Void In My Heart

Only you can fill it.

Love.

Fill it with love.

Fill it with joy.

Fill it with the smell of you entangled in my memories.

Fill it with the flush you bring to my face.

Fill it with flowers.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

So I have been told.

I am not empty without you, per se, but there is emptiness there.

Greater than I knew.

A spot, a space, a holding space if you will.

Patient it waits for you to step back in.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

If I grow any fonder I’ll die.

You indulge me.

You sustain me.

You light me up like a firefly on a hot summer night.

I think about that.

You.

And.

Hot summer nights.

I feel sixteen again.

Seventeen.

Wild.

Fraught with emotion.

Overfull with desire.

Wishing to abandon myself completely to you.

All the time.

You redeem me.

You rescue me.

When I did not know I needed rescuing.

When I am with you I am replete.

Full.

Ravished with happiness.

I am almost afraid to see your face.

Your eyes.

To touch you.

I will have to make sure you are real.

Not a dream.

Not wishful thinking.

But here.

In front of me.

Waiting for my touch.

Waiting for my kiss.

Waiting.

You have not left a void in me, but rather a space that is occupied.

Constantly.

Always.

Continuous with thoughts of you.

My heart overflows.

I find my face wet with tears for no reason.

I wake up and feel you in my body.

I close my eyes at night and see you there pressed against the backs of my lids.

Sometimes.

I can almost feel you beside me.

I lift my hand and can sense the contours of your face.

My heart batters inside my chest.

The state of being away from your person.

Makes me want to hoard you when I have you.

Makes me greedy and childish.

Wanton and lustful.

Wistful.

I wish to stockpile you so that I don’t feel that awful loneliness without you.

Irrational.

Love is abundant.

Infinite.

This love has no end.

No beginning.

It shelters me from the nights rain.

It lulls me to sleep.

I am held.

I am seen.

And in that seeing and holding.

I can do the same for you.

I see you.

Let me hold you.

Let me press against you and fill you up.

Full to overflowing.

With.

All.

My.

Love.

For.

You.

 

Gearing Up

For the weekend.

I got stuff to do people.

Places to go.

French friends to reconnect with.

Plans to make.

Plans that may be changing.

I may postpone my trip to Paris in May, my friend won’t be going back the time we had originally made plans on being there together, she’s made some suggestions and we are going to get together tomorrow in the afternoon and hash it out.

Oh.

I’m still going.

There is absolutely no doubt about that.

Just that the timing may be different, more toward late summer or fall.

The entire point of the trip was for us to spend time together, she’s from Paris and has spoken often and passionately about a Paris I have had glimpses of but not quite gotten to see.

She wants to show me and I am all in.

We just have to push it back a little bit.

Once we have figured that out I will look at making my other travel plans, Puerto Rico.

I may take a few days and go there in May, swap out the timing on the two trips.

There will be travel.

And tomorrow there will be much get about on the train.

I have parked my scooter and covered her up.

It’s going to rain.

And it’s going to rain a fucking lot.

For over a week.

Oh well.

Before the train I will be going to yoga, I haven’t been all week trying to navigate my new schedule with the new job, but I signed up for the 9 a.m. class tomorrow and I will squeeze in a class on Sunday as well and perhaps one on Thursday, help me get mellowed out before I have my first weekend of classes.

Yup.

That’s next weekend.

I got my second text-book in the mail today.

The stack of notebooks and text books begins to grow once again.

So this weekend will be getting as much stuff as I can done before next weekend’s first classes.

I will do the deal at Tart to Tart with my person tomorrow at noon.

Then a manicure.

Then lunch with my friend.

I’ll probably find a cafe to hole up in for a few hours and crank out some reading.

I’m not going to bother coming home after I do the deal and meet my friend for lunch.

I’m gong to be heading over to the East Bay to a speaking engagement and I figure once I’m out, I’ll be out all day and just get it all in.

Sunday I’m having a lady over to do some work and then I’ll cook for the week and work on my practicum applications.

Because that shit has to get done.

And after next weekend I will be in the doing homework mode.

I mean.

Fuck.

I already am.

I have reading assigned for all my classes.

But after next weekend’s round of classes I will also have the papers and the projects that inevitably follow a weekend of classes and I have to get my practicum stuff together.

So yeah.

I’m almost, not quite, but almost, grateful for the rainy days.

I will not be out running amok.

Not that I tend to anyway when I’m getting prepared for the school weekend.

But you know.

Easier to sit still when it’s rainy and cold.

I do wish that it passes quickly and that it clears by the weekend so that I can ride my scooter to school or even to a day or two of work.

It is just so much faster than the trains.

I finally figured out the fastest way to work today.

I found the magic through streets that get me from Diamond Heights to my spot in Glen Park.

It’s a lot of hills and it’s a little nerve-wracking, but I’m getting used to the commute and it is intriguing to be in a part of the city that I haven’t had much experience with.

