Ode To Lauren Hough

 

Dear Lauren,

I’ve read your book and am confident I’m your soulmate.  Your words made me cry, laugh, relate, worry, want more, and fall in love.  There’s no doubt those words were written to me…for me…as an effort to find me.  Luckily for you, it worked!  As a bonus, you became a New York times best seller.  Seems like a grandiose plan to find me, but you’re not afraid of risks or big actions.  I LOVE that about you.  I know you so well.  Did I mention I read your book?  Every word.  Yeah, yeah…I know it’s about a portion of your life, but I’m intelligent and intuitive so I’ve filled in all the gaps.  Your life has been a shit show…same for me.  We’re both better now…which of course isn’t true but it’s what the world thinks so let’s just let them think that. 

Since you haven’t met me yet, allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Stephanie.  Currently I live in Seattle but will be packing soon to head your direction.  I’ve never been to Austin and am so excited to get there!  In fact, I’ve never been to Texas.  You’ve been working on your van for quite some time in order to road trip in it, I’ll come and help you finish that.  I’m super organized, can write a great plan and budget, and will for sure cure your procrastination on that project.

Oh, yes.  I’m forgetting to introduce myself.  I’m a little older than you, but not enough for it to be an issue.  I’m short, a natural red head…well…it used to be natural but age is not kind so now there’s some help in keeping it red. I’m a bit chubby..but you know what they say…more cushion less pushin…so really this is all for your comfort!  I’m an aspiring writer – just one more thing we have in common. When I get there we can spend hours on the porch reading and writing together.  Do you have a porch? My new friend Liwen told me I’m funny so there’s that.  I’ll keep you organized, cure procrastination AND make you laugh.

OOH!!! My email just dinged with a new message from you…hold on while I go read today’s love letter….

 

“You’re at a wedding and someone says they love you. You’ve never seen them before. But they know all about you. They ask about your family, in front of your family. They know all the wrong parts. All the wrong names. You’re a liability now. You brought everyone in and tried to draw a line they were already camping inside. What the fuck were you thinking. You know what it feels like when they need to tell twitter about you. When you’re something like a trophy, disheveled and wearing the wrong t-shirts and in need of a shower, but a trophy nonetheless, or something like it.”

 

Wait….Are there people out there who think they know you and love you just because they read your book?  How utterly ridiculous can people be?   

Talking About Vulnerability

 

I’ve been having conversations about vulnerability lately and hearing the term used in the media.  It seems to be the current catch word. But are we using the word so much that it’s lost its…vulnerability?  According to Webster vulnerability is “the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally”.  Brene Brown, the leader in research on shame and vulnerability, defines it as “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure. But vulnerability is not weakness; it's our most accurate measure of courage”. 

While I’ve been having these conversations about vulnerability, nothing about them feels vulnerable.  I crave a certain level of exposure, but it doesn’t work long or well if the other person isn’t also willing to take risks.   Talking ‘about’ something, isn’t the same as ‘being’ something.  How can we move from talking about being vulnerable into being vulnerable? What are the steps necessary to get there?

First and foremost, we must know ourselves and be comfortable with what we find.   How can we possibly risk exposure if we haven’t done the work ourselves?  When I was a social worker, my clients used to ask me why I was so okay sitting with their shit.  My answer? I learned to sit with my own shit. 

What I’m craving, is someone who can sit with my shit.  Someone who can hear my stories and remain.  Remain open. Remain interested.  Remain engaged.  Someone who is also willing to take the risk and expose themselves to me.  Letting me see their emotions…all of them. The positive and the negative.  Talk to me. Tell me what you think. About everything.

A one sided relationship is never fun.  While I can be vulnerable and am willing to be, if the other person doesn’t follow and share on a deep level, it’s not long before I’m retreating. Putting distance – physically and emotionally – between us. 

For now, I’m going to keep testing the waters.  Being vulnerable.  Being real.  And, hopefully, run into someone who wants to reciprocate.  What I’ve learned is, test the waters. Share.  But when the other person isn’t wading into the deep waters with me, retreat before I drown. 

