It occurred to me recently that discussions of Mercy and Compassion have come up a lot recently. Might be a friend’s post about her own seeking of the divine mystery of Mercy. Might be the potential bombing of Syria. Might just be my own relationships and how I have recently been accused of not showing any mercy to someone I am choosing not to have in my life.
So here goes my take on mercy, its relationship to benevolence, and the need or desire for compassion.
Mercy is an action. It, as I see it, is the act of taking away someone else’s torture. How this happens is never really up to the receiver. It is up to the granter. Taking away torture could mean a multitude of things, but most it is an act that makes it stop. Mercy does not make things better. Take a man in Roman who has been a slave his whole life. As he begs for mercy as he is dying of thirst from a Roman soldier, and the soldier kills him, the soldier’s act was merciful. It ended the suffering. It ended the torture. It was an act, not a feeling. It was completely in the control of the decider. Torture is like that, in that the receiver of a torture really has no choice. Mercy is a position of power.
Related to that is Benevolence. As I see it, benevolence is the act of mercy, with kindness attached. It may not look any different on the surface that straight-forward mercy, but the difference is intent. Benevolence allows the giver of mercy to act with kindness to end suffering. But here is the kicker, it is still an act. It is still at the view point of the giver, and granted by the giver. The power to end the torture still resides outside of the tortured’s grasp.
So in comes compassion. This is the hard one. Compassion is the emotion. The act of compassion may result in neither mercy nor benevolence, but is the act of doing as the person who is asking wishes.
Let’s go back to the Roman slave. If he was killed and it ended his torture, it may have been mercy. If his death ended the slave’s suffering, it may even have been benevolent. But what if the slave asked for water for other slaves? What if he asked for a bath? What if ending his torture was a baseball cap and a fly swatter?
I know that sounded like I just trivialized slavery. That was not my intent. What it was meant to illustrate is that Compassion is about listening. Mercy and benevolence is nothing if compassion does not allow for the receiver of the mercy to decide his or her own fate. I can’t be inside someone else’s head and know their pain. I cannot know what haunts them. I cannot know what tortures them. I cannot know, or even begin to pretend I am helping if I don’t listen.
All of us have those people in our lives. You know the ones, the ones who can’t seem to get it together no matter what we do to help them. And we have tried to help them, honestly, with everything we have done. We have been both merciful AND benevolent in our dealings with them, and yet, they are just still so messed up. We throw our hands up and wonder what else we could possibly do.
The answer: Nothing. We can do nothing. Our mercy and benevolence is not enough if what we are looking to do is help in a meaningful way. THAT, requires compassion. It requires us to stop thinking inside our own box, and act based on what we learn from an individual.
For me personally, there are things I torture myself with that all the benevolence and mercy shown by other people cannot make better. They cannot alleviate or end the torture with any act on their part. I might be able to do it for myself one day, but it is still my torture to bear. Compassion in this case is all someone can offer. A basic listening to the terms that would end my torture, whether they could fix it or not.
See, not so easy. We are built to want to fix things through actions. Fix it and call ourselves merciful. Fix it and call ourselves benevolent. Fix it and call ourselves compassionate. What the hell do we know about a slave's wishes for freedom? What do we pretend to know about an entire country struggling to right its own wrong? What do we think we know about water rights, and marriage quality, and racial profiling, and gang affiliations, and death?
I don’t know anything. I only know that those around me who profess to be merciful and benevolent while having no clue about the restorative power of compassion, even compassion without action, are a waste of my time. I will sit here and quietly torture myself without your mercy, thanks.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Saturday, June 15, 2013
The things you forget.
It's been a busy morning. Busy week actually. Coffee, check. Garage sales, check. Summer camp with swimming (and all the daily gear!), check. Oatmeal and an actual work out, check. Kids with their dad for the Father's day weekend, check.
If writing were to become my full time profession (from my lips to the goddess' ears, please) I would have rocked it this week. While I can't say I made the 1000 words a day quota, I did get at least a half a page in every day. I joined a writer's group. I showed an acquaintance writer friend my first complete chapter (yikes!) of a novel I have been writing for the last 100 years. Progress.
But today, the blog fairy tapped me on the shoulder and said I needed to write just to hang out with my friends. That would be all of you in case you were wondering.
It has been a while since I just hung out and did not have anything in the back of my head that I should be doing. No laundry. No house keeping. No bills to pay ( and no money to pay them with even if I had them, ha!). So the slow down is both welcome and awkward. Like I wonder (as a Facebook post recently reminded me) if I really do have free time, or have I just forgotten everything I need to do.
So I should say that I am about to head into another busy week. No, I mean like "oh-shit-how-the-hell-did-this-happen" kinda busy. Two different summer camps. Work daily (I work for the government, and we are about to be furloughed. My office is handling the coordination of that. Yeah, it sucks). Another chapter due to be "edited" (read that as torn apart with no mercy). Oh yeah, and I get to prepare for court next week with my children's father. Thank the goddess that I don't have any pesky boyfriend hanging out, because while I admit that the sex would probably be an awesome stress relief, the idea of having to have another adult in my life demanding/expecting my time in an intimate way just sounds nauseating right now.
