chapters

i used to like my coffee sweet and cool, cream and sugar please… these days i like it black and raw. no more covering the taste with other flavors to trick myself into believing i’m doing something else.

maybe it started with the reflection in the mirror, one day waking up and realizing that i wasn’t only embarking on the other side of the years i had left, but that i had careened, blazed, feet first onto that path and i’d been there for years already. without ever appreciating my youth and vitality… lineless eyes and even toned skin… dreams that seemed to still be within reach as soon as i got my shit together… the luxury of time was spent like a $20 bill found in the pocket of a coat i had not worn in months… fast and foolishly and without regard to the day when i might need some loose change.

the “someday maybes” dissapated more quickly than i accumulated them… overnight it seems… and now, i’m faced only with my broken heart. my truth. and myself.

candy man

At first, she had a hard time listening without judgment as he told her all about himself and how he held onto her for so many years… instantly dismissing him with what she called common sense and realistic logic.  Yet there was something that drew her to him; something she couldn’t explain… deep within– she knew there was something extraordinary waiting to be discovered between them.

But it wasn’t until the first time they laid together; before they even touched… that she tasted the power of their connection.  She still couldn’t explain it; but she could feel it… rich and warm and enveloping her in an incredible sense of belonging right there… right then… with him…

And when she let him into her body, it was like she let him into her spirit…  the shock of his size, his weight heavy over her, the dreamy thick i-can-barely-breathe-this-air feeling…  all too much to take yet she could never get enough closeness like that…

All the stories she had locked away in her mind and her heart…  the ones that never took flight… that lost their momentum in the space between her mind and her fingertips as they held black ink filled cold silver…

They were really nothing more than vague recollections; dreams floating on the wind… merging together like moisture in a dark cloud, dumping tears like rain before dissolving to make way for the sun’s powerful rays…  

Like everything, there is a cycle to those stories… birth… life and finally death; maybe best laid to rest as memories of who she used to be – buried deep within the protective grasp of the same  little girl who kept the secrets to herself all those years… 

After all… the man he is can see them anyway…  holds his fingers steadfast around her own; keeping her secrets safe and her heart open to all that love can be.

© jmr/04.11

patchouli

This afternoon on my subway commute I noticed a couple, in their mid twenties – she was beautiful in an ethereal, slightly gothic, huge turquoise blue pools of Caribbean ocean water eyes, fair rosy cheeked with a sprinkling of freckles on each cheek kind of way – her hair was wild, curly and unkempt, dark brown; she wore knee long black leather flat heeled boots with buckles up each side, skinny black jeans, a hip length corduroy blazer, chic red retro eyeglasses that kept slipping to the tip of her nose, then back in place, and I’m fairly certain she smelled of patchouli.

I wasn’t close enough to know for sure, but I could just tell

He was a startling contrast – about thirty pounds overweight, long brown curly hair pushed behind his ears to keep the unwashed strands off his swollen face, pasty white hairless thick non muscular calves peeking out from the bottom of his off white cargo shorts… black t-shirt with some nondescript band name emblazoned across the front, the neckband stretched out from being worn too much…

But the contrast ended there.

They both wore thick platinum wedding bands on their left hands, and their interaction was of two brand new lovers, freshly pressed newlyweds who had only moments before stepped out of his cousin’s 1983 silver Honda civic (complete with soda cans tied to strings on the back bumper and “just married” in white spray paint all over the windows)…

Yet there was something “old” about the newness of their love…

The way he had his hands tangled in her hair and the way she nuzzled up to him without complaining about his hands being tangled in her hair… the way their arms were intertwined as they sat side by side, like they were trying in every way possible to get closer to each other, inside of each other…

The way she looked up at him as he spoke to her, how their laughter, as though on cue, rose and fell together, ending in a longing look into each other’s eyes, her right hand tracing the contours of his chin …

The way he spontaneously wrapped her up into his arms and held her tightly to him…

I found myself watching but trying not to be caught watching… 

All buttoned up in my black wool pea coat and sensible shoes, laptop bag at my feet, keys and wallet in hand, my eyes welling up with tears that refused to fall…

And I wondered…

Where was my love like that.

Where was my longing look,

my I love everything about you

my you’re so difficult, so complicated, so easy to get along with, so perfect, i-would-do-anything-to-get-closer-to-you-even-after-you-let-me-all-the-way-in

love like that

perhaps I missed it…

perhaps it isn’t in the cards for me

perhaps

I have it already

And I don’t even know

Perhaps I never will

jmr / 2010

nature is my muse…

I arrive at my best conclusions when I’m hiking. Stories I’d like to write, things I’d like to try to learn… what I should have said, what I don’t regret, and what’s not too late to turn around.

Nature is my muse.

It’s not any particular season, scenery that I favor, or topographical challenge specifically. It’s all of those – independent of one another. It’s the fact that any one, if not combined with its counterparts would not work. The flavor would not be as rich – the physical impact on my body not as strenuous – the visual symphony not as awe inspiring – the experience not as memorable.

