Posts Tagged ‘leap’

When You Get The Package

January 10, 2017

But.

It’s not the package.

Grr.

I was super excited to get home and see that my new dress had arrived.

But.

Hmmm.

That seems like a smallish package.

Yeah.

Because it was.

No unboxing video coming out of the opening here.

Nope, maybe just a few profanities, and no body wants to hear me swear, it’s not pretty.

I was pissed though, I was planning on wearing the dress for a special occasion, an anniversary of mine that is coming up.

Oh well.

I understood the mistake too, the person doing the packing had put in my invoice, but the wrong item of clothing and it totally made sense, the person who should have gotten what I got lives in the neighborhood.

So what I’m hoping is that this girl got my dress.

I shot her an e-mail and fingers crossed she has my dress and I can just swap her sweater and we don’t have to deal with sending the stuff back to the company.

Because it’s in LONDON.

Actually, it shipped from Essex.

So yeah.

I’d love it if this lady gets back to me and says, yup, I got your dress.

I sent her my e-mail and I’ll see what comes of it.

I also e-mailed the company, because, well, I’m a little disappointed.

And if she didn’t get my dress or already returned it I want to know what to do.

I am not keeping the sweater, that’s for sure, I want my dress and the sweater though cute is the wrong size, so no matter what some action needs to be taken.

Mistakes happen.

Not the worst thing ever.

Nothing was the worst thing ever today, although sometimes the small things can get under my skin much more than the big things.

Oh!

I just got a message back from the girl, she said she got a notification that a package was delivered to her, she’s going to let me know when she gets back.

Ok.

That would be lovely.

Cut out the middle man and have myself a new frock to wear for the weekend.

I’m going to meet with a few friends and fellows on Sunday to celebrate my anniversary.

It feels so surreal and so amazing and I’m super pleased that so many of the people I asked to join me are going to be able to join me.

Sometimes letting in the love is the hardest thing and I hadn’t even thought about trying to get people together.

I hadn’t.

Not my idea at all.

I had made the decision that I would leave school a little early so that I can go to my spot that I like to go to on Fridays and share with the folks there, but nothing past that.

My person was like, um hello, come up on Sunday and pick up your chip and we’ll have dinner beforehand and I was like, oh my God.

Yes.

What a fucking fabulous idea.

I messaged some folks today

And some could make it and some can’t but.

Holy crap.

There’s eight of us going to dinner and ten I think hitting the spot afterward.

I was blown away by the responses I received.

You are the one thing in my way, you are the one thing in my way, you are the one thing in my way.

I am the only thing in my way.

There is so much love and though it is scary and hard to open up and receive it, I shall.

I am learning.

It is a job that seems to be the most important to me, the most healing and also, sometimes, oft-times, the most difficult.

To hold the doors of my heart open, to accept love.

To be told, “I would be honored to be there.”

To have someone message me that they were clearing their calendar to be there.

To be seen.

To be witnessed.

To be loved for who I am.

I don’t have to do a tummy tuck or make a million dollars or manipulate you through with holding my honest response.

I am just me and you like me?

No.

As it turns out.

You love me.

I feel so special.

Some of the folks I asked are girl friends from school.

Some are people who I walk the road of happy destiny with.

All of them responded with love and kindness and joy at my invitation, even those that aren’t able to come said they would be with me in spirit and I totally believed them.

It feels astounding and I am so grateful for this little outpouring of love.

It feels miraculous and I have to tell myself, gently, without negativity, that yes, they do love me and I’m lovable and worthy of love and it’s ok to accept them in.

I might get hurt.

Hell it’s bound to happen.

I’m human, I’ve hurt others, absolutely I have.

But it’s worth getting hurt.

Besides, when it comes right down to it no human can fulfill me completely, that kind of love comes from within, from a source deep with in, that still quiet voice that tells me with unequivocal truth that I am loved.

I was hurt when I was young and I developed ways to deal with that.

One of them was to disassociate and to not let you in.

It was too hard, those that I trusted hurt me.

So.

I built up some walls.

Bigger and bigger and harder and I blocked you the fuck out.

But in the end that defense stopped working.

I looked out over my towers and ramparts and I felt safe, but the longing I had for connection became so great it led me to leap.

I leapt.

I had faith.

I changed.

I opened my heart.

I let you in.

Oh.

Sometimes I built the walls back up.

I shut the door again.

I leaned against it, heavy and hurt and burdened by feelings.

I was abandoned and alone and lonely and sad and tired and it was just too much work to keep all the monsters at bay.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I felt the sun on my cheek, through the cracks in the wall and I opened the door again and stepped out into the sun.

You can’t fix me.

I’m not broken.

I just didn’t know that for a long time.

And when the love comes in I do have to take a moment and not run from it, to allow it in, to receive it, to let that love be a blazon and to shine it right back out.

