You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘love’ category.

You know that old saying, the one that goes something like, be careful for what you wish, you might just receive it or some such thing.  I have never been a big fan of that particular saying.  As life seems to enjoy a good laugh or two, at my expense (or so it seems), this week I have heard myself iterating this phrase and then I suppose reiterating the same saying.  Because I did make a wish and I am, indeed, receiving said wish.

In fact, I did more than send a wish into the Universe.  I crafted an invitation.  An invitation to a celebration, a party if you will in honor of myself.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  I, as in me, myself and I.  A celebration of MY LIFE to coincide with one of my favorita days of the year Summer Solstice (the other favorita days of the year, Winter Solstice).  I crafted this invitation and then sent it out into the Universe to invitees both local and to those who live in what we fondly refer to as the Lower 48, even though there are 49 other states in the Union.  Some folks may be wondering what are we even considering here?  What’s the big deal?  Where’s the problem?  What is this post even about?  Well, read further dear blogging friends and I will further bare my fragile vulnerable underbelly of neurosis.

In sending this invitation, I was telling myself Number One, that I am valuable enough and could possibly be important enough to someone(s)’ that they would/will take time out of their lives to journey North to celebrate my life.  For those invitees from Outside there would/will be the travel expense, which is no small ‘taters.  The moment I hit the send button on my email invitation the anxiety that had already built to about a 4 on a 1-10 scale, hit about an 8.  That old and tired but loud whiny voice of who do you think you are little Missy and you are a selfish self-centered little girl aren’t you today blah blah blah took over.  Thankfully, before this part of me could overtake me and tackle me into the mud, I began receiving responses to my invitation within a half hour of its flight.

Thus, this week has been a life lesson of opening my heart again and again to the love that is there for me to receive.  Although overwhelming, I remind myself that I am a growed up woman, as my adoptive mother used to say about herself.  And a little or even a lot of overwhelm over receiving a lot of love from family and friends is some thing a growed up woman can handle on any given day.

My heart is full.

My heart is full and expanding.

Advertisements

I was asked yesterday by a brand new acquaintance what my relationship status was.  Meaning, I gathered, was I involved, taken, belonging to another, tied up, tied down, bogged down, in a rut, newly wedded, deliriously happy, passionately satieted, or barren, bereft, afloat, alone, blissfully single, between partners, or simply untethered from the demands of another human being in an ongoing relationship.  Out of the multitude of responses at my disposal, here were the words which sprang from my lips ~ my heart is wide open.

WTF?!

For anyone who has been a follower of this blog for any length of time, you might get it like in, right away, that this was an atypical response for me given my life’s journey this past couple of years.  But there it was.  The words said, passed from and over my lips.

And what is more, as I have had time to ponder, which obviously I have taken the time to do, I realize that the words are a true reflection of said heart.  The said heart ~ my heart ~ the one that is, indeed, open ~ much to my surprise and actual delight.

Hearts, spirits, beliefs, values ~ all have a funny little way of making changes, often times profound, sometimes in small ways, sometimes in big leaps and bounds ~ stealthily, silently, quietly, slowly, or just plain simply ~ and then our mind’s get a great big old WTF awakening.  And then we adjust, metabolize the alterations and carry on.

that’s what Natalie Goldberg, my favorite of all time writer gurus says, just write.  Just do it, man.  or in my case, woman.  Put pen to paper.  Finger tips to keyboard.  Pencil to cardboard.  Fingers to the air.  Just do it.  Right now.  Right here.  No excuses.  No stopping.  No monkey mind.   That’s what Goldberg calls that part of our brain that distracts us and pulls us right and left up and down and then all zig zaggy.  When all the time, our original intention was to sit down and write out a page or two or ten or the poem of our life.

This Saturday evening, I am attending a Literary Salon.  Sounds fancy, huh?  At least it does to me.  I joined a local writer’s group earlier this year, it could have been last year, it was in the dark months of winter that much I remember.  I am not much of a joiner in the way of joining groups.  I used to be.  A joiner of political groups.  I railed against all sorts of human injustices and fought hard for human and individual rights for a long long time.  And then I grew weary.

