Shouldn't…but Do

Heath Ledger’s Final Days, Update your Closet,  Holly Hunter Fab at 51, Jodie Foster on her friend Mel Gibson’s Meltdown, Do’s and Don’ts of 2009 – two stacks of magazines two feet tall, latest news, fashion, decorating tips – unwrapped and unread beginning August 2009, the month X departed.

This is a peculiar weekend.  Released from the aggression of divorce and trepidation of the Great Trial, I float lightly.  A book not noticed for a year and a half, a drawer not cleaned in as long.  Clothes not seen, calendar pages unturned.

Both counter and cranny call for attention.  There is not a spot in this house that has not beckoned.  And I can address none.

Transfixed by the physicality of life, I am caught in the dispersal pattern of raindrops, the satisfaction of slowly wiping dust away, and of breath, dropped to my belly, rather than held tight in my chest.

I have been away a long, long time.  This changed place, this life, is mine to explore, to grow.  I circumnavigate a landscape where each feature – each object, each person –  has a new dimension, just waiting to be discovered.

The magazines?  History to be recycled and made new.  Just like me.

Sometime last autumn, a plastic shopping bag blew into my yard, up the drive and became trapped against the wooden lattice fence near my  front door.

As the snow built up, the bag quietly disappeared under the weight and brittle cold.  A couple of times this winter, a white corner emerged, camouflaged, only to submerge again with the next snow.  Too cold and tired myself, I could only mark its struggle while attending to my own.

This week both the melt and the spring wind picked up.  The bag shook itself free of its leaden cold weight and attempted flight, only to be hooked by garden chaff, the organic remains of a growing season long dead.

Watching the bag bounce in the wind this morning,  I discussed this bog with the Neighbor and the space it provides for my fears and hopes – my vulnerabilities.

The discussion rose from the likelihood that those no longer associated with me will continue to examine this bog not only with voyeuristic eye,  but with continuing  intent to use my words against me.  Not friend, family, or interested lurker, but those whose company, and attention, I do not prefer.

Though off the beaten path, and of fairly rarefied nature, this is a public bog, all are entitled to visit.  Should I reshape this bog to compensate, to protect against  a wintry mix?  An expert at my own camouflage, should I pale and blend my feelings in fear of exposure to the elements?

Like that thin plastic bag, I have too long been weighed down, shivered and hooked by the detritus of the past.  Perhaps that bag sought safe harbor from impending winter and found itself trapped.  As they say, wherever you go, there you are.

As the Neighbor and I spoke, the importance of authenticity – the daily,  humble practice of conscious self  through writing, working, or just being – shone through.  At that moment the bag, its season of captivity ended,  gave a mighty tug and flew out of the garden,  beyond my yard and out of sight.

Stripped of  blame, most limitations we face are created within. Though some are set at birth, others  take form in snow, detritus, or a former partner.

The wind blows in storms, and blows them out.  Facing wind is better than fearing it.  The bag is  free to pursue its nature, to tumble on down the road, and maybe, just maybe, so am I.

It is the eve of the Great Trial.

Some years ago, I came upon a quote by C. G. Jung, wishing is not mere hoping.  It stuck with me for years, a burr in the side of hope – a quality I have cherished often and long.

In life, if one can outwit cynicism and eschew heartlessness, one hopes for the best.  How could hope be a lesser sibling to wishing?

Through the year and a half since my marriage ended, hope has been a constant companion.  As time wore on, and I wore down, even hope began to lose its lustre.  Not long ago, in the thick of it one day, I realized wishing is indeed, not mere hoping.

Hope is beautiful, fragile, can be dashed.  Flighty, fallible, of the air and of this world, hope arrives and departs.

Wishing is visceral, of the deep gut and beyond – to the stars – wishing is the deep imprint of our time here.  Life is the gift, but wishing is the work, the onward will into existence, to be lived, to be survived.

I had hoped my children and I would be spared a greater or  lesser trial, but it was never to be.  So tonight – on a wish and a prayer – I send this post.  From me to you – please think, please wish, please pray for me and my wonderful children.

Many things I have learned from this ordeal, much more I am sure to see.  But forever will I hold in my heart the love, and the compassion, I have felt throughout it all with a little help from my friends.  Thank you and bless you.

The most interesting things turn up in bogs.

Yesterday X related to me that he had found this space.  Or rather, apparently, a friend had found this space.   A somewhat indelicate moment when evidence is presented that a former partner is Googling peeks into a life no longer of concern.

As you might imagine, a collision of life and metaphor occurred as X discussed X.

Nonetheless, a big shout out to X, his friend, and relatives, who may wish to traipse this bog now and again.  Please remember to wipe feet and close the door softly as you leave.

It is 7:30 PM, another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody, thank you Sam Cooke.

It is lightly snowing, dark outside, quiet.  My children are with X this weekend, these kind of nights are always still.

Me, the cat, warm walls that softly glow of the desert — spare, but beautiful to my mind.

I think of people in their houses, apartments, those with children and partners, those without, the world turns slowly.

Loneliness is an interesting critter.  Even if I spend the rest of my days without a companion, I will  never be as lonely as I was married.  Cold walls, clipped words, no stillness, only strained silence – for more years than I care to believe.

Sometimes I still think there is someone out there for me — most times I don’t.   The idea of  personal conversation, affectionate company,  seems whimsical.  That is for others. Given the legal onslaught overwhelming my world, its silliness is a luxury.

Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody — sometimes not a bad thing.