I adhere to the concept that everything happens for a reason. I am unconvinced that things just happen randomly. This idea not only explains that I do not know everything, but it also grants me peace in circumstances beyond my control. I consider this to be a life motto.
Do you have a life motto? How does it guide your life?
For example, I do not have a lot of stress in my life because I know that whatever is happening is part of a greater scheme than I can see, so I just do what I can in the midst of the chaos of the moment.
The old adage comes into play here – If a tree falls in the forest does it make a sound if no one hears it. If I don’t know what the purpose of the situation does it render it less relevant? For me, as the adage, the sound happens whether I hear it or not. The situation’s purpose happens whether I know it or not, whether its resolution affects me or not.
This can certainly be frustrating if I let it, but what’s the point in that?
I embrace the zen of peace in all circumstances.
Let the events unfold.
Assess the situation.
Question, what can I do?
Do, what I can.
Then, let the world evolve as it is destined to do.
Today, this is increasingly difficult, as we are presented with so many unknowns that have serious ramifications in a global arena. Covid 19 spread, global warming, political and civil unrest. It seems as though everything is crashing down around us, and we do not see a crack in the walls that are stretching further up and out.
What’s the purpose of all this unrest? What’s the end-game?
When I focus on the outcome, I find conflict with the ‘zenattude’ that I have cultivated, and worry sets in. This inner chaos sets my Type A tendencies into overdrive, and I set about positioning the importance of my involvement.
I question this hamster wheel thinking, and circular, yet pointless activity. This brings me back to me.
If I have done what I can to do my part as my conscience compels, I am complete in my participation, and I can return to giving it back to its purpose and rediscover the balm.
The haves and the have nots are at war again. It seems like this war is never ending, and it is justified in its persistence.
Each side has its argument to support why their ideas are the right one. The haves have earned the right to have. I have because I have worked for what I have. Or I have because someone has worked for what I have. Or even I have because I was lucky.
There’s the rub because the have-nots are always trying to find the golden vein in the mountain of presentation.
The have-nots look for what is found in a rainbow of irrational confluence. A place where the rainbow ends into a treasure trove just waiting for the bounty to be had. I proud discovery waiting to be had that leads to a life others will envy, and they too will then be able to chase the elusive road of prosperous contentment.
But until that day arrives there is nothing to do but hate. Hate what hasn’t been attained. Hate the ones who have the things that should rightfully belong to all. It just isn’t fair that others should have so much and many more should have so little.
I hate that today’s powerful elite can do whatever they want, while there are those who cannot afford cable. I hate that those with money can spend more on a pair of shoes that I can on rent. It’s just not fair that I am stuck with paying full price for everything and they are given (often very expensive) “gifts” that are not even taxable.
I have heard since birth “It takes money to make money” and there is truth to that. One cannot start a business without money – sometimes a lot, sometimes a little, but it takes money to start a business. It takes money to go to school. If you’ve got money, you don’t keep school in your budget for the rest of your life (or what feels like it) and you can put that education to good use – or not, which seems even less fair. If you’ve got money the world is smaller. The wealthy can go and do the things they want to without sacrifice. These days, a lot of money even gets you to outer space.
The have-nots find other ways to get to outer space, finding places and ways to forget the dreams that amass in the depths of those who cannot fulfill their ideas on a whim. Perhaps it’s in the comfort of food or the multi-color gems of the liquor bottle that are as balm to souls that dream of something more. Perhaps it’s the schemes of newness on the horizon with which the dollar store shopper delights, or the vortex of Amazon gift arrival. Perhaps it’s the hamster wheel of the illusional success in achievement sustained only by the weight of a new dream.
The haves do not understand what it is like to have an unattainable world that is forever on the horizon of the mind. The one thing that would change it all. It is the thing which drives masses of people to continue in their mundane existence. It is what keeps society moving forward. What would the world look like if there wasn’t this drive for a better future?
