Sunday, January 29, 2012

every day is a new year

I believe that the chance to start over comes every day at sunrise; that we don't need a year mark to feel something new. I believe that surprise friendships can heal old wounds, and gentle hands can do more than big hands ever could. I believe that strength is something we choose; gentleness, too. I believe we are all broken, and that for this reason, and this reason alone, we have the capacity to hurt and to help each other.

I believe that most lives are too short; that grief takes its time with us, baring our souls while the young ones go first. I believe I do not know how to let the young ones go first. Not sure I will ever know how to let them.

I believe it is important that we give the memories space; that we don't shut them out like pain, but rather, hold them ready by the windowsills as we wait for sunrise; for the light to move us on, like it does.

I believe I am writing about too many things at once.


Sunday, January 22, 2012

January confessions, of a different sort.

perhaps when I am feeling creative, I will follow in the footsteps of Sharelle.

My January started with a bit of difficulty, though I'm not exceptionally proud to admit that "difficulty" part. Ex-Manfriend decided to pop himself back into my world, as he has often tried to do; only this time, he did it via email on New Year's Eve (I wouldn't answer his phone calls, you see). It was a lengthy post, including far-too-personal information from his world, apologies for not calling me more often (insert quizzically furrowed brow: here), and a jovial invitation to coffee. I read the full email and sat in silence for a minute, and decided I must be terrible at ending things with men; to date, they all seem to speak to me as though I still want them, long after I've wiped their dust off my feet.

In any case, I slept on my response, though I knew immediately what I was going to say. The first day of this new year started with a stretch, a yawn, and a bold, "Dear ExManfriend: please stop calling me, please do not show up at my old house anymore to look for me [because this actually happened!!], and no thanks to the coffee invite." Brazen response, I know...especially the part where I clarified for him that breaking up meant I didn't want to spend anymore time with him. Oof. I would have felt terrible, except that I didn't. In fact, I felt a little proud. Unfortunately, the old adage hints correctly; my pride would come before the fall.

"What happened?" he replied. "You are a mean person; go before God and repent!"

I would love nothing more than to tell you that his response to my polite but pointed request (to leave me alone) did not make me at one with my kitchen floor; but in fact, I lost it. I became a sobbing heap; a mere reflection of a woman that had apparently grown stronger since walking away. But "It is clear you do not know God. Repent, sinner!" can take the wind out of anyone; especially when the delivery is so...out of context. Admittedly, I cried. A lot. Then I drove to the drugstore after midnight and bought Neo Citran and a lottery ticket; and then I came home, downed the hot-lemon drink, and passed out gratefully in my bed.

Over the next few days, I took the time to process my reaction in depth. I spoke to any of my Trusted One's who would listen and soaked up whatever they said with ease; I was a sponge, desperate to figure out how I could have lost my footing so readily. What I discovered in my chest was a mix of embarassment, grief, and anger quickly dissipating. Mostly, however, I found shock; and this explained my reaction more than the others. The mirror'd reflection of that email's tone was no longer me, but I saw with horror that it once had been; I once taught a man to treat me so belittingly, by accepting it when he did. It was this recognition that hurt the most. I cried for what had been, and how small I had let me be.

It goes without saying that, like anything else, this story eventually became a source of great healing; and to no one's suprise: funny. 'Funny' was not the crying part, of course, but the "Yah, so I asked my ex to leave me alone, and he responded by saying I didn't know God" part...that part makes me laugh. I decided, once it amused me, that I should recount this story in writing; as an anecdote to a greater story, perhaps (though the greater story will, here, be implied). There is perhaps some sadness in my laugh, that men like this exist at all - that arrogance is allowed to rule in any measure that grandiose...however, there is much joy in my laughter too. I'm not small at all, ExManfriend; nor am I bigger than you. I'm just me; shaped and bettered by the leaving, and by the moving on, happily, too.


Saturday, January 14, 2012

ink and water


some days
as I write,
I think I would rather
drink ink
than water.

staring at this photo has gotten me through the day.
high speed photograph of ink in water, by Alberto Seveso
find more info where I did: on Colossal


flight pattern


Sometimes the best thing about the morning

is that it marches on into the day;

the night, that we get to sleep right through.

The birds come to and hurry on their way,

and mark out their envy inspiring path;

to wherever they will go, when they want to go there.

© afterthoughtcomposer .

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Lady Gaga causes brain farts.

I was going to post something. The idea came to me yesterday, as all the threads of my life formed into a beautiful little tapestry that was worthy of a post (...worthy? what like I have some kind of standard for brilliance on this blog? Clearly not). Anyway, Lady Gaga came on the radio just now - as I was opening the internet window - and I regret to inform you that I don't remember, at all, what I was going to say just a few minutes ago; my brain has gone numb.

It had something to do with...something. I'll come back later.


Sunday, January 1, 2012

it's a new year!


Here's your instruction manual for 2012 (and I will do the same):

take deeper breaths, walk outside more, receive the hugs that are given to you, and wear your journey proudly.