Posts Tagged ‘principles’

The One Thing I Don’t Like About You

October 14, 2015

Whoa.

Hey there cowboy.

It’s too early to have my inventory taken.

It got taken anyway.

I got an apology that was very sweet when I pointed out how it felt to be scolded.

My friend, I know, I heard him, did not mean it to come out that way.

The way, I think, I could be wrong, hind sight is never truly 20/20, is, “hey, there’s this thing you do and it detracts from who you are and what an awesome person you could be, why, you’re amazing, you could be even more amazing if you changed this thing about you.”

I bristled.

I always bristle at criticism.

However.

Thank you grad school work, specifically, yes, I am going to say it, thank you T-Group.

Ugh.

All the fucking work I did in that class, and have yet to do, there is a big paper due for the class, one that I won’t focus on quite yet as I have a few other papers ahead of it, but one I do have to address some reading for really soon, although perhaps not this week, all the work.

Well.

It paid off.

I don’t see myself the way that others see me.

My friend says I have all this talent for writing and creativity and such.

I quibble.

I say.

Nah, shucks, I ain’t all that good.

I don’t know the caliber of my writing or the goodness or lack there of.

Or.

Any of it.

I do know that I have gotten better and so much of that has to do with the constant, daily, showing up to write.

I write, on average, 2,500 to 3,000 words a day.

My blog is about 1,1200 to 1,500 words and then I write three pages long hand in the morning.

The days that I write a paper, like Sunday, I wrote over 5,000 words.

5,000.

Damn Gina.

That’s a lot of words.

Even if I started out with just a middling talent for writing, all the practice is going to produce better results.

I will say, I will agree, that I have an ear for words, I like them, they sing to me, I like finding different ways to look at them and arrange them.

Even.

I would argue.

How they fall on the page.

When I started breaking up my lines and sentences more often in my blogs, I liked the way they looked better.

They, the blogs, also felt better.

I don’t have a cognitive theory behind it.

I just like the way it looks.

Plus.

I feel like I am actually transmitting my thoughts and ideas as they fall out of my head.

My writing is extraordinarily stream of thought.

“It reads like you talk,” one of my dear friends told me, “I feel like I am having a conversation with you when I read it.”

So nice to know my voice comes across.

The voice of the blog, Auntie Bubba, is not always the voice of the woman, but it is always damn skippy close.

The two are very entwined.

The only difference is that I have more honesty in my morning pages and less manipulation of words, patterns, rhymes, poetic schemes, or poesie.

I love that word.

Just say it with me.

Poesie.

Of course its French.

Don’t be a silly rabbit.

So.

My friend has noted my skills at language, but also noted my lack of skills around some things which are considered basic self-care, the criticism received was that, man you’re an amazing woman, but you sure put taking care of others a head of you.

REALLY?

Wow.

How insightful.

Fuck you.

I jest.

I know I put other people first.

It’s a survival skill.

Now.

What my friend perhaps doesn’t see, and I won’t argue his assessment, he’s certainly not the first to make it, if it looks like a spade call it a spade, is that I have come so far from how bad it used to be.

Progress.

Not perfection.

I also heard concern for me, which I have heard echoed to me a lot lately as I embarked on the journey of 8 million miles, graduate school, take better care of yourself.

The thing is.

People.

I am trying.

I am trying so hard.

I bought myself flowers on Sunday.

I cooked food for myself to take to work.

I take long, hot showers.

Man, the one tonight, you could have scraped me off the bottom of the shower stall.

I take care of the physical stuff when it arises.

Hello.

You know.

The sexy stuff.

I almost didn’t tonight.

Even though I was thinking about it and the timing was good, home earlier than usual, early start at work, no housemate around, no housemates kid around, light some candles and set the mood Martines!

And I just felt, well, tired.

But.

I also knew that it was time to take time.

And.

Yeah.

Like that.

Better now.

Thanks!

And though I am not rankled by my friends words.

Specifically, what the conversation went like was something to the effect of, “the only thing I don’t like about you is that you don’t take better care of yourself.”

He meant.

I need to put myself first.

My feelings were hurt.

But.

There was also this underlying awareness.

Ok.

Well.

He’s not the first one to say it this week, so what exactly am I doing that doesn’t look like good self-care?

I go to work, I’m on time, I show up, I do a great job with the boys, I ride my bicycle to and from work (most days, got a ride in today which is when the conversation happened), I bring home-made food with me.

I drink a big glass of water as soon as I wake up.

I brush my teeth three times a day.

And.

I fucking floss once a day.

Who out there flosses?

Exactly.

I keep my house clean.

I listen to music every night when I blog.

The Orb is playing right now.

I eat organic food.

I make really nice coffee.

I have pajamas.

Although, I think it might be time for a new set.

I know that I work a lot and I work hard, but you see, there’s no one but me and I have become accustomed to a certain kind of living.

It’s simple, but it’s mine.

Shh.

Me thinks she doth protest too much.

What self-care I need is to implement more joy of living.

Which is why I love Burning Man so much, it’s play time, even when it’s hella hard work.

“I noticed something,” my friend said, “you only go to the beach when you are sad.”

Ouch.

Fuck.

He really does see me quite well.

So what did I learn from T-Group, from my friend, from my people, and my cohort, from my community?

That I could stand to have some more laughing and silliness and how I am going to manage that, I don’t know.

I suppose, start by surrendering to the idea that I am going it all alone.

Rely a little more on others.

Give myself a break.

Walk down to the ocean for no reason other than it’s there.

Go to a museum.

I have not been to one since my trip months ago to LA, way back, to that wonderful time when I had time, before school started.

Any kind of fun.

Something for myself.

I fully acknowledge that the first feeling that comes up is sadness.

Grief.

Fun is some how equated in my mind with grief.

Now.

This is something I am only now, I mean now, in this moment realizing.

I have some sort of negative correlation to having fun with loss.

There is so much to unpack here, I am not going into it after a long day at work and having already devoted an hour to reading my Human Development text.

Which in and off itself can sometimes be a challenge to read when I reflect on where I come from and how many battles I have had to soldier through growing up the way I did.

The deck was stacked.

It was so stacked against me.

But.

There is joy too.

In the memories of my childhood.

The orchard in Windsor.

Climbing trees.

Flying kites at Warner Park.

Riding my bicycle.

Ice skating.

Playing relay races at the park during the long slow twilight of summer nights.

Sitting in the back yard, the grass high, watching the clouds roll by.

Maybe that’s all I need to do.

Go lie outside somewhere and watch the clouds go by.