It is…

when my mind is racing and a lizard races across the path in front of me, stopping me in my tracks; that i am filled with wonder at a tiny living creature capable of halting my gait by just being…

when I am struggling to conquer an incline, my calf muscles burning, my entire body and intent focused only on finishing without stopping; that i am filled with a flood of accomplishment emotion at the top

when I realize how very small I am, in relation to the earth around me, that I feel humility and passion to protect all that is given to us without having to ask

when I press forward through the rain, dressed in inadequate gear for the weather, rain pelting my cheeks, wet clothes stuck to my body; that I feel human…

vulnerable

real

alive

And in between the influences on all five senses, I think…
I imagine…
Sometimes even embark upon the elusive sixth sense.

subway

Him: about 5’11, thick head of silverblack hair, handsome, tanned, dimples, striped button down banana republic shirt, dress slacks and freshly shined shoes… laptop in front of him, hands resting gently on the keyboard.

Her: petite, black capri pants and dress sandals, long auburn hair, talking quietly on the phone as she made her way to the first open seat

He noticed her immediately. She pretended not to notice. I watched them sneaking glances; oblivious to all that was around them.

They both got off on my stop. In parallel, he descended down the stairs, she on the escalator. He looked at her twice; the second time nearly losing his footing.

She looked up, they smiled, exchanged words…I was amused at the awkward way they walked close to each other but not tooclose, how she put her left hand in her pocket as though to hide the huge diamond ring on her wedding finger, the trading of business cards.

As they parted ways with a handshake, I couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for them…

you don’t have to call first…

Before I met you, I had no problem with admitting that this was it – my life… and everything in it was mine (by my own doing, my own choices, my own mistakes)… all that I have, I earned… fought for… kicking and screaming and it’s mine… achieved with my own two hands…my own intellect… my own strength.

I know I’ll never be 17 again; when the future was crisp like the morning air and my life waited ahead, as far as the eye could see.

When I could race without fear, when there was still abundant forgiveness for my wiley and curious ways, when I didn’t have a care in the world…

As the years flew by, I became resolute… I fell into routine and made amends with the young woman in my heart… Apologized to her for letting her believe I’d still be able to make her laugh wildly, let her run recklessly with the wind blowing through her hair… I packaged my acceptance up neatly in a gift box, affixed a bow and tucked it away into the furthest corner of my top closet shelf.

Then I met you. And you shook me up. You came out of nowhere and made me question everything I do, who I thought I was, why I’d given up.

You gave me love… real love; unconditional and unwavering. You expect greatness from me… and I am starting to believe that the me you see is the me I already am… you make me a better woman; you make me want more, everything, faster, fuller and NOW.

I feel anxious, but not in the way that you think. I feel like I’m waiting for the future to begin and it’s so close I can taste it but I can’t do anything to speed things along. I have my eyes on the one thing that will make me happy and every day wasted without moving toward it is another day I sit here in the same place wishing on the same star dreaming the same dream and doing nothing to make it come true.

I have climbed up and grabbed the box from the top shelf, tore open the wrapping and tried on all the wishes I tucked away. I’m sitting alone in my room wearing my party clothes with no place to go.

Just come get me, already – I only need to grab my shoes. You don’t have to call first – I’ll know it’s you before I even hear the doorbell ring…

©jmr/2009

2007 – 04.13

I have been told that since turning 30 I began a journey; a journey of leaving girlish things behind and embracing womanhood.

A journey laced with gaining a greater sense of self; and laugh lines.

Where it’s harder to lose weight, easier to maintain a relationship, and just as hard as ever to accept that “this is it”; that my life is my life and my choices netted me this current existence that will probably never change beyond my ability to know myself and grow within that knowledge.

I had dreams as a child; but I don’t remember what they were. More than likely the result of never learning how to define and crystallize my dream; and turn it into something tangible that I could go to school for; get a degree in, find a job doing, fulfill.

And yet, as I dabbled in the labyrinth of my potential, I had a general idea of what I was good at, what I wish I was better at, what I wish was natural to me, and what I was good at but didn’t want to do.

Child prodigies playing Beethoven on the piano at age 3, insane mathematical ability surfacing before a child can even walk; picking up on chess nary a lesson taken; I have always wondered what my age 3 prodigy gift was.

I have to believe that everyone has something. I’ve never bought anything less; and hence the problem – extreme drive and no outlet.

What about those who realized their gift at a young age – I would be interested to know who among them grew their talent and still practice it successfully as an adult.

And who among them were convinced, by well meaning relatives, to obtain a marketable trade because, after all, there are a lot of talented people in the world who live gig to gig, paycheck to paycheck, painting sold to painting sold, and never have enough money to purchase a home and raise a family properly.

jmr/2007

no longer two different things…

flipping through channels this evening i stopped [absent mindedly] at a show i’d never even heard of before…  it was about complicated lives full of truth and lies… 

 

and the intricate web that is the heart of a woman…  the heart of a mother… the heart of a lover… the heart of a friend.

 

two of the four women, who were obviously long time friends, were walking together and talking. 

 

one of them, the vivacious glossy brown eyed and promiscuous one, [who i later learned had just begun to experiment with her sexuality and gender preferences] was lamenting about a feeling she had recently that she could not define, had never felt before, and didn’t know how she would find again…

 

she had tried to find it again over the previous several weeks of further experimentation in every combination she could think of, trying to detangle herself from her confusion… but the feeling was elusive –

 

her friend asked, “what did it feel like exactly?”

she answered, “overwhelming, but not in a bad way”

 

her friend replied, “was it like your emotions and your body were no longer two different things?”

 

the girl stared at her friend, a little shocked, yet relieved at the realization that she was completely and thoroughly understood, and nodded her head enthusiastically. 

 

her friend said, simply, “you’re in love”.

