When your soapbox unfolds

            I called Ellee the other day to finally tell her what has been going on with me this past month. Calling Ellee is kind of like the last confession for me. The acknowledgement that, okay okay, this happened and is happening and it's not going away. Calling Ellee makes it all real. I think it's because Ellee has known me since I started becoming a person, or maybe because she is far away, or maybe, and probably this is why, but maybe because Ellee always tells me the truth. Have you heard of it, the truth? The truth is like hydrogen peroxide. You know that it works and it foams big like healing but, man, does it burn. Fuck the truth. But it helps. And it's growth, and what else are we trying to do but grow anyway?

            So, I called Ellee. She answered and I took a deep breath and told her all that there was to tell. I thought it would be ugly, but it wasn't ugly. It just was. I told her all these details but mostly I couldn't stop stressing the fact that I had hurt someone and that I was hurting because of it. I told her that I hurt someone I love and that I think I was witnessing adulthood and that I don't want it to ever happen again. And then she responded with the truth. Which I hate. She said, and I'm paraphrasing here, but she said that the sad but comforting thing is that it won't ever stop. We will never stop hurting the people we love, even if it's the last thing we want to do. I mean, come on, what? At first, I just felt the sad and then the comforting dawned on me. I am participating in the human condition – hurting and being hurt by the people I love. And while that is sad, at least we are in it together. And, somehow, it fosters a beautiful ability to forgive and a deep understanding of what it means to have empathy and to love unconditionally. We are flawed, but at least we are all flawed. At least we are in it together.

The Dream

Marisa Matluck Photography / marisamatluck.com

G'morning

I know that nighttime is lonely time. That after 8 pm, you are acutely aware that you are single.

But I’m finding mornings to actually be worse. Mornings are somehow both my most productive time and my achiest. Is that a word? Achiest? Achy-ist. I’m very productive at aching between get out of bed o’clock and breaking for lunch.

Days hold potential, which sounds obvious but little is truly obvious. And it’s intimidating to wake up and know that, “hey, I have to fill this potential ‘alone.’” That word, alone, so ominous. Which is silly, because alone is not actually a synonym for single.

By the end of day, by nighttime and after 8 pm, at least we have evidence that we can fill that potential without that other person. But in the morning, we still have to prove it to ourselves. And it’s achy. 

i love Joy the Baker

I am reading a blog in which the author every Sunday writes a “Let It Be Sunday” post. I love this gentle battle cry. Let it be Sunday. Let it be... whatever it wants to be. Let it be Sunday is a conglomeration of the Internet’s finest, and I mean that sincerely. The Internet, our modern day watering hole, lends itself to community building and learning and laughs. Let it be Sunday is dedicated to kicking back and soaking in all this community, but you don’t have to wear pants. I mean, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day of rest. So on this Saturday night, all I can think to myself is this: let it be Sunday.

Joythebaker.com

October

It is hard to remind ourselves of the purpose of our pain

In the thick of it

Brunette turned blonde and I’m wondering

Where do we go from here

Romance is the framework by which it is obvious we believe in living in the moment

because we know every pairing fails except maybe one or two or even three.

You know what your odds are

but then you play anyway

Perhaps romance is also the best indication of our madness

And desperation to feel

Feel anything – love, jealousy, frustration, desire

Heartbreak

My friend told me that a friend told her that

There is a certain grace to having your heart broken

And I must say

It’s true

There is grace in forgiving yourself, in trusting yourself with

Well, hurting yourself.

Gracious masochism.

Somehow all worth it in the end
or so they are telling me.