Now what?

A few rough spots between my boyfriend and I came to a head a couple of weeks ago, and we "took a break," by which I mean I am temporarily staying someplace that isn't home. It has been a terrible two weeks. Sad, and lonesome, and filled with hurt.

Then, a couple of days ago, I had a revelation. All the things that I've been railing against, fussing about, and obsessing over, are stupid, little, unimportant things. Life is so short. What really matters at the end of the day is that you come home to the person that you love.

I have always had this idea that, as the workday ends, and you approach home, your steps should lighten, and your heart should beat a little faster, in anticipation of reaching your significant other, and that sense of home. I want, when I kiss my man, the world to melt away and the clock to stop.

I found the man who causes those things to happen. He is a perfect fit.

And then life got in the way. Finances, family, stress, anxiety, all led us to this situation. Now I am losing the life that I want with the man that I love. I won't have that moment at the end of the day, when it feels like it was all worthwhile, for that welcome home moment.

At the same time I determined to stick by him through thick and thin, and stop fretting over the details, he decided we needed to call it quits. Not because we don't love each other. But because the pressures of everyday life are overwhelming, and he doesn't want to cheat me out of the potential for a happy life.

And all I really want is to continue my life with him.

I guess Auden was right. "I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong."

For Better and For Worse

Most people, upon marrying, dwell heavily on the portion of the ceremony which goes a little something like this: For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, blah blah blah, until death us do part. The specific area of focus is the death part, usually.

My current obsession (much thanks to my best friend who got me thinking about it) is "for better or for worse."

What does it mean? I mean, what does it REALLY mean? To me? What IS the "for worse" part, and how worse does it have to get before it gets better? Does this mean if I am unhappy in my marriage for some fundamental reason, I am to stick with it and grit my teeth and be happy with my lot in life? How much of the "for worse" do I endure before I am okay to call it quits and move on with my life? What is worth surviving, and what is the payout?

Torn

I have always understood that there is a certain amount of give and take in life; nothing comes for free, and there are sacrifices to be made. At the same time, my intentions have always been to just find happiness in life. Not wealth, not fame, not immortality, and certainly not more than my share of anything. I just want to be happy.

A wise friend of mine from the Middle East told me recently that Americans have it all wrong; they expect every single day in life to be wonderful. He said if you're lucky, you have one good day in a year. That is the Middle Eastern view on happiness. He's right. I don't think I have been looking for the cartoon bluebird on my shoulder kind of happiness, however.

I want to be mostly content, with a few flashes of deliriously happy mixed in to keep me guessing.

And that is why I left my husband in January. More accurately, after I told him what was in my head, he left first. It was the most terrible thing I have ever done to another person. He was devastated, and it was all my doing.

What followed was a lot of heartache, misery, bitterness, crying, confusion, and, in my case, hunger and poverty.

Here we are on the other side of it. I live with my boyfriend. My husband lives across town. I don't know what the hell to do about any of it.

I love my husband. He is a good man, kind and considerate, smart and funny, generous and compassionate. I also love my boyfriend, with whom, quite frankly, I have incredible chemistry. The kind you read about in those books you try to hide from your significant others. You know what I'm talking about.

It is possible to love two men at the same time. I love them differently, and value them for different things.

Like I said, I don't know what the hell to do.

Regardless my decision, I will suffer a loss. I will sacrifice something. (Yes, someone else's heart will be broken, but it's my damned blog, so it's all about me. Piss off.)

What remains is to determine what to sacrifice. I am almost 40. I have roughly 40 decent years of living remaining. How do I want to spend it? And with whom, if anyone? Where will I go, what will I do?

Can I live the rest of my life without the companionship I so value in my husband? What about abandoning the powerful physical connection I have with my boyfriend?

I can't be two people, living two lives. I have to choose. And I have no idea what the hell to do.

Bitter.

It's been a day of nasty discoveries.

I'm not the sort who floats through life on a hope and a dream. I know how it is. I get it. I learned early on that shit does, in fact, happen, and there's a lot of stuff that sucks in this world. Yeah, yeah, you're all rolling your eyes at my melodrama. But really. I'm well aware of the grittier aspects of the human experience.

Anyway.

As it turns out, my twentieth high school reunion was last weekend. No, I did not go. I didn't even know it was happening until after the fact. I would not have gone had I known. I don't remember all those people. I really don't. I have no idea who they are. None. Hmm. Must have been my hard living after school, but I have very little recollection of my teen years. Oh, yes. I did spend the majority of my high school time hanging out in bars. Suppose that might have contributed to the fuzzy recollections.

