LUCIDITY, DRAGGING, AND MEMORIES

I've reached a certain place of lucidity about what happens in the next stage of my life. The time for my few acres, giant garden, and possibly some goats––I don't know why goats, it just seems like a thing that would be character building––has not yet come. (That will come though, right? In Montana or even still my brow-beaten North Dakota?) But I know some things that are next. And I'm surprised, but not surprised, to find the clarity has come through fire, through the perpetual forcing of this introvert out into the world until she loses much of her sense of terror, past the fields of breathless anxiety. I am surprised at the amount of discomfort this has taken. Before I supposed I would work through discomfort to a place of comfort and then triumph! Now I'm learning to fall in love with the sense of falling. Are you aware of that team-building practice of letting yourself fall backwards trusting the person behind you will catch you? Forget the team-building part for the moment, and the person to catch––I'm falling in love with the sense of falling and trusting. Trusting without knowing when I'll stop falling, what will be there to catch me, or even if there is an end. Even if I fall flat on my face, break my nose and several ribs...

I've reached a certain place of lucidity about what happens in the next stage of my life. I don't much want to speak of, or define things yet. There are these sprouts coming out of the ground and we'll all have to wait to see what arrives.

The empty feeling still drags at me regularly. This is just a thing I think I must accept. A part of me that will greet me on many mornings, lay me down to sleep many nights, and haunt me through long afternoons. "I'm in Paris!" I tell it. "Go away! I just toured three different countries, did well on a French test, and ate all my fruits and vegetables!" "I just went to the Louvre! Can't we be delighted and exalted? What is wrong?! How can I feel empty after that?" It spurs me on in it's own way. Writing has become a lifeline, not to keep me living but to keep me healthy. I certainly am excited and grateful for this opportunity, for these people I'm meeting, the things I'm seeing and doing. For all the hollowness in my heart there is a fullness and wonder that breaks forth and eats up this world with joy. Accepting joy comes easily though, while it is hard to not greet the empty feeling with guilt. Guilt that I can't shake this stain of sourceless sorrow. Guilt that I must be doing something wrong, I must be sinning, I must be failing to cause this emptiness. It is the guilt that must be shaken off, it is the true devil here.

Let me take you back to a wonderful place, though. Let me lift you up out of the murky recesses you may have slipped into, and let me share with you a few brilliant things. 

A FEW BRILLIANT THINGS:
As recommended by my sister:


This song:


And two last, most important things: 

Memory One: A memory of my mom, I was probably in high school and she was probably in the middle of making bread, and she stopped what she was doing, drew me into the kitchen to listen to Camelot with her and to explain the significance of the song.

Memory Two: Enjoying a sunny Sunday lunch with a French family and friends, gathered around the table singing Beatles songs together. At one point assuring them that "a hard day's night" is really a sort of nonsense phrase. 

Do you have dear musical memories? Have you ever tried on Shaq's coat? When's the last time you had horchata? 

obama and his glasses

I have a life-size Obama at my desk. EB's brother got him as a white elephant and EB stole him away and gave me the lovely present. I laughed and clapped with glee when I saw him and now everytime I walk in the study I jump because I think there's a lurker. Well, there is. It's just a cardboard president lurker.

The best kind.

I walked around looking for a job today and almost got conned into ordering the local paper. Again. It's been a long time since I've looked for a job. In fact, I've only looked once. Last year people were offering me jobs all the time. I had to turn jobs down.

I wish that by opening your arms wide and giving your world a tight enough squeeze you could smooth everything into place. You would not feel guilty or half-ended or like half-of-a-friend or like the inconsiderate-sister because you squeezed ever so tightly and that effused love which makes everything all right. You wouldn't be wide-awaked thinking about time flying. How you age and your parents age and someday you go to the grocery store with grandma white hair and everyone treats you differently. You wouldn't be thinking about all the kind things you should be doing and how no one will know how special they are and how it's long past due that you registered your bicycle with the police and if it gets stolen you deserve it and your life will end.

[gaskhdf]
which means: [siiiiighhhh]

Maybe, since you can't do that, you could have some tortilla soup and imagine what it would be like if you could see all the stars in the sky and some extra ones, too. Imagine if there were so many extra stars it could rain stars and they would make shish and ahhh like the light shooting out of the Beast's fingers in the Disney cartoon. And they would bounce off the ground just a little ways like marshmellows do.

Or, option two: Maybe you could fly away to Greece and float in the Mediterranean Sea and have sun-warmed face. Oh yes! Then when you dried off you could walk around in your sun dress and dance with all the locals. Yokels.

GAREEECE!!!!!

Love,
Marge