A place of peace is what we create. Our serenity is made only by us. We are in control of what we let be close to us and what we have to push away. Only we can discover who we really are. Where we belong is not dictated by someone opening a door for us, but rather by us deciding that where we need to be is exactly where we are. Where we want to be can be reached by our own ability to chart and navigate that journey that is ours and only ours.
Seems easy enough...
As much as I know this, as much as I believe this, and as much as I try as hard as I can to practice this, I still struggle...alot. I feel disjointed at times. It's easy to hold on to much anger and not know how to move past it enough so that the same sorts of themes don't keep resurfacing. I think I talk myself into, while acknowledging the baggage I do have, minimizing it in terms of not letting it apply to a new situation. But, this is me! I'm not perfect. I've got issues just like everyone else. Try as I might to not let some things of the past creep into my present, they are still fresh wounds sometimes and are a part of who I am right now.
I dont like feeling unsettled. I dont like feeling angry. I dont like feeling like I am having to deny or minimize what is my reality. I dont like feeling waves of negativity - anger, frustration, hurt - wash over me seemingly out of nowhere. I dont like feeling like it's one-sided even in the slightest. I WANT a compromise or negotiation to feel fair.
...frustrated...
Friday, May 27, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
Grandma's House
My grandma lived alone the entire time I knew her in a small two bedroom apartment in a little town in Western Wisconsin. From my little kid perspective, Barron was a whole big town that could fit into a teacup. I was certain that other than my sister, me, and our two cousins, there were no other children that lived in this town - only grandmas and grandpas. Among the favorite places that were explored by adventurous curiosity and an innocent ignorance to fear and danger were the park and pool; the Ben Franklin store where we bought an assortment of small notebooks and tablets, mechanical pencils, and folders; the church during non-service hours (which I swear was haunted); the golf course where we collected hundreds of golf balls we foraged for in the woods that lined the greens and where we had many dirt bike races down the hills; and the local hardware store where we would buy obscure lengths of cable, rope, or chain, and small screw drivers. I'm sure the owners thought we were torturing small animals. After awhile, they quit selling those various artifacts to us.
My grandma's apartment complex was at the end of a dead end street - LaSalle I believe is what it was called. She lived in an end unit. There were 3 or 4 rows of little single story rambler apartments. The concrete sidewalks with cracks every 2 feet or so made perfect straight lines and right angles as they panned out in front of each unit and up and down the buildings in the rear that were perpendicular to the street-facing buildings. The laundry room was behind my grandma's apartment. I remember the small plastic containers she had for her quarters, nickels, and dimes. Each one especially sized for each coin. On the other side of the furthest rambler unit was a dirt hill. My sister, our two cousins, and I used to go over there and make action movies. I'm pretty sure that's the first and only time I was ever on the other side of someone's right hook as my cousin launched a fist into my face. It was an accident of course, but in tears, mostly from being completely insulted by the sucker punch, I bull-rushed him and pushed him off the side. He went tumbling down and burst out crying. We were even - a tear for a tear.
The golf course I had previously mentioned - I remember many times riding our bikes back there. It was part of a private country club. Oops. We would have bike races and skid out contests on the rolling hills. When it was raining or the greens were wet from a fresh watering, that made for the best biking terrain. The water splashed up on us and we'd get soaked. Our bikes sliced through the neatly groomed putting greens leaving tire trails. Our skid outs would ruffle the grass, churning up chunks of brown dirt. I know this is painful for you golfers to read! As someone who has an appreciation for and who has played alot of golf, it's rather painful to write about, but we were kids. What are ya gonna do right?
All of us cousins had this game we always played as kids called "Club." That's what all the aforementioned notebooks, tablets, and random hardware store supplies were for. This game was sort of like playing school or business, but it was almost like we were some kind of underground CIA operatives or something. There was alot of talk of ammo and oozies. I had no idea what an oozie was, but my cousins seemed to think we needed them to keep the enemies at bay, so we eventually constructed some oozies out of wood, empty shell casings, and camo duct tape. They were amazing! Apparently, one day, "Club" took on a different sort of adventure - one we called "Airlines." What we did, and how we got all this string I don't know, but we literally twisted and weaved tons of string all over our grandma's spare bedroom. If you could even get the door open, immediately it was like being sucked into a spiderweb. You couldn't move unless you used your stealth ninja/contortionist moves to get through all of it. Somewhere half under the bed, in the far corner, falling out of the closet, or, and I wouldn't put it passed us to have one of us stuck up to the ceiling or something, but that's where you might find each kid. You couldn't really see us through the mazey web of string. It was pretty cool.
