Sunday, February 26, 2006

not dying

I am not dying, though I feel as if I could be, find myself fantasizing about the benefits of my life ending. Don't be scared, I am in no danger. Having spent as many years of my life courting the idea of suicide as I did, I assure you I know the difference between justifiable sadness and a dangerous, depressive state.

Those of you who have not known me for many years might find it hard to believe that your ever-loving, uber-mama friend suffered under the weight of an agonizing depression for many years prior to my current ebullient nature, but it's true. I did. But perhaps you've rightfully caught glimpses of that edgy undercurrent to my personality, of that darkgoddess-worshipping side of me that wants to lurk in cemeteries late at night so as to be closer to those have passed from this incarnation. It's still there. My work is to keep that side at bay now that I've healed, now that I've actively chosen to live my life and not wish it away for the suffering it involves.

I am fucking sad right now. I have been all but wallowing in the pain of lost love, of abandoned friendships, of unkept promises, of deserted dreams for days now. I ache. I yearn. Today I can hardly say three sentences without crying. I did find myself having an ugly suicide fantasy for a moment there, but I caught myself, righted myself. That is not what I want. My untimely death at my own hand is NOT one of the outcomes for my life (or my children's lives) that I consider acceptable. The act of imagining my own death now is like going out and trying to rekindle a flame with a highschool sweetheart; at one time that relationship held significance, provided a sense of comfort, but now it is grossly inappropriate, gangly, awkward, and immature.

Therein lies the challenge, dear readers. I have suffered plenty and worked hard to come to terms with the role of suffering in life so as not to be waylaid when it inevitably cycles 'round to visit again. I strive for wellness, for love, for life, for acceptance, compassion, understanding, enthusiasm. I spend countless hours in counsel with many dear friends and family members trying to help them attain a level of comfort with their own pain, and now I am called once again to face the spectre of my own suffering and be OK with it, and I am finding it a difficult task. I do not lament it, nor do I fear it, I am simply wearied by it. I feel too tired to do anything but feel.

I imagine that is my lesson. To accept suffering, to cease to judge any of life's experiences as more valid, more worthy than any other is hard work, is ongoing work that it is foolish to expect will end anytime before my life does draw to a close. I must accept this process, work with it, grow from it just as I have done before, just as I will do again. It's a cycle, it's a spiral, it's a circle our lives are unfolding upon. I have been here before, I will be here again, and I will have the opportunity to greet all points along the way over and over again in this lifetime and the next...it's existential poppycock, it's buddhist rigamarole, it is all and nothing and back again. Sigh. And I am still exhausted.

Right now I would like a little ease. I'm feeling attached to the idea of some comfort, some predictability and stability, some reciprocity for all the good love I put out there. Ahh... there it is. I felt it. As I write, the music got just right, so sweet just now- the fire is blazing, the lights are low, the babies are safe upstairs enjoying themselves and everything is, briefly, just is.

And it's gone. And it will be back and it will go and it will be back and it will go and it will be back and it will go. And I find myself grateful for the opportunity to live every minute of it rather than dreading it and wishing myself away. It is all so massive and insignificant and lovely and horrible at once. I have come this far.

dre-e-e-e-eams, dreams, dreams, dreams

I kissed G to wake him up this morning. He mumbled, " I don't like Eris."

"You don't like Eris?" I questioned thinking of the little girl who used to be in our homeschool group.

Getting my meaning he responded, still groggy, "Yeah, the goddess. I don't like Eris. I had a dream she was trying to destruct everything. I kept destroying her machines that were trying to make the monster things go back to life. She kept trying to turn people into stuff. Ferrets and stuff. She was trying to turn L into a ferret. He had a ferret spine and a whole bunch of hair growing up his back to his head."

L interjects, "You didn't try to save me?!"

"I tried!" G says, "I tried like three times but I couldn't stop her."

"What did Eris look like?" I query.

"A blue lady. Her hair was long and black. I think she was wearing her hair."

"Was she pretty?" I wondered.

G says, "Not to my extent. And she certainly was not summoning things that were pretty."

To my extent, that was a pretty cool dream.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

homeschoolin'!

A few weeks ago L was working on writing something, perhaps an e-mail, and I said to him, "You know, you're old enough now that you really need to be focusing on correct punctuation when you write."

He replied, "Punctuation? What's that, like dots and stuff?"

Yeah, dots and stuff. What a stellar homeschooling moment.

Homeschool music class sounds something like this:
(in the car, "Iron Man" blares from the speakers)
"Hey you guys! Who's this?"

"Black Sabbath?"

"Yay!"

The first time L answered the Black Sabbath homeschool quiz correctly he was about 4 years old.

Lately G has been getting into more music. He has pretty eclectic tastes, like his mom. He loves soul music, and he has an entire 60's soul box set from his dad to which we listen whenever it's his turn to choose the music. Then, yesterday he made me play "The Christians and the Pagans" by Dar Williams twice in a row because he liked it so much. And I made a mix CD for Solstice with this Anti-con/Bjork remix on it that's all moody and breaky and hip hop and such, and he told me that was his favorite song on the mix. He said, "I like that song that starts out really simple, and they keep adding more and more to it." And, he likes trance.