I can’t give it away if I can’t accept it.

And I want to love you.

So fierce.

So deep.

With every fiber of my being.

I wish to love you with all that is bright and right and beautiful.

Love, like fireworks and eider-down, like peonies heavy-headed with dander in the grass at the edge of the garden, where the wild currants grow and the violets nod their sleepy heads, soft sheathed in the sweet, pale, green summer grass.

Love like cotton blossoms and the smell of wood smoke.

Love like light through amber and butterfly wings.

Love, warm, and soft and so, so, so strong.

For you.

All my love.

Love.

Always and forever.

Yes.

There.

Like.

That.

Just like that.

 

Filterless

September 26, 2012

“I have no filter,” I said to Kristin gleefully at work today.

I really do not.

I care, but I do not care.

I do not wish to offend, but I just cannot take it all that seriously anymore.

Nothing, none of it, it is just not serious.

Despite having attended two sit down meetings today to figure out how the shop will move forward in my absence and how things will need to change and what systems have to be implemented before I go.

Ah, sure, yeah, ok.

As Tanya pointed out, “they need to be paying you for that.”

I did train some one today and I did not even think about it.  The pay off was not having to invoice a $4,500 line item bill.  Though, I would like some other kinds of compensation, it is very doubtful the company is going to have anything to give.

Tanya seems more excited for me than I do.

So does Jasper.

And Bill.

And Jennifer.

And John.

And Steve.

And why, the list goes on.

I am excited but I am also nervous and the two can become mixed at times to the point where I just get a little anxious.  There is a large part of me that is just ready to go, go, go.

But that is not happening yet.

Tanya also pointed out to me that I have done five years worth of work in this last year and that I really do deserve to be where I am at with the entire thing.

I do not know if that is true or not, but I have done a lot of work to get where I am at.  I can acknowledge that.  I can. I will.  I do.

I have worked my ass off.

The work has also really paid off.  And I am feeling no longer worked over, but worked on.  As though the Universe is working through me and for me rather than I struggling against it, trying to force my own solution, my own ideas, my own way.

My own way sucks.

I have to admit I am still at quite a loss as to what I will do in Paris.

I mean I know I will write.  I write here.  I will write there.

But there is another leap to be made, there is another flight to be had.  I do not necessarily mean that I am going to be moving all over Europe or the world, though that may happen.

I would love to go to Africa, I blame literature, damn you English literature BA.  I feel as though I am forever trying to replicate those experiences that most resonated with me in reading.

“Out of Africa,” Isaak Dinensen.

I can see it.

I would love to go.

I have never had much of a desire to see Asia, but Africa and France, yes please.

I feel a book.

Tanya also said that I have to write about this, about the journey toward this decision, this moment in my life where I decided to jump ship, San Francisco, nanny, bike shop girl, and be woman of the world.

I do not know how that would go.

However, I can admit that I feel another writing project in me.  I do not know what that will be.  I do not know if it is fiction or fact or memoir or poetry.  But there is another book in there.

Of course, I can continue to argue about the one in here–the one on my blog, the one in my computer, the one I have not published for really reals.

I need a template.

I need some one to say, do it like this.

I need some direction.

I need to stop procrastinating.

The book, the book, the book.  The bullshit angst over the book.

Ugh.

What if I just let it go?

What if I just try writing something else and seeing what happens?

What if the book was just a sophomore effort that really is not supposed to see further light?

What if it was just a tool to get me to go where I needed to go next?

What if I do not have to know what to do with it?

Can I be alright with that?

Fact.  I wrote it.

Is not the writing the point?

Can I be satisfied with that?  The writing is enough.  My company is enough.  The words that come are enough.

Yes, I crave the idea of holding onto something solid and real and page turning.

I was thinking, I have been thinking, it continues to swim across my brain soup, of something I read of Pat Rothfuss recently.

Pat and I went to middle school and high school together.  I will always think of him as a sweet pumpkin who drank a lot of Mountain Dew and danced awkwardly with me at Home Coming and dated Dana Chrysler in middle school.

Pat is a renowned writer.  He is successful, he is published, he goes on book tour.

We are Facecrack friends and a bit of a blog post of his popped up on my newsfeed about how he read and re-read his first book.

I have never done that.

I have never sat down with the entire piece and just read it.

That, ack, that gave me goosebumps of horror, which means, I am totally on the correct path.

I can actually hear the argument in my head right now, “you can’t print that off, that would be too expensive and where are you going to get that kind of money.”

What the fuck is that?

That kind of money?

What does an ink cartridge  cost?  A sheaf of paper?  Shit, I could go out right now and do that.  That is what I will do.

There it is.

Read your fucking book, Martines, read it and see what needs to be done with it.  Go forward from there, get re-familiarized with the work.  Read it.

It aint’ gonna eat you.


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