I'm okay

This week, as I prepare to have my baby in a few short days, I've found myself looking back over this past year quite a bit. Granted, I think we tend to do that anyways as a year draws to a close, but I'm just doing it a little earlier than normal. In particular, I've been recalling a conversation I had in August with one of the deans at the law school I was attending. It was early on Tuesday morning and I had scheduled a conference with her to discuss my options. At the time, she listened to me talk for several minutes as I declared my pregnancy would not affect my studies and that I wanted to continue -- I needed to continue. She asked me particulars about the pregnancy and my personal life, while not saying much otherwise at first. Finally she sat back in her chair, looking like the lawyer she still is and she said the words I'll never forget, "No matter what you're telling me, I can look at you and see you're not okay."

I remember my mouth fell open, as I just kind of stared at her. She continued on by saying, "You remind me of someone I used to know, myself, in my early-to-mid 20's. I was juggling so many personal balls, academic balls and then professional ones that people would often look at me and ask how I kept it all together? I would tell them if I stopped everything would fall apart, and so I had to keep going; I was fine. It wasn't until years later when I hit my early 40's that I was able to look back at that time in my life and understand; I wasn't okay. You're not okay either, but you're too stubborn to admit it and you're terrified of dropping the numerous balls you're juggling. At some point you should allow yourself to admit you're not okay and then understand that the only way to get everywhere you want to go is allow yourself the time to do it. You can stay if you want and I'll help you do it, but I think you'll be a better lawyer, a better mother, a better spouse and you might wind up with your sanity intact if you just walk away for a little bit and take some time off."

The next morning I had withdrawn from law school and by that afternoon I was headed back to Texas. At the time I remember thinking that she was wrong, and didn't have me pegged quite as exactly as she thought. Still, I was exhausted emotionally and physically and I had to be honest with myself that my timing for moving, starting law school, trying to fix my marriage and have a baby sucked. Not to mention I had just endured the worst undergraduate semester of my career and while I walked away with all A's and one B; I considered those grades gifts from professors who knew me and knew that I was distracted. They were grading me based on the student I normally was, not the student I actually was in the spring, and I think that knowledge made it worse. I was terrified of coming back to Texas, where I knew I'd basically be home-bound with the pregnancy and I hadn't been home in over three years. I wouldn't have a reason or an excuse if my marriage didn't work now, as I was home and could focus on it instead of being pulled in a thousand other directions. My kids would finally have me home and it's pretty common knowledge I'm not a PTA mom. My academic identity was now gone, as I was no longer an undergraduate English major nor was I a law student. So what the hell was I exactly? All I could think for the first few weeks being back in Texas was if Hell exists -- this must be it. 

Three and half months have gone by since I arrived back in Texas and there have been days I didn't think I'd survive. I would literally find small things to do each hour, just so I knew the time was passing until I could go to bed and the day would finally be over. I've had to deal with a pregnancy that has been complicated and painful. Still, I found myself growing attached to the child I wasn't sure I was ready for as we survived another day, another week and another month together. Hearing her heartbeat, seeing her on ultrasounds became some of the biggest milestones in my life the past few months. My marriage, while not perfect, is finally in a healthy place. We've learned to communicate. I've learned to let him walk away when he's angry, as I know he'll come back when he's ready to talk. He is finally the priority he should have been all along and it's amazing to me the little things that make him happy. I always thought he wanted these huge things I wasn't prepared to give him, but most of that wasn't necessary. Surprising, to me at least, he just wanted me home more. My kids are happier because I'm home, and at times they lament that I am home now. It was easier for them to get away with things when I wasn't around to be on top of them. 

Looking back, I understand now that my law school dean did indeed have me pegged. I wasn't okay and I was terrified of dropping every ball I was juggling only to find out I failed. Failure has never been an option to me and the thought I was finally in situations so big and out of my control that failure was inevitable broke me. Taking time off was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was what I needed to do. I understand that now. As this year is coming to a close, I am looking forward to meeting my new daughter and celebrating the holidays with my family. We have a lot of plans already being made for next year in regards to where we'll end up and what we'll do, but for now the most important thing I can say is I'm okay. I'm thankful for the people in my life who call me out when I'm not ready to see what I'm doing, and I'm even more thankful that with some time I'm able to not only see but understand they were right. I'm okay and for once that's not just what I keep telling myself in hopes that it will eventually be true.

Home Sweet Home

Yesterday morning I woke-up with an image clearly emblazoned in my head. I have no idea what I had been dreaming moments before, but this image was plain as day. The picture in my mind was of a house, two stories, a wrap around porch, cedar shingles as predominantly seen in the Northwest; it was a craftsman style home. Immediately I knew what home I was seeing, as I've been looking at it for several days now on a home site. This particular house is in a neighborhood Jed and I have lived in before. To say it would be perfect for us at this time in our lives is an understatement. 

I always try to correlate my dreams to something or a rationale for why I had them. Maybe I am nuts for that, but I believe they do have meaning. Dreams, in my opinion are pictures, ideas, thoughts etc that our brain cannot properly identify or process during the day and so it works these things out at night when we are resting. Before I had fallen asleep the night before, Jed and I were laying in bed talking about this particular neighborhood. We were remembering the first house we lived in in Washington. The house was built in the 1913-1920 era and had charm galore. There was an English garden as I called it in the backyard, a massive tree in the front that Paige climbed (or attempted to anyways) and an "I Love Lucy" fridge in the kitchen. Probably my favorite part about that house was all the woodwork (original), hardwood floors, claw foot tub (that we never used) and original crystal knobs etc. However, we had a landlord that decided to sell the home within a few months of us moving in and we had to find a new place. At the time that was devastating and it put in motion what would transpire months later. 