 

I suppose there is no way to predict when love will come into your life, how swiftly it will take over your sensibilities, causing you to immediately throw self preservation to the far corners without question, making the impossible seem possible, nothing seem dangerous and everything seem right… 

 

making the soul insatiable for more more more…

 

You can’t pre-determine how you will respond; how it will rip through your veins and tear apart the foundation of who you were and what you knew (or know)…  making it impossible to ever go backward and a shaky prospect, at best, to go forward – how will you ever know what’s real again after THIS if THIS isn’t the end all and be all…  and how presumptuous to assume that THIS is real when you obviously don’t know SHIT (after all [insert past here]…)

 

There isn’t a way to anticipate if you will be ready for it, who or what in your life might be impacted if the timing is wrong (or if the timing is right), how your mind will shift when you realize you’ve been living a lie but now you KNOW better, or what you would be willing to give up…

 

For the girl in the storyline, it wasn’t anything she was attempting to recreate on her own - not gender, or excitement of the chase, or even the experience itself that shook her.  it was, at the core, the connection and alignment of the different pieces of herself she’d been able to keep in their own perfect little boxes her whole life…  she was an expert before this at never spilling from one box to the other, and never confusing which contents belonged where.  

 

It was the person.

 

For those of us who have never felt that perfect, simple, effortless unification of all the senses, mind body and spirit before, it’s easy to be blown away (and right onto our ass) by its introduction.

 

It’s easy to let the heart trick the mind into believing it means something it does not, and that both people involved have to be on the same page at the same pace at the exact same time, because, after all, it’s LOVE.

 

It’s easy to flood ourselves with dreams of “meant to be” and “this is magic”, rush to conclusions which might involve traditional things – a family, a home, forever after…

 

But it’s so hard to open ourselves to the notion of:

 

Simply enjoying the feeling

 

Letting it fill us completely

Until there is no more room inside

And then letting it fill us some more

 

Not caring about the outcome

Not considering the risks…

 

Just jumping, knowing full well

there is

no net

 

jmr/2009

on motherhood

When you’re little, a lot of things don’t make sense.  From the moment you are born you are certain of some things – instinctive things – needing to be held, loved, accepted, nurtured, fed, cleaned…  But there is much that you are not certain of; more intuitive things – like responding to the environment you are in, whether negative or positive.

 

As you grow, you learn how to communicate your needs in a more effective way than simply crying when something isn’t “right”.  You learn spoken language… you learn how to interpret the moods of those around you and how to react; by making mistakes, by testing the waters, by acting out and even by withdrawing.  Withdrawal is the one that fascinates me the most; and while I believe there to be many shades of grey – two basic reasons for withdrawal are for attention when it is lacking and for survival amongst chaos.

 

When my son was born, and they put him in my arms, I swear to God he looked at me – right into my eyes.  Before I became pregnant, and even secretly, throughout my pregnancy, I did not want to be a mother.  I did not think I would be good at it – worried that my past would cloud my judgment and that I would not be able to evolve from a broken child into a whole parent who could love unconditionally and without fail.

 

Yet, somehow, when he was in my arms and I took my first look at his little pudgy cheeks; flushed from months in the womb and the shock of emerging into the world, counted his ten fingers and toes, and held him to my breast for the first time, I realized that I loved him.  The tiny little creature who mercilessly tried to escape from inside me every single time I laid down to go to sleep, who kicked my stomach so hard you could see his foot print through my skin, who wedged himself into God Knows what crevices inside of me for 9 months and pushed with all his might as though he was trying to stretch his entire body out straight, this tiny person was mine.  And I loved him instantly.

 

I often wondered, as I was going through the divorce from his father, as I delved into the deepest pits of depression, as I worked tireless long hours, as I dated, if those things would negatively impact his development or the strength of our relationship.  I struggled between wanting to figure out who I was and what I wanted, and knowing that I was responsible for this human being who was here because I chose to bring him into the world.  I spent many years feeling like I was failing him, falling short in the “real mom” department, comparing myself to the other mothers I knew who took their children, sometimes three or four of them, to the park, to museums, who stayed at home while their husbands toiled away at work, who made school lunches the night before, attended field trips and never raised their voices, got frustrated or felt like they were putting their own growth on hold while raising their own children.

 

Yet somehow, imperfect as I have been, I managed to raise a fine young man; intelligent and cerebral, empathetic and understanding, wise beyond his years, blessed with the gift of sarcastic humor, the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met, unselfish and giving, never intentionally hurtful and always smiling – ready to give a hug or a kiss on the cheek just for the asking – and sometimes not having to be asked at all. 

 

I have been guilty of using the television as a babysitter, allowing him to stay home just because he didn’t want to go to school, letting him play video games until his bleary eyed stare made him resemble a zombie, yelling at him for leaving his towel on the floor, and hurting his feelings without intending to.  Yet, somehow, he has blossomed.

 

I compare my childhood to his a lot.  I wasn’t allowed to play outside except for when I went to visit my grandmother.  I let my son play outside whenever he wants to – and take great pleasure in watching him frolic around.  I would have given my right arm to have the freedom I give to him; and yet – he’s happiest when sitting in his room reading a book or playing a video game on the computer.  It’s ironic to me.

 

I lived in a constant state of angst – ranging from terror and fear to loneliness and depression; dealt with abandonment and feelings of inadequacy.  He lives in a constant state of “just being”, experiencing what I would consider to be a “normal” level of change and lack of continuity.  No comparison.  I pride myself on that.

