Moon Phases.

There’s a Half Moon in the sky tonight; did you see it?

It suits my mood, this feeling that I’m Halfway There

even if I don’t really know what or where The End is.

I think I’ll know When I Get There though.

This doesn’t feel the same as having that cup either half empty or full.

I’m still Me, the eternal optimist, and

I’m very grateful for Where I Am.

Except it feels like In Between. It just seems like life is holding

it’s breath for something.

I’ve felt this before and I was right.

What can not sustain itself never really does.

Change comes.

Tides ebb and flow.

Moons wax and wane.

I am from the water and the moon and trees.

I will change too.

The sky tonight is proof.

There is no permanence in a half moon. No lasting strength.

It will go one way or the other.

It’s calming to me.

Seeing it reminds me

to be still and wait.

To be still and know that “I am God”.

And that Someone Is Watching.

Because who feels alone when they see a moon in the sky?

Even a half moon is something.

A spirit to hold my hand,

or at least my gaze.

For  now.

Posted in Journeys, Skies, Writing | 1 Comment

…help me to accept the things I can not change….

The self-realization of the day:

Absorption is not always easy or fast. Struggling to absorb something is not the same thing as refusing to accept it or fighting to change it. Needing time is valid. Even when we understand the reasons why something is the way it is, it does not always follow that it easy to accept.

Those are the thoughts of a saturated sponge, that may need time in the open air for evaporation, before she can take in anymore.

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Once upon a time, there was girl. And she was very glad. And then she got lost.

The ocean was tranquil and blue today, with waves like wrinkles in my blanket. I’d spent this morning running hard, pounding out memories and fantasies I didn’t want to dwell on and I went ocean-side wanting more pounding, angry waves. I wanted the white capped relentlessness that overwhelms any thought trying to surface. I wanted to cough and sputter and feel myself give up. But we got there after an afternoon rain and instead of punishing, the water was warm and embracing and calm. I almost turned around and went home.

Instead, I swam and thought and remembered. I think many people who have gone through divorce mourn the loss of a shared history. I hear that often, at least. Shared conversations and inside jokes and remembrances. That is not my experience. My version of history continually reveals itself to more accurately be HisStory… not mine. The version I know was a mirage, a manipulation sometimes even kindly devised to earn my cooperation. He was not always hateful… just too insecure to trust that if he allowed me my own take-away, it would go against his favor.

This is always most evident when I’m presented with someone else’s memory of a shared time. A little light goes on, a gut instinct finds validation. People he said disliked me actually found me affable. Something he said was invisible was actually quite realized. And on and on. The revelation is always at once jarring, unsettling, and thirst quenching. It’s an odd sensation.

Grandma Hazel (who wasn’t actually my Grandma and I hated calling her that) liked to warn me on summer days that drinking cold lemonade when one was overheated was dangerous; it could shock my system. So I would add ice and drink it in front of her just to make her mad. Who wants warm lemonade on a hot day?! But that feeling of burning cold against burning heat is kind of what it’s like, to hear someone offer a truth I hoped was possible but had no way of knowing. It’s a shock.

Last night a dear friend offered me a different perspective on a time in history/ourstory/mystory, and at the same time, a glimpse into a future that Could Have Been. We suddenly had a Robert Frost Moment, a road not taken, a moment of bereavement.

I was thinking of this when I went to sleep last night and when I woke this morning and when I pounded my feet hard against the pavement and when I laid languidly in the ocean watching an iridescent dragonfly skim the ripples nearby. I have been so accustomed to David’s reframe of my history that I can’t find the ground of true memory.

It turns out I wasn’t unwanted after all.

Waves that refuse to build and break do little to suffocate and drown unwanted memories. Unwillingly my mind brought back memories of  hands upon me so focused on getting it all over with as quickly as possible that there was never time for eye contact or a kiss or sweet somethings in my ear. Of brutal pain and blindness. The persistence and depth of such a short span of minutes of my life makes me angry. The realization of how easily it could have all been avoided takes my breath away.

Which makes lifeguards nervous by the way. It turns out they don’t much like it when  you stay under water too long. I doubt there is any place on this planet remote enough to scream and scream and scream and never be heard for one luxurious minute.

I stayed in the water until my skin wrinkled. I stayed there until I could feel the chill of deeper water pulling on my bones. I came out and looked for shards of sea glass and drove my babies home and made them dinner.

