Like an orange. Life. Thick skin on the outside (for some of us), juicy, sweet meat on the inside. If you can get to it. Day by day, we peel back the layers in search of the treasure.
Sometimes it feels like a navel orange, others a clementine.
Yesterday, just as I was beginning to think that I was nearing the reward of its sustenance, I felt as if I was encountering that thick, immensely undesireable white stuff that adheres to the outside of this wonderful fruit. You know the 'stuff' I am speaking of....stringy, annoying, abundant and basically lacking in flavor; it was always my deterrent for eating these silly fruits.
Again, we are talking about life, the orange being a metaphor, and it occurred to me that in my mind, a typical set-back, a minor event is always blown far out of proportion and feels like the end of the world. Put simply, it isn't. It is just life. It is just that one bad fruit out of the batch. It was the looming and ever present reminder that life is not always rosy and it is far from a garden of them. Yesterday, I was simply overwhelmed.
The sensation of being overwhelmed stemmed from the inability for my tiny brain to accept the fact that we don't change in a day, there are always elements we cannot control and it really is not the end of the world. It is simply one day.
Work was trying. Work was hot, stressful and wrought with cranky patients and demands. Work was pharmacy---typical day. Friends were calling. Friends wanted to hang out that evening. Old friends: the 'outside' friends. I miss those friends and I try to surround myself with them as much as possible, as often as possible. They represent my 'old life,' the one I am trying to exit, yet they are necessary for my survival in the 'new' one and precious to me. After work, there was a meeting. I was invited to attend, as usual, and I had the desire to go. But I wanted to see my friends. Meeting or friends. Tough decision. I'm supposed to be making phonecalls. I am supposed to be going everyday. I am supposed to have a sponsor. I AM TRYING.
There are so many elements to consider and so many situations involved. And yet I continue to consider myself unique. When I miss meetings, I feel guilty; guilt comes from the feeling that I am not giving my all, that I am not trying as hard as I can. I do this in every aspect of my life. It is part of the distorted thinking. The workaholic. The over-achiever. The 'Miss I'm Never Good Enough' crazy head trap. When I see my friends outside the program, I feel temptation, but I also feel whole and 'normal.' It is essential to maintain my relationship with them. They were there before I started my metamorphosis, and they will be there at the time of my emergence. My renewal. My fresh wings and bright eyes. Knowing all of this, still, yesterday I felt trapped; blocked off; cheated; like an insolent child.
Some days I don't want meetings. Some days I don't want to work. Some days, I want to run around Sheep's Meadow like a goddam hippie. At the end of the day, I am who I am and I must remember that these challenges are simple. It all comes down to one thing.
When I traveled to Greece, I spent my time on the island of Ithaca, Ithaki, the island of Odysseus. It was healing. It was magic. One day, I will live there---this is inevitable. A friend I made while abroad had told me, whilst sitting outside a monestary, that there is only one thing that is essential to life for one to succeed. He was no soothesayer, no wiseman, no profit. This was not the Oracle at Delphi or the mighty Sphynx. This was simply a man. A sweet man whose rivers ran still and deep. 'Dear Nico,' he said, 'the secret to everything is balance. Only balance.'
Now the first thing I want to do is argue. The second thing I want to do is run back to shove my hands in and begin to manipulate and control my life. I pause, take a breathe, and remember this word. Although he is far away, although I may never see him again, as simple as he is---he knows. Thank you Stavros for granting me such insight. Thank you for giving me such a wonderful fruit to peel. You are my Oracle at Delphi.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Drop The Needles From Those Hands
Picture a woman. Not an older woman, but middle-aged. Her face still radiant and fresh, but bearing the slight lines and scars of her battles. She carries herself home every night, weary and tired from the work of the day, but no longer aching, weak and disheveled as before. Her pains are honest. Her work is just. Her days end on her time and not on the time of another. She is learning. She is succeeding. Her body, once ruled by others, is now hers; her soul, once gripped by darkness, now glinted with light; her mind, once swarming with torment, seething with hurt and anger, now quieter. Clearer. Lighter.