His selling the house caused us to move to a different neighborhood that now occupies a lot of our discussion. The house was probably one of the smallest we've lived in, but it was comfortable and warm. The house was full of natural light and we had a pond behind our house that provided hours of amusement provided by different animals. The neighborhood was full of houses like the one I've been eying. Craftsman style. Cedar shingles. Trees. Cul-de-sacs. Quiet, very quiet. So quiet in fact, one of the things Jed and I were remembering is that I'd leave our bedroom windows cracked at night to provide a breeze. Even though it was beginning to freeze outside and we had to load the blankets on the bed to keep warm. The first night we were in the house, the cicadas were singing so loud I was legitimately freaked out; I had never heard anything that loud in my life (nor had I ever lived anywhere I could hear it so clearly). There was something about having windows open and the way it made your house smell: fresh and crisp. We actually had air conditioning at that house, most of them in that area do not (it isn't needed), but rarely did I have the air on. I always wanted the windows open instead. I miss that.There are a lot of things I miss. That house was probably the closest I've ever come to feeling like I had a home of my own.

The word home has a lot of different definitions. I have my childhood home where I grew-up. By that I actually mean the town, as my mom and I moved around a lot and once my grandpa died; I quit associating home with any one particular house. I have the home that is my grandmothers, where I spent most of my time as a child and when I'm scared or need someone to talk to, her home still provides a refuge to me. Austin, Texas (and it's surrounding suburbs) have been home off and on for the past 10 years. We've lived in different towns all around Austin, but I know exactly where everything is. I know the grocery store layouts, the local restaurants, coffee places, I have friends here etc. Belton and UMHB was home for several years. I found a family in my friends and professors. I fell in love with how small the town is. The house I lived in was never really home, but the town definitely was. Jed said something to me once when I was lamenting the fact we didn't have a home that was distinctly our own. He said that home is the people that are with you. For him, me and the kids are home and so wherever we are is home. I didn't understand that in so many words at the time, but looking back over my life; it has always been the people around me that causes me to associate whether I'm home or not. 

I'm ready to go home. Whether it is the house I've found or another one, it really doesn't matter. I'm ready to take my small family of four, that will soon be five and start our new adventure. I want our kids to have a security that I never had growing up. The same school from here on out. The ability to make friends and have those same friends going into the future; until it is time for them to spread their wings and leave. I do want a house that is our own, but I also understand now it is more important the people that fill that home. If I could leave now, I would. I've made my choice. We won't even discuss how long it took me to understand all this, the point is that I get it now. All I know is that Jed must have the patience of a saint because he's known this stuff for years. Still, I'm ready to take my family and go home to a place where the cicadas are so loud they freak me out. The place I can leave my windows open and the leaves are bigger than my hands. Where Halloween is celebrated at the elementary school and the entire town shows up. Pumpkins aren't carved because the rain will make them moldy within 24 hours, but every front porch has pumpkins sitting on them. A place where the leaves dance and stir in the air like a cyclone. More importantly, the home that sings to my soul and has been my sanity when all of it seems to be gone. I've been holding onto this place like it was the only lifeline in the world since June, and it's time I go home. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

Forgiveness and Reality Television Collide

Forgiveness isn't for the other person. Forgiveness is for yourself. Forgiveness does not condone their actions, but it allows you to move on. Without it, you will be stuck exactly where you are. 

Imagine my surprise to hear the above statement coming from Gene Simmons Family Jewels. I am not a fan of KISS. I really didn't even know who Gene Simmons was until I happen to stumble onto his show. The dynamic of his family intrigued me and I kept watching. This past season they dealt with some heavy issues. Issues that quite frankly I'm surprised they allowed to be shown fully on the show. As one of the final episodes was coming to a close, the lines above were spoken at a marriage boot camp Gene and Shannon attended. Those few lines somehow managed to explain something I had been questioning for months; how do you forgive someone else for what they did to you and how does someone even begin to forgive me?

During numerous conversations, I have expressed disbelief that a certain person in my life could possibly forgive me for certain actions. They were never able to express how they had forgiven me or even why, but simply kept reinstating that they just wanted to move on and they want to move on with me in their life. Meanwhile, they understood that for either of us to move on completely, I had to forgive someone else and I had to let go of the hurt and anger that I was continuing to bottle up. Being the stubborn person I am -- I refused to do so. Still, it takes a lot of energy to stay angry, and I was beginning to lose the fight, but I thought that to forgive meant that I condoned how everything unraveled.

The words spoken on Gene Simmons show made me realize I was viewing the situation all wrong and for once I began to understand how it was possible for this other person to have forgiven me. It really wasn't that they had forgiven me per say or were able to condone my actions, but they had begun to forgive their part in our undoing. By forgiving himself, he was able to move on and it just happens he still wants to move on with me.  It's quite funny actually that since hearing this statement, I seriously feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I'm okay with moving on. I don't want to be stuck where I've been for months on end, and if that means I have to forgive myself and let go, then that's what I have to do. Forgiving oneself is harder I think than forgiving someone else, but it is just as necessary. 

See, who said reality television never taught us anything?

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

Pillow Talk

Laying in bed, late at night, he told her out of nowhere, "You should start writing again." 

She murmured her consent without really agreeing.  "You know you're happier when you write" he continued. Not letting up, he pretended to ignore the fact she was silent. "Edit your book. Look for someone to publish it. Hell, write a new one. Just write."

Even though she didn't have much to say, she heard what he was saying. He is right. The only thing that makes her better is writing, and yes, she needs to be made better. No longer broken. Pick up the pieces, dust herself off and find out where she goes from here. Questions that can only be answered by delving into characters. Characters that she inevitably transfers part of herself into, but that are never quite her. Characters that have their own struggle, their own lives and that become as real to her as her friends. Yes, that does always make her better. 

"I know you're probably hesitant to go back to your book and edit it. I know you don't want to be reminded of him, but maybe if you can close the character of Jake, you can close him as well."

