Hello, dear blog. It's me.
Let's see; how's life lately...
It's the bazillionth rainy day in a row down here. I think it's been raining on and off since early December.
So much for my hazy plan to get back to walking.
But that's okay, I've been writing too much to tear myself away from the computer anyway.
Keith, in an effort to get me out of the house, told me that we were going bowling with another couple.
No one understands introverts. I think there should be sensitive posters and ads on TV, in an effort to educate the extroverted, who have this terrible tendency to assume that they and only they are the correct model of human social behavior.
Do I sound bitter? It's only because I had to go bowling.
Also, my wardrobe is terrible. I can tell at a glance that I am old, when I look at my clothing. My clothing continues muted, sensible and tailored, while fashion rips out seams, tears hems, stitches random pockets about itself, goes prancing around in large shirts printed with elephants, clouds, the red cross symbol and wears red tights.
So, anyway, about bowling. I had this one shirt, that I bought under the influence of a friend passing through, and then never wore, because it is of a shade of neon pink that could stop traffic and has ruffles that sits low at the hips and ruffles at the elbows and yet more ruffles around the loose neckline.
That's just way too many ruffles, but in desperation, I wore that, and jeans and heels and my husband's eyes kept following me as I moved, clickingly, around the house. He was probably dazzled by the pink.
We stopped at the door. He looked me up and down and then grinned.
"That's right," he said, smugly. "I married you. I feel like I won something..."
I am not a good bowler. I never did catch on to this, myself, but apparently my entire body swings sideways as I let go of the ball. All I know is, I kept throwing it into the right gutter, even when I stood all the way to the left side.
Also the ball was ridiculously heavy and my hand felt broken by the end of the night. Also, news flash, I can't make small talk.
This is all because I am an INFP on the Myers-Briggs Personality Test.
They say, and I quote:
"INFPs are usually talented writers. They may be awkward and uncomfortable with
expressing themselves verbally, but have a wonderful ability to define and
express what they're feeling on paper."
-The Personality Type Portraits
In my case, I think they can safely drop the "may" in the second sentence.
So it's not my fault if I could only sit on the ice cold plastic chairs and sip my Corona and not have any idea what to say. I can't help it if I'm an INFP; I was born that way.
Fortunately, my husband makes enough noise, and bowling points, for the two of us. At least this time he did not type in "Sexy Tank" for his player name.
The sun has come out, as I've been writing. I think I may wrap this up and get out of the house, introvert-style.
Then I have to get back into the swing of writing the adoption print pamphlet. My goal is to have the entire thing finished and submitted by the end of this week.
To that end, I am committed to working on it for two hours every day.
Also, I really need some new clothes.
Showing posts with label Introverts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Introverts. Show all posts
Monday, January 14, 2013
Monday, March 5, 2012
March 5th
This was my verse for the day:
"The Lord is faithful in all He says; He is gracious in all He does. The Lord helps the fallen and lifts up those bent beneath their loads."
-Psalm 145:13-14 NLT
Our guests arrived around three in the afternoon on Saturday. The fellow was a gangly farm boy with a baseball cap, large glasses and a wide smile. He rarely spoke, but watched everything quietly.
I was much more interested in his woman. She was older; her face had that faintly worn look of someone in middle age and her hands were roughened. Her hair was thick, tauny and long, and her eyes were large and shy.
Right away I noticed that she had the same quality of social awkwardness as myself. It wasn't glaring; in her case, it was as though she were somewhat off beat- her conversation moved unexpectedly between untaught directness and shyness.
As for myself, I tried to remain in the moment, and not rush on to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing, in the hopes of pushing time along faster, so that I could get through it as fast as possible.
I kept taking deep, slow breaths and settling myself back into the conversation and the setting. It was much more peaceful that way and I was able to even enjoy some of the socializing.
When we were in the kitchen, her demeanor changed. There is something about being in a kitchen, I have noticed, that causes most women to open up. The quiet ones will get chatty and the chatty ones will go nonstop.
This whole time I had been listening with one ear for the voice of Jesus. It's as though I have one foot in what I can see is happening, and one foot somewhere else. I do this because otherwise, I tend to judge and catagorize the people I meet according to my own expectations and understanding, which is incredibly limited.
I'm constantly reminding myself that this person I'm speaking to is a beloved daughter of God- His own creation, with a history and scars and knowledge and experience very different from my own. I don't know her story, so I don't know who she really is. But what I can always know, is that she is beloved of God, as we all are.
So, I was in the kitchen slicing up tomatoes, and I leaned back into Jesus yet again, in order to ground myself, and He whispered to me, Here is another little girl.
He meant, another little girl like myself- someone who survived the ravages of their childhood.
It was true, too. Little pieces of her childhood kept dropping into the conversation, which was becoming more unconventional, as we became more comfortable being ourselves.
I've rarely had such a connection with another person in the same way. It amazed me, looking back, to notice how much of my inner self I had revealed. It wasn't so much what we were saying, it was how we were being.
My conversation with my guest had been full of emotion, vulnerablity and authenticity, no matter what topic we had been discussing. Any other person would have found it strange, with the long, quiet pauses and palpable emotion.
I kept leaning into Jesus and listening, during my conversations with her. Maybe times I wanted to talk about Him with her, but not as though to evangelize- it was perfectly obvious, even with my limited perception, that she was His girl. I wanted to talk about Him simply because I wanted to share my delight in Him, but we didn't have enough time to get to that level of sharing.
It came up once, briefly, when she was telling me about her son's name.