There was a time when the fields were fuller, the land far from barren and the work much easier. In her mind, she remembered them. She remembered those days, those times and the joy. That was long ago when life was different. That was before the pain. Before the dirt became too stiff and the weeds too high. Many had been left behind, a few had moved on. Bearing the burden of such work had become far too great, however and these few were not enough. Their toils were not enough. Love for those fields was not enough to carry them through.
She waits at a crossroads. She waits with patience, empathy and compassion for one who will soon join her. As she has not traveled too far, she does not mind the wait. She rests. She reflects. She gains more knowledge everyday. A brief reprieve is welcome. Lingering here is comforting.
In the distance, she sees a figure coming toward here, although misty and formless just yet. She knows it is her. She knows that she will be coming. She is already on her way. Thinking her rest to be long, her time at this place to be lengthy, she begins to settle in for a while. Amazed by what she sees ahead of her, peering down the path that she had once tread, the ruts worn by her very feet, she draw closer and closer. Faster than expected. Her arrival will be soon.
Only steps away now, she remembers her when she was young. Nothing more than just a baby. She smiles at her passing thought of how important it is that even she remembers herself that way: just a baby. The love that she feels is immutable, the empathy she feels is intense. They are alike in so many ways; they are different in so many others. She looks at her, a younger version of herself, and grabs her by her hands, turning them over. The palms are sore and stingy, remnants of the dirt remains. She remembers it all too well. The face she stares into is desperate, the eyes drown in despair. The soul she sees before her is lost.
Gently, she speaks. 'I will take your hands and mend them. I will bandage your wounds and your heart. With my love I will protect you. With my knowledge I will enlighten you. With my experience I will shield you. I know the way. I have begun the journey. All you have to do is follow. You do not have to feel the prick of the needles. Throw them down. Drop them from your hands. You need never look back upon that field. Never to work the earth. That earth is barren, hostile and dead. Nothing will grown there anymore.'
I tell you, my sister, that you do not have to feel those needles. Turn your back on that field. It is our time to know joy. It is our time to know life. The salve you apply to mend those cuts you cannot remove; you cannot tear at those scabs; you cannot reopen those wounds. We must heal. In our time we will. It is that word, 'will', that kept us in the fields so long. Humility is our future. Let go. Follow me. I will lead you to new fields. In these fields, we ALL work.
There was a time when the fields were fuller, the land far from barren and the work much easier. In her mind, she remembered them. She remembered those days, those times and the joy. That was long ago when life was different. That was before the pain. Before the dirt became too stiff and the weeds too high. Many had been left behind, a few had moved on. Bearing the burden of such work had become far too great, however and these few were not enough. Their toils were not enough. Love for those fields was not enough to carry them through.
She waits at a crossroads. She waits with patience, empathy and compassion for one who will soon join her. As she has not traveled too far, she does not mind the wait. She rests. She reflects. She gains more knowledge everyday. A brief reprieve is welcome. Lingering here is comforting.
In the distance, she sees a figure coming toward here, although misty and formless just yet. She knows it is her. She knows that she will be coming. She is already on her way. Thinking her rest to be long, her time at this place to be lengthy, she begins to settle in for a while. Amazed by what she sees ahead of her, peering down the path that she had once tread, the ruts worn by her very feet, she draw closer and closer. Faster than expected. Her arrival will be soon.
Only steps away now, she remembers her when she was young. Nothing more than just a baby. She smiles at her passing thought of how important it is that even she remembers herself that way: just a baby. The love that she feels is immutable, the empathy she feels is intense. They are alike in so many ways; they are different in so many others. She looks at her, a younger version of herself, and grabs her by her hands, turning them over. The palms are sore and stingy, remnants of the dirt remains. She remembers it all too well. The face she stares into is desperate, the eyes drown in despair. The soul she sees before her is lost.
