Isn't she lovely?

I have a broken heart. It's so so very broken. I think about my broken heart when I wake up in the middle of the night. I think about it when I wake up in the morning. I work hard all freakin' day long to keep from falling apart. I have a broken heart.

"People are better than no people." When I'm sad, I need to be alone a lot. I need to sit in a quiet room and not think, maybe cry, but mostly stare at the ceiling and be sad. At some point in the sadness, I begin to wonder if it will ever end, and if I'm isolating myself to the point of depression. Then I hang out with my people, and I feel a lot better, and I realize that things will not be awful forever.

Right now, I am trying to live my life as normal. I go to work. I go to yoga. I try to feed myself on a regular basis. I cry and get mad at dumb things and then say "I'm sorry". I have good moments. I have bad moments. I try not to cry at the pharmacy when they mess up my prescription for the hundredth time (even though I try to keep this from happening, and plan ahead, and check and double check, it stills happens - I have no control). I try to keep my life as stable as possible. I take a lot of walks at dusk. There have been times in my life when the walks at dusk were accompanied by swinging on swings at the park, but I don't have any swings near me now.

I don't know what is going to happen in my life, or with my heart. I'm learning to be a person who tries not to control everything. Not trying to control everything is probably why my heart is really truly broken. I'm proud of myself for letting that happen, for letting my heart be broken. That's progress.

An imperfect life.

I ridiculously love Degas, and have since I was a kid

I've been trying for a long time to have my perfect life, to be the perfect me, to get to the edge of my potential. Is it possible that I've been trying so hard to be awesome that I've neglected how awesome I already am, just as I am?

I've recently learned that I'm a pretty attractive person. Heretofore, I still held the beliefs bestowed upon me as a child: that I was annoying, dressed like a man, had terrible hair, and just generally looked horrible all the time. So naturally I assumed these things meant that I was ugly, and unlovable. Funny thing is, I'm not ugly, and I'm pretty damn lovable. All of that time spent believing the lies made me create a persona to cope with the ugliness. Everything I wear is an attempt to not look decrepit. I avoid certain hairstyles because they accentuate my utter awfulness. I exercise and eat healthy because it keeps me from looking horrifyingly ugly.

But now I know these things are a lie. Every. Single. One. So now what? How do I find out who I really am under all of the things I've put on to keep from showing the world the ugliness underneath? How do I become someone who is completely herself whilst still communicating health and well-being in my professional life? Where is the perfect middle and how do I get there?

And what happens if I stop striving for perfection altogether?

Marry me. Own me.

Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home—my only home.

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

My big term paper in 12th grade AP English was about Jane Eyre, specifically the concept of love in Jane Eyre. I've been trying to create my home my entire life. I never had one place that I could call home. I had a smattering of locations, and all of them together just wasn't home. But I found a home inside myself that I carried with me everywhere. It was safe. I made forts with pillows and blankets and my pink depression glass lamps I've had my whole life; and I would read The Boxcar Children and Nancy Drew. I don't remember a lot of snacks, but my mother often bought graham crackers, so those I remember more than anything else. That was my "home".

I was told that my real home would someday be with a partner, a husband. He would give my life meaning. He would take all of the idiosyncrasies about me and somehow create meaning from them. He, this unknown person, was the only way I could become whole and complete. He was the only way  that someone would care about me the way I imagined was possible. He would care that I hate watermelon and love swings at the fair. He would listen to me when I wanted to talk, because it would be his job to listen and care. In sum, my future husband would love me the way no one else could.

Well I'm 31 years old, and I'm not married. I've never been married. I haven't met this amazing person who is going to save me, change my life so completely I'll finally be whole. So I've had to learn along the way that life is too hard to wait for this person to arrive. Life is too long to wait for someone that may never come.

Whatever the truth, I've learned that one person doesn't "complete" another person, and so to even strive for that is a futile occupation. Don't I deserve to be complete all on my own? Don't I deserve to be loved all on my own? And don't I deserve to be fully known without a spouse? Yes, yes, and a resounding yes.

So I find my home all within myself, and I carry it with me wherever I go.

Painting share :)

It's Christmas and I'm thinking about my goal of making the world a better and more beautiful place. Did you know this about me? At some point in my early youth, my favorite book was Miss Rumphius, by Barbara Cooney (1982). Miss Rumphius was a lady who made a beautiful life in her work, in her travels, and in her scattering of lupine seeds on the hillside.

