I am booked, solid, until 2018.
I have recently figured out that my style has always been to move fast, move on. I thought it was serving me well. I have had so many experiences in the "make a list" kinda way. Sky diving? Yep, done that. Chocolate covered ant petit fours? Yep. Sex with stranger? In a glass elevator? While wearing leather? Yes, yes, and yes. I have been to dozens of concerts, major league sporting events, plays, films, car shows. I have danced all night, watched the sunrise, and lived with the hangover. I never wanted to miss anything, so off I went to discover, plunder, and prove my way through.
What I didn't know, until this week honestly, was that I was moving through the "experiences" so fast that it was all a blur. A pretty watercolor picture in smudges and soft edges. Yes, I can tell the stories, but many of them are just that, stories. Almost like they happened to someone else, like a page in a diary I read and turned into my own. As I think about it, I probably use the same words when telling about something that happened, like a tour guide pointing to the attributes of a painting in a gallery.
So what I thought had served me well, had actually been a facade. So when I am on my deathbed, my bucket list can have a few stars next to it, but maybe it kept me from real feelings. If I kept moving at life so fast, I might miss engaging in the really good stuff, but I also don't have to feel any of the bad stuff. That didn't sound so bad at first, missing the pain. That's where I am at. Somewhere between wanting to run away, and needing to stay. It is no longer acceptable that to avoid feeling hard stuff, I don't get to feel the good stuff either. Garth Brooks wrote a song about this.
So what this has to do with time is this: I don't have any. My kids will be gone in the blink of an eye, and if I miss it I don't get it back. In relationships, maybe I have been so accommodating, and afraid to face the bad stuff, that I don't enjoy the good stuff. Maybe I am just blowing smoke up my ass and I don't have a clue. What I do know is that I did not take the time that was rightfully mine. I did not slow down to cry about the end of my first marriage. I did not slow down to see that my relationship with my parents, my mother in particular, was hurtful and damaging to my future relationships. I did not slow down to grieve the loss of my son. I did not slow down to enjoy the pregnancy with my daughter. I did not slow down to admit I was devastated when my husband had an affair. I did not slow down to find a safe place to fall. Ever.
Without slowing down, I think I might be missing something. Something important in the details. Something found only in small and quiet spaces. Something with texture and substance. Something in the softness of my son's smile, or the or wiggle of my daughter's toes. I want that. I want that more than anything. I want that bit of time to slow down so that I get the chance to feel the loveliness of my children's hands in mine, and have it not just be a story, but belong to my heart.
This scares the hell out of me, because it means I might have to see the ugly difficult parts too. The parts that say I feel unworthy. The parts that say shut-up. The parts that don't want to piss off anyone. The parts that have words like abuse and ridicule and addiction attached. The parts that feel lonely. I want it to stay in the pretty spinning colors, but can't. Feeling nothing won't get my children through with a healthy mom, or their mom in a loving relationship.
It is just a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. It is just time. Time. And maybe that is a good thing. I will let you know if I catch myself long enough for that conversation, a quiet space to get out of my own head and into my heart.
It really is just a matter of time. I need to buy some white-out for my calendar.