Back to my current subject of the fancy sounding upcoming Literary Salon.  I am excited.  Nervous.  But more excited.  The event is being held at someone’s home whom I have never met.  And here’s the really cool and brave part, I volunteered to read some of my writing.   The organizers were looking for 10 volunteers to read 5 minutes of their work.  Since most of my essays are more than two pages long, I quickly decided to read a few selections from my body of erotica poetry.  That is, until I spoke with the main organizer who informed me that there will be children present.  Good to know.  So onto Plan B.  or Actually C.

I have chosen four other poems to read and have been practicing the timing of the reading and introduction to the pieces to fit within the five minute allotment.  Five minutes goes by really fast!

This will be good for me.  Meeting other writers.  Being inspired by their work in progress.  Sharing a part of myself that has been dormant for far too long.

So I have returned to my roots and busted out my beloved guru’s books, Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind.  They have inspired me for many years and continue to remind me of my first love ~ words, writing and the telling of stories.  Utter bliss.  Just write.  So right.

Somewhere and sometime along the way on this journey of mine on this particular circuitous path that I tread called my life, I let go of the hope of finding my first mother, my omma.  In the beginning as a child, I barely dared even think of her even when I was sleeping ~ dreaming about this most precious woman in the whole wide world.  And then in adulthood, I defied all that I had been taught and brainwashed to believe by my adoptive mother, and took the lid off the hole in my heart where this yearning for my birth mother lived.  This hope was faint but thrumming with the rhythm of my heartbeat and sprang fully alive with urgings from my thoughts, dreams and fantasies of this mystery woman’s face, touch and fragrance. 

So today the realization that the hope is reduced, once again, to barely a flutter now and again, is startling. 

Hope and hunger, however, are two separate states of being.  For I still long for this woman, my creator.  Longing that aches to my very soul.  Even with my dim hope that I will ever find her on this planet, in the form of my first omma, the yearning is still present.  She is somewhere.  Perhaps over the proverbial rainbow.  Maybe existing on another plane in a different form.  But, somewhere there exists is at least a remnant of this one whom I have gone without for ever so long. 

Happy Mother’s Day Omma from your daughter aka Korean adoptee, junemoon.

Yesterday I sat in my friend’s car and visited for about 3-1/2 hours, give and not take an hour or so.  That’s after we had sat across from one another in a restaurant booth, eating breakfast and visiting for about an hour and eleven minutes.  We had not seen one another for a goodly amount of time and when we do get together, we talk.  For a long time, we talk.  Our best conversations have taken place in one or the other of our vehicles throughout the years.  And our friendship spans multiple years and encompass umpteen life changes and choices of both the minor and the major variety. 

So it was not uncommon that our tete-a-tete included the revisiting of past romantic relationships.  For me, one love affair in particular still has a hold in my heart.  A flame, if you will, that has not gone dark and cold.  My little meander down memory lane seems to have knocked some emotional debris loose and onto my path or into my heart like little sparkling diamonds swirling around in a gold pan mixed all in with the fool’s gold.  I think in this scenario, I may be the fool and that all that sparkles is definitely not diamonds but instead perhaps a woman-made synthetic imposter. 

Nonetheless.  My heart is a bit blue.  A bit bruised from the memories of the long ago infidelity, deceit and not enough love.  The saying that time heals all wounds is not really true.  What is true in this narrative is that time has softened the heart pain and there is distance even in the nearness of the flame.

Where I work there is a department called the Transitional Services Unit (TSU) that helps incarcerated youth return to their communities.  I understand that it was not that many years ago that this unit did not exist and that youth who had aged out of the juvenile justice system were simply released.  Set out on the curb so to speak.  Now each departing youth has a team who works with them and on their behalf to help them navigate the numerous changes and challenges. 

This morning, I realized that I need one of these TSUs of my very own.  Now whether or not I would make good use of their offered services, I do nots know for sure.  But I cannot help but think that there might be some comfort in just knowing I had this team of humans who were looking out and ahead for me, even for a little while. 