I am also putting my emotional health back to front and center. I started taking the vitamins and supplements again, noticing that the lack of them had made it hard to function. I gave up caffeine a while ago, and well, that blew, so I am back on my enjoyment of coffee. I am much happier, or so my co-workers tell me, since I have a added back my daily grind. To celebrate my return to the habit, I purchased several tin wall hangings for my kitchen with kitchy sayings about the love of coffee. They make me smile.
I made an appointment with my "women's health" professional (add that to the things I will be doing during the next hell-week) because honestly, my hormones have been fucked up, and I don't like it. One minute horny, the next wishing that I knew where to buy a good gun. It has not been pretty. It actually scares me because it might mean the depression is back. I fucking hate the depression. I don't want to be there again. And one of the ways I used to know the depression was bad? I would write dark shit . Yep, the last couple of chapters in the perpetual novel have been on the verge of suicidal. Well that just won't cut it this time around. I have a pre-pubescent daughter who is already in a hormonal cycle of her own, and a son who just-now figured out that his dad plays favorites, and is sad about it. I don't have time to waste figuring out my own shit if, in the process, I throw them under the bus. Might be time to get a good handle on my own physical stuff. Thus my workout this morning. Get strong again. Keep it that way.
Now that you have read all this, know that in my head I got to hang out with you. I need more of this. I do much better when I feel connected, even if just in the virtual reality of a blog. And when I have nothing else keeping me so busy that I forget to take care of own head, I do better then, too. Not quite back to square one, and faster in recognizing it, but a boot to the head might be good today. Or a beer. Or dancing. Or walking on the beach. Or watching a sunset. Or hanging out. Damn, I have been forgetting to do that.
If writing were to become my full time profession (from my lips to the goddess' ears, please) I would have rocked it this week. While I can't say I made the 1000 words a day quota, I did get at least a half a page in every day. I joined a writer's group. I showed an acquaintance writer friend my first complete chapter (yikes!) of a novel I have been writing for the last 100 years. Progress.
But today, the blog fairy tapped me on the shoulder and said I needed to write just to hang out with my friends. That would be all of you in case you were wondering.
It has been a while since I just hung out and did not have anything in the back of my head that I should be doing. No laundry. No house keeping. No bills to pay ( and no money to pay them with even if I had them, ha!). So the slow down is both welcome and awkward. Like I wonder (as a Facebook post recently reminded me) if I really do have free time, or have I just forgotten everything I need to do.
So I should say that I am about to head into another busy week. No, I mean like "oh-shit-how-the-hell-did-this-happen" kinda busy. Two different summer camps. Work daily (I work for the government, and we are about to be furloughed. My office is handling the coordination of that. Yeah, it sucks). Another chapter due to be "edited" (read that as torn apart with no mercy). Oh yeah, and I get to prepare for court next week with my children's father. Thank the goddess that I don't have any pesky boyfriend hanging out, because while I admit that the sex would probably be an awesome stress relief, the idea of having to have another adult in my life demanding/expecting my time in an intimate way just sounds nauseating right now.
I am also putting my emotional health back to front and center. I started taking the vitamins and supplements again, noticing that the lack of them had made it hard to function. I gave up caffeine a while ago, and well, that blew, so I am back on my enjoyment of coffee. I am much happier, or so my co-workers tell me, since I have a added back my daily grind. To celebrate my return to the habit, I purchased several tin wall hangings for my kitchen with kitchy sayings about the love of coffee. They make me smile.
I made an appointment with my "women's health" professional (add that to the things I will be doing during the next hell-week) because honestly, my hormones have been fucked up, and I don't like it. One minute horny, the next wishing that I knew where to buy a good gun. It has not been pretty. It actually scares me because it might mean the depression is back. I fucking hate the depression. I don't want to be there again. And one of the ways I used to know the depression was bad? I would write dark shit . Yep, the last couple of chapters in the perpetual novel have been on the verge of suicidal. Well that just won't cut it this time around. I have a pre-pubescent daughter who is already in a hormonal cycle of her own, and a son who just-now figured out that his dad plays favorites, and is sad about it. I don't have time to waste figuring out my own shit if, in the process, I throw them under the bus. Might be time to get a good handle on my own physical stuff. Thus my workout this morning. Get strong again. Keep it that way.
Now that you have read all this, know that in my head I got to hang out with you. I need more of this. I do much better when I feel connected, even if just in the virtual reality of a blog. And when I have nothing else keeping me so busy that I forget to take care of own head, I do better then, too. Not quite back to square one, and faster in recognizing it, but a boot to the head might be good today. Or a beer. Or dancing. Or walking on the beach. Or watching a sunset. Or hanging out. Damn, I have been forgetting to do that.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Living up to potential is hard.
Siting on the corner of my desk in a book called Six-Word Memoirs. On top of the book is a small stylized metal statue of a woman in lotus-pose that I affectionately call my "yoga girl", and my fountain pen filled with orange ink.
For the FengShui aficionados, this is the TWO area of the desk's bagua, which represents the relationship area of my life if you are following that ancient art of Chinese placement. I keep this area as clear as possible, but for these three things, considering that most of the rest of my desk is often piled with work that represents a paycheck in process. I wish I could say that it is my creative work, but sadly I work for someone else in a crowded cubical-farm, and thus most of the work is others-directed. But I digress.
