Pro Life

Pro-life.

Pro, meaning "in favor of".

Life, meaning...erm..."life".

Pro-life.  In favor of life.

I am, in fact, in favor of life.  But what does that mean, really?

You see it in the news rather a lot, these days: pro-life versus pro-choice, centering around abortion laws protecting or denying the right to safe, legal access to reproductive health services.

The way "pro-life" is being used by pro-lifers, what they mean is "anti abortion" because, it seems, they don't want to own that they are against that aforementioned reproductive health stuff and want to curtail or eliminate its availability.  Calling it "anti-abortion", though, makes it sound so...ugly.  "Pro-life" sounds more caring, more compassionate, more about life than controlling a person's access to healthcare because one religion/spirituality/philosophy should clearly be the foundation for all people's rights and privileges under the law.

Sort of a "My god says I shouldn't do xyz, so you aren't allowed to."

So, what does it mean to be really, truly, deeply pro-life?

I have some thoughts, because of course I do.

How can anyone claim to be pro-life when all they care about is forcing the birth of that life and then denying everything that would nurture it and help it thrive?

Pro-life (in human terms) means:

Gestating the life.
Birthing the life.
Feeding the life.
Clothing the life.
Providing a safe, accessible home for the life.
Providing medical care for the life.
Educating the life.
Protecting the life from the actions and choices of others towards it.
Protecting the rights of the life equally under the law regardless of privilege, income, monetary worth, station, sex, gender, identity, skin color, religion, spirituality, philosophy, or any other factor that may set it apart from any part of society or mark it "different" or "other" and thus, by the definition of some, "less than".
Caring for the life from start to finish.

So, yeah, in the sense that I believe that a society should provide for its members equally, make and enforce laws equally, and protect its member equally, all in ways that are in favor of all lives being viewed as important and even necessary for the health of the society and worthy of compassion and a basic level of dignity and care...I'm pro-life.

I'm just not anti-abortion.  When it comes to reproduction, I am pro-choice.  I didn't need the option when I was in my baby birthin' years, but I was thankful that it was there if I did.  I think it should be there, a choice to be made individually and with the gravity and consideration which is due to all choices regarding life, for everyone.  The right to dictate how others live based upon one's individual feelings or religion is one of the very few rights I'm firmly against.  

If a person isn't wholly in support of meeting the needs of life outside of the womb then they're pro-fetus, pro-birth, anti-abortion, pro-control...but not pro-life.

Ghosts

Ghosts of the traditional sort don't tend to be where I am.

The lingering dead?  When I'm about, they just don't linger.

I grew up in a haunted house that was never haunted when I was there.  Stories of other people experiencing the furniture being moved, the sound of stomping feet upstairs, the eerie whispering of their name into their ear when no one else was about, the opening or closing of windows, the occasional ethereal glow?  Not when I was in the house.

Plenty going on as soon as I was  out the door, but when I was in?

Nope, nada.

I was, and honestly still am, a wee bitter about this.  

There's another type of ghost that, until recently, I had heard of but not experienced.

Well, not a ghost...rather, ghosting.

Oh, I've lost friends and had relationships end, but that was usually because of some specific incident or reason.  It was unpleasant, always, but I knew it had happened and why.

Ghosting, on the other hand?  Nope, nada.

I'm not sure what happened, which I suppose is at the very heart of being ghosted.  One never really knows why, does one?

What I do know is that I had a friend whom I love rather suddenly stop communicating with me.  There were often long gaps between calls or chats, so at first I didn't notice.  He was busy with family, work, writing, life.  Nothing unusual to go a few days or even weeks between sending him a message to his response.

Then I noticed - I sent him a birthday greeting, which he never looked at.  Hmm.  Later I sent him a funny picture.  Again, no view, no response.  Almost a year later, I sent another amusing photo, and again...nothing.  Not just an absence of response, not even a look.  The messenger service through which we'd chat tells you when your message has been seen.  It's not something that can be turned off.  I never initiated calls and didn't text (there are reasons, they are valid), but he would call me from time to time and we'd chat for an hour or more, and never did he mention any reason to cut off communications, but the calls stopped, too.  

I let almost another year go by and sent him a birthday greeting.

Nothing.

Now the thing about ghosting is, the ghostee asking the ghoster why is rather pointless.  I'm here.  He knows I'm here.  I'm easy enough to reach, my e-mail and phone number haven't changed.  He is active on social media.  He could TELL ME to fuck off rather than let the silence stretch on this way, but then it wouldn't be a ghosting, would it?

I feel as though asking what went wrong, what I said, or did, or didn't say, or didn't do, to make him simply leave me hanging in liminal space, would be fruitless.

I've known for most of my life that I am forgettable, easy to leave behind, easy to leave in the shadows, easy to just move away from.  At least, that's what the me inside my head tells me.  It's not a surprise that he could find someone more engaging to talk to, but...it would have been nice if he'd told me our friendship was done.  It would help to know why.  This dwelling in mystery shit isn't nice, nor is it kind to just leave a person hanging.  

Could I ask him?  Maybe.  If I thought he'd look at a message. I have to wonder, though, if he wouldn't think to himself that I should get a clue, that his silence should be enough of a reason, wonder why I can't take a hint and leave him alone.

I mean, he hasn't said that he's done, has he?  Maybe life has just been super busy.  For two years.  Maybe he's seen my messages and thought he would respond but then didn't for so long that he felt awkward and then didn't respond and it got more awkward and...  