What were the skies like when you were young?
They went on forever and they, when I, we lived in Arizona
And the skies always had little fluffy clouds
And they moved down, they were long and clear
And there were lots of stars at night

And when it would rain it would all turn, it, they were beautiful
The most beautiful skies as a matter of fact
The sunsets were purple and red and yellow and on fire
And the clouds would catch the colors everywhere
That’s neat, cause I used to look at them all the time when I was little
You don’t see that

Layering different sounds on top of each other
Layering different sounds on top of each other

Little fluffy clouds and little fluffy clouds and
Little fluffy clouds and little fluffy clouds and

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You Still Writing Your Blog?

October 7, 2015

He asked as we pedaled our bicycles up the hill past the Rose Garden in Golden Gate Park.

I was riding home on my whip thinking about all the things that need to be done and the grocery shopping that I was about to embark on, so, so, so grateful to be meeting a friend after work who gave me a lift to SafeWay.

I got all the things I need to get through the week and then some.

It would have been two, probably three trips on my bicycle had I loaded up my messenger bag real full and rode my bicycle real slow.

I don’t ride my bicycle real slow.

In case you were wondering.

Although.

I don’t ride as fast as some.

If I was on a geared bicycle I would actually be faster.

I am on a one speed and it only goes so fast before I am just needlessly spinning my crank.

I coast down hill pretty damn fast though, and that is often where I will catch up to those who have passed me on the uphill climb.

Which is what happened as I sped through the park, thinking about autumn in Wisconsin.

There are parts of my ride home, specifically the Pan Handle, where there are some old growth oak trees, when I am reminded of fall in the Midwest.

The smell in the air.

The leaves scattered on the ground, the shadows falling from the trees and the old sodium lamp posts lighting the way.

I am reminded always of the CS Lewis book, “The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.”

The lamp-post always get that reference for me.

And.

There is a kind of magic about the park, especially at night, when the shadows are long and the stars hang low overhead, when it’s past the last of the day’s commute and the runners have done their runs and the bicycle traffic is light to none existent, and I feel as though the entire way is mine.

The soaring on my bicycle through the air, the whick of wind against my neck and pulling through my hair.

I passed by the DeYoung and started the slight descent to the Rose Garden that heralds the last big hill climb on my ride and then, literally, it is all down hill from there, down towards the sea, the salt wind, the bonfires kissing the dunes, and the shaded night heralding my heart home.

I usually holler out, “passing on your left,” but I actually thought I might startle the rider I was coming up on, so I just gave him a wide berth and whipped past.

“Carmen?!”

“Yup, that’s me, who’s that, you better pedal harder to catch up!”  I laughed as I hit the down slope on the hill, bottomed out and began the climb.

“Use your momentum coming down the hill to push you up the next one,” my friend taught me on training rides for the AidsLifeCycle.

I never forgot that advice and it’s really the only way to get up hills on a one speed in San Francisco.

I heard the bicyclist behind me drop it into gear and push up the hill.

“Hey!” He said, “it’s Max! How are you?”

“Hello!”  I said, “doing good, just got out of work, heading home, you?”

“Just left 7th and Geary,” he said, “heading home too, hey, did you start grad school, how’s that going?”

“I did!”  I said.

“I just had my second big weekend of classes, it’s kicking my ass, trying to balance all the things, working 35 hours a week, carrying 12 credits in grad school, doing the deal, you know, trying to not get too far into the future or I’ll freak out.”

“Yeah, I feel you, that’s a lot, but you can do it,” he said.

“Yup, I just keep focusing on what’s exactly in front of me,” I said and spun the crank.

Just keep my eye on the next foot fall, don’t get carried away thinking about how I just got my schedule “figured” out and the mom asked me today to totally switch my hours from a 1p.m. start to a 10 a.m. start next Monday and Tuesday–the boys have two days off from school.

And.

If I get too consumed with my schedule and I am not flexible with myself I will freak out.

“Hey, you still writing your blog?” He asked me next.

“Yeah, I’m sort of in awe that I am doing it, but it’s so helpful, it lets me get all the stuff out of my head, it’s like a nightly inventory [sic] I need it, I don’t think I can drop doing it, although I’m still not sure how I am able to find the time, I do.”

“It pops up in my Facebook feed every once in a while,” he continued, and we crested the hill and began the descent home.

“Nice to run into you!” I shouted as he slowed down to take the turn and I sped, yes, right through the stop sign and rolled on into the velvet night laying splayed out before me.

It does leave me with a sense of wonder, this little blog does, I am still finding words for my experience, still aching to share those experiences with you, the reader, lovely reader, hello, you do fill me with regard and wonder too.

I wrote last night about being mindful that I was writing for myself and frankly if I think about the people reading, or not reading, my blog, I will get weird about it, but that doesn’t mean that I am not aware of you, sweet reader, in fact, I regard you with respect and no small sense of honor.

Thank you for stopping to read the words.

Oh the words.

They do mean so very much to me.

Speaking of words.

I am knocking out the sonnets for the Burning Man poetry project I have had on the back burner for the last couple of weeks.

I was supposed to have some things ready for my collaborator, and I did, I do have some sonnets I wrote, but I did not like the way they read and there was something missing.

I found the missing ingredient.

And.

I have been flying.

I wrote out the supporting framework for ten sonnets and then fleshed out one completely yesterday.

Today.

Well.

I was on a roll.

I wrote two sonnets back to back and I probably could have written a third, but I did want to make sure that I addressed some reading for my Human Development class or I would be falling behind for the paper that I must have written in this upcoming week for the class.

I love when the words come and the images and the song of the world seems to croon to my ear and I am connected to that elixir of light and poetry.

I feel blessed.

Graced.

Lightened.

Enlightened.

And.

Loved.

I am such a lucky girl.

Full of words.

And wonder.

I am.

Disingenuous

October 6, 2015

This is how I feel.

I thought about it for a minute.

“Well,” he paused, on the other end of the phone line, waiting for me while I thought hard, while I pulled my thoughts together, when I got honest.

With him.

With myself.

“It doesn’t feel right,” I said.

“As soon as you said “disingenuous” I knew,” he said, “it’s not about what he wants, it’s about what you want and being a 42-year-old woman who is working full-time, in recovery, and going to grad school, well, sport fucking doesn’t suit you, now, does it?”

Well.

Damn it man, when you say it like that, I suppose not.

I have been in a quandary.

I have been on the fence.

I have been holding my counsel and keeping things tight to my breast.

I have been keeping them tucked between tongue in cheek.

Hidden between the corsage on my label and the heart skin under the velvet sheath dress.

“I don’t want you to write about me,” he asked.

Sure.

But then.

When do I write about me?

How does that affect me?

When does not writing about him influence me.

Am I writing for an audience?

No.

I am writing for myself and I may rue this blog.

Or.

That blog.

Or the other one over there.

But.

I am restricting myself in my lack of not writing about what has been sitting on my chest.

