My husband suggested I retrace my mental steps to, hopefully, figure out when it was I descended down into this "pit" I've been in.
At first, I thought it had to do with Valentine's weekend. When I was out of town (at my best friend's house), I found out my ex-husband (remember the one who texted me on Valentine's Day to say he was moving out) had contacted my friend. (It's a long story...but to give context I'll try to make it short. Basically at the end of our marriage, my friend's son was very sick. He sent her a message asking how her son was doing. Keep in mind, it's been four years since the divorce....and she was, and still is, my best friend, someone he rarely spoke to.) Anyway...his message to her dredged up a slew of emotions for me.
He was in my life for TEN YEARS. My children were 2 1/2 and 4 when we started dating. They still saw their dad regularly, but he was their every day father figure for EIGHT YEARS. ((And, he's had no contact with them since he filed for divorce, and as far as I know doesn't even know if they are still alive.)) And he wanted to know how my best friend's son was doing?? (Oh, and, his best friend is related to my best friend's husband....he could have certainly found out how her son was without contacting her directly.)
What's worse is that he actually sent the message to her in September, but she didn't get it until that weekend--when I was there. AND, even worse than that....I had found some of my ex-step-son's baby pictures, and other things, as I was going through old boxes back in November. I sent my ex an email asking where I could send them to. He replied (after a WEEK) giving the address. He didn't say thank you, he didn't ask how the kids were, he didn't ask how my friend's son was doing...just gave me the address.
You can most likely hear the emotions welling up. (And, I am aware I sound much like a petulant child.)....As I was digging up those "weeds" last night...talking about how abandoned I felt by this man who had promised to "never leave" me, a thought kept popping into my mind........
To understand the thought I had, I have to give another bit of back story....My parents got divorced when I was about 5. My mother moved to another state. I saw my real dad a couple of summers before my mom got remarried. I only saw him once more, for about a week, (until I became an adult). He never wrote letters or sent cards, or even paid child support for that matter. As an adult, I reconnected with him. I've been to see him a couple of times. We talk about once a year, if that. About a month ago, I got a call from him. I thought it would be the yearly check-in, but there was more. He told me he started a new business and he wanted my help with some computer stuff.
I felt betrayed. This man was supposed to be my FATHER. Now, I shouldn't have expected fatherly behavior, because I'd never gotten it in the past...but this felt like a new low.
Let me assure you, there's a lot more in that "closet"...but that's the general (surface) information.
So the thought that kept popping into my mind as I bemoaned being abaondoned (and betrayed) by my ex....was "just like (I felt I had been abandoned and betrayed by) my father". I didn't connect the dots as I was talking last night--I kept thinking about the abandonment I felt as a child. As I was thinking about it last night, it felt almost like trying to put on old clothes that no longer fit. This "excuse" for why I am currently feeling the way I do couldn't possibly be a by-product of those old emotions.
Then, at 2:30 this morning, it hit me. The way I'm feeling right now started the day my father called....these feelings aren't directly connected to childhood wounds--they are a "result" of (perceived) fresh wounds.
Interestingly enough, the encounter with my father didn't push me over the edge. I had been able to keep from sliding down that "slippery slope" of negative emotion, but I hadn't actually delt with the situation....when I got the news from my friend about my ex. THAT pushed me completely over the edge into a pit of quicksand.
The more I fought to get out, the faster it sucked me in.
It's very interesting. Just before the "phone call", I had started going to a women's Bible study. I remember thinking the first time how good I felt...how STRONG. My relationship with the Lord has grown and deepened and it felt more solid than it had ever been. I started thinking about the kind of writing I want to do (Christian non-fiction) and went to the Christian book store that day to pick up some things to read. I bought Beth Moore's "Get Out of that Pit". NOT as a reference for my own life, mind you, but as more of a reference for the kind of writing I hope to (eventually) aspire to.
That phone call came on my second Bible study day. When I left that day I remember having some very strong, all too familiar feelings of unworthiness....unlovablness. I won't go into it here and now, but suffice it to say the feeling of being unworthy of love, even incapable of being loved by anyone, is like a second skin to me. It's one I have moulted off time and time again. It's what keeps me from flying. And, every time I believe I've shed the last bit of skin that no longer suits my body...I find there's yet another layer.
Yes, I'm completely aware of the mixed metaphors...and I apologize for that. I obviously don't feel too bad, or I'd change it, but I think anyone reading gets what I'm saying!!
And, yes, I'm reading the book (I got about 2/3 the way through yesterday!).
Thank you for joining me on this journey!!!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Preparing my Garden for Seeds of Good Fruit
I said in a post on my other blog...I'm not one of those people who can connect the dots between what I do and what happens next. I'm sitting here trying to decide what it is that I "need" to do, coupled with trying to decide what I "want" to do.
I would love to be able to know with certainty what the eventual outcome would be for each choice. Wouldn't we all?
I could take a "nap" (at 8:15am? after I just got up from about seven hours of, albeit restless, sleep? when there are so many other choices of how to spend my time?). Would I feel better? Do I want to sleep because of the funk I'm in? In which case, wouldn't sleep only perpetuate the problem, sinking me deeper into the pit I'm currently in? Or is rest what I need? Maybe I'll see more clearly after closing my eyes for a time??