"It's in the Bible," she said to me in her direct way, but her eyes shimmered with a sort of private pleasure.
I looked at her swiftly from the corner of my eye. Everything that I wanted to say was too much to be said, and I couldn't grab a hold of where to begin.
"Indeed it is," I replied instead, my eyes twinkling.
When they left the next day, she came up to my desk, as though she had an important and deliberate message to deliver.
"I enjoyed meeting you," she said simply. As she spoke, her childlike pleasure was balanced by her natural dignity. "I hope that we'll meet again soon."
It was not a social phrase, it was genuine, and thus unvarnished and unstudied. I understood the importance of it as well, because of the things she had shared with me earlier.
I paused to consider. This is the sort of thing I would never do, normally, but that is what I meant by our conversation being unconventional. As I paused, I realized that I also hoped very much that we would meet again. I sat up straight.
"I hope so," I said, my eyes bright with the undisguised pleasure of it.
Her own eyes suddenly shone bright and beautiful and then her shoulders hunched into themselves. Her shyness washed over her and she had to look away. We waved to each other and then they were gone on their way further South.
As they drove away, I felt a wash of fear for her, because of her innocence and childlike nature. She could be hurt so easily- what would happen to her?
I felt Jesus' loving presence; He did not have to say anything. All my fears dissolved at once into a sort of tender humor at myself.
First of all, she'd already been through incredible suffering; her strength was of that shining sort that had been tried in the crucible. But most importantly, Jesus would be with her no matter where her life took her. She would always be in His hands.
And now it is a sunny Monday morning, and I am going to go out and see what is blooming in the park.
"The Lord is faithful in all He says; He is gracious in all He does. The Lord helps the fallen and lifts up those bent beneath their loads."
-Psalm 145:13-14 NLT
Our guests arrived around three in the afternoon on Saturday. The fellow was a gangly farm boy with a baseball cap, large glasses and a wide smile. He rarely spoke, but watched everything quietly.
I was much more interested in his woman. She was older; her face had that faintly worn look of someone in middle age and her hands were roughened. Her hair was thick, tauny and long, and her eyes were large and shy.
Right away I noticed that she had the same quality of social awkwardness as myself. It wasn't glaring; in her case, it was as though she were somewhat off beat- her conversation moved unexpectedly between untaught directness and shyness.
As for myself, I tried to remain in the moment, and not rush on to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing, in the hopes of pushing time along faster, so that I could get through it as fast as possible.
I kept taking deep, slow breaths and settling myself back into the conversation and the setting. It was much more peaceful that way and I was able to even enjoy some of the socializing.
When we were in the kitchen, her demeanor changed. There is something about being in a kitchen, I have noticed, that causes most women to open up. The quiet ones will get chatty and the chatty ones will go nonstop.
This whole time I had been listening with one ear for the voice of Jesus. It's as though I have one foot in what I can see is happening, and one foot somewhere else. I do this because otherwise, I tend to judge and catagorize the people I meet according to my own expectations and understanding, which is incredibly limited.
I'm constantly reminding myself that this person I'm speaking to is a beloved daughter of God- His own creation, with a history and scars and knowledge and experience very different from my own. I don't know her story, so I don't know who she really is. But what I can always know, is that she is beloved of God, as we all are.
So, I was in the kitchen slicing up tomatoes, and I leaned back into Jesus yet again, in order to ground myself, and He whispered to me, Here is another little girl.
He meant, another little girl like myself- someone who survived the ravages of their childhood.
It was true, too. Little pieces of her childhood kept dropping into the conversation, which was becoming more unconventional, as we became more comfortable being ourselves.
I've rarely had such a connection with another person in the same way. It amazed me, looking back, to notice how much of my inner self I had revealed. It wasn't so much what we were saying, it was how we were being.
My conversation with my guest had been full of emotion, vulnerablity and authenticity, no matter what topic we had been discussing. Any other person would have found it strange, with the long, quiet pauses and palpable emotion.
I kept leaning into Jesus and listening, during my conversations with her. Maybe times I wanted to talk about Him with her, but not as though to evangelize- it was perfectly obvious, even with my limited perception, that she was His girl. I wanted to talk about Him simply because I wanted to share my delight in Him, but we didn't have enough time to get to that level of sharing.
It came up once, briefly, when she was telling me about her son's name.
"It's in the Bible," she said to me in her direct way, but her eyes shimmered with a sort of private pleasure.
I looked at her swiftly from the corner of my eye. Everything that I wanted to say was too much to be said, and I couldn't grab a hold of where to begin.
"Indeed it is," I replied instead, my eyes twinkling.
When they left the next day, she came up to my desk, as though she had an important and deliberate message to deliver.
"I enjoyed meeting you," she said simply. As she spoke, her childlike pleasure was balanced by her natural dignity. "I hope that we'll meet again soon."
It was not a social phrase, it was genuine, and thus unvarnished and unstudied. I understood the importance of it as well, because of the things she had shared with me earlier.
I paused to consider. This is the sort of thing I would never do, normally, but that is what I meant by our conversation being unconventional. As I paused, I realized that I also hoped very much that we would meet again. I sat up straight.
"I hope so," I said, my eyes bright with the undisguised pleasure of it.
Her own eyes suddenly shone bright and beautiful and then her shoulders hunched into themselves. Her shyness washed over her and she had to look away. We waved to each other and then they were gone on their way further South.
As they drove away, I felt a wash of fear for her, because of her innocence and childlike nature. She could be hurt so easily- what would happen to her?
I felt Jesus' loving presence; He did not have to say anything. All my fears dissolved at once into a sort of tender humor at myself.
