Waving just beyond the window
Swaying just beyond the blinds
I sense your sensual energy flow
And I can't, for all of me, reach you
And I can't forgive myself
For I can't and I won't make do
I won't put life on a shelf
Waving just beyond the window
Swaying just beyond the blinds
I can't bring myself to go
And tomorrow won't be different
And tomorrow won't ever do
For tomorrow, you won't think to repent
And I'll still be missing you
Waving just beyond the window
Swaying just beyond the blinds
I can't reach you; I can't know
If your voice, my heart will cling to
If my voice will sing to yours
All I want is to be near you
All I want is mine and ours
Waving just beyond the window
Swaying just beyond the blinds
Still, we flow, we love, we grow
You’re struggling. I get it. I’ve been there in so many ways, so many times, you wouldn’t believe it.
The only way out is you.
I’ve been penniless before. I’ve starved three times in my adult life: twice when I was pregnant with each of my kids.
I’m talking:
We daydreamed of what might be in the refrigerator,
we were so poor;
and that’s not even nearly the worst I’ve suffered through.
So, I get it.
But here’s the thing:
Find what you love,
not WHO you love.
Do what you love,
not WHO you love.
That solves everything.
Literally everything.
BE who you love;
That’s really the only step.
There’s just one. That’s it.
Your stories are, unfortunately, just a slow way for you to examine yourself until you can get to THAT TRUTH,
and, until you figure out THAT TRUTH, your stories are unfortunately just excuses.
I’m not dismissing you. I’m trying to help you.
But it is up to you to decide that you are committed to you.
Write.
Every single day.
You can use your computer, if you like.
Just use Notepad.
But write EVERY SINGLE DAY:
Write your stories;
Write them THERE.
Write about your frustrations.
Write about your dreams.
Write until you’re sick of hearing yourself write.
Write until you’re sick of complaining about the same old shit.
Write and write and write and write and write and write.
Something will break in you.
Don’t judge ANYTHING you think or feel.
Write it ALL there.
It’s your sacred place without judgement.
Let no one read it unless you feel like they are someone you feel you could die with:
I mean that very very literally.
Let no one read it unless you TRULY want to share it.
Write like it was going to save your life –
Because it WILL,
if you keep writing.
When you feel like it, go back and read old pages.
Write about your hopes, your dreams, your frustrations.
Write about how sick you are of whatever you’re sick of.
Write about how stupid I am for giving you this damned assignment – if that’s what you feel.
But WRITE
EVERY DAY.
Give yourself a word limit. You can write more, but not less.
You’ll fail.
Do it again.
Keep writing.
THAT is how I saved myself.
Part of it, anyway; but that was significant, huge.
That’s why you have to commit, first. You see?
Your conscious mind will find a way to express to you all of what matters, and the writing will tell your mind that these are the things that matter to you most.
It will focus on solutions for those problems
and it will help you find them;
but if you are dishonest
you are only cheating YOURSELF
and you will find yourself unhappy.
It’s as easy as this:
If you go to McDonald’s and order a Big Mac when you really want an ice cream cone, you can’t blame anyone except yourself for NOT getting the ice cream cone.
Understand?
And if you HATE McDonald’s?
You can’t blame the existence of McDonald’s.
You can only blame yourself for GOING there.
Super-easy, huh?
** With credit and profound thanks to Julie Cameron for her wise advice in The Artist’s Way and to the late Frank Herbert for his immense wisdom in all the books of the DUNE series – all of which has changed my life only because I took it all and made it mine.
That day when you came to stop me from saying “Goodbye, I love you.”
That night when you picked me up from the airport, when – again – I wanted it to be over.
Those lingering embraces. Those passionate kisses. Those heart-felt words – from both of us.
That could have been forever.
Don’t tell me I made things up, that I exaggerated emotion, that I took things beyond their meaning. Don’t try to convince me that I took things out of context when the only thing I took out of context was myself from the context of your vicinity.
