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Sink Or Swim; Nostalgia & a Little Shove

mylifeHolidays tend to make us nostalgic. Thank goodness that they’re officially over for 2015.

I can’t count the number of times that I’ve heard, “2015 was a terrible year“. Wow.

I prefer to frame my year as a deli sandwich. The bread was delicious, but the meat of it was a little sour. In other words, the first and last thirds were great (as in; good enough), but the middle really blew.

How often as children did we say a year was terrible? We didn’t darlings. We just did the 10 second countdown to the new year and moved forward with joyful, curious abandon.

sufferingNow we yearn for the days when life was simple and  we still believed in magic. Friendships and family were taken for granted, and happiness was just on the other side of the screen door.

As adults, we tend to overcomplicate things. ‘Be kind and play fair’, seem to have gotten lost in the big, adult personal ethics playbook. And that just stinks. Because it hurts. Yes, people can be selfish and cruel, but they can also be kind, giving, and lovely to snuggle up with. Naked.

As human beings, we all want to be loved. We all need and want strong friendships, a true love with whom we can  share our most intimate selves , and bourbon. Ok, maybe the last bit is all about me, but whatever.

When we lose ourselves in the fray of losing the one person we fell in love with, we feel broken. I’ve been there. It hurts. It’s scary, and it puts a pretty harsh filter on our vision of the future.

Just this summer, I sat, sobbing on my friend’s front step, while she nursed my broken heart and damaged pride. I felt empty, hopeless, afraid and lost.

We live in a world that prizes the individual and yet makes it impossible to live without the safety net of community, family and friends. Yes, the great Western-way-of-life has unfolded into a wonderful cock-up of psychological dissonance. But what do I know? I’m just a girl after all.

I do know this. The holiday season has seen a lot of falling in and out of love; happy hearts and hearts that have been broken and need time to heal, relationships that are worn thin, or worn out altogether.

The beautifully terrifying part of it all, is that the only way to heal a heart is to live life. The very life that has tossed you like a small boat on a big, angry, ocean, leaving you feeling washed up and broken beyond repair.

Cling to curiosity. Let your friends lead you when you are  blinded by tears. Be wary of the seductive pull of too much sleep, lack of self care, and try to remember how good it feels to laugh after you decide to, ‘fuck it’.

As a quasi-Buddhist-lover-of-Christian-ritual, this speaks to me. You have two choices; get up, dive back into that same unpredictable ocean to wash yourself clean, or wallow in the sand getting burned by the sun and possibly gnawed to death by vicious, exotic fauna.

Sometimes you need a friend to role you back into the ocean. In some cases, you need a friend to drag you, kicking and screaming, back to life. It’s called tough love, and we all need it once in a while.

Nostalgia and wishing for a happily-ever-after is a waste of time.

havetimeYou and I both know that more than anything else, this is true; life is short and precious.

Take the time you need to sit quietly with your broken heart. Don’t run away from it, or deny it what it needs to tell you.  Take your sadness and swaddle it like a helpless infant. As difficult as this may seem, you will see that soon enough, you will be at peace with it.

Weep. Cry. Scream into your pillow…and as you take your last gasp of sobbing breath, get ready for a shove back into the ocean of life.

You’ve always been a beautiful swimmer darling. Always.

 

 

 

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Speaking With a Writer: How Not to Lose Your Mind

writersbrainYou avoid direct questions,” he said as he fumbled with something or other before we tucked in for the evening.

“Damn it, he sees me and he knows me, and he’s going right for the jugular, I thought, “That’s good. How very refreshing.”

I smiled, knowing all was finally  right with the world.

I don’t  avoid direct questions per se, but it takes me a while to mull them over. So far, no one has caught me at it, or at the very least, had the balls to call me out on it.

I’m a writer, and we tell stories. We subscribe to the old way of thinking, and believing that we are a culmination of all of the stories of our ancestors and all of their ancestors, and before that, the moon and the stars and the silent, mysterious breath of creation.

Writing came second to cave drawings, the first primordial expression of the human spirit.

I’m a writer who visualizes my thoughts, words and characters in my head. I make sense of issues by painting pictures of images which touch the deeper meaning of language and cut to the quick of our universal soul, despite my love of profanity and preference for clarity with regard to all things prefunctory.

It’s quite a process really, and it takes a damn long time to create the image, and then go back and pack it neatly into a package of language.

I don’t avoid direct questions. I just avoid answering them right away, because often direct questions are asked at critical crossroads, and at critical moments. I believe that we instinctively know what we need to do at these times. Overthinking really just mucks it all up.

Instinct rules in the moment. You may not consider it the right intellectual or emotional tool  for the long-term, but in the moment it often works best, and I’m ok with that. If you’re ok in the moment, you’ve got a firm foundation from which to navigate. That’s more than most folks, and a beautifully secure place to begin any journey.

Sometimes you know where you want to go, and it’s all smooth sailing. Sometimes you also know that conditions may not be just right. That means you change course, enjoy the view, and make discoveries at the mercy of the breeze. Why waste energy fighting it when you have so much to learn? Besides, you know want you want and where you’re going. Be a lover not a fighter darlings, it’s better for your skin.

When it comes to communicating with me, with a writer, with someone who entertains and quite enjoys having a Willy-Wonka mind,  it must be frustrating, fascinating and inspiration for many WTF’s. I would offer apologies, but I’m not sorry. I like who I am.

If you or your conversation is not significant to me, I’m direct, concise and clear with my language.

If you are part of my heart, if your very existence resonates in my bones, and my soul smiles when I think of you, let’s just put it this way; you’re gonna have to take a seat, order a nice, slow cocktail and settle in for the duration. Hell, order one for me while you’re at it. My thoughts will reveal themselves to you, me, and us, after a long slow unfolding on the canvas.