Tag Archives: friendships and relationships

Not-so-MORNING PAGES

Less than a half hour away from my final creativity group coaching session with Jill – at least for the time being.

I haven’t written since Friday. I guess I took the weekend off, and now it’s Tuesday and I’m lagging. The story gnaws at me, pulling at my edges while I continue to fumble my way through it. It is never far from my thoughts, but no words have come through yet.

I’ve been great with distracting myself. I spent the morning listening to Eminem and Pink on my iTunes, sifting through emails and multiple cups of coffee… I suppose I will graduate to a cup of tea – to be made before the call begins. That, and void my bladder.  (Yes, TMI.)

I’m still dispirited. I don’t really know what ails me. It’s back to gray and rainy again, though the last week has been quite bright and sunny and I haven’t gone outside since my birthday (or maybe it was the day after… but it’s been at least a week since I’ve presented myself to the world, fully dressed).

This morning I am doing the no-pants dance (literally… you should have seen me grooving in the kitchen while I was waiting for water to boil and my toast to brown), sitting in my t-shirt and striped underwear as I type this out. Eventually I’ll shower and dress – Rob Brezsny said that I should make my hair and face as shiny as can be… my best self. I’m sure he doesn’t mean the kind of shiny my hair is, in its current state (which is just greasy from skipping a day or two of shampooing). Damn overactive sebum glands. It keeps me young looking but more slick than I’d like.

I have been thinking that I really miss having a relationship. I miss the complicity. I miss the bodily contact, the comfortable familiarity of colliding atoms with another person, in good (at times pleasurable) ways. I miss another’s touch on my body – the tentative exploration, seeking visceral knowledge of pleasure and connection. The tangible feel of affection and love as it flows out of a hand.

I miss it but not enough to do anything about it.

So by virtue of these distracting thoughts, I’ve been struggling with writing on the story this morning (what else is new?). You’d think that desire fades with time, but it’s not true; not yet, anyway. I suppose fifty is still too young for it not to still be alive and well.

I “found” an old boyfriend on Facebook the other day. The mind is always curious about what has become of people we have known but not seen in a long while. He was my first mad love. We were crazy about each other, and also just plain crazy.

We didn’t know who we were, or how to be, and certainly we weren’t in a healthy relationship (because we didn’t even know what that looked like), but man, were we ever in love. At least I was. I think he was too. It seems so long ago… thirty years. We’ve both been married and divorced. He has been in another long term relationship with someone and is afraid to accept my friend request because it may make her jealous. So still, perhaps, not so healthy, relationship-wise.

Jealousy. What an interesting emotion it is; so detrimental, and yet so prevalent – and consuming. Thinking that permanent possession of something or someone is possible, and fearing its loss – the lesson of impermanence not yet gleaned. Nor the understanding that even when people stay together, things change and evolve – and different doesn’t necessarily mean bad.

Jealousy rears itself on its hind quarters like a spooked horse when one feels insecure in oneself or a relationship (or a situation). It takes gentle self-compassion (and for the other person likewise to show compassionate awareness) to move past it. Of being truthful, kind and transparent… and that level of exposure is fearsome and hard.

Life is too short to be spending it on not wearing yourself on your sleeve, though. Not doing so robs everyone of your best self, including you.

Transparency is important, I think. I learned that the hard way, over many relationships and many years of trial and error.

My last one was the hardest. It stretched me further than I had ever stretched before; it made me grow in ways I didn’t think I had to grow or didn’t know that I wanted to. It was at once one of the most intense and most terrifying relationships that I’d ever had.

It still saddens me that the experience wasn’t a reciprocal one – that the power of it was diminished because we weren’t equally open and present to each other. It taught me a lot about releasing expectation and what the meaning of responsibility was in the context of a relationship. It also taught me to be mindful of my instincts – my body knew what was happening even before things became known – the body knows; trust the body. It also taught me to trust my worth. I am worthy. I am worthy. I am worthy.

I think that the only way to evolve in this world is through relationship – to enjoy the process while growing in awareness. It is like walking in two worlds, really, one foot in the sacred, and one foot in the profane.