The utopia we strive for where everyone is the same. Everyone does only the job that they want. Who would choose to keep the streets clean? Who would do those jobs that no one wants to do? This is something I’ve been thinking about.
The answer is machines. Right?
Robots could do the dirty work. Robots to pick up trash, work in fast-food, stock the grocery store, fix the cars, prepare bodies for burial and cremation, clean up just about anything you can think of. That’s a lot of work now not needed to be done by humans. Can you imagine all the errands that you do daily, weekly being done by mechanical people, and what would the people be doing?
Would all the people be traveling around the globe visiting the robot slaves of other countries in their private jets and luxury yachts? Would we be swimming in our gigantic pools and eating food prepared by the machines in our command? Would we be writing books and creating art and music for the masses to enjoy in our unending leisure? Would this be a kind of heaven on earth?
Or would we all be grounded, with no one going anywhere or doing anything. Would we be slaves to the authorities in charge of making sure that everything is evenly distributed? Would there be people who still dreamed of having something more than what others have? Would there be jealousies and envious beings who would find a new source to hate?
We search for perfection. We want what we want. Would that change because someone doesn’t have mass amounts of wealth to envy? Would we be capable of existing in a mind of contentment in the leveling of the playing field? Or would the talent of one be taken as unfair if there was another who excelled in an area where I believe that I should excel in.
These are a lot of questions that go through my mind as I watch the world demand what they think should be “theirs.” There is so much discontent – and much of it valid. I watch Cuba searching for a better life, where they were offered the utopia of its generation. I hear Venezuelan’s wax poetically on how their country was before the dream of equality was shone in their eyes. I hear the cries of the American public searching for the dream of public funding, to even the score, to take what has been working and throw it away. There is no utopia. There is no perfect unity. There is only the goal to get along, to be a fully functioning body of people with a common goal. Without this, there is the dream that once was – the dream that many people in other countries strive to reach, and the owners have spit upon.
Today marks the birthdays of two creative geniuses: Ernest Hemingway and Robin Williams.
Does anyone disagree??
Robin Williams made people laugh with his boundless energy in exposition, both verbally and physically. He could touch the heart of the viewer in ways that few can. Williams, from Chicago, Illinois, had only recently turned 63 when he decided his time was up.
Ernest Hemingway could pull you into his staccato rabbit hole of storytelling, reaching the common man and the literary scholar with his words. Hemingway, from a small town outside Chicago, was almost 62 when he departed.
These parallels are a bit uncanny. Was it the Chicago connection? Was it the age of no return? Seriously, if Hemingway had waited a couple weeks, he would have been 62, and if Williams had not waited, he would have been 62. Yeah, I know it’s a stretch, but honestly, I was surprised when I saw how much the two had in common.
Both were craftsmen who put their heart and soul into their purpose.
Both were beloved by their public.
But both must have been hurting greatly inside.
Because Both pulled the plug on their greatness.
Perhaps this is why their work still resonates, and will continue to do so.
We do miss you both, and what more you could have contributed to the world.
In honor of Hemingway, I will go for a swim after writing this, and to Williams and you, I bid, nanoo, nanoo.
I was listening to Jen Psaki give an update; not watching her – just listening, and I noticed that I was having a hard time following what she was saying.
Not being too interested, I started to zone her out, sort of like when I ‘watch’ baseball. When the crowd is roused my attention is too.
What my unconscious started to pick up on was that I was listening a new language. It was a sort of pig-Latin (is that ok to say now, I never know). She was saying something like, “We um have not uh had the chance uh um to um talk to um each other about uh where we uh are um going to uh make uh a um a decision.”
See what I mean? Maybe it’s the new um-Latin.
My ears perked up, and I was amazed at how many filler words came out of her. She is in desperate need of Toastmasters (or conviction behind her words – I’m still deciding).