Except I really don't think that happened.  Silence speaks volumes.  So I stopped messaging.  I don't think he's even noticed.  I'm trying to be ok with it, but it pains me.  I don't think it bothers him in the slightest.  These things happen.  People grow bored or tired or offended or hurt or any number of things happen and friendships fade away.  It's just that usually, everyone involved knows why.  

The thing is, it doesn't take more than a moment to send a smiley face, a thumbs up, a "Please leave me alone".  Seconds.  It could be done in less time than it takes to go to the bathroom.  I'd like to think I'm worth at least that minimal effort.  Clearly I'm not.

Ghosts don't just happen.  There's a reason for them.

I only wish I knew.

Half-Priced Pedicures

Well, hello!

Rather quiet up in here, isn’t it?  A lot of death and cobwebs, lately. 

I could claim being busy.  Hmm.  Could claim depression.  Hmmm.  Could claim aliens ate my brain.  Hmmmm.

Truth is, I’m not really sure why, I just haven’t felt it in me to write much of anything.  I’ve just been kind of...empty.  

Right now, I’m lying in a hospital bed.  Nothing much going on, nothing much to do, so my mind has been running down old rabbit trails and I thought that maybe I could limber up the old composition muscles and see if I’ve still got it.

I’m in a hospital bed because I had part of my left foot amputated.  Gangrene and MRSA and osteomyelitis, oh my.  I got here by not taking care of myself in some basic, necessary ways.  I went without medication rather than let others do without their comforts, because I felt guilty saying “no”.

I’m learning.  Nnn...nnn...nnnu!  Er...

I’ll get there.

I started working on me a little too late for poor “Nubbly”(the name given to my left foot by Sprout), but hopefully not too late in general.  I’ll have to relearn some basic walking and balance, nothing insurmountable, and get back into healthy habits that is let slide, and never again will I let anyone else guilt me for getting my medication instead of using the $ for their wants.  

I found the line - just on the other side of the toes I no longer have.

Now if I can just convince Nubbly that those toes are gone so that I don’t feel them itch any more...gah!

Letting Go

I've been holding on for a long time.

Longer than maybe I should have.  Longer than maybe that most other folks would.  Longer than anyone else thought I could, or should.

Walking along the edge of a cliff, feeling the pull.

For a while I was balanced, poised, steady.  Things got a little...rocky...a little...rough...but I kept walking, kept going.  "Surely the path will smooth out eventually...won't it?" became something of a mantra for me.  I am tenacious (stubborn would be a more accurate description - tenacity seems to be more of a virtue, and I don't really feel virtuous), steadfast, determined to find my way along.  I don't like to give up!

Somewhere along the way, I skidded on some scree.  I teetered, reached for something to hold onto, found nothing but empty air.  Flailed.  Stumbled.  Slid.

And over I went.  Toppled into the sea of sky.

Somehow, before I joined entirely the wheeling denizens of the air with my own graceless, downward flight, I caught hold of an edge.  Only just, scrabbling for better purchase, stone gnawing at my flesh, tearing, tattering.  I sought better purchase, tried to pull myself up.  I was too weak.  My weight, the weight I carried, was too much.  Arms trembling, fingers slipping, I tried to call out for help, but I had no voice.  Perhaps I was too scared, but I like to think I was just too damned tired.  I am certain that some part of me didn't care to hold on any longer.  Why should I?  The damage being done was too much, and holding on hurt.

Eventually, the inevitable - I fell.

It was bad, at first.  Everything seized up and the air rushed past, the rock face blurred, creatures of the sky cast curious glances at my plummeting form.

Fall long enough, far enough, and you relax.  Did you know that?  You sort of accept what's happening, and one can only maintain that adrenaline rush for so long before the fearful becomes the norm.  It wasn't fun, and I kept looking for a rope, a root, something to grab and stop my fall, but there was nothing. 

I'm still falling.  It's a terribly long way down, after all...

