Mean Woman Blues

"... And I did not deal with you, I know.
Though the love has always been.
So I search to find an answer there, 
So I can truly win."
-Stevie Nicks

These are the things I want you to know. These are the things that I could never say because the girl inside me wouldn't let the woman speak.

I loved the way you towered over me. I loved the life echoed in your eyes and the strength in your hands. "I think of your smile; I'm in love with your teeth." I wanted to wrap myself around you forever and ever and that's where I wanted to stay for the rest of my days. I wanted your heart to open up and swallow me and let me minister to all the parts of it that were tired and forsaken. I wanted to be so much a part of you that it felt like I was inside of your ribcage, loving you from the inside out. I wanted all your scars. 

I wanted to take the way my mind works and braid it with yours so that they could be knit together instead of seeming aggressors. Believe it or not (you won't), I loved so much how much you think about things. You made me see facets and depths that previously I hadn't thought to observe or explore or investigate or been able to even recognize. I always admired how much you knew about so much; even though it was infinitely more than I knew, it never made me feel small. It made me in constant awe of you and secretly in love with all your synapsed ramblings. 

I remember all the good things. I remember all the kind things, the vulnerable things you said, and how quick I was to discard them. It wasn't because I didn't want them. It wasn't because I didn't believe them. That I remember them all these years later is definitive proof of that. I can't even tell you why I dismissed them the way I did. I don't know what kind of woman would do that and I am ashamed of it. If you said those things to me today- if you showed up at my doorstep with a bouquet of all those kindnesses- I would clasp them in my hands and put them in my most beautiful glasses and when they wilted a little over time, I would press them between the pages of my favorite books and I would keep them there forever and I would pass them down to our children so they would know. 

I remember all the not so good things, too. I remember how frustrating everything was, how maddening sometimes. I remember feeling empty and discarded. I remember feeling like I wasn't enough of something, though I could never figure out exactly what. I remember feeling resentful toward the other things I wanted that were unrelenting and unaccommodating. I remember pushing it all away because I couldn't brave whatever embracing it meant. And that's why it hasn't dissipated completely after all this time. Because pushing someone away is not the same as letting them go. I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, held my breath, and shoved with all my might, but I never actually let go. And when I finally felt like it was safe to open up my eyes and exhale, I couldn't breathe as deeply anymore. 

Can I blame it all on timing? Maybe I hope that eventually we will find the versions of each other that fit together and we'll both be susceptible enough to let the other in without any trepidation or expectation. I am trying so desperately to not let my fears rule me, and mostly because of what it cost me all those years ago. I was so inept with my feelings back then, letting them bleed out in aversions and histrionics instead of granting them the grace of beating in whatever direction they were apt to go. 

There are so many apologies I want to make and apologies I want to hear, but it's too late for that now. Just know that I have them nesting here inside me always.  

I wanted everything with you. I just didn't know it enough. 

Gonna Get Back Somehow

"Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." 

-Chinese inscription cited by Thoreau in Walden
 
I haven't stayed up late in quite some time. Keeping late hours- that used to be second nature to me. But life alters and thus you must alter with it. So, late nights have become a luxury. One I am engaging in now, because tomorrow I am granted the gift of unalarmed slumber. 

I sit here in my hug of a bed, enveloped in the blessed thrill of clean sheets. A simple joy that I have been able to appreciate since forever. Today was not an easy day. I woke up to disappointing news, accompanied, ungraciously but quite ceremoniously, by dreary and daunting clouds. I knew this news was vastly approaching, but nevertheless was unprepared for it. I reached for my phone in attempt at a lazy plea for comfort and found myself seeking that comfort from a man in whom comfort was personified in a voice, a glance, an embrace, mere presence.

The oddness of this completely un-calculated emotional maneuver is that his comfort hasn't been mine to access in quite some time. No, I haven't been anything to him in quite some time. Because I broke him. Well, I think he was quite broken already when our lives became entangled. But whatever whole fragments there were left inside of him, needing to be salvaged, I broke. So naturally, I am not anything to him now. And yet, in my minor distress, I sought comfort in him. Unprovoked.

I was not always kind to him. I always thought I was.

