It All Starts With Me

Confession: I still don’t know what I am going to be when I grow up; I am not even sure that I will grow up; or that I even want to; especially if it means giving up my dreams and settling for the status quo.

I suppose in some ways I have always gone against the grain. Not because I want to be difficult, but more because I pondered the various possibilites, not readily accepting all of the conventions set before me. Why must I have a successful job or career in a field I dislike while I struggle to juggle my responsibilities at home, and try to make time to raise my children? I have several Supermom and Dad friends who do just that – and well too. I think of them with admiration; which turns into guilt that I too don’t do it all; which promptly turns into relief that I do not have to; and gratitude that I may choose not to. I digress…

What I want is to be happy, and to raise happy children, who will grow into happy adults. I don’t believe there is a prescribed method to achieve this dream. The path to such bliss is different for each of us. One thing is for certain though – it all starts with me. Each day, we are given another opportunity to improve ourselves, to make necessary changes and adjustments, to strive for goodness – greatness even.

Two of the most important lessons I have learned (mostly the hard way) to be true are: The more I express gratitude for each of my blessings, the larger the list of things to be grateful for becomes. And, whatever I devote my time and attention to will expand, whether positive or negative in nature makes no difference, it will grow in any case.

It has taken me a while to understand that where I am and where I am going is a direct reflection of the choices I have made and will continue to make. And I choose to follow my own heart’s bliss, regardless of the accepted cultural standards that whisper to me, “The Jones’ do it best! Why aren’t you keeping up with them?”

I always found the Jones’ to be a bit of a bore anyway.

photo credit: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TeMrI-sBUqM/VCArKAQ-eJI/AAAAAAAABCg/Qx8ER2c2DoY/s1600/happiness-is-an-inside-job-90.jpg

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P A T I E N C E 

As life tics on,

Sand grains falling,

Hours stalling,

I think of you.

 

I muddle on,

Through tasks mundane,

In joy and pain,

I think of you.

 

Light spreads Glory

At dawn’s rise,

It’s no surprise,

I think of you.

 

Nighttime falls,

My heart does long

To sing its song,

I think of you.

 

Patience waning

The days I count

I will surmount

I think of you.

 

I long for when

The time has come

My life begun

I am with you.

 

 

time concept, selective focus point, special toned photo f/x

photo cedit http://islamichub.net/islamich/uploads/2014/11/97816060885241.jpg

 

cover photo credit: https://shahqah.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/patience3e.jpg

What The FEX?

Let’s just get it out in the open. Maya Angelou was right all along. (Yes Jill, my most vocal friend, you were right too!) And I was terribly, dreadfully wrong. That’s the bad news. The good news is…I have evicted FEX from my basement! (Wild applause, cheers and a cartwheel-finish into a split!) Yep! I made a huge mistake, and then I rectified it! (More wild applause)

A lot has transpired in the last few months. Without exposing the disparaging details, I will say that FEX had managed to successfully break every verbal agreement we had made regarding our co-parenting (only) living arrangement. As FEX is fond of saying, “Things change man,” in his careless, dude-like manner. And change they did.

Drumroll please! And the great epiphone! I woke up and realized that being a good Mom does NOT mean I have to sacrifice my personal space nor my peace-of-mind. Having their Dad in my house was draining my happiness. It was like a black hole with a thousand Dyson vacuums inside of it, easily sucking up my joy, like dog hair on a hardwood floor. And that my friends is never the best way to be a good Mom.

I fell into the trap of believing that I should keep their father around at all costs. Mainly and specifically, the cost of my sanity. My children will still see thier father. If I have my wish, he will always remain in their lives. However, I will no longer be dragged around by his agenda. This realization and emacipation feels amazing. I could scream from the rooftops, “I deserve to be happy too!” And I am just that. Happy.

I will promptly resume all joyful activities, including but certainly not limited to getting back to you all, my wordpress family. Thanks for the support. I have missed this place. The possibilities are winking at me. Things are looking up. I think Maya would be proud.

Photo credit: http://imunsinkable.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Scream50sWoman2.jpg

Take My Breath Away

My breathing was audible in the stillness, and not just because of my heightened state of awareness. I inhaled slowly and deliberately, nostrils flaring, in an attempt to take in more air – willing the oxygen to push past the lump in my throat, half-trying to conjure up the relaxation techniques I learned long ago, at that acting school in Manhattan. Ah, the good ol’ days, when it was merely stage-fright that required the use of such methods…Am I still too young to reminisce over those romantic times-gone-by? Surely at the age of thirty-five, I have earned the right to lament about such things.