...but I think my wings are coming along nicely.

~~~~~

Someone and I are no more.  We...I...have reached the point where there's no reconciling our differences.  Although I didn't want to, I found myself feeling compelled to call the police a few nights ago, pushed by his drinking, his anger, his verbal and psychological abuse of me, of the kids.  I'd asked him to move out some time ago, to give us some space and time to breathe, collect ourselves, patch up the worst of the damage and see if we could rebuild.

He didn't.

And then things broke down entirely, and I was dialing the phone with a stomach full of dread, a heart full of hurt, a head echoing with hateful, blaming, goading words and the sound of fists pounding on the glass shower door while I tried to wash my hair.  Enough. Was. Enough.

I will not be the supply for a narcissist any more.

He will not remove himself from this house, despite having been asked and asked, so I will be forced to begin legal proceedings.  I don't like this.  I feel that I must, though, because what happens to me makes no difference to me, but my kids?  Are another story entirely.

I did the thing I dreaded, never quite believing what I was doing even in the moment.

Here's hoping I finish building my wings before I go splat.

Employment Opportunity?

From time to time (read: almost every dang day), I find myself stroking my chin thoughtfully (or, more likely, in pensive confusion over the Universe and its shenanigans).  As the years have fallen behind me, I've noticed a disturbing trend.
Wiry little hairs.

Wiry little hairs on my chin.

Dark wiry little hairs on my chin.

Now, what with being a witch and all, I suppose I should expect a few hairs and warts.  Aren't we supposed to have hairy warts?  Or moles?  Or...something?

Being distinctly lacking in green-hued skin and warts, I feel as though I'm coming up aces in the hairs department.

There are two or three (Or a million, who's counting?) pernicious little buggers that love to mock me, lurking in curled anticipation of my wandering fingers and springing forth to tease my fingertips with derisive laughter at my dismay.

Evil things, I loathe them.

As soon as I detect the telltale feeling of steel wool sprouting from my flesh, I begin to tug at them, desperate to pull them out and send them down the sink in a swirling death spiral, or at least cast them to the floor with a triumphant smile.

The hairs resist.

They are rooted deeply, at least three or four feet in, and my too-short fingernails aren't sufficient for the job.  Eventually I resort to the Tweezers of Tweezering Doom (TM, patent pending) and the Terribly Bright Spotlighting Flashlight of Brilliance (also TM, patent pending), shining said light under my chin and highlighting the horrors of time, weight loss, and hairy hellions.

I must be careful with my approach - come at them from the wrong angle and they slip free, and sometimes they manage to get a bit of skin in the tweezers as they dodge.  Ouch!  Sometimes I manage to get them square in the sweet spot of tweezery vengeance, but they simply let their upper part shear off, remaining a tiny black stump too short to grasp but long enough for me to see and feel for days, weeks even, as I wait for them to grow out again.

Sometimes I'll get on with nothing more than slightly longer than usual fingernails and determination, and then?  I want to hold it aloft and parade around the house to be admired with wonder and awe.  Alas, no one really cares, or can even really see the itty-bitty black curl, smaller than a 10 point comma, resting on my fingertip.

Sigh.

I could let them grow, multiply, takeover.  I hear there's good money in being a bearded lady, these days.

My vanity, however, says "Nay!", and so I stroke, and pluck, and cuss, and pluck, and occasionally feel sorry for myself and the swiftly dwindling remains of my scant femininity.

I'll let you know when I hit the freak show circuit.

Do You Know Him?

He's an alcoholic and a drug addict and he carries his demons under his shirt and close to his heart where they claw and rend and he bleeds out anger and hatred and misery and love.

He carries his demons close to his heart and inside his head and they whisper and taunt and tease and blend with the voices outside his head that tell him he's useless and worthless and wrong and bad and a drunk and no good and unwanted until it all turns into this big noise and the I Love You gets lost.

The I Love You gets lost because he isn't capable of understanding it, can't comprehend how anyone can look at him and his scars from the all the demon-scratching and his bleeding and anger and drinking and pot smoking and still say the words with meaning, even after he has spewed so much anger and bitterness out that they have coated everything, my heart, my soul, our home, his eyes and ears, and taken all the meaning out of his own i love you.

His own i love you has no meaning to him because he can't believe he has value, because he knows what he has done in this life and feels, behind the curtains of his eyes, deep in his mind, that he cannot have value because he has broken the law, broken hearts, broken vows, broken his word, broken himself down and down until he is tiny fragments, dust to be swept up and discarded.

He is dust to be discarded because that, in his mind, is all he has ever been.  In his mind, in his eyes, in his heart, in his experience, he has been tossed away like refuse when he turned out to be a disappointment, when his imperfections, so many imperfections, burst forth despite his best efforts to hide them and pretend to be the person he wants to be, and so tossed away he has drifted far from his better self and become this drunk addict who feels the scorn seeping through his walls and into his bones.

He is an alcoholic and an addict because he is trying to hide from, trying to buffer himself from, trying to resist what he thinks is real, that he is no good and no one could really want him and the hammer will fall, the shoe will drop, and he will once more be thrown out the door he is always halfway through.

He is halfway through the door because he has created a life that is untenable, taken the love he's been freely given and twisted it up, torn it to pieces, tossed it about, trampled it, all because he can't believe it is real and simply love and not some desire to change or turn him into what he isn't, that he can be loved for nothing more than himself and so must lash out at what he doesn't understand because love can't be love for its own sake but has to have a dollar value.

He thinks love has a dollar value because he has only felt loved when he was approved of, was only approved of when he had a job and was a good boy, did as others wanted him to, hid himself away behind blue eyes and a smile that never reached them.

When the smile reached his eyes, he was afraid, because that meant something more than a plastic existence of pretension, it meant he was opening himself up to an honesty for which he was not prepared, and that honesty burned and ate at him until he had to call it a lie, but in naming it a lie has only wounded himself more because he knows that the lie is truth and he can't hide from truth in the one place he wants to, inside his own head.

