Blue Moon

I'm going to soak up the August 31 "Blue Moon," and treat it as a marker in time. The next Blue Moon will be July 31, 2015, and I am determined that my life will be very different by then.

Reading that old '92-'97 journal has been eye-opening. I should have done it a long time ago. Over half of my life has been spent on a hamster wheel, doing the same things over and over again, reliving the same painful experiences like Groundhog's Day, basically living the life of a rodent.

Todd threw another tantrum today. He's just so darn moody. One of the girls called it his "man period," and I found myself thinking, If only it were so regular and predictable and limited to one time a month.

Anyway, as he pushed me to enter into an argument, I walked away. I had to take my daughter to class anyway, so I had an excuse. It felt good driving away, and while I was out I got a call from a director I've wanted to work with for some time. He was offering me a job--a small job, but nonetheless, something creative and collaborative. After experiencing another man-period tantrum, it's so nice to talk with grown-ups who are... grown-ups. 

I've been going stir-crazy, stuck in this house, watching Todd. This project will do me good. True, I'll still be working from home and still keeping tabs on Todd, but I'll have a purpose that stretches beyond the days, weeks, or months that I'm counting down until I'm free of this role -- something that will have a positive effect on where I'll be on July 31, 2015.

Once in a blue moon we get glimpses of a future that is different than the ruts we've become entrenched in. It's kind of like how, on a road trip through a deeply wooded area, occasional gaps in the trees allow you to catch glimpses of expansive vistas that have been within a stone's throw all along, obstructed, but there. Sometimes we have to travel through pain and even destruction to get to the most memorable of views. 

I remember driving through Yellowstone National Park not too long after a major forest fire had ravaged the place. I had been hearing people grieving over the destruction and all that had been lost, and yet -- time and time again -- the beauty that captivated me was peeking through leaf-less gaps between charred branches.

This may seem a bit too romantic for a gal who has foresworn romance, but consider the application that a person can be the "love of [his/her] own." I've let too many blue moons slip by, not loving myself enough to get off the hamster wheel and start living already, subjecting myself to abuse that kept me from smiling.  



This blue moon's reminding me to love myself... and smile.

Truth or Vomit?

I logged onto a social media site earlier today and was greeted by one of those all-too-common internet memes that confuses intellectual property theft with creativity.

The words, "Speak the Truth," were coupled with the image of an exhibit of a 3-dimentional skull that appeared to be spewing a stream of splattering color onto a white gallery wall. 

“Confetti Death” by TYPOE, Spinello Gallery, Miami, Art Basel Miami Beach

It captured my attention first of all because the colorful image is compellingly vivid and thought-provoking, but also because foremost in my mind these days is the challenge of figuring out how and when to "speak the truth" in a manner that will cause the least amount of harm to the innocent people affected by these particular truths: (1) that I had an affair 15 years ago, and (2) that I am tired of pretending to have hope for a marriage that was doomed before it even started.

I could not repost the meme -- which, as usual, was void of any tribute of credit to the artist (I mean, really, is it so hard to just mention a name if you feel a piece of art is worth sharing?)  Instead I took the minute and a half it takes to do the research to find out who poured their time, heart, and resources into creating a work of art. The installation, which was exhibited at the Spinello Gallery in Miami during Art Basel Miami Beach, is titled "Confetti Death" and was created by a graffiti artist named TYPOE.

When I did find a review of the work of art, and saw that it was possibly more likely to be meant to be interpreted as vomit, even vomit leading to death... the juxtaposition of this image with the idea of "speaking the truth" took on new meaning, new irony.

Words can change worlds. I know that, so I will not be pressured to speak words that could be damaging without thoroughly thinking things out in advance. 

Charlie said it so well when he told me: 

What is relevant now... is designing a process that allows you to make these decisions known and relevant to those around you in a manor that is as painless as possible for all concerned. Certainly not an easy endeavor. However you go about building your plan, do yourself a favor, make sure you have flexibility already built into "the plan" from the beginning. Contingencies, and enough "what if's" already answered will allow you to make quick course corrections, preventing you from ending up so far off course that you have to abandon your mission....if you can avoid being blind sided, then others reactions to your decisions should be somewhat anticipated and hopefully a bit more manageable.... random emotions may be one of your greatest challenges.... your own, of people around you, even distant friends and family.... and these (emotions) will likely come in a form supported by strong language, guilt trips, and poor attempts at rational thought.... Whatever, however, and whenever you choose to proceed, please do so with extreme care and caution.