Wanting this not to be true, she finally spoke up and said, "Oh, no, the two are very separate for me now. The character of Jake started because of him, but Jake is now Jake -- he doesn't remind me of him anymore." This was true. Jake is Jake. He became something that the person he was based on will never be. Jake came alive. She could picture his walk, she could hear his accent when he talked, she knew what he'd look like if she spied him standing across a field or riding a horse. No, the only reminder of 'him' that Jake provides, is that he would have never been created without the re-emergence of this person in her life.

Still, maybe closure is what she needs. Lizzie needed closure and Jake provided that when he came back to her. She wrote it that way because she knew that's what Lizzie would have needed, were she real. So why is this any different? Shaking her head to herself, she knew instinctively it was different because she was afraid to write. Afraid what would come out if she gave her keys freedom to type. Scared that she wouldn't like the parts of her that emerge as she tries to deal with what comes next. Writing is a form of honesty, one cannot lie if they do it right. Knowing that, she wondered how hard she'd have to fight with the part of herself that wanted to lie and the part that wanted to write. 

"Are you listening?" he asked, as he nudged her gently. 

"Hmm? Oh, yes, sorry. I'm listening. Maybe I'll write some tomorrow."

Tomorrow has come and gone and no, she didn't write anything. Still, she's thinking about writing and she suspects it won't be much longer now.

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

The Road Not Taken

I don't have much time, but I wanted to take two seconds to write a quick blog. Writing is normally how I deal. It is how I cope, and I've done very little of it throughout this entire process. While I highly doubt my available time will increase in the future, I know I will always go back to my roots and what grounds me. 

This time in my life, we'll say from January forward has been interesting and life changing. I once told someone that I felt like I was living out the Robert Frost poem, "The Road Not Taken". There was a professor that once said, if you think this poem is one that ends happily, or the narrator is rejoicing that he didn't take the other road; you are sadly mistaken. He is looking back with regret at what his life would have been had he taken the other road. For me, I was at a clear, very distinct cross road in the middle of April. I had a choice to make. Several actually. I had to choose where my life was going and what I wanted the most. 

I believe it is rare to actually be able to know when you are at the fork in the road. Generally you just know things are changing, or if you choose to do something, it could make your life different. Rarely do you understand completely that if I take this road, my life will be this and if I take this road, my life will be that. The two roads will never merge. I will never be back in this exact moment where I am now. The road I choose, will have it's own twists and turns and further forks, that will take me even farther from this moment. Somehow I was able to recognize that moment, that choice, and this decision did not come easily.

There are people in my life I cannot imagine living without day-to-day, and I think the closer the end got, the more I wanted to cling to them. I didn't want things to be different. I didn't want to let go. Still, I had to cut the cord so to speak. As I look around tonight, my last night in the house I've called home for several years now, and whose walls have witnessed so many life altering moments; I'm feeling strong in my choice. No, my house isn't packed ... not completely (sorry, Laura). I've put it off to the last possible moment, and I will probably be up all night long. There have been points throughout this process, up until even a week ago, where even I didn't believe I'd leave. I kept giving myself an "out" in my mind. The reasons I could choose to stay. Still, I gradually kept boxing things up until I realized, there was no turning back -- I had nothing left in my house. Nothing to cook on. No plates or silverware left undone. All my books are securely wrapped in boxes. I've done some twenty loads of laundry, trying to decide what we'll need immediately, and what can wait. Whether I had made a conscience decision of which road to take or not, my feet started traveling down one. 

Maybe I will look back one day with regret at the road not taken. Who knows what will happen in the coming weeks, months and years that will shade and color my experiences, my choices. I have to believe in my heart and soul that we make decisions with the information we have on hand, and at the end of the day, we have to stand beside those decisions; no matter what 20 / 20 hindsight we receive later. While I am sad to leave those I love most in this world, I know that at this moment in my life; going to Oklahoma is the best choice I could make for myself and my family. I appreciate those that have stood beside me and loved me despite my break downs, my change of heart, the moodiness, the brutal honesty at times when I should have held my tongue and have allowed me to experience all the highs and joys that go along with something as monumental as what I'm facing -- both personally and academically. This year alone has shaped me, formed me and changed me more than any other in my entire life. I am indebted to a lot of people for the hugs, love and support I've received. I know what I'm doing and I know what choice I'm making. I've seen the speed bumps and pot holes that could lay ahead, and I still wouldn't have it any other way. The people in my life have given me the confidence and the love to stand by my choice and I'm thankful for that.

Love,
The Rambling Gypsy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZzUm0wqhE7E

What I Leave Behind . . .

All day today, I've been looking for words that I'm not sure I have. The end of one chapter has finally come to pass and I simultaneously started a new one. Literally, within hours of each other, I completed the requirements needed for my bachelor's degree and then was discussing my first legal brief with my new peers via conference. I've tried to put aside the nagging feeling that I'm leaving part of myself behind as I start this new journey. Part of myself I didn't even find until I walked into a classroom that felt like home and I proceeded to find other like-minded people. I'm definitely leaving part of my heart behind. 

This past weekend I was with a very dear friend. The other half of the 'Gruesome Twosome'. We were shopping, and out of nowhere I asked her if she would consider going to Texas State after all. Originally, well, for a moment in time this past spring, that was our plan. To go to grad school together. To terrorize another English department. To eventually teach in the same department, just because no-one would be able to handle the both of us. It was a beautiful plan while it lasted. She assured me it was tempting, but then asked my reason behind the question. I'm supposed to be headed off to law school in a few weeks. Not to mention, I didn't finish my application process with Texas State because I knew that wasn't what I was supposed to do. Still, this week, in the midst of my cold feet, I was willing to stay.