See.

I have been seeing someone and I won’t say who.

That is private.

I have been dating.

It’s been fun.

Hell.

It’s been more than fun, like when my face hurts from laughing so long and so loud or I find myself inadvertently snorting, gah, I wish that would not happen, but it does on occasion slip out, when I make the sushi face in front of a man, when I am myself times fifteen, when I am vulnerable and me and silly and seen.

Well.

After awhile I have to start writing about some of it.

Some of what lies in that dark night of my heart.

I feel that ache there, just underneath my skin, that pulsing and pulling.

The nerves.

Because.

Well.

He reads my blogs.

Hi you.

I know, I know, I can hear what you are saying–you my friends and fellows–don’t put your heart out there, don’t write about it.

But.

That’s like being in Paris in the rain and not writing about walking the wet streets with shoes soaked in water and cold toes and cold nose and the umbrella bought at a book shop is not holding up and you go into the Pompidou and see Kandinsky’s Accent en Rose and you don’t write about that.

I get art high.

He gets me high.

Laughing high.

Sweet high.

Delirious and sweet and soft and goofy and me.

And the gift is that we are friends and the gift is that we are not naming it and the gift is that we are dating but not in a relationship.

So what’s the problem?

Well.

Dating other people.

We are adamantly not in a relationship.

This is agreed upon.

There is not a bone in my body that says I have to be this man’s girlfriend or that’s it, it’s over.

There is so much more to it than that.

A romantic relationship is off the table.

Although the signifiers are there and I argue that there is romance and sweetness and grace and goodness and moon eclipses over the city and moon sets on the beach and the hand holding are all signs for romance.

Courting.

I like being courted.

I like being pursued.

Who the hell doesn’t?

What I realize that I can’t do.

What I realize that is disingenuous to me.

Is that I don’t want to date other men, it’s not about the non-exclusivity clause or the I want to be claimed or titled or anything.

I am happy with the present moment.

It is a gift.

He is a gift.

My life is full of gifts.

So much so that I sit in awe just looking around my beautiful little studio, the colors and the light, the framed Marilyn on the wall–it’s up!

Finally, the amazing Sturteveant “Double Trouble” print of the Black Marilyn Monroe that I got at the MOCA in LA months ago.

it is so gorgeous and dreamy and rich and luscious.

So like my life.

And my life is rich and wonderful because I am looking deeper inside my heart at every moment that I can stand to.

I realized in talking with my person this afternoon that it does not matter what he, the man, or the men, or whomever in my life wants, even when it seems so important and so tantamount to me making a decision about what I want.

In the end what he wants doesn’t matter.

What I want does.

I don’t want to date anyone else.

It feels wrong.

It feels like not being present to the unfolding magic.

It doesn’t feel right.

And.

Yes.

I know.

I am free to change my mind too.

But my mind and my heart are not on the same page.

My mind says, great! Date everybody!

Go out and get it girl!

And then.

Write about it!

Yeah.

Let’s get titillating, shall we?

I’ve done that though.

It doesn’t serve.

It may not mean that it doesn’t serve others.

What others need is not my business.

I have to stay inside my own hula hoop.

I don’t feel right taking another man into my bed when I am seeing someone else, regardless of the title of what that relationship is or lack of title, I know what my heart needs and it’s not to sleep around until the person I want to be with is fully available.

He’s perfectly available for what I have to offer.

And.

The best thing.

I don’t have to do anything about it.

I can not date other men without having to make a big deal out of it.

I’m not about to go running outside and tell all the neighbors or put it out on Facebook, I’m in a relationship with so and so.

No.

I’m his friend.

He is mine.

And I am open to there being more, but I have not expectations.

That’s the change.

That is the big deal for me.

I don’t have expectations.

Sure.

There are desires.

I am 42 and woman and well aware I desire.

That’s well and good.

My heart desires more.

And that is good too.

All hearts are allowed to desire more.

Whether or not the more is down the line is ultimately not my business either.

What is mine is that I can’t go out and date others, I have committed too far in my heart, there’s too much there to ignore it.

Potentially lonely.

Perpetually human.

Suspended and open.

Open.

With what ever risk that involves by being out there.

I am happy putting it out there.

I am ready to fly further out over the dark seas and tie my heart-strings on the tail of comet flaring out over the ocean, a bright streak of light, my precious time on this plane too short to not honor my feelings.

Not his or his.

Or his either.

Mine.

All mine.

To thine own self be true.

I remind myself as I finish and lay the poetry on the table, the sheaf of my hair falling in my eyes as my heart aches already with words and feelings.

And love.

So much damn.

Love.

Who knew there was so much?

Another Weekend Down

October 5, 2015

BAM.

Second full weekend of school, excluding the retreat (graduate school boot camp, remember), has now finished.

Of course there is the fall out.

The homework.

It is about to really begin.

I have a lot of papers that I have to do and a lot of reading that I have to do.

That is par for the course, of course.

I’ve got the paper for Human Development, the one for Therapeutic Communications, the one for psychoanalytic class, and now, yes, the one for T-Group.

I have four freaking papers plus I have to do a proposal for my Human Development class in regards to my final project.

Gack.

I got a message today, that I just read in my e-mail: “practice compassion for yourself, grad school is hard, graduate school to be a therapist is RIDICULOUSLY hard.

I laughed.

She was right.

It is hard.

The work load is heavy, but there was some relief today in that T-Group has officially finished.

Yes.

I have to write a big paper for the class.

And.

Yes.

I am sad that it is over.

And not sad.

Not sad at all.

Relieved.

As well that it is over.

Although I gleaned so much for it, so much learning, so much pushing of myself, so much finding the leading edge of who I am and pushing over the other side into territories completely unknown.

I also may have found my graduate school mentor, who is not my graduate school advisor–I haven’t met with him yet, although we exchanged some pleasantries the first weekend over orientation.

Nope.

My T-Group facilitator is the woman of whom I speak.

I approached her after, after having thanked her, thanked the group, and thanked myself, in a way, for showing up and doing the work and witnessing all the work, I imagine that was really hard to, to hold that space for all of us bumbling about as we learned how to do the work of self-investigation and how to resolve conflicts in relationships.

Relationship ruptures and repairs.

Of which I saw quite a few.

Of which I participated in a few.

I got to see where I have assumptions and how that colors my world view.

I also saw, yet again, it just keeps happening.

That I do not see myself the way that others see me.

“You are so smart.”

Yeah.

I know.

But.

I don’t know.

I know too, that there was a little projection onto the facilitator, which happens in group therapy work, the tendency to bring in the family of origin dynamics and play them out in front of the group, whether it is unconscious or not, and how the feelings for the facilitator also had something to do with a positive mother figure for me.