It’s funny how a little change in my work location opens up an entirely new part of the city and all the things that I had no clue where there are there.

It’s fun to discover stuff.

And the new job continues to be quite lovely.

I am really going to like it, I am liking it more and more every day.

Even though today was a little hard.

It wasn’t hard because of my current job, it was hard because of my previous job.

I saw the boys today.

Oh, hello tears.

I am super grateful I didn’t cry at the school, but it took some enormous draw of strength to not do so.

I saw the little guy first when I went to pick up my current charges from school.

He was out running around, he and the little girl in the family are in the same class and I figured I would see him, but I had no idea how hard it would be.

Which, you know, is a gift, when someone affects me like that, when I have that kind of depth of feeling, I don’t have to run from it, it’s a gift, it means he meant something to me.

He still does.

He means so much.

I said his name.

He looked at me, and for a moment he didn’t recognize me.

Then.

“CARMEN!”

He flew across the playground and threw himself in my arms (pausing to cry, I’ll be with you in just a moment) and hugged me so hard.

So very hard.

“I missed you,” he said and shuddered and then clung to me even harder, “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too sweet guy,” I said and squeezed him back.

I set him gently down and asked how his Christmas was and his first week back at school and then I took a few pictures of him with my little girl charge and there was another hug and then he raced off to the playground and that was that.

I hugged my new charge and we got her back pack and bag of stuff to take home and signed her out.

I saw the old mom.

We said “hi,” and she said, “did you see?”

I did.

I nodded.

She told me his older brother was coming out and very much wanted to see me as well.

Ugh.

Slight pause to clean off my glasses.

Tear splatters.

I girded myself for the emotions and took my little girl by her hand and asked her about her day and she showed me the drawing she had drawn for me and then I looked up.

And.

Oh.

God.

His face.

All the emotions dancing across his face.

Shyness, excitement, joy, sadness, he paused and looked at me.

I smiled.

He smiled back.

Then he grinned.

Then he ran to me.

I caught him and lifted him up and hugged him and smelled his sweet neck and tried very hard, very, very, very hard, to not cry.

Saved that all for right now.

Ha.

“I missed you Carmen,” he whispered into my ear, “it’s been two weeks, it’s been too long, when are you coming back?”

“Oh bunny,” I said, and set him down, then I knelt down next to him.

“I missed you too,” I said and brushed his hair from his face and touched his soft cheek, how pale he looked, how sad and sweet and sincere.

“When are you coming back?” He asked me again.

I didn’t get a chance to say anything, the mom came and scooped him up, “we got to go ____________”

“I have to get them to the dentist,” she said, “sorry to rush off!”

“No worries, it was wonderful to see them, have a great weekend,” I said and smiled.

He looked at me, ugh, that look, then walked away with his mom.

I signed out my other charge and gave him a big hug.

“Guess what?!” I said and shook the sads out of my coat sleeves.

“What?” He asked very solemn.

“ICE CREAM,” his sister yelled, “ice cream, ice cream, ice cream, we’re going to go get ice cream.”

And we did and it was jolly fun and it helped soothe the ache in my chest to be with them and giggle and laugh and taste, them, not me, the different flavors at BiRite Creamery, and then sit and watch them devour their cones and then say, hey, let me get a coffee and guess what else, we got time for the park before we catch the train.

It was a good day.

A little sad.

A lot tender.

But a good day.

And I’m grateful for all the feelings.

“It must be hard,” my new mom said to me, when I mentioned that I saw the boys.

“For them, but also for you,” she said.

She’s an insightful person.

We get along quite well, I have to say.

“It was, but it was also good to see them,” I said, I might have been trying to gloss it over a tiny bit to keep myself together as I got my stuff to leave for the weekend.

“You must feel pretty tender, it might be harder than if you had just had a complete end with them,” she added.

“Maybe,” I said, looking at her deep blue-green sea glass eyes.

“But I’ll be ok, and I am so grateful to have made the transition to be with you,” I smiled, “thank you and please let me know how I can help next week, I’m very happy to be here.”

“Mom!” The little girl came running, “come eat dinner.”

Saved by the dinner time bell.

I got another hug from the little girl and a blown kiss from the boy and big, hearty, heart-felt thank you’s from the parents.

It was a good week.

I am glad.

My tears have dried.

And I am glad for both the expression of the emotion and that I can hold a vast amount of love and joy and emotions all at the same time.

I can love and miss the boys.

And.

I can be excited and happy for the new job.

And grateful for all of it.

All the feels.

All the things.

All the love.

Yes, love.

All the love.

It is so very, very good.

Even when it hurts.

Even then.

Seriously.

Oh!

I am sad.

That is what has been nibbling and gnawing at me all day today.

I have been sort of running away from the feeling.

Or rather, walking quickly.

I went on two walks today, one really long one with the dog, who I actually managed to tucker out.  This little beast is a ball of frenetic energy.  Glad I got to have some quiet time after the walk.