Anyway.

There are some specific events I do remember from high school. Oddly, the costars for two of my favorite moments are now dead. How terribly, awfully sad.

Here is one:

It was a snow day, and a beautiful one. No school. A boy named Paul phoned me. his dad and mine worked together, don't remember exactly how that was, but not important here. I didn't know Paul well. I saw him at school, and at dad-work-related functions. He was shy, quiet, very polite. A Nice Boy. I, on the other hand, was a Troubled Youth. Sullen, unhappy, disagreeable. So it was odd, to say the least, that Paul called me that day. He invited me over to play in the snow.

So I did. We did all the appropriate snow day activities: made snowballs, built a snowman, rolled down snowy hills. I laughed more that day than I think I ever had before. It was FUN. An unusual concept for me. Paul was nice, we had a great time. We discovered we had much in common. I went home happy and exhausted. I wondered if maybe he and I were beginning a friendship. Or something.

The next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Paul was shy and quiet again. I was too tortured by my own insecurities to say anything to him. We were polite, yet distant, at future events.

Then I moved. So did he. I never heard what happened to him.

Until this morning.

Paul drowned about 15 years ago. Possibly suicide.

He deserved so much more from life. Yes, I am bitter, for the very nice boy I knew and liked so well. Another example of shit that sucks.

I'm sorry, Paul. If you see my Dad, he can catch you up on what's been going on with me. And, hey, say hi to Bill for me, would you?

As for Bill...he'll get his own post. Later.

Returning

I have been gone.

I have been gone for some time, and the place where I was is not a good place. It was my place of grief, and fear, and sorrow, and loneliness, and self-destruction. It was the only place I could be for all this time.

The other day my husband said to me, as I recuperated from a wild laughing fit of no apparent origin, that he had missed me. And he was glad I was back. And in his face was more sadness than I have ever seen in him. And more hope than I have seen in him in a long time. It was the first time I considered what my anguish had cost the two of us.

I will grieve for my father forever. There is a big, empty hole inside of me that will not go away. Nor do I want it to; missing him is important to me.

Back to my point: I have been gone. I spent three years on my island, isolated in the wind and the cold, doing the hard work that is grieving. I was buried in it. It consumed me. It ate me alive.

Somehow, I survived. There were so many, many days I thought I would not. I did not want to. But I did.

And here I am. I have returned. I am not the same person at all, but I am back. There are deeper shadows around my edges, and wispy, swirling, dark things behind my eyes. We've all agreed to work together, at least for now. And there are moments now and again in which I feel almost...alive.

Never whole, but alive.

I set forth cautiously, as my kind and patient husband hopes for the first time since the year we married, which was, unfortunate timing be damned, the year my world exploded and I vanished into the dark.

I set forth with bated breath, and I am truly astonished to be here. Alive. Returning.

Waiting

Something our modern society is no longer capable of is waiting. Food is fast, marts are quickie, all the preferred services are instant, immediate, in a flash. Many things happen "while you wait." But that's just a saying, as you don't truly have to wait for very long. The unfortunate result of this world of instantaneous fulfilment is that we have become impatient. Multitasking has become an art form, as nobody wants to take the time to do one thing properly, then begin the next. Do it all half-arsed, all at once! Hurry hurry! Woe unto the clerk in whose queue one is expected to stand. The people on line mutter in discontent, mutinous and angry at being asked to wait their turn. On the highways of America, frenetic drivers are speeding faster than the already absurdly high speed limits, texting and eating their fast food while road raging at slowpokes following the letter of the law.

I am not immune to this need to have it all, right this second. I tap my foot. I roll my eyes and exhale upward to ruffle my hair, anxious to GET ON WITH IT.

Right now I am forced to wait. I am waiting for an entire month to have a new home in a new town. I am waiting to find a new job, new friends, new places to shop and play. I am waiting for my husband to come back from deployment. And there is nothing I can do but wait. It has been difficult to unclench my jaw, relax my tense muscles, and just...wait.

I thought, when planning for this interlude in my life, that I would do so many things "while I wait." It was my intent to multitask the month away, so I brought projects and supplies for dozens of things to while away my time. And yet, I have done very little of them.

I know that when the month is over, I will be on the mouse wheel again, rushing and hurrying to do it all, right this minute. For now, though, there is nowhere to rush off to,nothing urgent I need to do. I have plenty of time. I can relax and enjoy this slow-paced existence, a little one month vacation...while I wait.

