Harvest Moon Rises, and So Do I

There is something about September.  Strange, wonderful, terrible, heart breaking, beautiful, incredible, life altering things have happened to me in my thirty something years of Septembers.  Some of the events have been beyond my control, but some, I am convinced, are purely sourced the universe.  Is it the approaching equinox? The bright harvest moon enchanting my night sky? Is it because we are nearing the end of the wheel of the year?  Could it merely be the crispness of the air, or the mold from the freshly harvested corn that makes me sneeze? I do not know, but I do know that I feel exhilarated.

September makes me brave.  September makes me bold.  September 2015 changed the course of my life forever.  The effects of the changes made that fated month are still something I contemplate daily.  Now that two years have passed, one would think that the significance would fade, but it does not.  It only becomes more complex.  It is possible that the complexity is primarily due to the over workings of my mind.  I just seem to notice more this time of year, and my observations make life as I know it impossible to continue in its trajectory.  Certain negative elements become intolerable and must be eliminated.  The leaves begin to change and fall along with my ability to accept my negative influences and attributes.

With releasing the negative comes, hopefully, an influx of positive.  This has been my experience anyway.  Once again, I am shedding light upon the old, and wishing for the new while making changes to my life that will lead to a healthier, happier me.  One September at a time, life and love are renewed and realigned to my true path.  I am being brave and bold once again to harness the energy and momentum to achieve my dreams.  Passivity be damned.

The Fall of the Hopeful Romantic

About every five minutes, two tears simultaneously leak from the individual corners of my reddened eyes as I face with near certainty the likelihood that I will not find the partner of my dreams. Or rather, he will not find me. I beckon to him in the only way I know how: with a flurry of nonsensical words, and a stream of questions. Surely, I have written him a novel spelling out my love without mentioning it at all. I dance around the truth wishing that he will see me, want to know me in the way I desire to know him.

He has been in my heart and on my mind for nearly two decades. I thought the universe was aligning for us to finally be brought together despite the ocean of water, crazy thoughts, and wild emotions that lie between us. At the precipice of this awakening, I was peaceful and resolute in our eventual soul’s reunion. But as Wentworth wrote to Anne, “I am half agony, half hope.” However, hope wanes, and agony swells in this heart of mine.

I tell myself that all this negative self talk is jinxing me, swaying the universe the opposite direction that I once believed it to be going. But, maybe it never was what I had thought. Maybe it was just another illusion. A daydream. A fantasy long held to save me from my disastrous marriage.

I want the magic back. I want to feel the magnetic force drawing us together that was so strong only months ago, and I want it to be real. I need concrete evidence. The serendipity, synchronicity, and signs were not enough. All my intuition tells me my visions of happiness are true and this is forever, but is it to be trusted? I’m losing my faith.

I tell myself that it is because I’m not ready. There’s much I need by way of recovering from my last relationship before entering into another. I should push away these emotions and focus on healing, and I try. But, my twin tears are reminding me that these feelings refuse to be ignored. All I want is for my dream to come true. Is that too much to ask? I’ve waited so long.

 

Out of Body

I live outside of my body.  Bodies are deceptive.  Bodies are mortal.  They grow weak and cancerous.  I do not trust my body to not betray me with disease, so I deny it my attention.  But, in this denial, I am not allowed to be present, and to experience this life, the full spectrum of it, full of pleasure and pain.  I stay out of my body, and trapped in the anxious madness of my mind.  It is my mind that tricks me into believing that my body is its traitor, but truly, my mind is my ultimate betrayer.  The only way out of its control, is in.  Into my body, that is.

Learning to trust my body is even more difficult, I think, than learning to trust another human.  We are our own worst enemies after all. Trusting one’s self is essential, I would assume, but I feel that I do not even trust my self enough to trust myself.  How do  I sooth my troubled mind enough to ease itself back into its container?   I’ve tried meditation (panic), I’ve tried yoga (close, but still excited my inner perfectionist), I’ve tried various other physical activities that one must be present in their body to be able to participate in and enjoy.  But, my mind escapes me and goes where emotion and feeling cannot affect it.  The base feelings and sensations of my body are too raw.  They do not exist in my cerebral lifestyle of avoiding emotions.  I am slowly discovering that they way I am to go out of my mind, is to go into my body.

I want to dissolve

and let every atom of my being disperse

into the air.

I can no longer be contained

strung together by hopes

easily obliterated by thoughts.

 

Destruction is their intent

So, I will save them the trouble in

Self-dissolution.

 

And when all my pieces are carefully reconstructed, I will have peace of mind and body, and they will work in harmony with one another.