He can't hide from himself, and so...he is an alcoholic...and an addict...

And I love him.

There Is No Prince Charming

I know, the song doesn't match the blog title...but it's the closest match I could find, and it may be apropos after all.

I can't speak for other cultures, or even for the male half of this one, but little girls in this country are raised to believe in a myth that (I believe) can be devastating - the myth of Prince Charming.

We are given frilly little dresses and shiny shoes and taught to dress up and pretend.

We are taught that our very own Prince Charming will one day sweep us off our feet, best any dragons, ogres, or sorceresses we face, and give us our happily ever after.

If we aren't popular, it's okay - Prince Charming will be along and all will be well.

If we are the girl in the corner, the one in the shadows, the one who is not invited to dances or parties, the one who is awkward or not as pretty as the others, the overlooked one, the shy one, the fat one, the gawky one, the tomboy, the one the boys walk past to get to her friend or the girl beside/behind her, it's okay - Prince Charming will see us and in his eyes we will be beautiful, wonderful, perfect.

So we wait for him. We sit in our corners, watch from a distance as others laugh and love, smile when the man we were interested in walks past us to get to another, try not to show our hurt when he doesn't even see us there, and we cling to the idea that our very own Prince Charming will soon be along and we'll get our day in the sun.

What we aren't taught is that we don't need Prince Charming to rescue us and the idea of happily ever after is a fairy tale, nothing more. Don't get me wrong - I believe that we can be happy in our lives, but forever? In that storied kind of way? No...no I don't.

We also aren't taught that sometimes Prince Charming doesn't come along...or that he, too, will pass us over...or that he's gay. We aren't taught that love comes along every day, in many ways...aren't taught how to recognize and honor it. We don't know what to do when we get older and older and our own Prince Charming is nowhere to be seen...so we sit and wait to be rescued and flounder in our lives and wonder what's wrong with us...why does everyone else have what we long for...when will we be seen?

I will not be teaching Sprout about Prince Charming. I will, instead, teach her that princesses (and Sprouts) can damn well rescue themselves. I will (I hope) raise her not to depend on some mythical One True Love, but rather to take joy and pleasure in even the smallest loves. I hope she will learn that she is visible, even if she's hiding in the shadows, and that it's okay to be seen and be different, to be her wonderful self without worrying about whether or not someone - male or female - comes along to notice her. I hope that she will believe that she doesn't have to have a partner, lover, husband, or wife to be fulfilled, that as long as she is living the life she loves, society's definition of happiness is moot.

If I can teach her those things, maybe I will come to believe them myself - but as for Prince Charming...I'm done believing in/hoping for him; I love and most of the time even manage to believe that I am loved, and that's more than enough for me.

Soaring, Tumbling

(Photo snagged from the Blue Nowhere in a random search)

I remember playing on the teeter-totters when I was a kid. When I had a good partner, one who wasn't too heavy or too light, one who knew how to balance with me, it was brilliant - up, up, up I'd go, rushing to meet the sky, and then down, down, down I'd sink, to thunk into the earth if I didn't catch myself first.

It was fun, too, to try and send someone flying by dropping my weight suddenly on the seat...and then stand or hop off and let them drop suddenly to the ground. We took turns, of course, being the one to fly.

No one told us we were learning lessons about levers, about moving disparate weights with minimum effort, about shifting the world...

We were children and knew nothing of how life, mood, emotion, could be like our playground toy, shooting up and hurtling down with sometimes frightening velocity.

If we closed our eyes, sometimes we became lost in the experience, set adrift in the spinning sensation that came milliseconds before the jolt when we'd crested or bottomed out.

Some days...some days I feel myself soaring ever higher. Head thrown back, laughing, I float upward and taste joy, taste blue sky, revel in that weightlessness, the elation of the rise.

Some days...some days I wonder if I reached the pinnacle and am now tumbling in a free-fall, down to the earth. I wonder, if I am falling, can I catch myself? Will my legs bear up under the impact of my landing? Or will I crumble this time, land on my ass with a bone-jarring thud?

Most days...most days I hope for content in my life. I know I'm in a state of transition, shifting from up to down, down to up, in constant motion, and I'm OK with that. Up a little, down a little, hovering around the balance point sounds just fine to me...

Of the three, I like balance the best. Oh, great joy is something to treasure, and sorrow is something to be borne, but balance...balance is what I desire, because the highs don't equal the lows, and the lows go ever deeper, and hovering near the middle sounds just fine to me.

When Did I get a Life?

I am heading out of town...again...on Friday. My band has a gig next week, and Mum, Bird, and me are taking the whole week to camp, enjoy nature and good music, and relax. It's at Wisteria, a beautiful campground/intentional community in Ohio. We've been there before for another event, so it's familiar and comfortable. Allegedly, they have installed WiFi in the cafe (a shed-roofed building with no walls, a funny little kitchen area, and a stage in the corner), so I may be able to live-blog while I'm there...which will suit me fine, as I am completely besotted with the Blue Nowhere and loathe the idea of being ten days without. I'll still pre-post for the week, just in case...

In the last three months I have been away every weekend and more than a few weekdays. I've been down to Florida and up to Mass, and am going to Ohio soon. The days I'm home, I have band rehearsals, sewing, errands, laundry from the trips I've taken, cooking and dishes to do, cat boxes and toilets to clean, and a marriage that has ended and needs cauterizing and tidying up.

After Ohio, I am done for a while, traveling only if I want to - and there is one trip I am longing to make but can't...won't...discuss just now, because it is still a nebulous "perhaps" and not concrete...and I don't want to jinx it.

When did I get so busy? When did I get a life? And where can I return it for quiet days by a pool with people I love, evenings cooking on the grill or splashing in Suwanee fountain, nights sitting out front watching fireflies flash and singing along with the peepers?

