It baffles me that so much joy and sadness can simultaneously coincide within a single person.
My heart is filled with a cresting river of sorrow, threatening to spill over at a moments notice and flood the world around me.
I don't understand how even happiness can make you further sad.
But it is what it is, I suppose.
Maybe we are all like churches. Shiny brilliant colored windows of stained glass depicting beautiful stories of hope and happiness but secretly we are filled with the most broken hearts on earth. Maybe so many people don't go to church because it's easy to stand outside and admire the beauty from afar but once you go inside, things get real. They lose their luster, their shine. They lose the false sense of security you thought you found in their seemingly stable structures.
Churches can collapse in earthquakes. People can too. I guess tectonic plates aren't the best thing to serve a fancy dinner on. But then,what do I know? I'm just the girl who washes stained glass windows... from the inside.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Ghosts
I've been haunted by three ghosts lately.
The first is a recurring dream in which my two-year-old niece and goddaughter gets loose and either falls or jumps into a pool as I scramble to save her. Most of the time she stops breathing but last night, she didn't fall in, she jumped in. And she started swimming. Of all the BabyHeart dreams I have, she and the mystery girl appear the most. But once the mystery girl told me she was Gracie, I haven't dreamed of her again and it makes my heart feel heavy and sad.
The second ghost is a house I walk past every day on my way to work. I didn't realize it was there until the second or third day. The house I stayed the night at after I left my ex. Two male friends of mine let me sleep on their couch. I remember a group of us sat around talking about poetry and music. The last thing I remembered was drifting off to sleep during a Jack McCarthy slam poetry documentary... not knowing that some day years later, Jack himself would book me for my first "big" gig in another city and would come to be a very dear friend. It's funny how things work out.
The couch belonged to the only friend of mine who ever called my ex a jerk without fear of being overheard. I remember my ex found out I stayed with my friend and he immediately accused me of sleeping with the other guy and having an affair. He let me sleep on his couch because in the almost two years he'd known me, he had seen me cry far more than I'd ever smiled. He was trying to give me hope. And he did. But every day I walk past that front porch. I can remember the instructions he left me as I woke up alone and tried to figure out how to work the shower, how to identify the randomly colored masses passing for food in the fridge before skipping breakfast altogether. But most of all, I remember the toothpaste. The all natural stiff metal tube with the thick paste that didn't quite taste like "clean" but it was better than nothing and I was grateful for the extension of another person's love for once.
I remember it every day. Hard to believe it's been eight years and I still manage to wind up a block away from where it all began. Where my rock bottom met my do-or-die reflexes and we all learned how to swim.
The third ghost is a photo from Venice. a picture my friend posted online, standing in almost the same location as an old boyfriend of mine once did when he sent me a picture of the city lights. The boy who swore he loved me and wanted to be with me forever. The boy I waited for time and time again... the boy who later told me *I* wasn't good enough to marry HIM because I wasn't "the right kind of person."
The boy whose legalistic ideologies led him to believe God doesn't approve of falling in love with girls who have been raped, girls who change their hair color as often as their shoes, girls who have tattoos expressing their walk through hell with God telling them all along "just five more steps and it'll all be okay"...
But it will never be okay. Not for him. The one who made me feel completely worthless and yet I continued to believe if I was the one person in his life who didn't walk out on him, if I was the one person who showed him that love really can conquer all when you CHOOSE to let it be your eyes. The one who continues to shun me but secretly ask all my friends about my life.
He is the ghost I am most haunted by lately and I can't figure out why. But I know how. His memory manifests itself in anger spread across my chest and arms, thinking of all the times I told him I loved him and held him close. Just the though of saying those words to him feels like vinegar on my tongue.
I'm not angry because he was a coward and ran away. I'm not angry because he judged me unfairly and persecuted me for another person's sins. What angers me the most is that I settled with him and I knew it from day one. I settled and I gave up on the one person I truly wanted to be with. The person I'm with now. It's funny how after four years I'm right where I first began all over again.
It seems to be cyclical in terms of love and loss.
My heart is angry because I gave so much that I can never get back to someone who didn't see value in me or the love I brought to the table.
I can't undo that. And now I have to love twice as hard because for the first time in my entire life, I'm standing on level ground. Toe to toe with someone who loves me so much it hurts both of us to breathe.
It angers me that all the butterflies of my past left my lips only to die in someone else's hands and remain in glass cases collecting dust in someone else's basement memory. And yet, when DJ speaks, he brings the butterflies back to life and I can feel them fluttering from a thousand miles away, trapped in worthless glass cases.
I guess that's the thing about love. You can never un-say it or un-mean it no matter how much you want to.
Tonight, the butterflies lie anxious in my chest; they've never before met their match.
And every day is new.
The first is a recurring dream in which my two-year-old niece and goddaughter gets loose and either falls or jumps into a pool as I scramble to save her. Most of the time she stops breathing but last night, she didn't fall in, she jumped in. And she started swimming. Of all the BabyHeart dreams I have, she and the mystery girl appear the most. But once the mystery girl told me she was Gracie, I haven't dreamed of her again and it makes my heart feel heavy and sad.
The second ghost is a house I walk past every day on my way to work. I didn't realize it was there until the second or third day. The house I stayed the night at after I left my ex. Two male friends of mine let me sleep on their couch. I remember a group of us sat around talking about poetry and music. The last thing I remembered was drifting off to sleep during a Jack McCarthy slam poetry documentary... not knowing that some day years later, Jack himself would book me for my first "big" gig in another city and would come to be a very dear friend. It's funny how things work out.
The couch belonged to the only friend of mine who ever called my ex a jerk without fear of being overheard. I remember my ex found out I stayed with my friend and he immediately accused me of sleeping with the other guy and having an affair. He let me sleep on his couch because in the almost two years he'd known me, he had seen me cry far more than I'd ever smiled. He was trying to give me hope. And he did. But every day I walk past that front porch. I can remember the instructions he left me as I woke up alone and tried to figure out how to work the shower, how to identify the randomly colored masses passing for food in the fridge before skipping breakfast altogether. But most of all, I remember the toothpaste. The all natural stiff metal tube with the thick paste that didn't quite taste like "clean" but it was better than nothing and I was grateful for the extension of another person's love for once.
I remember it every day. Hard to believe it's been eight years and I still manage to wind up a block away from where it all began. Where my rock bottom met my do-or-die reflexes and we all learned how to swim.