In this TWO area, I realized, is an encapsulated miniaturized version of my current relationship status: a woman in a uncomfortable awkward position, trying to hack-out short-lived quippy bits of meaning from others, while trying to create my own using a dusty pen with dried-out ink.
And so begins the TWO year of my life. Following more of that Chinese number crap, 47 is a two-year (4+7=11, 1+1=2). It is a time of creating and deepening relationships with self, others, spirit, earth. To that end, this blog is going to become both an outlet tool, and a way to stay accountable to my desires, my plans, my actions, and my inspirations. Lucky you, you've read this far and get to be part of this process. You should run. Run! Run now!
Over the last two years I have written a lot (and I mean A LOT!) about my past. I like to pretend, in my happy little denial fantasy land, that it was all preparing me to let go and move forward, but really I think it was a bit of a whiny pity-fest sometimes and I would like that to stop. So instead, this TWO year in mind, I am creating a list of things "relationship" related I want to call into my universe. Things that are currently missing. Creating my future.
1) I will have a more healthful relationship with food. I do not mean "healthy" because I have heard the term "healthy-as-a-horse". Been there already and have the current poundage to prove it. This new healthful relationship will involve more vegetables and less refined sugar. It will mean cooking more and eating out less. It will mean less caffeine (sigh) and more water. It will mean applying the shit I already know. Eating chocolate cake is in. Eating A chocolate cake is out.
2) I will have a healthy relationship with romantic encounters. This means (more) sticking to basic criteria for potential partnership, and less trying to fix obviously incompatible parts. This includes, but is not limited to having a potential partner be single (not married, since I don't need that drama), available (not gay or involved with other drama, like a baby mama), financially responsible (a job here would be good), interesting (to me, and willing to talk to my friends), intelligent (with more than 2 topics to talk to my friends about, one of them not being just about me), funny (to me, with some basic social graces), and cute (again, to me). There is definitely more here to think about, but let's stick to the basics for now, since up until very very recently (could that be this weekend?) I have not really done even that. Basic healthy is good.
3) I will have a cordial relationship with my children's father. By cordial I mean will probably not talk to him at all, and when I do it will not to be to laugh at him. With this cordiality I will refrain from saying anything at all about him if it involves sarcasm, rudeness, or toxicity, especially in my children's presence. I fully expect to backslide on this one given what a great guy he has been so far (told you I needed to work on the sarcasm) but that is the mean reason for this blog; accountability.
4) I will remember to love myself. I will exercise my body because loving myself includes keeping it is as good a condition as it can be kept given the time and space. I won't go all hating on my flab and start a binge/laxative routine and liposuction surgery fund, but I will move more. This might involve dancing (I could do that), tennis (cute men in shorts, I would do that), or yoga (doubtful). It will also involve massages, pedicures, photo shoots (naked on the beach?), new sheets, visits to my gynecologist and primary care physicians, remembering to take my vitamins and supplements, cute comfy shoes, jeans that fit, a rad pair of sunglasses, and some candles (just because I like them).
5) Sex. (see #2)
6) I will write. Yeah, I know I have said this before, so thank you to my friends who bug me about this. But more than just writing here (blogs are not going away), I will write with a purpose towards publishing. A short story? A novella? A novel? Not sure what it will look like when I am done, but this is all going to lead to a relationship (see, that TWO thing again, I have a theme!) with an editor, an artist, a marketer, a publishing company and, eventually, a book signing. While drinking champagne. On my yacht. Off the coast of Crete.
Some of you may wonder why my kids are not mentioned on this list. Remember what I said in the beginning? About needing to call into my life things that are missing? Yeah, my kids aren't one of them. My relationship with them, even when difficult, is working. It is actually ROCK ON SOLID as I really am a kick ass mom. I don't really want to call the universe for any changes to that. Getting the rest of my life to the exact same level of awesomeness is what my TWO year is all about. Don't fix what ain't broken, the rest is up for auction.
Oh look, six things got written down! The Six-Word Memoirs book is working already. And the title of this posting? Yep, six words!
For the FengShui aficionados, this is the TWO area of the desk's bagua, which represents the relationship area of my life if you are following that ancient art of Chinese placement. I keep this area as clear as possible, but for these three things, considering that most of the rest of my desk is often piled with work that represents a paycheck in process. I wish I could say that it is my creative work, but sadly I work for someone else in a crowded cubical-farm, and thus most of the work is others-directed. But I digress.
In this TWO area, I realized, is an encapsulated miniaturized version of my current relationship status: a woman in a uncomfortable awkward position, trying to hack-out short-lived quippy bits of meaning from others, while trying to create my own using a dusty pen with dried-out ink.
And so begins the TWO year of my life. Following more of that Chinese number crap, 47 is a two-year (4+7=11, 1+1=2). It is a time of creating and deepening relationships with self, others, spirit, earth. To that end, this blog is going to become both an outlet tool, and a way to stay accountable to my desires, my plans, my actions, and my inspirations. Lucky you, you've read this far and get to be part of this process. You should run. Run! Run now!
Over the last two years I have written a lot (and I mean A LOT!) about my past. I like to pretend, in my happy little denial fantasy land, that it was all preparing me to let go and move forward, but really I think it was a bit of a whiny pity-fest sometimes and I would like that to stop. So instead, this TWO year in mind, I am creating a list of things "relationship" related I want to call into my universe. Things that are currently missing. Creating my future.