Expediency is not nearly as important as delicacy. Expediency could come off as noxious as vomit; whereas proceeding with delicacy is more likely to bring forth results in which truth can actually produce beauty in the long run.

Yesterday I was freaking out. I was wallowing in despair, imagining death as my only out. I was doing that because I felt the demand of expediency breathing down my neck and I knew I wasn't ready to proceed with the care necessary for the delicate task ahead.

I want to start counseling right now, but the counseling center won't get back to me. I want the legal appointment tomorrow, but I'm going to have to wait almost a month. 

Patience. You've been at this for over 25 years... why the sudden rush?

I could say it's because the cat is out of the bag, since two of my children, and several extended family members and friends know of my intentions. But, even if "word of mouth" gets back to Todd, I needn't panic. Really. It's not like he hasn't heard that I'm not content before. He's probably so comfortably settled into believing that I wouldn't actually carry through with a plan to leave him, that he could hear this and blow it off. 

Today I picked up the last honest pen & paper journal I kept -- the one that prompted me to begin this online, off-site blog when I discovered Todd had been reading it. It spanned a great amount of time -- beginning before the affair and continuing after it. If he was truly reading it for anything other than selfish, spying, ammunition-gathering purposes -- if he was reading to learn about what I felt, to see what might be able to be done to heal our relationship -- he would have had plenty of food for thought. 

The more I think about it, the fact that he could read that and go on with the painful status quo is evidence that he is far too ego-centric to put forth the effort to have anything other than a one-sided  relationship. 

My biggest challenge in the coming month will be to hold my tongue until the right moment. Arguing with a narcissist will never be productive -- I need to accept that. Todd knows how to get inside my head and push my buttons, which will always put me at a disadvantage. 

I need to patiently wait for my team of reinforcements to be solidly in place. I need a therapist to advice me in dealing with Todd's personality disorder and possibly even be there to back me up on the day of confrontation. I need to figure out whether to talk to my children with Todd present or without him. Since he is so good at twisting my words and getting to me emotionally, I'm leaning toward having a separate reveal meeting with the kids. [By the way, when I speak of a "reveal meeting" I'm talking about putting our history (including the affair) out on the table so that Todd will no longer have that secret as a weapon; this would be separate from and before any mention of separation or divorce.] Either that or I definitely will need to have a mediator present. If there are separate meetings, I will not be able to allow any time to lapse between the two for the parties to talk... and that would include cell phone communication. This could be tricky to arrange. Maybe the mediator who is present could be a friend of his who agrees in advance to stay with him while I go talk with the children. Then there are the questions of logistics. Some of that I don't think I'll be able to work out until I've met with legal counsel.    And even when the meeting/confrontation happens, I need to hold my tongue. I need to have a script and stay on script, to refuse to be taken off script because of how he manipulates conversations. I could even have what I want to say written out and have a mediator read it -- that would reinforce the fact that I am unwilling to participate in an argument. These are just a few off the top of my head thoughts.

God, I hope I can find a good counselor to help me sort this out so that the words flow in truth instead of splattering like so much vomit! 

Falling Apart (Vintage Quote)

This from an old journal:

"I need to remind myself that it is inevitable for our home to fall apart at the seams if I allow myself to fall apart."

(dated 02/08/1993)


I wrote that almost 20 years ago, but I could just as easily have written it today.... 

Are we having fun yet?

Romance? Ha!

When we first reconnected (that is after he realized who I was), Charlie asked me a series of questions about Bridget. He was trying to flesh out her character, and on some level, I think he was trying to figure out my motivation to open communication with him after all these years. Were my intentions devious? Was I trying to trap him in some way? What exactly did I expect?

The honest answer: I didn't know. 

Maybe it was more of that self-sabotage stuff. I thought he would confirm what Todd had told me about him (and about me) for all these years -- that he had just been playing a game to get in my pants -- that the intense connection I thought we had was just my once over-active imagination, delusional thinking. I thought he might negate that sliver of a belief that we had shared something real (and that it therefore might be possible again with another someday). Maybe he would prove me to be the fool once and for all -- put me in my place as an unlovable joke, and cause me to never again waste a moment on unrealistic desires. 