I've had a hard time with the realization that somewhere along the way, this small town that I claimed to loathe became home. Leaving it means leaving behind everything and everyone that has become dear to me. Yes, I can come and visit. No, I'm not going to the other side of the universe, but my day-in, day-out life will not involve these people. There won't be any more gossiping or discussing all the parts of life that seem so important down at the amphitheater.Walking through Presser Hall late at night in hopes of finding the ghost, and receiving crazy text messages while doing so, will no longer seem like an honorable pastime. Midnight tours of Judge Baylor's grave and the craziest stories we can invent will be forever lost, as we move on to more grown-up ambitions. Art gallery viewings with a professor-turned-five-year-old, as they insist on touching everything just to feel the texture. Elvis, The Alien and The Lamb are still my favorite. Being so loud with Sandra and the party of people I assembled in her office, that Dr. Brown comes and yells at us to shut-up. Chasing a professor down the hallway because he stole my wallet and having him gently push me into a wall in order to evade me; yeah, you can't make that stuff up. Walks at the pond. Crack from the sub. "Breathe Kitty, Kitty, Breathe" with the girls. Oh, and I better not forget that Jesus is a glowworm or Lola's version of "Sunrise, Sunset". Sunday morning coffee talks at Bodega Bean. Salgado's on Friday with Jen and Sadie, and sometimes Rachel. I would stay for each and every one of these people if I thought I could get away with it. 

My cold feet have finally warmed up. Working on my brief, reading cases and trying to find the most important parts of them; I realized I've been preparing for this for the last three years. I would be doing a disservice to the people who have bent over backwards to help me, to edit my papers, to talk to me, counsel me and love me despite my craziness if I chose to stay simply because I didn't want to leave them. I've thought about an email correspondence that happened about this time last summer. My soul mate was accepted to graduate school; she was leaving me for Alabama. I reached out to this person asking how to let go. Jokingly they brought up a story we had read, a quote they knew I'd understand. I don't remember what it is exactly, but it is something to the effect: If I can let you go or say goodbye, then I love you the most, because that's what's best. Fast forward a year and I'm having to say goodbye to the people I love the most, but I know it's for the best. Still, I want to reach out to that person and say, it doesn't matter how much time goes by . . . I haven't gotten any better at letting go. So I leave part of my heart behind, hoping I'll come back and claim it when I'm done and in a position to stay.

Love,
The Rambling Gypsy

Washington Dreaming

This morning I woke-up from a dream I've had every night for the last two months. The scene may be different, but the players are always the same. Looking to remove the cobwebs and reorient myself to my surroundings, I chose to focus on some pictures hanging on my wall. They are similar to the ones I placed below. By looking at the pictures, I was immediately transported to a different time and place.

I found myself in Cornwall Park. All too easily I was able to imagine the drive way. The varying shapes and sizes of trees greeting me. Looking up towards the sun from my drivers side window, appreciating the view, as it is the last time I would see it until I exited the park. Going deeper down the drive, it was easy to believe in fairy nymphs, magic and that it is truly possible to be still somewhere. Life abounds. The sun fights to filter through the dense landscape. Creatures run beneath the brush away from hikers on the trail. Young people throw frisbees on the varying hills. 

I would always choose the trail to the left to start my stroll, as that is literally what I did; I strolled. Cornwall Park was one of the easiest places on earth to stop and smell the roses. Except, there weren't any roses. There were however leaves laying on the ground. Huge leaves. Leaves larger than my hand. Tree trunks seemingly made to be sat on. They encouraged one to lose track of time. The further in I walked, the darker it got. Still, there were always small breaks in the tree line that allowed the sun to shine through. It was magic. 

Waking up this morning, tired of the same old scene, I imagined myself in Cornwall Park and for a little moment in time; I was home and all was right in the world.

The driveway into the park.

The parking lot. You could still see the sun here.

                                                      This leaf was literally larger than my hand. 

                                                 I believe this is how tree trunks should be.                                                      They should encourage you to sit down and stay awhile.

 

Looking up and finding the sun.  

My daughter

Restless. That would be the word I use to describe myself tonight. I've gone to bed twice. I've gotten up twice. Mind you, both times I've been exhausted. In fact, I fell asleep during Pride and Prejudice, which is one of my favorite movies. I woke-up in time to see Mr. Darcy proposing in a rainstorm to Elizabeth Bennett. I watched the proposal from half-closed eyes and turned off the movie after she rejected him. Feeling as if I could sleep anywhere due to my exhaustion, I climbed into bed and my mind started to race. 

There are a 1001 things I need to do tomorrow and I've put them all off to the same day. A day that I can already tell won't have enough time in its hours. My kids get out of school tomorrow for the summer and I'm quietly panicking, as I don't know what I will do with them for two and half months?! Of course there is always swimming or the children's museum or movies to see, but I just feel like I should have a better plan. Alas, I don't. Such is life.

Today I attended my third-grade daughters end-of-year party. A little boy who introduced himself to me at the Valentine's Day party, as someone I needed to know, proceeded to relay the story of how he met my daughter. It was on the soccer fields he said. He looked at her with adoring eyes and asked if she remembered. Yes, she said, you bumped into me. He laughed a ten-year old laugh and said he knew that -- he meant to bump into her. Another little girl sitting at their four-tabled-square said, Paige, did you tell your mom what you did today? My daughter proceeded to blush and shook her head. The little girls eyes grew wide, as she knew she had started a story I would expect her to finish. All of a sudden taking a keen interest in her Hot Fries chips, the little girl told me quietly, Paige tried to hold Williams hand when we were walking outside. Nodding my head in understanding, I just said, ah, I see -- and I guess I did. Clearly William adores her, in his own way, and he is none to happy with me that she will not be returning to the school next year. 