1) I will have a more healthful relationship with food. I do not mean "healthy" because I have heard the term "healthy-as-a-horse". Been there already and have the current poundage to prove it. This new healthful relationship will involve more vegetables and less refined sugar. It will mean cooking more and eating out less. It will mean less caffeine (sigh) and more water. It will mean applying the shit I already know. Eating chocolate cake is in. Eating A chocolate cake is out.
2) I will have a healthy relationship with romantic encounters. This means (more) sticking to basic criteria for potential partnership, and less trying to fix obviously incompatible parts. This includes, but is not limited to having a potential partner be single (not married, since I don't need that drama), available (not gay or involved with other drama, like a baby mama), financially responsible (a job here would be good), interesting (to me, and willing to talk to my friends), intelligent (with more than 2 topics to talk to my friends about, one of them not being just about me), funny (to me, with some basic social graces), and cute (again, to me). There is definitely more here to think about, but let's stick to the basics for now, since up until very very recently (could that be this weekend?) I have not really done even that. Basic healthy is good.
3) I will have a cordial relationship with my children's father. By cordial I mean will probably not talk to him at all, and when I do it will not to be to laugh at him. With this cordiality I will refrain from saying anything at all about him if it involves sarcasm, rudeness, or toxicity, especially in my children's presence. I fully expect to backslide on this one given what a great guy he has been so far (told you I needed to work on the sarcasm) but that is the mean reason for this blog; accountability.
4) I will remember to love myself. I will exercise my body because loving myself includes keeping it is as good a condition as it can be kept given the time and space. I won't go all hating on my flab and start a binge/laxative routine and liposuction surgery fund, but I will move more. This might involve dancing (I could do that), tennis (cute men in shorts, I would do that), or yoga (doubtful). It will also involve massages, pedicures, photo shoots (naked on the beach?), new sheets, visits to my gynecologist and primary care physicians, remembering to take my vitamins and supplements, cute comfy shoes, jeans that fit, a rad pair of sunglasses, and some candles (just because I like them).
5) Sex. (see #2)
6) I will write. Yeah, I know I have said this before, so thank you to my friends who bug me about this. But more than just writing here (blogs are not going away), I will write with a purpose towards publishing. A short story? A novella? A novel? Not sure what it will look like when I am done, but this is all going to lead to a relationship (see, that TWO thing again, I have a theme!) with an editor, an artist, a marketer, a publishing company and, eventually, a book signing. While drinking champagne. On my yacht. Off the coast of Crete.
Some of you may wonder why my kids are not mentioned on this list. Remember what I said in the beginning? About needing to call into my life things that are missing? Yeah, my kids aren't one of them. My relationship with them, even when difficult, is working. It is actually ROCK ON SOLID as I really am a kick ass mom. I don't really want to call the universe for any changes to that. Getting the rest of my life to the exact same level of awesomeness is what my TWO year is all about. Don't fix what ain't broken, the rest is up for auction.
Oh look, six things got written down! The Six-Word Memoirs book is working already. And the title of this posting? Yep, six words!
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
wallflowers
I don't write much about my ex-husband.
Not my children's-father-ex-husband. I write about him. A lot. I am talking about my first ex-husband. The one I married completely for love.
I know that sounds like a bit of a contradiction, to say you marry for love. Of course you do, marry for love that is. I did, but I did the first time without having any other requirement list to accompany the love. Most of us don't. A requirement list? How much more unromantic could that be? So I didn't have one. Yes, he had to be single and heterosexual, breathing, born male, willing to live in my time zone if not in my zip code, and not have been convicted of any felonies that involved things we all would rather pretend did not exist in the world.
That said, he met 99% of my basic unwritten list. He missed-by-this-much the being single part, since technically he was still married to his first ex wife at the time he popped the question to me, but that worked itself out within several weeks, and, since I said before, I was in love and had already said yes, this wait was just a footnote in what was planned as forever.
This was seriously before I saw the movie "Perks of Being a Wallflower". I know, what can you learn from watching another person relive their high school trauma? Just this: You accept the love you think you deserve.
My ex was a great guy when I met him. Funny. Cute. Into me. He could cook, he liked the same music, he was willing to learn to dance. I can remember our first kiss. I can remember the day he gave me my engagement ring. I can remember the last time we made love.
I can also remember that he gave me pots and pans as a gift on our first Christmas. He said it was so he could cook for me at my house. He worked most evenings as a chef for a restaurant, so I cooked for myself a lot. I used my old pans. I eventually bought for him a set of professional cookware that I still have hanging from a pot rack in my kitchen. I love them. That other set that he purchased me? He took what was left of them when we split up.
I can remember that at first we went out dancing at the club we met in. I loved to dance, and prior to meeting him was out in the clubs 3-4 days a week. Turns out he hated dancing. He never really learned the steps. He didn't really want me dancing with anyone else (my gay friends excepted) and so, eventually, I stopped going dancing.
I remember the conversation we had early on about cheating. About how I had never, not once, ever cheated on a boyfriend. And while I had been unceremoniously dumped a couple times by boys who wanted to chase someone else, I had always appreciated the guys who did that over the guys who stepped out. I wanted my ex to know that while I hoped he would not want to stop being with me, that if he was heading that way with someone else to please have the decency to end our relationship first before jumping into bed with someone else. I was totally in for doing the same. Wanna guess how well that ended up working?