One of the questions he asked to figure out the Bridget character was, "Does she read romance novels?" Since I am Bridget, that was an easy one to answer. I told him of my disdain for romance novels -- they only set us up for disappointment. And that old adage: "Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall not be disappointed," is the easy way out, so I take it again and again. Lower the expectations, numb the heart so it cannot be broken.

As I'm attempting to learn more about myself through Bridget, however, I continued to consider that question. The immediate answer that had popped into my head when asked if Bridget liked romance novels, was, "No, unless by 'romance' you mean..." And then I ran through a string of unlikely titles, like "Fight Club," "The Hours," "Fried Green Tomatoes," "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," and "The Shining." What started out as a bit of a joke of a list, got me thinking about what I did see as a romantic story. I started to realize that the only romance I could believe was tragedy. "Romeo and Juliet" and other such stories in which the characters realize too little, too late.... 

Last night I was in one of those hopeless places. The riff between my eldest daughter and I, although cordially "okay," continued to bother me. And then her boyfriend (fiancee, actually) made a comment that was meant to be helpful, but just ended up compounding my stress level (which was already teetering on edge of sending me to the ER). I just wanted it to all be over with. 

Thinking of how all the times I had been tempted to "off" myself, I had fought the urge for the sake of my kids, I now found myself dwelling on all the ways my "trying" to make things right failed and fell short, on what a disappointment I was even to my own kids.... The effort I had put into sticking it out now seemed as ridiculously insufficient as my efforts to move forward.

Romance? Ha! Unlikely. The last thing I wanted was to be with anyone. I'd rather be alone, numb, but free from pain. Free from feeling. 

But that's not entirely true. That sliver of hope remains, mocking apparent reality, peeking through the crusted scabs of slashed wrists (metaphorically speaking).

This is as romantic as I can get for the time being (and even this is a stretch)...

"Guilt Baby"

Twice in the past couple weeks, I've been asked why I had so many kids if I was unhappy in my marriage.

Fair question.

Uncomfortable answer. Or perhaps I should make that plural. Answers. It wasn't always the same. The answers do point to more of my own embarrassing issues. Mainly self-sabotage.

I've been talking to Charlie lately. Had I admitted that yet? Anyway, the fact that I had a child after Charlie's was news to him. When he asked the question, it didn't take me long to realize I had done it out of guilt--as if giving Todd a chance to father a son would "fix" things. (Yes, I do realize that was a 50/50 crapshoot.) 

But then my oldest daughter asked the same thing. Surely having so many children is evidence that there once was love. Right? 

I found myself doing inventory. As I've said before, I married Todd to try to justify the physical relationship we were already having. The children were like a natural continuation of that.

A friend was recently going on and on about how "love is not a feeling--it's a commitment." He said it over and over as if it were a mantra. Perhaps he needs to convince himself of that because the wife he refuses to give up on is actually living with a different man.

"Love is a commitment," he kept saying. I nodded numbly, as if in agreement, but what I was really agreeing to was the fact that his statement was familiar. I've heard it so many times that it just sounds right.

Yes, I understand the fact that feelings fluctuate, and if you are relying only on feelings, any relationship is pretty much doomed to fade at some point or another.


But as the days since I heard Jeff repeating his "Love is a commitment" mantra have passed, I've been dissecting that sentiment, and I think it's overly simplistic. Oh really? The way some apply that premise is as if "Love is nothing more than a commitment." That's pretty close to the way I have lived for 25 years, and I can tell you, it is sad.

If that's all love is, then how is it different from joining the military, or picking fur off furniture if you have OCD and a long-haired cat? Hitler's followers were committed, but was there anything beautiful about their devotion?

Does the fact that I have remained more or less committed to self-sabotage, especially after breaking up with Charlie, mean that I love Todd? Few would think that for a minute, but they still can't deny the level of commitment that prompted me to add years on to what essentially already felt like a prison sentence by having another child. On some level, I wonder if I was afraid to leave and so I trapped myself.

When I see how cruel Todd can be to our youngest child (his child), I find myself wishing I had not been so committed. My "guilt baby" was born of commitment, and that is not the same thing as being born of love.

My Mood Swings

It was so nice, the other day, to learn that my second daughter understood... all this. Well, maybe not all of it, but at least she was empathetic and was giving it a very good try.