I could write. Writing "always" helps me think more clearly....although sometimes I write in circles for "hours" before finding my way off the (not so) merry-go-round. In times like that, I realize I just needed to occupy my mind a bit to allow some things to work themselves out before trying to make sense of them. I'm a verbal processor, so talking (or writing) generally helps me figure things out, but at the same time, there are some ideas that just need to gestate before being allowed out in the open!! Spending hours writing in circles, only to find myself further wound up in knots doesn't even remotely sound appealing.
I could do a hobby. I do have hobbies (other than reading and writing...), but I "never" spend any time on them.
I LOVE to sew. Love it. But, getting out the sewing machine and material, and thread...not to mention the very act of DECIDING WHAT TO SEW, seems like more of a chore than a fun hobby.
I could bead. Yet another thing I love. I'm not "good" at it, because I just never do it. I analyze and criticize everything I do until all the fun is sucked right out of it.
I could pull out the pastels I've had for about 15 years and pour my soul out on the paper I purchased at the same time. And, yet....when I've done that in the past, I've spent more time staring at blank paper than I have laying down color.
I could pull my keyboard out from my daughter's room and remind myself that I love to play piano. I taught myself how to play with my right hand...and took a couple of semesters in college to learn to play with both hands. It's been so long since my fingers have tickled ivory, I'm not sure I would even remember how at this point.
I could read. That option opens up several sub-categories of choices. Not only do I have many options readily available without ever leaving my house, the public library is within minutes....and just down the street from Starbucks (yet another item on the list of possibilities). I would love to spend time in the Bible; I have several books I've started and not finished (mostly non-fiction); there are several fiction books on my shelves whose coats of dust remind me of my neglect.
That thought brings me to yet another "choice" that should really rank up there with the "requirements" such as personal hygiene and nutrition....cleaning my house. It's within 15 minutes of being "company ready"...but it's not where I'd like it to be at this moment. And....although I'm aware I could take 15 minutes to make it "company ready", it STILL wouldn't be where I'd like it to be. There are always more chores to do around the house. ALWAYS. I have found myself spending all day cleaning only to see more things wrong than right at the end of the day.
FUNNY STORY BREAK: When I was newly married (the first time), we had a small house with hard wood floors that my husband had cleaned one day while I was at work.... I came home to find a little pile of dirt on the front porch and him in the living room playing with a remote control car. Did I come in, arms open wide, and tell him THANK YOU SO MUCH for cleaning the house today!!?? Oh, no, I looked at him and said, "Why couldn't you have just swept the dirt off the porch, and put up that car?? It would have been perfect if you had just done those two things." Yes, 20 years later, it's still hard for me to admit....and we still talk about that day and the damage I did to our marriage. (Not with the comment, with the attitude....)
I could go out and RUN. That brings a whole other set of issues with it....that I won't even begin to go into here. Suffice it to say this is an area of my life that is a breading ground for negative self-talk right now.
My husband would say none of these options are "wrong"....all of them are viable, even healthy, choices for how to spend the rest of my day.
Part of the problem is that I'm an optimizer. I want to make the BEST use of my time. I want to be a good steward of the time God has given me. I don't want to squander it away doing something that will NOT bring Him glory. Yes, all of the things I mentioned have the potential to bring Him glory...but only if my heart is in the right place.
Right now, my heart is NOT in the right place. For a myriad of "reasons" I'm hurting. I'm sure that's an obvious fact to anyone who has made it this far into the post. Why?
There are always scapegoats on which I can blame my state of being (be it contentment or abject despair). I could blame my current state on a host of circumstances outside of myself. I have a past that could make a grown man curl into the fetal position, suck his thumb and cry "Mommy". I've committed sins so brazen, some of Satan's demons would blush (all of which were forgiven on the cross and have been washed white as snow by Jesus' blood). These sins have caused (metaphorical) scars on my life that will always be plainly visible to anyone who gives even a passing glance.
Don't get me wrong, my life right now is the picture of happiness. I live in a beautiful house...with beautiful things...I have the husband of my prayers who works hard so I can stay home, and who loves me like no other person on earth...I'm healthy...my family is healthy....I have OPTIONS unlike so many people whose time is planned out for them.
I have everything to be thankful for, and yet I'm still hurting inside.
Looking back at my journals, one thing is plain. When I'm hurting I scramble for something to do. I make plans (vacation, menus, home remodeling, decorations, projects), I get busy with some task, I sleep or watch movies....I refocus my thoughts to something other than whatever was the source of my pain.
I'm fully aware there are many of you who are saying that's a good thing. We shouldn't wallow in pain. We shouldn't persist in sadness.
But, FOR ME (I'm not pointing my fingers to anyone else--WE ARE ALL DIFFERENT--I'm strictly self-analyzing here), doing things usually amounts to escapism (when I'm in this current state). Much like drugs (something I never tried, other than alcohol), busy-ness just provids a distraction, not a catharsis.
...Elimination of a complex by bring it to consciousness and affording it expression...
I want to apologize for the length of this ramble, but I'll resist that urge. As I continue to write---to purge---I'm reminding myself of what my husband told me this morning---I'm writing for myself....although I make my selfish writings public, what I'm writing now is very much for my own personal benefit.
What exactly is "my complex"??? I think that's why I write. I'm trying to find what it is that needs to be purged, the root that is so deeply burried within my soul.