Thunder, again. And I love it. It is frighteningly alluring. I light all my candles and put on an Audrey DVD and the night is mine. On a night like this, I am remarkably adept at being alone.

I used to stay up late most nights. This is a strange habit for one so fond of slumber, and yet, there was always something alluring to me about being awake when all the world slept. Tonight, in this particular season, it is simply because I don't want to miss a wink of summer. Right this moment, my eyelids are imploringly heavy and I am betraying them by evading sleep but I need catharsis. 

I feel like I'm stuck in the deepest, most unforgiving abyss of lostness with no ladder, no map, no compass, no direction (home), no hope. I truly don't know where to go. 

When I write, I feel more myself than when I'm doing anything else, except for praying. But I haven't been praying lately either. And that is because I am utterly ashamed of this pathetic place in which I stand. How can I expect to climb out of my bleak surroundings without humble communion? If there is anything to which I can attest, it is to the panacea-ic power of prayer. But I write and write, because I am desperately trying to connect back to myself. I am trying to locate the person that I have lost somewhere. Maybe, subconsciously, I stay up so late because it is in these numb hours that I am susceptible to self-inflicted emotional autopsies that are more revelatory than anything else ever could be. As I scalpel the intricacies of my being, what I uncover terrifies me. I have no grasp on anything concrete. My future is tenuous. That which I want the very most, I have little control over achieving. All of this undulates within my chest and the coldest corners of my brain and I want to sink into nothingness for a little spell so I don't have to think about it or worry about it anymore. I want to stay in nothingness until someone can organize my future and construct me a map and then tell me what the first step is to pulling myself out of this unrelenting deepness.

I know how I want to seem. I want to seem whimsical and carefree and pleasant and vibrant and intelligent and feeling and charming and aware. I want to seem giving and righteous. I want to seem self-assured. I want to seem those things because I want to be those things. On some days I am one or two or three of them. On some days I am none of them.  

I struggle to be true to myself more than I wish to admit. What is it I want out of life? I want four walls with joyful living and humble remembrances inside and I want a strong, protective tree in the back yard, or front yard, that provides just the right amount of shade. And I want to read underneath it's branches.

But that is not all.

I want to saturate my life in all that is lovely, all that is of good report, all that is virtuous. I want to hear a piece of classical music and know its name and its measures like I know my own skin. I want to be well-read (not just because I've read all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books) and know by heart the most beautiful lines ever written in the history of literature. I want to be able to recite them with the same familiarity as my own name. I want to not just appreciate art, but recognize it; sympathize with it. Once, a long time ago, I saw van Gogh's "Irises". I had read his biography and thus was able to recount where he was and what was going on in his life when he painted it. I loved the satisfaction that came from knowing that. Goethe said, "One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, speak a few reasonable words", and how fervently I agree with him. The days that I seek out those realms feel the most complete, the most worthwhile. It is dichotomous that I feel most grateful for and yet at the same time most encumbered by the time that I am given. Grateful, because I think it is a precious gift. Encumbered by it, because I rarely use it wisely, and I feel inundated by guilt because of it. The irony of all this is that I have no one to point a condemning finger to but myself.

I want to cherish virtue. I want to cherish it like I cherish my cameo collection. I don't understand why I stray so far from this, when it is such an adamant beating of my heart. Or maybe it isn't and that is why I stray so far from protecting it. 

In my heart of hearts, I want to uphold it to the most miraculous degree. But I fail. I fail miserably. I even abandon it sometimes. And yet all the while I know that in doing so I am betraying my identity. When I reach those precipices of spirituality that ascend me to the peripheral heights from which I have strayed, I am comforted, inspired, and assured. I stray from those feelings and from that elevation when I am reckless and negligent with my spirituality, my virtue.

I want to radiate intelligence. Not the kind that is overbearing and useless, but the kind that makes other people think differently. I want to understand what is important, and I want to always be learning. Learning about the world and finding new ways to understand it in all it's living complexities. I want to be intelligent enough to appreciate differences to which I don't relate. Indeed, and in deed, I want to "be the change I wish to see in the world". I want to never for one breathing second take for granted my ability to envisage. 

Above all, I want to never forsake that part of me that yearns for closeness to my Maker. 