The third ghost is a photo from Venice. a picture my friend posted online, standing in almost the same location as an old boyfriend of mine once did when he sent me a picture of the city lights. The boy who swore he loved me and wanted to be with me forever. The boy I waited for time and time again... the boy who later told me *I* wasn't good enough to marry HIM because I wasn't "the right kind of person."
The boy whose legalistic ideologies led him to believe God doesn't approve of falling in love with girls who have been raped, girls who change their hair color as often as their shoes, girls who have tattoos expressing their walk through hell with God telling them all along "just five more steps and it'll all be okay"...
But it will never be okay. Not for him. The one who made me feel completely worthless and yet I continued to believe if I was the one person in his life who didn't walk out on him, if I was the one person who showed him that love really can conquer all when you CHOOSE to let it be your eyes. The one who continues to shun me but secretly ask all my friends about my life.
He is the ghost I am most haunted by lately and I can't figure out why. But I know how. His memory manifests itself in anger spread across my chest and arms, thinking of all the times I told him I loved him and held him close. Just the though of saying those words to him feels like vinegar on my tongue.
I'm not angry because he was a coward and ran away. I'm not angry because he judged me unfairly and persecuted me for another person's sins. What angers me the most is that I settled with him and I knew it from day one. I settled and I gave up on the one person I truly wanted to be with. The person I'm with now. It's funny how after four years I'm right where I first began all over again.
It seems to be cyclical in terms of love and loss.
My heart is angry because I gave so much that I can never get back to someone who didn't see value in me or the love I brought to the table.
I can't undo that. And now I have to love twice as hard because for the first time in my entire life, I'm standing on level ground. Toe to toe with someone who loves me so much it hurts both of us to breathe.
It angers me that all the butterflies of my past left my lips only to die in someone else's hands and remain in glass cases collecting dust in someone else's basement memory. And yet, when DJ speaks, he brings the butterflies back to life and I can feel them fluttering from a thousand miles away, trapped in worthless glass cases.
I guess that's the thing about love. You can never un-say it or un-mean it no matter how much you want to.
Tonight, the butterflies lie anxious in my chest; they've never before met their match.
And every day is new.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
The Magic of Benjamin
Tonight, DJ and I went out to fetch my Christmas tree.
I found the most perfect tree ever.
I named him Benjamin.
DJ said people don't name trees.
I danced ad giggled while the man in the tree lot prepared Benjamin to come home with us.
And then it happened. Something magical came over the night and when we looked into each other's eyes something appeared that I've never seen in our two and a half years together. Something magical. A secret wish on my heart that I've prayed for so long to be answered... and like magic, I blinked and it was there.
He probably doesn't even know it happened - given that it was my wish, my prayer. My magical secret.
All I know about life, I learned from love. Nothing makes sense, everything is silly and backwards, and you are never in charge of what comes next. But that's the best part. If you knew what was going to happen, there'd be no magic to speak of.
And tonight, my heart is filled with the glitter of a thousand stars. Tonight will be the night I tell my children and grandchildren about, years down the road. The moment I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was exactly where I was meant to be in this universe... down to the very patch of asphalt I stood on. Imagine all those tiny rocks waiting hundred of years to be crushed and pressed down into tar to anxiously wait for their chance to witness that moment with me.
I bet those rocks were excited. But then again, I also give names to trees...
I found the most perfect tree ever.
I named him Benjamin.
DJ said people don't name trees.
I danced ad giggled while the man in the tree lot prepared Benjamin to come home with us.
And then it happened. Something magical came over the night and when we looked into each other's eyes something appeared that I've never seen in our two and a half years together. Something magical. A secret wish on my heart that I've prayed for so long to be answered... and like magic, I blinked and it was there.
He probably doesn't even know it happened - given that it was my wish, my prayer. My magical secret.
All I know about life, I learned from love. Nothing makes sense, everything is silly and backwards, and you are never in charge of what comes next. But that's the best part. If you knew what was going to happen, there'd be no magic to speak of.
And tonight, my heart is filled with the glitter of a thousand stars. Tonight will be the night I tell my children and grandchildren about, years down the road. The moment I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was exactly where I was meant to be in this universe... down to the very patch of asphalt I stood on. Imagine all those tiny rocks waiting hundred of years to be crushed and pressed down into tar to anxiously wait for their chance to witness that moment with me.
I bet those rocks were excited. But then again, I also give names to trees...
Monday, December 12, 2011
Love and Chicken
My cat is the best torment I could ever be blessed or cursed with. Holy hell.
I was walking home in the freezing (33*) night writing poetry in my head and listening to James Taylor in my headphones as I reflected on all the beautiful things that happened in my day...
Every evening when I get home, my cat and I have this mandatory cuddle ritual. He runs to meet me at the door, stands on his tippity-toes and wraps his paws around my leg to give me "hugs" (actual, legitimate hugs) and after I hang up my coat, hat, scarf, gloves and take off my shoes like some bohemian Mr. Rogers, we go and cuddle on the couch for fifteen minutes. Every day. Technically he was supposed to be MY therapy animal but I guess we alternate roles when needed.
So I walk inside, prepare for our usual greetings and as I approached the couch I saw a giant, oddly coloured and textured brown mass on the carpet. I thought maybe he'd gotten REALLY sick in a digestive way but even still, there's no way something that big could come out of a cat his size. I get closer and realize it's a giant piece of Kentucky fried CHICKEN!
I take another step closer and see ANOTHER piece of chicken and a a bucket tipped over. Guess who's mama forgot to put date-night leftovers back in the fridge? ... but there were only two pieces on the floor and I know there was more chicken there last night. As I turned around to ask him where he put the rest I noticed there's a TRAIL of CHICKEN leading to his food bowl.
He managed to pry open the bucket lid, pull out each piece and it looks like he was attempting to carry them all to his food bowl on the other side of the house.
I tried so hard to be mad but I was laughing too hard. In so many ways he reminds me of a toddler. He likes to play in the toilet, he leaves toys all over the house that I'm constantly tripping over and he always has to be right underfoot in everything I do from the moment I get home at night to the moment I leave for work the next day.
I have crunchy chicken debris all over my living room, study area and leading up to my kitchen and I couldn't feel more blessed or happy if I tried.
I was walking home in the freezing (33*) night writing poetry in my head and listening to James Taylor in my headphones as I reflected on all the beautiful things that happened in my day...