But you know what??? A thought just occurred to me. Bear with me here....I think in analogies....
What if I have a plot of land on which I want to plant a garden. It's littered with abandoned junk left by myself as well as other people, covered in thorn bushes and poison ivy, and life-stealing kudzoo (although I find kudzoo-covered areas BEAUTIFULL, and I think the metaphors I could make, comparing it to life, are limitless....I digress...). ....I work and toil, hours, days, even YEARS on my land, weeding, hauling away truck loads of rubbish. I labor away each day, clearing off space for my garden. The task never seems to be quite finished because every day I go out to my land, there seems to be new weeds. I can't plant my garden if there are weeds on my land. I hire a professional who treats the land and who leaves with me a special fertilizer. He tells me there are no weeds that will have the power to kill any good plant I will cultivate on my land. He warns me there is a thief who will attempt to kill, steal and destroy my good fruit, and who will work to bring the weeds back. He goes on to tell me if I use His powerful fertilizer, the plans of the enemy will not prosper and my good fruit will grow.
The next day, instead of planting, I look for weeds. I'm so used to toiling away, I don't quite know how to plant good fruit. I don't know what it looks like. I don't know how much to water, how much sun...even what season to put the seeds out. I really can't even tell the difference between the good plants and the weeds.
FUNNY STORY BREAK: I once spent all day digging up the biggest weed bush I'd ever seen. I had to use a shovel and AN AX to get up the root ball that was at least twice the size of my head...I was also attacked by fire ants, and later found myself covered in poison ivy (to which I'm SEVERLY ALLERGIC). ....Only to find out what I had dug up was a very well established hydranga bush!!
Do you find it ironic that I've been writing for an hour and a half now and, until five minutes ago, the sun was completely covered by clouds. It was so dreary outside I didn't even want to open the blinds....and now, the sun is shining so brightly all I want to do is go outside and bask in it!!
The only reason I'm going to go ahead and publish this long, babbling, rambling mess of a post is because there MIGHT one day be someone who's had the same experience, or is having the same experience, who might benefit from knowing they are not alone.
I think maybe it's time to go out and toss some seeds??????
If you're still reading, I'm really flattered. THANK YOU!!!
:D
I would love to be able to know with certainty what the eventual outcome would be for each choice. Wouldn't we all?
I could take a "nap" (at 8:15am? after I just got up from about seven hours of, albeit restless, sleep? when there are so many other choices of how to spend my time?). Would I feel better? Do I want to sleep because of the funk I'm in? In which case, wouldn't sleep only perpetuate the problem, sinking me deeper into the pit I'm currently in? Or is rest what I need? Maybe I'll see more clearly after closing my eyes for a time??
I could write. Writing "always" helps me think more clearly....although sometimes I write in circles for "hours" before finding my way off the (not so) merry-go-round. In times like that, I realize I just needed to occupy my mind a bit to allow some things to work themselves out before trying to make sense of them. I'm a verbal processor, so talking (or writing) generally helps me figure things out, but at the same time, there are some ideas that just need to gestate before being allowed out in the open!! Spending hours writing in circles, only to find myself further wound up in knots doesn't even remotely sound appealing.
I could do a hobby. I do have hobbies (other than reading and writing...), but I "never" spend any time on them.
I LOVE to sew. Love it. But, getting out the sewing machine and material, and thread...not to mention the very act of DECIDING WHAT TO SEW, seems like more of a chore than a fun hobby.
I could bead. Yet another thing I love. I'm not "good" at it, because I just never do it. I analyze and criticize everything I do until all the fun is sucked right out of it.
I could pull out the pastels I've had for about 15 years and pour my soul out on the paper I purchased at the same time. And, yet....when I've done that in the past, I've spent more time staring at blank paper than I have laying down color.
I could pull my keyboard out from my daughter's room and remind myself that I love to play piano. I taught myself how to play with my right hand...and took a couple of semesters in college to learn to play with both hands. It's been so long since my fingers have tickled ivory, I'm not sure I would even remember how at this point.
I could read. That option opens up several sub-categories of choices. Not only do I have many options readily available without ever leaving my house, the public library is within minutes....and just down the street from Starbucks (yet another item on the list of possibilities). I would love to spend time in the Bible; I have several books I've started and not finished (mostly non-fiction); there are several fiction books on my shelves whose coats of dust remind me of my neglect.
That thought brings me to yet another "choice" that should really rank up there with the "requirements" such as personal hygiene and nutrition....cleaning my house. It's within 15 minutes of being "company ready"...but it's not where I'd like it to be at this moment. And....although I'm aware I could take 15 minutes to make it "company ready", it STILL wouldn't be where I'd like it to be. There are always more chores to do around the house. ALWAYS. I have found myself spending all day cleaning only to see more things wrong than right at the end of the day.
FUNNY STORY BREAK: When I was newly married (the first time), we had a small house with hard wood floors that my husband had cleaned one day while I was at work.... I came home to find a little pile of dirt on the front porch and him in the living room playing with a remote control car. Did I come in, arms open wide, and tell him THANK YOU SO MUCH for cleaning the house today!!?? Oh, no, I looked at him and said, "Why couldn't you have just swept the dirt off the porch, and put up that car?? It would have been perfect if you had just done those two things." Yes, 20 years later, it's still hard for me to admit....and we still talk about that day and the damage I did to our marriage. (Not with the comment, with the attitude....)