I miss it but not enough to do anything about it.

your choices matter… even the bad ones

Rumi - Field

“Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’
doesn’t make sense any more.”  ~Rumi

(Because y’all know I contemplate a lot – it’s just what I do I’ve been thinkin’…)

Someone on my Facebook friends list posted that relationship is her spiritual practice. This of course got me thinking (because … see above) about all of the relationships I’ve had in my life, as well as those I’ve observed first hand (like my parents’ relationship, for example).

I thought about my last intimate relationship and how it’s affecting my present moment.

I’ve thought about that person’s new relationship and how joyous it seems, how right, and effectively how wrong we now appear for each other, in retrospect.

I’ve thought about my abandoned marriage and the choices that paved their way to my finding myself here, now.

I thought about my mother’s relationship with my father, and how the choices she made affected both our (actually, our whole family’s) lives, and how both of us, at points of our lives not terribly far from each other’s in age, we made different choices, and how each of us chose to be brave in the best ways we knew how.

I thought about how other people have influenced most of my choices throughout the course of my life; how through fear-imbued rhetoric they managed to shape the way I viewed my potential and possibilities, and how, when my mother had to make a choice whether to leave her shambled marriage or to stay in it, middle-aged and with a young four year old child, she chose to stay, while I, faced with a similar choice, chose to leave. I saw possibility; potential. She saw hardship; strife.

I’ve often reproached myself, over the course of my life, for always being the one to cut out, though in truth I honestly do feel that I gave my marriage all I could with whatever I had at my disposal.

Many other choices preceded that last monumental one. Over the course of my life I had always opted for safety and comfort because I was afraid that I didn’t have what it took to withstand difficulty, but in so choosing it proved to me that I could. The choice of not making the right one created difficulties that were probably just as challenging and certainly more corrosive than the ones which would have resulted had I made the choices I ought to have made in the first place – had I had more courage to embrace what my heart truly wanted.

Each choice, however minute, however beneficial or detrimental, builds who you become. It shapes you, pebble by pebble, breath by breath.

In the end one hopes what the monument of self that we have built over the course of our lives is one we are pleased with when it comes to its end.

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The above sketch came to me during Jennifer Louden’s freebie introductory session for her Life Organizer Navigation Course. If you are so moved and are able to take it, DO it. I can’t at this time and hope to continue respectfully engaging in dialog with my shadow comforts and time monsters to reach an equitable working arrangement. Peace. xo

(and below is the sketch from above translated into colour in my art journal)

photo

needs

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A friend of mine recently mentioned that he and his partner argue all the time. I asked “about what?” and got “anything… everything… literally” as a reply.

But… why?

Seriously. What the hell is there to fight about?

• Unmet expectations and needs?
• Divergent viewpoints and thought processes?
• Poorly synched principles and values?

At their core, arguments are never about the bone that’s being picked; they are about the underlying story:

• the feeling of not being heard, cared for, respected;
• the feeling that our trust in another has been misplaced or violated;
• feeling that the other is unsupportive and not engaged;
• it’s about not communicating the things that are going on inside of us in a way that the other can understand and perhaps find a way to support or appease.

It’s never about scrubbing out the toilet bowl or taking out the garbage. It’s about the why… why the toilet wasn’t scrubbed, and what it means in the context of the two individuals who find themselves in conflict with each other.

In the end it’s about communication, or the lack of it… or rather not having the skills (and at some point, the will/patience) to decode each other’s emotional expressions and landscape.

And about:

• Unmet expectations and needs;
• Divergent viewpoints and thought processes;
• Poorly synched principles and values.

Living this|close to another human being is messy. It takes a lot of patience and forgiveness, because no matter how hard we try not to have them (or to stuff them), we all have quirky human schticks and they aren’t going away any time soon.

If we can’t find the humour in them, and love each other in spite of them, all is lost.

As for me? I question everything. Because everything must be scrutinized and dissected so that I can understand (myself, as well as other). I will wear you down, and will wear you out. Beware.

Which is why I am single. And I do have a sense of humour, in case you were wondering.

And now to bake some more cookies (provided the electricity stays on).

the birds and the bees

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Memory is such an odd thing. The things we remember. The things we forget.