 

At his age, I had to mow two lawns and wash two cars every weekend, care for my little brother and sister whenever asked, wash dishes daily,  and purchase toiletries and whatever else I wanted or needed (clothes, feminine hygiene products, deodorant, etc) with the $20 I earned every month for the chores I did.  My son has to clean the pool filter and rinse off his dishes, keep his room picked up and not leave things lying around the house.  I feel that his level of responsibility is much more age appropriate; to me -  children are not slaves, they are people we have brought into the world who we owe a happy childhood to.  His main responsibility is to do his schoolwork and get good grades. 

 

He is loved and he knows it.  Respected – he knows that too.  Afforded freedom of expression and encouraged to communicate his inner thoughts in a safe environment.  Allowed to be angry, hurt, sad, feel how he feels; without retribution.  His father and I, though we do not provide one single household, have done one hell of a job giving him the best we have.  And he is living proof that you can love and nurture a child and be successful in the endeavor; while reaping the benefits of having an incredible human being in your life.

 

© jmr / 2008

collecting stones

There was a bit of jealousy on my part, I admit it.  You knew my husband way back when – before I ever existed…  The two of you grew up together – took baths together as toddlers and spent the night at each others houses – I get that. 

You had this air about you – I couldn’t put my finger on it at first; during the whirlwind of hello, how do you do, so nice to put a face with a name and all that.  You were tall and gazelle-like, perfect posture, great eyebrows, glossy dark hair, willowy limbs and a smile that all but knocked the wind out of me.  You were one of those “I just wear mascara and a bit of gloss” kind of girls who looked like they were airbrushed in person, while I struggled with powder foundation to achieve a slightly muddy effect, at best.  I was in awe of you.

And then…  you opened your mouth.

“So what do you do?”, you asked sweetly.  I’m an observer and typically wait before jumping into conversation while others are struggling with awkward small talk.  But you did not want to let me do that.  You were on the hunt.

“I am a graphic designer for a web based application development company; specializing in advertising and marketing”, I answered.  I was proud of myself for having my networking persona on, even after the double vodka red bull I indulged in while getting ready that night.  I silently congratulated myself and waited for you to respond.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, all excited, as your eyes danced brightly in their sockets, “you can probably answer this then!”  Great, I thought, a job interview on a Saturday night with one sheet to the wind.  Sure, sister, lay it on me…

“I am having trouble with my website.  I moved my website to a different server and I can’t seem to move my blog.”, you said.  I could see the glee in your eyes as I informed you that there were many possible reasons you were having trouble, and offered you my email address so we could discuss it further in a setting more conducive to troubleshooting, etc.

Nevermind that you asking me that question was kin to asking a car detailer if the transmission in your car needs replacement…  Kind of the same industry… but not really… and yet, I was still willing to try to help you. 

I lost you at the first sentence.  Your eyes began wandering you scanned the room for someone more interesting to talk to, and in those moments I realized that you had no use for me if I couldn’t give you the answer you wanted to hear on demand.  I could actually see the wheels in your mind turning as you nonchalantly mentioned that you worked for a popular news station in California, something about audio/video…

You lost me too.

I watched you the rest of the night playing the same cat and mouse game with other people.  I watched you as you justified your “unholy” behavior as a teenager by saying you had made amends to Regina for pretending she didn’t exist in High School after a lifetime of playing dolls and house and riding your bikes together.  I saw Regina looking at you with doe eyes and telling you how much she missed you, while you casually crushed her beneath your size 9 four inch heels.

I watched you as you piled food on your plate and let it sit there (until the waiter edged cautiously around the table and eventually removed your meal from the table) so you could go chop it up with Regina’s mortal enemy from school; leaving her sitting at the table by herself with nothing to do but watch you. 

In the back of my mind, it irritated me.  But I let it go at the time because of who you are to my husband and the history you share.  I chalked it up to perhaps you were nervous, I fantasized that you had an eating disorder resulting in those willowy limbs, and began to feel a bit sorry for you.

A few days later, you emailed me letting me know, in that same sweet if not condescending tone, that you had sent my husband some photos from the reunion and it was so very nice to meet me.  Your auto signature contained a link to your website.  So, like any self respecting woman would do, I clicked on the link.

Nothing.

I laughed as I realized that you still had not worked out your cyber issues and then began to Google your first and last name.  I found your blog on MySpace; reminding myself that you were, after all, still in your 20s and that made perfect sense… I began to read.

Your last post was in 2006.  In that post you had a link to the same website that wasn’t working.  I giggled again as I realized how many places you had probably noted “I have a website now, click here”…

And then…a heartfelt blog regarding “snap judgmental behavior within seconds of talking to someone new”, “being able to decide everything about someone just by hearing them express a single sentence”…

Really?  Ha!  Oh yes…  you hit the nail on the head, sister. 

I have to applaud you for recognizing such an ugly trait and putting it out in the street like that.  And on the other hand, I had to read the date again to be sure you weren’t talking about me (it was several years ago, mind you… but I looked nonetheless.)

And then I realized some things:

I do not like you. Even more so now – because not only are you evil but you KNOW you are evil and you continue to be evil in a nice girl suit.

You are one of those “God” people who remind me why I don’t like church – organized religion, in my opinion, does not equal salvation – it is just another version of high school and people living in their own glass houses, collecting stones to throw from the privacy of their back yard hiding behind by a 6 foot fence.