Don’t tell me I’m immature in love when I have the capacity to love beyond the space of a few miles, beyond the finite moment of right-now.
We could have been infinite, beyond all time-and-space. We could have been epic, magical. We could have been of the things true love and gods are made.
2.
Those nights-after-nights and days-after-days when you “didn’t expect to fall in love,” “to feel so much,” for me to stay.
Those months-long epic conversations when I explained my inner workings, my likes and dislikes, when I wrote books to you in long, verbose dialogues that you repeatedly did not hear, listen to or understand.
The fading patience; the increasing bitterness; the overbearing misery amidst your blissful ignorance.
Did you really not see, understand anything of me? No; nothing. You took only what you wanted, needed, and disregarded the rest, left it for posterity, thinking – having had my love and devotion for years upon years – it would last indefinitely.
When I told you I wanted nothing more to do with men, was that not explanation enough?
It’s not that we had nothing. It’s that it was repeatedly disregarded, discarded in lieu of your past, in lieu of so many things you chose poorly that sapped your soul until I came along and filled you up again.
It’s not that we couldn’t have come back together. It’s that you somehow ceased caring about what brought us together in the first place; and somehow, you expected me to care about how I brought you back to who you are now… when I have always told you I preferred the man you made of yourself before we first met.
Me)
Go into the desert.
Sing.
Dance.
Walk.
Capture beautiful moments and share them with the world, with friends, with the wind, with no one at all.
Be.
Write everything, and love every stinging thing like so many spines upon so many cacti, guarding what precious flesh lies beneath with so much fought-for life-giving waters.
Forgive even those who bit you, stung you, hurt you, maimed you; for you are forever-forgiving, forever-giving.
Love. Again.
Let this time be a lesson; and, this time, find that wolf, that coyote, that mountain lion, that bobcat, that bear, that eagle that will forever-love you, whom you can forever-love-give-love-receive-love-amen.
It’s time:
Kiss the sands and the dry earth.
Swim and sail and surf in those big, beautiful, blue waves.
Go. Wherever. Life takes you.
Be your heart.
Bring the rains to barren lands; and dance, laugh, kiss; let the waters wash every pain clean.
Be forever-good-and-loving.
Indulge your every desire, dream and wish.
Find your fantasies in life and love, and live them fully, for so few will leave their pains and morbidity to bring childish dreams to reality.
I don't care if you are beautiful,
I am done with you
I don't care that I love you
I don't care about our past,
I don't care about our future
because love was meant to last
I don't care for your intentions,
I don't care for your mistakes;
I don't care for our desires
This must end before I break
I don't mean it for a minute,
I don't mean it for a year
I mean:
I can't bear this feeling
of you calling me your "Dear"
while you test that my heart beats
for you through the test of time
while you promise me your friendship
when devotion is but mine
I don't want to hear your sweet voice
I don't want to read your words
and should you chance upon me
please don't ask that I abjure
either love or firm abstinence
for my heart and mind must heal
I have chosen life without you
'til your heart you will reveal
Without love, there is no friendship
without friendship is no love
possible between two people who
may swear to skies above
that they are true, that they love,
that they care for one another purely
and yet, wish for something different...
as when you ask me to demurely
sit, or walk, or feel for you,
abnegating all my soul,
deprecating all I value
and then, playfully, cajole
me into bearing, yet again,
my heart
such is neither kind nor true
I don't care that you are beautiful
I must be done with you
I gained a good thirty pounds, I’m sure. They still say I’m sexy, and maybe I am…. Sometimes I feel so, and mostly I just don’t know.
I never thought I’d be so comfortable lounging around in the late English summer, breezes blowing coolly across a grassy lawn and stirring the leaves in the trees so they sound like ocean waves coming ashore, RAF planes flying overhead at indiscriminate intervals.