While it was scary for me to see as a mother, it also reminded me of a time when things weren't so complicated. When holding someones hand was the epitome of saying you care. I remembered briefly what it felt like to be ten and my belief that I knew it at all. Pulling me from my reverie at times, Paige yelled at him once that he was reckless, just purely reckless. He laughed and put on an even bigger show to make sure she looked nowhere else. Another time he needed a napkin after spilling some water, and she immediately jumped up and yelled, I'll get it for you. She never moves that fast at home. I realized all in all this afternoon, I was seeing glimpses of the young lady to emerge. When daughter and sister are no longer her only titles. When she eventually will add ones like girlfriend or wife. Some people may wonder how I can project that onto a girl that is not yet grown, but I saw who she will become so clearly today. Devoted. Loving. Fits of laughter. Easily entertained. Intelligent. A tad bit chiding. And of course, she will mother and nurture, because that is what she does. All of these things are what she is already, none of them are new, but I think I just finally saw them all and appreciated them in one setting. No matter what I've done. Whether or not people in my life have agreed with my parenting style or not. Today I looked at my daughter and the friends that surrounded her, doted on her, and I knew instinctively; I've done something right.


Love, 
The Rambling Gypsy

Trial and Error

"Tomorrow / I'll be stronger / I'm not gonna break down and call  you up / When my heart cries out for you / And tomorrow / You won't believe it / But when I pass your house I won't stop / No matter how bad I want to" -- Chris Young

I was with a friend last week, sitting on my front porch as the sun began to fade. I told her that I had been unable to write. I confessed what felt like a crime to her, as we watched the sun set behind The First Baptist Church across the street. I've tried to blog - it doesn't work. I've thought about working on my book, but I close it before I get anywhere. I finally realized I couldn't write because I wasn't ready to be honest with myself - much less with anyone else. I was unable to write because the only person I wanted to write to, well, I refused to write them. Understanding that I was hurting myself more than them by choosing not to write, I gave in and wrote three pages on a stark white legal pad. The words flowed. So did my tears. I had to re-do one page as my tears smeared the ink. I thought that only happened in movies. I still have the letter. I've been unable to make myself send it, but the point being that I wrote it. I faced my biggest fears of how I'd feel when I wrote the words "Goodbye".  Maybe the point never was for them to see it, but I had to know I could do it.

Amazingly, this person contacted me of their own accord two days after I wrote the letter (unbeknownst to them). Throughout the course of our conversation, I confessed that I was no longer sure of the path I was on. Am I running, I asked? Maybe I jumped ship too quickly, in a rush of emotions, that very few people truly understand. I tried to warn you of that they replied. In that moment I remembered why I needed to tell them goodbye. It is easy to sit somewhere: in a bar, on your bed, in a car, in your girlfriends living room etc and issue warnings from 2k miles away. You can say you foresaw something or knew I was making a mistake, but unless you are willing to be an active part of my life, while I'm making those mistakes; I don't need your I-told-you-so's. They are as useless as you. Realizing once again they were incapable of being the friend to me I needed, I chose to end the conversation. I haven't heard from them since. That's probably for the best.

Our conversation made me realize everything I didn't want to see. A person, whose life seems to be completely unaffected by me, is getting to rule all of my decisions. I still care what they think. Do they approve? Would this eventually lead them back to my door? No. Nothing will bring them back. More importantly, even if they came back, I realized I can't take them back. Allowing myself to be in victim mode, and maintain the belief this whole situation happened to me instead of accepting my responsibility fully has blinded me for the better part of two months. I was willing to walk away from a law school scholarship. Up root my entire life. Move somewhere, anywhere, and in the past two months I've legitimately made plans to move everywhere from: Texas City to Bellingham, Washington to Oklahoma City. I was running. That is what I do. I'm done running. 

The fact I'm turning in my running shoes does not mean I'm done hurting. It doesn't mean the nightmares have stopped or that I'm crying any less than I was a week ago. However, it does mean I'm getting a little bit stronger. Every single day I get a little bit better. Maybe it is selfish to cut him out of the picture completely -- he seems to thinks so. As he reminded me in our last conversation, I might as well do what I want to do, as that's what I've been doing this whole time. Funny, he actually believes that, considering I would have done whatever he asked in the not-so-distant past. I personally think by telling himself that lie, it is the only way he is able to sleep at night. However, he's the fool that will never understand or see or even grasp what he could have had. That's no longer my problem. Since he believes I've been following my own guide this entire time, I might as well. I am following through with my original plans -- the ones made months and months ago. Before I wrecked my car and thought for a moment I was dead, as my car spun across a highway. The ideas and plans that encouraged all-nighters and a time when I actually cared about my grades. The plans I had before I decided to wreck my home life and kill the closest people to me. The ones where I focus on myself, being the best that I can be for my kids. Finding a way to combine the academic and the mother; the only two roles I've ever truly done well. 

I am about to undertake the singular, most difficult thing I will have ever attempted in my entire life. I may fail. I've accepted that. This may not work. I'm still willing to try. There will be numerous forks in the road, paths I will not have seen coming, detours I will be forced to take and maybe when I'm old I will look back with regret to the road I didn't take, but that is the price one pays to actually live. I'm tired of drowning. More importantly, I'm tired of waiting for someone who doesn't deserve me to come and save me, only so they feel I owe them one more thing. I can save myself thank you very much. From now on I'm making my own life boat, with my own damn sewing machine, and it will float only where I tell it to go.