First of all, she'd already been through incredible suffering; her strength was of that shining sort that had been tried in the crucible. But most importantly, Jesus would be with her no matter where her life took her. She would always be in His hands.
And now it is a sunny Monday morning, and I am going to go out and see what is blooming in the park.
Monday, December 19, 2011
December 19th, Later
On my walk, I was so thirsting for stillness that I didn't even take along my music. I wanted nothing but the sound of the wind, the dry scrape of leaves along the road, the rustle as squirrels darted from tree to tree and the chirp and burble of birds hidden in the bare branches.
The sky was a pale winter blue, banded by clouds that sometimes passed over the sun, casting the hillsides into shadow. But under the sun, all the fallen leaves glistened like polished bronze.
When my walk had taken me full circle, I clambered down the flat rocks that form a stream bed. The stream pours around the rocks, separating into three or four different thin sheets of water that join back together further downstream.
Usually, the water level is low enough that I can leap over each branch with ease. Sometimes it's not, and I must make my way further down, to an easier crossing point.
Today, I crossed over all but the last rivulet, the one which is the deepest and the fastest. It creates a little curl of water that spills into white foam. Bubbles of foam float on down, gliding over the rippling water.
The sound of the water falling was so lovely that I paused, and then knelt down with my hands dangling easily between my knees. I leaned forward a little, listening and watching the water run. It was hot, and I had tied my fleece around my waist; I could feel the sun on the back of my white shirt.
The endless quiet gurgle of water brought back an old memory. Until I was three, I lived with my parents in upstate New York- farming country. My grandfather had a dairy farm, and my father helped him run it.
Up the valley was a sheep farm owned by the church I grew up in, and church services were held there on Sunday mornings.
Above the church building was a pond banked by a stone wall, and water from the pond trickled endlessly and brightly down the moss-green stones.
It was a lovely, deep and soothing sound. The water itself was a murky and mysterious golden green. Light glinted off the fall of water.
The grass was a rich, deep green and over shading the pond were trees- were they willow trees? I almost think they were, but I can't remember exactly.
The water disappeared under the dirt driveway and then reappeared in another little fall and then wound its way down the hillside, toward the sheep pasture.
All this sensory memory came back to me, as I knelt by a rill of water this morning, under the hot sun. With the memory came the strong and loving presence of Christ- He was all bound up with the memory itself.
I realized that He had been with me, even then, and rejoicing in the beauty of His creation, and deeply loving me. Christ had been there, seeing that place not only as it truly was, but as it was through my own child's eyes.
He tenderly knows and understands our point of view, our memories- everything, in fact, that go into making us who we are. There is no one else that will ever know us better than He does- because only Christ can see from the heart outward.
The sky was a pale winter blue, banded by clouds that sometimes passed over the sun, casting the hillsides into shadow. But under the sun, all the fallen leaves glistened like polished bronze.
When my walk had taken me full circle, I clambered down the flat rocks that form a stream bed. The stream pours around the rocks, separating into three or four different thin sheets of water that join back together further downstream.
Usually, the water level is low enough that I can leap over each branch with ease. Sometimes it's not, and I must make my way further down, to an easier crossing point.
Today, I crossed over all but the last rivulet, the one which is the deepest and the fastest. It creates a little curl of water that spills into white foam. Bubbles of foam float on down, gliding over the rippling water.
The sound of the water falling was so lovely that I paused, and then knelt down with my hands dangling easily between my knees. I leaned forward a little, listening and watching the water run. It was hot, and I had tied my fleece around my waist; I could feel the sun on the back of my white shirt.
The endless quiet gurgle of water brought back an old memory. Until I was three, I lived with my parents in upstate New York- farming country. My grandfather had a dairy farm, and my father helped him run it.
Up the valley was a sheep farm owned by the church I grew up in, and church services were held there on Sunday mornings.
Above the church building was a pond banked by a stone wall, and water from the pond trickled endlessly and brightly down the moss-green stones.
It was a lovely, deep and soothing sound. The water itself was a murky and mysterious golden green. Light glinted off the fall of water.
The grass was a rich, deep green and over shading the pond were trees- were they willow trees? I almost think they were, but I can't remember exactly.
The water disappeared under the dirt driveway and then reappeared in another little fall and then wound its way down the hillside, toward the sheep pasture.
All this sensory memory came back to me, as I knelt by a rill of water this morning, under the hot sun. With the memory came the strong and loving presence of Christ- He was all bound up with the memory itself.
I realized that He had been with me, even then, and rejoicing in the beauty of His creation, and deeply loving me. Christ had been there, seeing that place not only as it truly was, but as it was through my own child's eyes.
He tenderly knows and understands our point of view, our memories- everything, in fact, that go into making us who we are. There is no one else that will ever know us better than He does- because only Christ can see from the heart outward.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
August 25th
I chew my lips so badly that I must put chap stick on at least four or five times a day to prevent the skin from chapping and breaking. When I go to bed at night, my jaws ache.
I never leave the house unless it's to go grocery shopping or with Keith. I don't even know where the local library is.
I wear the same two linen shirts and two cotton skirts all week long.
I tell myself this is fine, so long as I keep writing, jogging and the house clean. Which I do.
Most of the time, I think I'm happy. It's hard to tell sometimes.
My days are defined by these obscure internal crises that no one else ever knows about, unless I happen to blog about them. Things having to do with self perception: my perception of everything from my general way of living to a specific comment I left on facebook.