You may be beautiful on the outside.  But on the inside you are just like me.  Imperfect.  Insecure.  But unlike me, you are shallow and frivolous with the emotions of others.

I may tell my husband how I feel, and then again my sentiments may soften within the folds of my heart and stay there.  But know this.  The next time I see you, and you attempt the two cheek air kiss I’ll extend my hand instead and look you square in the eyes without saying a word.  Then I’ll smile and ask you, sweetly, “have you figured out how to move your blog yet?” ~ 2007

2005 – 10/15

I have to believe that all we yearn for as human beings is in us intentionally – from our survival instincts to our ability to love to wanting to know ourselves and reaching for true intimacy with another.

I’ve considered many sides of the theory including “survival of the fittest”. Could it be that not everyone goes through life wondering what else there is and being anxious to get there? I’m not talking about the afterlife; I’m talking about the here and now.

I like to think that I’m among the more intelligent and evolved portion of the population and I attempt to surround myself with others who are on the same level as myself. I have Spidey sense when it comes to being drawn to others who I feel think like I do or who are further along the path of self actualization and self awareness – I try to get “there” faster by learning what I don’t know yet from others who are years beyond me in their life journey.

Sometimes, though, even Spidey sense can be wrong. The illusion of being “there” is so appealing and enticing. Probably one of the greatest disappointments I’ve ever felt was being wrong or feeling duped; finding that the person I believed was so “deep” was actually very shallow and very crafty.

It’s not being wrong about someone’s character as much as being fooled by the method that some use to assign their own agenda to me to carry out.

I’m getting much better about seeing past the bullshit and into real.

I don’t get angry for very long anymore. My down cycle has been shortened dramatically. My eyes are open wider now.

I still make the same kinds of mistakes but instead of letting my failures define me, I feel the pain, find the lesson, solidify my stance, square my shoulders and carry on.

daily affirmation

I will no longer blindly allow my self worth to be directed to me by another person.

I will listen more.

I will hear what is being said but that doesn’t mean I have to make it my own.

I will hear the words rather than search between the lines for the truth.

I will make a choice to feel how I feel; I will not let someone else make those choices for me.

I will listen to the experiences of others.

I will empathize and I will learn all I can from their own lessons rather than insisting on learning everything on my own

I will be open.

I will be a person people can lean on.
I will be a person people can run to.
I will be a person who surrounds myself with quality people.

I will find the substance and integrity in each person I interact with.
I will take risks.

I will allow myself to trust.

I will love.

I will let myself be loved.

I will accept compliments.

I will not let [this] experience destroy me.
I will find peace and joy.
I will give both of those to others.

I will be the one person who others want to share their truest heart with.

I will try to understand and if I do not I will ask questions.
I will not jump to conclusions.

If I wonder I will ask even if it makes me vulnerable to the truth I want to know and am also afraid to see.

I will not destroy myself, my relationships, my friendships.
I will not opt for the easy way out.

I will tell the truth but never with the intention to harm another person.

I will not force what does not fit.

I will trust my gut instinct.

I will succeed and I will fail.
When I fail I will apologize to whom I hurt even if it is myself.

I will get back up.

Sometimes it will take me longer than others but I will not let pity overtake my good sense.

I will give to others what I wish to receive.
I will take good care of myself.

I will put others needs at a higher priority but I will no longer allow another’s needs to either become or negate mine.

I will be lovable.
I will be myself.
I will have fun.
I will enjoy life.

I will remember that life is so short and can be over in the blink of an eye.

I will be solid.

These gifts I will give to myself, to my son, to others.
I will read this every day.
I will continually improve myself, my plan, my relationships.

My goals will be met.

I will make it happen.
I will still hope for my Prince Charming but I will live my life in

The meantime.

I know only I can make my life what it needs to be in order for me to
be happy and fulfilled.

I will not judge.
I will not pre-judge.
I will not hold grudges.

All of this just for today. One day at a time.
I will not hold onto failure.
I will feel my pain – not drown it and cover it and hide it.

I will allow myself to miss people.
I will allow myself the pleasure of being happy.
I will learn to like to be alone.
I will treasure every moment.
I will treasure the gifts I have been given.
I will treasure my life and my family.

I will not hurt myself to please someone else.
I will not give up.

jmr/2005

i’m not talking ’bout movin’ in

Sitting here silently; watching the hands pursue the next hour on the clock… contemplating perhaps a new hobby or something to help pass the time…  I always stop myself before I even start to really examine what it might mean if I gave into the reality and did something else with the time – almost a commitment to failure…

“No, not yet… I’m not really ready for that yet…”

I get restless after a bit and go to the bathroom to check my hair, make sure my face didn’t get greasy during the last 20 minutes since I last checked, move back to the bedroom to do a 10 foot away across the room glance. “No.. my skirt isn’t wrinkly yet”, pull down my blouse a little over my stomach, adjust my boobs – and I’m ready for the next session of…

I’m back on the couch again – trying to decide if I should go back into the bedroom and grab a note pad and a pen from the garage…  instead I flip on the TV.