In all that I somehow learned to accept less that what was presented. I was presented with a "great guy" who initially was a dancer, a short-order cook, and a faithful partner. And when that was not fulfilled, I accepted it. I mean, I had married the guy. I had made the commitment without the requirements list. I had married for love. I accepted the love I thought I deserved.
I did that a couple more times since then, accepting what I must have thought I deserved, sure (or convinced?) that I was too fat, to ugly, too stupid to deserve better.
I have changed. I think better of myself and my desires now, and have spent a little time thinking about how I got to that frame of mind in the first place. Family history, traumatic events, life, all just getting in my own way. I might just be alone for a while more. I am okay with that, because I love myself a whole bunch now, and if accepting the love I think I deserve is true, I am getting everything I deserve, and more.
Not my children's-father-ex-husband. I write about him. A lot. I am talking about my first ex-husband. The one I married completely for love.
I know that sounds like a bit of a contradiction, to say you marry for love. Of course you do, marry for love that is. I did, but I did the first time without having any other requirement list to accompany the love. Most of us don't. A requirement list? How much more unromantic could that be? So I didn't have one. Yes, he had to be single and heterosexual, breathing, born male, willing to live in my time zone if not in my zip code, and not have been convicted of any felonies that involved things we all would rather pretend did not exist in the world.
That said, he met 99% of my basic unwritten list. He missed-by-this-much the being single part, since technically he was still married to his first ex wife at the time he popped the question to me, but that worked itself out within several weeks, and, since I said before, I was in love and had already said yes, this wait was just a footnote in what was planned as forever.
This was seriously before I saw the movie "Perks of Being a Wallflower". I know, what can you learn from watching another person relive their high school trauma? Just this: You accept the love you think you deserve.
My ex was a great guy when I met him. Funny. Cute. Into me. He could cook, he liked the same music, he was willing to learn to dance. I can remember our first kiss. I can remember the day he gave me my engagement ring. I can remember the last time we made love.
I can also remember that he gave me pots and pans as a gift on our first Christmas. He said it was so he could cook for me at my house. He worked most evenings as a chef for a restaurant, so I cooked for myself a lot. I used my old pans. I eventually bought for him a set of professional cookware that I still have hanging from a pot rack in my kitchen. I love them. That other set that he purchased me? He took what was left of them when we split up.
I can remember that at first we went out dancing at the club we met in. I loved to dance, and prior to meeting him was out in the clubs 3-4 days a week. Turns out he hated dancing. He never really learned the steps. He didn't really want me dancing with anyone else (my gay friends excepted) and so, eventually, I stopped going dancing.
I remember the conversation we had early on about cheating. About how I had never, not once, ever cheated on a boyfriend. And while I had been unceremoniously dumped a couple times by boys who wanted to chase someone else, I had always appreciated the guys who did that over the guys who stepped out. I wanted my ex to know that while I hoped he would not want to stop being with me, that if he was heading that way with someone else to please have the decency to end our relationship first before jumping into bed with someone else. I was totally in for doing the same. Wanna guess how well that ended up working?
In all that I somehow learned to accept less that what was presented. I was presented with a "great guy" who initially was a dancer, a short-order cook, and a faithful partner. And when that was not fulfilled, I accepted it. I mean, I had married the guy. I had made the commitment without the requirements list. I had married for love. I accepted the love I thought I deserved.
I did that a couple more times since then, accepting what I must have thought I deserved, sure (or convinced?) that I was too fat, to ugly, too stupid to deserve better.
I have changed. I think better of myself and my desires now, and have spent a little time thinking about how I got to that frame of mind in the first place. Family history, traumatic events, life, all just getting in my own way. I might just be alone for a while more. I am okay with that, because I love myself a whole bunch now, and if accepting the love I think I deserve is true, I am getting everything I deserve, and more.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Remembering Seth...
I wrote this two years ago, on what would have been Seth's 10th birthday.
I am sharing it today, remebering his 12th birthday.
I am grateful that I had him in my life. I am grateful I do not cry everyday anymore. I am grateful I can smil when I think about him. I am grateful for the two amazing children I live with and love every day that share his DNA. I am grateful I can talk to others and hopefully help. I am grateful for love.
AN ELITE MEMBERSHIP
I am a woman. That alone is enough to keep half the people out of the sub-set. I am also a mother, so a smaller group still. But then there is an "elite" group to which I belong, whose membership comes with every wish that I did not belong to it at all. It is the group of mothers who have immediate and unaltering knowledge that babies die. Their babies. My baby. Not the news report kind of dying, with a deep sigh at the loss. But the world-has-just-come-to-an-end-and-I-am-at-the-center kind of dying. Dead, before they took a breath. Still. Quiet.
My son Seth would have been ten years old today, February 8, 2011. All the positive thoughts of love and energy, and sadness that grandparents feel, and the wishes of the people I hold dear raining on me with the softness of a summer shower quiets my breath, and stills my heart. I feel it. All that goodness that lives in my life. I get that others feel sadness today, too. They all get to remember the excitement of a new baby, the tingling you get when you know someone you love is pregnant and hopeful, and all of the potential, each with their own kind of pain and loss when all that is suddenly pulled out from under them, like a rug. More like a trap door really, because there is a kind of free fall first, before they hit the bottom. For those in that "potential" group, the tumble is quick, the hit is hard, and there are others who also fell waiting to help you up.