It doesn't matter what I say or do, at some point, it will feel like a terrible mistake and will follow me around, my constant companion for the rest of the day. I've almost stopped commenting at all, because of this, to try and avoid it.
Most of the time I'm happy to see Keith pull up in the driveway and go striding down to the mailbox. Sometimes he's arrived in the midst of an intense internal weather system that doesn't want to give way for him; I want to continue absorbed and wrestling.
I am like the crazy, eccentric and creative writer person that scare other, more normal people. I wonder if I could have turned out differently if I had tried. Would I trully want to be different? Different in what way?
I wonder if this version of me is truly the result of my choosing, over and over again, personal authenticity over society's expectations. Or is this just the result of my anxiety wearing away at me, like wind scouring the rocks?
I wonder what kind of story I would write, if I wrote about this me- the thirty three year old, infertile, anxious shut in who is also the warm and passionate wife who is also the woman with the spectacular, adversarial and fertile internal life.
Yesterday I wept. My brother and his wife were given a little girl. Their life was added to, was enlarged in every way.
In the light of this, my own life seemed so futile, like a grown up playing in the sandbox. Who cares if I can write? What does it matter? It won't change the world. I'm not a genius; I just have a natural ability.
My body seemed so broken, so worthless. Already having been the sexual plaything of pedophile, already spent, spoiled, plundered. And now broken, yielding me nothing. Just an empty vessel.
I just let myself grieve. Then I wrote. I forced myself to continue writing. After all, what am I going to do? I have this life. I have this day stretching out in front of me, full of emptiness. I might as well write.
I never leave the house unless it's to go grocery shopping or with Keith. I don't even know where the local library is.
I wear the same two linen shirts and two cotton skirts all week long.
I tell myself this is fine, so long as I keep writing, jogging and the house clean. Which I do.
Most of the time, I think I'm happy. It's hard to tell sometimes.
My days are defined by these obscure internal crises that no one else ever knows about, unless I happen to blog about them. Things having to do with self perception: my perception of everything from my general way of living to a specific comment I left on facebook.
It doesn't matter what I say or do, at some point, it will feel like a terrible mistake and will follow me around, my constant companion for the rest of the day. I've almost stopped commenting at all, because of this, to try and avoid it.
Most of the time I'm happy to see Keith pull up in the driveway and go striding down to the mailbox. Sometimes he's arrived in the midst of an intense internal weather system that doesn't want to give way for him; I want to continue absorbed and wrestling.
I am like the crazy, eccentric and creative writer person that scare other, more normal people. I wonder if I could have turned out differently if I had tried. Would I trully want to be different? Different in what way?
I wonder if this version of me is truly the result of my choosing, over and over again, personal authenticity over society's expectations. Or is this just the result of my anxiety wearing away at me, like wind scouring the rocks?
I wonder what kind of story I would write, if I wrote about this me- the thirty three year old, infertile, anxious shut in who is also the warm and passionate wife who is also the woman with the spectacular, adversarial and fertile internal life.
Yesterday I wept. My brother and his wife were given a little girl. Their life was added to, was enlarged in every way.
In the light of this, my own life seemed so futile, like a grown up playing in the sandbox. Who cares if I can write? What does it matter? It won't change the world. I'm not a genius; I just have a natural ability.
My body seemed so broken, so worthless. Already having been the sexual plaything of pedophile, already spent, spoiled, plundered. And now broken, yielding me nothing. Just an empty vessel.
I just let myself grieve. Then I wrote. I forced myself to continue writing. After all, what am I going to do? I have this life. I have this day stretching out in front of me, full of emptiness. I might as well write.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
August 9th
Ok, time for various updates.
So the visit went well, even though it rained almost the entire afternoon, leaving us with all five children in the house. This is a large house for two people. It's a very small house for nine people, even if some of them were very small people.
The littlest girl spent some time in the kitchen with me, running her truck over the floor and pouring the baked beans into the pot. She sat smack dab on the floor, plump little legs out stretched, and husked corn with great satisfaction, careful to put all the green corn husks in the plastic trash back.
After a while, the rain let up and every one got in the pool. It was like a typhoon in there.
It went well, and I didn't need to make too much conversation. Oh, and here's how far off track I am when it comes to that. The two adults were on their way down to get married. Did I ask her about her dress, hair, make up, ceremony, anything?
No. No, I didn't. And not because I didn't care, but because it didn't occur to me.
Oh, yes. That is how weird a woman I am.
Keith passed pretty much his last test in his class and the rest of the time will be spent on simulators. Over half the class didn't make it through.
There are a lot of drill sergeant and recruiters in that class, and Keith is now thinking about putting in a packet to become a recruiter.
Who knows. When we first heard we were moving down here, we thought Keith would be a drill sergeant, but that changed. Stuff changes a lot.
But I like the idea, for several reasons. One is that the school is only six weeks long. Another is that we would be able to choose where we would be stationed. It could be anywhere; we are thinking Montana. Another is that, theoretically, we would be able to count on staying there for three years. Another is that it comes with a pay increase.
You know what all that adds up to? Adoption, that's what.
Moreover, Keith has softened up considerably on international adoption. Right from the beginning, Keith said no international adoption; he was worried about travel in foreign countries.
So I started focusing on domestic adoption- foster, fost adopt, and infant adoption. Maybe we still will pursue this path. Who knows? We keep going back and forth.
However, from time to time, my heartstrings would get pulled by pictures of little dark haired girls with honey skin, from South or Central America. I was watching Anthony Bourdain in, I think, Nicaragua, and he visited the capital city dump. Small children were raking through the trash with hooks, searching for food or recycleables that they could turn in for pennies.