Someone who was unabashedly available to support me and my growth and my leaning without judgement.

And.

All the while seeing me.

“I see you,” she told me.

And.

I felt seen.

I don’t often.

All of that I take responsibility for, I don’t allow myself, even here, to be completely seen.

The fear of what it means to be vulnerable will often overwhelm me.

I could actually feel myself girding my loins, so to speak, and gilding the lily.

Not so much to speak.

But I put on a little mask today, I choose my weapons well and I knew I was doing it.

First, I put up the hair and I made it big.

Then I put on the eyes and made them big.

And.

I put on my favorite pair of tights that are black and have the lyrics to “Be My Little Baby” on them and a pair of blue jean shorts and a favorite shirt and I put on the big dangling earrings.

Meaning.

I put on the Carmen costume.

It’s a costume I know well and it comes complete with full cats eye makeup and eyeliner.

Because that is how I roll.

And I roll well.

My ego.

That is.

But it doesn’t mean that the mask didn’t slip or that I didn’t take it off.

I did.

The mask slipped right off the minute I opened my mouth.

I opened my mouth a lot.

I started off the group and I led with my feelings and I led with my heart.

I was my authentic person and I was more than my authentic person as I learned what else I needed to allow in to fully embrace all that is and was me in those moments.

There’s a lot of me.

A lot of feelings.

Vulnerability.

Love.

Gratitude.

Grief.

Acceptance.

Joy.

Ebullience.

Kindness.

Empathy.

Compassion.

Generosity of spirit.

Confusion.

Anger.

More sadness.

Grief.

Grief.

Grief.

Then.

LOVE AND MORE LOVE AND LOVE, LOVE, LOVE.

And maybe even a little more love.

There’s poetry.

That is one thing that I found out about myself and that I thanked my facilitator for–the acknowledgement of my language, the depth of my words, even that I make up words, but that they work, that I am able to negotiate my way through the world, at least through T-Group, but really, I do suspect, through the world, with aplomb, and beautiful words.

When the class ended I said I realized even more fully how much a poet I am.

The language of love.

The language of need.

The Eros of lack.

The desire to be full subsumed in language.

It is my intoxicant.

What I learned from T-Group was another way of communication.

Lead with my feelings, reflect to the person what I am feeling, let them know what the interaction brings up for me emotionally.

Then.

Give them feedback.

And if I need something, make a request.

Most often today it was being a mirror and opening space for my group members to reflect.

But I did do work and I could tell.

The tears they never fully stopped running down my face.

But.

I was not a completely ignorant warrior with my eye make up, the cat eye was elevated so my eyeliner did not run.

The tears flowed.

Like they so often do.

And I learned.

Oh.

Ever so much more.

And gratitude.

Well.

It continues to deepen each day I showed up and each day that I continue to show up.

For my life.

For this page.

For my recovery.

Is the perfect.

(dust)

Storm.

My life imperfection perfected.

Moves a pace.

Grace (full) like a cat.

And playful too.

That soft underbelly of my soul just there revealed, but not reviled.

That warm animal.

Me.

That soft hearted tenderness.

You.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

-Wild Geese, Mary Oliver

Jam It All In

September 29, 2015

And sandwich it with Freud.

Peanut butter and Freud with bananas.

I got up.

I got going.

Was it really already 9:30a.m.?

There were moments last night when I was awoken and I was satiated with dreams and desire and then I would roll back over and conk out and the dream faded sweet to the other side of the bed and then, the sound of the ocean, the wind through the window and the cool air, thick with the smell of salt fog and ocean.

The hum of the fog horn last night rocked me to sleep.

The sight of Sutro Tower blocked in by fog this morning.

The grey day, but bright awakening.

My body ready to go before my brain.

And then I got it together.

A little routine.

A little prayer.

A little breakfast.

A lot of coffee.

Some Freud.

I am all caught up.

At least in my Psychodynamics course.

I still have two other classes to get my reading on par with what is due and expected by this, my second, full weekend of school.

I will get it done.

Or I won’t.

At least I am better prepared then I was for the last weekend.

I have been doing the work whenever and where ever I can.

Granted.

Yes.

I took some time off last night to howl at the moon.

Really, to just look at it in awe and wonder at the joyful, full, busy, active, god damn good life I have.

I am unrecognizable sometimes to myself.

“I remember, I remember you, you are a part of my story,” he said to me tonight with a big hug, a huge hug, anniversary hugs are always special and I was grateful beyond words to see my friend slip in the door as the lights went down.

I was a hot mess a decade ago.

A decade.

Jesus.

I have spent a decade of my life doing the deal.

Which is fantastic because it has afforded me everything.

Freud and all.

I would not be in graduate school if I was still out their partying.

Fuck.

I was not partying either, not at the end.

It was not a party.

Not at all.

Maybe if it were still a party I would still be playing.

But the playing I get now is so much more satisfying.

“Carmen!” My five-year old charge hollered as I opened up the door to him after he got back with his mom and his younger brother from kindergarten.

He hugged me fiercely than bounced off my legs and ran through the house, “I have to pee!  I have to pee!  I have to pee!”

I’m not sure what Freud would say about that, I don’t think that’s a stage of development, but I was happy to gather all his gear and his brothers and be there and be present for the boys.

For the family in general.

Although no word if they are going to give me a raise.

I suspect if I haven’t heard I am not getting one.

I care, but I don’t care.

Really still just happy that I asked for it.

Despite a desire for making more money I know I am taken care of and I have enough.

I have rent paid for October and I only have a phone bill that I will have to take care of for the month outside of grocery costs.

My over head is really quite low.

I’m not spending money on pleasure reading anymore.

Gah.

Pleasure reading.

I used to do a lot of that.

I let lapse all my magazine subscriptions.

I haven’t read a magazine in three months.

Seriously.

I am sitting here writing my blog and there is a stack of unopened and unread fashion magazines at hand.

Sorry Vogue, W, and Vanity Fair.

I don’t have the time.

I don’t have the time to finish the John Irving novel I started three months ago.

I don’t have time for anything but Freud with ham and cheese.

I actually just realized i might have some more Freud to read.

Fuck.

I have a book that I haven’t even cracked.

Um.

Ha.

Make that three.

One of which I have to do some reading for and I figure I am going to be hitting up my Theory of Group Psychotherapy tomorrow or Wednesday.

Depends on how much I get done for my Therapeutic Communications course as well–I have a paper due for that before Friday.

And.

Thursday I have a phone conversation to be had as soon as I get home from work with my Human Development partner who was unable to connect with me this past weekend due to unexpected schedule changes with her.

This all is starting to sound overwhelming.

Tonight though.

I refuse to be overwhelmed.

I know.

Intrinsic.