Yesterday morning a friend posted a poem and with it was pictured a painting of a monster that had chewed off the head of a body which it held in its hands. I can’t remember what I ate a week ago for dinner, but both the title of the painting (Saturn Devouring His Children) and the painter’s name (Francisco Goya) chimed brightly in my mind as though I’d just seen it in one of the art history books I used to pour over in my teens.

There are so many things that I’ve forgotten over time; some out of choice, others out of neglect or atrophy. It seems that choosing to forget some things somehow makes other things disappear as well. I fear my memories, sometimes, and I fear for them. All of them. The good ones. The bad ones. Even the mediocre ones. Perhaps especially those.

I spent the weekend lying in bed in my underwear, swaddled in my comforter and watched the first season and a half of Being Erica. The menu mostly consisted of chocolate, spelt and flaxseed rice cakes, freshly brewed coffee with milk, bananas, apples and buttered toast. On Sunday I even sparked up the stove and made scrambled eggs and pan fried potatoes. But I digress.

I love this show. I love it because the writing is fabulous, the characters authentic and the acting stellar. I love it because on so many levels I can relate to the main character, despite our disparity in age. Who doesn’t have regrets? Who doesn’t wish there could be do-overs? Who doesn’t wonder, if they are alone, whether they will always be that way, wonder whether there is something fundamentally wrong with them and thus forever deemed unlovable or to never have the sort of lasting intimacy that I’m certain we all long for?

This morning I got my daily email from Neale Donald Walsch reminding me that intimacy is not a physical thing, it is a condition of the soul, or rather two souls or more. Maybe “soul” is too esoteric of a word, or elicits the impression that it’s something bigger, better or of higher insight that the self. Maybe I should correct that to say that it pertains to the authentic self instead.

I think intimacy is to allow another (and self, in the end) to unfold and be witnessed by another without shame and to be held (beheld!!) in love.

During my marriage I had hoped that my husband could, and eventually would, meet me there. In a more recent relationship, I had had these same hopes. Both came to an end and were devastating to me on so many levels, leaving me to ponder on the same issue that Erica did just before she broke up with the person who she thought was the One. Was she simply not meant to have such a relationship?

To me there is no greater connection and yet it seems like such an illusive improbability. For me. And yet I am hopeful. And so I wait.

How many lovers does it take to screw in a lightbulb… and other musings…

What a crazy week it’s been. After being in the body shop for a little over a month, my car was ready on Friday. They called me on Friday morning to let me know, and of course I had to figure out some way to scrape together the $1,000 deductible. So it will be a very meager next several weeks indeed, until two pay cheques from now, as the next one will be gobbled up by the rent. Anyway… enough of my financial woes…

The good news is… I have a car again, with a half tank of gas.

I’ve been trying to work on some painting (without much success). And some writing (and aside from this here blog post, and a number of emails, those efforts have been largely unproductive). I’ve also been not particularly muse-infused lately. I’ve also decided not to beat myself up about it all.

I’ve been feeling really – tired – tired is the right word. Tired of many things, but mostly of my flailing about. I feel like a drowning man, thrashing around in oceanic murk, trying to avoid the inevitable pull of the deep, only to finally give in anyway, watching the last stream of my little air bubbles float upward as I sink to the bottom despite my best efforts.

I’m so tired of being broke.

I’m tired of investing so much time into things that bring me little (or no) pleasure or improvement.

I’m tired of feeling like I have no direction, or rather, of having lost my way (and question whether I ever had a way to begin with).

I’m tired of wanting something better but not being able to get to better by way of my own resources.

And I’m tired of wondering what better is, in the end.

I’m tired of thinking, even.

So… how to go about remedying the sources of all of this fatigue. Helpful suggestions are welcome.

My leg/groin strain is finally starting to feel better. I went to see the doctor on Wednesday and was given a prescription for Naproxen. Perhaps the healing was delayed because of muscles spasming and now that the pain cycle is broken, things are finally starting to right themselves.

I’ve recently read (and have previously ruminated on, via my own) blog posts that speak about how we as humans have become separate from nature and the natural world’s cycle of birth-life-death, decay and renewal. That we fear change and hold on to things long past their usefulness or for our better good. That the concept of long-term relationships is an unnatural adherence, requiring a prodigious (yet perhaps futile, by these accounts) amount of effort to hold on to things that are ever-changing. How monogamy goes against the very grain of the laws of nature.