Oh my goodness. I was just undone. So I talked to Keith about it and learned that he was open to the idea of international adoption. Oh my goodness.
So, who knows. But I have adoption on the brain right now.
Torii is just racing right along. Pieces keep falling into place. Though Gilly continues to occasionally crash the story with her unrelenting reality. That is, she isn't a character I can force to my own time line. She folds her arms and declares, "I won't."
And that's that.
For example, I keep wanting her to process her anger and disappointment at her parents. It's bottled up inside of her and it causes occasional and intense emotional imbalances in her. Tenshio coaxes and encourages her, but to no avail. She won't process the anger.
So I have given up. Maybe she won't do that until she's an older child.
So the visit went well, even though it rained almost the entire afternoon, leaving us with all five children in the house. This is a large house for two people. It's a very small house for nine people, even if some of them were very small people.
The littlest girl spent some time in the kitchen with me, running her truck over the floor and pouring the baked beans into the pot. She sat smack dab on the floor, plump little legs out stretched, and husked corn with great satisfaction, careful to put all the green corn husks in the plastic trash back.
After a while, the rain let up and every one got in the pool. It was like a typhoon in there.
It went well, and I didn't need to make too much conversation. Oh, and here's how far off track I am when it comes to that. The two adults were on their way down to get married. Did I ask her about her dress, hair, make up, ceremony, anything?
No. No, I didn't. And not because I didn't care, but because it didn't occur to me.
Oh, yes. That is how weird a woman I am.
Keith passed pretty much his last test in his class and the rest of the time will be spent on simulators. Over half the class didn't make it through.
There are a lot of drill sergeant and recruiters in that class, and Keith is now thinking about putting in a packet to become a recruiter.
Who knows. When we first heard we were moving down here, we thought Keith would be a drill sergeant, but that changed. Stuff changes a lot.
But I like the idea, for several reasons. One is that the school is only six weeks long. Another is that we would be able to choose where we would be stationed. It could be anywhere; we are thinking Montana. Another is that, theoretically, we would be able to count on staying there for three years. Another is that it comes with a pay increase.
You know what all that adds up to? Adoption, that's what.
Moreover, Keith has softened up considerably on international adoption. Right from the beginning, Keith said no international adoption; he was worried about travel in foreign countries.
So I started focusing on domestic adoption- foster, fost adopt, and infant adoption. Maybe we still will pursue this path. Who knows? We keep going back and forth.
However, from time to time, my heartstrings would get pulled by pictures of little dark haired girls with honey skin, from South or Central America. I was watching Anthony Bourdain in, I think, Nicaragua, and he visited the capital city dump. Small children were raking through the trash with hooks, searching for food or recycleables that they could turn in for pennies.
Oh my goodness. I was just undone. So I talked to Keith about it and learned that he was open to the idea of international adoption. Oh my goodness.
So, who knows. But I have adoption on the brain right now.
Torii is just racing right along. Pieces keep falling into place. Though Gilly continues to occasionally crash the story with her unrelenting reality. That is, she isn't a character I can force to my own time line. She folds her arms and declares, "I won't."
And that's that.
For example, I keep wanting her to process her anger and disappointment at her parents. It's bottled up inside of her and it causes occasional and intense emotional imbalances in her. Tenshio coaxes and encourages her, but to no avail. She won't process the anger.
So I have given up. Maybe she won't do that until she's an older child.
Friday, August 5, 2011
August 5th
Keith just called. His best friend from childhood will be driving down here tomorrow, along with wife to be and their five children. They will spend the night and then drive down to Panama City, where they will be getting married.
My head is spinning. I've got a lot of cleaning to do. Actually, I'd probably better start the laundry right now.
The spare room used to be clean. Then, Keith needed some long lost and generally unnecessary item of equipment, stored somewhere in one of his eight bags of non identified stuff.
So he did what he always does. He ripped through the bags, disemboweling them and strewing their contents over the entire space. The amount of stuff that eight bags can hold is mind blowing. It's like watching a clown car unload.
So now we have what looks like an Army Surplus store's entire inventory blanketing the bed and carpeting the spare room. And the other spare room was never actually converted from a storage area. All it is is a bare room full of boxes and one really old desk in the corner.
This must all be converted into something resembling two bedrooms.
Oh goodness.
Sayonara, story. No more pleasant meanderings along your wooded paths, your quiet houses. Not for me the work of drawing out the moss grown, ancient convent, with its orchards and tolling bells, with paths of grass and dormitory rooms with steeply slanting ceilings.
The sweet scent of boiling rice, the scarlet maple leaves slipping through the air, the shuffling sound of socks upon the tatami mat and the cool autumn evening; I must put it all away, for the next few days. It all must wait, and simmer away without me.
My head is spinning. I've got a lot of cleaning to do. Actually, I'd probably better start the laundry right now.
The spare room used to be clean. Then, Keith needed some long lost and generally unnecessary item of equipment, stored somewhere in one of his eight bags of non identified stuff.
So he did what he always does. He ripped through the bags, disemboweling them and strewing their contents over the entire space. The amount of stuff that eight bags can hold is mind blowing. It's like watching a clown car unload.
So now we have what looks like an Army Surplus store's entire inventory blanketing the bed and carpeting the spare room. And the other spare room was never actually converted from a storage area. All it is is a bare room full of boxes and one really old desk in the corner.
This must all be converted into something resembling two bedrooms.
Oh goodness.
Sayonara, story. No more pleasant meanderings along your wooded paths, your quiet houses. Not for me the work of drawing out the moss grown, ancient convent, with its orchards and tolling bells, with paths of grass and dormitory rooms with steeply slanting ceilings.