And so I bid farewell to this night on bended knee and with bowed head, hands clasped together as if they are each other's only hope. And in silent and earnest fervor I plead: "Please help me get back to where and who I need to be, I beg of You..." 

Peace and Love. 

Night Rider

"I ask not for any crown,

But that which all may win.

Nor try to conquer any world,

Except the one within."

-Louisa May Alcott

I was terrified to ride her. But not terrified enough not to. We began at my favorite hour, when Night begins its quiet capture of Day. On the back of a painted horse, I breathed in the free night air and let the sounds of Outside accompany my heart’s nervous trepidations. We trotted up and along, down and through, under and between, as and until the declarative darkness of Night arrived. The sky had no secrets then. It bore its stars like an endless string of heirloom pearls. What a beautiful awareness it was, to have that honest, open sky above me and such a powerful creature beneath me. I wanted to be as present as possible, quiet and sentient of another beating heart beneath my own. What is it called, when your remaining senses become more attuned to their surroundings because sight is no longer the prevailing sensation? Besides the stars, all I could see were the silhouettes of equine ears and the whispering branches of trees. But I could distinctly hear the sounds of the hour- the wind jete’ing through the leaves of those branches, the brushing of the blades beneath steady trots of hooves, and of course, crickets- those sentinels of the night known most familiarly by their song. I was keenly aware of the uneven rhythms of my heart which beat against the steady pulses of the cool, dark air on my face. I thought of the creature beneath me. I wondered what kind of soul she housed in that majestic form of hers. Was it really so different from mine? I had entrusted my safety to the will of this wild and beautiful beast, and that made my heart tremble. But then, what of her? I was an intruder in her existence, a timid but earnest stranger thrust upon her back exuding mountainous expectation with the commanding force of a breath. Perhaps she and I were like creatures. Maybe, like me, the heart inside her trembled for its own reasons; terrified, like me, of the things she wanted most. The more I contemplated these things, the less fearful I became of her will, and by the end of our ride, she had warranted my trust.

Until that night, I had never ridden a horse before, and as it is prone to do, my mind ran rampantly with the potential perils of the occasion. Horrors involving all manner of equestrian calamities revolving around rebellious hooves and my helpless cranium galloped across the plains of my mind without any provocation other than the free agency of my synapses. Fortunately, my synaptic proclivities are also wondrously adept at the converse (how remarkably well-rounded they are!) and can contrive extraordinary scenarios based very minorly in reality and with very little provocation as well. So, as it were, the coetaneous emotions of terror and excitement contended for my affections, and the visions of me galloping atop that horse, barefoot and bare soul with mysterious night air in my midst and wildflowers in my wake triumphed over the ones involving my pulpy cranium. It should be noted, however, that I was not embarking on this deliciously terrifying adventure alone. I would have a companion who knew both the horse and the terrain like they were mere extensions of his own being. He was ever attentive and kindly obliged when I requested* (*begged) that he please guide my reigns along with his own because I did not have the confidence to guide myself. That there was someone with me who possessed every needful thing to protect and pilot me was the final panacea for all my reservations. Our ride was hours long and each minute that passed was a beautiful one. My fear never really subsided altogether but it was quieted somewhat by the knowledge that my reigns were in the hands of someone far more experienced than I. It wasn’t until the whole thing was nearly over that I realized… He had relinquished control of my reigns without my knowing and I had been guiding myself for a great portion of the night.

As would be nearly impossible during such an experience, introspection came effortlessly that night and provided a personal truth yet unknown: Those few hours were a metaphor for the whole of my life. You see, there are avenues I want to pursue with all the fire of my heart; things that I know will bring self-actualization, unparalleled fulfillment, personal progression and identity capital. And the thought of them excites me. But it also terrifies me to the core. Taunting pangs of insecurity gallop across my soul similar to the ones like that of the horse’s hooves trampling my skull to oblivion, and once again, all those things I hope for- those soul-awakening things- continue to sit lifeless and unadorned deep inside me where all my fragmented pieces of self commune. And yet, despite the enfeebling thoughts I had that night, not only did I get on top of that wild and kindred creature, but, with some help, I guided the night. I was excited and petrified and unsure, but by the end of it all, I had fallen in love with the whole experience. Just like that ride in the dark, I would not be alone in the things my identity craves. There is a Master of all my life can be, who knows my destination- all its perils and all its promise- and can guide my reigns and lead me there with all the wisdom and direction that only an omnipotent being could. This experience was so much more than just one of life’s niceties; it was a glimpse from Him of something I very desperately needed to know: that I am made for better things than those I am engaging in. And I hold within me everything that I need to pursue those better things. 