Every evening when I get home, my cat and I have this mandatory cuddle ritual. He runs to meet me at the door, stands on his tippity-toes and wraps his paws around my leg to give me "hugs" (actual, legitimate hugs) and after I hang up my coat, hat, scarf, gloves and take off my shoes like some bohemian Mr. Rogers, we go and cuddle on the couch for fifteen minutes. Every day. Technically he was supposed to be MY therapy animal but I guess we alternate roles when needed.
So I walk inside, prepare for our usual greetings and as I approached the couch I saw a giant, oddly coloured and textured brown mass on the carpet. I thought maybe he'd gotten REALLY sick in a digestive way but even still, there's no way something that big could come out of a cat his size. I get closer and realize it's a giant piece of Kentucky fried CHICKEN!
I take another step closer and see ANOTHER piece of chicken and a a bucket tipped over. Guess who's mama forgot to put date-night leftovers back in the fridge? ... but there were only two pieces on the floor and I know there was more chicken there last night. As I turned around to ask him where he put the rest I noticed there's a TRAIL of CHICKEN leading to his food bowl.
He managed to pry open the bucket lid, pull out each piece and it looks like he was attempting to carry them all to his food bowl on the other side of the house.
I tried so hard to be mad but I was laughing too hard. In so many ways he reminds me of a toddler. He likes to play in the toilet, he leaves toys all over the house that I'm constantly tripping over and he always has to be right underfoot in everything I do from the moment I get home at night to the moment I leave for work the next day.
I have crunchy chicken debris all over my living room, study area and leading up to my kitchen and I couldn't feel more blessed or happy if I tried.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
BabyHeart
All my friends have babies.
Half of them complain about their babies on social media sites and how the children are driving them crazy to the point they wish they didn't have kids at all.
At the Christmas party, at least 6 couples chose to not leave their children at daycare per the free childcare for the event agreement and showed up with their babies. I'm not saying I disapprove of them not wanting to leave newborns in the hands of volunteer youth group church members but everywhere I turned all night, there were babies. And when I couldn't see them, I could hear them crying or making baby noises. and when it was quiet and I couldn't see them I was surrounded by pregnant women.
If it was summer or spring, I think I would have been okay.
A couple weeks ago I was at a drugstore picking something up and the lady behind the register spot my necklace and exploded with joy. She said, "You have an ANGEL!! I just LOVE angels!!!" so I showed her the necklace more close-up and explained it was a golden crystal angel and the letter G for my daughter, Grace.
She smiled and seemed content with that and didn't ask anything else.And I was kind of glad. I've found people to be generally sympathetic to the issue of miscarriage but when that's coupled with an unwanted pregnancy conceived of rape that ends in miscarriage... well, people tend to get that "I wish I never met you and I'm gonna walk away now" look on their faces and awkwardly try to politely bow out.
But the angel necklace was her birthday present last year and I wear it every day with all the love in my heart. I got it in the little girls jewelry department and it looked like the perfect piece of "first real" jewelry for a three year old.
I wear it every day and most people don't even notice it. Every once in a while a knowing friend will see it on me and tell me how much they love that I wear it every day and how happy it makes them to see it. This is a small but wonderfully healing cluster of friends in my world and they're part of the main reason I don't feel ashamed talking about the necklace.
This year she would have been four. I got my first cabbage patch doll when I was four. Her name was Ann. I didn't really like the name but her hair looked like spaghetti and I thought that was pretty cool. This October I found Skyler. A little Auburn haired, green eyed cabbage patch that I'm sure Gracie would have loved. I'm still not sure what compelled me to buy such an expensive present for a girl who would never get to play with it but as far as dolls go, Skyler seems pretty happy here and my cat hasn't tried to eat her limbs so I guess he knows she's special.
I fell asleep on the couch last night, had another night of restless dreams and woke up to a cat on my feet and apparently a Skyler in my arms.
Earlier yesterday I randomly stumbled upon a documentary called "The 46 year Pregnancy" about stone babies that "wouldn't come"... Gracie was six months delayed in her exit from this world. For six months I got violently ill every day and tried to convince myself the whole thing was in my head. I had never been pregnant, I had merely abandoned 8 years of vegetarianism for the weirdest meat cravings due to some unexplained iron deficiency, I gained weight because of stress of my last semester of college, I was nauseated because I was stressed about school and it was only just a great big random coincidence that it all started 6 weeks after the rape.
He and his friends spread rumours all over town that I made the whole thing up. I scanned the hospital paperwork and sent him the only picture I had of Grace - a disfigured rotting mass of an ended life in a ziplock bag that the doctor would later throw away in the the trash can with the kind and wise words of "just go home and get some therapy."
I would've been a good mother. Even if she was labeled a "rape baby" and people assumed I was a promiscuous unwed mother. She would have known every day that God alone chose her to be here and that I hated the reason for her existence but through God's own love, I learned how to love her too.
I'm glad she never had to live that kind of life and I truly believe she was given great mercy. But that doesn't make my arms feel less empty.
Maybe I'll never have a little Rainbow but at least I'll always have an angel...
Half of them complain about their babies on social media sites and how the children are driving them crazy to the point they wish they didn't have kids at all.
At the Christmas party, at least 6 couples chose to not leave their children at daycare per the free childcare for the event agreement and showed up with their babies. I'm not saying I disapprove of them not wanting to leave newborns in the hands of volunteer youth group church members but everywhere I turned all night, there were babies. And when I couldn't see them, I could hear them crying or making baby noises. and when it was quiet and I couldn't see them I was surrounded by pregnant women.
If it was summer or spring, I think I would have been okay.
A couple weeks ago I was at a drugstore picking something up and the lady behind the register spot my necklace and exploded with joy. She said, "You have an ANGEL!! I just LOVE angels!!!" so I showed her the necklace more close-up and explained it was a golden crystal angel and the letter G for my daughter, Grace.
She smiled and seemed content with that and didn't ask anything else.And I was kind of glad. I've found people to be generally sympathetic to the issue of miscarriage but when that's coupled with an unwanted pregnancy conceived of rape that ends in miscarriage... well, people tend to get that "I wish I never met you and I'm gonna walk away now" look on their faces and awkwardly try to politely bow out.
But the angel necklace was her birthday present last year and I wear it every day with all the love in my heart. I got it in the little girls jewelry department and it looked like the perfect piece of "first real" jewelry for a three year old.