Miss Rumphius never married, and when she was old, she retired to a cottage by the sea. I don't know if I imagined my life the way it is today, single in my little cottage, perfectly content. I lived in the jungle once. I've seen some pretty cool things in my life, and my soul is fed by the work I do each day. These all seem like things Miss Rumphius would be proud of.

The holidays are a difficult time for me. I am reminded of the brokenness in the world, and the brokenness in my own life and family. But then, without fail, I am never alone in these feelings. A woman in yoga shouts "I hate Christmas" at the beginning of a class last week. I am welcomed into people's homes and families in ways that shock me with an abundance of love.

Tonight I will read several long passages of scripture at my church's annual Christmas Eve service. I was practicing just now. Think about how you say the word "homage". I've decided to say it like an English speaker, and not the francophone that leaves deep inside me ;)

Fun quotes of the day from fellow thrifters!

1. Great Expectations? I heard that's a terrible book. Sans irony, people. Sans irony.
2. Well, whatever turns you on, right?! In response to someone who enjoyed fantasy novels. Not romance novels. Fantasy novels. Poor man, publicly shamed for asexually enjoying Star Trek.

Poem of the day.

Sonnet 43

I search for your trace in the faces of others,
in this rough, winding river of women,
in their braids and barely submerged eyes,
in their soft sliding steps skating out on the foam.

Sometimes, I find I can make out your nails:
fugitive, oval, children of cherry-trees.
Sometimes it’s your hair I catch flowing by,
burning into water your portrait of fire.

I searched, but no one else had your heartbeat.
No one else had your light, or your dark forest clay.
No one else had such delicate ears.

You are whole, exact, you are one apart from many.
And so I’ll go with you, traveling and loving,
a wide Mississippi into a feminine sea.

 

Pablo Neruda (Translated by Paul Weinfield, 2013)

Vacation is no party.

1980 - Small Vintage Portrait on Particle Board

A few days off have put me into thinking mode, one of my all-time favorite modes, as it were, and I'm sifting through my brain, trying to decide where to go and what to do next in my life. I wish I knew, truly. Today, I'm thinking about opening a thrift store. As yesterday's thinking revealed, dreams are sometimes only images flashing across our brains, without any structure to hold them together.

I wish I could step confidently into the dreams I've had for so long. But what I've found in my life, over and again, is that dreams are never what you think they will be. You fall in love, only to discover the hollowness of the other person. You buy an old car, only to realize that you aren't the hobby mechanic you'd hoped to become. You take a job you'd only just imagined in college could exist, only to find it radically conflicts with who you are as a person.

So I've become a little scared to dream, hesitant to take another step forward only to see a nubile dream die with a thud. I'm scared to discover that being human is really as difficult as it seems to be, full of failings and hardship, slim glimpses of true beauty, followed by slippery hope in something more, something big enough to hold, something more substantial.

I think I've stopped trying to find someone to fall in love with because I've realized it's impossible to manipulate, that some things cannot be made to happen, that some things really are out of our control.

Peace, friends :)

The Bachelorette returns...

Vintage NKOTB pillowcase :)

Due to my lack of a television (not because I'm some uber-hipster, but because I'd have nowhere to put it), I don't have cable. This means that I'm one day behind the blogosphere in terms of commenting on The Bachelorette. I know. I know. I've failed my strange niche of reality television/theology/recycling-loving crowd, all two of you. My apologies.

The first episode of this new season was the first time I was able to really start seeing pathology right off the bat, to trust my gut, to allow myself to say "something's not right with that guy". Of course, this is all hyperbole, since I'm not on the freakin' show, but nevertheless, I'm learning to trust myself. Creepy comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes, it can be really attractive on the outside, but it shouldn't take long to reveal itself. It's shallow and self-centered, needlessly self-deprecating and hyper-focused on flaws. Creepy people make you feel "icky".

My love of pop occasionally feels shameful ;)

I felt "icky" several times this evening, as I ate my favorite homemade vegan mac-n-cheese. Shirtless dude took too long to find a shirt. Dancing dude had zero ability to laugh at himself, and stared a little bit too intently - ack! But then...Bikram guy had the potential to be too intense, but was successfully able to be chill in stressful situations. And this guy looked like he was holding back tears as the final roses were being handed out and he was roseless - perhaps overly emotive, but able to be real in a strangely stressful situation.