My grandma's house always had a distinct smell. I can't even describe it now. I think I've lost alot of the memory of it in order to describe it, but I remember its distinctness. It smelled good - homey, comforting, and peaceful. She would smell like that too when she came to visit at our house. My grandma always had decks of cards on hand. I remember so many different decks. As an adult looking back, I'm sure that was intentional because if all us kids got a hold of them, well, there would be missing cards in no time. I remember taking all her tablets all the time too for "Club." Each time we came to visit whether it was a week at grandma's in the summer, holidays, or other occasions, her supply of unlined tablets would always be replenished. We'd unplug one of her phones for "Club." She had two phones in her house - both of them rotary phones - a black one in the living room, and a tan one in her bedroom.
My grandma always had a stash of molasses cookies on hand. I thought they were hers - as in she made them and/or invented them. I never remembered seeing them anywhere else but her house. The glasses we used had either spades or clubs all over them. They were clear glass and the pattern of the spades or clubs was black. For some reason, I also remember eating alot of squash - too much squash. Maybe that's why I'm not a huge fan of it straight up as an adult. Hmmm...
Barron was a town that still made good use of the noon whistle every day. The siren would sound, and when I was pretty young and would be up there visiting by myself, my two great uncles would come to my grandma's for lunch. I have no idea where they worked, but they usually had work clothes on that looked like Dickies or Carharts. They brought their lunches in metal lunch boxes with the curved top and beverages in metal thermoses. I would sit on my grandma's lap and eat mandarin oranges out of the small can and the four of us would watch Days of Our Lives.
At night, I remember laying by myself in the big bed in the spare room. I was used to my twin bed at home, and while this one was probably only a double, it felt infinite in size to me. The bed spread was white and heavy for such a thin layer of material. I remember it had small knots or some kind of nubbins all over it - all white as well. When the lights went out, I remembered being scared of the old clock that was in the room on the dresser. I don't know what it was about that little clock. I think it was the shape actually. It reminded me of a cloaked figure. The funny thing is, it was no bigger than a softball maybe. Odd what our little minds can put together. I remember my grandma's apartment being extremely quiet. While it was peaceful, it was unsettling. The quiet was different. The light was different. I was, and still am in alot of ways, a homebody. I did, and again, still do, get homesick pretty easily. I like my things and the comforts of wherever I call home. It was during those nights away at grandma's house that I felt lonely. Sometimes it was scary, sometimes it just made me sad, and sometimes it just felt empty.
I remember going for a walk with my grandma into town one summer day. Town was literally like 5 blocks away. We walked into the local funeral home. There was a visitation in progress. To this day I have no idea if my grandma knew the gentleman who had passed away. I'm assuming so since we waltzed right in and because Barron was such a small town - everyone knew everyone. But, I remember holding my grandma's hand as we walked in right past everyone and up to the casket. She took one look at him and said, "He was a rather funny looking fellow wasn't he?" And then we walked out.
As I got a little bit older, I remember going to my grandma's for my usual week-long visit. Now, my sister was old enough to come with. I remember having alot of anxiety before we even left for her house. I would fake my excitement and eagerness to see grandma and spend a week with her. I mean, I always liked being with her, but this is about the time my anxiety of bad things happening to people close to me was in high gear. Knowing that she was my grandma and thus, older than even my parents, I was terrified that something awful would happen when my sister and I were there and we wouldn't know what to do or how to get back home. One of the last times we went up there for a week, I remember calling my cousins every day that we were there and being gone most of the day with them so that my sister and I didn't have to be alone with her in case something bad happened. I think she felt really bad and maybe hurt that it seemed like we'd rather play all day with our cousins than spend any time with her. I feel guilty about that to this day. I had no idea how to communicate my nervousness, fear, and anxiety to her or to my parent - or to anyone really!