Since she has an older sister, I thought that seniority deemed it necessary for me to talk with big sis, too. So, I found a time when child #3 was home to stay with Todd, and my first-born and I went out for a walk. I guess you could say she was understanding... to a point. She could understand that I was unhappy. That much had been obvious. When it came to the extent of my contemplated course of action, however, that's where we split ways. Now, I didn't expect her to say, "Cool! You and Dad are splitting up! Love it!!!" But I guess #2 child's reaction led me to believe that since it was obvious how Todd treated me, all of the kids would more or less understand the damage it was doing to me.

I ended up telling her more than her younger sister. Maybe because she was older, and maybe because she just didn't seem to be getting it. She was making comparisons to a coworker whose son is going through a divorce, and how he just thanked his mother for staying together with his dad while they were growing up, even though he knew they had their problems. I know all couples "have their problems," but not all wives are left on their own to protect their children from an accused child-molester grandfather because their husband is unwilling to consider that there could be a danger to his children. Not all wives see their husbands stand idly by while their in-laws publicly mock and belittle her.... 

Maybe I am overly sensitive. Maybe that's why I have a problem with how Todd treats me. Maybe... Before long, I was questioning myself. Maybe I should be able to "tough it out," as she was suggesting, until my youngest son graduated high school.

My daughter told me how she had spoken to Todd on the phone right after he and I had a fight once and he had cried. I was the big bad wolf. I almost felt badly for him, but then I remembered the pattern. Why, I wondered, did he never cry when we fought? Why did he instead demean me with sarcasm until I cried? Could it be pride? Or could the crying to my daughter be manipulation to get her on his "side." 

She told me how she had carried anger toward me for not going out and getting a job to alleviate some of the pressure on her father. I don't have a job now because monitoring Todd and driving him to his appointments is my full-time job. I should be finishing a writing assignment, but it has pretty much fallen by the wayside as I've played the caretaker and battled depression. Since I work out of the home with my writing and costuming, I guess it doesn't look like I have a "job" -- at least not the time-clock-punching type her boyfriend's mom has. I allowed myself to feel guilty. Perhaps I should be doing more... then, later on in the evening, when I was sorting through clutter in my sewing room, I continually came across reminders of all the jobs I have had. 

Along with writing for hire, I have also taught art, speech, and writing, and knocked out costuming contracts so huge that--with one of them--when I resigned they had to hire TWO people to replace me AND those two did not last because of the stress; they both ended up quitting! I sorted through some receipts and found it obvious that my girls never would have been able to have continued all the years they did in their dance classes if I had not been working, and we wouldn't have been able to pay private school tuitions. On top of that, I always made time to sew them costumes and custom formal dresses for prom, and countless other things that would have cost a fortune if we would have had to go out and buy them. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that although not in a traditional career, I have contributed a lot over the years to the family budget.

Where did she get the idea that I did not work? Could it be from Todd? His reality can become pretty contorted, and I have seen ways in the past that I have fallen into his way of thinking. He complains frequently about how hard he works, and yet, I can only think of maybe three or four years in the entire time we have been together that he has worked what has amounted to a single full-time job. His parents have subsidized his lack of get-up-and-go, and he has even claimed their gifts as income (I'm not sure if that was due to disorganized business records or an attempt to make his income look greater than it was.)

As the evening wore on, I became more and more depressed about my eldest daughter's attitude toward me. Had Todd poisoned her against me? Or was it her boyfriend (whose mother had one of those more "traditional careers")? 

My daughter confessed this anger as if it were past-tense and she had pretty much worked through it, also saying that knowing more about what I had been through with the grandparents and such over the years "explained a lot."

But still, I have been stewing all night. I feel like I've been thrown off course. I don't want to hurt my kids, so I find myself contemplating sacrificing myself--toughing it out even if it means wishing I were dead. 

Why the Weekend?

I'm so restless. It's a weekend and all of the kids are either off at their jobs or other activities and I am home alone with Todd. I must learn to be patient. I know this will take time to figure out and work out, but I want to make the calls that will move the wheels right now. The counseling center and legal advise clinic will have to wait. My stomach is growling, but I don't even want to take the time to eat, because I'm trying to digest all the information I can find online about the divorce process. 

Oh, how I wish there were an "Easy Button" I could just push and all the junk would be taken care of. 

