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I seem very ghost-like to myself these days, in this place. So much movement and stillness going on in my life at once that finding the words to communicate my insides puts me off even trying most days. I read about you, but there have been weeks when I haven't even bothered with that. I feel guilty even admitting it, as it is not a matter of waning interest so much as a lack of time and energy. I'm making a long journey these last few months that I cannot share...at least not now. But I am here with this feeble whisper to ask you not to forget me, to please not confuse my silence with a lack of feeling or care, and to believe that I will be back soon.
For the first time in a long time, I hate waking up in the mornings. I tell myself it's stress--job, money, relationships, derby...you name it. I wake up and in that instant that I realize I'm awake, everything comes crashing in on me and all I can do is wish myself back to sleep. Of course, I don't have the luxury of being that self-indulgent so I pull myself out of bed and slog through the day as best I can. I've been smoking too much again, which doesn't help anything and only serves to make me more disappointed with myself for treating my body so shabbily. I know there are times in life where everything seems difficult, where everything pushes us to the verge of panic. I also know that this will pass. Still, I can't quite place my finger on what's making me feel so out of balance. I suspect it's the failure to make time for myself to be quiet. Everything is always such a jumble in my head these days that I find it hard to be still and reflect on anything. Movement is what has always pushed me through the rough spots, but that doesn't seem to be working this time. I keep thinking I'll have time to rest once this or that is finished, but the next thing pops up and I keep running in mini-crisis mode day after day. It's time to slow down a bit and I'm going to start to put the brakes on a little each day until I get my equilibrium back. Life should never be merely a blur of hard places and things.
It's hard to think of January as the beginning of the year. It always seems so very much the middle for me. Fall, a season that generally marks the end of things for most people, has always been my marker for the beginning of another year. I suppose that beginnings are always just a matter of perspective. The same can probably be said of endings as well. If I am resolved to do anything this year, it is to be more aware of the possibility of both. Life is more and more quicksilver to me with each passing year.
In a few hours, one of my oldest and dearest friends, ![[livejournal.com profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raindog will make her way to my doorstep. We have known each other for almost twenty years now, having met when we were both teaching Freshman Composition and working on our prospective degrees. We came from the same West Texas stock, red dirt girls who traveled in opposite directions. I moved to Los Angeles and she moved to the northwest to plant trees and talk to horses. We've moved around, we've found and lost lovers, we've had children. We've shared secrets, heartbreaks, giggles and joy for almost two decades now. It's hard to believe that it's been close to eight years since we've had a full night of gossip and girl talk in person. I can't wait!!!
raindog will make her way to my doorstep. We have known each other for almost twenty years now, having met when we were both teaching Freshman Composition and working on our prospective degrees. We came from the same West Texas stock, red dirt girls who traveled in opposite directions. I moved to Los Angeles and she moved to the northwest to plant trees and talk to horses. We've moved around, we've found and lost lovers, we've had children. We've shared secrets, heartbreaks, giggles and joy for almost two decades now. It's hard to believe that it's been close to eight years since we've had a full night of gossip and girl talk in person. I can't wait!!!Tags:
I’ve been in a swirl of things lately that have had me reevaluating the way I live. This is not necessarily a bad thing. It’s good to take a look at everything once in a while and ask myself if I am where I want to be. My life here is so completely comfortable to me that it’s often a shock to realize that the people who come and go through the little house do not see it as the same refuge it is to me. I live out in the middle of nowhere really, about 20 miles from the nearest town of any size. I have two kids, two outside cats, three inside cats (soon to be two, as my oldest is still hanging in there but probably not long for this world), three dogs, and a bunch of deer that show up on my doorstep every morning for breakfast. I have a plot of land down the road, a fountain with a small goldfish pond, gardens that always need tending, paintings and various other projects in various stages of completion. My house is small but cozy, with crazy painted walls and artwork from people I love hanging in just about every spare corner. My windowsills are large and full of plants and souvenirs from the life I have lived so far—all an odd assortment of knickknacks that have their own stories. I share this place with people as they come into my life, whether friends or lovers; but it is always so very much mine, perhaps too much so for anyone to really feel like there is a permanent place for them here. The possibility of leaving or making any significant changes to the way I live is remote. There are days that the nomad in me feels a bit trapped by this, days when the responsibility seems much more a curse than a blessing. For someone who spent such a long time being able to leave places at the drop of a hat with no worries about who would watch the kids or feed the animals, the logistics of getting away can be difficult at best. I chafe at the ties sometimes, wishing for other places and things. Ultimately, I always come to the same conclusion…that I love my home. I love the way the tile floor feels on my feet, I love the way the sun comes in through my curtains, I love the way the house resonates with all the energy of life with my boys and my menagerie. I am as connected to this place as I probably will ever be to anything. So while offers of a different life in a different place might be appealing on any given day, the truth is I wouldn’t leave this place again even if I could. Time and children leaving the nest may change that for me, but this is where I want to be now. As with anything, the choices we make for ourselves always have consequences. My choice to stay here in the little house may dictate the path that my relationships will take; my obligations to my children and my home are always paramount to anything else. This leaves the brave souls who dare to love me traveling out to the middle of nowhere to find me—sometimes this makes me happy, other times it makes me guilty for being so necessarily selfish. My wish for someone to want to stay and never leave would probably evaporate once the decision was made to do so. I am always practical about my impracticality. If there is any one thing that my home and my life have given me, it is freedom from the yoke of expectations. I live without them to a large extent, because the home I have created allows us that luxury. It allows us room to unfold and be however it is we need to be. So at the heart of all the swirling about, I reach the same conclusion each time—this is my home and, with all its quirks and comforts, there really is no other place like it.
