Hold On, Let Go

Seems like most of my blog posts are related to a song of some sort. Sometimes there are songs that just resonate, echo, explode, calm, fill the empty place, or make the jumbled thoughts in your mind clear.

I wish I could make songs like that. Perhaps I could, if I could really let myself go and focus on it. I've never...really let myself though.

[Sidetrack:  If there were a Music and Lyrics of my life, I would definitely be the Lyrics part of the duet. I'd rather have someone besides Hugh Grant as my Music though...just saying. And I'm nothing like Drew Barrymore, I'm quite sure. (We both are female and live in America and speak English, but the similarities pretty much end there.)]

My parents recently came to visit. My mom told me that she sometimes thought that of all her children, I am the most expressive. I think I kind of laughed at the time...but since, I have felt that the need to express yourself, and to try so hard to do it perfectly, and then to fail but keep trying, is actually really difficult, hard, and not very much fun, to boot. As I have been thinking about expressing myself, and the emotions in my life I am trying to sort through, as usual, things came to me in my head in a song.

This song came to me from a familiar source; however, the source told me to focus on the lyrics, which almost never happens. (It is not a completely clean song, lyrics-wise, which also surprised me, considering the source -- but by no means is it anywhere close to explicit. In fact, they play much more offensive things on the radio every day.)

It reminds me of a story -- one I read in Book Club this summer, about Corrie Ten Boom. She watched the love of her life marry for money. For her, there would never be another, and she, in tears, wondered aloud how she could possibly kill love, love that was strong, love that she had nurtured. Her father told her that the better thing to do would be to give her romantic love for this person to God, and pray that she could love the love of her life as God did.

When I read it, I cried. I thought she was brave, and bold, and how horribly, horribly sad it was that she would never experience the kind of love she had dreamed of as a little girl ever again. She, being the strong, amazing person that she was, truly followed her plan. Not only did she do that with the love of her life, but I truly believe she tried to see every person who came into her path as God saw them.

Part of being able to do as Corrie did is what is mentioned in this song: "At least I hold on when I get love, and I let go when I give it." She held on to the love she had for her mother, father, sister, refugees, the Bible, God, colors, and, eventually, even was thankful for fleas! She held on tight to the memory of the love even when she was in a concentration camp, not knowing if she would survive. And she let go of love, too. She let go of her resentment toward the fleas, for the horrid conditions, for the mistreatment of the guards...of everything. And you can bet she loved those little fleas that were so pesky, because of the freedom the fleas afforded her and her fellow roommates. She cast her love net wide and did not bother to pull it back, but just kept sending out tendrils of love.

The other part that resonates is the part about taking the weakest thing in you and beating everyone else with it. Sometimes I think my weak things can't beat anything but myself--and myself, they can beat very effectively, as they know the most tender places with the freshest wounds. But weak things can become strong, and there is nothing, nothing in this world or the next as powerful as true love.

That's all you can do--be grateful for the love that you have. And when you give it, you don't know how the people you give it to will use it- if they'll return it, perhaps with interest, or if they'll hightail it out of sight and never come back. So, even though it is impossible to do this, it seems the song would advise you to have no expectations that anyone or anything will love you back. It is certainly an interesting idea to think about. In the meantime, I am going to give freely, with the best of myself-- as I wrote almost four years ago in this post. I'm going to hold on to the love that I get, tight tight tight, and when I give love, I will send it toward the other person with everything I've got, letting go completely. Only when you open yourself are you completely free.

just a girl

The particular girl I'm thinking of is wandering about in the slush, both her own emotional, and nature's physical, in front of a tiny store. She has on a bedraggled hat, a nondescript coat, and low suede boots, which are completely inadequate: her socks, when she takes them off tonight, will have permanent black marks on them, as the quality of the suede is very poor indeed. As she meanders, pretending to be nonchalant, she is also desperately trying to ignore the fact that her left boot has a hole the size of a dime in the sole and cold water is seeping through at an alarming rate. If she bothered to drag her mind away from her runaway emotions, it would be obvious to her, as it is to all passers-by, that her efforts are wasted, as her entire gait has been altered awkwardly to allow her foot the least amount of contact with the pavement.