Then there is my elite membership. The one I get by myself. The one that says I know he lived. I felt the little hiccup flutters, and the need to pee. I heard his heartbeat on a little staticy machine. I felt the kicks in the middle of the night, and voiced my annoyance at not being able to sleep, secretly thrilled that this little being picked me to be his mother. I would have plenty of time to get back at him later, with homework, and timeouts, and embarrassing pictures of him naked in the bathtub to show to his girlfriend right before the prom. He would play baseball, and love Barbie clothes, since truthfully, I call him HE now, but then I did not know for sure his gender. It did not matter. I would dress him in red and feed him graham crackers and build blanket forts and read him Harry Potter and Winnie the Pooh. He would know how to change the oil in the car. He would like neon colored band-aids. He could be tricked into drinking his milk if I gave it to him in a cup with a swirly straw, because everything tastes better through a swirly straw. He would like fish sticks.
I talked to him quietly, this baby in my belly. He could already make me cry with my ache to hold him, meet him, start the second phase of our existence together when my voice did not sound underwater to him, and his kicks would be playful under the fluffy white blanket I already had in the crib in the freshly-painted nursery.
Today, I will pick up Seth's brother and sister from school early, and we will go get balloons. Ten of them. We will take Sharpie markers and write love notes on each one while we sit in the car. We will drive to the beach, and release them all at once, and sit, with our toes in the sand and watch them drift away until we can't see them anymore. We will play at the beach, write wave wishes in the sand with an old piece of driftwood, and laugh. We will go get icecream. Four dishes. One for each of us, and one for us to share that would have been Seth's. We will argue about what kinds of toppings Seth would have liked, Haysten thinking that he needed more cookie dough, Mariah thinking he needed more candy, me, just wanting the whipped cream. We will laugh at that, too. We will have invited their dad to come with us, celebrate his son's life. He won't, but we have learned to let that go like the balloons.
I am part of an elite group. At the ten year mark, I still want my membership revoked.
I am sharing it today, remebering his 12th birthday.
I am grateful that I had him in my life. I am grateful I do not cry everyday anymore. I am grateful I can smil when I think about him. I am grateful for the two amazing children I live with and love every day that share his DNA. I am grateful I can talk to others and hopefully help. I am grateful for love.
AN ELITE MEMBERSHIP
I am a woman. That alone is enough to keep half the people out of the sub-set. I am also a mother, so a smaller group still. But then there is an "elite" group to which I belong, whose membership comes with every wish that I did not belong to it at all. It is the group of mothers who have immediate and unaltering knowledge that babies die. Their babies. My baby. Not the news report kind of dying, with a deep sigh at the loss. But the world-has-just-come-to-an-end-and-I-am-at-the-center kind of dying. Dead, before they took a breath. Still. Quiet.
My son Seth would have been ten years old today, February 8, 2011. All the positive thoughts of love and energy, and sadness that grandparents feel, and the wishes of the people I hold dear raining on me with the softness of a summer shower quiets my breath, and stills my heart. I feel it. All that goodness that lives in my life. I get that others feel sadness today, too. They all get to remember the excitement of a new baby, the tingling you get when you know someone you love is pregnant and hopeful, and all of the potential, each with their own kind of pain and loss when all that is suddenly pulled out from under them, like a rug. More like a trap door really, because there is a kind of free fall first, before they hit the bottom. For those in that "potential" group, the tumble is quick, the hit is hard, and there are others who also fell waiting to help you up.
Then there is my elite membership. The one I get by myself. The one that says I know he lived. I felt the little hiccup flutters, and the need to pee. I heard his heartbeat on a little staticy machine. I felt the kicks in the middle of the night, and voiced my annoyance at not being able to sleep, secretly thrilled that this little being picked me to be his mother. I would have plenty of time to get back at him later, with homework, and timeouts, and embarrassing pictures of him naked in the bathtub to show to his girlfriend right before the prom. He would play baseball, and love Barbie clothes, since truthfully, I call him HE now, but then I did not know for sure his gender. It did not matter. I would dress him in red and feed him graham crackers and build blanket forts and read him Harry Potter and Winnie the Pooh. He would know how to change the oil in the car. He would like neon colored band-aids. He could be tricked into drinking his milk if I gave it to him in a cup with a swirly straw, because everything tastes better through a swirly straw. He would like fish sticks.
I talked to him quietly, this baby in my belly. He could already make me cry with my ache to hold him, meet him, start the second phase of our existence together when my voice did not sound underwater to him, and his kicks would be playful under the fluffy white blanket I already had in the crib in the freshly-painted nursery.
