Inside Outsides

I dragged myself out of bed this morning in the most unglamorous way possible and was so grateful that there was no one standing beside me to witness such things.
After a long night, week, month, year, glamour has faded away under the brutal constancy of my existence.
After spending just the minimum of time needed, I was showered and awake (though awake is a strong word for my state)
And feeling vulnerable, fragile, tenuous.
I feel in danger of fading away completely.
I armed myself in the loudest, brightest shirt I own.
It’s a ridiculous shirt, red, blue, yellow swirls.
It’s a shirt usually reserved for laundry days or quiet house days,
Not days like today when I’m out among people I suspect are quietly judging my wardrobe choices.
But today’s tenuousness and fragility required something ridiculous and loud,
So I walked out into the world wearing my armor and hoping for the best.
Halfway through the day, I realized I had donned my shirt inside out, and I left it that way for a bit, daring myself to be strong.

I'm holding a vessel of grief. The weight of it is unspeakable, undefined.
A deep chill emanates through me, rippling with each disturbance.
I see it, I know it, I name it. And yet, and yet.
I don't understand the nature of these things. Can I tip it over and spill my grief onto the ground?
Is the ground parched, and will welcome something such as this,
Or would this simply sit there, surfaced, rejected or unnecessary?
Is my grief so deep it cannot be emptied? Will I carry this forever? Can I wall myself away and stay safe?

It's all too complicated, or so simple I can't see it.

In moments of quiet, I find myself inexplicably melancholy. As if everything else is a complicated fun house of distraction, and the melancholy is the reality on the other side of the door. This is scary and unsettling. And incredibly difficult to face in full.

On another note...

I feel like I used to be a very different person. I've been thinking about who that person was and what it is, exactly, that I miss. In writing a friend the other day, these words poured out: I miss poetry. I miss the rhythm of words in my life. It's a river gone dry, and I can still remember taking deep, refreshing droughts of the stuff. I hope that I'll forget, that I won't remember to miss it anymore.

Sincerely. Me.

Silence

My spirit is crying out for something greater than this casual turn. In the midst of all that is ugly and beautiful, there is no solace.

The balance of success and failure.

I love this job of mine, staying home and raising my kids. Sometimes I yell too much. Some days I'm too frustrated and we can't make any progress. Some nights I burn dinner and struggle to make everything work out ok. But sometimes it all goes right.

This job breaks my heart every day, and that's a good thing. I think that means I just might be doing it right enough.

Bare spots...

There's a hole in my soul
like a withered bare patch
in the lawn outside my door

Killed like the grass
by the decisions I've made--
piss-poor; yet those patches
are just acidic with waste

I don't pretend I can fix it
regrow it,
even accept it,
but I know that I can eventually
adapt to it.

I will make a path, a new way,
through the lawn of my life.
I will turn that bare-worn spot
into a stepping stone to better places.

My soul is not whole, but that's okay.
My path is not built, but it will be someday.

guest appearance because I can't revive my own blog this way

My brain is like swiss cheese - full of big holes information slips through (and away).

I sat down here to write a sad but inspiring blog post about my mother. It's just past midnight, so it's no longer officially the anniversary of her death. But it's bearing down on me. It's left me agitated and grumpy all day. Then, when I was in the middle of putting the wet laundry into the dryer, I remembered something about my mother. Something that led into a sad but inspiring blog post.

Only, before I actually started crafting the post, I forgot what that thing was. That thing I remembered, that was hard but sweet, too. Some elusive memory of her that felt good to talk about and, with more sweet and less bitter.

But then I forgot it.

So instead I'm writing a post that's more bitter and less sweet. And the only reason I'm not crying overtly is because I'm holding on to the anger that keeps me sane. The anger keeps the tears pooled along my eyelashes, elegantly poised to fall at any moment. The anger kept me going for so long. It's hard to let it go.

So. Thirteen years ago, Mom died. She never met my husband or my kids. She never walked through my house, or saw me become something better than I was then. And in the end, it's not about what she missed but what I missed from her - support, love, kindness, familiarity, that life long relationship. Because she's gone, and I'm not.

Which, at a seriously bottom line point, is the reason I've gotten this far without her.