Every so often she stops, seeks the advice of a device telling time. She's impatient with herself for being impatient. To distract herself, she tentatively taps at a pile of slush with the tip of her boot. Then, as if her tap has contaminated the pile, she balances on one leg, swings the other to the side, and, using her leg as a shovel, she creates a new pile and begins to shape it with her boot, tamping it down from an irregular mountain range to a perfect mesa, sometimes even rubbing the toe in clockwise circles--just so--to even the surface. It’s as if she’s forgotten the discomfort of her wet foot, her bedraggled self – she’s pouring all her self-consciousness into the busy, busy work of smoothing the slush. Smooth! Smooth!

The taps of her boot toe and the swipes of her leg get more aggressive, until her agitated state can no longer be masked by the menial task she has assigned herself. She sullenly kicks the slightly imperfect Mesa Slushie she spent the last ninety seconds constructing and lets out a long sigh before resuming her sentry-like tread in front of the shopfront, warily watching the windows for any activity, then pausing and pretending to act as if she is waiting for something or someone whom she has high hopes of actually showing up.

But to be honest, it’s a pretty thin veneer, and even she knows it. To distract herself from the fact that she is alone, and the someone (thing) she wants to arrive is not, in fact, going to come, she begins another Mesa Slushie right next to the one she demolished just a minute ago. Tap, tap, circle, slow circle, tap goes the boot tip. She rests too much of her weight on the tapping leg and gets off-balance and slips on the slush, nearly falling. Flushed and embarrassed, she determinedly ignores the scene of the near mishap-- she doesn’t even bother to demolish her second “creation”--and rocks forward and backward in place, pointedly staring into the distance and amusing herself by pretending to be a dragon and blowing her breath toward the streetlamp. But she is foiled even in this, as it is not quite cold enough for a reliable puff, and the distraction loses its appeal, as it is no longer a distraction. Quite soon, she no longer is content with sentry duty, and after one considering look at her timepiece, and a too-long stare down the road in either direction, she heaves a sad sigh both long and eloquent and disappears.

phases

I am in a phase of life where it seems like everything I listen to, absorb, watch, or process, I am relating to my life--even if to an outside observer the situation seems out of context. I don't know if I'm thinking too hard about myself or whether I am just stressed out to the point where I think everything's about me, or if I'm bored so I think about what I /should/ know best (myself--but these days it feels like I don't know myself at all).

Knowing what you want and where you want to go is a powerful asset.

Some days I feel like I don't know one single thing and I'm relying on the things I read to teach me about myself.

Perhaps, as one of my favorite books says, "it's just a phase."

Maybe that means that I've been a caterpillar my whole life and am preparing to become a wet-winged butterfly. I'm hoping that there's a wind that is good, but not too stiff to help me get my wings to harden so I can tackle the next "phase."

four five seven five

all little moments
coalesce into a life:
habits, character

climate, not weather
is determined by small choice
steady rotations

inexorably
seasons change, but in rhythm
a cadence steady

same things over and over
small tweaks of navigation
hope is powerful

impossibilities

Thoughts swirl in every possible prepositional position through the grey matter between my ears. Always.
If they were electrical impulses, they would light up the grey 'sky' like lightning streaks
on a recorded loop whose rhythm is just slightly off, but never turning off.
Not even while I sleep.

The emotions I feel are spurs of energy that carry their charge
and jolt through my body -- usually straight through my heart.
There is no predictability to the tide, to the ebb and flow.
Even neap tides are large, and largest when my body's energy is drained.

It never ceases to amaze me how tiredness
seeps
leaches
melts
whispers insidiously
sidles up and overwhelms even the firmest of resolves; makes all situations seem worse.
Fatigue opens the door to emotional entropy; sweet slumber does not always close it. 

At times when the tide is out, when the sandbags under the eyes are stacked down to the bottoms of the molars, and some of the sandbags have burst and gotten in the eyes and the grain is just too much to bear, it seems impossible to stop the emotions from overwhelming. The sadness is sadder, stronger...it's like the swamp of sadness from Neverending Story is real, living inside me. Hounds of sadness bay, the echoes growing nearer. Sometimes it feels like I can hear their snarling and they're nipping at my heels.

But sometimes the relief of going to bed before you're too exhausted to sleep, just because you can, is enough to make the hounds quiet, the swamp evaporate just a little, and the sandbags a little less full, and life turns around a few degrees -- enough so you can see all the good things in life a little more clearly through the tired fog, and that sometimes relaxing isn't as impossible as it seems.