Trying to Hang a Shining Star

I have spent this holiday season inundating my brain with an endless stream of romantic (and sadly, typically Hallmark, the sappiest of the sappy) movies.  They promise a certain magic surrounding this time of the year.  Snow, mistletoe, etc.  I have believed in the magic of the winter solstice for as long as I can remember, but despite my belief, spawned by a childhood vision of Santa (lol, I know),  I have never been a personal witness to its enchantments but only an outsider hoping for just a little spark.

Obviously, I have given to false expectations to hope for a holiday miracle, but this year, of all years, I was really, really hoping for one.  It never came.  Does that mean that high expectations are my problem?  I constantly read that I must give up on all expectations, or else.   Sure, expectations are a disastrous source of disappointment.  In fact, they are quite possibly, the root of all disappointment.  So, maybe I should give them up.  But, what does that mean exactly?  Give up all my hopes? All my daydreams? All of what my intuition tells me because all is uncertain, and my future is forever hidden from me? I have to wait for it to reveal itself in time?  Really? It feels impossible.

That is when I have to realize that all this “holiday magic” is a self-fulfilling prophecy.  I have to make the magic for it to exist at all.  Which, in reality, does not feel very magical at all.  It feels like work.  It feels like waiting.  I don’t like how either of those feel.  But, I must learn patience. I must learn to let go.  Maybe then I will be in tune with all this supposed abundance that awaits me upon relinquishing everything.

I’m Not Cookies Yet.

My loneliness has become palpable, like a second skin with a separate set of nerve endings from the one’s I was given at birth.  I feel it look out into the world hoping, waiting, looking for love.  It is strange to me because I have lived a life of hiding from and distancing myself from love because it is too painful, but this newly shaping shell of vulnerability (odd how it has shaped itself upon a once impenetrable shield) looks for new sensations whether they be of love or of pain.  Extreme vulnerability is a terribly fragile state to find one’s self in though vulnerability, in and of itself, can be quite beautiful.  It is navigating the stream of emotions that is difficult for me.

Soft on the outside, soft on the inside, with a hard layer in between.  Sounds like a fucked up new candy bar, but no, its me.  These extremes of desire to love and be loved are contrasted by my distrust of love and my inability to allow myself to feel it.  It is a strange and horrible way to live: to always be wanting something but to also continuously deny it to yourself. or allow yourself to have it, then feel desperately guilty about it.

Sometimes I feel that my loneliness is insatiable. No amount of love will ever fulfill its needs.  Maybe that is true.  Maybe that is why I will possibly never be happy.  Because I do not let myself.

Happiness is too fragile to be trusted, but it’s joy is endlessly appealing to those who feel they can never achieve it.  Is it as nice as it appears to be?  Something tells me no.  What I call happiness is un-achievable perfection, apparently.  But, it’s not.  It’s merely knowing that I am seen, respected, desired, and loved.  Nothing more, and nothing less.

I can bravely face a world of love twisted by pain on my own, but I would so much prefer to have someone beside me who understands me to endure it with during the good and the bad.  But, getting to the point of acceptance between my extremes is the key.   The wise Buffy the Vampire Slayer once said (yes, Buffy.  Shut up.),

I’m cookie dough. I’m not done baking. I’m not finished becoming who ever the hell it is I’m gonna turn out to be. I make it through this, and the next thing, and the next thing, and maybe one day, I turn around and realize I’m ready. I’m cookies. And then, you know, if I want someone to eat m- or enjoy warm, delicious, cookie me, then that’s fine. That’ll be then. When I’m done.

I’m just not cookies yet.

Modern Fairy Tale

I still believe in the fantasy of love. Fairy tales, white knights, the works. I want someone to pick up my broken pieces and make me whole again. But, reality tells me that my prince will never come. Fairy tales are not real.

I am the one who will mend my splintered soul with time and perhaps a little starlight (and probably a few glasses of wine). Learning to love myself is going to be my greatest love story. But, will this ease the constant feeling of wanting and waiting?

I want someone to see me, to respect me, to challenge me to be my best. See, the modern Prince Charming is not looking for a damsel in distress to kiss and magically make everything better. This prince accepts that everyone is always growing and learning. He is supportive and accepting of his princess’s current state of distress and he proudly stands by her side while she slays her own dragons. (Ok. He would help if the situation warranted. You get the metaphor)

I won’t stop believing that somewhere out there there is someone who can accept the challenge of loving me, and love me wholly. Somewhere, under the same moon and stars as I, he exists. The question remains: Where the hell is he? Until then, I will be appreciative of this time I’ve been given to pick up my pieces, examine them, and decide which ones stay and which ones go. It’s all part of my modern fairy tale.