One beautiful thing about being alone is that there is no one around to distort the vision I have of my own life.

That sentiment is probably the exact thing driving my current ambivalence. I am in a strange relationship that is devoted yet uncommitted.  And as I flutter (flounder?) in that free vulnerability, I become more aware of the benefits. I can practically feel the strands of my cocoon growing. Sometimes I tear it away and gladly fly, trusting and open. And other times I nest into a ball, knowing there is one place I am safe, or relatively so.  I hesitate to let that go, to really let anyone in.

They might get out their pen and begin to rewrite. Or worse, erase.

On August 1 I was standing in church. Orthodox churches usually don’t have pews; we stand through the entire service. At the front, the place known as the iconostasis, there are large icons of Christ, the Theotokos, and a few saints. The icon of Christ is eye level with me where I stand. The feeling is often very penetrating, very knowing.

So on August 1 I had surrendered. I didn’t cry or complain of my burdens…I just kind of balled them up and threw them down and said, “enough”. I don’t want to carry them, I CAN’T carry them. I don’t think I was even really praying. Just talking to the air. And later in church, I met the gaze of that icon.

“40 Days. Give me 40 Days”. Yes, I know that is a cliche biblical number. But I swear I heard it. 40 days from August 1 is September 9. I have no idea what it means, no idea if there will really be any change in that bag of burdens. I feel the brunt of my solo-ness, which also seems a part of any significant 40 days in the bible. I only know that for now, my waves won’t break. And they probably won’t until there is a new tide. And that the only way forward is to keep taking steps ahead, one at a time.


Posted in Journeys, Nature, Thoughts, Water, Writing | 1 Comment

Imperfectly Valid.

So, on the day that I signed the Motion for Contempt (because he didn’t obey the judge and he won’t pay to support his children),

a co-worker acted like The Boss and corrected me 4 times, snarkily (I think that should be a word).

And on that same day The Love yelled at me (yes, yelled, which he never, ever does) because he momentarily confused me with A Ghost From His Past.

It wasn’t my fault. “I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it” suddenly applied to something I didn’t see coming.

And in a breath it was over and done with,

for him.

But I was stunned (without breath) and so it wouldn’t pass on

and lingered instead, sludge-like in my throat and belly, all day.

I tried to detach. I really did. But these are new muscles that don’t always work right and instead, I got kind of sick.

But I still worked and smiled and tried to Be Happy which made me feel a little like I am growing.

And then when I picked up my baby from camp (the one who is only 5),

they said he told his teacher, “Mother Fucker”.

It was good it was 5:30 and Time To Go Home.

It was even better that now I have a Home to go to.

So I went there and cried. And drank champagne for dinner. I watched movies with my kids in pajama’s before the sun was even down.

In the morning It Was Okay. It really was. Which sort of seems like a miracle.

To me. Does it to you?

Posted in Journeys, Writing | 1 Comment

Beautiful “How to be alone” video.

Posted in Journeys, Simple Goodness | 1 Comment

I still cry in Savasana.

Today I was able to Make It Back to my yoga class.

Today I remembered to Stay on My Mat.

When we got to Savasana, My Eyes Wept.

When I walked out into the sunshine I had a new idea for maybe Making The Rent.

I’m learning in Al-Anon to Let Go. Yoga teaches me The Same Thing.

They are my new friends. I think I’ll Be Sane.

I can at least take it One Step At A Time.

Today I will Be Unafraid.

Just today though. Tomorrow is Not My Business.

I’m going to write it down and set it free in the ocean tonight.

Salty tears mixed with Sea.

Posted in Faith, Journeys, Water | Tagged , | 1 Comment

About those fields of barley….

I wrote my last post and titled it, focused on the Fields of Gold. About a week later we decided to take a local hike recommended by our innkeeper. It was to a bald, a spot called Max Patch Mountain. Most importantly, it was close and didn’t require a lot of driving. The hike was easy, the view like something out of some European scene. I have never seen a view quite like this in the Smokies. I unconsciously started singing, “so she took her love, for to gaze awhile, upon the fields of barley” as I was standing in just such fields. Suddenly remembering the prophetic post I’d left behind, I was stunned. Then, I cried tears. The happy kind.

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