The whole thing is a cluster-fuck of emotional absurdity, yes. But it's also an opportunity to do some self-reflection. While watching the Bachelorette meet her men, I'm wondering if I would be pretty enough for a group of men, or if they'd think I was weird and crazy, and if I'll ever be running through an orchard, holding hands with the person I love, who simultaneously loves me, and wondering at the beauty of sheer existence.

So many things to think about. What a great summer show - I'll keep you posted ;)

Faith is a fact.

I have a friend in another country who goes to church every day after work, sits in a silent old church in some old European country, and contemplates God or something especially cool. It seemed extreme to me when I first heard it, but I understand so much more now. We need ritual in our lives, sameness, things that do not change. This ritualizing of behaviors creates solidity in our souls, plants us into the ground, makes us feel safe in our own skin. Weird and definitely spiritual, but true. Take it or leave it.

In the wake of school shootings and marathon bombings, I hear stories of people reaching out in new and different ways. Today, while driving the freeway in between meetings across town from one another, I wondered if people are looking for God somehow in this reaching-out, and I thought about lighting a candle. I have another friend who lights candles regularly, also an awesome person. I so appreciate that she has created some kind of place for that. I don't think I have the room. Maybe I could put a shelf up or something.

Who knew I'd become more Catholic as I got older. It's strange and wonderful, and I'm glad my faith allows me to change over time, to go in and out of faith phases, just as I move in and out of food phases. I am still going to the panaderia every morning, and tonight I realized after my evening walk down the boulevard, that I could not go the rest of the day without eating ice cream.

So yeah, phases are good. Or okay, at least. Also ritual is good. I don't know if they are connected. Whatever. I won't figure everything out before I die, but I might figure out some things. Hopefully bread/ice cream phase won't put me in the grave sooner over later.

A beautiful thing :)

Anthropologie sweater from Field Flower

Two and a half months ago, I closed my poetry journal. It has remained on the floor beside my bed, and I have had no desire, or need, to open it, until today. I didn't want to look at all the poems I'd written for a man I no longer love. I didn't want to see the proof that I didn't know enough to say "good-bye". I didn't want to see my tears in words, all over the page, remembering how I cried through most of them, cried through nights for years, wanting the feeling inside of me to leave. But it never left.

It has now left, and I am reborn. I am solid and sure. I am open to radically new things. New has entered my life in a way I never expected, but has been an incredible gift. One day, the burden was lifted. And now there are things I do not know. There are things I have not planned. I am free in a way I've never been. It's a beautiful thing.

Thrift Share Monday :)

Vintage health, fitness, and nutrition book for teens

I went out of town today, forty-five minutes in fact, and even though I went to a town far from home, I saw thrift store employees I know. How funny is that? They were of course surprised to see me as well, and we shared some awkward moments.

A little while later, I traveled downtown to the nicer "boutiquey" thrift store, which is always very clean and high priced. I thought I might find some work clothes. They were having a "25% off" sale on some items, and a woman came to the counter to ask the volunteers how much she would pay for an item that was $10. It took them five minutes, they couldn't figure it out, and gave up. I kid you not. I ended up explaining it to them, and they replied, "Oh, math was my worst subject." I wanted to claw my own eyes out.

Vintage book for kids about the human body - fun times :)

I ended up bringing six items into the dressing room, four tops and two dresses. Everything looked huge and made me look like a weird angular mannequin. The last thing I tried on was a vintage wool Pendleton shift. It made me look like a bad Mad Men knock-off. I know that everyone feels this way sometimes, but I'm having a hard time with my body right now, and feeling freakish.

Linking up with Apron Thrift Girl :)

I love you, all of you :)

It's a belt buckle! Isn't it so pretty?

I've always been tall and awkward, and being thin makes me feel less like a total troll, but I still feel it sometimes. Early on, I developed a tough exterior to cope with the teasing I received throughout elementary school, all of which had to do with how I looked. How I look can bother me. It matters to me, because it is the thing that can either lead to teasing, or help me to avoid it. I like to pretend that I have control, even though I know I don't.