I wear it every day and most people don't even notice it. Every once in a while a knowing friend will see it on me and tell me how much they love that I wear it every day and how happy it makes them to see it. This is a small but wonderfully healing cluster of friends in my world and they're part of the main reason I don't feel ashamed talking about the necklace.
This year she would have been four. I got my first cabbage patch doll when I was four. Her name was Ann. I didn't really like the name but her hair looked like spaghetti and I thought that was pretty cool. This October I found Skyler. A little Auburn haired, green eyed cabbage patch that I'm sure Gracie would have loved. I'm still not sure what compelled me to buy such an expensive present for a girl who would never get to play with it but as far as dolls go, Skyler seems pretty happy here and my cat hasn't tried to eat her limbs so I guess he knows she's special.
I fell asleep on the couch last night, had another night of restless dreams and woke up to a cat on my feet and apparently a Skyler in my arms.
Earlier yesterday I randomly stumbled upon a documentary called "The 46 year Pregnancy" about stone babies that "wouldn't come"... Gracie was six months delayed in her exit from this world. For six months I got violently ill every day and tried to convince myself the whole thing was in my head. I had never been pregnant, I had merely abandoned 8 years of vegetarianism for the weirdest meat cravings due to some unexplained iron deficiency, I gained weight because of stress of my last semester of college, I was nauseated because I was stressed about school and it was only just a great big random coincidence that it all started 6 weeks after the rape.
He and his friends spread rumours all over town that I made the whole thing up. I scanned the hospital paperwork and sent him the only picture I had of Grace - a disfigured rotting mass of an ended life in a ziplock bag that the doctor would later throw away in the the trash can with the kind and wise words of "just go home and get some therapy."
I would've been a good mother. Even if she was labeled a "rape baby" and people assumed I was a promiscuous unwed mother. She would have known every day that God alone chose her to be here and that I hated the reason for her existence but through God's own love, I learned how to love her too.
I'm glad she never had to live that kind of life and I truly believe she was given great mercy. But that doesn't make my arms feel less empty.
Maybe I'll never have a little Rainbow but at least I'll always have an angel...
Saturday, December 10, 2011
The Friendship Dress
Last night was the annual Christmas party for the company I work for. I always hate going because it feels like 4 hours of being stuck in the worlds most crowded elevator with everyone asking you what your major is, when you're gonna get married, how long you plan to remain undeclared in college, your life, your future and why can't you lose those last 10 pounds... all while said elevator came crashing to the earth at a rate just fast enough to make you WANT to hit and die, but not fast enough to make it "over with" so you can breathe again.
It was still incredibly stressful but this year, I think was my best so far. This year I had a friend. I still don't fully understand the concept of "making friends as an adult because all my friendships involved nomadic lifestyles of un-rich and famous military and if I was lucky enough to make a best friend who lived there the entire school year, there was an 80% chance at least one of us would be gone before the next school year started. So to me, friendships have to begin with a wager. chips on the table to make someone want to take a bet on your ability to not disappear.
It was easy when I was a kid. I would walk up to a girl, ask her if she wanted to play on the swings with me or sit with me at lunch or maybe even just share a box of crayons. If we became best friends, we showed our loyalty by trading one shoe. I don't know why or how this ever started but in the mid to late 80s, wearing your best friend's left shoe meant that no one in the world could come between you.
I haven't had someone's left shoe since 2006. But she still has mine and even though we're on opposite sides of the country and we only went to school together for one year before she moved away, she has still been my left shoe for the last 14 years.
Grown ups don't trade shoes. they go out and buy them together... an act of torture I will never understand because while most girls my age are spending a week's paycheck on something that sparkles and makes them taller, I'm still working out retail therapy by means of latent childhood rebellion. I own three pairs of shoes. And by shoes I mean sneakers. one pair is pink plaid with glitter and the other is teal and purple with glitter and contrasting laces so I can change them up depending on my mood. My boyfriend doesn't understand why I'd wear shoes that supposedly don't match anything in the world but they make me happy. And if I were 8, someone would totally want to trade with me. Just sayin...
So, there's this girl at work who smiles a lot and she's been really nice to me the last few months. I had heard of her before in the context that she's one of those girls who, when her name is mentioned in a group conversation, all the other girls in the room who know her do the classic head tilt and high pitched "OH I LOOOOOOOVE her!!" style recognition. I'm pretty sure I've never been that type of girl and that's fine, but I always look up to that type and for that reason, find them pretty intimidating.
But she was so nice. And well, people want to be around other people who make them feel happy and this blog is pretty much all about ebbs and flows in matters of the heart. So I don't know if there's an official club that requires trading cards acknowledging when you are officially friends but she needed her hair done for the party and I recommended her to my stylist and we traded phone numbers and she texted me so I think that qualifies as friends. At the very least, confirmation that she likes me enough to have a way of contacting her outside working hours. haha
Her hair turned out gorgeous (as if any alternative was possible) and my stylist texted me thanking me for sending my new friend and to tell me how sweet the girl was and that I was "the best" for sending her over what we secretly call "cool clients" who are nice people who you want extra bunches to make smile. :)
Every year, I make a new dress for the party. It started out as a resurrection of a family tradition and sadly turned into a bit of a coping mechanism. Every year growing up, my mom would make me a BEAUTIFUL new dress for Christmas and after Christmas was over, I was allowed to wear my beautiful dress to school or to play dress up in or to run around the streets in formal winter attire of the usually taffeta persuasion. Most of the time she would pick out the patterns and I would pick out the texture of fabric and she generally stuck with red or green. Regardless, I always felt like a princess. I remember wearing my fourth grade Christmas dress to school on my tenth birthday and it was forever memorialized in my very first coming-of-age military ID card so I could travel around on base and make purchases at the general store like a grown up. So Christmas dresses are pretty special.
The first year I made one for the company christmas party was the first and ONLY time I ever got a "WOW! You look BEAUTIFUL!" from my boyfriend and even though I hated my hair, I felt again like a princess.
Everyone at the company party that year was so taken with my dress that I decided to keep up my mom's tradition. But this year, I failed. I was super stressed out at work with way too much on my plate and after tearfully telling my boyfriend I just wanted to give up, he said "It's okay. You're still beautiful" and that was that.