Anyone else suddenly find themselves living in the midst of their chaos??

After

Last night, I stood outside while talking on the phone.

A storm had rolled in - they'd been coming and going all day - and hunkered down in our hills. Brief strobes of lightning turned the piled-up-cotton-clouds peach, blue, and white, and thunder rolled around and around, my ears sipping and savoring the sound like auditory wine with a fine bouquet, something subtle, yet powerful, with hints of peace, summer, and potential in the afterglow.

The rain began to fall, a few plinks at first, building to a crescendo of rushing, downward falling waters. I stood in it, listening to the voice on the other side while the rain washed me, blessed me, touched my face with searching fingers and tapped my arms, head, bare feet in a kind of cool, wet, Morse.

I stood in it and listened to the voice, that good voice, that was under another, yet same, sky, his with moon peeking shyly down, and felt myself in two places, present in both, while the rain washed me.

It didn't last long, the downpour, just enough to give everything a good wetting and please the trees, the morning glory vines, the green and growing things. The clouds cracked open and hatched out the deep, dark, star feathered sky above my head, and I stared up and breathed in the damp air, the night around me, the light and the dark and the thunder still bumbling along its way.

Today, it's is well after the storms, and if you look outside, take a breath, feel the lightness of the air as it places a friendly hand on your arm, brushing you with a tiny breeze, you can tell it's after.

After the rain, it's all clean. No pollen, no dust, no copper tang, no weighty matters lingering, just clean. The sky is the blue you know so well, the blue of movies and television and paintings, deep, deeper, deepest, three-dimensional blue. Sharp blue, savory, I want to drink deep of this sky and quench my thirst with it.

In the woods, the leaves flutter, excited, new washed and delighted to find themselves brilliant, sun-dappled, cleansed. The rustle and whisper, shimmy and sigh, turn this way and that, admiring the occasional glint of sun from an unshed droplet.

The hawk is calling out, keeya, keeya, keeya, telling her own tales of the woods, the storm, the wet, the blue. Keeya, keeya, keeya, she calls, come and see what I have found, come and listen to what I am saying, come and feel the blood pounding in your ears and the wind in your face, and the wild stirring in your soul, keeya, keeya, keeya, come and fly, fly, fly with me.

After the storm, everything is more itself, as though the watering down actually made a distillate of Life, the Universe, and Everything.

Worth enduring, these storms, for the After.

Reaching Beyond

When I was a child, truly a child, I was deeply hurt by...events in my life. I won't go into what, or who, or why here, because that isn't the point. The point is, like any child, I reached into my resilience, bounced as best I could, and continued on with the business of life.

I've know heartache since those first deep wounds to the soul. I've known what it is to be infatuated and rebuffed, to think I loved and be denied, to long, to yearn for, something more than my solitary existence. I had to learn to look beyond, to reach beyond, what I knew. I had to find Faith, to find Hope, and cleave to them.

I always thought I would be married forever - that, although I carefully wrote my vows to say "...as long as love lasts..." and not "...as long as you both shall live...", I would not have to remind myself of that...clause. I thought...I hoped...that love would see us through the difficulties I knew were ours to face...if only because I have known depression, deep and abiding, for so long, I know what it throws at a relationship.

I have had to reach beyond the darkness, strive for the light, even if it was only the grey, uncertain light of level days and not the brightness of joy.

I've never broken my word - not once. I so rarely give it, and only when I am certain it can be kept. I do not take vows, oaths, lightly. I have had to reach beyond endurance to keep from becoming an oathbreaker, but I have managed...and I'm alive because of it.

I do not lie unless it is for the greater good. I won't lie to save myself a little grief...it stings my honor. I have had to reach deep into trust and love, hoping that they would help soften truth when I could not bring myself to speak untrue.

Tonight...technically, last night, I found another beyond. I found the place beyond love that is cold, dead, and unyielding. I went beyond endurance to a place where I cannot bring myself to care that my actions, my words, may wound and wound deeply, because my need for solace was greater than my need to be compassionate, forgiving, loving.

I am beyond tired of defending my honor at every turn because of a suspicious mind. I am beyond tired of defending my honor as I am called (direct or intimated, makes no difference to me) liar, cold-hearted, uncaring.

I am beyond tired of being blamed for what my heartfelt words have become, have engendered, have inspired.

Weary to the bone, to the heart of my soul, weary beyond all endurance, weary of T lashing out at me because he misread, misunderstood, misinterpreted...I reached beyond my here and now and asked for...contact.

Asked for and received.

I asked a friend to call, to speak, to reassure and give me an anchor point. Without hesitation, he answered, spoke, reassured, anchored - reached beyond his own needs and answered mine.

And now?

Now, I am reaching beyond reason, feeling my way blindly down roads never travelled, cloaked in darkness...reaching beyond guilt, blame, recriminations, anger, sorrow, and regret. I am done. I am reaching beyond, and believing...believing that I will find what I am reaching for.

The Hammer Struck Three Blows

Last week, I was in Mass, at Camp Hi-Rock (oh, my goodness, it's a beautiful place!!), with a few hundred other pagans. The event was awesome, in so many ways thought provoking and uplifting. It was hilly, required a lot of walking, a lot of awareness of surroundings, gave plenty of opportunity for introspection.

Introspection and interaction.

Can't be in a remote campground for five days with several hundred people and not interact...even if it is huge site.

I had quite a few conversations, most of them light, desultory chit-chat, but three of them struck me to the core.

The first was with a woman who mentioned that her life was good, now, in part because she loved and was loved in equal measure for the first time in her life. Out of the blue, she mentioned this. It was a hammer blow to the heart. I had to follow her back to her booth and talk to her about...well...what was churning in my mind, in my gut. I told her my story, and she smiled so sweetly, so gently, and told me I was telling her once-upon-a-time...and now she's happy...so very happy...