Dear heavens, they are by far the most wonderful people on the planet. I love them so much, they make EVERYTHING worthwhile. As much as I respect those of you who choose not to breed, I must say, I cannot begin to imagine how my life would seem worth living without my children. They are quintessential. They are love incarnate, embodied, realized. They are pure, they are truth, they are the point. It is no wonder I want more of them. How could I turn away the possibility of exponentially increasing the amount of love in my home, in my family, in the world? I cannot resist the lure of more blessings with whom to share my meager life. I live in constant gratitude that my days are graced by these offspring of mine.

For their breakfast this morning I made a lovely quiche from a large, fresh, green emu egg. Does life get any better than this?

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

incontinence diaries

Right now, I don't feel good enough. Good enough for what I do not know, just not "good enough."

I feel like I'm not doing enough. How not Zen is that? I think that's why I'm writing right now. I mean, my sister wrote at least three blog entries in the last couple weeks and at least one of them was so fucking brilliant it actually made me feel insecure that she is smarter than I am. Who cares if she is smarter than I am? That's great, she's my sister, I WANT her to be brilliant. Nevertheless, the motivating force that is currently illuminating my future corpse felt threatened by the perceived loss of my imagined throne of brightest childom.

I don't exercise enough. I feel a great deal of guilt over that. Again, a self-imposed judgement that is unnecessary and certainly doesn't help motivate me to exercise more. But whenever I'm curled warmly in bed or making breakfast or sitting in front of the computer for the 10th or 11th hour of the day (I know!), I'm feeling guilty that I don't wake up early and do yoga or take a walk in the mountain paradise outside my front door. Meanwhile, I'm only hurting myself by not doing those things, but then I'm hurting myself worse by indulging in the absurd phenomenon of guilt that arises due to my lack of a disciplined exercise regime.

And now I feel guilty because I know what I'm writing is total shit. Nobody wants to read my fat girl confessional. What makes me think anyone is reading this? What do I care if they are? Furthermore, what do I care if they like what they're reading? I'm not holding a gun to anybody's head and insisting they stay current with my blog. Am I writing it for me or them? I read a lot of other people's blogs and I do get a lot out of it, but most of them, my brilliant sister included, insist they are writing for themselves. Oh yeah, well if you are what happened to your journal, OK? Remember the little books that we all used to keep in which to write our innermost thoughts? Now we air our dirty laundry for all the world to see and smell and rate and upon which to comment. Maybe it is better for us, poorer for everybody else, 'cause now your nose is full of the stink of my bad day, and hey, I feel a little more pure now that I purged my unsavory emotions onto your computer screen.

I'm sure the end of the day drag I'm experiencing is also exacerbated by the money trauma. Again, there's more guilt for me to feel 'cause today I didn't work enough hours, I didn't make enough money, and how could I even dare to consider cutting out of work early with the insane amount of debt I'm carrying? And then I didn't even do anything really productive like exercise or write brilliant blog entries with my unsalaried time. Moments like this I harbor no doubt that the puritans certainly did a number on America when even a godless heathen like myself is forced to self flagellate every time I have a somehow less than pious day not nearly full enough of productive work and righteous activity. And again when I write rambling, run-on sentences like the previous. Or sentence fragments, such as these two.

Give it up, Jus. Pack it in. Call it day. It obviously ain't getting any better from here. I guess it's time to go bathe away the day's sins and the uncomfortable dampness sullying my panties 'cause my PC muscles just aren't what they were before I had kids, all the more confirming my profound personal undeservedness.

Goddamn, I did just say that, publicly, to whomever may be paying attention.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

imbolc

Blessings on this day, the turning of the wheel, the cleansing, the shifting, the quickening.

All week I have been in this zone, the time of the returning light, the promise of spring, the clearing away of the dust accumulated through the winter dark, too much darkness to see our way to clean. At my house I heat with wood, so it actually happens that my house gets EXTREMELY dusty in the winter time, and by spring I've GOT to dust every surface, shake out the cobwebs, shower every dull, dry houseplant.

Today, February 2nd, is solar Imbolc, Sunday was lunar Imbolc, the new moon in Aquarius, so my kids and I cleaned, dusted and updated every altar in the house, sprayed every room with an essential oil mist "energized" by salt water soaked crystal pieces. How very hippie! How fun! Everything fucking sparkled by the time we were done. It felt really good. Scoff if you like, but our home defintiely felt as if an energetic shift had taken place.

Two years ago today I sat in the tattoo shop adding fresh, green leaf growth to my bear tattoo, the one I wear in memorial of the baby I lost, the one I had inscribed to my body five years earlier, seven years ago today. I chose Imbolc for the application of that original work because it is the holiday the marks the slow transition of the return of the light, and though I still suffered immensely at that point, light had begun to grow on the horizon of my life. I chose to add growing, green leaves two years ago because my sweet friend who had fathered that lost baby and I were beginning to make a life together. And much in the same way that the new segment of my tattoo was halted in its progress by an unexpected turn of circumstances, leaving me still bearing an unfinished, partial work of art on my arm, so my relationship with that friend came to a screeching halt later that same year when we both succumbed to very unexpected changes in our circumstances, and now that relationship dwells in my heart and my soul waiting for some completion, some evolution or some closure.

Hmmm. I actually never thought about that till I just wrote that right this minute. I think it's high time I get this tattoo taken care of. If spritzing some crystal water around my house can make way for energetic change in my home environment, then I feel damn sure that completing the work of art etched into my very skin could propel some shift in the nature of the relationship it symbolizes.

Cool. I like getting tattooed.

And I love that man. My intention is still with him. He would never read this to know that, but it is, bless us both.