Or so I thought... the next day I ran into my new friend and found out to my complete and utter surprise that apparently before she ever knew who I was, she knew I was "the girl who makes her own dresses" and apparently she looked forward to seeing my new dress every year. This kind of instantly shattered my heart because I didn't think she even knew who I was until she started working in my office, let alone CARED about anything so trivial as my wardrobe. And of all days, she happened to say it on the 12 year anniversary of when a close friend of mine was murdered.
I still have horrible insomnia but the loss of Mandie so deep in my heart coupled with the feeling of letting down a new friend whose smile vanished the minute I said "I quit this year" made me feel incredibly sad inside so I stayed up until 5am working on the dress. I wish I could say I finished it in time for the party but my sewing machine jammed when I was trying to put on the finishing touches. :S
Fortunately there's another party coming up soon that I can still wear the dress to but even for as much physical stress as it was to stay up all night and then work all day (I went to bed at 5am and got up for work at 7) I'm really glad I at least did as much as I could. The dress started out as a serendipitous find of end of the bolt discontinued GORGEOUS fabric in a summer sale. I painted a picture for my boyfriend's birthday of me in the dress at a picnic with him and he loved it even before the dress was cut out.
After a while though, it became thing "thing" I had to do for the party because people expected it and I would let everyone down. But I think in the end, even though I technically "failed" to make it to the traditional deadline, I think it's going to be forever remembered as my "happy summer friendship" dress. And maybe that's not formal winter attire but I think every girl deserves a dress she can still be excited to twirl around the living room with.
Maybe I'll never understand the shoe shopping bonding concept that is essential to all grown up female relationships but if "hey, wanna go twirl dresses on the playground?" worked as a kid, maybe some things can still transcend into that which we call "Adulthood"... I guess anything is possible.
(This is my very first Christmas dress from 1983. I was two years old. I still have the dress too and always wonder what Gracie might have looked like it it...)
It was still incredibly stressful but this year, I think was my best so far. This year I had a friend. I still don't fully understand the concept of "making friends as an adult because all my friendships involved nomadic lifestyles of un-rich and famous military and if I was lucky enough to make a best friend who lived there the entire school year, there was an 80% chance at least one of us would be gone before the next school year started. So to me, friendships have to begin with a wager. chips on the table to make someone want to take a bet on your ability to not disappear.
It was easy when I was a kid. I would walk up to a girl, ask her if she wanted to play on the swings with me or sit with me at lunch or maybe even just share a box of crayons. If we became best friends, we showed our loyalty by trading one shoe. I don't know why or how this ever started but in the mid to late 80s, wearing your best friend's left shoe meant that no one in the world could come between you.
I haven't had someone's left shoe since 2006. But she still has mine and even though we're on opposite sides of the country and we only went to school together for one year before she moved away, she has still been my left shoe for the last 14 years.
Grown ups don't trade shoes. they go out and buy them together... an act of torture I will never understand because while most girls my age are spending a week's paycheck on something that sparkles and makes them taller, I'm still working out retail therapy by means of latent childhood rebellion. I own three pairs of shoes. And by shoes I mean sneakers. one pair is pink plaid with glitter and the other is teal and purple with glitter and contrasting laces so I can change them up depending on my mood. My boyfriend doesn't understand why I'd wear shoes that supposedly don't match anything in the world but they make me happy. And if I were 8, someone would totally want to trade with me. Just sayin...
So, there's this girl at work who smiles a lot and she's been really nice to me the last few months. I had heard of her before in the context that she's one of those girls who, when her name is mentioned in a group conversation, all the other girls in the room who know her do the classic head tilt and high pitched "OH I LOOOOOOOVE her!!" style recognition. I'm pretty sure I've never been that type of girl and that's fine, but I always look up to that type and for that reason, find them pretty intimidating.
But she was so nice. And well, people want to be around other people who make them feel happy and this blog is pretty much all about ebbs and flows in matters of the heart. So I don't know if there's an official club that requires trading cards acknowledging when you are officially friends but she needed her hair done for the party and I recommended her to my stylist and we traded phone numbers and she texted me so I think that qualifies as friends. At the very least, confirmation that she likes me enough to have a way of contacting her outside working hours. haha
Her hair turned out gorgeous (as if any alternative was possible) and my stylist texted me thanking me for sending my new friend and to tell me how sweet the girl was and that I was "the best" for sending her over what we secretly call "cool clients" who are nice people who you want extra bunches to make smile. :)
Every year, I make a new dress for the party. It started out as a resurrection of a family tradition and sadly turned into a bit of a coping mechanism. Every year growing up, my mom would make me a BEAUTIFUL new dress for Christmas and after Christmas was over, I was allowed to wear my beautiful dress to school or to play dress up in or to run around the streets in formal winter attire of the usually taffeta persuasion. Most of the time she would pick out the patterns and I would pick out the texture of fabric and she generally stuck with red or green. Regardless, I always felt like a princess. I remember wearing my fourth grade Christmas dress to school on my tenth birthday and it was forever memorialized in my very first coming-of-age military ID card so I could travel around on base and make purchases at the general store like a grown up. So Christmas dresses are pretty special.
The first year I made one for the company christmas party was the first and ONLY time I ever got a "WOW! You look BEAUTIFUL!" from my boyfriend and even though I hated my hair, I felt again like a princess.
Everyone at the company party that year was so taken with my dress that I decided to keep up my mom's tradition. But this year, I failed. I was super stressed out at work with way too much on my plate and after tearfully telling my boyfriend I just wanted to give up, he said "It's okay. You're still beautiful" and that was that.
Or so I thought... the next day I ran into my new friend and found out to my complete and utter surprise that apparently before she ever knew who I was, she knew I was "the girl who makes her own dresses" and apparently she looked forward to seeing my new dress every year. This kind of instantly shattered my heart because I didn't think she even knew who I was until she started working in my office, let alone CARED about anything so trivial as my wardrobe. And of all days, she happened to say it on the 12 year anniversary of when a close friend of mine was murdered.
I still have horrible insomnia but the loss of Mandie so deep in my heart coupled with the feeling of letting down a new friend whose smile vanished the minute I said "I quit this year" made me feel incredibly sad inside so I stayed up until 5am working on the dress. I wish I could say I finished it in time for the party but my sewing machine jammed when I was trying to put on the finishing touches. :S
Fortunately there's another party coming up soon that I can still wear the dress to but even for as much physical stress as it was to stay up all night and then work all day (I went to bed at 5am and got up for work at 7) I'm really glad I at least did as much as I could. The dress started out as a serendipitous find of end of the bolt discontinued GORGEOUS fabric in a summer sale. I painted a picture for my boyfriend's birthday of me in the dress at a picnic with him and he loved it even before the dress was cut out.
