Starting Over

I wonder

Is there enough time left
For someone to learn how
I like my eggs
Or on what side I sleep
Which towel I prefer
Why I like The Wailin Jenny's
And Kurt Vonnegut
And what black walnuts mean to me

Is there enough time
To understand the way I dance
And what breaking cookies means
Or why I take so many pictures
How important running water is
And thunder
And why I worship the wind

Will anyone ever understand 

How I love the way I love
Or what it means to stroke my hair
Or when to hold me when I joke
And when to step back when I cry
    ~~ Ginger Hamilton

Chapter Two: Prophesy Fulfilled

You know how it is when a love relationship is new and the two sit and dream of a future together. They map out what it is they aspire to share, the places they will go, things they will do, children they will raise. I had a second chance when I was 35 and met my ex. We had big dreams – he had big dreams, and his dreams became my dreams -- I dared not dream my own.

We were going to go to the Deep South and open hearts, expand minds, spread the love of racial harmonics across Mississippi. We would teach the people who, he assured me, were truly good-hearted well-meaning but brainwashed. We would show them their brown-skinned brothers were the same as they. I had long fought this battle in West Virginia; I jumped on the bandwagon wholeheartedly, happily, joyfully in fact.

One night I had a vision. Crystal clear. A middle-aged heavy set bearded white man in work clothes raised a rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at my ex (who at the time was a handsome, dark-haired thirty-year-old). The man was livid, shaking with anger. He spat hateful words as he lifted the weapon and prepared to fire. I stepped forward between my ex and the angry man just as the gun discharged. There was no tender death scene, no sobbing lover cradling me in his arms, no deathbed confession of eternal devotion. I simply took a bullet for him, and I died.

I felt this premonition on a gut level. I knew without a doubt this was prophesy. 

We never moved to Mississippi. We did our share of community service. I did take a bullet for him, just not a literal piece of metal to the heart. Still, I died that he might live. I stepped between the angry man and the good man, and let the angry man take his wrath out on me to preserve the good man’s life. Although I meant well, it didn’t accomplish what I’d hoped it would. The good man lost me; the angry man simply reloaded and fired again; and I died to both myself and the good man I sought to save.

They say three works the charm. I am resurrected. I have my own dreams now. Although I still have a massive capacity to give and receive love, I’ve taken my last bullet. Of course, there’s more to this story than what is here – there always is. 

Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter, and perhaps the backstory as well. ~~GH

Happy Easter. 
~~in loving memory of David Oso, who would be 13 now, and is, in my heart. 

Light at the End of the Tunnel

Pain is a bully; I hate it when it talks. Pain walks hand-in-hand with Fear and Lies; together, the three push Hope and Sleep off the sidewalk of Life. ~GH

Tonight I felt exhausted and laid down quite early (for me). Slept three hours and awoke around midnight. There are changes coming in my life -- I feel them acutely. I welcome their arrival. I wonder if I'm ready to step up into these new roles. 

I felt a great deal of physical pain, couldn't get back to sleep, tried for three hours and finally gave up. Went downstairs to take a couple of pain pills to see if I could find some relief and get back to sleep. I have a test in the morning - my last test before finals.

Looked through a bookcase and re-discovered a book of Kahlil Gibran's letters (this one is Kahlil Gibran: A Self-Portrait, published in 1959. There are other collections of his correspondence). Skimming through, I remembered that his health was poor. That set off a trigger and I received a mental image of a cracked vessel. 

I wondered if our bodies weaken as our spirits grow strong? Does one feed off the other, I supposed? And I wondered why I had to invest so much energy into simply surviving for so many years. What impact did that have on my spiritual development? My physical health? If I hadn't had to scramble to live, where might I be or get to in my creative life? 

Then I thought about what little I have to offer compared to how much I want to give. And I wept. 

In Gibran's words to his friend, Emil Zaidan:

There is nothing more difficult than the existence of a strong spirit in a weak body. I feel--I am not modest--that I am just at the beginning of a mountain road. The twenty years which I have spent as a writer and painter were but an era of preparation and desire. Up to the present time I have not yet done anything worthy of remaining before the face of the sun. My ideas have not ripened yet, and my net is still submerged in water.

I realize I'm mostly feeling lonely and exhausted. It is the very end of the semester. Resolutions to issues that have long troubled me appear to be on the horizon -- but they've deceived me before with the promise of settlement. I am tired of being teased. My faith has been stretched to the limits of its endurance. There are endings in sight - so near and still, seemingly so far away. New beginnings beckon. I want to just turn away from dealing with unpleasantries and embrace happiness. I am so ready for Joy. 

But I have some loose ends to tie up first. Reminding myself that it won't be as long as it has been, this hellish journey. There truly is light at the end of the tunnel.~~GH

Only the Beginning

Such a wonderful, integral, fluid thing our Lives are. Whether we think it's a good or bad thing, each completion is merely the beginning of the next leg of the Journey. It's like water, really. There is no ending, no beginning, only Is.

Anglo English is so inadequate a language. I guess I need to become like Ambrose Bierce and create my own dictionary, providing words for the many, many concepts we lack words for.