Lights in the Night

I see the tractor lights illuminating the fields late into the night this time of year.  I don’t know the circumstances of the particular farmer I am seeing as my guardian tonight, but the lights make me think of my grandfather. He would work the fields after working long days in a dismal courthouse tax office. My grandmother worked equally as hard at keeping the home fires burning. They worked and lived many of their hours apart, but their love for each other, for their family, and for their shared hopes and dreams held them together despite their physical separation.

This is the love I thought I had. An enduring love. A faithful love. But, I was fooled. Maybe my love was never real, maybe it was a victim of addiction, or maybe it was manipulated away by the deadly song of awaiting sirens. I don’t know. I never will.

Somehow, I am supposed to submissively accept my fate. But, I won’t. It’s not in me to give up all I believe to be right in this world and to completely void what has been my life’s purpose these last twenty years. I will not quietly acquiesce to the hand I have been dealt. I rage against it.

My rage, however fiery it feels to my soul, does not reach out to burn those who have wronged me. Believe me, if it could, I would gladly let it. But, their hearts are too cold and calloused to be touched.

Let the fire inside of me be then a beacon to the lost and the loveless since it cannot touch those who lit it. Change this burning hate into love.

Love for those who have lost hope, love for those who are left behind, those who offer their their entire beings to aid another. Let’s leave those who defile the pure hearts of the vulnerable to feel the true darkness of life without the kind and good for they will never know real love.

Tired.

I don’t have it in me to do this right now, but I have a suspicion that that is exactly why I should be.  I’m exhausted mentally, physically, emotionally.  I can’t seem to get ahead to a place where I feel I can be creative because my mind is always buzzing with something, or not buzzing with anything.  In other words, my thoughts are either to chaotic or nonexistent and I’m just trying to veg out in front of the television.  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to not think so much: the whole ignorance is bliss thing.  Would I really want an ordinary life where I could find happiness in the mundane, 9-5 cliché thing most people ?  I’ve tried it, and I think it just about killed me (my soul is pretty much dead from it most likely).  If I left my imagination behind and just existed in the sphere in which I reside?  I’m thinking that life would be less complex, but is it in the complexity that I find so much anxiety where most who acknowledge this find beauty in it instead?  I am overwhelmed by everything.   I feel like I am constantly fighting the everyday necessities of life, and without conquering them, ignoring what is necessary to this healing process.  It’s part of the whole problem with perfection thing.  If life isn’t aligning the way I feel it should, I become aggravated and distant rather than tacking whatever is misaligning things, or I resist the very activities that would sway that negativity back towards the positive which would inherently (probably) solve the original issue.  I think maybe, like holding onto my anxiety, I also hang on to unresolved issues because they give me fuel.  I am never so productive or proudly self-sufficient as when I am upset with someone.  That is not fair to them or to my own abilities.

I think partially that this recent bout of growing pains is having to do with being spoiled.  Things have been handed to me, done for me, whatever my whole life.  I feel I hardly have any achievements that are truly my own, except for my college career.  I need to just get over myself and get shit done.  I need to build something for myself that I can be proud of.  I am working on that now.  Career changes are ahead, and I’m headed in a direction I never intended to go.  But, I’m ready to break out of my corporate shell, my cocoon.  I’ve been babied in there too.   I’m ready to grow up.

I really do not know what I am writing about.  I have no purpose in this post beyond the simple act of putting my thoughts into writing when I feel most resistant to do so.

From Fear to Forgiveness

I have spent most of my thirty something (you expect me to admit it) years as a creature of fear.  Fear of what my parents think.  Fear of what my teachers think. Fear of what my peers think.  Fear of not even knowing what I think.  My consciousness has been contained by it like a trapped animal, and pending its release (or spontaneous combustion), I am faced with another fear.  Fear of letting my fear go.  It is my motivation, but it is a cruel motivator because it misguides me into saying or doing things that are not of my true self.  But, what is this true self that I am searching for?  I haven’t a clue.  But, I know upon it’s release from its captor there will be peace and hopefully, it will help me find what I am searching for in this path I have put myself on: creativity.  But, what if I have too much light?  I am so accustomed to my darkness.  I’m the girl who can kill with a look. Electronics overheat in my presence when my tension is high.  Can my energetic self have this same power if I give it over to a different purpose? Can I still be me?