After a while though, it became thing "thing" I had to do for the party because people expected it and I would let everyone down. But I think in the end, even though I technically "failed" to make it to the traditional deadline, I think it's going to be forever remembered as my "happy summer friendship" dress. And maybe that's not formal winter attire but I think every girl deserves a dress she can still be excited to twirl around the living room with.
Maybe I'll never understand the shoe shopping bonding concept that is essential to all grown up female relationships but if "hey, wanna go twirl dresses on the playground?" worked as a kid, maybe some things can still transcend into that which we call "Adulthood"... I guess anything is possible.
(This is my very first Christmas dress from 1983. I was two years old. I still have the dress too and always wonder what Gracie might have looked like it it...)
Monday, November 28, 2011
Two Weeks
Every two weeks I've gone to the chiropractor.
Every visit they book an appointment for two weeks out.
Every two weeks I have a doctor's appointment on the anniversary of the death of someone I once loved.
I wonder sometimes if God isn't sending me subtle hints like "stop going to the doctor and people will stop dying" or if the curses of "grown-ups" telling me I was wise beyond my years all through childhood have finally caught up to me and while I appear young on the outside, I am wise enough inside to know this is the age at which everyone around me dies.
I've always thought I would die young. Maybe it's just a peer pressure thing... who knows.
Winter is the coldest death of all.
The leaves are gathering in piles at my doorstep. Their skeletons crunch under my careless boots each morning as I stumble into the busy morning streets waiting for the sun to rise and set before I've had a chance to even live the day.
This time of year feels like an endless funeral - always cold, always dark, always two weeks away from frozen memories and rain-soaked Sundays.
I have to wonder if sometimes God is subtly hinting things I don't want to know. Like maybe the colour of the sky was never meant to be anything but grey. Maybe we were only born to die. Maybe love is only sacred because it leaves so quickly and painfully without a chance to say goodbye.
Most people died and left holes in my heart; only one died and took me with him. And from September to March all I can do is walk through rain-soaked memories, muddied by busy streets and pray these boots are strong enough to hold the remains of this skeleton he left behind...
Every visit they book an appointment for two weeks out.
Every two weeks I have a doctor's appointment on the anniversary of the death of someone I once loved.
I wonder sometimes if God isn't sending me subtle hints like "stop going to the doctor and people will stop dying" or if the curses of "grown-ups" telling me I was wise beyond my years all through childhood have finally caught up to me and while I appear young on the outside, I am wise enough inside to know this is the age at which everyone around me dies.
I've always thought I would die young. Maybe it's just a peer pressure thing... who knows.
Winter is the coldest death of all.
The leaves are gathering in piles at my doorstep. Their skeletons crunch under my careless boots each morning as I stumble into the busy morning streets waiting for the sun to rise and set before I've had a chance to even live the day.
This time of year feels like an endless funeral - always cold, always dark, always two weeks away from frozen memories and rain-soaked Sundays.
I have to wonder if sometimes God is subtly hinting things I don't want to know. Like maybe the colour of the sky was never meant to be anything but grey. Maybe we were only born to die. Maybe love is only sacred because it leaves so quickly and painfully without a chance to say goodbye.
Most people died and left holes in my heart; only one died and took me with him. And from September to March all I can do is walk through rain-soaked memories, muddied by busy streets and pray these boots are strong enough to hold the remains of this skeleton he left behind...
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
A Hundred Decibels of Silence
I've been writing so much and putting so little on paper these days.
Words feel safer in my head.
As summer turns to fall I am reminded once again of the winter chill that brings a red-leafed October. Part of me feels a heart-level homecoming with an old friend; waiting for branches to bare their arms and shed their summer secrets while I wrap mine up in scarves... to protect them from winter's chill.
Part of me feels the annual sting of failure, for never ever ever picking enough berries, for once again not making blackberry pie, for not swimming in the lake, the list could last a season.
And then September starts to end. The leaves begin to die and I with them. Sleep becomes yet another darkness that steals us sooner than expected like the winter sun setting before dinner. Sleep... that thing between bad memories and hot showers to wash them away. The only place in existence where my victories never count and my losses only double.
From the middle of September through the beginning of November, all I can dream about is dead babies. Sometimes it's Grace, sometimes it's just a random child I am deeply in love with who is either ripped from my arms or dead when I find them.
By now I should be used to it and in some ways, I suppose I am. It's hard to say which is more disturbing.
There is no justice for Grace, only hope for redemption in what is left of my life. It seems everyone I know is having babies, many of them celebrating birthdays, starting school, learning how to count and tie their shoes.
I have a cat who sleeps so close on my pillow that he often pushes me out of my own space and claims it for his own. His intentions are never with malice; it's actually the bittersweetest love I've ever known.
He comes to me in the darkness, he knows when I have the dreams. He wraps his body around my head, rests his cheek on mine and softly marches his tiny paws to wake me from my dreams.
In attempt to lessen the darkness this time, I made a deal with God. I'd stop turning up the radio to drown out my thoughts if he'd give me a reason worth being silent. I try and talk to him but I feel like I just keep failing. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to remember. And yet, so much of me wants to scream it at the top of my lungs.
The only thing I've noticed is that even in the silence, the music still plays in my head. I've tried to turn it off but there seems to be no escape. I wonder sometimes if I've created my own hell so loud, even God can't hear me.
Tonight, I have a break from the music, interrupted by a flood from the sky. Maybe God is trying to drown me out too. Maybe he's crying with me. I guess it doesn't really matter. It's a nice break from the silence and at least I know he still cares.
Words feel safer in my head.
As summer turns to fall I am reminded once again of the winter chill that brings a red-leafed October. Part of me feels a heart-level homecoming with an old friend; waiting for branches to bare their arms and shed their summer secrets while I wrap mine up in scarves... to protect them from winter's chill.
Part of me feels the annual sting of failure, for never ever ever picking enough berries, for once again not making blackberry pie, for not swimming in the lake, the list could last a season.
And then September starts to end. The leaves begin to die and I with them. Sleep becomes yet another darkness that steals us sooner than expected like the winter sun setting before dinner. Sleep... that thing between bad memories and hot showers to wash them away. The only place in existence where my victories never count and my losses only double.
