, hook and bait all day long. Not only is fishing entertaining, it feeds you!
In the past three days, I've gotten phone calls out of nowhere for job interviews, for dates and for social events. I was sitting in turbulent waters, contemplating the weight of that anchor on my shoulders, and whammo, the waters changed, the tide turned and my anchor began drifting like it was a feather on very powerful, breathtaking waves. What is in store for me?
It feels like there has been a bend in the ocean, that I have moved beyond looking at the horizon and actually am part of it now. Like the pink and gray backdrop of that horizon line has somehow pulled me into it. I wasn't even trying to get there. But magically, the phone started ringing.
I have a phone interview this afternoon with a billion dollar corporation doing work that I can do with my eyes closed - writing and negotiating legal contracts. Yawn. It does call for some traveling though, so it may not be a winner for me because we all know my number one priority are my babies and traveling kind of works against those priorities. Unless they mean traveling from my bedroom to my office to finish my work. Wouldn't that be nice? After I finished setting up that interview, my phone rang again with an opportunity to begin work as a manager for telecommunications for a previous company - this was piggybacked by another potential opportunity.
All this, after looking for something since January.
I have a date on Thursday with a "nice, Italian boy who has a crazy streak". Boy, that sounds familiar! It's a blind date but the age and physical stats sound promising. It's merely a date and a mere date is all this girl can handle at this point. I look forward to a couple beers, the niceness and the craziness. The last thing I want is a relationship, so crazy and nice sounds appealing.
The kids will be going with their dad this afternoon for their vacation. I will be mapping my drive to the mountains of North Carolina for one of the only things that doesn't weigh my heart down with the thought of being away from them...
Big things bobbing up and down in this ocean. The next storm awaits - boy, does it await - but I'll just grab onto my anchor and wait for it to pass.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Marco!
I am four days away from my trip to the mountains of North Carolina to attend a writing workshop with about 90 other people - 10 of which I will become more familiar with because they will be in my fiction-writing class with me. There will be no dogs to wake me up at 5am, no lawn to mow or pool to vacuum, the kids will be doing whatever it is that they do with their father (or whoever is watching them) and despite the fact that I always feel an ache when they aren't next to me, I will have the workshop to fill the void. And truly, aside from being a mom and running this household, writing is truly my passion. Hopefully, I'll walk out of there with a little more confidence in my abilities and some tricks to get me through the short story, poem or novel that urges me to write it. My writing sure as hell hasn't been up to par lately. And I know why that is too. I just can't shake the anxieties of the days that have strung together over the past month - no matter how I try.
I dunk my head under the waters in the pool, I teach the kids the right and fair way to play Marco-Polo, we get the whirlpool going pretty good, we shoot hoops with a ball that has patches over where Enzo's teeth have landed, we spend lazy minutes on our towels, reading books and drying off in the sun... and in those moments, all is good.
The minute they do their own thing - cuddled up on the couch with a book or an ice cream sandwich or watching Spongebob - I am tensed up again, clenching my jaw and worrying about the next time I have to face my ex, the next time I have to hear either one of them complain about leaving me again, the next time my lawyer calls to say I have to go to court in order to talk to my ex about things that, if his guilt and pride would stand down, could be done in a regular conversation between a mother and father of two very beautiful children, and the next unexpected/unaccounted for bill that comes in the mail...
I used to be able to let it all go - take a deep breath and let it go because tomorrow worries about itself and I am not obligated to take over its job - but the truth is, nothing ever changes. It's been three years of me begging to get on the same page, swallowing my pride and apologizing to keep the peace, watching who I introduce the children to, what we eat, how we spend our time and realizing that life will play out the way it plays out regardless of my actions because despite wanting a normal childhood for the kids and an amicable relationship with a man that has no idea he is leaving a graveyard of broken relationships behind him - and that this flippin' skeleton is standing up and crawling toward him again and again and again just to ensure that his babies don't get hurt.
And it sucks. And I'm tired. And while I am at this writing workshop or in front of this computer, I'll be thrown sideways in anticipation of being beaten down again and again and again.
Time is the conqueror, they say. You'd think after three years, the battle would have been won by now.