Oddly enough, despite what we think (citing the notion that we feel we are unable to focus our affections on only one person) we naturally tend to behave in such a way, and the superfluous “others” tend to fall off by the wayside; shed themselves like so much dead skin from the snake’s back. Until a new fancy surfaces and our interest wanes. I muse (and amuse myself immensely) that we have the notion that we are able to sustain multiple intimate relationships when even one requires fairly gargantuan effort to keep things running smoothly. I mean… I barely have enough time and energy to get through my work week, figure out new and creative (and cheap) ways to relax during my time off, be emotionally and physically available to my son in a caretaker/mom capacity, and still have a bit of “me” time. Maybe others are better at multi-tasking than I am.

But this life is a great experiment, and I long ago earned the title of Absent-minded Professor (coined as such by my mother), so I’ll go on experimenting, regardless. She was also the one who used to tell me not to ride two horses with one ass (when I was spreading myself too thinly, and not accomplishing any task with any great measure of success). And I have always mostly done what my dad always told me not to do, and did things the stupid way (as opposed to the smart way), learning best from my own mistakes (rather than those of others). But I digress.

Are humans basically fear-based creatures, having separated (perhaps even elevated) ourselves from the “natural world” and its impermanence–its cycles of birth-death-renewal? I think, perhaps, that if we run on the premise that all is meant to end or change, and that whatever we are experiencing in This Moment is doomed, then we don’t live fully. We live with the notion that this moment is not worth investing in fully, because it will be replaced by another one, shortly, and it may be better, or it may be worse, but it will definitely be different. It’s the ADHD phenomena afflicting humanity on a grand, emotional, scale. It smacks of nihilism and hedonism. It’s the epitome of blasé. And if it works for you, great. But does it, really?

I think, personally, viewing life in this way does a great disservice to the process of watching (or experiencing) the evolution of something (a relationship, for example). The evolution is never given a chance to develop because the focus is only on the now (the new?), not much effort is invested into it, certainly not much thought is given to how to make a joint collaboration unfold into something of greater potential over a period of time. I’ll use a big word here: trust. It’s short, really, but weighs on many of us.

It seems to me that there is always a sense of self-preservation present–an unwillingness to remove the governor–to really take the risk of something being good, despite the perceived cost, because there is an underlying notion that it will all go to pot, eventually. Better get it while the getting’s good. It seems to me that the same fear that plays on one human’s need to cling also plays on another human’s need to not cling. Same fear, different coping mechanism. It is the inability to relax into trust. It is my struggle, and many others’ as well, it seems.

This striving for something greater than the sum of its parts is what pushed humanity onward to reach great heights. It’s what has kept the species alive and has made us thrive. Evolution happens (in nature) over the course of a very, very long time. Small, tiny little incremental changes occur, so that they are almost imperceptible unless looked at with a keen and knowing eye, in retrospect (mostly). It seems to me that perhaps we ought to heed the natural laws in their entirety, and embrace the very things that have elevated us above the rest of the animal kingdom–our ability to discern and measure and hope and build and work together coherently and collectively–for the betterment of a greater whole. It is our compassionate nature, and our ability to link our hearts with our minds (and each other’s), that elevates us to the top of the animal kingdom.

I find it laugh-out-loud-funny that, in our misguided sense of spirituality, we can in one breath claim that we are all One and yet also claim that we are all Alone in the end. I am guilty of having made both of these postulations, sometimes in the same discussion. Others have as well. So how do we reconcile this sense of duality, this separation and yet Oneness that we all experience to varying degrees, at varying times? Is this the tug-of-war between ego and soul? Why should there be a war at all? If we can’t get our own parts to reach a sustainable state of peace, how can we hope for the Rest Of The World to follow suit?

This idea of being “alone” has led to most of the environmental and socio-economic issues that plague humanity. Perhaps it is because of our short life spans. This allows us to unconscionably shit in our own backyards because who cares what happens in a century (or on the other side of the same globe upon which we live)? We’ll be lucky if our kids will be around to see it come around. Besides, in the meantime, a very large meteor can hit us (or a mega-volcano could erupt) at any time, and send us into the next ice age or perhaps to our fiery demise. Or maybe beings from another galaxy, universe or dimension will want to take over this cesspool we’ve created and finish the job if we haven’t done it ourselves.