From the middle of September through the beginning of November, all I can dream about is dead babies. Sometimes it's Grace, sometimes it's just a random child I am deeply in love with who is either ripped from my arms or dead when I find them.
By now I should be used to it and in some ways, I suppose I am. It's hard to say which is more disturbing.
There is no justice for Grace, only hope for redemption in what is left of my life. It seems everyone I know is having babies, many of them celebrating birthdays, starting school, learning how to count and tie their shoes.
I have a cat who sleeps so close on my pillow that he often pushes me out of my own space and claims it for his own. His intentions are never with malice; it's actually the bittersweetest love I've ever known.
He comes to me in the darkness, he knows when I have the dreams. He wraps his body around my head, rests his cheek on mine and softly marches his tiny paws to wake me from my dreams.
In attempt to lessen the darkness this time, I made a deal with God. I'd stop turning up the radio to drown out my thoughts if he'd give me a reason worth being silent. I try and talk to him but I feel like I just keep failing. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to remember. And yet, so much of me wants to scream it at the top of my lungs.
The only thing I've noticed is that even in the silence, the music still plays in my head. I've tried to turn it off but there seems to be no escape. I wonder sometimes if I've created my own hell so loud, even God can't hear me.
Tonight, I have a break from the music, interrupted by a flood from the sky. Maybe God is trying to drown me out too. Maybe he's crying with me. I guess it doesn't really matter. It's a nice break from the silence and at least I know he still cares.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Flowers in the Window
I never thought this day would come.
Nine years ago this very hour, my plan landed in Seattle. I was moving off to "ever afterland" and would live out the rest of my life with smiles and bliss.
How foolish dreams can be.
Nevertheless, it's been exactly nine years. Nine depressing years of waiting to escape the clouds and rain and dreary reality of how small towns can suffocate as much as they can wrap you in peaceful familiarity.
I had a three year plan. I was supposed to be somewhere else by now. Somewhere fabulous doing something remarkable... or at least just somewhere else doing anything.
I've never lived anywhere for nine years before. Well, officially I guess I left the state for a summer and moved to another town for six months so in ten more months I will "officially" have been in the same city for nine years. But still, nine is a big number.
And yet, I have no idea where the time has gone.
In looking back, my strongest memories are of walking barefoot through fields of dandelions, picking wild cherries in the woods, falling in love with boys who bought me books, and waiting for... something. I can't put my finger on it, but I feel like I've been holding my breath all this time waiting for someone to finally come put their hand on my shoulder and say "It's okay, it's over. You can go home now."
But what is home? I have nowhere to go back to; no one is there. So, if there's nothing behind me and nothing certain in front of me, where does that leave me?
Here.
Perpetually.
For nine years.
I'm not saying it's all bad. As far as small towns go, this one's got quite the charm. But I have to wonder if any place will ever feel like home again or if I'll just continue the rest of my life with scattered pieces of my heart left along the highway.
Nine years ago this very hour, my plan landed in Seattle. I was moving off to "ever afterland" and would live out the rest of my life with smiles and bliss.
How foolish dreams can be.
Nevertheless, it's been exactly nine years. Nine depressing years of waiting to escape the clouds and rain and dreary reality of how small towns can suffocate as much as they can wrap you in peaceful familiarity.
I had a three year plan. I was supposed to be somewhere else by now. Somewhere fabulous doing something remarkable... or at least just somewhere else doing anything.
I've never lived anywhere for nine years before. Well, officially I guess I left the state for a summer and moved to another town for six months so in ten more months I will "officially" have been in the same city for nine years. But still, nine is a big number.
And yet, I have no idea where the time has gone.
In looking back, my strongest memories are of walking barefoot through fields of dandelions, picking wild cherries in the woods, falling in love with boys who bought me books, and waiting for... something. I can't put my finger on it, but I feel like I've been holding my breath all this time waiting for someone to finally come put their hand on my shoulder and say "It's okay, it's over. You can go home now."
But what is home? I have nowhere to go back to; no one is there. So, if there's nothing behind me and nothing certain in front of me, where does that leave me?
Here.
Perpetually.
For nine years.
I'm not saying it's all bad. As far as small towns go, this one's got quite the charm. But I have to wonder if any place will ever feel like home again or if I'll just continue the rest of my life with scattered pieces of my heart left along the highway.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Between Heartbeats
There is a split second chance in our lives sometimes, lasting only the moment between heartbeats, when everything you've been praying for opens up at your feet and you have two choices: Speak, or Run.
My decision is to hold my breath, close my eyes, and pray.
I've spent enough late nights praying for the same thing, the same person, the same hope that God would be merciful and bend in my heart's favor.
What's one more night?
Tonight, I saw a star rise up in the night sky. I didn't ask it to tumble to earth, to land on my lashes or get lost in my eyes.
I just thanked God that he let me see it. All it takes is the tiniest spark of light to shatter any darkness, and that's all I need. God may not always give me what I want, but he never gives me less than I need. And in a world where my survival depends on hope, I am blessed beyond the limits of the sky tonight.
It feels good to know God still hears me...
My decision is to hold my breath, close my eyes, and pray.
I've spent enough late nights praying for the same thing, the same person, the same hope that God would be merciful and bend in my heart's favor.
What's one more night?
Tonight, I saw a star rise up in the night sky. I didn't ask it to tumble to earth, to land on my lashes or get lost in my eyes.
I just thanked God that he let me see it. All it takes is the tiniest spark of light to shatter any darkness, and that's all I need. God may not always give me what I want, but he never gives me less than I need. And in a world where my survival depends on hope, I am blessed beyond the limits of the sky tonight.
It feels good to know God still hears me...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Whisper of Roaring Twenties
In an hour and a half I'll be thirty years old.
I remember the day my mom turned thirty. I remember the presents we made for her out of puffy paint and empty toilet paper tubes.
I'll wake up tomorrow a thirty year old with no kids, no handmade presents waiting for me, no husband brewing coffee in the kitchen.
I'll wait up thirty; with my cat.
He'll beg for me to feed him as I stumble in the half-darkness making my way to the fridge through the mass of things he knocked over during the night.
I'll look for a clean spoon and realize they didn't grant my birthday wish and wash themselves overnight, I'll put on an old vintage dress that I recently received as a hand-me-down present from a friend, I'll attempt to tease my hair in a way that will last all day, I'll forget where I put my shoes, glasses, keys, and then I'll wander bleary-eyed out into the day and drive my car to work.