This is probably the most rambling and preposterous post I have made thus far.  (There’s that fear of judgement again).  But, these are all things that have weighed heavily on me.  I feel that, of course, if I give up this fear and make way for a more positive, and thus creative, use of my energy there will be bountiful benefits.  Sometimes I feel what it must be like on the other side, and it feels really good.  I let myself occasionally enjoy a few moments there, and then the fear returns.  It is a part of me.  Proof that it is still in possession is that I cannot even put my damn name of this blog.  The two of you who read it know who I am, so it is completely ridiculous that I am still to afraid.  Which leads to a whole other aspect of my fear.

Not only am I afraid of what others think of me, I am afraid of what my true feelings will do to others.  I do not want to hurt anyone, but inevitably, I will.  My twisted mind is a product of not only my own coping mechanisms, but also those who forced me into their creation.  Facing those issues and forgiving their perpetrators is a while other aspect of this process that I fear.  My past hurts and disappointments are the foundations of my soul’s prison which makes them a foundation of me (at least the earthly me that stifles my creativity).  Forgiveness would be their only undoing.  But, again these grudges (for lack of a better word) fuel my decisions, my thoughts, even my values.  This should not be so.  Forgiveness, I have come to understand, is not something you give to the usurper of your trust, but something you give to your self so that you may find peace.  I am beginning to understand this concept.  However, it does not quell the pangs of fear of letting it all go.

I don’t even know how I got from fear to forgiveness, but I guess it needed to come out this way.

Follow Me.

It is easy in the monotony of everyday life to forget the passions that drive you to be who you are.  Being lost is a chronic problem for me, and I imagine it is also for many others who must deny their creative selves to satisfy the many demands of our society.  So much is asked of us financially, physically, mentally, to stay afloat in this world that the creative self is stifled in sacrifice to these means of survival.  Unless your passion is in a field that incurs income, you are out of luck career-wise.  So, now we enter into the whole “starving artists” cliché.   Why are artists starving?  Well, it is because their work is unappreciated and undervalued.  How dare a person charge money for work they enjoy doing?  Work is hard, work is pain, work is strife.  Work is not supposed to bring joy, light or love to anyone.  If you are not feeling the weight of your employer on your back, you are not really working.  There is a growing resentment there of those who get to live their passion by those who are either too afraid, or too blinded by society to reach beyond merely what society deems appropriate for their career goals.  You want an art degree? HA! Good luck finding a job.  English major? What is the point?  Apparently, our value is determined by how much we hate our jobs and ourselves, and of course, by how much earning potential is in our chosen path.

I spent a few weeks as a tutor, and in one of the papers I assessed was about student loans.  The writer, a nursing student, posed a thesis having something to do with student loans, and one of the arguments posed was about why one would chose a worthless degree, such as English, or any Liberal Arts field, only to incur a mountain of debt with little pay off.  This question has been posed, I’m sure, by no less that three quarters of parents as they pore over college applications with their children.  So, as I quietly sat there reading her blatant insult to my chosen path.  I am exactly that Liberal Arts student racking up the loans with no idea whether or not my academic choices will ever pay off.  But, here she is coming to me for advice on how to better her paper, i.e. better her communication.  As a nurse, her ability to communicate is profoundly important to the lives of her patients.  She must know exactly how to formulate her words to convey the care of her patients not only to the patients themselves, but also to the doctors and nurses providing care when she is away.  This web of communication is vitally important.  She must also understand how to formulate and support an argument if she is to make a true difference in her field.  Sure, she may expertly go through the technical motions, but to make a true difference she must also innovate, and uneducated innovation does not exist.  So, who do those who question their abilities to communicate go for guidance?  To those who are in tune with themselves: the artists, the writers, the teachers, the sages.  Our ability to convey meaning with our words, visions, whathaveyou, is key to our creative survival, and our experience in wading through the bull shit to reveal our creative selves is valuable, though invisibly so, to those who are more technically minded.  While the technical mind and the creative mind should be in alignment, they are most often at war with each other as they attempt to determine which is more important.  What seems to be little understood is that technique is a result of creativity and exploration.  A technique that is learned was once a mere spark in someone’s eye, and until it was honed out in years of practice did it become “technique.”

We creative types are the spark of innovation and understanding.  Those of us with this gift are responsible for attempting to offer that spark to others.  This is why I want to teach writing.  I want to bridge the divide between those who feel that to deny their creative selves is the way of the world, and they must acquiesce to its harsh demands, or they are so stifled by their denial that they have no idea they are capable of sputtering out a simple sentence.  We all have words, and while some have greater ability to wield them, it does not change the fact that we may all use our words to make an impact.  When they come from the heart, every word matters and every word has power.  Society would strip us of this power, and it tries by telling us we are worthless and stupid and to just be a drone, it’s easier.  Don’t do it.  Follow me.