Because where I am today is a familiar place.  Familiar but full of danger and darkness.  This place where I end up after the ground opens underneath me and I experience the free fall into depression, a cavern of great depth.  This time, I did what I used to do many years ago, I pretended I was not falling ~ for a while.  That is until either the invisible tether securing me to the landscape of life, separated or the growing velocity of the plunge forced me to admit I was in this place, once again. 

I must snap out of my funk.  Create toe and finger holds to climb, pull and grunt my way to the surface.  Pronto.  Today is my middle grandson’s 14th birth day family celebration.  I love this boy, dearly.  I am to bring the cheese bread.  Cheese bread ~ his Grammie’s cheese bread ~ is one of his most favorite foods.  To not show up, cheese bread in tow, is not acceptable.  I love this boy. 

So I must figure my way out of this quagmire of self indulgent angst once again in order to leave my home, get in Buster Blue, drive to the grocery, purchase the ingredients, return home, make the cheese spread, drive to my daughter’s home, participate in the family birth day celebration and be part of my life ~ part of my middle grandson’s life. 

Where are the TSU personnel?  Hello?  Can you hear me? 

With or without other human help, I must assist mine own self.  I have been in this place before, many times in fact.  Surely I must know the way up and out.  I will look for some markers and familiar signs pointing ahead.

Many times it is the small things in life that can make the whole difference in a day.  My granddaughter reminded me of this elementary fact earlier today.  During our lunch, she had spied a green balloon amongst the bright-colored balloon bouquet festooning the hostess station.  Being the smart little girl who she is as well as a planner, she had informed me and her mommy that she hoped the one lone green ballon could be hers before we left the dining establishment.  My daughter, being the straighforward caretaker who she is, responded by telling her daughter to ask for what she wanted. 

Sure enough, after we had finished eating and paying our check, my granddaughter asked the hostess if she could please have the green balloon.  And guess who left the restaurant with a bright green helium balloon attached to her small wrist?  My daughter’s daughter.  Yes, she did. 

As I walked beside my daughter and her daughter to our respective cars, I couldn’t help smiling and wishing that life could always remain so simple.  Wishing that a bright green balloon could put a smile on each of our faces for the rest of the afteroon.  Or barring that, until it accidentally popped or was released to the heavens.  By then, another easily found joy would have taken its place. 

Maybe life is still that simple.  If so, make mine a purple one, please.  Balloon, that is.

Life in the moment is good.  Very good.  Too good.  At least too good to wait until November to formally give our honor and thanks~giving for this abundant life. 

So my family and I are gathering this evening for a spring Thanksgiving Feast.  There will be the American dinner icons ~ turkey, mashed taters, gravy all served up with loads of yummy side dishes.  My daughter sparked the idea last week and the rest of her clan quickly climbed onboard. 

Life is good.  And when it is this good, one must eat.  Eat delicious homecooked food and sip a bubbly beverage, or two.  And you know me, who am I to swim against the tide ~ at least when it comes to celebrations.

The other day I read the headline or byline or small snippet of an article based on the theory that humans are incapable of simultaneously loving someone and worrying about that same someone.  In other words, worry is not tantamount to love.  This byline, this fragment of what appeared to be a lengthy piece of writing, has now been popcorning around in my head. 

My knee jerk reaction was to exclaim, “You sir or madam, are wrong!”  That urge most likely comes from the fact that I am a notorious worrier over the safety of those I hold dear.  And I suppose I must be equating worry to the strength of my caring and out-and-out affection for these folks.  Pious, perhaps?  Martyr, maybe?  I mean, really, does any “good” parent not worry about their children’s safety, futures, happiness and health?  And does not their worry make their “love” even stronger? 

If I were a predictor of the future, one gifted with psychic abilities if you will, I might foresee my search for this particular catalyst of thought and emotion provoking article in order to read beyond the byline.  I mean, after all, one must have some understanding of what one vehemently disagrees with, correct?  Plus, beyond my initial uncensored reaction there lies a curiosity and openness to this new idea.  For when the day is all said and done, worry does not seem to enrich the lives of either the lover or the object of their affection. 

So sign me up for new ideas and careful considerations of a new way of approaching the sacred experience of love.  My knee seems to be healing nicely from its recent acute reaction.

November 2017
M T W T F S S
« Apr    
 12345
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
27282930  

Archives

a