Gently, she speaks. 'I will take your hands and mend them. I will bandage your wounds and your heart. With my love I will protect you. With my knowledge I will enlighten you. With my experience I will shield you. I know the way. I have begun the journey. All you have to do is follow. You do not have to feel the prick of the needles. Throw them down. Drop them from your hands. You need never look back upon that field. Never to work the earth. That earth is barren, hostile and dead. Nothing will grown there anymore.'
I tell you, my sister, that you do not have to feel those needles. Turn your back on that field. It is our time to know joy. It is our time to know life. The salve you apply to mend those cuts you cannot remove; you cannot tear at those scabs; you cannot reopen those wounds. We must heal. In our time we will. It is that word, 'will', that kept us in the fields so long. Humility is our future. Let go. Follow me. I will lead you to new fields. In these fields, we ALL work.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Two Star-Crossed Lovers
"For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo"
Though full of woe it truly was, I have to disagree that their situation is neither unique nor completely without its ability to allure readers and leave them enchanted for centuries.
I have read the play. Yes, I waded through the oceans of challenging, Shakespearean language, articulating the meanings and reflecting on the text for enhanced understanding. Indeed, there were times where I simply had to press on whether I lacked a complete comprehension of the printed word or no; so as not to insult the late William Shakespeare, I invested much time in breaking down the language. I did him justice.
I have seen the 1960's classic, Franco Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet, several times. A dusty copy sits atop my stack of favorite DVDs in my apartment, and I cannot help but admit the strong desire to remove it from its resting place, pop it open and place it in the player. Of course I have seen the inferior version of this classic, starring Claire Danes and Leo DiCaprio; I find it to be less than ideal and lacking the eloquence, magic and ethereal beauty of the first. For whatever reason, perhaps many reasons, I find that the two individuals cast for Franco's version were the perfect duo. If you have ever seen this gem of cinematic deliciousness, then you have witnessed the breathetaking beauty of these young actors. In simplest terms (in Nicole's little mind), they represent the epitome of my vision of the fictional pair; they exemplify these characters perfectly. They were innocent, pure and amazing---mesmerizing to watch. I was instantly sold.
Although my appreciation for this tragedy has never truly left me (for we hold them within our hearts), lately this literary masterpiece has begun to haunt me in many ways. I heard the Killer's cover of the Dire Straits track, 'Romeo and Juliet,' recently and suddenly had to pull out my CD. Not only did I listen once, I played the tune a few times, analyzing the lyrics, applying them to my life. If you have not heard it, I highly recommend.
I believe they call me a hopeless romantic. I sit. I wait. I dream. One day Romeo will come to call. Until then, I learn to truly love myself. Often times, although it is the grandest love affair of all, it is the hardest.
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo"
Though full of woe it truly was, I have to disagree that their situation is neither unique nor completely without its ability to allure readers and leave them enchanted for centuries.
I have read the play. Yes, I waded through the oceans of challenging, Shakespearean language, articulating the meanings and reflecting on the text for enhanced understanding. Indeed, there were times where I simply had to press on whether I lacked a complete comprehension of the printed word or no; so as not to insult the late William Shakespeare, I invested much time in breaking down the language. I did him justice.
I have seen the 1960's classic, Franco Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet, several times. A dusty copy sits atop my stack of favorite DVDs in my apartment, and I cannot help but admit the strong desire to remove it from its resting place, pop it open and place it in the player. Of course I have seen the inferior version of this classic, starring Claire Danes and Leo DiCaprio; I find it to be less than ideal and lacking the eloquence, magic and ethereal beauty of the first. For whatever reason, perhaps many reasons, I find that the two individuals cast for Franco's version were the perfect duo. If you have ever seen this gem of cinematic deliciousness, then you have witnessed the breathetaking beauty of these young actors. In simplest terms (in Nicole's little mind), they represent the epitome of my vision of the fictional pair; they exemplify these characters perfectly. They were innocent, pure and amazing---mesmerizing to watch. I was instantly sold.
