You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘memories’ category.
While perusing Facebook (FB) this morning, I read an entry titled Things I Was Convinced Would Change My Whole Life — But Didn’t. Curiosity. Mine. Hooked. Immediately. The FB author’s list also included things that did change their life. Thoughts. Mine. Whirring.
My list is relatively short, for now, but in the excitement of the moment I have no patience for delayed gratification to achieve a perfect selection. So here goes (in no specific order)…
Did Not Change
- psychic readings ~ not one step closer to discovering my birth family origins or a myriad of other important-to-me stuff; a big step closer to being financially poorer
- tea leaf reading ~ no second child has yet appeared
- cabbage soup diet ~ just say ‘no thank you’ or just plain ‘no’
- running as a sport ~ been there, done that & cannot remember why exactly
- black leather jacket ~ maybe the leather wasn’t ‘buttery’ enough
- years long search for birth family ~ nada
- solo art exhibit ~ momentary rush, only
- down comforter ~ warmth as light as a feather (pun intended)
- stopping smoking cigarettes ~ huge positive change
- my daughter ~ no need to say more
- writing memoir ~ although unpublished (yet), process clarified & aided healing
- Annie Rosa Lee Dog ~ life changing, for sure; taught me joy
- primary relationships ~ at least two, maybe three, truly altered my life’s course; okay maybe four
- earning doctoral degree ~ better late than never
So, there you have it, my lists. At least for now. Something tells me that I will be pondering & adding for a while.
You’re It. Lists, please.
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.
My absence from my blog has been due to my physical health related problems. That, and my ensuing depression. All of which have gotten me to the place I am today ~ inside the House of Truth. At least The House of Truth as I know it today, in this moment at this particular juncture in time, at this fork of this road.
I have returned to therapy. About time. That’s right. About motherfucking time. Or would that be about mother fucking time? Whatever. It is time. And I am doing it. Not fucking. Not even fucking around ~ not this time. I am participating in therapy in a different way than ever I have done before two weeks ago.
Meaning? I am raw. real. no pretenses. no good girl persona. no bad girl disguise. defenses, gone baby gone. Why? How? Why now? I am just ready. That. And writing a check for $175 for a 50 minute hour seems to keep me on point. Cuts through the bullshit. Stops the spin before the tales get spun, if you receive my meaning. And I hope she does. My treating psychologist that is.
My spirit and mood have been vacillating, wildly and erratically at times, between gratitude for life and wishing to be finally done with this journey. Folded in among this particular ping pong game of emotions there burbles nostalgia for what never was but wished for anyway, moments and times. Like say, the throb of deep connected love with the same person for a long period of time and the resulting imagined passionate lovemaking. And let me not forget to write of the fear, dread and anxiety brought on by considering medical procedures, tests and surgeries meant to return to me my health and maybe, may I hope, my sanity.
Where does one go when the well is dry. Bone dry. Yet the body still thirsty and the spirit weak. Prayer feels too hard. No, not hard, just not for me. Not now. I suppose I feel undeserving somehow of asking for help. Hard to do this earth journey; seemingly impossible to bridge the worlds or universe.
For now, I dwell in the land somewhere in between.
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.
In order to be here, one must go there but the going there, requires no physical departure; at least for today.
My thoughts and inner visioning have been hijacked. A few days before now, my eyes drank in the images of temples ~ hanging cliff temples. And ever since that first viewing when my soul leapt with recognition, my core began a slow drumming. The beat of this internal drum, thrumming through me; my body responds with a re-awakening and yearning to return to mountain peak, where I surely have lived in some yesteryear. Forgotten, until now.
This drumming back to consciousness, caused my limiting thoughts and jailhouse rules and boundaries to spring into action; to speak out loud their automatic chastisement. You cannot go, you would surely perish. Only the fit of body and the most holy of spirits belong on that journey above the clouds. Remember your fear of heights. You would most certainly slip and fall, causing great disaster and inconvenience to others. You cannot go, you would surely perish.