I thought, is it me? Am I the only one who notices this? So I consult the all-knowing Google. I am not alone. There were many commentaries, but my favorite was a YouTube video by Don’t Walk, Run! Productions, where they edited one press conference of about 30 minutes, and she said um, uh, etc. 356 times. Amazing!
Somewhere along the line, I always get off course. I write my to do list. I am full of optimistic expectation at the start of each week. It is Monday, and I am ready to take on all the dreams of the week ahead. This is the moment that I live for, each Sunday.
The sun peeps through the curtains that shade my eyes, fresh and bright. I roll up the curtains and breath in deeply, as my mind plays the tune of the day. Today it is “The Battle Belongs to You,” and I feel ready to greet my Monday friend. Hello!
But my eyes have other plans, they are not so happy at the intrusion of the brightness and they loosen the ties that keep the curtains up. But they cannot escape the light that has coaxed their inertia. Determined they fight for their right to keep shut.
The curtains may have ironed their way to keeping the day at bay, but the mind has begun churning; the gears have cranked up and begun their morning ritual. Chug, chug, chug… to-do-list, to-do-list, to-do-list. The eyes still wanting to win the battle, call in the reserves of the deepest parts of the mind. They enlist their military buddies who are in the right vicinity to win, at Hippocampus. At camp Hippocampus, the residents are most focused on avoiding the realities of those on the Frontal lines, so the cahoots begin. To-do-list loses steam as the mind track takes up the lull of quietude. The eyes ecstatic at the foretelling grip of awareness loosens its hold on their unfolding. It seems the battle is won – until I, on the precipice, falling — giving in to enemies of the day, am jolted awake by the front lines. Defeated the curtains open and submit to mornings demands.
With the next order of business in mind, and a greeting, my feet turn aside the clouds that surround the nights shackles. In rote, they set about doing the dance expected of them at such an hour. Shuffling into the bathroom, where the bladder is relieved, teeth are shined, and face is freshened. They then depart to order the clouds, unblind the windows, and shod themselves in anticipation of the work that is to come.
The feet are quite enterprising, but the routine doesn’t require too much direction. They know what they are to do, but sometimes a step is missed, and then the feet are lost. The grove they are used to trodding gets diverted and things get askew. They ask for help. Help us frontal lines, we cannot remember where we are supposed to be because we cannot remember what we forgot. Such is the way of the rigid trekker.
Once they get back on track, thanks to the help of master pc, the morning gets going in full swing. No more protests from the eyes or those in Camp Hippocampus.
I make the coffee; what flavor will it be today? I think Hazelnut sounds good. While sipping on the warm, golden liquid, my body sighs with contentment. I sit in the rising east, basking in the early light, reading. It is my time with God, and the eyes are grateful for being summoned out of hiding.
Ah, this is going to be a good week. The freshest of Mondays. The beginning of a new week, with new possibilities and successes to gain. It’s 8:30 am.
At 1:00 pm. The brain, which has been imparting information since 9:00, is having synaptic meltdown, and the mouth is complaining to the brain, in commiseration, at their perilous overuse. How the body with which it is attached is cruel and has beat them down, they resist the call to continue in the morning’s freshest plans.
Has it really been only five hours ago that we, all of us, were ready to take on everything?
The frontal lines begin working on a strategy: eat something, rest and relax for a bit, regroup, and begin again refreshed.
The parts work together to implement the plan. Food is cooked and eaten. Mindless television is recruited for rest and relaxation. New to-do timing is exacted, and just as the plan is to be set in motion, eyes send a note to Camp Hippocampus requesting reserves. The mind complies and the curtains become heavy, the brain gets swamped in heavy fog, and the strategy is surrendered.
I will get started on my next project after a nap…
45 minutes later, I awaken, groggy. Disillusioned and demotivated, we struggle to extract the life that was so vigorous in its arrival this morning. It is gone.
A new strategy is needed. We will start again tomorrow. Today, we will succumb to the vacuous nature of the mindless endeavor. The vapidity inherent in the creative vacuum of television.