Although my appreciation for this tragedy has never truly left me (for we hold them within our hearts), lately this literary masterpiece has begun to haunt me in many ways. I heard the Killer's cover of the Dire Straits track, 'Romeo and Juliet,' recently and suddenly had to pull out my CD. Not only did I listen once, I played the tune a few times, analyzing the lyrics, applying them to my life. If you have not heard it, I highly recommend.
I believe they call me a hopeless romantic. I sit. I wait. I dream. One day Romeo will come to call. Until then, I learn to truly love myself. Often times, although it is the grandest love affair of all, it is the hardest.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I Hear Ya
Does this look like the face of a criminal? Perhaps a cruel, cold-hearted or devisive seductress?I didn't really think so either. Perhaps once upon a time (for those of you who remember me in my more Jerry Springeresque days), I held far less regards for the feelings, thoughts and/or egos of others. I was a miserable cuss. I was judgemental, conceited and downright crude at times. For those of you who are familiar, entering a state of retrospection paints a pretty dismal picture. For those of you who I looked upon and treated with such blatant disregard, I am sorry.
These days, one would find a much different version of Nicole. If I were a purchased at a toy store (packaged in a cardboard box with a cellophane viewing-window), I would be the doll with the cheesy advertisement printed on the exterior: something like--"New and Improved! Now With COMPASSION!!" You can chuckle, it's okay. Sadly, it is true.
There was a time when I barely possessed the freedom to run to the restroom, however now I am one of the semi-unemployed and therefore you are subjected to TWO blogs today and not just one. Unlike its predecessor, there is a moral to this story (I think), so settle in and stay for a bit. I'll keep it as painless as possible.
Getting back on track...these days, one would find this rare species of 'Nicole,' indigenous to upper Manhattan and until recently, rarely seen in captivity. Fortunately for those around her, it appears that the more primitive and less evolved version has reached extinction and has only been seen on rare occasions. Something akin to a Sasquatch. Experiencing life as this 'newer' version, if you have been been following, brings with it exploration of foreign territory. Today, that territory was one of being that person who fails to reciprocate feelings to an admirer.
I hope your still there. I had not really decided from what angle I was going to attack this one, therefore this is strictly 'from the hip.' He is a friend. He is a dear friend and someone that I spend a significant amount of time with as well as confide in and he has seen me at my worst and most vulnerable. As much time as we have spent together, I feel nothing more for him than the love and affection of a friend. We all have experienced this. We all probably have someone in our lives that views us in a way that surpasses our feelings and desires for them. Lately, as I go through some of my own relationship angst, I have watched this person grow closer to me. I have felt, whether intuitively or assumingly, that his wishes have gone straight past the friendship boundaries and into the realm of significant other. If he reads this, he may deny those things. If he reads this, he may even accuse me of being mistaken. I very well may be. There is one thing that I know for sure, and that is this: yesterday, he made his postition extremely clear, even if it was unintentional.
Whilst sitting at Chipotle (uptown hotspot for you non-New Yorkers---kidding), talking about a boy that I once fancied (and still do), he expressed aloud that he wonders when I 'will realize that he is a perfect boyfriend for me.' Suddenly, my steak burrito bowl lost its appeal. My solar plexus knotted up, the butterflies were on amphetamines and I caught myself going into defense-mode. Allofasudden, I felt trapped, angry and sad all at the same moment. I had to look at my dear friend, straight in the eyes and explain what I thought we already knew. What I thought was a 'given.' What I thought....was simply 'understood.' I had to be the person that I have been so many times. I had to be the person that I have been the opposite of for so many years, living a fantasy, making assumptions, creating a dream....with someone else.
Isn't life funny? And...isn't God wonderful for teaching us lessons the way that he does. In a way, I am crestfallen. Someone that I respected, admired and loved as a friend and fellow, beautiful human being is now distancing himself from me. Doubtful that those I have had to do the same with in my life were so sad to see me go (being the wonderful person that I was/were/have been). This was my lesson for the day and maybe for the weekend. God, karma, the divine, the universe---whomever---takes our lives and flips them, rearranges them, positions them and places it all perfectly so that we see reflections of ourselves, learn lessons, become better and stronger.
