Divorce, Humanity

lost and found, but lost.

hi. I’m at the end of my recovery day, from yesterday’s full 24 hours of hell, from both ends. the kids were at school for the bulk of it, but after school were play auditions for two kids, and a soccer game so I needed to ask for help. and it came, with trumpets. kids were taken to tryouts, soccer was watched and that kid got to go out to dinner with his dad…dinner was served to other kids, homework was done.  a small crew of 3 adults did what I do on a normal Wednesday.

I’m not going to tell you I’m not proud of my life.

and I’m going to tell you that you are lucky if you have family and love like I do. so lucky.

today is recovery. fair amounts of water, boredom in bed, sickness at the thought of food, but hungry.  by the time the bus rolled around today, I had moved myself to the kitchen cozy. spent an hour just chatting with my girl because I missed her yesterday. an hour. the bliss of it. just cozied up. I learned about the lady who did all the math for the moon. (Katherine Johnson) Everything stays the same, yes? but these tiny differences? that my girl sits on my lap and tells me all about the LADY that did all the math to save the men who traveled to the moon? oh, it’s rich with possibility. if this were a comic, we would turn the page to the next ms. marvel.

but since I’ve been in bed all day, I now can’t sleep, as weak and ridiculous as I feel. and so I’m here, apologetic.

one thing: I paid to print out the whole of my old blog, wifemotherexpletive.com  

1016190912I thought it would be so cool to go through it and pick out the things that I loved, that I have written, those bits of beauty that slipped through and away during those years.

and I can’t. I read the first post, and the second, and did some flipping. and it is just unbearably sad. I was so sad, all the time, and mad, and lost. like the perfect puppy who lives under the bridge while the happy family walks by, unseeing. I hate ‘near miss’ movies, and I’m pretty sure I lived one for a long time. Maybe the hate comes from the experience.

It was ten years of my life, that writing. and makes two volumes, when divided chronologically. the first is so fat, rich with hope and trying. and the second volume thin, with so much less of everything.

I don’t want to look into the memories, or remember what the code was in my stories, as I was trying so hard to communicate with my husband my devastation at what i was, what we were.

Its been crushing me a little, into sickness maybe? and this is the season when I feel devastation the deepest. if one has any choice in that, at all.

so there it is. my late-night blog. what the hell do i do with all that?

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Humanity

mean old bastard

there’s a piece of me that is a hard, flinty old man. the man who cuts up the tennis balls that land in his yard, to show those young’uns what ‘respect’ means.

you wouldn’t know it to look at me, but it is there, and it is strong. it is most assuredly NOT the strongest of the bunch, but he does show his head often enough that I know him. He’s really quite reactive.

If I’m cold, he comes out ranting about how I can’t start a fire because it is too early in the season and I’ll run out of wood when I need it most. And I can’t turn on the heat because I’ll run out of money when I need it most.

If I’m lonely, he runs out into the yard to wave his stick at all my faults, including my introversion, which is a bit of a mind-bender.  “If you weren’t so damn picky, you’d have more friends. If you go out with those people, they will really learn about how weird you are.”

curmudgeon. filled with fear and lack… not-enoughness.

UnwifedMotherExpletive on the Beach

I think most people know it, certainly have seen it in others.  its a whole way of explaining American culture right now. I hate you because you might take what I have, someday, somehow, because I really don’t have enough, and I’m scared.

And how do I address that mean old bastard? The more I respect the pieces of me that have developed, the more I realize I can let him rant, and fling his fear around. I can. no big.

as long as I don’t do more than that. I can let him, I don’t need to burn down his house.  I may not want to have him over for dinner but I don’t need to ‘become him’.  I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work. So, i’m just going to go to the beach and pick up pretty rocks and use a hanky to save the world.

and he can rant, and I can let him. and when he is done, I might bake him some apple crisp.

but guess what? he’s lost his teef.

more for me.

-uwmofo

 

Humanity

Archetypes and Mother Teresa

yep, you read that right. I’m on day 3 of listening to * Carolyn Myss talk about Archetypes, and how we all can relate better and feel more connected when we use a common language of symbol and metaphor.  (of course, cross-cultural might provide hills and valleys, but Mother, Mother is the broadest thing in the universe, potentially, but is still Mother. Child, Warrior, Student, Saboteur, ) These are elements we have within us, not what we do to others, necessarily.

For fucksake, Mother Theresa wasn’t even a mother, and she was.  right? we dig? Its not ‘literal’, its symbolic, full of meaning that doesn’t even need to be spoken. men can be Mother, ladies without kids can be Mother. whatever.

again, whatever. So, work is slow and I’m looking into the things I love.  I love mysticism, have, do, but because I went to a Jesuit College, I studied a whole bunch of mystics, and I don’t envy them a goddamned bit.*= I mean, we’re talking very very dark trials and tribulations, some including blood and abandonment and hysteria, and super early deaths.  So, you know, not that much of a celebrity thing.

