Beautiful Dawn

Once upon a time...
A young girl fell in love with a light in the darkness. It was the merest pinprick of illumination, only seen in the periphery. She was unsure of its meaning, but would try to study it in sideways glances.

As the young girl grew she began to understand the tiniest spot of radiant light meant somewhere beyond the confusing darkness was warmth and joy. She began to seek it.

What the woman could not comprehend was the light was not to be found around her, although she sought it at a tiring and obsessive pace. The light, like the darkness, was within her. And one day, after years of hiding, the light decided to show herself.

The light was fiery and demanding, and made the woman squint into the terrifying new glare. Having thought only to seek the light, the woman had not thought much of what to do with it if found. And the woman was selfish, timid, and unsure, and for a time she tried to hide from the dark corners the light insisted upon searching most thoroughly.

The light demands honesty, freedom, laughter, and tears. The light says, in no uncertain terms, "I made all the color in the world for you, before you were even born." And the woman is surprised when her heart acknowledges the truth of it.

My dearest Aurora,

Although we have traveled lightyears together, and even though you are carved from my flesh, I am surprised to find you six and me your mother.

Your indomitable goddess spirit insisted against us all six years ago that despite our best efforts you would come in Your own time; two weeks late and 36 hours of labour after that, I was beginning to understand what wasn't going to kill me made me stronger and you were absolutely insisting upon me being as strong as you.

You have impressed on so many that you are no mere six-year-old. You are a force. You are a force of love, independence, creativity, drama, passion, and truth. You are a force which left me in no doubt I had to better myself, fix my broken parts, and live life because you deserve it.

I am entirely certain you will always out shine, out think, out wit, dance longer, rock harder, and laugh louder (and more maniacally) than I.

But I hope you will be able to say that I was always trying my damnedest to keep up with you.

My goddess, my beautiful dawn, happy sixth birthday.
Forever Yours, Mom

Just Like a Novel

When I was younger, and much more delusional than I am now, I vividly remember telling my mother during an argument, "I want to be happy and have fun. If my life isn't those things, what's the point?"

And I had fun. I had a life filled with those exceptional moments that caused those around me to get wide-eyed and laugh loudly. Jokingly, we liked to say it was adventurous this life of mine, worth watching because it was so awkwardly exciting, like a soap opera.

And then I set myself down and decided to be a grown up and try things for which I wasn't really made (like sharing a living space with someone, playing mommy to a grown man, cooking, and working really hard at getting nowhere). And my life stopped being filled with exceptional moments (except when it came to my daughter, of course).

Instead it was filled with dishes, frustrations at feeling hemmed in by another's things (sometimes literally and sometimes figuratively), and labeling things I once considered important (fun, happiness, exceptional moments of awkwardness, freedom, and creativity) as something that should be left to a novel and out of a grown up life.

This got me... well, it got me what I have called my "basement self". There was lots of fried foods from fast food restaurants, lots of TV, lots of not touching, not loving, and trying to remember to breathe.

And then I remembered, I wasn't that girl, and I certainly didn't want to be that woman. I don't want my daughter to think it is okay to wallow in self-pitying cowardice and not live her life.

So I climbed out of the basement and many of you have, over the past couple of years, watched this exploration of all the boundaries, fears, paths, loves, and freedoms within myself.

I have sought numerous friends to help me along. You are so very wonderful. You put up with my blathering, my blogging, my rants, my tears, my laughter, my testing, my mistakes, my dreams, and my delusions. And I have also sought professional help (because that, too, was a fear). And it did help.

My doctor said lots of pertinent things, such as "People are NOT Projects!" which turned my stomach, made me light headed, and so ashen I had people asking me for the next few hours if I had seen a ghost. Truths sometimes hurt.

He also told me, "Life is not a soap opera." This made me raise an eyebrow. But I'm beginning to get it. Life should not be a soap opera. I do not want to be that doomed character repeating the same cycles with the same horrible plot lines for the next 75 years.

But I will no longer condemn my lovely books for giving me false hopes and brain washing me into thinking life is more dramatic, passionate, awkwardly delightful, poignant, startling, and worthwhile than it is. Because I am exceptional enough (as are you) that my life and most of the moments in it are worthy of novel. Worthy enough to inspire others to try their best, accept joy where we find it, or better yet, to look for joy. Beauty, joy, passion, hopes, love, and trust are all there for the taking, but too many people are ignoring it.

Yes, things are going to hurt. Yes, there will be setbacks. That is how we know we are actually living. The not knowing what you're going to get, but having the deterimination to give it your damnedest, presents the most amazing situations.