My grandma passed away in January - the day before I turned 13. The last thing I remember was visiting her in her hospital room at the Barron hospital and her singing happy birthday to me as we were getting ready to leave. The next day my mom and I were supposed to go shopping. I waited for what seemed like forever in the car and my mom wasn't coming out. Finally, annoyed, I went stomping into the house. My mom was in tears on the phone. It was the medical staff at the hospital saying that my grandma (my mom's mom) had passed away. They tried for 45 minutes to revive her. For a little while before she died - maybe a year or so - my grandma had a boyfriend - Clarence. He was very much like a grandpa to us. He had a farm in Wisconsin not too far away from Barron. We'd go over there and play in the hayloft and visit the cows. Everyone was deeply saddened when she died, but Clarence never got over her. I remember during the visitation, he shakily made his way up to the casket. He was sobbing. He leaned over and kissed her. He and my mom kept in communication until he passed away just a handful of years ago. Every time they were on the phone, he would bring up my grandma and start crying. He married twice after she died, but he was in love with her and never fell out of love. It was such a beautiful, yet heartbreaking thing. I didn't really pay much attention or understand that kind of love for another person until I became an adult - and it's probably been more of a recent realization too. It makes my heart ache and fills me with fear of getting that close to someone because then they die and I'm left with that constant sadness and loneliness.
These memories of my grandma came rushing forward in the last couple of days. It started from a conversation my mom and I were having on the way home from Duluth the day before Mother's Day. I haven't thought about this stuff in quite awhile and it's been interesting and quite emotional for me to write about this as the stream of memories that came out are some of my fondest memories of my time with my grandma, yet they are still painful in the meaning and reinforcement in my life of being so scared to get close to people because they leave - and usually in some kind of permanent way that is like death, or is death. This is probably one of the biggest sources of fear and anxiety that I have when it comes to engaging in relationships with people. My emotional guardedness is perhaps higher than I like to think it is. I am just unsure of how to connect really emotionally and really intentionally with people when, in my life, all of my significant relationships have had themes of leaving and me being left alone - whether someone dies, leaves me emotionally, or relationships end, it's always so permanent. And if there is ever any kind of reunification, it's always different and it still feels like there are so many gaps, but, none of know how to fill them.
My grandma's apartment complex was at the end of a dead end street - LaSalle I believe is what it was called. She lived in an end unit. There were 3 or 4 rows of little single story rambler apartments. The concrete sidewalks with cracks every 2 feet or so made perfect straight lines and right angles as they panned out in front of each unit and up and down the buildings in the rear that were perpendicular to the street-facing buildings. The laundry room was behind my grandma's apartment. I remember the small plastic containers she had for her quarters, nickels, and dimes. Each one especially sized for each coin. On the other side of the furthest rambler unit was a dirt hill. My sister, our two cousins, and I used to go over there and make action movies. I'm pretty sure that's the first and only time I was ever on the other side of someone's right hook as my cousin launched a fist into my face. It was an accident of course, but in tears, mostly from being completely insulted by the sucker punch, I bull-rushed him and pushed him off the side. He went tumbling down and burst out crying. We were even - a tear for a tear.
The golf course I had previously mentioned - I remember many times riding our bikes back there. It was part of a private country club. Oops. We would have bike races and skid out contests on the rolling hills. When it was raining or the greens were wet from a fresh watering, that made for the best biking terrain. The water splashed up on us and we'd get soaked. Our bikes sliced through the neatly groomed putting greens leaving tire trails. Our skid outs would ruffle the grass, churning up chunks of brown dirt. I know this is painful for you golfers to read! As someone who has an appreciation for and who has played alot of golf, it's rather painful to write about, but we were kids. What are ya gonna do right?
All of us cousins had this game we always played as kids called "Club." That's what all the aforementioned notebooks, tablets, and random hardware store supplies were for. This game was sort of like playing school or business, but it was almost like we were some kind of underground CIA operatives or something. There was alot of talk of ammo and oozies. I had no idea what an oozie was, but my cousins seemed to think we needed them to keep the enemies at bay, so we eventually constructed some oozies out of wood, empty shell casings, and camo duct tape. They were amazing! Apparently, one day, "Club" took on a different sort of adventure - one we called "Airlines." What we did, and how we got all this string I don't know, but we literally twisted and weaved tons of string all over our grandma's spare bedroom. If you could even get the door open, immediately it was like being sucked into a spiderweb. You couldn't move unless you used your stealth ninja/contortionist moves to get through all of it. Somewhere half under the bed, in the far corner, falling out of the closet, or, and I wouldn't put it passed us to have one of us stuck up to the ceiling or something, but that's where you might find each kid. You couldn't really see us through the mazey web of string. It was pretty cool.