In the meantime, I need to find a ladder so I can reach that lightbulb…

Magickal chocolate technicolor heart bandaids

I don’t know what it is that we find compelling about another.  Is it a smile?  The color of their eyes?  Is it what they say, or how they think?  Is it the twinkle in their eyes or the curve of their lips?  Passionate discourse or sharpness of mind?  Maybe it’s all of these things.

I’m watching “Practical Magic” once again.  My cure-all, along with a bar of organic chocolate, for heartbreak (you know, Professor Lupin knows a thing or two about the curative powers of chocolate–good man, that Remus).  It is inspiring me to cast a spell, one which will keep my heart safely encased so that it never gets hurt again.  The bulletproof vest for the heart spell.  Is there such a spell?  Time to do some research…

They say that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.  I’m not so sure about that.  The one who said that must have been the one who was loved, who felt the wonder of another’s love in all its fierceness and loved back in kind.  My whole life I’ve been waiting for this kind of love, but the timing has never been right it seems.  Mostly I’ve loved when it was not returned in kind.  A few times I’ve garnered some unwarranted attention, but I never dragged it along like a catnip laden toy, until I tired of the game or the person, or to where the proverbial cat got too close for comfort.  There was only one time when I felt like there was a crazy kind of mutual love–my first love, and we were so young we had no idea how to love in a healthy way, so we never made it out of its labyrinthine trials.

Here I am, in this space of hurt and loss… again.  What to do here?  What to do with myself?  No matter how many times I find myself here, it still doesn’t feel any different, nor I any wiser or better at doing this, whatever it is that this is.  The things that I took refuge in –found solace in– have all but abandoned me.  So I sit here and wonder what to do with myself, with the physical manifestation of loving gone awry.  I wonder how long it will stay, this discomfort, and where it will go when it leaves.  I wonder how it will transform itself from pain into something else, when for the moment all I can do is breathe through its jagged sharpness, poking me each time I try to shift into a more comfortable place.

And I roll my eyes at my melodrama.  How is it that I can’t seem to escape it?  I try to rationalize my behavior, negotiate with my emotions.  It works only until another wave of emotion roils to mock my attempts at self-control, at controlling things that are outside of my control.  My emotions are, despite my wish for them not to be.  In fact, I was hoping they wouldn’t surface at all, even from the start.  But they did, despite my wishes, refusing to be subtle or even remotely sensible.  All I was hoping for was a nice way to pass some time, in some good company, with a like-minded individual of the opposite sex who I found remotely sexually appealing.  Damn.

There is this longing for honesty, to be comfortable enough with another human being that you are able share your inner self, in whichever way that it manifests.  So, it seemed to me a natural thing to have shared this growing sense of love.  It was amazing to feel it again, after such a long while, growing like a flower at the center of my chest, blossoming and unfurling its petals.  But instead of taking joy in it, the one for whom this love was strengthening found it to be a burden; an unwanted thing.  So out went the baby along with the bath water.

And again, I return to my emotions, to sit with them a while.  Of being wanted but only so much.  Of my clumsy attempt to shift from being a lover to being a friend to someone who I never really got to be either to before both ways of being were fully entangled.  Of trying to reconcile the loss of the friend along with the lover.  Of trying to understand what is so fearsome about being loved.  Of trying to figure out what sort of friendship is completely devoid of any sort of expectation.  Of wondering whether I’ve completely lost my mind as well as my sense of self, and am asking who this stranger is in my body.

There is so much talk these days about forgiveness, of letting go, of acceptance (of self and whatever else is going on in one’s life), of staying in the moment and with your emotions, of visualizing in Technicolor® detail what it is that you want and where you want to go, of integrating all of the past crap you’ve been carrying along so that you can deal with the now, of letting go of all of the old crap because it doesn’t matter anyway because it’s NOW goddamn it not THEN so wake up and smell the coffee… but wait, you’re not supposed to be consuming caffeine because it’s bad for you, but hang on… chocolate, even though it contains caffeine, is GOOD because it contains anandamide which will make you feel happy even though you aren’t but for godsakes don’t give it to the dog.