I could go out and RUN. That brings a whole other set of issues with it....that I won't even begin to go into here. Suffice it to say this is an area of my life that is a breading ground for negative self-talk right now.
My husband would say none of these options are "wrong"....all of them are viable, even healthy, choices for how to spend the rest of my day.
Part of the problem is that I'm an optimizer. I want to make the BEST use of my time. I want to be a good steward of the time God has given me. I don't want to squander it away doing something that will NOT bring Him glory. Yes, all of the things I mentioned have the potential to bring Him glory...but only if my heart is in the right place.
Right now, my heart is NOT in the right place. For a myriad of "reasons" I'm hurting. I'm sure that's an obvious fact to anyone who has made it this far into the post. Why?
There are always scapegoats on which I can blame my state of being (be it contentment or abject despair). I could blame my current state on a host of circumstances outside of myself. I have a past that could make a grown man curl into the fetal position, suck his thumb and cry "Mommy". I've committed sins so brazen, some of Satan's demons would blush (all of which were forgiven on the cross and have been washed white as snow by Jesus' blood). These sins have caused (metaphorical) scars on my life that will always be plainly visible to anyone who gives even a passing glance.
Don't get me wrong, my life right now is the picture of happiness. I live in a beautiful house...with beautiful things...I have the husband of my prayers who works hard so I can stay home, and who loves me like no other person on earth...I'm healthy...my family is healthy....I have OPTIONS unlike so many people whose time is planned out for them.
I have everything to be thankful for, and yet I'm still hurting inside.
Looking back at my journals, one thing is plain. When I'm hurting I scramble for something to do. I make plans (vacation, menus, home remodeling, decorations, projects), I get busy with some task, I sleep or watch movies....I refocus my thoughts to something other than whatever was the source of my pain.
I'm fully aware there are many of you who are saying that's a good thing. We shouldn't wallow in pain. We shouldn't persist in sadness.
But, FOR ME (I'm not pointing my fingers to anyone else--WE ARE ALL DIFFERENT--I'm strictly self-analyzing here), doing things usually amounts to escapism (when I'm in this current state). Much like drugs (something I never tried, other than alcohol), busy-ness just provids a distraction, not a catharsis.
Catharsis:
1 : purgation
2 a : purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear) primarily through art b : a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension
3 : elimination of a complex by bringing it to consciousness and affording it expression
...Elimination of a complex by bring it to consciousness and affording it expression...
I want to apologize for the length of this ramble, but I'll resist that urge. As I continue to write---to purge---I'm reminding myself of what my husband told me this morning---I'm writing for myself....although I make my selfish writings public, what I'm writing now is very much for my own personal benefit.
What exactly is "my complex"??? I think that's why I write. I'm trying to find what it is that needs to be purged, the root that is so deeply burried within my soul.
But you know what??? A thought just occurred to me. Bear with me here....I think in analogies....
What if I have a plot of land on which I want to plant a garden. It's littered with abandoned junk left by myself as well as other people, covered in thorn bushes and poison ivy, and life-stealing kudzoo (although I find kudzoo-covered areas BEAUTIFULL, and I think the metaphors I could make, comparing it to life, are limitless....I digress...). ....I work and toil, hours, days, even YEARS on my land, weeding, hauling away truck loads of rubbish. I labor away each day, clearing off space for my garden. The task never seems to be quite finished because every day I go out to my land, there seems to be new weeds. I can't plant my garden if there are weeds on my land. I hire a professional who treats the land and who leaves with me a special fertilizer. He tells me there are no weeds that will have the power to kill any good plant I will cultivate on my land. He warns me there is a thief who will attempt to kill, steal and destroy my good fruit, and who will work to bring the weeds back. He goes on to tell me if I use His powerful fertilizer, the plans of the enemy will not prosper and my good fruit will grow.
The next day, instead of planting, I look for weeds. I'm so used to toiling away, I don't quite know how to plant good fruit. I don't know what it looks like. I don't know how much to water, how much sun...even what season to put the seeds out. I really can't even tell the difference between the good plants and the weeds.
FUNNY STORY BREAK: I once spent all day digging up the biggest weed bush I'd ever seen. I had to use a shovel and AN AX to get up the root ball that was at least twice the size of my head...I was also attacked by fire ants, and later found myself covered in poison ivy (to which I'm SEVERLY ALLERGIC). ....Only to find out what I had dug up was a very well established hydranga bush!!
Do you find it ironic that I've been writing for an hour and a half now and, until five minutes ago, the sun was completely covered by clouds. It was so dreary outside I didn't even want to open the blinds....and now, the sun is shining so brightly all I want to do is go outside and bask in it!!
The only reason I'm going to go ahead and publish this long, babbling, rambling mess of a post is because there MIGHT one day be someone who's had the same experience, or is having the same experience, who might benefit from knowing they are not alone.
I think maybe it's time to go out and toss some seeds??????
If you're still reading, I'm really flattered. THANK YOU!!!
:D
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
There's A Raging River
I wrote this "poem" (using the word loosely) on May 11, 1995. One of these days I'll write about what prompted it, and I can see some things I might change later, but for now...here it is:
I've heard the other side has colors! The side I'm on is black and grey.
I've heard the other side has birds, other than buzzards and vultures.