Down in my bones, yo’.

That I am doing the best I can.

I am doing pretty fucking alright.

I am moving and shaking and I am showing up and the days.

Damn Gina.

The days go by so fast.

Wasn’t I just in bed?

Wasn’t I just here eating oatmeal with sweet apples and rich persimmons dusted in cinnamon and nutmeg?

Is it 10:30 a.m. or is it 10 p.m.?

The days they pass.

I came back in tonight, “hello house!” I said cheerily and stripped down in the wink of an eye.

I got out of work a snitch early and hustled home on my bicycle, I had twenty minutes before I needed to be at the next place down the street at 44th and Judah.

I hopped into the shower, washed, shaved, jumped out, dried off, slathered lotion all over myself, threw on some clothes, grabbed my bag and even managed to have enough time to take out the garbage, compost, and recycling to the curb.

Jam it all in indeed.

I’m lucky, you know, to get to do all these things.

Ultimately.

This life, this one here, the one that I am living on such a great, big, grand, rich scale, is one that I should not by any rights have.

If life were fair.

I’d be dead.

Instead.

I get to read some more Freud.

No excuse me while I go bet my Oedipus complex on.

Psychosexual dysfunctions, you’re next.

At least my night reading is interesting.

Heh.

Almost

September 23, 2015

But.

Not quite.

Bah.

I could not get it together to ask for my raise today.

The balking is fucking killing me.

I know it.

All my friends know it.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

There.

Now that’s out of my system.

It doesn’t even matter at this point if I get the raise, I just need to ask.

That’s it.

ASK.

Martines.

Get it.

It’s not that big a deal and the relief I will get from just doing the foot work, opening up my mouth and saying the words, is going to be worth more than the monetary gains.

Then again.

I could also practice some compassion for myself, I don’t like asking for things I need, never have, probably never will.

But.

If I don’t ask I won’t get what I need and I do need to bring in some more money and I am worth the ask.

Hell.

I’m worth more than I am going to ask for, but that’s another story.

I did, however, ask for a review, a yearly review to be arranged between myself and the parents by the end of the week.

I should get a review.

I also need to get something in writing and that has to be discussed.

My contract expired and I am just going a long on a wing and a verbal agreement, a vague one at that.

No good.

I know better.

To give myself a little credit the parents were not readily available to my yesterday or today.

I wanted to talk with both of them and typically both of them are at home in the office working everyday, but that has not been the case either day and it has just felt way too much to just address one parent without the other.

So.

I opened my mouth, just like I did last night, right as I was leaving and said I would like the review for the year to be worked out for the end of the week.

I need to sit down with them and do the ask, I can’t just spring it on the mom in line at Trader Joes.

I can’t.

I did a little foot work and for that I am grateful.

Little bites.

Just a little bit at a time.

Not enough to leave a bruise, but a sharp little nip of teeth to remind me that I am better when I am focused on what is in front of me and distracted by the money.

I have been distracted by my finances for too long.

I just don’t want to think about it anymore.

I suspect that won’t ever be the case.

But.

I don’t have to fret.

I don’t have to be in anxiety.

I suppose it’s just old habit, old hat, old ways of being, the pretending that by worrying about something I am manifesting some sort of control over it.

I don’t have control over anything.

I don’t have control over what you think of me.

(I hope you like me!)

Nope.

No control.

I wish you would make me feel better.

Oh.

You can’t do that either.

Well.

Fuck.

I guess I’m here again, same old song, another day.

I was almost there, almost to self-forgiveness land, but I got a little waylaid and realized after a quick check in with a friend, that I am still actually quite mad at myself.

Would I leave if I don’t get the raise?

I could.

Not that I wouldn’t make it.

I would make it.

Just.

The thing is I don’t want to just make it.

Can you save me?

Come on and save me.

If you could save me.

From.

The rest of the freaks.

That suspect they could never love anyone.

I am sick of just making it.

I am tired of working hard to work harder.

I am being melancholic.

Yes.

Guess who got her period this morning.

Relief.

I knew that lady was about to visit and i know that I am just a touch sensitive, emotionally, and physically, out damn spot, and tired too, of the self-imposed misery of the anxiety.

I don’t want to think about finding other work either.

But.

There are other options.

Hell.

I was offered a place a substantial rent drop of where I am living now.

I turned it down.

I had my reasons.

Ask me in person if you really want to know.

There are 100 and 1 choices to be made.

There are many paths to wander down.

Come on and save me.

Why don’t you save me.

If you could save me.

From ranks of the freaks.

That suspect they could never love anyone.

Except the freaks who could never love anyone.

Let your hair down.

Shake it out.

Let the day go.

She is not all that.

She is just a day.

It is alright little lady, you do the best you can and sometimes sitting in a dim room with the heat and flash of the Castro strobing it’s lights outside the second story window is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

If I have done nothing other than sit for an hour in an uncomfortable chair and resonate with what the person in front of me is saying then it is a good day.

A god damn good day.

I remind myself.

As I look around at what I have.

I have so much.

Do you see me?

I have so much.

So much.

Love.

Kindness.

Joy.

Light.

I don’t have to be maudlin, I’m just human.

I’m just a little spiritual being having a very human experience.

Bless you little heart for being a tender thing.

I am afraid of rejection.

I am afraid that at the end of the day.

(At the end of the bar at the end of the night, another night at the end of the bar)

I am not enough.

That I am not lovable.

That I am not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough.

Not a good enough nanny, student, lover, human.

Not a good enough woman.

(Still such a little girl)

Forgive yourself sweet heart.

You’re doing just fine.

You are perfect.

Imperfectly.

Perfectly.

Perfect.

Unexpected Visitor

July 23, 2015

And no I don’t mean Aunt Dot.

Just my friend coming over when I was not planning on seeing him and it’s nice to have him here, across the room, on his laptop while I’m on my laptop.

It’s rather endearing.

Lucinda Williams on the radio.

I haven’t listened to her for a time.

Thinking, as I sip my tea, what was my principle today, did I practice it well, was I of the world, or distracted and in my head and in review it seems that I was pretty present.

I took a few more actions in regards to school–got my last two syllabi printed, forwarded the Master Promissory note and Loan Counseling paperwork to my school and let it all go.

All of it.

I am just super grateful I’m going to graduate school and no matter what happens, just taking those small next actions always do seem to pull the trick.

I’ll pick up my readers this weekend and go from there.

And.

I will have myself a little fun.

I forgot that I bought a ticket to go see Space Cowboys at Public Works this Friday.

I bought the ticket over a month ago because a dear friend shared the page on social media and I wanted to spend time with her.

Of course, today, late morning when I was feeling exhausted and stupid with chasing the boys around and potty training and scheduling and not the greatest night of sleep, I was ready to throw in the towel.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Go out on a Friday night.