In searching for this image, I found 40x40 blog (click image for link). Appropriate, I think...  not just for the emphasis on mental health and choosing a better life, but also because I know I need to get off my butt and exercise again!

But it's a process--like so much of life--and I have to trust that going through the process can make me stronger (if I make the decision and do the work to get there.)

Part of me just wants to give in to the weakness... to wait to be rescued. Not gonna happen. Curse those darn fairytales that pollute little girls' minds! Battling off the hidden residue of such early indoctrination is an on-going process. There's that word again: PROCESS.

Where does the weekend fit into that process? Hmm. Think I'll start with a walk. I have to go to the bank anyway, and should be able to leave Todd alone long enough to do that. But then I worry, because I've not yet officially been released from that 24/7 supervision decree. That was just a starting point, I think, but it's hard to determine by myself when it's okay to wean away from the constant babysitting (especially when I know how quickly his moods can shift.) 

Oh, well. Like I said, I'm detaching myself from stuff. If he decides to burn the house down while I'm out walking for a few minutes, then I guess that's just less stuff to fight over. 

I'm going to do it.

One step at a time.

Something's About to Hit the Fan

I've heard and read about the proper protocol when it comes to informing family members of a decision to divorce. The spouse should know before the kids. It makes perfect sense. 

Then yesterday happened.

Todd is home all the time now. We used to get a breather from his moods, but ever since he came home from the hospital following his accident, he is home. all. the. time.

It was one of those moods you could slice with a knife yesterday. The kids hadn't been keeping up with the cleaning like they should, and Todd had had enough. He started on one of his clean-like-a-madman and make-as-much-noise-as-you-possibly-can-so-no-one-misses-out-on-the-fact-that-you're-doing-something-you-shouldn't-have-to-do rampages. 

My son came in and politely and calmly asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?" 

"No. It's too late!" Todd bellowed, continuing to flail about with a broom, crashing it into the walls carelessly as he swept, and scaring the gentle boy out of the room.

Then, instead of just sweeping under my great-grandparents' antique settee like we always do, he hurled the fragile piece of family history away from the wall, causing it's rickety old wheels to squeak, creak, and groan as they slid without spinning.

I've been disconnecting myself from things for some time now. Even more so since Todd came home with his mood swings magnified, and the glass stove was mysteriously cracked from corner to corner (just about the same time I heard him crashing around pots and pans in the kitchen.) I can't care about things and keep my sanity with a near-sighted bull raging about in the china.

My daughter was home, however. And she cared. "That is not acceptable," she said calmly, but emphatically. He didn't listen, so she repeated it. He played ignorant, like he didn't know what she could possibly be talking about. She explained about how that particular piece of furniture had endured many generations, and it had done so by NOT being treating like that.

He muttered something like, "Well, what am I supposed to do?" 

I ignored the biting sarcasm of his tone of voice, and suggested that he might have accepted his son's offer to help... then he wouldn't have to be doing this.

"Oh, is that so?" He flung the words at me like manure being flung onto a pile of more of the same.

"Yes," I replied, "it is so. If you had allowed him to help you'd have half the work and you'd be building positive memories instead of the sort you're building now."

"Well, it's too late," he muttered.

"It's not too late if you're still cleaning." I should have known better than to challenge his thinking in any way.

And so began yet another one of our typical altercations. I resolved myself to not let him get to me, but that resolve waivered. 

He mocked me with his tone of bitter sarcasm for being bothered by his tone of sarcasm, as if he were some sort of a misunderstood saint. "Well, I guess I can't do anything right," he retorted.

Oh boy. I know what those words mean. They indicate the fact that we are speaking from two entirely different realities. No need to continue: Your words will only be twisted.

I retreated to the other room, to find my daughter sitting there. She had heard the whole thing. "It's okay, Mom," she said.

But I could feel the tightening in my chest. I could feel my health being depleted. I knew it wasn't okay. "I can't take this anymore," I let the words escape.

"I know," she replied.

"I know I shouldn't say this to you... not to you first, that is... not before I say it to him," the words just poured out... but I didn't have to say any more.

"I know, Mom," she said. "You don't think I know? You don't think we all know? It's obvious to everyone." And she went on to bring it up. The words I couldn't quite say, she extracted and gave voice to...

SEPARATION

. . . and she wasn't devastated.