The sweet scent of boiling rice, the scarlet maple leaves slipping through the air, the shuffling sound of socks upon the tatami mat and the cool autumn evening; I must put it all away, for the next few days. It all must wait, and simmer away without me.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
July 16th
I turned the corner in the story; they are now sailing up the Ganges.
I had to sit down and watch some TV this morning, to remind myself that normal life in the "outside" world continues apace. People are still interested in the latest fashion, recipe, decoration, etc. It seems some deal will be made concerning the debt ceiling. Families are going camping, or to the beach or to "Pick UR Own" fruit farms for seasonal berries.
I'm glad. I'm glad normal life goes on. Sometimes I think about joining it, but it seems like so much work. I used to think that when I had children, I'd join. I'd have to- all those PTA meetings, school supply lists, play dates, safety equipment, cupcake baking and doctor and dentist appointments.
Today Keith and I went shopping after he got a lack lustre haircut at the local strip mall place. It was a very nice place, but not geared toward the military. When Keith says he wants it skin tight on the sides, he's not kidding; he wants his skin gleaming. The hair he wants left, on the very top of his head, looks like a landing strip for an airplane.
He got a cheeseburger to make up for his still bristly scalp and then we went on our zig zag course around the store. I got in some one's way in the razor isle and even when I got out of their way, they walked past me with an audible "Hmph!" and a toss of their head and hip combined; a pretty impressive move.
I have to admit, I was in a worse haze than usual. When we walked past the baby stuff on the way to the dairy section, I felt, oddly, as though I was going to start bawling, right then and there. Just out of the blue, just at the sight of small containers of baby wipes and Johnson&Johnson products.
It took me very much by surprise; I haven't been conscious of an increased desire to be pregnant and I continue to procrastinate on moving forward with infertility treatments. I have no desire ever to pursue them.
I suppose, until I have children, or if I never have them, there will always be such moments taking me by surprise, moments where I remember that I had a completely different idea of what my life would be like.
Just recently, I was watching the video of Annie Lennox's "Why." Gosh, I remember so vividly hearing that in my early twenties and feeling it so strongly...
"This is the book I never read
These are the words I never said
This is the path I'll never tread
These are the dreams I'll dream instead
This is the joy that's seldom spread
These are the tears...
The tears we shed
This is the fear
This is the dread
These are the contents of my head
And these are the years that we have spent
And this is what they represent..."
Only, it makes me smile now, to think of myself feeling something that acutely, back before I had much living under my belt at all. Though, I guess by then I was already divorced, so I would have reason to empathize with the song.
But, gosh! Did I ever feel, back then. I still do, but I now have the ability to find myself amusing, which is a huge gift. And now I have much better perspective on the dreams we dream instead.
I had to sit down and watch some TV this morning, to remind myself that normal life in the "outside" world continues apace. People are still interested in the latest fashion, recipe, decoration, etc. It seems some deal will be made concerning the debt ceiling. Families are going camping, or to the beach or to "Pick UR Own" fruit farms for seasonal berries.
I'm glad. I'm glad normal life goes on. Sometimes I think about joining it, but it seems like so much work. I used to think that when I had children, I'd join. I'd have to- all those PTA meetings, school supply lists, play dates, safety equipment, cupcake baking and doctor and dentist appointments.
Today Keith and I went shopping after he got a lack lustre haircut at the local strip mall place. It was a very nice place, but not geared toward the military. When Keith says he wants it skin tight on the sides, he's not kidding; he wants his skin gleaming. The hair he wants left, on the very top of his head, looks like a landing strip for an airplane.
He got a cheeseburger to make up for his still bristly scalp and then we went on our zig zag course around the store. I got in some one's way in the razor isle and even when I got out of their way, they walked past me with an audible "Hmph!" and a toss of their head and hip combined; a pretty impressive move.
I have to admit, I was in a worse haze than usual. When we walked past the baby stuff on the way to the dairy section, I felt, oddly, as though I was going to start bawling, right then and there. Just out of the blue, just at the sight of small containers of baby wipes and Johnson&Johnson products.
It took me very much by surprise; I haven't been conscious of an increased desire to be pregnant and I continue to procrastinate on moving forward with infertility treatments. I have no desire ever to pursue them.
I suppose, until I have children, or if I never have them, there will always be such moments taking me by surprise, moments where I remember that I had a completely different idea of what my life would be like.
Just recently, I was watching the video of Annie Lennox's "Why." Gosh, I remember so vividly hearing that in my early twenties and feeling it so strongly...
"This is the book I never read
These are the words I never said
This is the path I'll never tread
These are the dreams I'll dream instead
This is the joy that's seldom spread
These are the tears...
The tears we shed
This is the fear
This is the dread
These are the contents of my head
And these are the years that we have spent
And this is what they represent..."
Only, it makes me smile now, to think of myself feeling something that acutely, back before I had much living under my belt at all. Though, I guess by then I was already divorced, so I would have reason to empathize with the song.
But, gosh! Did I ever feel, back then. I still do, but I now have the ability to find myself amusing, which is a huge gift. And now I have much better perspective on the dreams we dream instead.
Friday, February 11, 2011
February 11th
My goodness, this month is flying by.
So, I'm going to see my therapist only twice a month now. I probably don't need to see her anymore at all, but I've grown to love my therapist and I can't imagine not sitting down to chat with her about stuff.