Last week, the day before Valentine's Day, two thrift store employees had gotten off their shift and were looking through the lingerie to find something special. One was totally committed to the project; the other, less so and was berating herself in front of the mirror we were sharing, "I can't wear this!", My butt would look too big and he'd be distracted by it!" And for whatever reason, I felt like it was my responsibility to tell this woman, emphatically, that there was nothing wrong with her, or her body, and that anyone who thought so had a problem. So I did. And she listened. I felt good about myself.

I wish I had never been the recipient of someone telling me that I was fat, or ugly, or disgusting. I wish that no one ever did. But for whatever reason, most people have felt these things, experienced these things, and then we all, collectively, internalize those messages and believe them about ourselves.

So I am now taking brief moments, all the time, in thrift stores, to send positive messages to women trying on clothing, to join with the sisterhood, so to speak, in an effort to turn the tide, however slightly :)

Daaaaaaamn girl! You look gooooood.

Joseph Brodsky.

Grow accustomed to the desert as to fate/lest you find it omnipresent much too late.

~Joseph Brodsky 

Someone sent me these poems a few years back, and the second half of the audio has two of my favorite poems by Joseph Brodsky, a Russian poet. There is something so beautiful about the idea that there are other people who exist in the world who understand the depth of being (as much as it can be understood, of course) and who are able to put pen to paper and make something of it, or maybe they create meaning with the writing itself. I dunno. Anyhow, listen if you like. The reader has a beautiful voice and cadence.

And I shall write.

Isn't this an amazing mug? I wish I could give it to everyone.

Esperanza means to wait -

Oh if I'd known this alternate definition,
I'd have suffered patiently,
to wait for healing, and precision

God exists within this pain -
she, triumphant in this waiting tumult,
years passing with each day

Inside my cold and wasting heart,
blossoms bud in silent reverence
for this Abba others cast away,
to ease their confusion, disbelief

I am quiet in my closet,
marking down with lines each day,
waiting for my esperanza - hoping God will find her way

I wrote this poem a few years ago, when life was bleak and I wanted something to hold on to. I was looking for God, or meaning. I was looking for a reason for pain. And I found that sometimes there are no reasons, that to truly accept the depth of evil, deep down in your soul, is suicide, and all we can do sometimes is love one another, and speak truth, and hold hands, and all that good mushy gushy hippie stuff.

Much love.

Why does life suck?

Um, because not all shoes are red?

Siamo angeli con una sola ala: possiamo volare soltanto abbracciati.

Luciano de Crescenzo

Someone asked me this question this morning, at the ungodly hour of "before breakfast", and I think it's appropriate for me, who is now in the process of eating breakfast (at my desk, quite happily) to answer the question, now having the adequate blood glucose level to form whole words and sentences (exceptionally long ones, it would seem).

I think that, more often than not, it behooves us to acknowledge the "suckiness" of life, to admit that disease and war and hate exist, and that each of us, in our own way(s), lives each day carrying the remnants of these past and present realities.

It's okay to accept that life is shitty. Sometimes I think that the only reason I am able to see true beauty, is because I can recognize how rare and special it truly is.

Much love to all :)

Rat's ass, flying f***, etc.

Vintage scarf with a design I thought was cool, and now adorns my office :)

I've decided that not giving a fuck is like, our calling in life as human beings. Now hear me out please. I'm not suggesting that we hurt other people, but that we stop having freak-outs over all of the things we think might happen, or what people might think, or might do. Maybe something will happen that is difficult, or even unmanageable, but let's get to that when it comes, not years before. Think of all your wasted anxiety on things that never came to be, how much sleep you lost, how little you ate, how much you cried, etc, etc, etc.

So I may, or may not, have had a seizure a couple weeks ago in yoga, and this possible seizure has created a whole host of problems for me, the least of which is the totally inappropriate time at which this all happened. It seriously has put me over the edge. Suddenly, I have to deal with all of these tests and doctors, unexpected medical bills, rescheduling a whole host of appointments for work, and it's all a pain in the ass.

But here's the deal: all of the things that I've been stressing out about at work have fallen by the wayside. Suddenly I have no room for the extra anxiety of thinking about what people might be thinking about me. I think it actually makes me do my job better. Suddenly, I've stopped giving a fuck, and it's a wonderful thing. I keep imagining that this is what eighty-year-old women feel like.

Also, my hair just keeps looking awesome, so that helps too.