Go out dancing.

Fuck that.

I’m too tired.

But.

I called a girlfriend instead and said, can I just run something by you and she listened and said, hey, you don’t have to go all night, hit the club at ten and bounce by midnight.

Such truth.

I don’t have to be the party animal I used to be a long time ago in a land far, far away, the service industry, and stay out and rage all night long.

Besides my knees would kill me.

I can go for a few hours, shake my ass, and feel good about listening to some good music, seeing some friends I haven’t seen in a while, and playing a little before getting all serious about school, readers, course work, financial aid, life.

“Fun and flexibility,” she told me.

“Happy,” I told another lady today.

I’ll use all of those.

I’ll be fun and flexible and allow some happy in my life.

Dancing is a really happy place for me, in case you’ve never been dancing with me, or haven’t read any of my blogs about dancing our have any awareness, as I do, that dancing is a spiritual experience for me.

It’s my “get right with God” place.

If you don’t mind me borrowing some Lucinda to emphasize the point here.

So, as of now, I am going to go dancing.

I don’t have a ton of obligation on Saturday, I’ll be meeting my person at 12:15pm at Tart to Tart in the Inner Sunset, then, well, hopefully hanging out with my friend who has offered to run me down town so that I can go to Copy Central on Mission and 2nd and purchase my readers.

Then.

The weekend.

And yeah, I’m a little bummed that work stuff changed up on me, that I’m not going to be able to do the Grand Canyon this weekend, but you know, the Grand Canyon ain’t going no place.

I’m still going to get the heck out of dodge next week and have some camping–either Yosemite or Crater Lake.

Two other places I have not been.

Yeah, I know.

But hey, I’m going to see one of them soon.

I got to kick it out the rest of the week, and I’m going out to dinner Friday night too, with the family, at RIntaro at 14th and Folsom.

Uh, yes please.

They asked if I would join them for dinner.

Uh, yes please.

I mean, you don’t have to ask me twice.

Granted they have asked me before and I was unable to go for having a commitment I had to cover, and I still have a commitment to cover on Friday, but it’s not until 6:45 p.m. and it’s fair close to the restaurant, Church Street Cafe at 16th and Church, so I should be cool.

Yeah.

We’ll be eating dinner hella early, but that’s the deal when you have two little boys that are growing up so fast, we’ll be at the restaurant by 5:30p.m. at the latest.

I usually get the boys started on dinner by 5p.m.

Tonight was pretty simple, cheese omelet, made into egg sandwiches on buttered toast, with sliced avocado and fresh fruit salad I made from the last of the fruit that I picked up last week at the Mission Community Farmer’s Market at Bartlett and 22nd.

I am grateful again and again for this job, even when I feel punked and can’t imagine dancing or doing anything fun this weekend.

I can be fun and flexible.

So when my friend said would I like company tonight, I was like, hell yes.

I could use a cuddle.

A hug.

An arm around me.

Please do come by.

I love a surprise.

Most of the time.

And even when the surprise isn’t the greatest, like the clarification I received in regards to my financial aid award, I am still able to see the gifts inherent in the experience.

I rode my bicycle home through the park and I saw that the buffalo where out in the wild buffalo paddock by Chain of Lakes.

There were six buffalo on the hill, silent, stoic, a page out a history, a picturesque moment in the twilight.

I thought of my friend who would have been running the San Francisco marathon this weekend.

He used to run out past the buffalo and sometimes I will have chats with him when I whiz by, some part of him always with me, inked on my heart, some part of him always in the park–his ashes scattered over the falls by the Chinese Pagoda–a breath of wind on my face, a kiss of mist on my forehead and he is with me.

“Hey Shadrach,” I said, out loud, that’s how I pray, that’s how I communicate with those I love, whether here or there, in the ether of the air, and unexpected, yet felt visitor, there, just there riding on hood of my heart.

“You’d be pretty proud of me,” I said, I felt my heart swell.

“You really would, big guy, thanks for being so patient with me while I’ve been figuring it out, any other words of wisdom?” I looked at the bison.

“Be the ball, Martines,” his voice in my ear.

Oh shoot.

Yup.

Thanks for the reminder honey.

I love you.

I miss you.

May you always run through the park ahead of me.

I see you in the twilight gloaming and you always there for me, a gentle reminder to be kind to myself, and laugh at myself, to be fun and flexible and to keep on keepin’ on.

Getting right with God.

Oops

May 26, 2015

I did it again.

Sigh.

I un-friended the ex once more on Facebook.

It was just taking up too much headspace.

And I really have more important things to do than look at any one’s news feed on Facebook.

So.

Bye bye friend.

I won’t be calling, texting, or Facebook messaging you anytime soon.

Have a great life, you’re a great guy.

I don’t want to know anymore.

Lesson learned and really, not too badly done at that.

I never saw him, we never met back up, there was no break up make up sex.

Just two ships passing, very closely, but never together, in the night.

Fare thee well my friend and should we see each other out and about I know it will be with no animosity.

Moving on.

I dealt with the things that needed to be dealt with today, some clothes shopping for basics–bras, socks, etc. and a visit to the Genius Bar at the Apple store down town to migrate all my old files from my previous laptop to my new MacBook Air.

Done and done.

Although it still took two and a half hours to do it.

I was grateful to have a library book with me!

Even though I finished the book an hour before the migration of files was finished, I wasn’t upset about the situation.

It was far faster than the 46+ hours the system had told me prior to going into the store and having them do it.

The WIFI here has never been great, although I am grateful to have it, yes, yes I am.  And at one time when I was attempting to migrate the files myself the wait to do so was 96 hours.  I gave up.

I left the house, I went to work, I came back from work, I slept on it over night, it still was not done.

So.

Better to do the direct to direct there in the store.

And it was good people watching.

Especially the young man who came in experiencing problems with his new Apple Watch.

You just settle down Mister Sexy Watch and stay awhile.

There was also a famous musician there, who sat across the table from me and kept catching my eye.

Not super famous, not like Kanye or something, but somebody Indy and just slightly older, maybe in his early 50s, but known.

I should have just said something, then I thought I may just know him from around, then I thought, maybe he was in Paris?  I met a few famous folks in Paris.

And when I next looked up, he was gone.

Bye bye mystery famous guy.

It made me think though, as everyone was bent over their laptop, MacBook, iPod, iPad, iPhone, and various other Apple devices, how much we all want to be connected and yet how separate everyone seemed.

It didn’t feel like two and a half hours.

And for that I am glad and I didn’t do much internet browsing, the little I did was only nettling my spiritual condition and when I gave it a thought, when I paused to flick a piece of hot pink hair out of my eye, I knew, life was too short for boring hair color and to obsess with anyone who has so obviously moved on.