The second was with a woman who was on the other side of the coin - she loved her husband, but he stopped loving her. It was a hammer blow to the heart. I had to speak to her, to learn her story. It hurt, she said, to know she loved him and he did not reciprocate, but she knew it wasn't any way to model a marriage, to model love, for her child. She is with a man who loves her, now. She's happy - happier than she'd thought she could ever be. So is he. They raise their daughter together, make decisions together, and are happy.

The third was with a man who shared our cabin. We talked about how differently people receive love, and how some people don't believe they deserve to be loved, to be happy, can't accept it. It was a hammer blow to the heart. He said everyone deserves love, even when they don't believe it. If only they could learn to accept the loving, they could know what it is to be joyful. I couldn't speak to him, only listen as my poor organ, the center of loving, shattered and fell in pieces before me.

The hammer struck three blows, and my stone heart was turned to dust.

What do you do?

I am home. Home. There's a word full of meaning.

Here at Casa de Crazy, we have been experiencing a full load of chaos, stress, and distress. I haven't written about most of it, because...why?

I teach a communications class at the track. The first thing I tell novice communicators is "Remember to breathe, oxygen is your friend." and then "Don't call the incident in until it's finished. Then, take a breath and key the microphone. You won't lose anything by doing that, and you'll be able to make a full report."

Good advice for life, too, it seems. Let things finish...breath...then key the mic, write the post.

So.

What's been going on here?

A marriage has been disintegrating.

It's nobody's fault, really. Or ever one's. I don't know. Mostly I think it's my fault, really.

For the last five years, I've struggled to hold onto it...to be a good wife, a good mother, to ride out what felt like some very rough, very lonely seas, hope for smoother sailing. I can't any more.

I am physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted.

I don't love my husband. Not romantically. Not the way a wife should. Something inside me broke, a while back, and I can't fix it.

Goddess knows, I've tried...

But you can't force love. I care deeply for him, although I think I may have given him cause to doubt that. I don't want him to go away, although I think he doubts that, too. I want him to be here for our son...but I can't pretend, any more, that I'm fine, that we're fine, that everything is fine.

I have no idea where to go from "I can't be your wife any more..."

What do you do when you wake up one morning and realize that you don't want to be married any more? What do you do when you realize that you don't have a choice, that love or no love, there's a child who needs his family to be whole? You suck it up and try very hard not to let the cracks show. You try to carry on, make repairs, fix it without letting on that it's broke.

Maybe you carry on for years. You try and try, and blame yourself, and hate yourself because you can't be the wife a good man deserves. You swallow your angry words, your disappointment, grip them in your teeth, chew them into fine powder and swallow them down. You wonder what the Hell is wrong with you, that you can't reciprocate. You don't tell him all the little things that drive you buggy, that help the erosion along. You try very hard to see the good, the beautiful, the joyful, and stuff the rest into your closet.

And maybe you manage, for a while, to keep it going.

But then...

What do you do when you wake up one day, years later, and realize that you've been deeply unhappy for a long time? What do you do when you realize that you are missing something you need ? Something at the root, something necessary? And it's...gone...

What do you do when you've told your husband this, and he asks if there's someone else? Accuses you of it, in fact...and calls you a liar...when all you've done is keep your word despite your pain, and been honest with him (if only lately) about that missing something?

And then...and then you DO meet someone...who makes you think...and wonder...and hope...

What do you do when you won't break your word, your vows, not matter that it costs you your own happiness?

Apparently...you break your marriage instead...all the while cursing yourself for a fool for not forcing yourself to love the man who loves you...or faking it, because if you're the only one who's unhappy, what does it matter?

What do you do?

Mass, Turtles, and Ice Cream, in One Post

We survived the mass. It was...erm...Catholic. Really, really Catholic. And I got a little peeved at the priest, truth be told, because he intimated several times that Aunt D wouldn't make it to heaven without prayers of intercession...and I loved her and considered her a wonderful person who more than answered the criteria for a pass through the gate. I actually thought "How dare he!"

Also, for some reason, when he mentioned that whole "I am the resurrection and the life..." part where Christ said people would never die? Yeah, umm...I thought "epic fail!" and nearly giggled. I managed not to, but it was a close one.

It was even harder when I noticed that the Christ on the crucifix was doing the Nixon peace-fingers thing while hanging up there...good grief...

I got a real workout, all that stand and sit and stand and sing and sit and pray and kneel and stand and sing and stand some more...whew.

We went to Uncle T's house after, met a number of folks, talked about Aunt D and how she could piss off my grandmother like a champ, and hold her own with my grandfather, and her time as a Brannif (sp?) stewardess, and her life and how well she lived it. It was nice.

After a while, I felt like it was time to go...probably because Bird wanted to swim in the pool and I didn't want him in there with no adults, sooo...we hugged and good-byed and promised to keep in touch...and maybe we will. I know I'll e-mail Uncle T, anyway.

We changed into casual things and headed to a turtle rehab center nearby with Aunt A (Mum's sister) and Cousin K (Aunt A's daughter). It was cool - they had a sort of museum room with shells, fossils, and turtle lore, and then outside were tanks with recovering turtles. Some of them were up for adoptions. We adopted one:

His name's Carlisle - isn't he cute? He's freakin' huge - the picture doesn't do him justice...I have a ton of photos of different turtles, but that's a post for another time.

We drove back towards the hotel, but decided to stop for ice cream. When I was a kid and we lived down here, we'd spend the whole day at the beach, out in the sun, in the water...and on the way home we'd get ice cream, and try to eat it before it melted all over us. The car windows were open because we didn't have A/C, and we'd get splattered by the droplets of melt-off as we rode and licked like mad.

This time, we ate inside the shop. It was Bird's first real cone, so of course I took pictures! This one was my favorite:

But I have many more, and...again...it's a post for another time.