Today, I will pick up Seth's brother and sister from school early, and we will go get balloons. Ten of them. We will take Sharpie markers and write love notes on each one while we sit in the car. We will drive to the beach, and release them all at once, and sit, with our toes in the sand and watch them drift away until we can't see them anymore. We will play at the beach, write wave wishes in the sand with an old piece of driftwood, and laugh. We will go get icecream. Four dishes. One for each of us, and one for us to share that would have been Seth's. We will argue about what kinds of toppings Seth would have liked, Haysten thinking that he needed more cookie dough, Mariah thinking he needed more candy, me, just wanting the whipped cream. We will laugh at that, too. We will have invited their dad to come with us, celebrate his son's life. He won't, but we have learned to let that go like the balloons.
I am part of an elite group. At the ten year mark, I still want my membership revoked.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Hand cramps and thought jewelry
What do normal people think about?
I mean, here I am having a conversation with myself about what to write down. Do I write it in pencil or pen? Do I skip straight to the computer? If I do write it in pencil, do I erase or scratch out so if I needed the thought again later I would still have it, right there, all written down for me already? And when writing in long hand instead of typing what kind of paper do I use? Do I even have any lined paper? Yes. Get some from your ten-year-old’s notebook. Don’t tell her you went into her room. Wow, the room is messy. Walk away, walk away.
All this while wondering why I am bothering to search. I have nothing to write anyway. Seems the only time I try to write lately is when everything gets all glued together in a giant jumble just needing to be sorted out. Like a tangle of necklaces at the bottom of the jewelry box. The whole mass of chains, where no matter which strand I start with, I eventually follow the lead to a huge knot, all wrapped and snared with other strands, that I don’t have any clue where it is going.
My thoughts are like that today, and consequently, so is my writing. Forgive me now, and know that I sincerely hope there is a some kind of conclusion to this madness, but sorta doubt it. You are forewarned to stop reading now. Do people really think like this? Damn, we are all doomed.
I have been thinking a lot lately about a man I ran into the other day. I have known him since we were about 8, and we played baseball together growing up. He wrote his phone number on my glove one time back then. Years after, his then-girlfriend saw the phone number on my glove and she hit me. I beat the crap out of her before finding out why she had punched me in the first place. She got suspended for starting a fight, and I used the phone number on the glove to call the boy and tell him his girlfriend was retarded. (Yes, not politically correct, but I was 12, sue me) They stayed a couple about another week if I remember, some junior high record I am sure, before they broke up forever and he and I were allowed to be friends again. We kissed each other once, the Christmas we were both 17. I still remember how it tasted.
If he were to read this blog now, he would know it was him I was thinking and writing about in these wandering thoughts immediately. At least I think he would. Maybe not though, and since he probably will never see it, I could probably get away with admitting that in that tangled hot mess of thoughts have been lots about him. Him dressed. Him naked. Him at the beach, in my bed, flying a plane. It is one of my current favorite thoughts actually.
And while I have been thinking about him in various, um, scenarios, I have also been thinking about remodeling my bathroom. A really awesome orange color on one wall with the rest a crisp white. Sorta retro-modern. Heated stone floors.
But that thought gives way to thoughts about a good friend. Worried about him as work stress (involving having to deal with a suicide) makes for people he barely knows relying on him for more than his fair share. I miss seeing him smile. And my thoughts become angry because I know there is not a damn thing I can do about it.
I think about my kids a lot. My daughter is competing in the spelling bee, thinks her hair is weird, and is concerned she will not make any friends in middle school. It is only 8 months away. She is already counting it down. I worry that she is missing the joy of fifth grade in the process.
Back to the boy for minute. I really liked his moustache and goatee. And the salt and pepper color on his temples. And that he drinks coffee.
My son has been sleeping a bunch. A combo of illness and a growth-spurt that put him in bed at 6:30 last night. I think he is going to be tall. Damn, I think I will have to buy him some more shoes.
Surprisingly, my ex hasn’t been hovering constantly (or much at all actually) in my thoughts. I would think he would get some more air time considering he is about to begin divorce proceedings from his third wife, and un-amazingly they are both blaming me and my kids for their breakup But I am already bored with his drama so the thought usually go away pretty quickly. He got a paragraph, whoo hoo.
Other thoughts in the cue: Sesquesestration is a really long word for meaning I might be without a job for 22 days this year. No work, no pay.
I think I could supplement my income by being a writer. Note to self, start finding freelance work. Second note to self, start submitting manuscripts.
I like the taste of greenish bananas but I hate peeling them. I bet my son could invent something so I wouldn’t have to do that.
Tight jeans look really good on fit 46-year-old men. Especially ones I have had a crush on for 30 plus years.
I really should have typed this to begin with. My hand is cramping. My thoughts are wandering. Did I learn cursive in the fourth grade? I really should take a refresher course.
I just looked up. It is dark outside. Does that happen that fast every day? When was the last time I watched a sunset?
Maybe normal people do think this stuff and I am the only one crazy enough to write it in a public blog. Not much coherent thought today, but I warned you. . Not much coherent thought today, but I warned you. Normal is overrated. You feel more put together now, right? My job is done.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Courtroom confessional
I was raped in 1991.
Until today, there were about 6 people (not including cops, rape specialists, investigators, criminologists, prosecutors, attorneys, and a few more cops, but I don't really count them as "people") who I had told of my own volition.
The list does not include either of my ex husbands. This list does not include any of my ex boyfriends or men I have dated. This list did not include (except for one) any of my closest friends. This list did not include even one family member. Not my cousins. Not my brother. Not my parents. Obviously I needed to write it in a blog 22 years later.