I don't know what will happen with the friendship. I do not know where he will be. Inside, in his head or in his heart. That's none of my business. A dear friend once told me that I can't know what will happen....I don't know what will happen five minutes from now. He also told me that you have to make your word mean something. So...I did. I told him we were friends, and I meant it. It doesn't make it any easier to hear.
Apparitions
I did it. I raised my hand. I spoke. In a two minute monologue, I allowed the words to come pouring out of my mouth and into the air, carried away and quickly vaporized. No one knows me there. Well, they know of me and about me and many of the elements of 'me' but they don't know me.
As strange as the aforementioned statement probably sounds, it makes sense to me. Being a member of this secret society, flanked by celebrities and everyday joes, one foot in the spotlight and the other in the shadows I realized that there are people in my life who have remained as much of a stranger to me as I am to these people.
For many years, I have known someone whom I have realized is almost a complete stranger to me. As I come clean with my life and as I discover more and more of who I am, clearing up the wreckage, dissecting the past and living in the present, I have awakened from a dream. Smoke and mirrors. It sounds more magical than it feels. I am to this relationship as Robert Angier was to Albert Borden's 'Transported Man:' obsessed. One thing at a time, one friggin day at a time. I removed the job that was tearing my insides out from my life and now I move on to the next department. The next set of boxes. The next reel of tape.
Often times, taking a strong inventory of life and relationships is tedious, gut-wrenching and achingly humuliating. I guess that is where I stand now. After a few years, you think that you know someone. After ups and downs, good times and bad, you think that you have some insight into their personality, their mannerisms, perhaps even their thoughts. Hell, you even go so far as to assume that if they have stuck around this long, if they have trudged through the mire, gone to the trenches, reached out to you and stayed in your life in some fashion alllllllll of this time, that you know something, you feel it, you understand them. As tough as it was to admit to myself in the last few days, I have experienced much with this person, taken a few hits and threw a few punches of my own---as tough as it was, I admitted that I do not know him at all.
How does one spend years interacting with someone (YEARS!!!!) and not know them? Why would I have believed that he was in it for the same reasons as I, that he felt similar feelings, thought similar thoughts? 'Why' is a stupid question. 'Why' is a waste of energy. I am not sure, but I finally had to wake up from the dream, come out of the fantasy and into reality. I had to cut through the smoke and break the mirrors, whether it costs me seven years of bad luck or no. Angier, give up your obsession for it is a young man's game. Nicole---give up your obsession. Wake up from your dream and see him at face value.
Sometimes, we create the story. We derive the fantasy and we construct it to suit whatever we need it to be. Sometimes, people are strangers, but only because we refused to see who they really were the entire time. There is a ghost of something that was that I have chosen to allow to continue on its haunt for a long time. Having to perform an exorcism is not something I want to do, yet is something that I must. I reach out to the 'good book' with apprehesion, reservation...simply because I have never performed the ritual. I have forgotten the steps. Who am I really kidding. I had come to love this ghost and his hauntings; I had welcomed him continuously into my inner world.
Obsession is a young man's game. Obsession is also tiring, both physically and emotionally. Right now, I'm all tapped out. When I sit back and think of it, like Angier, the method to the trick he sought so feverishly was right before his eyes the entire time. It was simple. The real person, not the apparition has been in my life the entire time. It was simple. I simply chose to create the fantasy.
Letting go will be the hardest part, severing ties the most painful. I'll miss that damned 'ol ghost. No trap doors here. No escape plans and no more chasing the apparition. You are free to go now. You are not needed here anymore. I really wish it were that easy. A part of me still loves him.
I guess old habits die hard.
As strange as the aforementioned statement probably sounds, it makes sense to me. Being a member of this secret society, flanked by celebrities and everyday joes, one foot in the spotlight and the other in the shadows I realized that there are people in my life who have remained as much of a stranger to me as I am to these people.