So.

Move on.

I don’t know what that looks like.

Or how that works, although I do know how it works.

The actions I take will create space for what comes next.

When I think about all the things I have gotten to recently let go of I know that I am having my fingers gently pulled off the things that don’t work for me so that I could be free-handed to accept the things that will work for me.

Bye bye scooter (recycled to scooter heaven).

Bye bye old laptop (recycled to the store).

Bye bye ex-boyfriend and old ideas about dating.

I am going to recycle those too.

My experience will be used again, I am sure of it, to help another woman walk through whatever she needs to walk through.

For that, too, I am grateful.

And as I did some inventory this morning before setting out on my shopping and laptop adventures, I also realized, hey, self, forgive yourself.

You’re human.

So what you called to have a coffee with your ex?

Who hasn’t thought or done the same.

Rejection.

God’s protection.

I got the final rejection and it didn’t sting the way it did the first time around and I can be easy in my self again.

Just let it go.

It can be easy if you just let it.

Give me all your lovin/and I’ll give you all of mine.

I even thought about starting another profile on-line.

But I held off there too.

Ah.

Another thing I let go of that I forgot, online dating websites.

That’s right.

Ok.

So.

Free, clear, moving on.

I like it.

I got lost in the weird of my head and it’s not really a great place to be lost in, bad neighborhood you know, but fortunately there are lampposts that light the way back out as long as I remember to look for them and follow the light to the source.

It is only dark when I am inside my head.

Even when it’s grey outside, and believe me, it’s grey, it’s really a San Francisco summer.

Seeing all the stores down town with their summer seasonal displays of sheer dresses and light tops, shorts, and swim suits, sun hats and capris made me laugh as I wandered past in my layers and hand warmers.

There were more winter scarves on than summer shorts, I tell you what.

Even when it’s grey outside.

I bring my own color of love to the mix.

“OH MY GOD!!! I love her hair, did you see her hair, look!” the young teenage girl in the mall excitedly chattered to her friend.

Well.

At least I’m a hit with the kids.

And myself.

For reals.

This journey, this part of the path, has been a little rockier than expected, and although I have stumbled a bit, I’m picking myself up, dusting myself off, and letting go of the unnecessary garbage I thought had some value to it.

Obsession with and validation from an outside source does not bring my happy.

Only I bring me happy.

Happy.

To be.

Once again.

In the pink.

Nuthin’ But Fun

May 24, 2015

I inadvertently just had a date with myself.

I was only going down to Java Beach to get out of my house and read a book over tea.

I had done the unexplainable.

I went to the library today and checked out books.

Look at the old lady go.

“Your principles today are fun and flexibility,” she said to me as I explained the trepidation that comes over me when I don’t have things planned out.

“I know you need to feel like you are doing something constructive, just let the day unfold, have fun,” she finished and smiled.

Who are you smiling at lady?

I put my head down on top of the book and sighed.

“Ok.”

I did alright.

Not the funnest day ever, but really, not a bad one at all, and there was some fun in there, inadvertent, as I said and tongue in cheek for sure, the name of the band that was playing at the cafe?

Nuthin’ But Fun.

Ha.

Ha.

God is funny.

I had fun too.

Sipping my tea, reading my book from the library, people watching.

I like to people watch.

I liked watching the inexplicable interaction between the counter girl and the man whose sandwhich, a big goopy ham and cheese, explain that it was not the vegetarian grilled cheese he had ordered and the girl responding by offering to pull the meat off the bread.

I almost fell out of my chair laughing.

The look of incredulity on the man’s face, the look of annoyance on the girl’s face for obviously having fucked up the order and now she had to take it back to the kitchen and it was probably a habit, this fucking up orders, and then, “or, I suppose, I could ask them to make it again,” came out of her mouth.

She hadn’t picked up the plate, she, I, the elderly vegetarian man who was flummoxed by the interaction, we all stared at the thick swath of ham on the plate with cheese congealing over it,  “um, yes, please, I”m a vegetarian…..”

Big long pause.

Sigh, almost audible, trying hard to not roll her eyes, the young woman picked up the plate, and turned it around, “I totally understand!  I”m a vegetarian too.”

I just about snorted hot tea out my nose.

I was at the cafe, Java Beach, for nearly two and a half hours.

I watched, the scene, the community of families and moms and dads and friends, kids, teenagers on dates, old codgers in knit caps, bicyclists fueling up on soup and coffee before getting back out on their fancy touring bicycles, the people come and go, little waves of neighborhood ebb and wane.

It was sweet.

And I got lost in my book.

Lost to the point that I found myself laughing out loud at a funny part of the book and completely tuning out the music coming from the band.

Which was louder than you would have thunk and the manager had to ask them to turn down the volume after a very boisterous rendition of “They Say It’s Your Birthday,” for a friend in the audience.

I was a fly on the wall.

But at least I wasn’t a fly on my wall.

I got out and I was out a lot of today.

After I left my person this afternoon at Tart to Tart to go off on pursuit of fun, I decided a mani/pedi/waxing session was needed.

Especially since I will be flying down to San Diego on Thursday and suspect that the weather there will be more conducive to sandals then the weather here has been.

At least the gloom lifted for a while.

The wind came in around 3 p.m. and pushed away the clouds, it was clear, sunny, bright.

Breezy as fuck and still a bit chill, but sunny.

I decided to treat myself to a lady’s lunch after my mani/pedi/wax session and went to Pacific Cajun on 9th and Lincoln Avenue for a Wasabi bowl with brown rice and Hawaiian Poke.

So freaking good.

I did some window shopping after and then strolled over to Green Apple to grab a book.

But.

I wasn’t feeling it.

Green Apple.

I don’t know if it was the loud conversations that I kept stumbling into, but I wasn’t comfortable browsing the stacks and decided that though it was not much fun, it was necessary, I was going go grocery shopping.

On my ride back to the Outer Sunset I saw the Sunset Branch of the Public Library.

It’s been a minute since I have checked out a library book.

And the nice thing.

Checking out books is cheaper than buying them.

And I still get that nice cracking open a book feeling.

I got there fifteen minutes before the branch was closing, grabbed a couple of books and hit it home.

Some shopping in the neighborhood, some cooking food for the weekend–vegetable stir fry and sautéed ground turkey with Bragg’s Amino’s and brown rice, and fresh ripe, organic, gorgeous, sweet red cherries.

Then I called my ex-boyfriend.

Bahahahahaha.

Oh.

The gift that keeps on giving.

I stopped and thought about it.

I’ll send a text.

I’ll not.

I want to get this over with.

I don’t have to do anything right now.

Pray.

Write it down and drop it in the God box.