Fathers

Fathers Day is coming around again, and I am sadly now without a father. More to the point, I am without MY father. It hurts.

One night this week I spent with my sister-in-law watching movies. We selected three seemingly unrelated films to watch. All three of them, it turned out, were about fathers. In the first one, two children with no father found a surrogate male role model in their wacky uncle. The second one involved a young woman trying to determine which of several men was her father before her wedding. She ended up with three wonderful fathers. The last film was about another young lady who went to live with her father, who was a bit cranky and set in his ways, but he loved her desperately.

All of this cinematic fatherness got me to thinking. My husband is in the peculiar circumstance of having two fathers, both great guys and wonderful dads. I have none. In fact, I haven't anyone even remotely resembling a father figure in my life now.

See, my dad was a huge presence, the hugest, really, in my life. There was no room for any other fatherlike entities, and I wouldn't have wanted one getting in the way. I never had a grandparent or aunt or uncle, or any of those other auxiliary relatives. I had a dad, a mom and a brother. And now I have no dad. Like I said, it hurts.

My dad was smart, kind, compassionate, fair, tough, funny, and he loved me more than anyone has ever or will ever love me. (My husband disputes this, but I know the truth. My father's love can't be outdone. Even by my dog.)

I miss him with every ounce of my being. Constantly.

But here I am, facing fathers day, wondering what to do with myself. My dad was a great one for bringing home strays--folks with no local family, someone needing a meal, whomever. He adopted people into our family life for a few days, or years, or forever. It was the kind of person he was.

Maybe I need to find a faux-father to adopt me, for a little while. Maybe it will dull the pounding, aching emptiness, at least for awhile. Maybe not. But it would be awfully nice to have someone kind of like my dad (but not precisely) around to do all the dad things with. I miss that.

Green Mansions

After three years on a windswept, Aleutian island known for its harsh climate, violent and rugged beauty in the shape of desperate rocky cliffs dropping hundreds of feet into crashing and frigid seas, I am restful in a new location and a very different climate.

Here I am peaceful, nestled in layer upon layer of variegated verdant wooded hills and winding roads. The sun glows through waving green treetops and glares off the surface of a slightly mossy pond. I am calm. I can breathe. There is space.

Tiny spotted frogs and silly orange salamanders challenge my steps and my dog's snuffling nose as we make our way deeper into the (rather buggy, but lovely) woods each morning. I have adopted this hundred acre wood as my own green mansion. It's not quite a jungle, but it will do in this short pause before we move on to another coast and another life, and time speeds up again.

Is that a nun in your attic...?

The moving truck comes in one week. They do not pack attics. Today we spent hours vomiting the contents of our attic of dubious accessibility into...well, the rest of the house. I had no idea all that stuff was up there. I spent the rest of the day consolidating the piles of attic crap, and loading the jeep with donations to the thrift shop.

In the midst of it, I found a treasure.

Inside the jacket of a record (those big, round, shiny black things old people used to listen to in the dark ages prior to the invention of ipods) was a story about a nun in Brussels (whose singing was on the record). And tucked in behind the story were four little watercolors she painted. They are simple and lovely, economic in stroke of pen and brush. Precisely what one imagines a nun would do with ink and watercolor. The subjects are taken from her daily life: the beams inside the nave; the exterior of her church; a nun sitting at table, in prayer; another nun at work.

I am thoroughly charmed.

I cannot wait to reach my destination and have my little nun watercolors framed.

Wallet, watch, volt meter???

In my latest perusal of the Scotsman, I noticed the headline of this article and as I dearly love my own dog, it piqued my interest. Then, after reading it, my only thought was....

a passerby with a volt meter???? Really??? How in the fuck does THAT happen???

So, tell me: do you carry one in your handbag, or trouser pocket? Am I missing some trend in personal items carried about regularly of late? Do they come in fancy colors now, and should I knit myself a volt meter cosy?

I've not yet got one, so if you are looking for a gift idea, there's one for you. I'd like a small, yet easy to manage model, perhaps with a carabiner to attach it to my bag, and if I can synch it with my ipod, so much the better, thanks.

http://news.scotsman.com/scotland/Dog-dies--in-freak.4957343.jp

Would you stop?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnOPu0_YWhw

A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule. A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theatre in Boston and the seats average $100.

This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?

One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?

Dec. 16

Happy Birthday Dad.