My grandma's house always had a distinct smell. I can't even describe it now. I think I've lost alot of the memory of it in order to describe it, but I remember its distinctness. It smelled good - homey, comforting, and peaceful. She would smell like that too when she came to visit at our house. My grandma always had decks of cards on hand. I remember so many different decks. As an adult looking back, I'm sure that was intentional because if all us kids got a hold of them, well, there would be missing cards in no time. I remember taking all her tablets all the time too for "Club." Each time we came to visit whether it was a week at grandma's in the summer, holidays, or other occasions, her supply of unlined tablets would always be replenished. We'd unplug one of her phones for "Club." She had two phones in her house - both of them rotary phones - a black one in the living room, and a tan one in her bedroom.
My grandma always had a stash of molasses cookies on hand. I thought they were hers - as in she made them and/or invented them. I never remembered seeing them anywhere else but her house. The glasses we used had either spades or clubs all over them. They were clear glass and the pattern of the spades or clubs was black. For some reason, I also remember eating alot of squash - too much squash. Maybe that's why I'm not a huge fan of it straight up as an adult. Hmmm...
Barron was a town that still made good use of the noon whistle every day. The siren would sound, and when I was pretty young and would be up there visiting by myself, my two great uncles would come to my grandma's for lunch. I have no idea where they worked, but they usually had work clothes on that looked like Dickies or Carharts. They brought their lunches in metal lunch boxes with the curved top and beverages in metal thermoses. I would sit on my grandma's lap and eat mandarin oranges out of the small can and the four of us would watch Days of Our Lives.
At night, I remember laying by myself in the big bed in the spare room. I was used to my twin bed at home, and while this one was probably only a double, it felt infinite in size to me. The bed spread was white and heavy for such a thin layer of material. I remember it had small knots or some kind of nubbins all over it - all white as well. When the lights went out, I remembered being scared of the old clock that was in the room on the dresser. I don't know what it was about that little clock. I think it was the shape actually. It reminded me of a cloaked figure. The funny thing is, it was no bigger than a softball maybe. Odd what our little minds can put together. I remember my grandma's apartment being extremely quiet. While it was peaceful, it was unsettling. The quiet was different. The light was different. I was, and still am in alot of ways, a homebody. I did, and again, still do, get homesick pretty easily. I like my things and the comforts of wherever I call home. It was during those nights away at grandma's house that I felt lonely. Sometimes it was scary, sometimes it just made me sad, and sometimes it just felt empty.
I remember going for a walk with my grandma into town one summer day. Town was literally like 5 blocks away. We walked into the local funeral home. There was a visitation in progress. To this day I have no idea if my grandma knew the gentleman who had passed away. I'm assuming so since we waltzed right in and because Barron was such a small town - everyone knew everyone. But, I remember holding my grandma's hand as we walked in right past everyone and up to the casket. She took one look at him and said, "He was a rather funny looking fellow wasn't he?" And then we walked out.
As I got a little bit older, I remember going to my grandma's for my usual week-long visit. Now, my sister was old enough to come with. I remember having alot of anxiety before we even left for her house. I would fake my excitement and eagerness to see grandma and spend a week with her. I mean, I always liked being with her, but this is about the time my anxiety of bad things happening to people close to me was in high gear. Knowing that she was my grandma and thus, older than even my parents, I was terrified that something awful would happen when my sister and I were there and we wouldn't know what to do or how to get back home. One of the last times we went up there for a week, I remember calling my cousins every day that we were there and being gone most of the day with them so that my sister and I didn't have to be alone with her in case something bad happened. I think she felt really bad and maybe hurt that it seemed like we'd rather play all day with our cousins than spend any time with her. I feel guilty about that to this day. I had no idea how to communicate my nervousness, fear, and anxiety to her or to my parent - or to anyone really!
My grandma passed away in January - the day before I turned 13. The last thing I remember was visiting her in her hospital room at the Barron hospital and her singing happy birthday to me as we were getting ready to leave. The next day my mom and I were supposed to go shopping. I waited for what seemed like forever in the car and my mom wasn't coming out. Finally, annoyed, I went stomping into the house. My mom was in tears on the phone. It was the medical staff at the hospital saying that my grandma (my mom's mom) had passed away. They tried for 45 minutes to revive her. For a little while before she died - maybe a year or so - my grandma had a boyfriend - Clarence. He was very much like a grandpa to us. He had a farm in Wisconsin not too far away from Barron. We'd go over there and play in the hayloft and visit the cows. Everyone was deeply saddened when she died, but Clarence never got over her. I remember during the visitation, he shakily made his way up to the casket. He was sobbing. He leaned over and kissed her. He and my mom kept in communication until he passed away just a handful of years ago. Every time they were on the phone, he would bring up my grandma and start crying. He married twice after she died, but he was in love with her and never fell out of love. It was such a beautiful, yet heartbreaking thing. I didn't really pay much attention or understand that kind of love for another person until I became an adult - and it's probably been more of a recent realization too. It makes my heart ache and fills me with fear of getting that close to someone because then they die and I'm left with that constant sadness and loneliness.