I've heard the sun shines over there-it's always covered with storm clouds over here.
But in between rushes a raging river.
I've heard, more than once, "The only way across it is through it."
I tried to close my eyes and pretend I was on the other side, but I couldn't even imagine what it would be like.
Suddenly I felt the water splash in my face bringin me back tot he reality of grey.
I turned my back on it-the water and the idea of better things-but the sound of the water splashing reminded me of my eternal hope.
I ignored it as long as I could.
I even tried telling myself I didn't care to be on the other side. After all I'd been here my whole life and things weren't that bad. They could be much worse. (The raging river looked worse.)
I've heard, more than once, "The only way across it is through it."
What if there are colors, and birds, and flowers over there?
The dream was so good, I wanted it.
The water looked scary, deep, fast, full of the unknown-raging.
I decided getting across couldn't be that hard, so I jumped in.
Before I knew it, I was swept under.
I was going to drown.
I had to get out.
I wanted to jump out to the other side, but it was too far to reach.
I had to get out, so I jumped out on the side I jumped in from.
It was even darker than before.
The grass was almost dead.
The only signs of life were snakes, spiders and mice.
I had to get to the other side.
More than once I had been told, "The only way to get across it it through it."
I tried to build a bridge over it-but quickly found it impossible.
I tried to sail across, and even swim across.
"The only way across it is through it."
The words were like a haunting chant in my mind.
I tried to freeze the top layer of the water and skate across.
For some reason, I only went in figure eights and circles.
Around and around.
I wanted to get to the other side.
Around and around.
I tried harder.
Around and around.
I went faster.
Around and around.
The water was raging, cutting the ice from underneath, and the blades of my skates were thinning it on the top.
The harder I rried and faster I went, the thinner the ice became.
Suddenly there was a hole.
Once again, I was swept under.
I tried to jump back up onto the ice, but it was breaking all around me.
"The only way across it is through it."
The chant was louder, too loud to ignore.
I was tired of fighting.
I decided to let the water pull me under.
I really thought I would drown.
I didn't!
Now I can see the other side.
I can hear the birds, singing a cheerful melody.
I can smell the fragrant sweetness of the flowers.
I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I'm not quite there yet, but I'm not giving up.
Although the river is raging,
"the only way across it is through it."
There's A Raging River.
I've heard the other side has colors! The side I'm on is black and grey.
I've heard the other side has birds, other than buzzards and vultures.
I've heard the sun shines over there-it's always covered with storm clouds over here.
But in between rushes a raging river.
I've heard, more than once, "The only way across it is through it."
I tried to close my eyes and pretend I was on the other side, but I couldn't even imagine what it would be like.
Suddenly I felt the water splash in my face bringin me back tot he reality of grey.
I turned my back on it-the water and the idea of better things-but the sound of the water splashing reminded me of my eternal hope.
I ignored it as long as I could.
I even tried telling myself I didn't care to be on the other side. After all I'd been here my whole life and things weren't that bad. They could be much worse. (The raging river looked worse.)
I've heard, more than once, "The only way across it is through it."
What if there are colors, and birds, and flowers over there?
The dream was so good, I wanted it.
The water looked scary, deep, fast, full of the unknown-raging.
I decided getting across couldn't be that hard, so I jumped in.
Before I knew it, I was swept under.
I was going to drown.
I had to get out.
I wanted to jump out to the other side, but it was too far to reach.
I had to get out, so I jumped out on the side I jumped in from.
It was even darker than before.
The grass was almost dead.
The only signs of life were snakes, spiders and mice.
I had to get to the other side.
More than once I had been told, "The only way to get across it it through it."
I tried to build a bridge over it-but quickly found it impossible.
I tried to sail across, and even swim across.
"The only way across it is through it."
The words were like a haunting chant in my mind.
I tried to freeze the top layer of the water and skate across.
For some reason, I only went in figure eights and circles.
Around and around.
I wanted to get to the other side.
Around and around.
I tried harder.
Around and around.
I went faster.
Around and around.
The water was raging, cutting the ice from underneath, and the blades of my skates were thinning it on the top.
The harder I rried and faster I went, the thinner the ice became.
Suddenly there was a hole.
Once again, I was swept under.
I tried to jump back up onto the ice, but it was breaking all around me.
"The only way across it is through it."
The chant was louder, too loud to ignore.
I was tired of fighting.
I decided to let the water pull me under.
I really thought I would drown.
I didn't!
Now I can see the other side.
I can hear the birds, singing a cheerful melody.
I can smell the fragrant sweetness of the flowers.
I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I'm not quite there yet, but I'm not giving up.
Although the river is raging,
"the only way across it is through it."
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The BLOGIE!!!
I've been working on my acceptance speech, but as usual, I have more words to say than it should take to say THANK YOU to Anything Fits A Naked Man for giving me this wonderful award. If I start talking about her and/or her blog...I'll go all fangirl and gush uncontrollably...so I'll attempt to stop with "THANK YOU"!!!
The strings attached to the award are that I pass on the love to three other bloggers. What a chore. How on earth do I decide, since I'm seriously obsessed with so many of you!! ((My task was made easier only because I won the Beautiful Blogger award on my other blog and was able to pass that one on as well--check out the winners in my two part acceptance speech, here and here.))