So, for all of you walking around with the motto "Life is not a soap opera" would you care to try on my new motto "This is the Novel of my life"?

The Harsh Beauty Found in Truth

I recently read a post from The K Is No Longer Silent. If you have not read, please go do so now, or this might not make any sense. Don’t you worry, I’ll just settle comfortably on my sofa with a cuppa and my current book until you return.

That woman’s honesty ruffled my feathers. I scoffed with indignation and anger that she should feel she has to go to such lengths to be acceptable. Pin her ears back? Please tell me this is a joke. How can society be so cruel?

But I was reading this over my lunch hour at work and was shifting uncomfortably in my chair because I was wearing leggings. I don’t normally. I don’t even particularly care for pants.

The leggings cut into my stomach which creates that unsightly extra roll of flesh. So if I feel like wearing them I also wear spanks over them to help smooth it out. I mean, I wear them sometimes for the warmth, but the comfort of warmth is traded in for the organ compressing spanks.

And there I was, shaking my fist at society for the injustices placed upon men and women (but mostly women) and making such a thoughtful and interesting person feel insecure. And I started shaking my fist at it for me, too.

I get, with some frequency, wonderfully sweet compliments about how inspiring I am because I have never been afraid to be myself. I suppose this has something to do with my verbosity, occasional loudness, and my not entirely mainstream sense of fashion. The compliments always come as a shock.

I have not frequently seen myself in this manner (but I'm trying to live up to it).

Who I am is the girl who is squeezing her organs together because that extra bump from my leggings REALLY bothers me. I have enough bumps to be getting on with. The good news is, I mostly like all the other bumps. But there are other things. Are you ready? Cuz I’m going to take a deep breath and just delve into some of the nitty gritty ways I let society tell me how I should look so that I can feel good about myself.

I have been plucking my eye brows since I was… 12? I think around 12.

I had orthodontia to eliminate my Madonna gap between my two front teeth when I was in high school. And two caps put onto my natural vampire teeth ( I still regret this).

I wax my upper lip.

And then there are the things that I have somewhat done for my health, but was still weighted (hehe) heavily upon what society would think of me if I didn’t/don’t.

I had an oral surgeon shove a long metal spike in my skull so I could have an implant on a very visible tooth.

I had a breast reduction my senior year in college. This is listed among one of the best things I could ever do for my health and self-esteem (and I would do it again without a second thought), but it was mostly prompted, at the time, by unrequited love.

I have lost 50 lbs. This is also for the very simple reason that I was miserable feeling. Not only was I unhappy with myself, but I hurt. Getting active (and sticking to it, for the first time in my life) was the most important thing I could do. It motivated me to get everything in my life moving.

I know I will never be a sinewy marathon runner, but I am still learning to come to grips with shape. Or let’s be honest. My shape is fine, it’s the fat that bothers me.

I am on a mission to lose more weight. And I know many of your bristles might be up, like I was over Kass’s post. But what I am trying to determine, is when is my happiness dictated by how society views me and when is it dictated by how I see myself.

I am trying to NOT connect how I see myself with a number in my jeans or a letter on my shirt, because they aren’t standard sizes. Woman don’t get to pick a 34 waist and 32 inseam like men. We get to find out that dependent upon the store and the designer we can find a size 12 that falls off without a belt, but then try on a 16 and barley be able to button.

So instead of connecting with a number I have to be focused on how any certain weight, shape, fit makes me feel. And how do I want to feel? Well, oddly enough I want to feel “Fat”, or at least SOME of the definitions of fat:

1. Having too much flabby tissue; corpulent; obese
2. Wealthy; prosperous; rich
3. Plentiful; abundant
4. Dull; stupid
5. Fertile, as land
6. Animal tissue containing much of this substance; loose flesh; flabbiness
7. The richest or best part of anything
8. An overabundance or excess; superfluity
9. Action or lines in a dramatic part that permit an actor to display abilities
`dictionary.com

So I’ll continue to get up at ridiculous hours to jog, but won’t be shoving my finger down my throat to look like Kate Moss.

And the other things? Well, I certainly don’t need to wax my lip to make people like me. In fact, I don’t even know if anyone notices when I don’t. But I do it because it makes ME more comfortable .

Should Kass pin her ears? I don’t think so, but then I had my breasts surgically removed so I could get a boy to date me.

My, oh my, I’ve come a long way, but still have a way to go.

That Sometimes Awkward FB Misunderstanding

Pre-New Year's Resolve

This effort seems to be going well. I am, of course, excercising daily and eating better. Which, in turn, makes me feel better, albeit more sore than usual. I took Saturday off from grueling food and exercise schedule, for a few reasons.