Peace out :)

All is not lost, my dear

Oh man, I've been feeling down for a few days. I don't want to call myself a "downer" however, for fear this name-calling would only plunge me back into ceiling-staring-land (or as it was last night, star-staring-land). And I don't want to be hard on myself, since the temperature plunged overnight, the holidays are fast approaching (oh dear lord), and the director of the CIA is embroiled in scandal. Then there's Hurricane Sandy, legalization of being a pothead in Colorado, and the neverending depression of Obamacare. Need I say more? How can a simple girl like me go on living in all of this chaos?

But then, a dimly flickering light in the darkness: lunch at the Armenian place across the street, filled with fresh pita, tzatziki, and the most wonderful falafel I've had in a long time. Suddenly, the world was right again, my blood sugar normalized, and my days-long freak-out ended.

Peace out mofos :)

I never want to let go.

The most difficult things I have had to do in my life have been to see people as they really are, not what I imagine them to be, but as they really are. And this process usually ends in tears, tears of regret and grief, and then the ultimate work of figuring how to move on.

A few years ago, I had to do this over and over again, and it almost killed me. And I never wanted to do it again. I never wanted to be disappointed again, I guess. But then, this year (oh God), I've had to do it again. I've had to see the people I love for who they really are, and figure out whether or not I'm going to accept them, or whether I'm going to move on (fuuuuuuuck).

The thing is (and this is the most difficult thing), I don't have a lot of relationships that I've had for over a decade. And that makes me want to cling to the ones I have left, to forgive and forget, to make it work when I'm pretty sure it won't. Because I don't want to go on in my life and leave everything behind. I don't want to leave my younger years behind me. I don't want that part of my life to disappear; I don't want that part of me to disappear. And I'm willing to compromise big-time to salvage parts of my life that have all but disappeared. I don't want to lose everyone, because it makes me feel like I'll lose myself in the process.

Sad day.

Forever with me.

Vintage Silhouette - Made in Austria

I've written a lot of poetry in my life, lots of terrible wonderful poems about love and loss and longing and anger with God. I'm sick today, and feeling lonely in my sickness, because being sick is always a lonely occupation, isn't it? And I'm trying to figure some stuff out, so I start looking through the last two years of poems to try to get some clarity on my feelings and how they've remained constant in some ways over the years, how my trajectory has, in spite of all obstacles, stayed straight and sure.

Vintage Liz Claiborne - Totally make me think of the early 1990s

I've figured out something really important. My love for other people, my deep unfailing commitment to what some would (and have) declared delusional, has carried me through my life like a bright shimmering string of hope, woven through the mess of my life, inextricably linked to who I was, who I am, and who I will become. These people did not earn that love, nor did they provide it to me. It was something inside of me that kept it going, kept that fire stoked through many stormy times.

Those people can never give me that love that I've created for myself with their names on it. They can never live up to the hype I've given them, because they're human, and I made that hope inside myself so I could keep living when I didn't want to. I deeply want to show these people what they have, with their mere existence, given to me, but it seems to be an impossible task. How do you really love another person? How do you give a person, in a few moments, a decade of hope that you have forever inside you because of them?

So I love them, not because of anything they did, but because at one time, they loved me. And it was everything to me.

Solitude.

Bjorn Wiinblad, Nymolle Denmark-"August Bye Bye"

What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours - that is what you must be able to attain. To be solitary as you were when you were a child, when the grownups walked around involved with matters that seemed large and important because they looked so busy and because you didn't understand a thing about what they were doing.

Rainer Maria Rilke (Letters to a Young Poet - #6)

Bye bye Bikram :(

Last Thursday or Friday, I drove the 20 minutes up the freeway to the Bikram studio, but there was weird traffic on the thoroughfare, making me late, which meant that I was locked out of class. And suddenly, in a moment, I had my answer: Bikram is not for me. My entire life is made up of appointments and being at the right place at the right time for other people. I need a place where I go just for myself, where I don't add stress to my day and life rushing (and no, I'm not in a place to dedicate more time over and above the already lengthy process).

My blood sugar has become so bad, and so unpredictable, that it isn't worth it. I had begun to imagine that my immune system was being activated, and perhaps even healing me, but my immune system being stimulated doesn't heal me. It hurts me. And I just have to accept that.

Thank you Bikram, for making me get in touch with my spine. Thank you for pushing me past limits I didn't know I had made for myself. Thank you for being a bad ass. You made me, for a brief period of time, feel like a bad ass too. Now I'll have to find other ways.

Peace out.