Kindness Is My Religion

 

In every religion I’m familiar with, in secular humanism and just good old fashioned home training, treating other humans with kindness is a value embraced by all. 

Treat not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful.  – Buddhism

Consider what humanists aspire to be as ethical agents. ... They wish always to respect their fellow human beings, to like them, to honor their strivings and to sympathize with their feeling. – Secular Humanism

So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” Matthew 7:12 - Christianity

We can be more tolerant, more neighborly, more friendly, more of an example than we have been in the past. Let us teach our children to treat others with friendship, respect, love, and admiration. That will yield a far better result than will an attitude of egotism and arrogance (President Gordon B. Hinckley, “A Time of New Beginnings,” (Apr. 2000 General Conference). – Church of Latter Day Saints

“Ben Zoma asks, ‘Who is worthy of honor?
The one who treats others with honor.’”
Pirkei Avot (4:1) - Judaism

The Qur’an says, “Do not let the hatred of others to you make you swerve to wrong and depart from justice. Be just: that is next to piety.” (Quran Surah Al-Maa’idah, 5:8) That is, do not let your enmity for your enemies exceed the limits and turn you away from justice in either words or actions. – Islam

Each of these religions also admonish us not to repay evil with evil.  1 Peter 3:9, Sunan al-Tirmidhī , Prophet Moroni admonished the Latter Day Saints to not respond with evil but with kindness. While I know all this to be true, every once in a while, I forget.

The other day I spoke with less than kindness to a customer service person at Costco and it made my grandson laugh out loud. It wasn’t funny, he was just shocked to hear it. It reminded me that I’m an example and he’s watching.

Yesterday I had to go to another office to pick up a check which had been delivered there.  As I walked in, I said “Hi, I have a check to pick up.” One woman looked up but ignored me as if I hadn’t spoken. The woman with the check, one desk over, raised the check above her head with one hand while never looking away from what she was doing. She raised the check like a flag, waving it towards me without ever looking at me or uttering a word. 

Taking the check being waved at me, I said “Thank you” and exited the building.  The level of disrespect and unkindness was shocking.

Granted, these were the same women who said very derogatory and nasty things about me just a few weeks ago…and I certainly don’t expect gushing kindness or welcoming arms, but professional kindness…is that too much to ask?

As I drove away, I was seething.  That level of disrespect is something that angers me instantly.

And then I remembered my encounter with the customer service person at Costco. 

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

Okay, okay, I’m listening.  I get it.

So, thank you ladies for reminding me that I fall short in living up to my own values.  Lessons come in many forms. 

Origin Haiku

 

Born in ‘63

The world at war over race

My parents with me

 

It was always said

Some have kids, some have mistakes

They had two and two

 

Two kids who they love

And two unwanted mistakes

Life is a gamble

 

Two kids to adore

Fifty/fifty chances there

Two more to regret

 

Mistake number One

Drugs and alcohol, she’s dead

Dear God, I miss You

 

Me, I’m Mistake Two

Not sure what to be and do

Seeking my own voice

2 Timothy 2: 1- 15

When I was in 7th grade, age 11 for me, a contest was held to go to this bible camp in Estes Park Colorado. Even then, academics and travel were both something I was highly interested in.  In order to be chosen for this camp, it was required to memorize 1 Timothy 2: 1 - 15 and be able to recite it at an interview.  This whole section of Timothy is about studying, listening, learning, teaching and being a good  servant. Aren’t those the best qualities of one who serves? Being willing to study, remain faithful, teach others and share knowledge without getting caught up in the ‘affairs of this life’? 

My life has been one of service. To my partners, to my children, to educating others, to caring for prisoners and homeless people, people addicted to drugs and suffering from mental health issues.  Being of service is where I thrive, it is what makes sense to me. Telling the truth about what’s working and what isn’t working makes sense to me.  Telling the truth in order to educate and create change makes sense to me. 