The evening is held hostage by the news of the world, the affairs of those who exist only in two-dimension, and the wonder of those who use their wiles to get what they want in the medium that impresses them. I remain passive, with ‘tomorrow’ lurking in the shadows, while I am witness to the dreams of others.
At 11:00 pm. My feet do their nightly thing, sort of a reverse of their morning thing. I read a bit of some creative genius (This week it is Madeleine L’Engle) and slowly the eyes find their way in control again.
I sleep. I dream. I wake up. I pee. I sleep. I dream. I wake up.
The curtains roll up. It’s Tuesday, a fresh new day! The eyes struggle for repose, the mind struggles for wakefulness, the feet get rolling in a manner they are accustomed to.
To-do-list, to-do-list, to-do-list.
Work, Eat, Nap, Watch.
The eyes win again.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday. The weekend!
Ah, no expectations. Free to do as I please. Oh, there are some errands to run, chores to do, easy stuff.
Sunday night. Monday morning, a fresh start. So much to do. A new week ahead… let’s get started
There is a silent call that drags our hearts and our minds toward something that is beyond out control. What we do control is our answer to that call.
I’ve been watching the world closer than I have ever in my life. I’ve never been one for being a newsmonger or celebrity obsessed (or even mildly interested). The world’s goings-ons have always been there and if I hear about the ‘it’ of the time or not, I didn’t spend much time dwelling on ‘it.’ This has been quite a feat as I have lived through some interesting times.
In my youth, the 1970s, the biggest political upheaval was going on in the name of Watergate. To this day, I only have a vague idea of what it involved, and actually have a bit of sympathy for Richard Nixon as he probably did what others in his type of position of power have been doing for millennia (or more). The 70s ushered in the ‘need to know everything’ generation, and Watergate is part of that fallout.
True, this was hot on the heels of a cold war and the country was embroiled in the Vietnam war that opened a lot of minds to the questionability of the leaders of the free world.
Free world…
Nothing is free in the world.
Not only was Watergate infuriating the American youth, and Vietnam chewing up and spitting out the youth, there was a hostage situation in the middle east which, of course, impacted the gas situation in the United States, and drove up inflation.
Man, doesn’t this sound a lot like the state of the free world today?
So, these are the vague memories I have about being a child of the “Me Generation,” and supported by the embellished memories of Forest Gump.
The 80s and 90s are virtually world event vortexes. Reagan was president and everyone was feeling good about the economy. Changing from dungarees to informal formal daily wear and moving from home as humble abode to Town and Country opulence, and even if you couldn’t afford it, you strove for the yuppiedom that was gentrifying mass swaths of city life.
I, too, was focused on the upward mobility fueled by Reaganomics.
Then, the new millennia threated to have planes falling out of the sky, and banks purging monies to the detriment of their owners due to the computers thinking it was 1900 instead of 2000. While people hoarded food, delayed travel, and believed the assurances that the FDIC would watchdog their life savings.
I was also watching.
Little did we know that once Chicken Little’s cries were unfounded, we would find that truly the sky was going to fall down – or something would fall from the sky and life would be forever changed.
As we know, 9/11 changed the world.
The events that took place on September 11, 2001, shook up a complacent nation – a complacent world. As the, then, infallible world of the United States of America, it was an event that seemed impossible to occur. Why that is so, is the sheer fact that the American public believes it is beyond the reach (or should be) of the things that make life ugly, and this illusion has been shared by many other ideologically similar nations.
I was one of them. Aghast at the sights that were taking place before my eyes, I couldn’t stop watching. To this day, I can see those images and stop whatever I’m doing and watch, despite the fact that the images are indelibly etched in my minds-eye.
We were a changed nation.
This is when we, as people, changed.
I have noticed.
At first, we were unified in our horror. New York became America’s orphans, with the nations embrace coddling a broken city. The world watched and wondered; how could this happen? Our leadership had to respond. We could not take it sitting down; retaliation and retribution were necessary to feel balm to the gaping wound of betrayal.