For many years, I have known someone whom I have realized is almost a complete stranger to me. As I come clean with my life and as I discover more and more of who I am, clearing up the wreckage, dissecting the past and living in the present, I have awakened from a dream. Smoke and mirrors. It sounds more magical than it feels. I am to this relationship as Robert Angier was to Albert Borden's 'Transported Man:' obsessed. One thing at a time, one friggin day at a time. I removed the job that was tearing my insides out from my life and now I move on to the next department. The next set of boxes. The next reel of tape.
Often times, taking a strong inventory of life and relationships is tedious, gut-wrenching and achingly humuliating. I guess that is where I stand now. After a few years, you think that you know someone. After ups and downs, good times and bad, you think that you have some insight into their personality, their mannerisms, perhaps even their thoughts. Hell, you even go so far as to assume that if they have stuck around this long, if they have trudged through the mire, gone to the trenches, reached out to you and stayed in your life in some fashion alllllllll of this time, that you know something, you feel it, you understand them. As tough as it was to admit to myself in the last few days, I have experienced much with this person, taken a few hits and threw a few punches of my own---as tough as it was, I admitted that I do not know him at all.
How does one spend years interacting with someone (YEARS!!!!) and not know them? Why would I have believed that he was in it for the same reasons as I, that he felt similar feelings, thought similar thoughts? 'Why' is a stupid question. 'Why' is a waste of energy. I am not sure, but I finally had to wake up from the dream, come out of the fantasy and into reality. I had to cut through the smoke and break the mirrors, whether it costs me seven years of bad luck or no. Angier, give up your obsession for it is a young man's game. Nicole---give up your obsession. Wake up from your dream and see him at face value.
Sometimes, we create the story. We derive the fantasy and we construct it to suit whatever we need it to be. Sometimes, people are strangers, but only because we refused to see who they really were the entire time. There is a ghost of something that was that I have chosen to allow to continue on its haunt for a long time. Having to perform an exorcism is not something I want to do, yet is something that I must. I reach out to the 'good book' with apprehesion, reservation...simply because I have never performed the ritual. I have forgotten the steps. Who am I really kidding. I had come to love this ghost and his hauntings; I had welcomed him continuously into my inner world.
Obsession is a young man's game. Obsession is also tiring, both physically and emotionally. Right now, I'm all tapped out. When I sit back and think of it, like Angier, the method to the trick he sought so feverishly was right before his eyes the entire time. It was simple. The real person, not the apparition has been in my life the entire time. It was simple. I simply chose to create the fantasy.
Letting go will be the hardest part, severing ties the most painful. I'll miss that damned 'ol ghost. No trap doors here. No escape plans and no more chasing the apparition. You are free to go now. You are not needed here anymore. I really wish it were that easy. A part of me still loves him.
I guess old habits die hard.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Inspired by Andy Dufresne
Life felt like a prison. The steel bars and shackles were theoretical, of course, created by my unbridled and somewhat crippling imagination. I still find myself there, as you have heard me describe before in this blog, confined to solitary and supplemented with nothing more than bread and water.
Lately I have begun the slow, peculiar and yet glorious process of nourishing oneself. To some, this may come as naturally as breathing in and out. To others (you know who you are), this is a skill which must be learned. It's not so bad, actually. I find it absolutely exhilirating and yet frightening at the same time. Alas, I press onward.
For some odd reason, as I was perusing the racks of the 'not-so-desirable' and wanton DVDs that can be found at various grocery stores, convenience spots and local pharmacies (ie previous employer), I spotted a dear, old classic--The Shawshank Redemption. Now I'm not saying I am comparable to Andy Defrain, his character's plight or his actions in the movie; I am simply stating that for whatever reason, although having seen this movie several times before, that I found inspiration in this character. Confined to a prison for a crime he did not commit (as I am sometimes confined to my head, thinking thoughts I did not invite), he never lost himself.