“There isn’t crap on tonight”… I flip through the channels finally settling on a sitcom that I can’t follow.  I try, sort of absentmindedly, to figure out the storyline and then I’m back in my head, lost again…  The voices become background noise as I stare through the screen… til all I see are blobs and colors…

I silently chuckle at myself for what I’m doing – I see it so clearly and yet, like a ceremonious gesture, continue to go through the motions of denial to acceptance.  Maybe I feel like I owe it to myself to expose myself to the torture…  Maybe, for me, that’s part of the process…

Now, I’m thinking about you.  Because that’s what I do – and every time I start to walk this path I find myself stuck on the reasons why I’ll sit here and wait for you in the first place..  that charismatic smile, the way you light up a room when you walk in… how you look at me when you relay a seldom shared heartfelt emotion…  your quirks; how you routinely make coffee, go to the bathroom with the sports section, then emerge to dress and pour your to go cup before you kiss my forehead and leave for the day…the way you become angry when someone hurts me and how shy you get when you feel vulnerable.

And normally, by now, you have called or shown up, sent me a text message letting me know you’re thinking about me and you are on your way.  But this time…

I miss my old life sometimes – coming and going when I pleased instead of living inside of this self contained prison; always being available on the off chance that you have time.  I remember what it felt like to not be anxiously awaiting a call every day – and not depending on someone else to fill in the blanks…

I remember when we first met.  I made chocolate covered strawberries and you sat across the room from me with bright blue eyes and intense interest.  It didn’t take long before we both realized that, though we shared a family like friendship with the couple who introduced us; that “us” had potential.  Against all odds of the position that life had both put us in at the time, we somehow managed to dig through all of that and end up together.

You taught me hiking and love of nature… how to cook fantastic meals… You taught me to be patient with a rambunctious child who would rather pace the room as you quiz him for answers in preparation for a test vs standing still…  you taught me how to clip coupons and shop more selectively; you taught me to give creative and thoughtful gifs that really show you put serious thought into a purchase instead of picking the most appropriate thing offered at the mall.  You taught me to love early misty mornings with hot coffee in hand, while rambling down a mountain road in an SUV.  You taught me to take life a bit more slowly and to enjoy the pace.

I couldn’t help falling in love with you. 

But… this waiting.

It’s kind of a new thing – the first time we were together you couldn’t wait to be wherever I was doing whatever I was doing – just breathing the same air as me made you happy.  It was a short lived romance, but you were fiercely devoted and would honestly do anything to make me smile. 

I remember the day I asked you to move out.  Vividly.  How the words were coming out of my mouth – “you deserve to be happy” “it shouldn’t be this hard” “I don’t think we want the same things”.  They were all valid reasons, but excuses more than logic…  I should never have let you go…I knew it then and I know it now.

As I sit here. Waiting.

For a sign, maybe?  A white flag over the horizon; a break of silence so awkward that something real has to be said to fill the space… 

For the possibility that you might burst through the door any moment, pink cheeked and out of breath, between gulps of water telling me “I ran all the way here because I couldn’t do it anymore – I couldn’t hold back anymore – I’m sorry”… 

And a renewed enthusiasm toward letting down the walls…

Unfortunately… I know it’s the former.  As difficult as it is to embrace that fact, I know it’s over. 

But just like the last time, I know, I’ll get a call from you, eerily reminiscent of that England Dan song… 

“Hello, yes, it’s been a while.
Not much, how ’bout you?
I’m not sure why I called,
I guess I really just wanted to talk to you.
And I was thinking maybe later on,
We could get together for a while.
It’s been such a long time,
And I really do miss your smile.”

And no matter what resolve I’ve built up by then…

“I’m not talking ’bout moving in,
And I don’t want to change your life.
But there’s a warm wind blowing,
The stars are out, and I’d really love to see you tonight.”

I can’t think of anything I want more than to see you…

“We could go walking through a windy park,
Or take a drive along the beach.
Or stay at home and watch t.v.
You see, it really doesn’t matter much to me.”

Part of me wants to have that time back – when you looked me in the eyes and told me you were going to marry me one day…  Part of me wishes we could recapture the innocence of new love – where neither one of us had said or done anything irreparable; where the possibilities were endless, as far as the eye could see…

“I won’t ask for promises,
So you won’t have to lie.
We’ve both played that game before,
Say I love you, then say goodbye.”

When life imitates art so perfectly, it’s hard to feel so alone…  When I know someone, some where, has been right here where I am…  But the trouble with that way of thinking is that it begins to make every romantic gesture and fairy tale possible…  The boy holding up the boombox below a girl’s window, blaring “in your eyes” at maximum volume; letting everyone within earshot know how much he loves her…  prince charming riding up on his white steed freeing the damsel… and happily every after ensues.

See, I think happily ever after is possible.  I just don’t think it’s possible for us.  I desperately want it to be…  and not just in general but with YOU.

I’m suddenly startled from my internal monologue as the phone rings… it’s you – you sound sleepy, like you just woke from a nap; and I find myself quickly forgiving you… again… just like the last time.  You ask if I still want to see you and I hear myself say “yes” loud and without hesitation…

You’re on your way…

My heart is beating so hard I can feel it through my skin – I jump up and run to the bathroom again…check my hair, plump up the flattened curls a little, spray on some perfume, look in the full length mirror again and decide to change into some sweats and a tank top – so you wouldn’t think I was sitting here the whole time in my party clothes counting the minutes… pour myself a glass of pinot noir and return to my post.

I light some candles and turn on Dave Matthews, open the windows til the cross breeze begins to flow through the house and the curtains dance softly… and for a moment – it’s almost like the first time I was sitting, waiting for you to arrive.