Since that fateful period, I have tried to limit my engagement in the chaos of the world. I am a rather staunch believer in giving little emotional and mental space to situations that I lack passion for or feel it is outside my capacity to affect. Such as the political and governmental control of our space in the western hemisphere.
But I have watched the people watch the world.
It’s the people of the world that scare me. It’s the media’s control of the people that scare me. It’s how few people notice the crackled glass that is poised to shatter once the heat is too high. It’s the inability to repair the crackled glass globe once it has shattered that scares me.
Just like in the 1970s, we are seeing political turmoil. Leadership has lost the trust of its constituents and is now scrambling to keep their hands on their ‘deserved’ slice of pie. The American public screams ‘Justice!’ and is looking for someone to crucify.
Reagan was that answer in the 1980s. I wonder who will be the answer in the 2020s.
Or will we implode? Will we kill each other? Or will we just destroy what was once the greatest country of modern times?
It’s hard to say. Historically, we have seen great civilizations come and go. They have risen to great heights and then sunk below sea-level. The great nations of Egypt, China, Britain, and Rome were all once the ‘world power’ but lost their way, and have never fully recovered (yet). What makes America think it is immune to the fall of another great nation?
It is said that a house divided cannot stand, and that is where I see the United States presently. She is standing on the precipice, with crumbling gaps ready to swallow up those in its wake. We will watch those fall into the holes, pointing fingers at each other, saying this is your fault because, again, we seek retaliation and retribution to fill a gaping wound of.
Ultimately, what will the faultfinding achieve? I’m afraid we will find a whole lot of self-righteous justifications in the midst of a new country called the Divided States of America – land of the destitute and depraved.
The land of the place called Florida is again in the place of the receiving the wrath of the water and the wind and the rain. It is Hurricane season. Here it is in our second month of the season and we are already up to the E name – Elsa. Elsa isn’t very strong, but she was moving very quickly. The Caribbean has had three fatalities.
Right now, there is no wind, but there is a light rain and crickets. Are they happy? Are they complaining?
Hurricanes are quite exciting. I am well aware of their danger, and perhaps that’s what makes it exciting. I know that I’m not alone in my anticipation. Actually, my anticipation starts in May when I know that in June the potential for storms will begin.
I’m not partial to hurricanes. I like most storms. When the thunder makes the house shake, I am terrified. When the winds blow the trees and my big oak trees in the yard groan with the torque of it speed, I consider there may be a tree in my living room today, and yet I revel in the howls she screams.
What I don’t like are tornados.
Tornados cause destruction that is like ripping a Band-aid off your whole body. The pain it causes it immense. Tornados have no remorse. Like the locust who strips the field bare in its quest to feed its natural instinct.
There are memes about the crazy Floridian stocking up on liquor and hoping the hurricane comes on a workday. Memes are often true. This year, we don’t have the work thing too much because the pandemic is still loosely gripping business.
I have been in Florida for about sixteen years and was greeted by Hurricane Frances in 2004, one of the four hurricanes that roared through central Florida that year. We spent our first week without water, power, and very little food. We couldn’t take showers and it was sweltering hot – I’d say hot as hell, but that misnomer wouldn’t do. Hell is forever, and although those seven days in September 2004 may have felt forever, there was escape.
Remembering those early days of hurricane visits prompts me to prepare for the guests. Elsa isn’t expected to pass through my town, but some of her accoutrements will. As she is traveling up the coast to the east of us, we are what they say is on the dirty side of the hurricane. The dirty side can spawn children from Elsa, The dreaded tornado threat. But I don’t think so much about that as I prepare for the possibility of losing power. I never want to be as hot as I was my first week here.
Amazon has brought me a rechargeable fan and lamp, so I’m good to go.