This makes sense to me in whatever capacity I’m working and serving.  I may be doing accounting or paralegal work or real estate contracts but I’m still in service in those capacities. There’s still an opportunity for teaching and learning.  There is always an opportunity to teach and to learn whether that’s from a couple whose been married for 45 years and refinancing their house, or the abused man who is getting a divorce and is afraid to say he’s been being abused, or the young entrepreneur who is chasing his passion but has no idea how to file taxes…all of these people have taught me something.  Hopefully, I’ve taught them something as well.  

This section of Timothy ends with the admonishment to ‘study to show thyself a workman who needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.’  Study…so I do a good job and I don’t need to be ashamed of standing in the truth.  And then, divide that truth…Divide means to share or share in parts.  Dividing the word of truth means sharing what you’ve learned.  If you know something and I know something and we both share that knowledge, we each know more than we did before.  Which is a good thing. 

If we work for the same organization, are part of the same family, are working in a volunteer capacity, wherever it is we’re serving with others, there should be no competition.  What should be happening is completely sharing information and supporting one another in our common goal.  1 Thessalonians 5:11 - Therefore encourage one another and lift one another up.  Romans 15:2 Each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them up. 

I’m not a Christian, don’t claim to be walking in faith.  What I do know, is the Bible has many lessons of how to live a life that is peaceful and full of love.  It’s filled with admonishments to serve the poor, serve your neighbors and to stand in love and truth even when you’re standing alone.  There is a great lesson in Titus 3:10 about people who like to stir shit up and create divisiveness.  As for a person who stirs up division, after warning him once and then twice, have nothing more to do with him. It’s pretty clear.  Avoid quarreling, speak with kindness and show courtesy to all people.  When someone acts a fool, call them out.  Twice even. Give them a couple chances to correct. When they don’t, walk away.  Have nothing to do with them.  Don’t talk shit.  Don’t be vindictive.  Simply: don’t have anything to do with them.  

Maybe I’m simplifying too much: be kind, continue to study and learn, live a life of service, share knowledge, love everyone, and walk away from people who like to create conflict.  Seems like pretty simple lessons to lead a peaceful life. 

Opportunity

My birthday has become about loss. I cannot separate my birthday from my sister's death...they are intricately connected.  For me, my birthday has become a time of reflection and not celebration.  A time to consider what's important, what is worthy of a response and what isn't.  Who are my priorities and who are not.  Where/when/how I invest my time and emotions.

I am now older than my sister, which is extremely difficult for me.  For two reasons: simply because I'm old and because it seems very odd that I've aged beyond my sister. 

For years, the time between Thanksgiving and christmas has been a time of reflection, of solitude, of NON celebration.  In a way, Thanksgiving is the last meal before a month of fasting. One year, I spent my birthday stocking up and made a commitment to spend nothing for the entire month of December.  The one exception was fuel for my car so that I could get to work.  It was a really good month and very much brought into focus how conspicuous consumerism is pushed so hard, especially at this time of year.  

This year has been strange, difficult, full of learning, forced many of us to slow down, stay home, be reminded of what we really need. We've all been given the opportunity to see who we really want to see and speak to when social options are so limited.  You never know who you're going to be when times are hard...unless you know who you are when times are not  hard.  Because that's who you are. That's who I am.  We are who we are.  Hard times don't make us who we are, they show us who we are. 

In addition to a world wide health crisis, I've had a personal health crisis which provided me the opportunity to ask myself hard questions.  How have I lived? How do I want to live in the future? How do I want to die?  Is there something in my past I've really avoided dealing with and need/want to? Are there people in my life I really don't want in my life? Is there anybody who isn't in my life that I miss and very much want to mend those relationships? 

While I've done some pretty cringe worthy things in my life, my life has been worth living.  I've loved my kids with my entire soul and that in and of itself has made life worth being here.  It's always been my contention that our children - without even trying - show us the best and worst of who we are.  The incredible anger that can bubble up at person who can't even walk or talk...the insane amount of patience to answer 'why' 9,000 times in one day...the sheer will to keep going when exhaustion is overwhelming...the courage to apologize when you've messed up and it impacts them negatively...the straight face you have to keep when you actually feel like laughing heartily over something they think is soooo important and you realize that this 12 year old has no idea how inconsequential this really is...the most joy and passion ever experienced...the ability to be hurt to your core by the things they say TO you and ABOUT you...the power they have to incite guilt over the most mundane decision...the absolute love and joy when you hold your baby's baby...the emotions these people invoke are endless and the highest of the highs and the lowest of the lows and everything in between. 