Even though quiet time was apparently the last thing that I consciously wanted.

Unconsciously, I knew I needed it.

Needed to sit, needed to meditate.

Needed to let the feelings drift and settle and then come to the forefront.

I found my way over to Rockridge this evening and attended a meditation.

I did not want to go.

But I heard this little voice in my head, “you’ll lose what you put ahead of your sobriety and you need to get out of your head”.  I doubt that little voice less and less frequently.  I trust that voice, I trust that intuition, I trust that doing the opposite of what I want to do is often the best answer for me.

I went with the gut and got on my bicycle.

Riding down 40th Street with the sun warm on my back, my bicycle felt alive under my pedaling feet and I was there in less time then I had spent thinking about whether or not I should go.

That too is often the case.

I will spend a lot of time thinking about something, sometimes more time is spent thinking about something than the actual doing.

Sometimes.

Ha.

All the fucking time.

I found myself exactly where I was supposed to be, got a hot cup of lemon ginger tea and settled into a comfy chair.

I saw an old friend I have not seen in years, he had just returned from his honeymoon and we talked about my time in Paris.

“You should see all the stuff I wrote down, I was just thinking about it the other day, so much of it has come true or happened.” He smiled.

He was referring to an exercise that was in the Artist Way.

We had been in a group of people who met Wednesdays for a bout a year and a half at the Muddy Waters on Valencia at 24th Street in San Francisco.

As a group we did the Artist Way and the two other books in the series.  We liked the group so much we actually went back and re-read the Artist Way after a few people fell out of the group and started up again with some fresh faces.

He and I and a few other members of the core group continued to do the work of self-discovering and finding ourselves artistically.

The exercise he was referring to had to do with writing down everything that you wanted, to really picture it clearly in your mind’s eye and then write it down, describing everything, to let yourself dream and dream big.

No restrictions.

I do not recall everything that I wrote down.

I do, however, recall quite a bit.

I wanted to live in Paris and own a flat and I saw myself walking barefoot on beautiful wood floors, I saw high, tall windows with long sheer white curtains blowing in the warm Spring air.  I imagined a kitchen and rooms and a balcony with a table and wrought iron chairs.

I saw a husband and children and fat books that I wrote.

I imagined a literary agent and screen plays and, well, I let my imagination go.

I made it to Paris.

It was not the fantasy.

It was not the dream.

But it was a dream.

It was an experience.

I would not have made that leap without that group and all the work we did.  I wrote morning pages every day–a habit I still have to this day–I took artist walks, I did the exercises, even the crazy ones like no media for a week!

A week.

I did that one twice, since we went back and re-read the first book again.

I wore my favorite article of clothing, at the time a giant froth of pink tulle crinoline, because the book suggested we do, for no particular reason other than it was my favorite piece of clothing.

I dyed my hair blonde.

Well, I got blonde highlights.

Then I went really bold and crazy and cut my hair off, going short for the first time in four years.  I went pink and purple and got a mohawk at one time.

Well, a faux-hawk if you will.

I went to Paris.

I took my book from second to third draft.

I started writing this blog.

I got a big tattoo.

I got more tattoos.

I began the process of letting myself become a writer, an artist, a creative being.

To be reminded of that tonight was fulfilling.

To realize that I also miss Paris and was a little sad was a small revelation.

I let myself be sad.

Oh, I am not sad that I went and I am not sad that I had to leave or that any of it happened the way it did.  It all happened exactly how it was supposed to.

I was sad for the light lingering in the sky and for the people who I had just gotten to know.

I miss Mario.

And Maggie.

Greta and Christina.

I miss Johnny and Amadeus and Alex and Alex and Ian and Alain.

I miss Sarah and Erin and Sophie.

I miss Cameron and Natasha and Rose.

I miss Corinne and Orla May.

I miss seeing Andrew and John every Saturday and how they each said my name with a lilt and kissed both my cheeks.

I miss the double cheek kiss.

I miss Bruno and Leif and Gretchen.

I miss Ray and Crowe.

I miss going to the American Church, although I don’t miss how cold it was in the little room upstairs.

I miss walking over Pont Alma to Quai D’Orsay.

And I realized it was alright to miss these things and that I was finally acknowledging the sadness I would be able then to let it go and fully embrace being here.

I haven’t looked over all the photographs I took.

That still is something I don’t know that I am ready to do.

But I have opened my own eyes, as I did this evening as the time chimed the end to the meditation, looked out into the soft charcoal smudged Oakland hills enveloped in purple light and denim glory, and saw that sadness could co-exist with the contentment I feel coming home.

“Where did you say you were from,” he said peering at me while his hand shook mine a touch too long.

“I just moved here from Paris,” I said withdrawing my hand.

“WELCOME TO AMERICA!” He said and clapped me on my shoulder, “you’ll like it here.”

I do.

I do like it here.

In Oakland.

It appears to like me too.