“Why don’t you put the weekend in your God box and see what happens,” she suggested to me.

I wrote down my ex on a scrap of paper.

I said a prayer and dropped it through the coin slot of my hot pink bunny bank, aka, my God box.

Then I wrote “the weekend” down on another, said another prayer and did the same.

Then I ate my dinner.

Never call on an empty stomach.

Texting is childish, act like an adult, call.

So I called.

It went to voicemail.

I asked him out for coffee sometime over the weekend if he was free.

Then I decided to get the hell out of the house.

A friend text’ed me to say hello while I was packing my bag to get out of the house and I told him what I did and it felt fine.

And I feel fine.

I don’t feel bad at all.

What I have realized is that I want things to go my way, I want to control how I am seen and what happens next.

I keep expecting to bump into him, he lives in the freaking neighborhood for Pete’s sake, but our schedules were wildly divergent when we were dating, why would that have changed?

I haven’t, with the exception of once, seen him.

I have walked past his house twice since the breakup.

Really.

Not bad, when you consider it’s four blocks away.

I actually felt ok with the message and the call and when it’s all said and done, it’s said and done.

I walked to the cafe, the sunset spreading in spectacular manner over the ocean (I would have walked to the beach to catch it, but the wind was just too fierce) and into a jam space, the locals all gathering for the blues cover band and I got my tea.

I found a place in the back by the bar and sat with my book and let myself have fun getting lost in the book and the small world of community unfolding before me.

I even forgot about the phone call until I booted up my computer and the Facebook feed featured a photo I was not expecting to see.

“I’m not looking at his feed at all this weekend,” I told her over the coffee at Tart to Tart.

And I haven’t.

Then this photo popped into my news feed.

It was sort of like getting punched.

Grr.

Maybe I will take a break from ye old FaceCrack entirely for the rest of the weekend.

I have books to read.

And fun to be had.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

More fun.

I suspect.

I am wide open.

Available.

Let the fun begin.

Restraint of Pen and Tongue

February 5, 2015

And text.

Text me no texts.

Please.

Two and a half weeks is not the 90 days we agreed on, and what you are feeling is none of my business.

And yeah.

I am feeling it too.

But that’s not your business either.

Ugh.

I got a text message from my ex and I knew better than to respond.

Did I want to respond?

You bet your happy ass I did.

Did I think about responding?

Yup.

Did I respond?

Nope.

I read it a few times.

I will admit that.

I woke up to an incoming text this morning at 6:54 a.m. and rolled over thinking it’s a little too early to be getting up for work, but I do have to pee.

I didn’t really want the text in my brain, but when I hopped out of bed I did see that the light was shifting and I was curious, do I just get up or do I sleep a little longer.

I saw it was too early to get up and I saw that my ex had sent me a message.

Nooooo.

Don’t read it, don’t read it, don’t read it, go pee and go back to bed.

I knew if I read it I would spend the next hour that I could be sleeping thinking instead.

Not a restful thing to do when I am in the middle of a long work week.

I agreed to work late today and on Friday to help the family out and I realized that I need to be careful with this, they’ll take what ever extra I will give.  It’s not that I wouldn’t mind the extra cash, it’s more that I don’t want to hide out in my job, it’s an easy thing for me to do.

Check out by keeping busy.

And especially at this point in my social life, I want to keep the door open to dating.

In fact, that was what compelled me to act as if I was ok with the text that I got.

Oh.

Forget you.

I’m not writing about what the text said.

Suffice to say it was sweet and inviting.

I wanted to respond.

I wanted to say how I was feeling.

I was feeling a lot.

But I was also not going to let the morning get away from me, I have a routine which saves my ass and I took care of doing that without looking at the phone until after I had a chance to address my needs.

Then I realized that the early morning text was not from him.

Ha.

The text message that had awoken me from my slumber was from another person.

Somebody who I do wonder what the fuck he was doing up at that hour, but that’s another blog for another time.

My ex did send me a text, but it had been last night at.

Yes.

1:54 a.m.

I had been sound asleep, the little whistle from my phone had not woke me up, I was deep in dream land.

I read both texts.

The one from my friend and the one from my ex and I realized.

I can’t respond to either one of them.

I had suspicions about the rational mind-set of my friend and I didn’t want to engage in a conversation.

I had reservations about contacting my ex.

I want to move on.

I am healing.

It’s over.

Leave me alone.

I miss you too.

So what?

I am not supposed to be with my ex or we’d still be together.

What do they say?

Oh yes, ouch, rejection is God’s protection.

In case you didn’t catch it, let me not put too fine a point on it, but, my ex broke up with me.

Oh, it was happening in my brain before he pulled the trigger and told me, it had been happening in my heart for a few weeks, and I had basically had the pre-break up break up conversation at a cafe prior to it actually happening–which was nice, I got to process through a lot of emotions before it actually went down.

But let me not beat around the bush.

He broke up with me.

I reminded myself of this.

Walk towards the open door.

Don’t bang my head on a closed one.

I reminded myself of this too.

“Be the ball Martines,” Shadrach said, “let the man who wants to be with you come to you.”

But not after I’ve already been rejected, and not because you want comfort or have feelings, not my business.

NOT MY BUSINESS.

Ach.

I get to have some more feelings.

I knew I would not respond even before I made the phone calls that I had to make to be accountable to myself and my recovery and make sure that I was following suggestions.

Sometimes I don’t need to be told though, I just knew to take the next action in front of me.

So with a big deep breath and a prayer on my lips, I stared up through the blooming tree on the sidewalk outside work and looked at the deep blue sky, blue like his eyes, and read the text one more time.

Then I deleted it.

Then I went and did my day.

It was uncomfortable.

I was sad.

I am sad.

But grief, even when I think it’s gone, can come back, and though sad, I am also proud of myself for knowing that this bit of pain now is less than if I had engaged.

Then I did it.

The last suggestion.

Delete his number.

REALLY?

Ugh.

Yes.

I know you are right, and frankly, I want to be happy, not right.

So this afternoon as the last of the sun was crashing over the tops of Twin Peaks and settling over the sand box at the park, I pulled up his number in my contacts, looked at his picture one last time, and deleted the contact.

There.

It’s done.

I’m free.

Softened with sadness, but not broken, just broke open more, a soldering of my heart and, there, yes, more love.

Just not from the direction I was expecting–the courage to walk through the difficult things and change, I would have done things different in the past.

My ex doesn’t need to do a thing.

I am the one who has to change.

Who gets to change.

I know how strong my inner compass is and I rely on it.

I also know that this work will pay off with great dividends as I walk towards the open door.

Towards the man who God want me to be with.

My side of the street is clean.

And I am available.

Sad, yes, for the moment.

But this too shall pass.

 

 

 


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