This year, with my birthday a week away, the state back on socially restrictive measures, life being all kinds of weird and the future - at best - shaky, my plan is to celebrate.  To have a hugely amazing meal with my family on Thanksgiving, to give thanks that even though I've taken some very wrong turns and made quite a mess of my life at times, I'm still here.  There's still an opportunity to recover, to learn, to grow, to laugh, to love and to celebrate. 

3 Rounds of Enough

Round 1

You have mistaken my kindness for weakness

And 

My silence for ignorance

I am neither weak nor dumb

Your eyes meet mine

As we exchange a knowing look

A silent look that says so much 

You pause

Wait

Expecting a reaction

My eyes are saying so much

You know

I know

That is enough 

Round 2

You have assumed my silence is compliance 

And that I am complicit, kindly unaware

We lock eyes

We are not looking at one another

We are locked in battle with one other

My defiant eyes let you know

I am neither complicit

Nor compliant

I’m very aware

You’ve done me wrong

I know

You know

Have you done enough?

Round 3

As I quietly put my clothes in a bag

You are watching 

Stunned into your own silence

We have looked at one another

Locked eyes with one another 

We’ve been silent 

We’ve spoken

You’ve repented

I’ve forgiven

You mistook my kindness for weakness

I’ve given Enough

I’ve taken Enough

I’ve had Enough

The Game of Love

He wrote as if it was about her.

This was his con. To make every “her” feel she was THE her. HIS her.

This was his gift and HER curse.

Because if you actually read the words and didn’t get caught up in the con, every word was about HIM and he said very loudly and very clearly: There was no HER.

He studied women. Spoke with women. Remembered women. So his sweeping generalities and flowing script cast a wide net.  EVERY woman could relate. See something of herself reflected. Their unhealthy mirror made them believe the depth of his knowledge was a show of his attention to and intentions with HER.

But his inbox was full of DM’s from so many HERS.  Because each one of them believed that what THEY shared was special, her response was sent to him privately. In his inbox. Email. Text message. His phone blowing up with the notifications. His ego swelling with each response.

And the con became a solid way of life.  The question is: who is he trying to CONvince?  Himself or all the otHERS?

Miscommunication

I gave you my hope
You took my body
I wanted you Whole
You wanted a hole
A hole in you satisfied
A hole in me filled
So you filled me with semen
And as you were leavin
I finally came
Came to my senses
And stopped believing
We wanted the same thing
I crave the spiritual
You’re stuck in the physical

Can You Feel That

I feel you inside me
Even though you’re hundreds of miles away
Lay back. Close your eyes.
Can you feel that?
Can you feel me as you fill me?
Fill my mind with knowledge.
Fill my spirit with love.
Fill my body with craving.
Touch yourself.
Can you feel that?
Feel me, as you fill me.

We Mattered

He entered my body through every hole
Feeling me so deeply He found my Soul
Finding the edge of my passion and pain
Taking me beyond every limit releasing the strain
Prostrate on the floor naked and exposed
My body an offering and a prayer
Kneeling at his feet
My surrender complete
He Came
I Lived
We Mattered

Wounded Women

The young mom whose own mom chose meth and alcohol over being a mom and she is now learning to be a mom, without a mom. 

The young adult woman who bounces from family member to family member in search of belonging and her ‘place’ in the world. Never quite sure where she fits in, struggling to define ‘self’ in a split family. 

The working mom who is emotionally drained and physically stretched who comes home to a son that is challenging and demands every ounce of reserves to parent. She feels alone and questions how she can be so brilliant at work and yet not have answers for her own son.

The single woman who travels the world in almost complete solitude and fear because her experiences have taught her that no one can be trusted. 

The woman who is a pillar of her community yet fights an internal battle that she numbs with alcohol and no one knows. 

The middle aged woman who fights a battle with depression, wears scars on her face that tell of past experiences and struggles daily to overcome past failures. 