There is a force more ferocious than fear, and more persuasive than insecurity, and that is the pull we feel toward the un-embarked self. Fräulein  Maria sings: “All I trust I give my heart to; all I trust becomes my own.” I think there is much wisdom in that. By Night’s end, I had branded that horse with my trust, and because of that, I learned an invaluable truth about myself. Without braving that experience, who knows how much longer it would have taken me to discover it and how much more of my precious existence would have been spent idled away because I could not learn how to quiet those voices so derisive to my progression and champion them with the even quieter ones that tell me to never stop reaching. The expansiveness of life is inherent within all of us, but it can be so easy to forget and neglect that sometimes. I will forever be in debt to that painted horse, that cover of darkness, and those guided reigns for reminding me.

Peace and Love.

Treat Me Nice(ly)

"Say hello all over again. Romance me, take me back to the beginning."
-Deer Tick

I keep having realities far better than anything I could ever dream up. Before this one escapes my memory, I must catalog it here.

The promise of summer holds so much within it's anticipation. Longer nights painted with steely skies and stars that echo all the dreams inside your rib cage you want to set free. If I didn't adore the sun so ardently, I would say that summer nights are my favorite gift of the season. 

I met him last year in absolutely un-lyrical circumstances, but, as "the times they are a'changin'", so must our meet cues. As I am want to do, I became enamored rather quickly. He built things with his own two hands, and grew things like vegetables and beards, and was far wittier than I. And, perhaps the most compelling of all- underneath all that unequivocal man-ness, beat a heart of which I found a most alluring likeness to mine. We walked different paths, very different ones. But it seemed as though some of the blossoms along my path were the same ones that bloomed along his. So, for a little while, we gathered those and they created something like Walt Whitman would have written. It didn't stay, as our two paths wouldn't allow for that. But I always enjoyed my time spent in his company.

A few weeks ago, I saw him again. Sometimes, we human beings are generous with our memories of those we once knew quite well but who have since become versions of strangers as paths part and Time's chords strike on. And then, when you meet again, you find that your memory has conceived them more as perfectly affected instruments of your reveries rather than the real, flawed, human beings they are (which, for the record, don't lend themselves well to idyllic constructions of our past). Whenever this happens to me, it is a sobering kind of thing. I can't help but feel as if I've lost something. This time, though, my memory gifted no virtues that were not deserved, for it could not have fashioned him any better than what he wholly and tangibly was. I think the dormant butterflies in those blossoms we shared a year ago were awakened; I felt their wings flutter inside my belly and make me feel indebted to be a girl. I'm not quite sure if he had changed or if I had changed, or if we both had, but the air surrounding us was different. 

I rarely find or make occasion to stay up late anymore, as I have become quite fond of the soft simplicity of sleep, but that night the entreating outside and his company were far more appealing to me than any luxury slumber could grant me. We sat and marveled at the moon, and talked about the remarkable expansiveness of life. (It sounds deeper than it was.) My feet were cold and he warmed them. And I remembered how exquisite it is to be a girl when you have a good man beside you, warming your blood and teaching you things you never knew you always wanted to know. 

The quiet morning persisted, and he said he would go, so that I could get some sleep. As coyly as I could feign without inherent coquetry (i.e. batting eyelashes) betraying me, I told him that I needed him to kiss me first. And just like music, he put my face in his hands, and he did just that. And my perseverant eyelashes were granted repose as I closed my eyes and lived inside of those kisses. He said goodnight and goodbye, and I left the outside and crawled in to greet my slumber with warm feet and smiles in my bloodstream. Before I closed my eyes for good that night, I read his parting words: "You are very lovely. The waxing moon agrees."  And I will live off of that, I think, for long after summer's gifts have waned.  

Peace and Love.

Image source : http://hippiebethany.tumblr.com/post/83816923463/we-feel-by-the-moon