I'll spend the day at a less than impressive desk with a less than impressive job that I really don't like and I will attempt to not let sarcastic commentary out of my inner monologue when someone is rude to me on the phone.
But I will be thirty. I will have lives for three decades, I'll have outlived half of my best friends, I'll meet my boyfriend for coffee on my morning break and wonder why it is that he continues to adore me so, I'll worry about what my fluffy terror-obsessed kitten is doing to my house while at work and I'll smile in appreciation that I at least have a boss who knows I don't like my job and he still appreciates me for putting in as much effort as if I did.
I'll spend the day giggling with my office mate who is as beautiful on the inside as she is outside and I will smell all the flowers at my favorite floral shop when I go wandering on my afternoon break.
This isn't where I'd hoped to be by the age of thirty but given where I was and could have been instead, it's a pretty awesome trade.
I could have been coming up on my 9ths wedding anniversary, would probably have had two kids by now, Hannah and Trent, our fish William would have long since died and been replaced by a multitude of other pet store goldfish and I would probably be wondering where my life could have been if I'd followed my dreams.
I could have been in Hollywood working for a friend at Warner Brothers who had immeasurable faith in me and saw me for who I had been and who I was yet to be. I could have been scraping to get by in some kickass studio apartment off Sunset Blvd. I could have been famous and wondering where I would have been if I had settled for what I once thought was the sky.
Once upon a time I wanted to write greeting cards for Hallmark, live in a one bedroom apartment above a coffee shop, play my guitar at open mic nights and come home each night to a white siamese cat named Moses.
I could have, if Hallmark hadn't been in Kansas City, if the internship had paid, if my favorite coffee shop hadn't closed down, and if the apartments above it had better water pipes and allowed cats.
Instead, I have an orange kitten with more medical conditions than I can count on both hands. I have a daughter in heaven, conceived through rape; I have a one bedroom apartment that really should be called a studio and I have a boyfriend who says I look fifteen again when I get a "shy smile" as I brag about how awesomely I did my hair.
This isn't where I expected to be but I've got a lot more to love about life than to hate and that's a pretty awesome trade.
When I wake up tomorrow, it will be with the same hopes I had on my birthdays of 13, 16, 18 and 21 -- a starry eyed hope that things will magically feel different. That life will someone look more vibrant, feel more alive... that something awesome might happen simply because it's another day of the week but I have a new number next to my name.
I honestly can't remember if anything magical happened on those days. But my hair stylist said, in the off chance that something does, I should call her and let her know. And maybe nothing magical will ever happen on any "milestone" year. But the thought that someone else is closing their eyes and wishing on my behalf too, hey, that's pretty magical in itself.
My spoons will never clean themselves but I have people in my life who genuinely love me. That's a lot more than some people can say. And for that, I am truly blessed.
I remember the day my mom turned thirty. I remember the presents we made for her out of puffy paint and empty toilet paper tubes.
I'll wake up tomorrow a thirty year old with no kids, no handmade presents waiting for me, no husband brewing coffee in the kitchen.
I'll wait up thirty; with my cat.
He'll beg for me to feed him as I stumble in the half-darkness making my way to the fridge through the mass of things he knocked over during the night.
I'll look for a clean spoon and realize they didn't grant my birthday wish and wash themselves overnight, I'll put on an old vintage dress that I recently received as a hand-me-down present from a friend, I'll attempt to tease my hair in a way that will last all day, I'll forget where I put my shoes, glasses, keys, and then I'll wander bleary-eyed out into the day and drive my car to work.
I'll spend the day at a less than impressive desk with a less than impressive job that I really don't like and I will attempt to not let sarcastic commentary out of my inner monologue when someone is rude to me on the phone.
But I will be thirty. I will have lives for three decades, I'll have outlived half of my best friends, I'll meet my boyfriend for coffee on my morning break and wonder why it is that he continues to adore me so, I'll worry about what my fluffy terror-obsessed kitten is doing to my house while at work and I'll smile in appreciation that I at least have a boss who knows I don't like my job and he still appreciates me for putting in as much effort as if I did.
I'll spend the day giggling with my office mate who is as beautiful on the inside as she is outside and I will smell all the flowers at my favorite floral shop when I go wandering on my afternoon break.
This isn't where I'd hoped to be by the age of thirty but given where I was and could have been instead, it's a pretty awesome trade.
I could have been coming up on my 9ths wedding anniversary, would probably have had two kids by now, Hannah and Trent, our fish William would have long since died and been replaced by a multitude of other pet store goldfish and I would probably be wondering where my life could have been if I'd followed my dreams.
I could have been in Hollywood working for a friend at Warner Brothers who had immeasurable faith in me and saw me for who I had been and who I was yet to be. I could have been scraping to get by in some kickass studio apartment off Sunset Blvd. I could have been famous and wondering where I would have been if I had settled for what I once thought was the sky.
Once upon a time I wanted to write greeting cards for Hallmark, live in a one bedroom apartment above a coffee shop, play my guitar at open mic nights and come home each night to a white siamese cat named Moses.
I could have, if Hallmark hadn't been in Kansas City, if the internship had paid, if my favorite coffee shop hadn't closed down, and if the apartments above it had better water pipes and allowed cats.
Instead, I have an orange kitten with more medical conditions than I can count on both hands. I have a daughter in heaven, conceived through rape; I have a one bedroom apartment that really should be called a studio and I have a boyfriend who says I look fifteen again when I get a "shy smile" as I brag about how awesomely I did my hair.
This isn't where I expected to be but I've got a lot more to love about life than to hate and that's a pretty awesome trade.
When I wake up tomorrow, it will be with the same hopes I had on my birthdays of 13, 16, 18 and 21 -- a starry eyed hope that things will magically feel different. That life will someone look more vibrant, feel more alive... that something awesome might happen simply because it's another day of the week but I have a new number next to my name.
I honestly can't remember if anything magical happened on those days. But my hair stylist said, in the off chance that something does, I should call her and let her know. And maybe nothing magical will ever happen on any "milestone" year. But the thought that someone else is closing their eyes and wishing on my behalf too, hey, that's pretty magical in itself.
My spoons will never clean themselves but I have people in my life who genuinely love me. That's a lot more than some people can say. And for that, I am truly blessed.
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