The woman who is homeless yet puts on business clothes every day to go to a job that doesn’t pay enough to cover rent and daycare...she chooses daycare to keep her kids safe when she can’t be with them. 

The 20, 30, 40, 50 something female who swiped right looking for some sort of love and connection and now lays next to this stranger filled with grief and embarrassment at her actions. Her self worth plummets as she walks to her car and wonders when she’ll give up this chase. 

The wife, whose marriage from the outside looks fine, but she hasn’t touched her husband and he hasn’t touched her in months.  They barely speak.  They gave up fighting years ago. What remains is apathy and loneliness.  

The 80 year old who lives alone, husband passed, kids grown and distant, fighting the battle of a decaying body while her heart and mind are still vital. Struggling to accomplish even the simplest of tasks, defeated and disgusted with the ravages of age. 

We see these wounded women every day. At work. At the store.  In the mirror.

They - we, I - walk among you every day. We are not carrying signs, marching in rallies, posting hashtags crying me too. We are fighting the fight to carry these wounds while we care for our partners, children and co-workers.  We carry these wounds while simultaneously searching for healing and a life that makes sense. 

The wounds become scars and no longer openly bleed.  We warrior on as partners, mothers, workers...wounded.  

Obstacles

Yesterday I took a walk by the river.  It was beautiful. Serene.  I climbed over rocks, walked on sandy shores and contemplated my life and which direction it was flowing to.  As I walked, I noticed the sounds of the river changing, getting louder, making more noise, creating more friction.  I kept walking and the river got quiet, still flowing, still moving in the right direction, just more smoothly and without all the racket.

It was the obstacles that created the noise.  The river didn't change, it kept flowing in the direction it was created to flow in, it just got noisy and rough when there were obstacles in its path. Rocks. Branches. Debris.  These things caused all the noise and turbulence in the river.  In many ways these obstacles make the river more beautiful, more fun, more daring.  In some ways, they change the direction of the flow for a bit, but eventually the river continues to flow in the direction it is intended to flow. Never departing from its natural course.

My life is like that river.  It gets noisy and disturbed when there are obstacles blocking my path.  Sometimes those obstacles make it beautiful, daring, more fun to ride for a while.  Eventually, those obstacles and distractions have to get out of the way so that I can get on with my natural flow and head in the direction I was intended to go.

Recognizing obstacles for what they are, moving around them, continuing to flow and reach my destination is one of the great challenges of life.  Realizing those obstacles are not ME...they are just there to rough up the river for a while and as life goes on, those obstacles change and disappear.  

Don't get stuck in those rough spots...Ride them out and just keep flowing.

Mortar and Gold

Years ago I fell apart into a million little pieces.  I picked up the pieces, put them in a box and put the box on a shelf. Oregon. Washington. Mexico. Louisiana. California. Alaska. I travelled and or lived in all these places lugging the box of pieces with me, but never opening the lid to look inside.  It’s the pieces of me I couldn’t be.

It’s years later. I’ve sat still for a bit, took the box off the shelf, opened the lid and looked at the pieces of who I used to be and wonder how to put myself back together. When you open a puzzle box there’s a picture on the cover to guide you and the pieces are cut to fit together just so.  This box doesn’t have a picture and the pieces aren’t cut to fit together just so. There are big pieces. Small pieces. Some with extremely sharp edges. Some shattered but not broken. Some shattered into such small pieces they’re barely visible.

If there’s no picture and the pieces don’t fit just so, how do I put the pieces back together? How do I become whole again? Masons use mortar. A workable paste used to bind building blocks together. Used to fill in all the irregular gaps and sometimes used to add decoration. In Japan they practice Kintsugi- the art of precious scars. Broken pottery is repaired with gold making the brokeness a thing of beauty.

I found the courage to take this box of broken pieces off the shelf. I took the lid off and I’m looking at the pieces of me. I’m holding the brokenness with forgiveness and compassion. Now how do I put the pieces back together? What’s the mortar used to hold my pieces in place and fill in irregular gaps? What do I use for gold to fill in the cracks and make my brokenness a thing of beauty?