One, I had refrained from any sort of overindulgence at our College holiday party. I would like to point out I picked the most scrumptious menu in the world, including empanadas (of which I did not partake), and an open bar. OPEN. I cried a little inside.

Two, Saturday morning was also a time to get ready for my favourite holiday bazaar of the year; a cozy little home affair with very fun and crafty women. So I thought I might be a bit more pleasant if I slept in until 7 am instead of getting up at 5:30 to go jogging. I think it worked.

Three, there were gingerbread men at the holiday bazaar. Homemade gingerbread men. Did I mention ginger is my favourite spice? And that they were smiling at me with that comehither look I find so irresistible?

Yep, I ate four of them, okay, maybe five, I forget. Limbs first, because I like it better if I can pretend they are screaming.

Four, Saturday was Zack's birthday and a round of a very intense Zack-made board game ("Ultimate") which DOES include overindulgence.

However, as much as I overindulged (and, boy oh boy, did I), I still set my alarm for 7:30 am so I could get home and get ready for my first real yoga instruction. I'm still sore. But the next date is set and pieces are being included in the morning routine.

No, I have not looked at a scale, but I'm starting to feel more like this:

Henri Pierre's "Venus"

Instead of this:

DOMO!

xo!

A Heart Case

My heart stutters. More than it used to. A few years ago I became worried when I discovered a bird in my chest. Its wings fluttered under my ribs, pressing against my throat so that for a brief moment the surprise of finding such a beast in my skin made it difficult to breathe.

It only happened every few days. Usually when I would sit still. Acting as if taking a moment of rest was terrifying & too much to handle.

The doctor looked at me with disdain, "29? You are Too young to have anything wrong with your heart."

"Thank you, yes. I just want to check, you know I have a young daughter. I want to make sure I won't die tomorrow," is my response with a self-depreciating sort of laugh and downcast eyes.

"It is not worth the time to run tests. If you did something about your weight things would be better."

"Oh. I see." And I left.

And I began to eat better and exercise. And I lost 50 lbs. And when I am running my heart doesn't stutter.

But as soon as I began getting healthy my heart stutter became more frequent.

On a normal day it stutters about upon waking, sitting at my desk, during meetings, visiting with friends, right this very moment. Every 10 seconds or so, sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes it goes an hour without reminding me of its existence, this little bird who accompanies me everywhere.

I wonder what it is about this bird, inside this extravagant cage of flesh and bone, that makes it so discontent. I feed it, take it for walks, and most recently because it is so demanding, I give it almost entirely free reign. It is mostly kept on my sleeve these days. For people to pet and comment how pretty and shiney her plummage is. And she preens and sings in response. But she will not still her fluttering.

And I am thinking, again, that I must face someone who knows more about hearts than I only to be told I am too young for anything to be wrong.

But perhaps the only thing wrong is the heart wants what it wants, and mine has been wanting for a very long time. Beacause, you see, 31 Earth years (and who can say how many light years before that) for a heart in search of something is much older than you or I can comprehend.

posted from Bloggeroid

Serenity

On December 1st I celebrated the one year anniversary of living on my own again. This freedom to be me and to have a fighting chance at being a decent mother has been amazing. I couldn't be more content.

And then on December 2nd I woke up and felt... off? sideways? less than chipper? In actuality I sat on the edge of the bed and wept for a short while. There is no good reason, except, perhaps, I heard the whispers that for all the knowledge I'm gaining, progress I'm making, joy I'm experiencing, somethings are still going to hurt.

You see, in my efforts to adjust my boundaries, fall in love with honesty and myself, I feel a bit raw and over-exposed. It is uncomfortable in my skin today, as though I have been walking through a windstorm in the desert. This sand which is helping to shed my skin stings.

I don't mean to give the impression this experience is bad. The rawness makes my senses sharper. I can hear my name in the the rustling of the leaves outside my window.

And my exposed new skin asked for a little extra help today, so that rather than tears of frustration for everything I cannot change I could weep a bit for all the beauty in the experience.

And here is some of what I have received from caring souls:

A Recipe to Warm my Heart and Stomach: Pie Fries from MunchkinMunchies

A whisper to help me remember my Roar!
"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says, 'I'll try again tomorrow."

—Mary Anne Radmacher-Hershey


A reminder in my forgetfulness and a forgetfulness in my reminder:

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)

in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me

e.e. cummings

A shout that I am beauty, wit, and inspiration in IIKE. ME!

And so now I'm still crying a bit, but I'm laughing, too.