I feel like a book with all the pages restored. I found an amazing piece of writing lost in my old lap top recently. It was hidden deep inside a file for something else, at the very end of some other writing. It's amazing to me because I wrote it back when I was still a teenager, having no conscious idea of the extent of the abuse, or the true damage it had done to me.
Like ice flows, places inside of me are all frozen up, like a quart of Friendly's ice cream at the bottom of the freezer, like the lake in January I am pinched in the cold. Inside of me I lie like a fetus curled in fluid, like a hidden place in spring, like a glass globe with a world inside I am hidden deep until I can breathe again.
All the lights went out, all the power went down, switches fell with a clang, energy slowed with a whir, emergency lights glow softly in the shadows inside me. In the dusty shadows my Savior walks alone, footsteps echo softly.
He places His hand on the door, it slides silently up, He passes through, it falls into place behind Him. Down and down and down He goes, through the mazes, the traps, the landfalls, the alarms, the doors, the heavy, heavy locked smoothly functioning doors.
All is silent, all is locked away. Screens are blank, lights are off or softly blinking, globes of emergency lamps cast a gentle glow, throw dim shadows on the carpeted floors.
Deep in the center there hangs a glass ball, very large, made of very thick glass. It hangs in the center of a room with no door, surrounded by screens and consoles. In the glass globe I am curled up, completely cushioned by warm fluid, I am bent into myself, my head hidden.
He places His hand flat on the glass, palm pressed against the warmth. His eyes are deep as the universe, they fall inward with lights and softness and places ungoverned by time. They are shadowed with concern; He frowns. Sorrow draws lines across His face.
He steps inside the globe and puts His arms around me. I knew He was there all along, I could feel His hand on the door as though it were on my skin. I knew the sound of His step, the rhythm of His breathing. He is free to wander any corridor, to open any door. He has been in places inside me that I have never seen.
Behind my closed eyelids I see other things, they fall faint as after images, like the shifting glare after the sun. They wound me, they tear and claw. He takes them away into His hands, they fall into His wounds and I bear them no more. I know that He will save all my tears.
Outside the globe, outside myself, debts pile up, the numbers ring higher and higher, mail piles in untidy heaps, unanswered letters, unfinished business, unanswerable questions all tumbled, ignored on the floor. I cannot pay back, I cannot catch up, I cannot answer.
Fear runs like quickfire up my spine. I cannot return to my life, I can never go outside my globe and straighten out the mess. It is too much, it is too heavy, I know if I leave this globe the weight will fall in on me and my inner life will be snuffed out.
But if I do not leave the globe, than I cannot attend to my business. Priorities, I tell myself. If you die then you will never be able to fix anything. Live first. Wait and wait and wait and gather strength , let the debts pile up, there is no help for it. When you are strong, you will come out and straighten it up.
My Savior reminds me that His body forms the barrier against my own oblivion. He stands the gap for me, His scarred back forms the barrier between myself and my destruction. He will tie up all the loose ends for me, He will go through all my affairs, He will hold them all in His hands.
I know one day I will leave my globe. I will walk on new legs, with new skin, warm and open as a baby's. I will breath the air, dusty and cool. I will go up through myself, I will throw open all the switches, lights and power will flower with a humming and sounds. Windows will be opened, voices will call, breezes will flow softly down the corridors.
I will renovate, tear down walls and doors, straighten out the labyrinths, and the dead ends. The double backing, the circling, the alarms, the booby traps, the downward spirals to captive dungeons all will be torn down. A person will be able to walk easily through myself, my heart and my mind. A person will be able to reach out and touch my emotions, and elicit a response.
In that day, my Savior will restore to me all that I lost in the sudden crash, in the long convalescence. He will restore all that I am, hand it to me with His own hands, like a gift. I will be knit together again, as His hands knit me together at the first, in the womb.
But that day is not yet. Not for a long time is that day. Until that day I will be kept safe in my globe, in my Savior who comes to me. I will be held and comforted until that time. I will rest quietly no matter the consequences because I know He bids me to and the consequences He has already felt in the fabric of His soul that day on the cross.
Holy crap, right? I mean, how on earth did I know to write this, almost fifteen years ago? I tell you what, chills went up my spine when I was reading it again for the first time a day or so ago. Because it's true. I was restored, I did renovate, it happened exactly as I said it would, years before I was ready for that work. And it really did take me years and years to be ready.
I think all this creative energy I've been feeling lately is the energy that used to go into just keeping a dysfunctional internal system going. Dysfunction takes a lot of energy to maintain, depression takes a lot of energy, anxiety takes a lot of energy, and repression of memories? Hell, yeah, that takes a boat load of internal energy to maintain.
Now I don't need to, so all my own energy just flows as it was meant to flow. I released all my memories, I revealed all my wounds. And it's not just that I'm free of them, it's that they contribute to my being a better person because of them.
I've been thinking about that a lot recently. I love who I am, I love the person I am. I wouldn't want to change me, and everything that I have gone through, the pain and the horror and the degradation, all of it, is now an integral part of who I am. Of course I would never have chosen that, but now that I've processed the pain, I wouldn't want to lose the strength and the lessons I learned from the suffering.
I'm not going to go on living happily ever after, of course. As fond as I am of faerie tales, I don't actually believe in that ending. The same strength that I had to make it through this will be available for me again, for whatever I need it.
Life's an adventure! Who knows what's around the corner. It's the greatest adventure, and whatever it brings, I'm so grateful to have been given my life; my own unique, irreplaceable life journey.
So, I'm going to see my therapist only twice a month now. I probably don't need to see her anymore at all, but I've grown to love my therapist and I can't imagine not sitting down to chat with her about stuff.