The reason that I don’t worry too much about the storms is because I have my trust put in the one who controls the weather. I know He will keep me safe. My love of storms stems from my love of the Almighty God who controls all. A storm, to me, is the purest form of God’s strength and power. I don’t profess to know how God uses weather, or what His intention is with the display of grandeur, but I love the feel of power that I see when the thunder rumbles, sometimes seemingly for infinite moments which feel as if time stops. Or the flash of the lightning, which lights up the night and can take down a tall oak tree in an instant. The rain pelting down both washing the earth and threatening it at the same time. The intensity is amazing.
Yes, I know I can be seen as foolish in my great expectation each year, but I am full of respect and awe for the enormity with which can prevail from nature’s fury.
What we see on a stormy night is an outer display of the inner turmoil that goes on inside. Sometimes there are thunderbolts and lightning jolting my mind, pulling my body into many different directions. Sometimes the rain continues for so long that I can no longer feel my pulse as I am saturated with the weight of tears I carry inside. Sometimes it gets dark and the silence is deafening, just like when the eye of the storm passes over the plain and the world feels perfect, only to move on leaving a torrent of chaos in its wake. Leaving the survived to pick up the pieces and try again to set the world right.
Each June a new list of names are published of our potential future guests. Elsa is today’s guest. She is the Disney princess from Frozen. I find the irony amusing, but wonder why these names are chosen. I think that the hurricanes should be named after bands. You know, Metallica is coming, or Black Sabbath, or even Pink or Mozart. Perhaps the band could influence the severity of the storm. You know, like God, the next storm is Beethoven so let’s keep it slow. Alright, a bit crazy, but what’s the difference between Elsa, or Frances, or Xerxes? Hey, maybe they should be mythological….
We will weather the storm, as they say. Preparing our batteries, and generators. We will drink our wine and beer as the storm passes, or we will just sleep through it, praying everything is ok. Perhaps this is the purpose of storms – to remind the world that there is someone in control. You may call it mother nature, as some do, and you may just think it’s a scientific phenomenon, but you gotta have respect for a force that is far greater than the little things that we are. It is a big world, with far greater happenings than we can see. I will continue to revel in the power of forces that only present themselves sporadically, and keep musing over what it all means, inside the turbulent soul and the turbulent chaos of the world – remembering that a storm comes, a storm goes, and we pick up the pieces, till the next one comes along.
Jodie is sitting on the bench waiting for the number 9 bus like she does every day. She is reading the latest novel by her favorite author, Patrick Ness, who has planted her in a dystopian world of proportions which only can be imagined by his guidance. Her world is isolated, with only an awareness of the space that surrounds her person, and that of the whoosh of the bus coming to a stop.
Cocooned in her fantasy world, she becomes Viola as she reads her feelings and misadventures. She thinks about what it might be like to hear the thoughts of those around her. Are they really believing what they are saying? Do they understand that their thoughts compel their actions? What would others hear of her thoughts?
As she ponders her Violaian existence, she becomes aware of people encroaching her space. They are talking rather loudly, but she thinks they will pass her by to leave her in her introverted revelry.
To her dismay, the couple sits down next to her on the bench. She doesn’t usually mind, but she is disturbed by their incessant loud talking.
“Why do you always have to win? You are so self-centered. How could you think that it wouldn’t bother me to be called out in front of my friend?”
“He is so self-centered! I can’t stand how he treats me as if I am the enemy! I wish he would just go away and never come back!”
Wait, why is one conversation in second person? What weirdos’ they are!
“Hey, we’re not weirdos!” “You are!”
Huh…. She looks to her left and realizes she is Viola. Words are not needed.
The little red ball beats. It controls the actions my body. It controls the actions of my soul. What is it about the little red ball that makes meaning for some, and nothing for others. I try to notice the moods of its struggle. I try to assuage its doom. I try to celebrate its successes, and its search throughout the room. This little red ball controls my life. If it’s sad, I am sad. If it’s jubilant, I too, am jubilant.
