Thursday, November 24

to all the complicated ones

To all the people who like things to be perfect, who notice crumbs and stray hairs (and attached hairs with juicy roots) and endlessly remove them, then wearily re-remove them when they re-appear and try not to despair, but do.

All the people who notice feelings, their own which are bursting, or morbid, then moderate for a second, too short, then back to extremes. 

And all the decisions which were chewed to peices because there is always some losing in the winning and why must there be...this imperfect business is hard to accept...

And all the words which scurry around in heads from all the conversations, their own imperfect words, and the other person's words, the clashes and the synchrony, and the general mayhem of chasing them off to bed when they will not go, when they are still perky at 1 am in the morning and show no signs of settling down at three. 

And all the vibes between the words which are far peskier than the words themselves.

All the people who have strange rituals and want to kick and scream like two year olds because it all boiled up and spilled over and left them worrying they weren't quite right in the head, when they don't need an asylum at all. 

All the ones who have a reliable intuition, and know when they know.

All the plans for a perfect date which end in graves of dissapointment.

The ones who can't pick up the phone when it rings, and can't believe that it was engaged when they had finally psyched themselves up to call, the ones who get nervous on their way to friendly gatherings, nearly faint as they walk through door ways, and endure pounding hearts when the door bell rings. 

All the monotone skies which shouldn't affect the will to live, but do, and all the while sensing that many people aren't feeling all these things quite so acutely and aren't finding existing quite so hard. 

Then all the flooding self recrimination for being sensitive to skies and hormones and persons and medications and changes and things.

All the people like this are aware and raw and gentle and fascinating and worn out - its horribly uncomfortable, but goodness gracious me, you are my favourite of all and your presence is a balm and my feelings for you are not moderate at all and my intuition says we were meant to be on earth at the same time to comfort each other.

Saturday, November 12

post captivity complications

I don't want to say that I'm an efflorescent butterfly because then people seem to say things like 'I'm so glad you're better forever', and 'Now do every thing because you're a butterfly'. And then they get shocks like,
'But you said you were a butterfly, yet you seem to be in a cocoon, I'm so confused, did you mean moth?'

Life is in, out, up, down, waxing, waning. Serious waning for all us crescent moons. But we wax too, and I am increasingly convinced that we must not only converse about our woes if we want to accurately share our lives. There is a time to bawl and a time to squeal.

Some days, I'm a butterfly. After being a guttingly grovvely caterpillar for two years, it's surreal. I'm a butterfly, in the way that a clip-winged butterfly can be, if I'm calm and gentle, ever so calm, ever so unstimulated.

I don't quite know how to feel about not waiting by the window in a crumpled mess for Ben. For getting his message "The case has gone over I'm sorry, I'll be a little bit late," and thinking, well that's ok, I'm still able to stand, I'll chop the beans. I don't chop food, so it's a bit weird. I did the dishes, cared for my child, strolled for an hour, and chopped beans? Then I sat up (versus slumped on the couch) to eat dinner, in our sun drenched dining room.

It's a bit too glorious to feel that okay.

The trouble with butterfly days is this: I know it won't last and minute shards of sadness zoom around because I want to feel like this forever, because the relief is too excruciatingly nice, and the contrast seems all the more glaringly piercing.

I'm a living oxymoron when I'm euphorically pain-free, because my heart physically aches.

Is it actually good for a bird from captivity to fly in the expansive sky and then be returned to its cage? I lean towards, yes, its better than captivity it's whole life. But oh, going back in the cage.

I didn't know if other human beings also feel what I'm inadequately describing, for it doesn't come up in conversation.

But I found the answer to my question in a book I recently read:

Perfection is beyond the reach of humankind, beyond the reach of magic. In every shining moment of happiness is that drop of poison: the knowledge that pain will come again.

Dumbledore, J.K.Rowling

I had an epiphany reading that: I am seeking perfection once again, this time in emotions. Perfection is truly unattainable and mixed emotions are not my solo struggle but a universal reality. I always feel that the earth embodies these realities, and weeds springing up by daphne and jonquils and jasmine is proof.

The weeks that followed this passage were ones where I mulled and ruminated, granting myself permission to feel relief with a sprinkle of grief for the past and future. I felt a lot more peaceful once self recriminations for heart shards were removed. I thought, perhaps every joy is tainted because of the fallen world? It struck me as a fairly miserable thought, that every happy moment had to be part sad. I needed more reliefs and elations to test the theory on.

Out of the hopeless blue, one arrived. Our impling slept for nine hours in a row. No letters to warn me of her plans, no gradated steps. In this matter of sleep, I had finally annihilated my expectations, because it was the only way to be content. I had decided that the poison of expectation was not doing me any good, and I'd slowly picked it all out.

We had goofy shocked faces that morning. 'How could this happen to us?'

She might do it again in another six months I thought with ineffable happiness, high expectation me having done a solid 180.

Two nights later she did it again.

Deep sleep deprivation and ensuing pain will come again, but my joy was weedless, and curiously I don't have a sore spot under my left rib thinking about it. {When I say weedless joy, I refer to the following day. The actual night I lay on my bed worrying she had suffocated and died, and I strained to hear a cry, please, I just needed to hear a cry.}

Maybe heart shards during relief are a peculiar experience reserved for the heavy grief of eight years of mostly unrelenting illness?

Perhaps many joys will be less tainted by sadness, with a quarter drop of poison versus a dollop, with just a lightly held mental recognition of the transient nature of elation.

I cannot curse transient elation, for the same principal promises transient pain.

Nothing lasts forever.

Except eternity, and I have a feeling I will never tire of an earth free from poison.