I feel like a book with all the pages restored. I found an amazing piece of writing lost in my old lap top recently. It was hidden deep inside a file for something else, at the very end of some other writing. It's amazing to me because I wrote it back when I was still a teenager, having no conscious idea of the extent of the abuse, or the true damage it had done to me.
Like ice flows, places inside of me are all frozen up, like a quart of Friendly's ice cream at the bottom of the freezer, like the lake in January I am pinched in the cold. Inside of me I lie like a fetus curled in fluid, like a hidden place in spring, like a glass globe with a world inside I am hidden deep until I can breathe again.
All the lights went out, all the power went down, switches fell with a clang, energy slowed with a whir, emergency lights glow softly in the shadows inside me. In the dusty shadows my Savior walks alone, footsteps echo softly.
He places His hand on the door, it slides silently up, He passes through, it falls into place behind Him. Down and down and down He goes, through the mazes, the traps, the landfalls, the alarms, the doors, the heavy, heavy locked smoothly functioning doors.
All is silent, all is locked away. Screens are blank, lights are off or softly blinking, globes of emergency lamps cast a gentle glow, throw dim shadows on the carpeted floors.
Deep in the center there hangs a glass ball, very large, made of very thick glass. It hangs in the center of a room with no door, surrounded by screens and consoles. In the glass globe I am curled up, completely cushioned by warm fluid, I am bent into myself, my head hidden.
He places His hand flat on the glass, palm pressed against the warmth. His eyes are deep as the universe, they fall inward with lights and softness and places ungoverned by time. They are shadowed with concern; He frowns. Sorrow draws lines across His face.
He steps inside the globe and puts His arms around me. I knew He was there all along, I could feel His hand on the door as though it were on my skin. I knew the sound of His step, the rhythm of His breathing. He is free to wander any corridor, to open any door. He has been in places inside me that I have never seen.
Behind my closed eyelids I see other things, they fall faint as after images, like the shifting glare after the sun. They wound me, they tear and claw. He takes them away into His hands, they fall into His wounds and I bear them no more. I know that He will save all my tears.
Outside the globe, outside myself, debts pile up, the numbers ring higher and higher, mail piles in untidy heaps, unanswered letters, unfinished business, unanswerable questions all tumbled, ignored on the floor. I cannot pay back, I cannot catch up, I cannot answer.
Fear runs like quickfire up my spine. I cannot return to my life, I can never go outside my globe and straighten out the mess. It is too much, it is too heavy, I know if I leave this globe the weight will fall in on me and my inner life will be snuffed out.
But if I do not leave the globe, than I cannot attend to my business. Priorities, I tell myself. If you die then you will never be able to fix anything. Live first. Wait and wait and wait and gather strength , let the debts pile up, there is no help for it. When you are strong, you will come out and straighten it up.
My Savior reminds me that His body forms the barrier against my own oblivion. He stands the gap for me, His scarred back forms the barrier between myself and my destruction. He will tie up all the loose ends for me, He will go through all my affairs, He will hold them all in His hands.
I know one day I will leave my globe. I will walk on new legs, with new skin, warm and open as a baby's. I will breath the air, dusty and cool. I will go up through myself, I will throw open all the switches, lights and power will flower with a humming and sounds. Windows will be opened, voices will call, breezes will flow softly down the corridors.
I will renovate, tear down walls and doors, straighten out the labyrinths, and the dead ends. The double backing, the circling, the alarms, the booby traps, the downward spirals to captive dungeons all will be torn down. A person will be able to walk easily through myself, my heart and my mind. A person will be able to reach out and touch my emotions, and elicit a response.
In that day, my Savior will restore to me all that I lost in the sudden crash, in the long convalescence. He will restore all that I am, hand it to me with His own hands, like a gift. I will be knit together again, as His hands knit me together at the first, in the womb.
But that day is not yet. Not for a long time is that day. Until that day I will be kept safe in my globe, in my Savior who comes to me. I will be held and comforted until that time. I will rest quietly no matter the consequences because I know He bids me to and the consequences He has already felt in the fabric of His soul that day on the cross.
Holy crap, right? I mean, how on earth did I know to write this, almost fifteen years ago? I tell you what, chills went up my spine when I was reading it again for the first time a day or so ago. Because it's true. I was restored, I did renovate, it happened exactly as I said it would, years before I was ready for that work. And it really did take me years and years to be ready.
I think all this creative energy I've been feeling lately is the energy that used to go into just keeping a dysfunctional internal system going. Dysfunction takes a lot of energy to maintain, depression takes a lot of energy, anxiety takes a lot of energy, and repression of memories? Hell, yeah, that takes a boat load of internal energy to maintain.
Now I don't need to, so all my own energy just flows as it was meant to flow. I released all my memories, I revealed all my wounds. And it's not just that I'm free of them, it's that they contribute to my being a better person because of them.
I've been thinking about that a lot recently. I love who I am, I love the person I am. I wouldn't want to change me, and everything that I have gone through, the pain and the horror and the degradation, all of it, is now an integral part of who I am. Of course I would never have chosen that, but now that I've processed the pain, I wouldn't want to lose the strength and the lessons I learned from the suffering.
I'm not going to go on living happily ever after, of course. As fond as I am of faerie tales, I don't actually believe in that ending. The same strength that I had to make it through this will be available for me again, for whatever I need it.
Life's an adventure! Who knows what's around the corner. It's the greatest adventure, and whatever it brings, I'm so grateful to have been given my life; my own unique, irreplaceable life journey.
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