. . . and when I said it could be the best thing for everyone -- even Daddy, SHE AGREED. 

So, I admitted that I had been rehearsing the words to say to her daddy, just the night before -- the words to tell him it was over, but that he would be okay.

"Your brothers each went though divorces, and they were okay," I had said as I drove alone in my car the previous night. "Your mother, too. And life went on..."

My daughter and I sat there conversing in hushed tones as the storm continued to rage in the very next room. 

I had let the cat out of the bag. 

She understood. 

Just like a good friend had nearly predicted when he said, "You've got to have a little faith that your friends and family will understand."

It feels like the wheels have been set in motion.

That's a scary feeling. But it feels good, too. 

I can't stop the momentum. That would be heartless. It would be slipping back into apathy, which is the opposite of love. 

The most loving thing I can do for myself, for my children, and for Todd, is to stop standing idly by and enabling him to be whatever sort of jackass he feels like being without any consequences. 

I'm prepared for him to argue. I'm prepared for him to make promises to change. I'm prepared for him to play the persecuted victim. 

And I'm also prepared to answer:

"It's too late."

Blessed are the Peacemakers

So much of my blogging here has been reactionary to pain in my relationships--mainly with Todd. But I feel a new birth coming on. The emergence of a more fully integrated me. The reemergence of joy that has always been there, even if it's been squelched.

As I experience renewed freedom, I am able to be myself... and I realize that

I'm weird.

Like today, after dropping my daughter off at her morning class... I pulled into the driveway and looked up at the splashes of light playing as if the leaves and the branches of the trees were a jungle gym. It made me so happy that I had to just sit there for a spell. I thought about Emily's monologue in Thornton Wilder's play, Our Town, in which she declares, "Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you!"

How often I feel that wonder, that awe, and love, too... and then I want to share it with someone, but I realize I'm just being --

weird.

The Emily character felt that frustration when she was allowed a brief visit among the living after her death:

                     EMILY
Oh, Mama, look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I'm dead. You're a grandmother, Mama! Wally's dead, too. His appendix burst on a camping trip to North Conway. We felt just terrible about it - don't you remember? But, just for a moment now we're all together. Mama, just for a moment we're happy. Let's really look at one another!

But Mama doesn't look. She is in a different dimension. Emily cries out to the Stage Manager (and launches into the part of the monologue most often made fun of for it's melodramatic delivery by high school actresses pretending to understand such depth of emotion just by putting a little quiver in their voices)...

                     EMILY
...I can't. I can't go on. It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another. I didn't realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed. Take me back -- up the hill -- to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look. Good-bye. Good-bye world. Good-bye Grover's Corners....Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking....and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths....and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every, every minute?

The dead-pan stage manager replies:

                  STAGE MANAGER
No.
             (pause)
The saints and poets, maybe they do some.

Okay, I've been in with the mockers, parodying Emily's quivering words... but there is something to that sentiment--if you're weird, like me. What makes "the saints and poets" so different? Maybe that's part of what makes me feel like such a misfit. I was raised by poets -- I thought that was normal.

And who are the "saints"?

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."

Matthew 5:9

Peacemakers. Hmm, "sons of God" ...sounds pretty saintly to me.

Saints and poets and peacemakers understand the importance of looking--really looking. That is odd in our society of disposable everything (including friendships). I've been chided and told I'm weird (or I'm setting myself up to be hurt) when I try to make peace with the playground bully who used to cause my knees to be skinned. Maybe I'm naive, but I was taught to believe in redemption--to believe that the bully's got to have some pretty deep pain issues to go around tripping little girls in dresses. Kind of like the little girl in the movie Hook said to the big bad pirate: "You need a mommy really bad."

Life has taught me that they are right, though--the naysayers, the critics who try to warn me that I'm going to get burned. They are right. A book I was just reading tells me that such an upbringing produces prime targets for "Dangerous Men." But the naysayers are also wrong--because some people do respond to peace-making. Maybe it's a gamble. Or maybe it's an endeavor that you just have to approach with caution and eyes wide open. Looking. Really looking.

I got to thinking about how normal people are so caught up in forward momentum... always moving in a linear manner. "Don't look back!" they cry in fear. "Forget about it; move on." That wiring doesn't feel right to me. My poet parents were also always good letter-writers. We moved a lot, but they didn't leave people behind, so our lives were rich with people from all different places and phases of life. It seemed that everyone liked my parents, and I grew up wanting everyone to like me. I know that's not possible, but I do think some people give up too easily.