I hear you knock, and walk over to the door in my bare feet.  I pause for a moment before opening it, take a deep breath, and tell myself this is the last time; unless… unless something changes… we can’t keep going on this way…

The lock slides open in my hand, I step back and open the door…

I see your face, those eyes and that golden skin, that sheepish smile, your backpack casually slung over your shoulder… 

You step toward me silently, your backpack slips down your arm to the floor, and you crouch down so you can fit your 6 foot frame around me in a complete full body embrace… 

And I’m back again… back in your arms… and it feels like… home.

© jmr / 2005

2004 – 09/08

I’m taking this class called “Creative Writing” good for credits
That I might use later on to transfer to a university

I thought, if I’m good at this, great at this, naturally

How much better I’d be if my eyes were opened

To new styles to try
Fresh points of view

How much more confident if, I realized the spoken word from someone else’s notebook written in someone else’s pen (good enough to make me cry)

Was similar to my own talent

Enough so that I could hold my own

I imagined how hearing a stranger attempt to bare their own soul, share personal shame, passion, fear anger and humor could enlighten me

Allow me to think through another’s mind
Feel how it is to live in side their skin for a moment

And so, with great anticipation I drove to school
A little nervous, a lot excited
To begin my journey

When class began I was told to write about
What I know and use the words I know
In my own voice
Write like I think write like I talk
Be real be me

My assignment before me, I labored over
How to start
Line by line –was I using proper grammar?
Was my spelling ok?

And punctuation; who can remember the correct placement of a semi-colon or a comma?

A million tries later I finally gave up and began to write this
My masks had been stripped away by now
I was tired and discouraged and feeling way out of my element

Write about what I know

I know the softness of baby skin on the underside of a newborn foot
And the warmth in my heart while touching my lips to that innocent skin to place a kiss there
I know about disappointment
I know the joy of a pat on the back for a job well done

The pain inside when my words hurt another person

I know regret –could have, should have, if only I would have

I know forgiveness enough to have felt light of heart before once or twice
But I also know stubbornness and vendetta

And maybe those last two better than the first
I know fear
Fear of new, fear of change, fear of not measuring up to someone
Prettier someone smarter
Someone more capable or stronger emotionally than I

First day of a new job fear
Running out of money fear

I know loathing; sour feeling in the pit of my stomach
Which just the thought or sight of another person can put into me

I know the protective instinct God gives to mothers
I know being sorry… and not
I know giving the benefit of the doubt when others have done wrong
But I also know about withholding a second chance

I know about trust enough to know that my ability to feel it is
Shallow and easy to destroy
I know about computers and bookkeeping and accounting for inventory discrepancies
Home decorating, drawing and cooking

And let me tell you, this girl can clean and fold a t shirt like you would not believe

I can do a lot of things
And talk about a lot of things enough to get people to believe I know a lot more than I do

And yet I cannot name all the countries or point them out on a map
I’ve not seen breakfast at tiffany’s or gone with the wind
Read war and peace

I’ve never known the thrill of mountain climbing or completely letting go
I’ve been a drunk
I’ve been an addict
I’ve spent too much money, neglected responsibilities

Lied, stolen and killed someone’s spirit

And once I made home made taffy

I know being abused

Yet I’ve also known happiness and seen perfection
Write about what I know

Who I am
Be real be me
Where do I begin???

a product of my environment

At what point does one take a look at their life; where they are now and how they got there; and realize that something needs to change? When does one accept the reality of “someday I’m going to grow up and…” to be no more than motivation to make it through the hard times to emerge somewhere in adulthood as an average person with average means and an average amount of [fill in the blank] to show for it.

Why do some have so much while others have so little? Why do some people seem to be born with a gene that makes everything go their way and others do not? Is it a cruel trick of evolution on the weak? If the weak were non existent then what would the powerful be?

Who in this world hasn’t thought, in their darkest times, that their story may inspire others to carry on when in their own darkest times? I think we have all fantasized about putting it all on paper and outing all those who have done us oh so wrong. That’ll show them. That’ll prove to everyone that no matter WHAT they did to me, I survived! I made it anyway – if only to spite them! The high school reunion geek turned gorgeous phenomenon.

If I went to my high school reunion, no one would even know who I was

I’m all about fresh starts – beginning again – hoping that finally, just this once, I could invent someone that everyone would like and want to be friends with.

Who, then, am I? And how in God’s name did I get here?

My earliest memory is standing on the edge of a swimming pool looking into the laughing brown eyes of my father inciting me to “jump” into his arms.

I don’t see myself in this memory – but I can imagine what I looked like. Little chubby white legs with pink knees peeking out from underneath a clear and light blue inner tube – the kind that has the plastic straps that go over your arms. And I’m in a bright red and white polka dot one piece swimsuit. My shiny curly black hair is probably tied up into two little pony tail fountains on top of my head. I’m adorable. I’m loved. And my daddy will catch me no matter how far I fall. His arms are outstretched and I have complete faith in him.

Fast forward to the next memory – my grandma; loud, gregarious, too much bright pink lipstick (grandma forgive me) and bright white and black streaked hair styled in a short curly hairsprayed fluffy poof on top of her powdered face. She is looking at me and loving me and I don’t understand exactly why she is there but she is EVERYwhere amongst the chaos. There are boxes of stuff everywhere – pots and pans and crocheted blankets peeking out of boxes with no tops. Clothes on hangers strewn across the red and black velvet couch.