So in preparation for this journey, which I must surely embark upon, the first steps are to soothe my protector’s fears and to loosen my jailer’s clawlike hold. For my journey, you see, has most certainly already begun and I have not yet perished.
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.
The unmistakable trumpet of Canadian geese pierced through the early morning airwaves and were received by my welcoming ears. In the spring, these first honkings validate with assurance and confidence that winter is surely on the wane because there are new feathered sherrifs in town. We know when the geese head south, so do our hopes of continued late summer and autumn joys. Their departing audio conversations sound sad to those of us left behind. Left behind to face a cold and icy future.
But today, the Canadians are back and my heart jumped with joy for surely on their strong wings my prayers for winter’s end are answered.
It is true.
Prayers and wishes can, indeed, come true.
These past few weeks have been an exercise in cravings, delayed satisfaction, impulsive choice making, setting aside, procrastination, misplacing my mojo, re-discovering my mojo, percolating, marinading, and popcorning ideas, thoughts, theories, plain silliness, deep convoluted thinking meanderings and missing my blog.
What I have been up to and the revolving re-occuring topics in my head have included, but have not been limited, to:
the hour and minute combination of 11:11 and the significance I have ascribed to this time
Spring Fever, which morphed into Sunshine Fever, which changed to Restless Life Syndrome
loving my job, total dissatisfication with the same job, searching for new job, applying for new jobs
retirement preparedness, freaking out that I have failed, as in utterly, to formulate any such plan,
vesting, vacillating between commitment to stay for 3+ years to wear this retirement vest, back
to freaking out at the thought of such a long term commitment
health issues, tipping over, milestones in sleeping upright, off low sodium plan, back on,
yo-yo eating plan
poor body image, hating, shameful feelings, attempts to embrace my physical self
vacations, destinations, monetary commitment toward vacations, gratitude for abundance
Setting aside, walking through, moving around, navigating life’s detritus, waking up, being amazed,
feeling flummoxed, groaning disappointment, side-splitting hilarity, tears of pain and surrender,
loving and receiving affection
Man alive! No wonder I have been absent. That there is whole hella lot of living.
Do you remember those little label guns? The kind with the revolving alphabet and the colorful strips of label tape? You would spin the alphabet to the desired letter and then press the trigger, which would cause the letter to be stamped onto the tape. The letters would be raised and felt all bumpy when running your fingers over the finished product. Once you had spun and punched out the desired word or words, you would pump the trigger a couple of times to make the tape long enough to cut without spoiling your last letter.
Then came another part, the part of peeling the backing from the tape, leaving the adhesive so you could then position the label wherever your heart desired and then press it into place where the label would live happily ever after. Or until you decided to replace it with another label or somebody rubbed the bumpy little ridges too much and dislodged the brightly colored identifier.
That is when the fun would come to a screeching halt or if that sounds a little too dramatic when discussing the life of a label, that’s when the adhesive hell would begin. The hell of removing the sticky white-ish adhesive residue crap that the once merry and useful label left behind. You see that is when the polish remover would come galloping in to the rescue to make the world right again or at least less sticky.
This morning I was thinking about labels. That human need to categorize most anything and everything that comes down the pike, around the bend, over the hill and in our dales. I think naming, labeling and categorizing serves to help make sense of our lives, our worlds so to speak and in making sense then we feel safer, less vulnerable to the largeness of life.
What I am pondering today is whether the labels I have chosen ~ spelled, punched and stuck to the walls of my psyche ~ whether they are helpful or harmful, clarifying or stigmatizing. What labels might need to be re-named, revised or simply done away with. The worst that could happen would be some sticky residue left behind, right? And I know where I keep my polish remover. Truth be known, I always had a little crush on the label gun and those bumpy little letters so even if the revised label ends up not fitting, there can be as many do-overs as needed.