Relentlessly, he carved stones into chess pieces---a lover of the game. Stoicly, he navigated the prison, doing as told yet always maintaining his identity. Whether it was a voluntary offering of tax information or playing an Italian opera over the loudspeakers, he affirmed that his place in the world was to always remember who he was, no matter what the cost.
For a long time, I thought that I was doing the exact same thing: pioneering, creating my legacy, 'doing my time' and paying pennance in exchange for some prize like a laurel wreath, championship belt or some new empire. Sadly, I worked, I toiled, I struggled for nothing and for an image that was as transparent as the individuals who urged me along. I want to be like Andy Defrain. I want to write two letters a week, requesting the allocation of funds for literary materials and I want to do it until I have achieved my goal. I want to dig through a wall of plaster with a rock hammer, even if it takes me six years and unlimited patience if that's what it takes to live out life the way it has been planned.
I have begun experimenting, exploring and creating over the last couple of weeks, regaining strength and obtaining insights I had never possessed before. There was a time, as a young girl, that I baked, I concocted, I tested the waters of the culinary world. I am no baker, although my finished projects are usually edible. As I grew, I acquired a unique appreciation for pancakes. Yes, pancakes. GAME--BLOUSES. I can eat them anyway I can imagine on any day of the week and at any time of day. They represent one of the most versatile foodstuffs that has ever existed and I am quite confident that the world could possible sustain themselves on a steady diet of them. Yet I digress.
I had always wondered where this passion for these warm, flat, buttery and cake-like little morsels would take me. A diner? Perhaps, but I really don't see myself as a Wolfgang Puck. A constant admirer? I doubt that a pancake really cares. No, there was a reason for all of that mixing and measuring and creating---sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. There was a reason I went to pharmacy school to obtain and incorporate a few more skills, just to solidify things. Like Andy Defrain, I will use my talents and skills to perform valuable service and be the model prisoner.
One day, not too far on the horizon, I will break free from my prison, crawl through that tunnel of mire and into the light of a new and glorious day. What I plan as I chip away at the plaster, tunneling through will not be to free my physical being...it will be to free my spiritual one.
Lately I have begun the slow, peculiar and yet glorious process of nourishing oneself. To some, this may come as naturally as breathing in and out. To others (you know who you are), this is a skill which must be learned. It's not so bad, actually. I find it absolutely exhilirating and yet frightening at the same time. Alas, I press onward.
For some odd reason, as I was perusing the racks of the 'not-so-desirable' and wanton DVDs that can be found at various grocery stores, convenience spots and local pharmacies (ie previous employer), I spotted a dear, old classic--The Shawshank Redemption. Now I'm not saying I am comparable to Andy Defrain, his character's plight or his actions in the movie; I am simply stating that for whatever reason, although having seen this movie several times before, that I found inspiration in this character. Confined to a prison for a crime he did not commit (as I am sometimes confined to my head, thinking thoughts I did not invite), he never lost himself.
Relentlessly, he carved stones into chess pieces---a lover of the game. Stoicly, he navigated the prison, doing as told yet always maintaining his identity. Whether it was a voluntary offering of tax information or playing an Italian opera over the loudspeakers, he affirmed that his place in the world was to always remember who he was, no matter what the cost.
For a long time, I thought that I was doing the exact same thing: pioneering, creating my legacy, 'doing my time' and paying pennance in exchange for some prize like a laurel wreath, championship belt or some new empire. Sadly, I worked, I toiled, I struggled for nothing and for an image that was as transparent as the individuals who urged me along. I want to be like Andy Defrain. I want to write two letters a week, requesting the allocation of funds for literary materials and I want to do it until I have achieved my goal. I want to dig through a wall of plaster with a rock hammer, even if it takes me six years and unlimited patience if that's what it takes to live out life the way it has been planned.