Pieces

Your voice
Your touch
Your eyes
That look
The challenge
The joy
My rudder
My future
I look for you everywhere
      in everyone
There is no you in them
You set the standard
       became the standard
I gave you pieces of me
        I can’t get back
Pieces that left holes
         no one else can fill
Pieces - rearranged - into a
          different kind of whole

Impossible Cravings

Why is that we want things that we intellectually know are bad for us? Too much food - or the wrong food.  Too much alcohol.  The wrong boyfriend or girlfriend. When we know it's going to hurt us, when we have already been hurt, when we know the outcome is never going to change, why do we still have these impossible cravings?

My hands shake, my heart races, my stomach knots up...and I want him so badly that I can't focus on what's in front of me.  Just look at the menu, just order your dinner...don't look at the picture that just popped up, don't re-read the last text for the millionth time, don't order another glass of wine in an effort to ease this...just order dinner and get out of here.

Why does this still happen? How long do we have these complicated, impossible cravings for things that hurt us?

Jodi Picoult: "What we all want, really, is to be loved. That craving drives our worst behavior".

Why is that? Why does a craving to be loved, desired, appreciated drive us to act like our worse selves?  Perhaps because rejection is one of the worst feelings in the world...even when the person rejecting us is nowhere near worthy of our affections.

Rumi:

I choose to love you in silence
For in silence I find no rejection

I choose to love you in loneliness
For in loneliness no one owns you but me

I choose to adore you from a distance
For distance will shield me from pain

I choose to kiss you in the wind
For the wind is gentler than my lips

I choose to hold you in my dreams
For in my dreams, you have no end

Spiritual Autobiography

      How does one begin an autobiography about spirituality?  What I think of writing is a “religion” autobiography, but is that really spirituality? My search for spirituality continues, so the autobiography is quite incomplete.   In many ways, my spirituality does in fact begin with my early religious experiences.

           My family was one steeped in fundamentalist christianity and white supremacy, which in my mind still go hand in hand.  Not the same white privilege that all white people enjoy through no accomplishment of their own, but the inherent belief that white people are supreme.  Superior to all others and possess the manifest destiny to not only conquer the world, but to save it as well.

           The church I was born into and attended until beyond my marriage was called the Church of the Nazarene.  So named I suppose after Christ of Nazareth, the original Nazarene.  The church was one of legalism, based completely on performance.  The belief system was one founded on “original sin.”  Everyone was born wicked, wrong, and sinful and in order to gain redemption, Jesus Christ was the way, the truth, and the life.  No one came to God other than through Christ.  Salvation was full and free, but must be asked for and once found could also be lost.

           Salvation was not guaranteed and if you sinned, than you must ask again for salvation.  At some point (a point I never reached) one could arrive at “sanctification.”  To my understanding, this kind of meant the second level of salvation; that once this has occurred, the person no longer sinned.  (I may have this understanding wrong.  By the time I reached the age that this was part of my thinking, I had begun to think the entire process was a crock of shit.)  My church believed in baptism has an outward sign that one had died and been reborn through the resurrected Christ.

           From a very early age I attempted to “be” a good girl.  To behave accordingly and not sin.  For a female, this behavior included submission to my parents, the church elders, and any other adult simply because they were an adult. Age automatically made them wiser. My father was the church treasurer and sat on the board, my mother was the pastor’s secretary and cleaned the church on Saturdays.  We attended church twice on Sundays and again for mid-week prayer meeting on Wednesdays.  Annually there was a week-long revival, which we attended nightly.  What exactly we were being revived from is still unclear.

           The sermons were geared toward making people feel like failures.  Feeling as if you were not good enough.  That just being you with all your human foibles was somehow wrong.  Every Sunday the pastor led an alter call for anyone who wanted to get saved.  Without fail, the song we sang was “Just As I Am.”  “Just as I am without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me.”  I can still hear the haunting tune in my head.   Several times as a child and young adult, I was “saved.”  It never stuck.  I lived my entire life as a backslidden christian. 