These memories of my grandma came rushing forward in the last couple of days. It started from a conversation my mom and I were having on the way home from Duluth the day before Mother's Day. I haven't thought about this stuff in quite awhile and it's been interesting and quite emotional for me to write about this as the stream of memories that came out are some of my fondest memories of my time with my grandma, yet they are still painful in the meaning and reinforcement in my life of being so scared to get close to people because they leave - and usually in some kind of permanent way that is like death, or is death. This is probably one of the biggest sources of fear and anxiety that I have when it comes to engaging in relationships with people. My emotional guardedness is perhaps higher than I like to think it is. I am just unsure of how to connect really emotionally and really intentionally with people when, in my life, all of my significant relationships have had themes of leaving and me being left alone - whether someone dies, leaves me emotionally, or relationships end, it's always so permanent. And if there is ever any kind of reunification, it's always different and it still feels like there are so many gaps, but, none of know how to fill them.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Finding Authenticity
The other day I went to an event called "The Other Side of Korean Adoption." Of all the talking I have done about adoption, my own adoptee identity and experiences, and hearing others speak on the topic in various forms, I appreciated the different perspective, at least from what I've been used to, that this event took. What has stuck with me most from this event was the side of Korean adoption from the unwed mothers' experiences. It's heartbreaking to say the least. I could go on and on with all sorts of commentary on the injustices and confining cultural paradigms that continue to oppress and abuse unwed mothers, but I'll save that for another time when my mental capacity is tuned into that frequency.
What I was so moved by were the personal stories told of birth searches and reunifications. Now, I know not all reunifications have "happy" endings per se, but ever since going to Korea last August, I have been thinking about doing a birth family search. Most days it's a distant thought that is barely simmering on some far back burner, but lately, it's coming rushing forward and I can't seem to shake it. I'm 33. My birth mother would be 56 or 57. I feel the pressure of time closing in on me. I feel that childish curiosity of sorts taking control. I feel a yearning to fill in the gaps of my life that are still there. Mostly, I just feel that this is a connection that I am supposed to have in my life - even if it doesn't amount to much. It's a piece of me that's missing and likely always will be unless I do something about it. I have struggled with the thought of drastically changing someone or some peoples' lives by doing this if I were to locate my birth mother. Given the necessity of secrecy and overwhelming shame if the secret were to be revealed (among so many other challenges), the last thing I want to do is have my presence in someone's life cause pain. At the same time, what about me? When does my pain get to stop?
Many things are on my mind these days. My body is starting to react to this stress and anxiety. I feel it. I feel my heart starting to beat irregularly like it used to about a year ago when it was so bad I was put on a heart monitor for over 2 weeks to make sure it wasn't something more serious. I've never had a panic attack. My body hasn't ever really harshly reacted to stress. But, my heart palpitations were the scariest. I think there's alot that has come up with all sorts of adoptee stuff, more memories from my childhood, a need for some kind of stability today, and planning for the kind of future I really want to have, but am doubtful it can happen at this point in my life. Sometimes making it through one day is such a chore. The only thing that offers any kind of relief is working out - now, if I could only do that for 10-12 hours a day, I think I'd be fine.
As I sit and type this, in between thoughts, I look up and see the print my best friend gave to me of the famous Japanese wave. I think about this in a metaphorical sense - it's nothing new - but the waves of life and how things move in waves, or so it seems to me. I feel like not long ago, I was at the top of that wave. So many things were lining up in my favor and it felt great! But, for the past few months, I feel like I've been sort of bumbling around in the rough waters beneath those high waves. Sometimes I just bob up and down, sometimes I'm tossed to and fro, occasionally I get sucked under and struggle to find the surface, and every once in a while, I come hurtling onto shore with a bone jarring crash. Always though - always - is it noisy and chaotic. I'm in search of calmer seas.
I write tonight with a feeling of great uneasiness and a tremendous feeling of being unsettled. I could list out about 400 reasons as to why. I know it's up to me and only me to move on to calmer waters. It's my responsibility to take care of myself and do the things I need and want to do. The decisions are incredibly challenging and emotional. No one can do them for me. No one can hold my hand. And, I cant be passive aggressive in hopes of getting out of making some potentially difficult decisions. In the end, however, I know that I will be better off and my mind and my heart especially, will feel better. I suppose life would be pretty boring if we never came across those kinds of challenges that test our limits. I am pretty burnt out of tests at this point though.