I have begun experimenting, exploring and creating over the last couple of weeks, regaining strength and obtaining insights I had never possessed before. There was a time, as a young girl, that I baked, I concocted, I tested the waters of the culinary world. I am no baker, although my finished projects are usually edible. As I grew, I acquired a unique appreciation for pancakes. Yes, pancakes. GAME--BLOUSES. I can eat them anyway I can imagine on any day of the week and at any time of day. They represent one of the most versatile foodstuffs that has ever existed and I am quite confident that the world could possible sustain themselves on a steady diet of them. Yet I digress.
I had always wondered where this passion for these warm, flat, buttery and cake-like little morsels would take me. A diner? Perhaps, but I really don't see myself as a Wolfgang Puck. A constant admirer? I doubt that a pancake really cares. No, there was a reason for all of that mixing and measuring and creating---sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. There was a reason I went to pharmacy school to obtain and incorporate a few more skills, just to solidify things. Like Andy Defrain, I will use my talents and skills to perform valuable service and be the model prisoner.
One day, not too far on the horizon, I will break free from my prison, crawl through that tunnel of mire and into the light of a new and glorious day. What I plan as I chip away at the plaster, tunneling through will not be to free my physical being...it will be to free my spiritual one.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Like Watercolors
Purple. Like the vestment of a priest during Lent. A priest. I have a confession to make: I feel.
There is something mystical to this concept, for some of us, and the mystique eludes me. Instead of being afraid of it, I am fascinated by it---drawn like a moth to flame.
Perhaps it is my nature as well as my current position in life that allow me to observe the inability of some to do what comes naturally to me: FEEL. I have no filter nor do I construct sandbag levees against the floods of my emotions. I simply immerse myself in them as they come.
So much of what many of us do, in my observation, is refuse to allow these little gems of the human condition to entire our consciousness, our daily existence. From moment to moment, from day to day, these weary travelers approach our counters, ring the bell and ask for a key to a room in our hearts and our heads. Some of us offer a comfortable bed, a dry roof and a warm meal; come in, sit, stay awhile. Some of us throw up the 'No Vacancies' sign and turn them away.
Many of the most important people in my life are such individuals. They stare their emotions and feelings straight in the eye and refuse them a place to rest. If you do not feel, then how do you live? For someone who drinks or drugs, this avoidance is as easy as taking a drink or doing a line. In our world of Western thought we have derived and created many terms for numerous 'non-feeling' types: narcissist, emotionally-unavailable, emotionally crippled; I guess we could even go so far as to delve into the concept of 'macho' or the 'man's man.' This may all be relevant to an extent, but it does not explain the lack of emotion in our female counterparts.
My life without feeling would be nothing. It would not be life. It would be existence, and for me, existing is not enough. I love. I feel pain. I cry...a lot. I feel anxiety and angst and sadness. All of these things are not to be feared but embraced for they are those things which make us human.
I guess the reason for this entry is the struggle with people in my life who refuse to feel, whether it be those interactions I seek everyday or those old skeletons collecting dust in the closet. My parents do not feel, and at times this leaves me baffled, discouraged and even bewildered. I love them. I wish to share their lives with them, but they chose to distance themselves from me. Many significant people in my life have chosen to shut me out, shown me the sign and pointed to the door. If only some of them knew how wonderful life can be if you just put the coffee on, let your guard down and invite me and all of those feelings in. They are not to be feared but to be embraced. Accept them for what they are, they do not go away. They will simply sit outside of the window in the pouring rain, watching, waiting, wishing that you will let them inside.
I let them inside. Everyday. Every moment. Always. They are not always kind and they are not always joyous, forgiving or monumental. They are, however constant, necessary and healthy. In all of their burden, they allow me to share with the world what I hold inside and who I am. I invite anyone I know and love to do the same. I invite you, unknown reader, to do the same.
Just as a watercolor takes many forms---sometimes saturated and wispy, barely reminiscent of color; sometimes bold and intense, screaming from the page---emotions are much the same. Fear not, for they are your life-line. Resist them, and every moment, a tiny part of your soul dies.
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