           After several failed attempts at redemption, being voted out of church membership for having divorced, and re-thinking a lot of teaching, I left the church with a pretty big chip on my shoulder and a sizeable contempt for God.  Many times throughout my life I have lain awake in the dark and screamed out to god for proof of his existence.  (In my world, God and all related to him were white males.)  Equally as many times I have cried out in the dark about how much I hated god.  Actually said “Fuck You” and told him to stay away.  Even more times I’ve blamed myself fully for the wrong turns my life has taken for having said those words. Deep in my soul, it is hard to let go of the belief that I told God to fuck off one too many times and he has truly turned his back on me, rejecting me beyond hearing my cries for help or the need for proof of his existence.

           Do I actually believe this?  Honestly, I don’t know.  I would like to say I don’t, but sitting here now writing these words, I feel sadness in my soul.  Some belief, some regret, some thing still lingers there. I want to know a connection with a source of peace and power greater than myself or something I can name. I want to trust in something that I cannot see – have faith.  Trusting in things I can see, feel, and smell is difficult for me.  Trusting in humans who give me their word is something I struggle with on a daily basis. How then do I trust in something that is not tangible? 

           The search continues for the ability to trust something outside myself, and at times to even trust myself.  Early teachings haunt me, leading me to question myself and my ability to reason. Fear enters my being at the mention of “women’s religion.”  This means wikka to mean, which means an attachment to satan.  Whether or not this is true, I have no idea. I’m afraid to explore.

           Hell has a hold on me.  I fear eternal damnation more than I fear that there may be no god.  Like almost all things christian, this is not rational.  Intellectually I know that, but emotionally I cannot escape the feelings of fear.  Every once in a while the thought that today may be the day of the rapture and I’m going to be left behind, enters my head and I wonder what the world will be.  All these earthquakes happening recently are signs of the end times.  And then, I think that’s why George Bush is president again because christians have an irrational fear based on irrational beliefs and elected an irrational president to carry out an irrational system based on manifest destiny.  And we wind up back at white supremacy where this all started.  A vicious circle of fear and irrationality that keeps my mind anything from quiet, my spirit far from content, and my intellect saying fuck you to the entire system of belief outside myself.

Goodbye Has Never Been My Strong Suit

I rarely say goodbye...I've rarely been in a position to say goodbye...My belief system allows for second, third, fourth...as many as needed...chances to get things right.  A great deal of my life has been dedicated to people (including myself) who have made wrong turns, countless mistakes and repeated bad choices.  Much of my income has been earned helping those people embrace who they are and not beat themselves up for what they did, or didn't, do and to subsequently choose a new path, or perhaps just a less harmful path.  Goodbye and endings have never been my strong suit.

Talking, listening, showing, forgiving, waiting, working, trying new strategies, calling for help, seeking advice...basically staying in some sort of action has always been the better choice.  One thing I rarely do, is give up.  Endings are not my strong suit.

My sister said goodbye...I said goodbye to my sister.  Perhaps people think it strange that it's been more than 2 years and there is still a huge, hollow, aloneness that follows me.  I've tried, worked, strategized, called for help, sought advice, taken all the actions that I know in order to navigate this new territory.  Saying goodbye has never been my strong suit.

The past eight months have been spent learning the process of letting go.  I sought advice.  I talked. I cried. I waited.  I questioned.  I waited some more.  I looked for new paths.  I attempted to embrace everyone involved with compassion and understanding.

My belief system does not allow for holding grudges.  Which adds to my inability to say goodbye...there's always a chance.  There's always a chance that things will improve.  There's always a possibility that something will change.  My belief system looks for the good in what's happening rather than in what's wrong.  I look for the lesson rather than focus on blaming someone else for how I feel or behave.  I thank the Universe for sending the person to teach me what I need to know and learn.

One of the reasons my sister died was her inability to say goodbye...to put an end to things that were killing her.  Maybe holding on at her own expense was her stubborn pride in thinking she was strong enough to overcome, strong enough to manage, strong enough to not let that which was killing her...kill her.  Maybe learning to let go and say goodbye is something she and I both have not been good at.

Goodbye has never been my strong suit....Killing myself to hold on isn't a good idea either.