No wonder all I feel like doing is going for a fucking long walk.

Did I say I didn’t hurt anymore? I was wrong.

Did I say I didn’t hurt anymore?  I was wrong.

For a little while the wound had healed, the pain replaced with a sort of numbness, like the kind that comes when nerve endings have been severed with a scalpel.

It took me by surprise this new onslaught, sharp and bright;

it caught in my throat and made my eyes hot with tears.

I was shuffling along the sidewalk, my back and shoulders laden with shopping bags, a back pack and a heart heavy with the pain of recurring loss.

Wave upon wave of desertion and reclamation finally unfurled the reknitting my heart had managed to do.

I surrendered to a monolith of a boulder that had beckoned to me as I was making my way home.

I thought I was done with the tears.  In this, too, I was mistaken.

So I let them come.

Flowing in rivulets from the outer corners of my eyes, they mingled with the rain drops that sprinkled my face.

For a moment I wondered whether the cars driving by noticed the lump of a woman spread out like an offering.

The rock was solid and smooth and warm despite the overcast sky.

Solidly it bore me with a strength that I seemed incapable of sustaining myself.

My sorrow settled, seeping from my body to deep within the stone.

I stood up after a while to resume my walk.

One foot in front of the other, step by step, I wove my way back home.

mothers’ day

Another mother’s day post, you say, throwing accolades at the worthy women of our lives. Well… no, not really. I’m sure you would expect nothing less from this blog than to hear something different, right?

My mother has been deceased since 2003, and I still miss her. There are many things about my mother that I don’t miss, but certainly the connection we had with each other, severed with her passing, is something that will always leave a gap in the place that she held, in my heart and in my life.

I learned from her as much how not to parent as I did how to. In between the mess of doing our worst and our best, our children take away exactly what it is that they need to know. I’m sure that somewhere down the line my son will think along similar lines… assimilate the stuff that works and reject the stuff that doesn’t.

Becoming a mother was one of the most transformational experiences of my life. Until then I could only guess at what one feels when one gives life to another human being. Until then my only point of reference to motherly love was what I felt coming from my mother, and what I in turn felt toward her.

Her love was wildly fierce, but it came mixed with so many other things, the detritus of her past that molded and shaped her into who she became. She of uncommon independence before there was a such a thing as a women’s movement. She who kicked a soviet soldier in the ass (after chasing him down, for grabbing her older sister’s breast while he and a buddy walked by on the sidewalk beside them) and cussing him out in Russian. She who, at the age of 38, with nary a suitcase of “stuff,” left her mother land and crossed a militarized border to pursue the ideal of freedom. Amazing cook… fastidious homemaker… talented clothing designer and seamstress.

She was also an unbending disciplinarian; the wooden spoon ruled in our home until I was old enough to grab it out of her hand and ask her if she’d like me to whack her with it to see if she liked how it felt. And while she may have taken care of many of my physical needs, she was inept at building my self esteem; in fact, she routinely went about tearing down the things that were meaningful to me, the things that I was vested in emotionally, based solely on the fact that they were “unrealistic.” What I remember hearing many times was “stop floating around with your head in the ether and get back down to earth.” Embittered by her own experiences, she felt that life was a pointless exercise in disappointment, rife with trials and tribulations. Cynicism hardened her to most everything, except her love for me… and then I left her as she was growing frail and elderly, to start my own life three thousand miles away.

My time away from her and the rest of my family was bittersweet. While my mother and I kept in touch long distance, it isn’t the same as having someone close by. You miss out on the day to day interactions that can be wonderful times, though in many ways the distance was a blessing, at least for me. It allowed me to grow as a human, to transcend the sort of suffocating control that my mother, my family and others who knew me from when I was a child would manage to impose on me. I broke out of the mold. I learned to breathe… and to fly.

On sketches & bucket lists…

Haven’t been doing much in the way of focused art sessions, but have been managing to “doodle” on odd bits of paper here and there. This was a self-portrait I sketched onto the page of one of my notebooks into which I put down my story ideas… or actually start to write and develop them, as the case may be.