Love, 
The Rambling Gypsy

tears, poets and other such nonsense

-- If I'm writing, then I love everybody, but if I'm not writing, I don't love any of you people . . . -- Dr. Peterson

I will never forget the first time Dr. Peterson said that to me. That statement, as simple as it is, was one of the first things that really rang true for me being an English major. I quickly did an inventory of my life and realized writing is always where I turn. When I'm writing, I'm generally happier than when I'm not. Writing, whether it is my own form of poetry, which I don't really consider poetry in the classic sense or re-writing my book four times until I can live with how it ends; all of those things have been therapy for me over the years. I have survived some of the harshest things thrown my way (up to this point) by writing about them -- hence the blog you are now reading. Blogging is a relatively new (for me), socially constructed tool, and while I don't know what I think of it, I will play along for a bit.  As writers, all we want at the end of the day (usually) is for our stuff to be read, to be given some sort of credibility or have someone say they understand what we mean; the rest is gravy.  

Monday night I attended a poetry reading by three of the professors in our department. Originally, I think we had it set-up as a goodbye deal, as two of them are leaving, but one of them got upset and said he wouldn't have agreed to read had he known it was his own farewell reading. So nothing was mentioned about their departure at the end of the term and instead they did what they do best -- they shared their work with their colleagues and their students. "I'm just now learning how to talk to you" read Dr. Peterson from the first line of his first poem and immediately the tears began to fill my eyes. I know this poem. He has read it to me before in his office. I knew where the poem was going before he finished it: two spouses, always having to learn how to talk to the other one, missing the children now that they've left the home and the ghost that still roams the halls (in this case, Dr. Peterson's mother), but I think in ways, the quiet that's left behind after years of having rough-housing and arguments and love fill its rooms. 

Listening to the poems, we laughed as an audience and yes, a few of us cried. For me, poetry is one of those things I can't really write, but I appreciate it. Dr. Peterson, in particular, has been one of my favorites, simply because of the amount of time I've spent in the last two and half years, in his office, on a Friday afternoon, leaning against the door frame as he read me some random lines. Always the showman, a conversation would make him think of a poem (it didn't have to be his), and the next thing I know, he's standing in the middle of his office reading to me. I've thought numerous times over the last few years: I will miss these Fridays when they no longer exist. Another one of my professors, while not inclined to jump up and read me poetry (even though he has done so over the years), has meandered over to his bookcases more than once, looking for a source that will enhance or conclude our conversation. Pulling a book from his (way-too-organized) bookshelf, he will find the passage and read it aloud to me, leaning over the desk to show it to me in the off chance I don't believe him. Those few lines will then spark a different 30 minute long discussion. My moody poets. That is what I have called them for the past two years, as it is what they are. Passionate about most things, caught up in their own heads usually, academics that just want to write their own stuff, but have to pay the bills somehow -- my moody poets. There are not words to describe the hole that will be left by their day-to-day absence in my life. 

I'm beginning to process that this life I've led for the past two and half years is coming to an end. For all of the ups and downs and in-between, it has been one hell of a ride. These people taught me to love literature and appreciate words and what they can do to people and for people, while simultaneously giving me the courage to be myself. Coming in to my first class with the latter of the above-mentioned professors, I was quiet -- as in, I did not talk. We communicated for the first half of the semester via my papers, because I wouldn't say or ask him what I needed to know. He played along, he wrote me essay length responses and forever changed my world by his presence in it. Coming in to his first class, I was a scared kid really, who had been hurt and didn't trust anyone. I would like to think that I'm leaving Heard Hall and my beloved professors as someone a little bit older, a little bit wiser and more trusting than the person I came in as. Even though one of these professors might argue on the little bit wiser part  . . .

Yesterday I was in the office, and one of the professors looked at me and asked, "So what's the plan when you leave here? Still changing from day-to-day?" Turning a little bit red and making a momentary decision on whether I wanted to tell him what was going on or not, I stood up from my chair and said "Come with me". Closing the door to his office, I sat down in a chair and told him about the changes happening in my life and how they were partially responsible for my not knowing where I'd end up or what I'd be doing after graduation. The plans I did have -- out the window. Time for a new game plan. There are some things that have to be done, and order in which I have to do them, but the rest?!? For the first time I don't have a "plan," I don't know exactly how things are going to go. As his eyes got wide momentarily, I laughed out loud at his initial reaction. Leaning back in his rolling office chair, he asked me if the person behind all this change was rich? Good looking? Shaking my head when appropriate, his follow-up questions gave him even further reason to believe I had lost my mind, but he just looked at me and said okay. The things we do for love don't always make sense he told me, but still, this wasn't what he expected from me either. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

Lessons learned from the bar . . .

"I can go out every night of the week. Can go home with anybody I meet. But it's just a temporary high. 'Cause when I close my eyes, I'm somewhere with you . . ."

Tonight I did something I thought I'd never do -- I cried at a bar. That must break every rule known to man or some kind of drinking / bar etiquette rule. I'm sure of it. Tonight was girls night out and I was already in a slight mood when I prepared to go out. This week has been a rough one personally, and I really just wasn't feeling it. I haven't drank since in I was in Pennsylvania -- not out at a bar. I've drank at home. A night out with my girls? Surely that is what the doctor ordered.

Several drinks in and I began to realize my mistake. It started innocently enough. I smoke when I drink. I probably shouldn't, but I do. A friend of mine ran up to the bar to grab me an ashtray and brought it back to me. Without thinking about it, and being lost in conversation, I found myself rolling my cigarette against the edges of the ashtray; effectively taking off the excess ash. Realizing what I had done, I immediately put my cigarette out, as I no longer wanted it, but of course, I had to separate my cigarette butt from the ash. Something so insignificant, but so poignant.
 

Wanting to escape the feeling that something was missing, and this wasn't as fun as I remembered, I immediately accepted the offer of the cowboy sitting next to me when he asked me to dance. He had been sitting with our group for most of the night, and we had talked for most of that time, but I just couldn't make myself find it interesting. He had asked me at several points where my thoughts were at, and I just told him they were far away -- that's all the answer he was going to get. I didn't come to the bar to talk to him about what I was thinking. Thanks though. So when he extended his hand and told me that if I didn't want to talk to him, I could at least dance with him; I agreed. Dancing was safe after all -- we never did that.