I didn’t think I’d feel so comfortable after starting to fall out of love, to rest so gently on its precipice. I’ve always thought: If I’m out of love, I’ll be alone. I won’t be me.
But I’m not alone. And I’m still me.
Maybe I’m even more me than ever. I certainly express more of what I think and feel, in the moments of thinking-and-feeling.
And he’s not too bothered, not enough to wish me gone. Perhaps it’s because I still love him…. Perhaps it’s because he loves me.
I’m just, more or less, alone. Exactly the way I like to be.
Falling out of interest with falling in love, but sitting on this precipice, nonetheless. Not in love nor out of it, but just loving.
It’s funny, because it’s what he talked about from the beginning, what he’s been so concerned that I feel, more than anything: That I’m comfortable.
I didn’t want to be comfortable. I resisted fiercely.
I’ve grown so accustomed to being uncomfortable, to being on the verge of falling off a cliff of some sort or other, to facing my fears, to facing my demons, to mirroring others’ demons so they can face them. It’s not always fun, but the coming-out is; and it’s always rewarding. You inhale a great breath as you walk out of Hell and you never know where you’ll end up.
Before, you were often there, or rather, you’d come around again to check in with me, to check in on me.
C: “How are you doing with your injury?”
M: “It hurts, and it’s very swollen. I have to take the pain meds pretty regularly, and I get really tired. But it doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”
C: “…How are you otherwise?”
M: “I’m lonely.”
C: “What about the 50k guys that were swarming you?”
M: “That’s why I’m lonely. Swarms mean there’s no connection and the real people can’t get through.”
C: “I understand. I am kind of a needy male, too.”
C. & M. text conversation
I told him when I met him that I’d lose you, if I fell in love with him, if I ever wound up with him. Was it Fate or some strange connection between us, some strange agreement made long ago in an unspoken language? Whatever the case, the timing was as queerly precise as ever. And, boy, did you seem angry.
But I guess I’ve walked out of Hell again; and, instead of you (or anyone, really, except for him), I’ve ended up on a very cozy, quiet farm in the east of England where the birds chatter all day and for most of the night, where the farmer is flirtatious and kind, where the horses nibble grass all day long, and the foxes cry at night like complaining factory machines. The doves, however, drive me crazy with their plaintive coos that sound, to me, like a sleeping baby with a bronchial infection.
And I am alone all day long; kept watch over all night long.
I thought I was coming to Europe to run – actually, to sail – away from my problems and into myself. Greece was gorgeous, but it didn’t work the way I had planned. I was sad that I had nowhere to go next, that my plans were dashed. And you made it clear that I was not to come visit you, expressed in no uncertain terms; and I couldn’t alternately arrange to visit my friend in Italy.
So, I returned to England.
Sex with the Englishman I’m with is grand, but it is not enough. But I knew that with you.
Nor is it an escape. I knew that with you, as well, but I never knew it so well as I know now.
Supplant “sex” for “travel,” “TV,” “books,” “writing,” or “work” and the truth clings intensely in all cases:
Not a single one is ever enough, in itself. Not a single, solitary activity can ever be a viable escape.
You want to know what our problem was? I’ve wondered for seven years.
It wasn’t money, neither having exorbitant amounts to spend frivolously nor suddenly having next-to-none. It wasn’t that we loved our love life and explored voraciously. It wasn’t your history or mine; it wasn’t even your jealousy or my vehement heart.
It was our isolation, yours and mine, from each other, and from ourselves.
Particularly from ourselves.
I find myself as isolated as I’ve ever been in my life, now, for most of the day, for most days. I still wake up vibrant and excited when I know I’m going somewhere new to explore and see things I’ve never seen before, to indulge in my passion of connecting with strangers, to let my curiosity guide me. I can wash my bare feet in frigid ocean waters as comfortably as burying my toes in warm sands under the intense sun. I wander sweet-scented woods, wondering at the ages of gnarled trees and all they’ve seen.