So...the winners are:
Now I know what those Grammy judges go through---it's a daunting task to pick winners, especially since I'm following like 200 now!! (And, for those of you concerned about my kidney heath--I have made a promise to my body to not let that happen again!!)
Have a ...or make it a... GREAT DAY!!
:D
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Determining the Cause/Finding the Solution
I read a beautiful poem the other day, written by this talented blogger. It has haunted me ever since. (quoted with permission)
Did you know that a caterpillar is an eating machine after it's hatched from the egg? Then it basically turns to goo before finally becoming a butterfly? It's not like going into a little dressing room and strapping on a set of wings. It's not even akin to a tadpole growing into a frog. When the chrysalis forms, the caterpillar dissolves away and all new parts are formed. That transformation takes an incredible amount of energy...which is why the little worm must eat everything in sight until it's ready to change!!
All the steps in the process are important.
__________
In the last post, I owned up to my blogaholism. Now, I have another confession to make...every time I get a new follower, every time someone leaves comment on this particular blog*...I cry like a baby.
Why, you ask?
Here, unlike my other blog, I tenderly share myself with the world. When someone clicks the "follow" button, or types out a comment, I know I am heard, that I am "seen".
....I've been watching all you beautiful butterflies...wanting what I see you having. Not your lives. Although I love hearing about them... your haunted trips, your beautiful poetry, killer cats, how you hate your hair, your attempts at domestication, the yummy looking food you cook, your BOOBS!.....(I should stop before I link to every single life I'm following), it's not the particulars of your lives I want.
It's your ability, more than that, it's your willingness to write about your lives. You might tell me I have that same ability, that same willingness. The truth is there is something that stops me. The only reason I haven't grown my wings yet is because I haven't been willing to give up being a caterpillar.
The solution is ...exactly what I'm doing right now. I'm writing instead of reading. I'm posting instead of just following. Thank you for giving me leaves to eat!!!
For years I have applied this metaphor of transformation to my life. Every time I think I've grown wings, I realize I'm actually just falling off the stinking tree!! Slowly I make my way back up, inch out onto a limb, and I moult...hoping this will be the last time.Flutterby
I am a caterpillar
Cautiously climbing up the tree that is life
Stopping only to eat the leaves close by
Never going in search of that one perfect leaf
The perfect leaf that’s out of reach
Always sticking to the path I know
The one that’s been used by so many before me
The one that will be travelled by so many behind me
I look at that luscious leaf so many times
Desperately longing for it with all my being
It is always beyond my reach
Blocked by obstacles I cannot breach
Without warning on this summers day
I peer past the leaves and see the most brilliant sight
A being more perfect than I have ever seen
Floating ever graciously in its flight
Without hesitation, the butterfly starts its descent
Onto my perfect leaf
And at this moment I realise
That I was born to fly
Now; how does one become a butterfly?
You must want to fly so much,
That you are willing to give up being a caterpillar,
For ever.
Did you know that a caterpillar is an eating machine after it's hatched from the egg? Then it basically turns to goo before finally becoming a butterfly? It's not like going into a little dressing room and strapping on a set of wings. It's not even akin to a tadpole growing into a frog. When the chrysalis forms, the caterpillar dissolves away and all new parts are formed. That transformation takes an incredible amount of energy...which is why the little worm must eat everything in sight until it's ready to change!!
All the steps in the process are important.
__________
In the last post, I owned up to my blogaholism. Now, I have another confession to make...every time I get a new follower, every time someone leaves comment on this particular blog*...I cry like a baby.
Why, you ask?
Here, unlike my other blog, I tenderly share myself with the world. When someone clicks the "follow" button, or types out a comment, I know I am heard, that I am "seen".
....I've been watching all you beautiful butterflies...wanting what I see you having. Not your lives. Although I love hearing about them... your haunted trips, your beautiful poetry, killer cats, how you hate your hair, your attempts at domestication, the yummy looking food you cook, your BOOBS!.....(I should stop before I link to every single life I'm following), it's not the particulars of your lives I want.
It's your ability, more than that, it's your willingness to write about your lives. You might tell me I have that same ability, that same willingness. The truth is there is something that stops me. The only reason I haven't grown my wings yet is because I haven't been willing to give up being a caterpillar.
The solution is ...exactly what I'm doing right now. I'm writing instead of reading. I'm posting instead of just following. Thank you for giving me leaves to eat!!!
Confession, The Easy Part
Hi there...my name is Dana, and I'm a blogaholic!! I've been sitting here the last four hours trying to convince myself I really don't have to go to the bathroom...I can read just one more post...comment just one more time...look at just one more profile. Even now, my bladder is just about to explode...and what am I doing?? Writing about it!!!
I've discovered the blogroll gadget on my other blog doesn't automatically update, so it's hiding the dirty little secret my profile is sharing with the "whole world"....I think I'm currently following about a hundred blogs. (You should see the "list" of all the ones I decided not to follow). (Does anyone else hit "next blog" like switching TV stations during a commercial break??) BTW, that's how I found this gem. (If you're reading and I'm not following you, it might be because I haven't "met" you yet...leave me a comment, we'll see how it goes from there!)
The thing is, my addiction is causing a problem with my job...