Advent Anxiety

What has happened to this season? It used to be that the month of December was one of anticipation. We lit a new candle on the wreath every Sunday as we counted down the days on the advent calendar, looking forward to the Christmas eve midnight mass, when the Big White Candle was lit. And then, and only then, was it Advent no longer, but Christmas. It came in with the tiny whisper of a wick taking light, flaming in the silence of a darkened church.

Then, the hymns! Joyful, raucous, celebratory, Christmas hymns!!!

Where did all of that go?

I am overwhelmed with plastic-y, glaring, ostentatious capitalist seasonal mayhem. There is no God anywhere in it. Here there is credit card debt; demanding, spoilt children; overindulgent parents; and short tempers. No God. Not even any Christmas Spirit.

Christmas Spirit is something I lump in with the religious aspects of the holidays. By which I mean, the true purpose of Christmas, which is to be a little kinder, more forgiving, more generous than you are the rest of the year. Help a lady with her parcels; buy a homeless man a sandwich and give him a hug; call that cantankerous relative you dread dealing with; smile at people you pass on the street.

For a short time, once a year, is it so difficult to put aside your anger and impatience, and just enjoy your fellow citizens? Quit your incessant harping and griping about what is wrong in your life. Shut up and listen to the birds in the trees, the whoosh of snow sliding from the roof.

See what you've missed?

Rejoice in the knowledge that you are alive, and surely there are those in the world worse off than you.

Be thankful.
Be kind.
Be quiet.

Enjoy your advent season.

A feast for the senses

...wait for the 3 minute mark.

Il Divo cantando "Amazing Grace" para a gravação do novo DVD em 14 e 15 de setembro, na cidade de Pula na Croácia.

Here it is:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtrnB4FZ-yc

You're welcome. It's what I'm here for.

Thanks, kid.

Earlier today I was feeling very sad about Thanksgiving. It is a family holiday, and as I am one with no family, it depresses me a fair bit to listen to those around me growing excited about their holiday plans. I grew up with no extended family. Now I have two people remaining in this world who are related to me by blood. It's difficult to explain to people who always had grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins around that the Big Family Holiday is unknown to me.

Anyhow, so today I was feeling sad about that. Probably more than a little bitter. As I get every year. But this year I got called out by a 15-year-old girl.

The very bright and thoughtful daughter of my best friend sent me a message asking why I hated Thanksgiving. I explained my feelings, and she replied that she didn't like the holidays either.

However, rather than my bitter, self-absorbed reasoning, she told me that the holidays made her sad because they stressed her mom out, and she just wanted her mom to be happy.

I felt like a rat.

This kid has a great family, a happy life, everything a teenager could ask for. Her only thoughts this holiday season are for her mother's happiness. How selfish and hateful am I??

It hadn't occurred to me that her mom, my best friend, is enduring her own torturous Thanksgiving, and here sit I, whining about being alone.

We all have our holiday crosses to bear. Maybe there is a perfect family out there somewhere having a disneyesque season, but my guess is that for most of us, it's a trial to get through for another year.

Good luck with yours. And I will try to get through mine with a bit more grace.

Undeniably and reliably dead

My family has worms. Cans of them. Possibly a whole case of cans. And in particular, my family seems to specialize in secret worms.

So, my Dad died a few years ago, and it was horrible. Defies explanation and I am not interested in discussing it. However, when it happened, my mother said to me, "Our family is dead." In a sense, she was correct. He was the center of our world (especially mine), and without him around, we've fallen apart. All that I have left is her, and my older brother, and frankly, what remains relationship-wise is pathetic and thin.

Last week we had another death. That of my mother's biological mother, who did not raise my mother and actually treated all of us more than abominably. She was Evil. I'm not trying to be funny. It was torment. She was nothing to me but hateful and cruel. I only visited her a few times with my parents when I was a kid, and not one time did it go smoothly. She hated my Dad, my mother, and my brother and I. She was mean because she could be, and manipulative and scary. She was not a mother or a grandmother or anything like family to any of us. She was Audrey, and I hated her with every cell in my body. This description is very watered down, and cannot convey the torturous person that she was. Or our feelings toward her. All very complicated.

Anyhow, so she's dead. Ding dong.

Never before have I felt such relief.

My mother flew to the funeral, which was being held where Audrey lived last, with her latest husband. And lo and behold, the new family was really nice to my mother, in spite of the things they were told (by Audrey) about us. Her widower even introduced my mother to people as his daughter. That's something my mother has never, ever in her life been called. Think on that for a moment.