Yeah, not so much. Dancing with him I finally noticed his eyes were green. Wanting to put distance between us, he pulled me in closer and told me to just relax, to go with, to forget whoever I was thinking about. Laughing out loud, I just shook my head as the chiding to relax and let myself go with it sounded familiar. Poor cowboy, he had no idea he was just digging the grave / my thoughts further away from the dance floor. We danced a couple of times, but his arms felt strange, unfamiliar and like the last place in the world I wanted to be. Not long after, he was actually removed from our table, but that is neither here nor there. I couldn't do it. 
 

By this point, I was completely and utterly frustrated. No matter what I did, nothing helped. The karaoke manager called out specials for sex on the beach and the bartender brought me a shot over with crown royal in it. Really? I think everyone set out tonight to torture me unknowingly. Before the cowboy was escorted away, he offered to buy me a Jägerbomb -- yeah, no thanks. I was done. So over girls night. Time to cut off the alcohol, as this is when I pass that line of feel good and hit the emotional wall I fight so hard against. As if on cue, the past week, hell maybe two weeks came crashing down on top of me. Grabbing one of my girlfriends, we headed to the dance floor and I held on for dear life as I finally fell apart. Yes, I am now one of those girls that cries in a bar. Wonderful. 

My girlfriend, god love her, tried to have the you're a smart, independent, beautiful woman talk who doesn't need anyone. Buck up. Get rid of them. How a 'smart, independent woman' is reduced to tears on a wooden dance floor in a country dive bar is beyond me, but yes, it can happen and it has nothing to do with needing anyone -- wanting them however is a different story. It's funny actually because we used to fight about alcohol, the amount consumed, going out etc. I am the straight-laced one. I don't push the bounds. Yet, tonight, none of that mattered. I was missing my pool buddy. Even though I can't play to save my life. My dart buddy. And no, I can't really play that either, unless the board is completely open and it's not cricket. The one who can make me laugh  and yes, the look that crumbles me instantly. Driving home and briefly wondering if I should be driving given the alcohol and the emotions, I realized I wished they were there to drive. Another sore point usually, but tonight, they were the one I wanted to take me home. 'I trust you,' I said not too long ago, and I realized tonight I meant that -- I do trust them. I trust them to get me home.  

Girls night was officially a mess and I'm glad to be sitting in my bed, about to pull the covers up over me and forget this night ever freaking happened. Of course that leads to wanting a snuggle buddy and maybe watch Invader Zim or South Park. Laughter. I miss the laughter. I miss them. I shouldn't, but god bless it, I do. And they thought I was kidding when I said I was forever ruined for anyone else. They had no idea how serious I was. Lesson learned from the bar?? Once my thoughts have left the building and abandoned me for a plane ride away; they are unrecoverable and I may as well give into all the feelings that come with it. There's no point in fighting it. It is what it is. So much changed so quickly, and it amazes me how much of my rituals have already been taken over by memories of them. The only thing I'm thankful for?? That the phone wasn't available to text my drunken dialogue, as that would have nowhere good to go. We're fragile enough as it is. Oh well, I have now done something I swore I'd never do: I cried in a bar, and guess what, I survived  . . .

Love, 
The Rambling Gypsy 

No good, horrible, very bad day . . .

Technically, this no good, horrible, very bad day was yesterday and it is now over. Tonight I got home late around 11 p.m. from a class and walked into my room. The best sight in the world was seeing my little boy cuddled with my pillow. Laying down next to him, I held his hand while he slept and listened to him breathe. All while rubbing my empty hand over my new sheets. The other day I bought some new Egyptian cotton sheets, and they are incredibly soft, if I do say so myself. The sheets are just part of a week full of changes, but I like them and I'm adjusting. Still, coming home and laying next to him and allowing my eyes to shut made it easy to put a very bad day at bay. Nothing else mattered right then. 

I wish I could explain why the day was so awful, but that's for me to know and deal with on my own. It was funny actually because after an incident thing this morning, I logged onto FB and deleted the post that displayed my blog from last night. I didn't want it to be accessible, as I've pretty much kept my blog under wraps until that post. I felt like I had been open, maybe too open with what I was beginning to think or feel and how I see the world right now. All I wanted to do was wrap myself back in my self protective cocoon and shut it all off. That worked for a little bit. I called into work, as I wasn't feeling well anyways, and then I laid down to sleep. Nothing changed while I was sleeping, but I woke-up knowing I had to push forward with my day; the chips will fall where they may.  

Then later this afternoon I regretted taking down the post. I realized that was my m.o. -- I run. Something starts going a little bit haywire and I jump ship. Things aren't always going to be exactly what I want them to be, when I want them to be, but that doesn't mean they don't have the possibility to work out. There are multiple people in my life that expect me to run or give up or believe that eventually something will be too much for me. My leaving will then prove what they already suspect about people in general and that the only person one can depend on is themself. Well, I'm still here. I was able to put my big girl panties on and deal with it, and I didn't break -- even though I wanted to briefly. 

I wish sometimes there was a way to shine a mirror onto my heart or soul or hell even my brain so what I'm thinking would be evident and clear. My reason for wishing I could do this, is I've realized over the past few days that what I thought was obvious or understood is anything but obvious or understood. For all the progress I thought I had made in being open; I realize there is so much left to do. Will it change anything right now if I lay it all on the line? Probably not, but it might change it later. If nothing else it will open up the communication fully, so that where I stand is known. Most issues could be avoided if communication were properly used, but instead, it's easier to reach down into ourselves, get lost in our own head and ignore the fact that sometimes we hurt the people we love when we fail to tell them everything. 