Interspersed with all this hilarity are thoughts of my Uncle and cousins, of their loss and sorrow. I wish I could tell them what I know - that she made it through the gate and is raising hell up there, joking with Papa (my grandfather) and grinning like a fiend (she had a marvelous smile). I know she misses my Uncle - you could tell how much they loved each other when you looked at the pictures. Any time she was near him in a photo, she was grinning like a Cheshire Cat. I am worried about how he will miss her...and I hope that he'll look to the people still here, still loving him, when he feels low...

Meanwhile, life goes on, we honor the dead by living, and I intend to figure out what I need to do to smile like Aunt D did, love life like she did, and get on with it.

Minutes and Days

It is morning, quiet, the house still, holding its breath, anticipating the coming day. Three cats are curled beside me, purring commas, delighted to fill the space between me and the man sleeping next to me (turned on his side, deeply asleep, unaware of the world outside the dreams swirling through his head).

The room is shaded, but not dark, a sort of halfway light that could be dawn, could be dusk, could be any of the in-between times of day when the eyes can't tell the time and a clock must do the trick.

I pet the cats, careful not to startle them into frantic, charged motion - I don't want them launching themselves from my leg, or his, digging claws in for purchase, leaving behind unwanted racing stripes.

I close my eyes for a few more minutes, drift between minds and places, float a bit before returning. How long was I gone? It felt like hours, but only minutes have passed.

There are minutes like that in every day - minutes stretched to their limits, full to bursting, suspending their normal tick and tock to hang in breathlessness, endless. Bad news, good news, no news, minutes that take forever to unpause and get moving into the next hour.


Then there are the days...days that boom across the hours, racing in their anxiety to be spent, done, to push through and pass the baton to the next span of the sun's journey. I wake, on these sprinting days, and suddenly I find myself readying for bed - despite all the long minutes between times, the day is done and I wonder where it has gone.

It is March, nearly April, and the balloon from Bird's birthday still hovers at the end of its ribbon tether, depleted but proud. I am caught, still in January when the shiny Mylar was plump, and new, and now, when it hangs like a soap bubble, not entirely sure what is keeping it up.

I'm hanging in time like that balloon, like the bubbles, caught between the dawn of creation and the end that, with a surety, is a sudden pop! before it all begins again.

Whirling in a mix of eternal minutes and rushing days, year passing years, gone before I've had a moment to grasp them, make them mine before releasing them again.

Well, Nuts

T was fired tonight - they let him drive all the way to the office to tell him he had to be out by six. He collected his things and will be home after a while...he needs to go decompress a little, himself. He doesn't drink, so decompressing for him usually means driving about, or hanging with some friends playing video games.

Sigh.

Anyone hiring??

Hoping for Justice

My friend L is in Florida right now, waiting for a trial to end, hoping for justice for her daughter.

There's a lot of back story to this, more than I feel I can or should share, but in a nutshell: L's daughter P was in her father's custody. Her father abused her. She reported the abuse to the authorities and her mother two years ago, and they've been going through the legal system since. P is a minor, in her teens now. The man in question is facing a minimum of three counts of abuse, with the possibility of up to ninety years in prison if found guilty on all counts.

Two years ago, L wasn't sure if she believed her daughter. What if the girl was simply expressing teen rebellion, angry at her father and striking out? Today, she is utterly convinced the girl was and is telling the truth - the evidence is overwhelming. She has been there throughout the trial, listening to the testimony of strangers as they dissect her daughter's life, her abuse, and the short and long term trauma such abuse engenders. With one exception, she has heard what everyone had to say about the man with whom she left her daughter, believing the child safe, as a child should be with her father.

The one exception? P didn't want her mother in the room when she testified. Dear goddess, how terrible that must have been - to know you must speak of things you mother shouldn't hear, to be strong enough to say you won't let her hear them, and to be L waiting, waiting, waiting, knowing that your child is telling strangers things no one should ever have to tell.

Today, they are giving closing arguments. After this, P, L, and everyone who loves them, will be hoping for justice. None of us doubts that the man did what he's accused of, what the evidence proves. None of us has any illusions that justice is a sure thing. All we can do is wait and hope.

Hope springs eternal...

NOISE!!

When I was a little girl, I sojourned for a few years with my grandparents. They had a big, old, Georgian Revival house in Little Compton, a solid, three-story (storey?)place built when people still had live-in servants and heated their homes with fireplaces in almost every room.

I loved that house.

My room was up on the third floor of the house, where there were several bedrooms and attics. The attics were necessary, because apparently back when the house was built, they didn't believe in closet space. Seriously, the closets were tiny! Lucky for me, I didn't have or want a lot of clothes.

My grandfather was, in my eyes, a giant of a man. Well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, keen eyed, quick witted, and very much used to his ways. He was a man of habits, of patterns, and you could set your clock by his days. It must have been like inviting the wind to dine, having us kids in the house, but he managed, and we often had good fun together - at least, he and I did...I don't know if he and Big Brother ever managed to find trouble to get into, or if they were just planets orbiting the same sun on different courses.

Papa liked his quiet. He would often yell, voice like some terrible great canon shooting upstairs "YOU KIDS BE QUIET UP THERE!!!" when we were a little...enthusiastic...in our play. Or even of we walked or ran a bit harder than he liked. Our noise interrupted his pondering.

I learned to walk and run without making a noise, despite the occasional creaky floorboard.

In those days, we didn't breakfast all together - each member of the household would fend for themselves, usually making a meal of fruit and cereal, or maybe a croissant or toast.