I decided at the end of last year to quit working at the law firm I loved, so I could stay home. It's been my life's ambition to be the maker of my home. When I was a little girl, I would bundle up my baby doll, sit on our front porch swing, and dream about it. It took 20 years, and two failed marriages, but I'm finally able to have the job I've always wanted. The first few weeks I managed to stay far away from the computer...no chess.com, no FaceBook. I made a pact with myself to turn it on ONLY to WRITE, and then only when I was "truly inspired".
I cleaned house. I organized. I swept the driveway. I planned meals. I grocery shopped. I cooked.
In the last week I've barely made it away from my computer long enough to go to the bathroom. (And, no, I still haven't stopped typing long enough to take care of that pressing matter.....but I will, as soon as I'm done "Getting My Words Out...".)
Confessing an addiction is "always" the easy part. The harder task is determining the cause. Even more daunting...doing something about it.
I have ideas about both the cause and the answer (for me)......but sharing them with you will have to wait. I simply must go. NOW!!
:D
I've discovered the blogroll gadget on my other blog doesn't automatically update, so it's hiding the dirty little secret my profile is sharing with the "whole world"....I think I'm currently following about a hundred blogs. (You should see the "list" of all the ones I decided not to follow). (Does anyone else hit "next blog" like switching TV stations during a commercial break??) BTW, that's how I found this gem. (If you're reading and I'm not following you, it might be because I haven't "met" you yet...leave me a comment, we'll see how it goes from there!)
The thing is, my addiction is causing a problem with my job...
I decided at the end of last year to quit working at the law firm I loved, so I could stay home. It's been my life's ambition to be the maker of my home. When I was a little girl, I would bundle up my baby doll, sit on our front porch swing, and dream about it. It took 20 years, and two failed marriages, but I'm finally able to have the job I've always wanted. The first few weeks I managed to stay far away from the computer...no chess.com, no FaceBook. I made a pact with myself to turn it on ONLY to WRITE, and then only when I was "truly inspired".
I cleaned house. I organized. I swept the driveway. I planned meals. I grocery shopped. I cooked.
In the last week I've barely made it away from my computer long enough to go to the bathroom. (And, no, I still haven't stopped typing long enough to take care of that pressing matter.....but I will, as soon as I'm done "Getting My Words Out...".)
Confessing an addiction is "always" the easy part. The harder task is determining the cause. Even more daunting...doing something about it.
I have ideas about both the cause and the answer (for me)......but sharing them with you will have to wait. I simply must go. NOW!!
:D
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
New Perspective
Someone from my past has come back into my life and has challenged my perspective with a 25 year old memory.
He was the first guy to ever really break my heart (other than my dads---yes that plural, and that's a topic for another post). I was a sophomore, he was a football-playing senior. I liked him, and he said he liked me...but my dad (and several friends) told me there was only one thing a senior could possibly want from a lowly sophomore. I don't think there's any need to spell out what that one thing was, but suffice it to say I was not making myself available for "it". Every time we were to together I made sure he knew were I stood on "the issue".
One day at school he picked me up (literally) and carried me across the gym lobby. I realized just how strong he was and it scared me. I wrote him a long note and told him (again) that I was not going to keep going out with him if all he wanted was "it" . (Brevity was not my forte even then so the note was most likely several redundant pages long.) In my memory, he called me that night and told me it just wasn't going to work out. I bawled like a baby for hours. I told my Daddy, and all my forewarning friends, they were right. I don't remember ever talking to him again after that.
For the next 25 years I told that story over and over. Usually my point was how I had held onto my morals, even at the cost of not going out with a guy I liked, or as an illustration of how all guys are only out for one thing.
Fast forward to a week or so ago when I got an unexpected e-mail from him.
When I saw his name I once again felt the cold phone receiver in my hand. I could hear his voice speaking those words to me, "It's just not going to work....". The clear memory of hot tears, streaming down from swollen eyes, burned my cheeks as if it were happening all over again. The pain of feeling objectified for one purpose only, the agony of unreciprocated love, and the weight of that defining moment in my life suddenly came crashing through the background of my mind and was once again staring me in the face.
In a quick succession of messages back and forth, we discovered that our memories of the exact same event are vastly different. The reason for this is not that the objective truth was different for each of us (that's impossible, we all share the same reality in life)...but that we viewed the same set of circumstances from completely different perspectives. Our memories converge at the point of rejection.
In his memory, I broke up with him. Although he's willing to admit the one thing I believed was the only thing on his mind might not have been too far removed, he insists he loved me with a heart full of hope. He says he would never hurt me, then or now. His love for me was pure and innocent. He doesn't remember the phone conversation. What he vividly recalls is going to school one day hoping to find me waiting to leap into his wide open arms, only to see me running away from him.
As clearly as my mind took me back to the night on the phone, his thoughts transported him to that day at school. Feeling as if he had done something very wrong, but not understanding what that might have been, fighting through the pain and confusion of my rebuff, he valiantly attempted to talk to me. I ignored him. Worse than that, I ran away from him. The pain of feeling misunderstood, the agony of unreciprocated love, and the weight of that defining moment in his life came crashing through the background of his mind and was once again staring him in the face.
Accepting his perspective as truth, I am forced to view the memory with a new understanding. In hindsight, I know that when we dated, everything he said and did was seen through the lens of my deeply held belief that I was unlovable. This filter surrounded my heart like a forcefield, put in place years before I ever met him, as a result of events in my life he had no control or knowledge of. I had adopted the perspective from which I viewed the behaviors of others long before he came along....and held onto it long after he was gone.