I could barely make out the trees, covered in darkness. The moon is just a sliver allowing me to glimpse the outline of the branches swaying in the autumn winds just outside my kitchen window. The darkness is somehow comforting. Now what? I ponder my options, remembering to breath deeply, in a feeble attempt to contain the swell of emotions rising up in mutiny, against me and my breathing exercises.

An undeniable surge of energy flows through me. I am acutely aware of my own desires. I must bury my emotions in the pleasures of a physical release. In my erratic state, I decide that yes, this is what I need right now, to rid myself of the anxiety that is plaguing my every cell. I am overcome by the intensity of this urge. I rise from my seat at the ornate, wrought iron and glass table that Jack and I purchased years ago in Mexico, and make my way towards the master bedroom. I move with feline accuracy up the eight wooden steps leading to the bedrooms, careful to avoid the creaky spots.

I pass the pictures hanging cheerily on the wall in our stairwell, of our two, healthy, blond-haired, cherubic-faced babies. Will is 4 and Lana just turned 2 years old. They are our greatest gifts in this life, looking like they belong in a surfing magazine on the west coast somewhere. I smile at them and know for just a moment that all will be well.

I open the door to our modest master bedroom, the king-sized bed and plush down comforter beckoning me closer. The red 12:22 glowing from the cable box reminds me that it is after midnight. I wonder how Jack will react to this late night waking. I walk around to his side of the bed, reaching for the edge, to help me maintain my bearings in the darkness. As my eyes adjust to the blackness of our bedroom, I can make out his mouth, slightly ajar as he snores out a little tune. This is not hot. But, no matter. He is the man I love, the man I married.

I carefully climb in on his side, sliding one of my legs up and over his torso, straddling him in one swift motion as I have done so many times before in our ten years together. He stirs just a bit, causing the snoring to stop for a moment. Without pause, I slide my hands up his shirtless chest and lock my knees tightly over his torso and arms, which are trapped under the blanket. Wrapping my hands around his throat – I squeeze. I squeeze and I squeeze, until his eyes pop open, wide with the surprise that his ever-loyal wife, and loving mother of his children, has suddenly turned to physical violence against him. In his sleep, no less.

I mean, we have had our ups and downs, but we have never been violent. Until now. I bring my mouth closer to his reddened and contorted face and I hiss out my inquiry, “How the fuck can you do this to me?!?! To our family?!” His gasping for air is a satisfactory answer to me, for now. Since I adore our children, and heaven knows that I would not look cute in an orange jumpsuit, I return to my senses. Choking him to death is not a viable option, appealing as it might be. I release my grip. I am glad we have had this talk.

Photo credit: http://www.myreservoir.net/tag/scorned-woman/

F O R G I V E N E S S

Forgiveness, so pure,
Untouched, unsoiled
Unsullied, she soars.
Forgiveness symbiotically
Residing in Peace,
A seed within,
Beckoning our reach.
Her song beguiles,
Unheard, she cries
Patient, unmoving
Through her grace,
May we rise.
Unyielding in purity,
Woven in truth,
Forgiveness, a gift,
Serenity the proof.
To the beholder
And those who bask in her light,
Reaching for forgiveness,
Through suffrage and slight.
Within my grasp,
Never obtrusive,
Unencumbered by ego,
Ever-elusive.
Forgiveness takes not
Offense, nor slight,
She, never a slave
to the notion of “right”
Clinging tightly,
Fingers strained,
Holding her dearly,
I release the pain.

Photo credit: https//calmclarityproject.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/forgivenessisfreedom.jpg:

V I S I O N

Is it easier not to see me?

Arm extended,
pained, and painted
restrained, ill-fated,
reinforcing the gap.

Is it fear?
That onerous culprit,
slyly lurking about
the soul’s recesses,
perpetually postulating,
promoting propoganda
and plight.

Rigidly restrained,
boasting barricade,
taut and steadfast,
against all possibility
of seeing me.

Though the span
of space you
cling upon,
fixedly stares at me…
With hawkish reflexes,
I stare back, unafraid.
My vision clear and
unfettered by your
optical illusions.

I see you.

photo credit: http://hdw.eweb4.com/wallpapers/7922/