In a previous blog I wrote about my intentions to ride my bike around Lake Superior. Most days I wish I were leaving for that adventure tomorrow. I think I am in desperate need for one of those amazing-ass-kicking-find-yourself experiences. I need that time to be in my head, in my body, and in my heart. I need that time to live presently and as authentically as I can - something I feel I have not been doing a very good job of lately. My shadow grows longer every day because it's harboring so many things that are keeping me from being as true to myself as I want to be. The weight of what is haunting me is suffocating. Instead of being able to shed some of it before more piles on, it's just continued to pile.
So, the solution: quit whining about all of it in this blog entry and do something about it! *Deep breath* here goes nothin'...
What I was so moved by were the personal stories told of birth searches and reunifications. Now, I know not all reunifications have "happy" endings per se, but ever since going to Korea last August, I have been thinking about doing a birth family search. Most days it's a distant thought that is barely simmering on some far back burner, but lately, it's coming rushing forward and I can't seem to shake it. I'm 33. My birth mother would be 56 or 57. I feel the pressure of time closing in on me. I feel that childish curiosity of sorts taking control. I feel a yearning to fill in the gaps of my life that are still there. Mostly, I just feel that this is a connection that I am supposed to have in my life - even if it doesn't amount to much. It's a piece of me that's missing and likely always will be unless I do something about it. I have struggled with the thought of drastically changing someone or some peoples' lives by doing this if I were to locate my birth mother. Given the necessity of secrecy and overwhelming shame if the secret were to be revealed (among so many other challenges), the last thing I want to do is have my presence in someone's life cause pain. At the same time, what about me? When does my pain get to stop?
Many things are on my mind these days. My body is starting to react to this stress and anxiety. I feel it. I feel my heart starting to beat irregularly like it used to about a year ago when it was so bad I was put on a heart monitor for over 2 weeks to make sure it wasn't something more serious. I've never had a panic attack. My body hasn't ever really harshly reacted to stress. But, my heart palpitations were the scariest. I think there's alot that has come up with all sorts of adoptee stuff, more memories from my childhood, a need for some kind of stability today, and planning for the kind of future I really want to have, but am doubtful it can happen at this point in my life. Sometimes making it through one day is such a chore. The only thing that offers any kind of relief is working out - now, if I could only do that for 10-12 hours a day, I think I'd be fine.
As I sit and type this, in between thoughts, I look up and see the print my best friend gave to me of the famous Japanese wave. I think about this in a metaphorical sense - it's nothing new - but the waves of life and how things move in waves, or so it seems to me. I feel like not long ago, I was at the top of that wave. So many things were lining up in my favor and it felt great! But, for the past few months, I feel like I've been sort of bumbling around in the rough waters beneath those high waves. Sometimes I just bob up and down, sometimes I'm tossed to and fro, occasionally I get sucked under and struggle to find the surface, and every once in a while, I come hurtling onto shore with a bone jarring crash. Always though - always - is it noisy and chaotic. I'm in search of calmer seas.
I write tonight with a feeling of great uneasiness and a tremendous feeling of being unsettled. I could list out about 400 reasons as to why. I know it's up to me and only me to move on to calmer waters. It's my responsibility to take care of myself and do the things I need and want to do. The decisions are incredibly challenging and emotional. No one can do them for me. No one can hold my hand. And, I cant be passive aggressive in hopes of getting out of making some potentially difficult decisions. In the end, however, I know that I will be better off and my mind and my heart especially, will feel better. I suppose life would be pretty boring if we never came across those kinds of challenges that test our limits. I am pretty burnt out of tests at this point though.
In a previous blog I wrote about my intentions to ride my bike around Lake Superior. Most days I wish I were leaving for that adventure tomorrow. I think I am in desperate need for one of those amazing-ass-kicking-find-yourself experiences. I need that time to be in my head, in my body, and in my heart. I need that time to live presently and as authentically as I can - something I feel I have not been doing a very good job of lately. My shadow grows longer every day because it's harboring so many things that are keeping me from being as true to myself as I want to be. The weight of what is haunting me is suffocating. Instead of being able to shed some of it before more piles on, it's just continued to pile.
So, the solution: quit whining about all of it in this blog entry and do something about it! *Deep breath* here goes nothin'...
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