This new understanding has made clear to me how the lens of cynicism still discolors almost all of my relationships. It distorts my view of other people and more importantly, my view of myself. To this day, when I meet someone new I am automatically on guard against being hurt. I keep people at arm's length. When my second husband left, I allowed God's love to break through that self-made forcefield. Upon meeting my current husband, I poured out the broken pieces of my heart to him, like dumping a jigsaw puzzle onto a table. I openly shared all the pain and mistakes of my past, fully expecting him to duck and run for cover. The fact that he stayed, the fact he has been able to navigate through the myriad of obstacles to my love, the fact that he cared enough to make the effort, has allowed me to accept the truth of his love for me.
The reintroduction of this person from my past, and his willingness to share his experience of our relationship, has caused me to see it's time to adopt a new perspective. It's time to do away with old habits that no longer serve me well. This new vantage point has shown me the walls of protection put in place so long ago to keep pain out, are nothing more than a prison holding the pain of the past in, a prison with no locks on the doors. I am the one who keeps myself here, and I am the one who has only to get up and walk out to be free.
I'm leaving the bars of Alcatraz behind, ready to see people in the world from a new perspective.
He was the first guy to ever really break my heart (other than my dads---yes that plural, and that's a topic for another post). I was a sophomore, he was a football-playing senior. I liked him, and he said he liked me...but my dad (and several friends) told me there was only one thing a senior could possibly want from a lowly sophomore. I don't think there's any need to spell out what that one thing was, but suffice it to say I was not making myself available for "it". Every time we were to together I made sure he knew were I stood on "the issue".
One day at school he picked me up (literally) and carried me across the gym lobby. I realized just how strong he was and it scared me. I wrote him a long note and told him (again) that I was not going to keep going out with him if all he wanted was "it" . (Brevity was not my forte even then so the note was most likely several redundant pages long.) In my memory, he called me that night and told me it just wasn't going to work out. I bawled like a baby for hours. I told my Daddy, and all my forewarning friends, they were right. I don't remember ever talking to him again after that.
For the next 25 years I told that story over and over. Usually my point was how I had held onto my morals, even at the cost of not going out with a guy I liked, or as an illustration of how all guys are only out for one thing.
Fast forward to a week or so ago when I got an unexpected e-mail from him.
When I saw his name I once again felt the cold phone receiver in my hand. I could hear his voice speaking those words to me, "It's just not going to work....". The clear memory of hot tears, streaming down from swollen eyes, burned my cheeks as if it were happening all over again. The pain of feeling objectified for one purpose only, the agony of unreciprocated love, and the weight of that defining moment in my life suddenly came crashing through the background of my mind and was once again staring me in the face.
In a quick succession of messages back and forth, we discovered that our memories of the exact same event are vastly different. The reason for this is not that the objective truth was different for each of us (that's impossible, we all share the same reality in life)...but that we viewed the same set of circumstances from completely different perspectives. Our memories converge at the point of rejection.
In his memory, I broke up with him. Although he's willing to admit the one thing I believed was the only thing on his mind might not have been too far removed, he insists he loved me with a heart full of hope. He says he would never hurt me, then or now. His love for me was pure and innocent. He doesn't remember the phone conversation. What he vividly recalls is going to school one day hoping to find me waiting to leap into his wide open arms, only to see me running away from him.
As clearly as my mind took me back to the night on the phone, his thoughts transported him to that day at school. Feeling as if he had done something very wrong, but not understanding what that might have been, fighting through the pain and confusion of my rebuff, he valiantly attempted to talk to me. I ignored him. Worse than that, I ran away from him. The pain of feeling misunderstood, the agony of unreciprocated love, and the weight of that defining moment in his life came crashing through the background of his mind and was once again staring him in the face.
Accepting his perspective as truth, I am forced to view the memory with a new understanding. In hindsight, I know that when we dated, everything he said and did was seen through the lens of my deeply held belief that I was unlovable. This filter surrounded my heart like a forcefield, put in place years before I ever met him, as a result of events in my life he had no control or knowledge of. I had adopted the perspective from which I viewed the behaviors of others long before he came along....and held onto it long after he was gone.
This new understanding has made clear to me how the lens of cynicism still discolors almost all of my relationships. It distorts my view of other people and more importantly, my view of myself. To this day, when I meet someone new I am automatically on guard against being hurt. I keep people at arm's length. When my second husband left, I allowed God's love to break through that self-made forcefield. Upon meeting my current husband, I poured out the broken pieces of my heart to him, like dumping a jigsaw puzzle onto a table. I openly shared all the pain and mistakes of my past, fully expecting him to duck and run for cover. The fact that he stayed, the fact he has been able to navigate through the myriad of obstacles to my love, the fact that he cared enough to make the effort, has allowed me to accept the truth of his love for me.
The reintroduction of this person from my past, and his willingness to share his experience of our relationship, has caused me to see it's time to adopt a new perspective. It's time to do away with old habits that no longer serve me well. This new vantage point has shown me the walls of protection put in place so long ago to keep pain out, are nothing more than a prison holding the pain of the past in, a prison with no locks on the doors. I am the one who keeps myself here, and I am the one who has only to get up and walk out to be free.
I'm leaving the bars of Alcatraz behind, ready to see people in the world from a new perspective.
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