Some say the little red ball is blue. You may have heard it said. You may have heard it sung. But the little red ball is only blue when there is no fire left in its walls.
I am particular about what makes my little red ball beat faster. There isn’t room for many to enter. Once in a while though I find intrigue and wonder breaking its silence. Once in a while, it skips.
When I chase other red balls, there isn’t any response, and it doesn’t want to play – we shrink.
Some have big bouncy balls, that bring delight to those in its path. They frolic and dance with the other balls without fear of the path. These balls are quite amazing, with joyful boing, boing, a giggle, a laugh, and it’s all fun and games til they’re gone.
The echos of their boisterous berth stirring a longing in the less generous tumbler.
The little red ball gets sad, as they pitter and patter away, with diminishing returns the order of the day.
I protect my little red ball very carefully. I keep it tucked away. Far from sight from the most of the people, it beats.
Today it is joyful alone, as tomorrow is more of the same. I watch over the deepness of wondering where my big bouncy companion has gone.
Loneliness is a friend. When your companion is only yourself, you can look to loneliness to keep you happy. I am mostly happy. Mostly content. But the day after day chasm can take a toll on my joy. I made my choice. I was once a shining star (and a stabbing pain) in someone else’s life.
We are given things in life that inevitably are taken for granted. It’s natural. It’s human constitution.
Blinded by what I didn’t have, what I was missing, and what it should have and be. I couldn’t see the things that were of value. I didn’t see you anymore – and I think you didn’t see me.
We both made mistakes. We both felt cheated.
And maybe we were.
We were not well suited as lovers, but we were supremely suited as friends. You were my best friend, and my faithful companion. We never had a chance.
A man will leave his home and cleave to his wife, is what the Bible says. I think that is necessary, as cleaving is the bond that keeps the two together. We never cleaved.
I remember the day I realized that we couldn’t go on the way we were. We were driving home from Sarasota (or was it a Rays game). We had just spent a great day together. We spent many great days together – the consummate companions. Well, we had just spent a great day together and Aretha Franklin came on the radio singing “Neither one of us wants to be the first say Goodbye.” I was saturated with the words she was saying. I was listening to my life, our life, being sung by someone who had apparently been living the same lie that we were. My tears filled the wells of my brown tortoiseshell sunglasses. I didn’t say a word the rest of the way home.
I couldn’t help thinking about how we had never made a life together. We had moved across several states, and settled down without our families. We bought several houses. We moved through many job situations. We went to concerts, and movies, and far more days at DisneyWorld that are countable, and yet, we didn’t really know each other. And worse, we didn’t respect each other.
Yes, we cared about each other. Yes, we would have done anything for the other. Even after our divorce, we lived together for nearly a year and a half. Who does that?? We did.
I saw something on Facebook today that said, “If you can still be friends with your ex, you either didn’t love them or you are still in love with them.” I wonder which is true.
I still love you. You as my friend. I still think about you. Actually, I dreamed about you last night. It was a dream where we were still friends, but we couldn’t stay together.
I would still be your friend if your new wife hadn’t put the kibosh on our friendship. But she may just be representative of the Facebook sentiment.
I continue to long for the kind of love in my dreams. Someone who will be my partner in all things. Not a sprout that sticks to a reed, but two strong reeds that are surrounded by other strong reeds. I’m looking for someone who can talk to me for hours, and who listens to my stories too – while we make new ones. I have dreams, and in them I see you, whoever you are. We are going to have a wonderful 40 years, if what my heart says is true.
But right now, God doesn’t see fit to send the one who will fill my life with the presence it is missing. I will wait. Maybe the you in my dreams for the next 40 years is you my sweet savior. And that’s ok too.
I no longer mourn what is gone because I know in my heart that separating was the right thing for us. I believe you have found someone better for you. Someone who makes you stronger, and not weaker, as I did. And I, I have made a home and found me – the me that I was looking for.
Spilling Marbles 