My mother returned home after an educational and overwhelming weekend. She learned so many things we never knew about Audrey, her family, and why my mother's childhood was so incredibly fucked up.

It wasn't just us she hated. She apparently hated everyone. That's news.

But wait...

Remember how I said I have spent my entire life hating this woman with every ounce of my being? Yeah. So all these years there's been a BIG SECRET to which allusions were made even when my mother was a little girl. Finally we have learned...

Turns out Audrey's mother was institutionalized. And Audrey and her sister (never knew there was a sister) both had psychotic schizophrenia as well. Fucking crazy. Literally.

So, that explains a whole lot of stuff. Like why she gave her kid away. And why she always lied. And why she acted so damned fucked up all the time.

Doesn't excuse it. But explains a lot.

Sad. If she had gotten medication, my mother would have had a mom. My brother and I would have had a grandmother. And, um, 3 grandfathers. And perhaps we all wouldn't have spent all our lives trying to control tremendous amounts of rage and hurt.

Fucking bitch.

So her widower and his daughters, who are roughly my mother's age, and their kids,who are roughly my age, want my mother to consider them to be her family. Great! My mother finally got the family she never had. They want her to visit, and spend holidays, and do all that fun stuff that died with my Dad.





...and where does that leave me?

Home

I have this amazing friend. She is my best friend, and the closest thing I have ever had to a completely trusting relationship. I truly think I could tell her the worst things about myself, and she would still want me in her life. This is fascinating, as I have only ever trusted one person so completely, and that was my father, and he is not here anymore. I don't know why I trust my friend so much, but I always have.


So this friend is beautiful, full of life and laughter, and she has a wonderful family; she loves her husband, he loves her, they have great kidlets. This is not the path I have taken with my life. Where there is joy and cozy family squishyness in her life, there is somber solitude in mine. Yes, I am married. No, I do not want to have kids. I have no regrets. Yet, when I look at my friend and her family, I wonder what it must be like not to have those broken places inside. I can't remember ever having felt as happy and carefree as these dear people do.


I am fortunate that she wants me nearby, to participate peripherally in her life. She gives me far more than I have to give back to her, and she has always known that. I value her more than any other human alive. She is my only anchor in this cold and cavernous world. She is home.

I love her in my own way. I hope it is enough.

The day is here

The day I have dreaded.

Tomorrow, Thursday, October 16, Dexter has his surgery. We take him to the vet at 8 am. Then I go quietly insane waiting to hear news. He can't come home until Friday.

I'm ready for the recovery stage. I am. I have all the toys, chewy things, baby gates, blankets, hot packs, cold packs, animal planet dvds, pumpkin biscuits, a leash on every doorknob, etc. that I think we might need. Tomorrow all that needs done is one last vacuum of the living room, and then I will drag the futon cushion in so I can sleep on the floor with him.

I just need to get to that point.

Somehow I have to survive the next day and a half without him here.

Yes, I am well aware that I have major psychological issues regarding my dog, and it's all wrapped up in losing my dad. I know. I get it. Fuck off.

Whoever you are, and whatever it is that you do, religiously or spiritually or whatthefuckever, please do so for my Dex tomorrow.

Because I can't really say I can survive without him.

No Prisoners

Tonight begins another round of bellydance classes, as taught by moi. I took a long hiatus over the summer and early fall. I was rather burnt out over the whole thing, and needed a break.

But now...(insert evil cackle of doom)...I shall unleash my fury of cantankerous mayhemic dahnse upon this town in such a concentration of dark dementia as has never been witnessed before!!!!

There will be pants! There will be hair! There will be eye makeup in shades unknown in nature! And yes, there most certainly will be....SQUATS!!!!!


There is no place to hide.

You have been warned.

I.....

Am.....

BAAAAAACCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

4

Today is my fuzzy guy's 4th birthday. I can hardly believe he is that old. On the other hand, I can hardly believe it's only been 4 years that he has been the centerpiece of my every day.

When he came home with us, he was smaller than his head is now. He weighed under 10 pounds. The cat could kick his ass ( well, okay, she still can, but only because he lets her do it). Now he weighs about what I do, takes up half the house, and has more character than any 10 people I know.
So far this morning we have snuggled on the couch. He's still a lap dog, after all. Afterward we went for a nice walk with his best pal Daisy and her person, and on our way we met a new doggy and her person, which involved a great deal of sniffing and leaping and snorting. LOADS of fun!!!

Later we will bake special birthday pumpkin biscuits, and watch for the Fed Ex truck to bring a Petco box full of surprises!