Here is one: Mudita. Something I spend a great deal of time experiencing.

Mudita (Pāli and Sanskrit: मुदित) in Buddhism is joy. It is especially sympathetic or vicarious joy, the pleasure that comes from delighting in

 other people's well-being rather than begrudging it.[1] The traditional paradigmatic example of this mind-state is the attitude of a parent observing a growing child's accomplishments and successes, but it is not to be confounded with proudness as the person feeling mudita must not have any interest or direct income from the accomplishments of the other. [Wikipedia]

So, Dear Reader, let us experience mudita for one another, knowing it is never finished. Until tomorrow. ~~GHC

Our Day Will Come

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgxDHSlvlwA&feature=fvst Blogpost refuses to embed this video, so you'll just have to click on the link if you want to listen.

How does one go about rediscovering herself? Or maybe just discovering herself for the first time? Is there a shortcut, a cheat for a practically-55-year-old woman to catch up and fall in step with who she actually is? I am acutely aware of what I am NOT. Not screams fairly loudly, or jangles with its poor fit like Aunt Bid's old shoes when I was a young woman. Yes, we both wore size 9s but her feet were 4-A with a 6-A heel; mine, not so much. I forced into the expensive hand-me-downs like Cinderella's stepsisters and limped around at church with a fake smile pasted on my face, grateful for the gift. Comfort was not a priority; practicality was paramount.

I've spent my entire life being practical.

There is much to be said for practicality, but it is no longer my god. I am tired of always choosing the cheapest cut of meat, the lowest costing cookies, the plain purse because the one I prefer costs more and I can't find it within me to justify the extra $5 because we might need to buy something important with that $5 in the near future. I'm tired of putting myself last, always.

I haven't resented taking a back seat, thankfully. I feel no anger or ill will, or sorrow (she says as tears run down her cheeks) because of my choices. I did the right thing. I always do the right thing. I'm a good girl, a good woman. And I'm glad I am. I think I'm weeping now because I feel a sense of overwhelming...relief at the prospects that my time has finally arrived. It's been a long journey and I hadn't realized how tired I'd become.

I had become quite fatigued.

But just because I know what doesn't fit, doesn't mean I know what DOES fit. In class today, someone mentioned a woman was writing her dissertation on one-night stands. I laughed and made an off-hand comment to the effect that most people my age had completed that field work years ago. Just because I know I don't want a one-night stand doesn't mean I know the precise definition of what I DO want. Ultimately, I want The One Who Will Be With Me Forever, the one who will be The Guardian of My Heart. How to travel from Here to There is another story.

I have to trust.

All I know is I have to keep my heart open, as well as my eyes and arms. I want to embrace what Life has in store for me. I want to feel its heart beat against my chest. I want to feel its breath on my neck, its arms around me. I want to fulfill my promise.

I'm not at all sure where I'm headed, but I'm reasonably certain it's the right place. These woods are dark and thick, but every step brings me closer to the light. It's incumbent upon me to keep walking.

Thank goodness my shoes fit now.~~GHC

Kick 'Em When They're Down - Except I'm Not Down

You just never know when that knife is gonna slip into your back. Just when you think you're safe, you can breathe easy, and you close your eyes and take a deep, relaxing nap -- boom! A new reveal of betrayal appears, or a rude reminder of the future you had looked forward to occurs.

Tonight, as I prepared my new phone for information from my old phone, I realized there were 110 photographs on my old phone I was unaware of. See, it had belonged to "him" until he got a better one, so I had all his old contacts and photographs. I knew I had the contacts, but was blissfully unaware of the photographs. Bet he was, too. There are dozens of photos of him I'd never seen, including photos someone else took of him. There are sweet little images of "Missing you" and "Wish you were here" and "You're my cuddle monkey," and more. Even an animated gif of a woman with those cartoon-y bulging heart eyes. How...adorable.

Then I went through the App Store to see what I wanted and was reminded of TextFree -- the app that started it all. I still remember the day I found TextFree on the laptop and innocently asked my daughter what it was. How oblivious I was to my husband's panicked signals for her not to tell me! In case you are as unaware as I was, TextFree is an application that provides a phone number that you can give out and receive texts without revealing your real phone number. Since I don't want him to have my new number, I might just use TextFree and give him that number so I can control what I receive from him. That would be appropriate justice, I think.

Then I decided to save the photos he'd emailed me via phone from our last evening/date/social obligation a week ago. That's when I saw that he sent them from an email address I'd never seen before. Of course, I knew he had many, many email addresses that I didn't know about but he'd never slipped up and sent me anything from them before. 

I signed up for a new Apple I.D. and had to -- HAD to -- enter a title. I've always used "Mrs." Well, that won't fly nowadays. Kinda stung a little bit. My daughter urged me to use "Dr." and I did. That made it better. :)

Today he wrote that he was going to avoid Facebook for awhile because he felt sad when he read the posts. I guess he can't even rejoice in my happiness, even now. And he's texted me so many times. So many, lately. Repeatedly asking if I'm okay, expressing concern for my well being. 

I haven't been better in years. And I will continue to improve. :)