The difference in my thinking is that I’ve realized that no one thing can be everything, no matter how much I love the activity.
Because: In-between atoms, what is there? In-between the protons and electrons and neutrons, what is there?
There’s a whole lot of nothing, with everything floating, colliding, meandering.
And that, I’ve realized, is where I like to be: In the ‘nothing.’
The past, the present are somewhere in all of that nothing, all of my feelings and all of yours and everyone else’s, too. There’s an endless supply of possibilities… maybe not everything you or I would wish to be, and most certainly some things we don’t favor, but plenty that we do, or might, or could.
Right now, between us, there’s not much. There’s our past, but I’m not really holding onto it anymore. I daresay there’s nothing between us, except perhaps my love for you (which may or may not reach you) and whatever you feel for me (which may or may not reach me).
And I’m okay with that nothing. I can sit very peacefully in nothing, having spent a lot of time in it, listening to the cacophony of guilt and accusations and suppositions and wishes and dreams racing through my head. Having let it be, having remained doing nothing, being nothing, I can listen to a whole lot of things. I can remember nearly anything I want; I can look and examine the past or the present, or dream about and even try to plan the future.
I start to realize that the only reason I wanted you with me, the reason I wanted to see you again, the reason I wanted to re-start our “something” was because I was so desperately afraid of the nothing. I was afraid it would consume me, my feelings, my everything.
Us.
And you.
But: There’s nothing between us now, and it’s not consuming what we were.
There’s nothing between us now, and it’s apparently not consuming you.
There’s nothing between us now and I still love, can still love you. And I still do.
There’s nothing between us now…
And you’re still you.
And, better still (because it matters so much to me, and in me is all of what I love, including you and us):
It’s not just a lazy summer, though one might think it is to see me from the periphery.
I have the luxury to spend time outdoors, basking in the sun at the neighborhood pool, volunteering at beerfests and other events around Atlanta on weekends, meeting new people and making new friends. I even flew away to California for five days a little more than a month ago; it was the most amazing trip of my life, so far: full of spontaneity, new friends, surf, sun and movies-come-to-life.
But, in the background is my life, and the true stresses and trials left to me to solve.
Granted, I’ve arranged my life and outlook so as not to have so many stresses as some have – at least, not in the same ways most have. Instead of worrying over my health, I whittle my diet to things I know I can eat without much concern; I watch my activities so as to reduce the possibilities for physical harm to myself. Instead of worrying too much over money (which does, yet, concern me a bit), I worry over how best to make my way to the sailboat of my dreams, to the life of my dreams, to the work of my dreams that best fulfills me. Instead of fighting eternally with those I love (or like) over any given issue, I hunt mercilessly for solutions, for work-arounds, for freedom and greater love, for understanding and even distance so I may gain perspective – or, at least, peace.
I am, therefore, single; I spend a great bulk of my time thinking of others, worrying about others; and a great amount of time working on the projects that most move me, that fill me with great excitement, endless ideas and momentum.
The rest of the time, I spend enjoying life.
It is important, vital; and, somehow, I see so many who’ve forgotten it, who fall into the trap of living vicariously through the excitements and hazards and problems of TV shows, of family members, of neighbors and co-workers and friends. There is no attempt to help anyone; merely to watch from the fringes, to observe and make commentary; to tell others’ stories.
I suppose that’s important, too: storytelling is certainly an art. But I’d rather tell my own stories; live my own life. Find my own way.
So, I bask in the sun and let my mind work its magic while I’m paying attention to nothing but the luxury of peace, of hot rays beating down on me, of cool breezes picking up the sweat from my skin, of children playing Sharks-and-Minnows in the pool nearby. Of the music I choose to hear from my Pandora app, meanwhile.
And, when I get home, my copper skin a shade more bronzed, silky-smooth from repeated slathering of extra-virgin coconut oil, I’m ready again to work, to plan, to harness the power of my mind towards my most cherished goals:
Oceans of Mine 