On rare occasions, I would rise early enough to have breakfast with Papa. It was a quiet affair - no idle chatter, just two people eating their cereal, he with his coffee and I with my juice. If you didn't see us, you'd never know we were there. This happened most often in the summer months, when I would have days full of sailing, swimming, and rattling around the town on the steel-bodied three-speed bike that I adored.

Papa didn't like loud or piercing noises - they broke his reverie, shattered his peace. We learned not to slam doors, to shout, scream, or even cry too loudly in his presence. he wasn't an ogre, just a man who had been done raising children for decades and used to his hours passing without fanfare, and we rather upset that apple cart with our presence.

All this to say - I am a woman who likes quiet. At least in the morning. On the rare days I'm first up, you wouldn't know it. I can walk, dress, perform my morning toilet, breakfast, and leave the house without making a sound. I know which parts of the floor creak (most of them, these days) and can avoid them as a matter of habit.

I like quiet, in the morning.

I am, it seems, alone in this, at least in my home. Our roommate slams doors and uses the garage as his entry and exit point to the house...up goes the door, and down. Up, and down. If he forgot something in his car...up...down... I wouldn't mind so much if Bird's room wasn't right over the garage. Have you ever had to get up because your child is up much earlier than he wants to be? And he's cranky about it? And the other parent in the house apparently doesn't ever hear the child wake up, so even though you went to bed hours after he did, you still have to be the one up unless you boot his ass out of bed with both feet and a pry-bar?

Sigh.

This morning was actually typical - T's personal cell phone rang. Twice. He didn't hear it until I grabbed his foot and woke him up, quite cross. I don't like his ring-tone - it's a System of a Down song that sounds like a cat is horking up something awful in the next room. It's loud, discordant, and exactly what T needs in a ring-tone because otherwise he would be deaf to it all the time, not just when he's sleeping. Mum was here overnight. She found the creaky floor bit when she came upstairs for breakfast. I didn't know cereal could make that much noise. Spoon against bowl, clapper against bell. T launched right into his concerns about some survey markers that recently sprouted in our woods (he's convinced a four-lane highway is going in back there) and today's example of why Obama is the incarnation of evil and is single-handedly going to destroy the United States by the end of January. They had a conversation about it...full volume. Two of the cats began a chorus of meows because they wanted pats and love from their humans. T's computer beeped and booped. Sneezes at full volume are not unusual. The ice dispenser drumming cubes into a cup. Coughs cracking like gunshots through the house.

Luckily, I wanted to be up early, because I believe I would have otherwise been justified in committing homicide. You'd back me up, right??

In my next life, I'm going to be a monk...in a monastery...one with vows of silence...at least in the morning.

New Life

I had a post planned for today, but it'll have to wait until tomorrow - my friend M had her baby yesterday, and I'm going to visit today...just as soon as the blueberry muffins I want to bring her are done baking.

8:09 AM
8 pounds, 10 ounces
20 1/2 inches long

Welcome to the circle, little I.A.R*!!

*edit - oops, I meant I.M.R. See what happens when you type excited??

Three Words

The woman walks slowly into the market, reciting her short list in her mind - oil, pumpkin puree, do I have enough money for powdered sugar too? better not chance it. She's tired, had some long days, long nights, not sleeping well what with worrying about finances and the ever growing list of things she needs to be doing, but isn't getting done. Right now, though, she's focused on her list; the rest will keep.

She finds what she needs and seeks out a cashier. She is a woman of habit - when she can, she uses the same cashier every time. It helps to ease her discomfort at being out in public. She is third in line but doesn't mind waiting.

When it's her turn, she smiles at the cashier, a woman who is something like a friend, if a friend can be made when names aren't well known, nor histories, nor personal details. Still, they are friendly toward each other, exchange pleasantries, passing a few minutes conversing. The cashier takes her time with the woman, prolonging the transaction.

The cashier asks the woman "How are you?" smiling.
"Tired, but fine - I just spent a couple of days away, getting out of the craziness."
They nod, empathetic, the madness of the holidays universal. Then...
"How are you??" She always asks, but the emphasis is new...maybe the woman can see that the cashier's smile isn't as firmly fixed as usual.
The cashier is tired, too. She has worked at her job for more than twenty years, and it's not an easy job. People can be rude, mean, angry. They come through the line listening to their music players, talking on the phone, the cashier no different than a self-scanning machine in their eyes. They do not see a human woman. She hasn't minded until that night. She says "I try not to take it personally, but today something got to me..."
"Was someone mean to you?? Tell me who it was so I can go kick their ass." She is smiling, a touch of empathy, a touch of sympathy, a touch of compassion, a touch of laughter in her voice...but she means what she said. She will find whoever was mean to her cashier friend and kick their ass for being a dick.
The cashier smiles, thinks for a moment. "I can't begin to figure out how to explain it..." She falters, looks at the next person in line, someone else waiting with thinly veiled impatience for the two women to shut up and get on with it.
The woman doesn't care. She can wait. The cashier smiles bravely and hands the woman her receipt. "Have a good one..."
She'll let it go...for now..."You too, sugar...and I hope you find within you what you need to help you let go of whatever happened - because there's no reason anyone should have the power to keep ruining your day once they've walked away. Life is too short."
The cashier smiles, eyes bright. "You're right. Thanks."
The woman says "In case I don't see you beforehand, happy Christmas."
"Thank you ---." And almost involuntarily, quietly "I love you..." because the woman sees her, really sees her, a fellow human, and asked How are you? not reflexively but because she meant it, and times are rough and people are more self-involved, but one of the hundreds of people she sees each day gave a damn.

The woman leaves before the customer behind her becomes too irritated, too impatient, sighs one too many times...and before the cashier is moved to tears because today was just hard, and some careless word or deed bruised her.

And she thinks about life, a succession of moments - good, bad, it's all in how we receive them, process them, make them ours. She resolves to return, to ask again "How are you?" (meaning it) and wait for the response because she cares, deeply.
~~~~~

How are you?