There Are No Words

I’ve never known a feeling so full or a place so perfect.  I want to write, but it’s indescribable.  Wordless.  There are not adequate words to describe what happens when his lips touch mine, when his hands touch my skin…when he’s inside me. No one does anything to earn this feeling…nor does anyone do anything to conjure it up.  It just happens. Unexpectedly and without effort.

It starts the moment I open the door and my heart stops.  For just the briefest of seconds, the world stands still.  It sounds so cliché…a 1950’s movie in black and white.  Then, my heart beats, my eyes smile and he is in my space.  It doesn’t matter where that space is when he’s in it…a table, a car, a couch, a lake, a tent, a rock…as long as he’s in my space.

Shared time and space.  Doesn’t cost a thing and is worth more than any treasure.

I want to find words to  write what it feels like to sleep with him…but there are no words. It is the most peaceful, restful, perfect sleep.  The feeling of my head on his chest, or in his neck, feeling his warmth, his heart beat, his gentle snore...the length of his body completely against mine, his arm wrapped around me, his hand resting on my waist…there is no safer place, no more perfect place.  I sleep soundly and instantly.  It is perfection…free from any flaws and defects.  Whatever else may be right or wrong in our lives, this moment, right here, wrapped up with him is pure perfection.

His  hands are the stabilizing force for my shattered heart.  His mouth quenches an unspoken hunger for connection.  His body is a comforter for my fear.  Where he is, is where I want to be.  I crave him in a way that is extreme.  Thoughts of him consume me in my sleep and distract me in my days.  He is my first thought every morning and my last thought every night.

There are no words to convey how much space he takes up in my head and my heart.  I never thought this was real…that there was one person who could change everything I ever thought about love.  It is at once completely satisfying while creating an unquenchable desire. A feeling so big there are no words to define it.

If We Knew It Was The Last Time

I've been thinking a great deal about endings...the end of the year...the end of a book...the end of a life...the end of a relationship...endings.  

If we knew this was the end, would we do things differently?  If I knew this would be the last thing I ever wrote, would I write something different?  If I knew this conversation would be the last conversation with you, would I say something else? If I knew this was the last kiss, would I kiss you differently?  If I knew this was the last time I was ever going to have sex with you, would I do something else....more of something... less? If this was the last book I could ever read, would I still choose to read this book?  

They say endings are just new beginnings, but sometimes endings are just endings.  Sometimes there is no new beginning, no do over, no chance to speak again, read again, kiss again or be naked with a person again.  

So, if you knew, if I knew, this was the last word, is this what I would write?  If this is the last conversation, is this the one I want to have?  If that was the last kiss, was it a good one?  

Yes...this is what I would write.  No, that conversation probably wasn't the one I would have chosen to have if I knew it was the last one.  Yes, that kiss was amazing and even though I didn't know it was the last one, it was a good one.  No, if I had known that was the last time I'd be naked with that person, I would have made it more special.  A better place...a better atmosphere...a better ending.  

Yet, I know that when I speak to people I care about, they know for sure I care about them.  My family is sure I love them.  My friends are sure I value them.  I left my job today in good spirits and they know I enjoy it.  That last kiss...it was good.  That last naked time...as perfect as every time before.  Late at night, when the world is quiet, I know my kids are confident that I love them.  Late at night, when the world is not so quiet and thoughts scatter, my friends know they can call and together we will gather those scattered thoughts.  Late at night, when sleep won't come, and life feels anything but perfect, there will be memories of perfection and there can be confidence that one person out there in the world thinks that you are exactly perfect.  

There has to be endings.  But if we take the time to have true conversations, write the right words, kiss with our whole self, tell the people in our lives how much we love them, and show appreciation for perfection, those endings can be good rather than bad, peaceful rather than full of loss. 

I believe it's better to say all the mushy, ridiculous, goofy, girly, sentimental, over the top things rather than reach an ending and not have said them.  So, if these were the last words I ever wrote, then know that I love my family, chose the book, kissed with my whole soul and experienced perfection.  

This is an ending.  But just of this...it's not the end of everything.