But it's not. It's just a string of days, with fun moments stuck between the days of drama with a person who thinks he's a real man with integrity, but is really a coward dressed in fine clothes, driving expensive cars with pretty girl after pretty girl...and taking it all out on me.
Time for pancakes and then a full day of swimming with the kids! Moment by moment by moment by monumental moment...
Polo!
I dunk my head under the waters in the pool, I teach the kids the right and fair way to play Marco-Polo, we get the whirlpool going pretty good, we shoot hoops with a ball that has patches over where Enzo's teeth have landed, we spend lazy minutes on our towels, reading books and drying off in the sun... and in those moments, all is good.
The minute they do their own thing - cuddled up on the couch with a book or an ice cream sandwich or watching Spongebob - I am tensed up again, clenching my jaw and worrying about the next time I have to face my ex, the next time I have to hear either one of them complain about leaving me again, the next time my lawyer calls to say I have to go to court in order to talk to my ex about things that, if his guilt and pride would stand down, could be done in a regular conversation between a mother and father of two very beautiful children, and the next unexpected/unaccounted for bill that comes in the mail...
I used to be able to let it all go - take a deep breath and let it go because tomorrow worries about itself and I am not obligated to take over its job - but the truth is, nothing ever changes. It's been three years of me begging to get on the same page, swallowing my pride and apologizing to keep the peace, watching who I introduce the children to, what we eat, how we spend our time and realizing that life will play out the way it plays out regardless of my actions because despite wanting a normal childhood for the kids and an amicable relationship with a man that has no idea he is leaving a graveyard of broken relationships behind him - and that this flippin' skeleton is standing up and crawling toward him again and again and again just to ensure that his babies don't get hurt.
And it sucks. And I'm tired. And while I am at this writing workshop or in front of this computer, I'll be thrown sideways in anticipation of being beaten down again and again and again.
Time is the conqueror, they say. You'd think after three years, the battle would have been won by now.
But it's not. It's just a string of days, with fun moments stuck between the days of drama with a person who thinks he's a real man with integrity, but is really a coward dressed in fine clothes, driving expensive cars with pretty girl after pretty girl...and taking it all out on me.
Time for pancakes and then a full day of swimming with the kids! Moment by moment by moment by monumental moment...
Polo!
Friday, July 2, 2010
Twice Shy
Oh, the hours I’ve wasted, distressed from the transpirations of the past three years. And only now do I realize, at 6:46pm on a Friday night, that this attractive writer is dressed in her pajamas and ready to go to bed.
How weary the body becomes after all this time: the pain and exhaustion of scrutinizing a venomous wound that has long since healed; the puzzle of the mood of the snake – whether the fangs will be hidden or exposed at the next meeting; and how the wounded will walk again after the onslaught of insults and negativity.
Why bother?
Is this longing for a beer with friends a comfort or an ache? Is this longing for companionship real or just a cruel joke? The knob to turn off the risk and the pain has broken in my hands. That poisonous snake is hiding somewhere….
So why bother?
The quiet moments when the soul is alive,
when the voices inside are comforting,
when the solitude of being a part of something bigger erases the pain of living – those are the moments I should concentrate on.
In the green fluidity of the leaves on the trees –
from the distant bird song and the pleasant screams
of neighbors playing in the pool.
I must become enchanted.
The seriousness of life shall never stop
with its incessant hammering.
Only a fool would listen.
I am a fool.
How weary the body becomes after all this time: the pain and exhaustion of scrutinizing a venomous wound that has long since healed; the puzzle of the mood of the snake – whether the fangs will be hidden or exposed at the next meeting; and how the wounded will walk again after the onslaught of insults and negativity.
Why bother?
Is this longing for a beer with friends a comfort or an ache? Is this longing for companionship real or just a cruel joke? The knob to turn off the risk and the pain has broken in my hands. That poisonous snake is hiding somewhere….
So why bother?
The quiet moments when the soul is alive,
when the voices inside are comforting,
when the solitude of being a part of something bigger erases the pain of living – those are the moments I should concentrate on.
In the green fluidity of the leaves on the trees –
from the distant bird song and the pleasant screams
of neighbors playing in the pool.
I must become enchanted.
The seriousness of life shall never stop
with its incessant hammering.
Only a fool would listen.
I am a fool.
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