BUT, I love Mother Theresa. And I’ve been getting into the whole ‘Listening to things on tape/phone’ thing lately. it allows me to concentrate in a way that I haven’t for a very long time, almost collegiate-ly.*-

“If I ever become a saint—I will surely be one of ‘darkness,’” Mother Teresa wrote in September of 1959. “I will continually be absent from heaven—to light the light of those in darkness on earth.” *& This site

oh, man, she is my guy. (I know)

and one of the archetypes that i’m learning I have in me is that of the Innocent Child, the Magical Child… ooooh, sparkly lights and rainbows and steadfast faith and oooh, a butterfly!! its not an immature thing, or naïve, but it is a pretty significant part of me in much of my life thus far. And… every archetype has its flipside, or ‘shadow’ and the times when my child is despondent, and believes in nothing, and hides in the blanket fort, are for real.  Disappointment, loss of faith in the goodness, oh man, they swing through and knock me down.

0920191356h

I am not equating my mood swings to Mother Teresa’s dark nights of the soul. except metaphorically. **

anyhow, i’m freehanding this, and I want to stop now to go back to thinking. so, there. Oh my word, I just started to type something about how my bulletpoints below are hollow but stopped to look up what that meant literally and oh my god, guys, what kind of world are we living in?!

*I don’t know much about Myss or Sacred Contracts, or what not, but I ‘GET’ the idea of archetypes, whether we grasp them on the surface or just recognize them floating under the dock.  I just ‘get’ it.

*=my language is pretty damn funny/punny. unintentional, I swear.

*-let us now talk about the girl who is deaf getting back into ‘listening’, shall we? no? okay then.

*& I don’t know anything about this site but its where I got the quote so I had to link.

**if there is a God, and a ‘living’ Mother T, then i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m not worthy… full on face in dirt.

Humanity

what’d you do today, freelancer?

I don’t have any work to do today. I mean, I’ve got two jobs that are on hold, or i’m awaiting a response to the last message, etc. So I really have nothing to do.  I’ve moved the sofa. I’ve got a wing chair in the middle of the kitchen now. I’ve measured something. I’ve danced. I took a bath. I’m clean and I watched a zombie show. I am keeping the chickens locked up today because there is a fox, and he has been fed twice in the past two days and hella, stop.

This:

Last night I got a text message from a mom whose kid is/was a friend of my teenager.  sometime in august some shit went down and she just heard about it now and was texting me to essentially find out about it, complain and judge me and my job as a parent.

let me be clear: my kid was part of something mean and unkind to her kid. my kid was mean and unkind.

full stop.

but I don’t really take kindly to the notion that I then get a lecture on parenting from another parent. As if my 14 year old kid is not responsible for his decisions.  Because I was upset at the text series, I looked again through his phone, talked with him about the incident yet again and when I told him that the boy’s feelings had been significantly hurt, he had remorse, again, as he should have.

AND YET, it is still not my responsibility to control his first actions.  I’ve given him a model, and earlier on, explicit directions on how to treat people.  And he made a mistake.

I do feel sorry for it, and sorry for her kid, because it sucks to be in high school sometimes. it really does. and he got hit with flung shit (not literally).

But the patronizing, and the moralizing, and the judgement that I got?  I fling that shit back and out. No.

BUT because I avoid conflict, even within myself, the anger splurted out at my kids last night.

(yelling)
“SHUT UP. I LOVE YOU BUT PLEASE SHUT UP.”

lots of fun at bedtime. guilt. anger. guilt. anger.

so I leave you with this:

a new pink sofa. free, by the side of the road, with a twin. small enough to haul around the house on a freelancing kind of day.

0916191208

Humanity

Re-arriving

I’m slowly coming back into the world.  I’m working each day and making absurd money in small bits of time. Its not enough bits yet, but this morning I made $100 in twenty minutes. So that math? You dig? shoot. And i’m not even a hooker.

I’m coming back into my intellect, with a little removal from the hectic of childcare and whatnots.  I’m listening to a workshop that a woman named Alison Armstrong gave, on Audible. Its the first time I’ve spent so much time listening to something. Her website is called UnderstandMen, which cracks me the hell up.   I have the fancy earphones which STRONGLY resemble earmuffs, so I walk around in my slippers on purpose so I can feel like some kind of Nordic Lodge Bunny. (that’s a thing, right?)

I’ve even felt my spirit stirring, as I tend my home in the tiniest of ways, here and there, attending to space in a seasonal transition.  Tending, without rush, with a feeling of satisfaction at tiny change upon tiny change. And there is the light here. And I have a new painting on the wall that Jessica Kinsella painted, and its astonishing. I’ll try and photo it when the light is right. Maybe I’ll get it in here.

Today is my sister’s birthday. It is a fantastic day to be alive, all the more so because of a day we all remember for something else.  It is a fantastic day to be alive.

 

Thank you, Shannon.

My heart is trying its damnedest to stir to full beat. My intellect and fear-based life experiences are getting in my way. But I’m trying to understand myself, and be gracious to myself, at least, more often than not. and, LM seems to be a very patient man. I’m trying so hard to allow myself to have faith in another person. Its way trickier than I thought it would be.

Jessica Kinsella painting, detail. Unwifedmotherexpletive
my photo does not do it justice. It glows. It is illuminated in color.