I made it through a day of hell, a week of crying, and about 4 months of court-related crap before I did my best to ignore it.
Now I am not asking for a single comment that says "oh". I probably won't listen. In the purest sense of the word, the actual rape part of the whole thing has not effected me. I have no lingering fear of sex (I quite enjoy it actually). I have no problems with dark alleys or men looming near me, given that I have worked in prisons and in drug areas, and lived in sketchy areas. What I do have is a total fear that my judgement is completely fucked up.
Here is the story.
I met "Dan" when my friend "Greg" introduced us at a party. It was an April Fool's Day party and we were having a blast. Dan and I hit it off immediately. He was smart, and funny, and sexy. We did the whole attraction dance and (in the days before cell phones) he asked for my number.
The first date was fun, and we talked for hours. So were dates two thru five. Magical even. Five dates in four weeks for a girl with a full time job and a guy in his third year of law school was golden. Date six was on May Day, and a day of flying was planned. Dan was a small craft pilot, and had a plane on loan for our use for the day. Heaven.
Arriving back at his apartment I was ready to spend the whole evening telling him, and showing him, just how into him I was. I never took my coat off. He excused himself to the bathroom, and in the time it took me to look around the apartment and see a few of the photos and things, he had stuck a plunger full of meth into one of his veins and came out of his bathroom naked with a hard-on, and seriously ready to fuck and hit me. He did both.
How I talked my way to safety, and how the police arrested him in his apartment, and how he confessed, well, that is all just logistics.
Fast forward to today.
I was asked to do some homework on "Why do you think you are not getting what you want?" as it relates to relationships and men in general. My answer came in one simple word: fear. Not fear of being raped. Like I said, I enjoy sex, and am not afraid of being hurt physically. My fear, it seems, is that my judgment about men is so fucked up, that even if a really nice guy wanted to love me and understand me, I would not believe for one second that he was sincere. So instead, I pick familiar, which is guys who won't actually beat or rape me, but will do a damn good job of ignoring me, evading emotions, keeping their lives and trust distant, because I confuse that kind of familiar with safety.
So I figured out I don't get what I want because I don't trust anyone to be my safe place to fall. I only trust them enough to get them in my life and then accommodate their needs. Fucked up, much?
So I am learning that maybe there are safe good men out there, ones that are totally worthy of me, and I of them. Trusting myself to know that is going to be the next step. If you want to comment about THAT, I will listen.
Until today, there were about 6 people (not including cops, rape specialists, investigators, criminologists, prosecutors, attorneys, and a few more cops, but I don't really count them as "people") who I had told of my own volition.
The list does not include either of my ex husbands. This list does not include any of my ex boyfriends or men I have dated. This list did not include (except for one) any of my closest friends. This list did not include even one family member. Not my cousins. Not my brother. Not my parents. Obviously I needed to write it in a blog 22 years later.
I made it through a day of hell, a week of crying, and about 4 months of court-related crap before I did my best to ignore it.
Now I am not asking for a single comment that says "oh". I probably won't listen. In the purest sense of the word, the actual rape part of the whole thing has not effected me. I have no lingering fear of sex (I quite enjoy it actually). I have no problems with dark alleys or men looming near me, given that I have worked in prisons and in drug areas, and lived in sketchy areas. What I do have is a total fear that my judgement is completely fucked up.
Here is the story.
I met "Dan" when my friend "Greg" introduced us at a party. It was an April Fool's Day party and we were having a blast. Dan and I hit it off immediately. He was smart, and funny, and sexy. We did the whole attraction dance and (in the days before cell phones) he asked for my number.
The first date was fun, and we talked for hours. So were dates two thru five. Magical even. Five dates in four weeks for a girl with a full time job and a guy in his third year of law school was golden. Date six was on May Day, and a day of flying was planned. Dan was a small craft pilot, and had a plane on loan for our use for the day. Heaven.
Arriving back at his apartment I was ready to spend the whole evening telling him, and showing him, just how into him I was. I never took my coat off. He excused himself to the bathroom, and in the time it took me to look around the apartment and see a few of the photos and things, he had stuck a plunger full of meth into one of his veins and came out of his bathroom naked with a hard-on, and seriously ready to fuck and hit me. He did both.
How I talked my way to safety, and how the police arrested him in his apartment, and how he confessed, well, that is all just logistics.
Fast forward to today.
I was asked to do some homework on "Why do you think you are not getting what you want?" as it relates to relationships and men in general. My answer came in one simple word: fear. Not fear of being raped. Like I said, I enjoy sex, and am not afraid of being hurt physically. My fear, it seems, is that my judgment about men is so fucked up, that even if a really nice guy wanted to love me and understand me, I would not believe for one second that he was sincere. So instead, I pick familiar, which is guys who won't actually beat or rape me, but will do a damn good job of ignoring me, evading emotions, keeping their lives and trust distant, because I confuse that kind of familiar with safety.
So I figured out I don't get what I want because I don't trust anyone to be my safe place to fall. I only trust them enough to get them in my life and then accommodate their needs. Fucked up, much?
So I am learning that maybe there are safe good men out there, ones that are totally worthy of me, and I of them. Trusting myself to know that is going to be the next step. If you want to comment about THAT, I will listen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)