Like so many things in life, I think it boils down to finding the right balance.

"Listen! I am sending you out just like sheep to a pack of wolves. 

You must be as cautious as snakes and as gentle as doves."

Matthew 10:16 (Good News)

I put emphasis on the word "and" because I think an awful lot of people ignore it. They look at this as an either/or proposition.

Caution is good. It can keep me away from dangerous situations. But caution also kept me from going up to the lady at the post office who I saw commit a random act of kindness, and telling her how much her kindness to a stranger blessed me as an observer. The poet in me wanted to celebrate the act, but I didn't want to be too weird.

How many times do I walk past a sad person and catch his or her eyes, and I'm stuck by the extraordinary color or shape that makes that person's eyes like no one else's... yet I don't take even a few seconds to pause and point out the beauty? To boost someone's self image.

Sometimes the beauty in the texture and variety of people around me in a public place makes me want to cry for joy. How can we ignore the splendor? How can these people not know how beautiful they are? Could it be because no on looks long enough to realize and tell them?

I've been on a peacemaking journey this year. I've seen it work, and I've seen it backfire. But I don't ever want to forget those times it works just because it sometimes backfires. And I don't want to let those times it works cause me to become careless around dangerous wolves.

Balance in weirdness. And weirdness in balance.

Camouflaging Beauty

Once upon a time, in a land in the shadows of reality...

a place on the outskirts of time, actually -- 

so not upon time at all, but rather in spite of time --

This is where a sad creature named Camouflaging Beauty

hid.

Leafy Sea Dragon

Photograph by Armand Poblete

Camouflaging Beauty had only a vague recollection of the true reason she had slipped into hiding -- 
only that hiding had become her way of survival, 
her way of life (if one could call it that).

A dark shadow moved across the waters of her home

at irregular intervals, 

leaving her on the edge of herself,

far from her center.

The shadow was the deformed son of Narcissus, 

a goblin-of-sorts named Toadly --

one cursed to never be fully seen 

for the mantle of lies he wore as a cloak.

Toadly had spied Beauty, bathing among the rushes 

on the edge of the dark sea,

trying in vain to hide her tears that made the waters rise

deeper and deeper.

Toadly did not notice her red-rimmed eyes,

nor the deep aching hollow they surrounded --

tunnels to her wounded heart,

pathways intended for healing.

So enamored of her body, Toadly slipped silently to her side,

enveloping her in his shadowy cloak

impregnating her with his seed and pulling her under.

It didn't take long for Beauty to realize that the shadow was holding her captive,

sucking the life out of her.

But as he held her children for ransom,

she did not leave.

She learned that showing herself as anything but the image he idolized

would cause the shadow to rage,

so she hid, and became

Camouflaging Beauty.

Did she, like her sister Sleeping Beauty,

await some awakening from this state 

so unbefitting her possibilities?

Awakening comes,

as it always does,

by varying avenues,

wearing multiple faces...

Sometimes it forces itself

like Basile's Sole, Luna, e Talia,

impregnating with hope,

against the will of the hopeless.

The cloak Toadly had given her as his gift of betrothal

was a cloak of hopelessness.

Within it seeds of hope seemed so out of place

that she hid them,

camouflaged. 

Hope from without 

is stillborn in despair.

It must rise from within

to bring courage

to break through the surface,

burst forth and fill the lungs with sweet, misty air.

Terminology of Love

“Where there is no terminology, there is no consciousness. A poverty-stricken vocabulary for any subject is an immediate admission that the subject is inferior or depreciated in that society. Sanskrit has ninety-six words for love; ancient Persian has eighty; Greek three; and English simply one. This is indicative of the poverty of awareness or emphasis that we give to that tremendously important realm of feeling.… Of all the Western languages, English may be the most lacking when it comes to feeling” 

~ The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden, Robert A. Johnson

On Scheduling a Breakdown

I should have had a breakdown then
 
28 years ago when my heart was broken, torn to shreds
 
I tried so hard to be strong, to hold it together
 
If I had a breakdown then, I might have taken the time and received the council

to heal
 
But I didn't.
 
Instead

I pretended everything was okay
 
And made life decisions from a very unhealthy place.