I’ve been seeing someone who is a wonderful compliment to my usual modus operandi… while we’re both creative types, he actually accomplishes things, in that he will not let an idea sit but he’ll actually develop things into bigger things… things you can actually do something with… like get published or whatever. We each have strengths and they play off of each other. This may be a perfect alchemical match yet. 🙂 And he cooks and does dishes… how cool is that?

I’ve signed up for (at least one) deco collaboration with a ‘bucket list’ theme. The concept, while not a new one, was popularized by a movie of the same name with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nickelson (did I spell that right?).  So I’ve been putting together my own bucket list… a list of to-do’s before I kick the bucket. It’s an odd way to think, really. I’ve always had this impression, despite the fact that it’s been proven erroneous several times (I’ve had my share of funeral attendances), that life is infinite… that there will always be time to do tomorrow what we didn’t get to do today. In any case, I finally settled on my first pick of the 19 items (of an ever expanding, though slowly creeping) list of things I really want to do before I expire from this world.

Ever since I read Shirley Maclaine’s The Camino, I’ve wanted to walk it myself, the Santiago de Compostela. The how and when of it eludes me, but I have to trust that someday it will come to pass. It’s a long trek, but I expect I would discover things about myself that I haven’t yet… crucial things… things that will make me emerge and merge into more of who I am. Of course I am sure there are other ways of accomplishing this~I’m open to suggestions.

Non-visual journal entry… well, sort of…

Stargazing Tip for April 9

The Moon huddles quite close to the brightest star of Virgo tonight. Spica is a little to the upper left of the Moon as they rise in early evening.

Big Hand for a Little Star

Stardate: April 9, 2009

The tears are flowing this morning, a relentless stream following the inner crease of my eye, along my nose and down my cheeks to be deftly wiped away before they escape. I don’t know why today is any different than yesterday, or tomorrow. Since being let go from my job at the beginning of January, it’s all been like one long flowing day, punctuated with stress here and there, but otherwise rather dull and numbing.

How is it that every time change occurs in my life, it has to be everything all at once? Is it my sense of impatience in general that controls even the manifestations of my higher self? Are we both equally impatient? And yet, I must be patient, for I have been waiting for what seems like an eternity for something to happen that will push me into the place where I will flourish. Perhaps this is it. If only it wasn’t so gut-wrenchingly devastating at the same time. I wish I could muster up more enthusiasm in light of these developments.

Perkily, Steve went apartment hunting yesterday, online, and found a junior one bedroom apartment that he’s put dibs on in Costa Mesa. Funny how the very construct we met upon so many years ago has also facilitated our separation. It’s not as though it happened suddenly, and blind-sided us. It became a wedge, like a curtain drawn between hospital beds, and severed our connection. While there is a fondness between us, we’ve lost our soul connection. I wonder, sometimes, if it was ever really there.

I wonder what the point of our union was in the first place. If it was to get me here to California, it has seemingly failed in its purpose, since I will be leaving to go back to Canada shortly. Of course, that too is my choice. I could stay here, but I have no where to go. Doesn’t seem like much of a choice. I don’t feel safe here. And I’m not sure why I feel any differently about being in Canada, but some things reach me at gut-level and I’ve intuited this as being the best course of action.

I am afraid. I am afraid of being alone for the rest of my life. I am afraid that I will amble from one job to the next as a means of paying my bills without deriving any joy or satisfaction out of my daily work. I fear that I will not be able to support myself and Gabriel to a standard that will match what we are leaving behind. I fear that he will also someday abandon me in favor of living with his father. I fear that I will never figure out what it is that I am here to do on this earth, making it all a pointless exercise in futility, like pounding sand. I fear that I will start off this new segment of my life with so much less than I started with, and that I won’t have the strength, ambition or focus to make it back to good. Sometimes I fear I’ve made such a mess of things that it is too far gone to fix; that it’s irreparably damaged.

I have this sense of diminished worth that I carry like a mantle. Who gave this to me, I wonder? Was it intended to protect me during my meandering through life? Did I put it there to protect myself from undue interest; to not have to measure up to anything because I was running under the radar? How can it be that I have not been able to maintain an intimate relationship with another human being? Am I meant to be alone?

I get these inspirational quotes via email. Today’s is “Love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness” attributed to Oliver Wendell Holmes. Some days they inspire me; other days, like today, they merely sound insipid.