Escorts

I love my nephews. I adore my nieces, too, but there is a special spot in me for my nephews. Today I held one for almost an hour while he banged his fist on the table (he was so very obliging, and did not bang in my food or spit up all over me, though he is a "drool-bot" and could win a contest with one gland tied, probably. (This is a joke.) He is almost three months old and is in a very smiley stage of life. He is so cute! His li'l eyebrows are so expressive, his eyes so blue, his eyelashes so long, his need to suck on things so great...he is a gift. Every new thing he does astonishes; he smells so sweet and his skin just shines with light. It made me think that even if I didn't believe in heaven, that I might believe that's where he came from anyway, because of how his whole being shines.

My other nephew is empathetic. He knows what I need and just how to touch my heart and make it tender again. Today, he told me that he hoped that I would be able to enjoy every day at work, that I could relax, that my friends would be nice to me, and that he wished I would call him on Friday afternoon so we could be in better contact. He gave me so many hugs and kisses today, freely, without prompting. He held my hand and squeezed it sweetly. He told me he loved me, and walked me to my car to say goodbye, before opening the door for me, and then, upon being told that I needed the drivers seat door open, promptly walked around the car and did it again, perfectly intent on helping me. I wanted to cry. It was so genuine, so caring, so unselfconcious, so freely given. And the tenderness with which he and my niece each kissed my cheek and hugged me, and the determination with which he ran after me yelling, "Goodbye! I love you! Goodbye!" until he couldn't see me anymore nearly broke my heart. I teared up and could barely drive away.

I feel so grateful for the love of these boys and their families. Being told repeatedly that I am "Best Auntie Ever" (a title for which there are unending "ties" in terms of number of places) makes me feel so popular, so wanted, so cared for. If, indeed, I am tied for "Best Ever," it's because I have the best nieces and nephews ever -- so easy to love, and some of that stems from the love my siblings have for me.

Thank you, siblings. Thank you, nieces and nephews. Thank you, everybody who loves me and makes me feel special, even on days when I'm just sure that all the special beans for the day got sown in someone else's field (forgive the reference, but I played Bohnanza today) and mine is all hopelessly dried up and there is no special crop to harvest.

Sky and Pumpkin

1. I found an artist the other day I really like. I happened to hear him first when at a restaurant. It had Latin American food. The people I was with both spoke Spanish, but one mostly Dominican and the other Chilean. They compared food and platano dishes while I ate my ropa vieja and was grateful I didn't embarrass myself with the pronunciation of it when I ordered.
   
   If you can get past the first 30 seconds, you will like this a lot. This is an alternate link in case it doesn't work if you're not a Spotifier.
   
   Also, this needs no 30 second buffer. It's Ron Murray's version of While My Guitar Gently Weeps.
    
2. Today, the sky as I came home from working at the coffee shop was perfect.  This is a couple hours later, and is not so perfect. It was the most lovely grey -- grey in the way that only Pacific Northwest skies are.
   
   here is something:
   
   The clouds are perfect in their coverage.
   Not one inch of sky is blue; neither can the label "grey" be uniformally applied.
   They maintain a dimensional appearance. And although they end up resembling
   polyester quilt batting that has been washed with denim jeans on accident,
   and has subsequently been played with by the family cat, they are not unfriendly.
   No soft mists of rain are currently being bestowed; the marks on the pavement
   tell me they finished giving out such generosity about twenty-five minutes ago.
   The soft sworls and swirls of grey aren't really "marble," though I do not have a better descriptor. Although the thickness appears to vary, the light ends up falling uniformly anyway, and only those who look up would notice the shades of the shade.
   This sky is not a simple canopy, but ever-changing, and would defy even Monet an accurate portrayal.
   
   
   
   The sky fit my mood perfectly. It isn't a dull grey, but a grey that's ever changing. Darkness ebbs and flows, but the overall effect is slightly melancholy and calming, simultaneously.
3. I had fried rice with bacon in it that was then baked in a whole "pumpkin" for dinner last night, along with yakiniku. It was definitely An Experience. My dinner companion and I ate the whole thing. We also hate Washugyu beef and outside skirt. I wonder if inside or outside skirt tastes better. Either way, it's probably delicious.