I was caught by my grandma playing in my mother’s mascara. She tells the story and I’ve got it all over my face. I’m so devilish in my curiosity and mischievous innocence.

All those boxes are now in the back of my mother’s pea green Chevy Vega. I’m sitting in the front seat next to her. I’m holding my baby doll. We are driving away.

In my dreams, this story has been embellished to include my looking through the back window at my father; a lone figure standing in the driveway watching us drive away from the only home in the entire brand new housing development with a fully landscaped yard.

My mother married young – met my father in dance class; he was suave and interesting; older and experienced; he wrote to her in her high school yearbook but they did not go to school together.
I’ve often wondered how that took place – my mom all young and fresh – a senior in high school – most likely wearing false eyelashes and eyeliner shaping her eyes into that “mod cat eyed” look; her hair bright blonde and worn in a puffy flip… I think she said they were sitting on the grass when he signed her yearbook.

Was he looking at her adoringly and reliving his own high school years through her excited bubbly talk about being free from school – being grown up and ready to face the world? What was he thinking – all grown up and just come home from the Vietnam war – to be sitting there with this young thing? How did it seem a mature and grown up gesture to sign her yearbook? Did he think it would be something to look back upon on the eve of their 25th wedding anniversary to point to and say “look honey, where we began?”

What did she want; to simply be saved from the home of a mother who was employed as a waitress on the night shift and a father who beat the life out of her and her sisters while she was gone at work or were they really in love? Did her stomach fill with butterflies at the sight of him? Did his dimples and cigarette smoking swagger make her swoon? Or was he a means to an end?

Having gone through the butterflies and the swooning now, I can imagine what she thought when she looked at him. I can imagine what she dreamed would become of them and their young love. I can feel what she must have felt to believe she found “the one” who she would love for the rest of her life.

How is it that we can feel so sure and be so wrong? And why does clarity often follow the big mistake rather than make itself known before the mistake is made in the first place. Why is it that every broken promise and heartache makes us stronger? That’s a piece of bullshit that goes hand in hand with unfairness. Why do others seem to make the right choices and live happily ever after but our lives are filled with struggle? Why couldn’t I have been one of the lucky ones?

Maybe I make my own bad luck. Maybe I tear apart every good thing I’ve been blessed with and keep going until I convince myself and the other person that there is nothing worth salvaging and never was.

My son and I were talking earlier today about the first day of school. He’s 8 and smart and vivacious and full of promise; everything I imagine I must have been or would have been at his age if I had not been pushed so deeply inside myself by circumstance and fear. I adore him though he wears me out because he requires so much to be everything he can be and sometimes I don’t have enough to even motivate myself much less grow him into the well adjusted intelligent and successful human being I know he will become one day.

He starts the 3rd grade tomorrow and he is nervous. He calls it being shy. When we were walking to the pool this afternoon he told me that he already has butterflies in his stomach. He doesn’t like to spend too much time contemplating what he feels is a weakness in his character – he gets uncomfortable if we dwell together on it for too long – but once in a while he’ll open up and let me see what’s really going on inside that beautiful heart of his.

Over dinner he confessed that I didn’t understand how hard it is and I had to laugh because, oh my dear son, I do so understand. I explained to him that at least he is going to the same school and will know some of the children that will be in his class. I didn’t go all martyr on his ass nor did I go into much detail but I did tell him that I had to start a brand new school almost every single year of my life. He is a hard one to convince but I think he felt solace in that statement and he found it within himself to kiss me goodnight and climb into bed without begging to watch a movie on his VCR after he said his prayers.

He says his prayers the exact same way every night – the exact same wording and the exact same emphasis on the words. He is very ritualistic. I used to do the exact same thing when I was a child.

My baby boy – you are so like me. I promise you with everything that I have inside of me to let you grow and change into a healthy adult. I will do everything that I can to help you be strong without having to claw your way through anger, pain and self doubt to get there.

© jmr / 2004

there goes my hero

grandpa,

you wrote… like i do. how that fact escaped me when you were still here, i do not know…

the things we could have talked about, the things i could have shared with you

not filled with regret though… you and i had an unbreakable bond… we understood each other
we loved each other
more important than that, you made me feel

beautiful and cherished. always.

not once did you ever withhold affection or approval.
the only negative thing i can ever remember you saying was that i needed to work on my penmanship :)

you wrote a lot just before you died; and i recently found a box of your stuff. i don’t know if you printed it or someone else did. i don’t know if you hoped someday those words would be read or not…

i do know two things though

you expressed a lot of very personal thoughts.
and you never mentioned me once.

i admit that when i first began to read i skimmed the words looking for my name. but after not finding it, i put the pages in their proper order and began to read the last expressions of my hero -

the handsome, tall and revered grandfather who had a very soft spot reserved just for me.

you wondered, in your musings, of the weather and world events,

if you had an impact on the world at all

if grandma knew how deeply and truly you loved her; even after all these years…

it’s funny. you and i never discussed the past but i knew everything from my mom and her sisters. you never told me of regret, but in some ways i always believed you were making it up to them through me.

you taught me forgiveness. that it is never too late to make a positive change.

you taught me humor
you taught me grace

but the most important thing i learned from you was love.

your legacy is me

i think about you all the time. i miss everything about you.

love you…

jmr/1999