I drink my morning coffee in the cool morning air and mull over all of my failures, large and small. It is the season of ghosts and this is what I do. It is a time when I regret not having the necessary language to describe what it is that I secretly wish for, even for myself. October's moon for me is the Riddle Moon. It is the time when I feel the need to figure something out, to name the secret name, to find the answer to a question I cannot articulate. How can I ever hope to find something so abstract that there is no word I know for it? This is always the difficulty I wrestle as the first hints of fall creep up to my doorstep each year. I miss my grandmothers and I prepare for the loss of my only living grandparent. He'll go soon. He told me as much the last time I spoke to him. I tell him there are still things left to do and he gently reminds me that some things will have to be done without him. My mother is the one I worry about most. She minimizes her connections to people so the losing them won't be so hard. I know this about her because it is in this that we are most alike.
October makes me lonely. It is the month when I am acutely aware of the consequences of my solitary nature. Whether it is a person, place, or particular state of mind that would fulfill me, I am at a loss for it in October. In October, I pay the price for being who I am. It is the month where I have to admit to myself that, in spite of the lovely glimmers of understanding here and there, I have yet to find another person who sees all of me. Is it only a matter of language? Is it a matter of recognizing the right sound or inflection? Is it a particular smell or feeling? Or a particular chain of events that will open my eyes to whatever it is I feel has eluded me? The only thing that does not change is my obstinate determination to be watchful for something that I'm not sure even exists. The only thing that has changed is that I am even more impatient with the false starts and missteps to which I have subjected myself and others in my efforts to put a name to what it is I secretly want to find...or what it is I want to find me.
At the same time, this is the month where I am at my best and most connected with everything I love. I never fail to recognize the fullness of this life I am living, even with all its ghosts. I suppose I am no different than anyone else. Our lives are complex and bittersweet chimeras, pieced together from everything that we have and everything we don't. We probably all try, in one way or another, to search out that Rumplestiltskin moment, where we whisper just the right words to make everything finally fall into place.
October makes me lonely. It is the month when I am acutely aware of the consequences of my solitary nature. Whether it is a person, place, or particular state of mind that would fulfill me, I am at a loss for it in October. In October, I pay the price for being who I am. It is the month where I have to admit to myself that, in spite of the lovely glimmers of understanding here and there, I have yet to find another person who sees all of me. Is it only a matter of language? Is it a matter of recognizing the right sound or inflection? Is it a particular smell or feeling? Or a particular chain of events that will open my eyes to whatever it is I feel has eluded me? The only thing that does not change is my obstinate determination to be watchful for something that I'm not sure even exists. The only thing that has changed is that I am even more impatient with the false starts and missteps to which I have subjected myself and others in my efforts to put a name to what it is I secretly want to find...or what it is I want to find me.
At the same time, this is the month where I am at my best and most connected with everything I love. I never fail to recognize the fullness of this life I am living, even with all its ghosts. I suppose I am no different than anyone else. Our lives are complex and bittersweet chimeras, pieced together from everything that we have and everything we don't. We probably all try, in one way or another, to search out that Rumplestiltskin moment, where we whisper just the right words to make everything finally fall into place.
My entrance into this world was sandwiched between the Ides of March and St. Paddy's Day. I've always been quite certain that this explains many of the tragi-comic veins that have run through much of my existence on the planet to date. The worse things get the more I laugh. It helps, believe me. It's the Irish in me that gets me through plenty, not unlike another friend who recently communicated the same sentiment to me about himself. The journey from my last birthday to this one was full of hills and valleys. I was happier than I'd ever been before and more desperate and sad than I've ever been before. I discovered so much about myself...what I am, what I would have liked to have been, and what I never will be. In the end, I found that I may be many things, but mother is at the center of them all. There's a peace in that, even as there is sacrifice. Thanks to all of you for so many wonderful birthday wishes. I am so very fortunate to have such incredible people to help me mark the passing of my life's time. Each of you provide a unique timbre and hue for which I am always grateful. I appreciate your insights, your humor, your support, and even your scolding. ; ) I thank you mostly for accepting me without judgment and for caring for me without expectation. That is why I think this funny list of mine that's grown so much larger than I could have ever imagined is aptly named. Friends. Yes. That's exactly right. Friends.
Every few months I have a crash and burn spell. I hit a wall and all the most important parts of me spill out, while I scramble to hold my insides...to keep walking, limping, or even crawling to the next good thing. The call of the next good thing is the only force that pushes my one foot in front of the other some days. It's what keeps me from melting onto myself and disappearing for weeks at a time. Today, the next good thing is dinner with a friend and a poetry reading by Jean Valentine this evening. I rarely indulge in fits of gloom, but I'm so tired and inexplicably sad lately. Last week, someone at work made a very flip comment about how I'm always so happy and together. It was meant as a compliment, but it just pissed me off. Every bit of my contentment has had a price...just because I don't go all fucking Minnie Pearl and let the tags show doesn't mean I didn't pay for it.
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