I have one regret from the past two weeks and considering everything I could regret -- that is nothing. It actually comes down to this exact topic. I was asked at two points in particular that I can recall if I had something I wanted to say? I said no. That was a lie. I just wasn't ready to say what I was thinking. Maybe it worked out best that way. Maybe if I had, things would have gone in an unrecoverable direction because it would have been too soon. It is impossible to explain what I consider a gravitational pull or even comparing something to a religion, but that doesn't mean it isn't there.

Sometimes things happen too fast, and it is necessary to pull back on the reins just a little. Take the time to adjust. Allow the heart, mind and the physical to catch up to the same place. That isn't an overnight thing. Something that initially feels so intense and like it must be acted on immediately, has the potential to fizzle out the fastest if not properly honed. I'm beginning to understand that anything worth having is worth being patient for. I know how I feel or I know what I think, but that doesn't mean that someone else knows those things. Therefore patience is paramount in allowing the timing to catch up so it has a chance to thrive. The only thing I know to compare this situation to is a bloom on a flower.

The flower starts off as a bud, tight, unopened and it's not fragrant yet. Eventually it begins to open. As its petals expand, the flower opens to reveal a beautiful center; it's heart. The flower begins to release its perfume and for a moment in time, you have something beautiful and amazing. One might argue this is an awful analogy because flowers die. No, flowers die when they are plucked from the earth. When they are cut from their stem. When their life source is taken away -- that is when flowers die. As long as their roots are firmly planted in the ground or they remain attached to their stem; they remain alive. This is the beginning of the flower. We are each others roots to the past, the present and possibly the future. The possibility is there to blossom, to grow and to produce new life. This isn't a race, and I don't want it to crash and burn because we put Miracle-Gro on the flowers and tried to rush the process before they were ready. I may not have always been patient, but I'm learning to become so. It's worth it to see the full bloom in the end.

Love, 
The Rambling Gypsy

Change . . .

Percy Shelley once said: "It is the same!--For, be it joy or sorrow, / The path of its departure still is free: / Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; / Nought may endure but Mutability." 

I read that poem several years ago in one of my English classes and it quickly became a favorite. There was something about it I understood innately. Okay, maybe the poem wasn't the most cheerful in the world, but change or mutability, is the only constant in life, which is amusing in itself. Over the years, I have referred to "Mutability" and tonight, I find myself once again turning to its words.  

This afternoon I did one of the hardest things a parent will ever have to do: I told my nine year-old daughter her father and I were divorcing. Her large green eyes looked up at me and filled with tears. "Why?" she asked me. I stroked her head and wiped away her tears, all while trying to come up with an answer. "Sometimes baby, things just don't work out how we want them too. Nothing changes though. You are still the most important thing in my entire world. Your daddy and I love you more than anything." I proceeded to tell her that she could be angry or sad or whatever she wanted to be; she was allowed to feel whatever she wanted. 

In her childlike innocence, she asked me was I happy with this choice? I told her yes. I have no regrets. Truth be known, this divorce would have happened years ago, had the children not been involved. We wanted it to work for them. I wanted it to work for them. There comes a point when you realize you are banging your head against a brick wall every single day of your life, and you can either continue to do so, or you can back away from the wall. The wall isn't moving -- only you can. Still wanting to explain to her why I was walking away from my marriage, I told her she didn't have to understand right now and she quickly cut me off, and said, "But I do understand, mommy. It just makes me a little sad is all." Right then my heart broke in two. I will spend the rest of my life trying to make sure her heart never breaks because of me again, but I know that is a futile attempt, as surely it will at some point.

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

What do I say? . . .

What do you or I or anyone say when they find out one of their best friends is getting married? Of course there is the obvious, "Congratulations," but after that has been said, then what? This engagement was not wholly unexpected, in fact, it has been talked about off and on since September, even though they only started dating in July. I find myself at a crossroads: one road makes me protective, wanting to shield this young 22 year-old girl from making the same mistakes I did, and the other wants to be nothing but happy for her and pray she knows what she's doing more than I give her credit for. What do I say?

Looking back on my own marriage at the tender age of 18, there are times I wish someone would have sat me down and said, "You don't have to do this, you know?" My daughter was born in November of the previous year, and I had been brought up in a Christian home. I had already broken the rules, in more ways than one, and it was time to make things right. No-one ever told me I didn't have to go through with it, or that I had another choice. Nine years later, I look back on that time both with fondness and disbelief. There is something to be said for not having a clue what you're taking on, or how big of a commitment marriage actually is. Neither of us had any idea what it meant to put someone else first or that forever meant, well, forever. Often times it doesn't. On New Years Eve this year we had the conversation that had been coming for months, hell, truth be told, years; somewhere along the way we had become friends and stopped being husband and wife. Maybe we never had been. Maybe we should go ahead and divorce? We weren't miserable, nor do we hate the other person. We still live together. Our relationship is complicated, but aren't they always in some form or fashion? Nine years later and I'm not as naive as I was at 17 years old. Nor do I believe in fairy tales anymore. The only shoe that can change a girls life is the one found in a department store. That is the reality no-one could have told me or convinced me of nine years ago.

While I type this, my son half wakes from his sleep and cuddles up next to me. He is now my cuddle partner in a king size bed that feels even bigger. I sing along to Betty Soo in the background and tell him, "I would learn how to fly if it meant I could stay by your side forever / and I would swim to distant lands if it meant / I would find you when my fingers reach the sand." He smiles in his sleep and I know he is comfortable and feels safe here with me. Nothing warms my heart like placing my fingers in his palm, and his grasping them like he did when he was an infant; he is now five. If their dad and I did nothing else right, we knocked this one out of the park; our two children are amazing. I would do it all over again to have my children, to love them, to know them and watch them grow. It is in watching my son that I know I have the answer for my friend, even though the answer is actually for myself. I now know what to say.

You have so much life ahead of you, and no, I don't think you know yourself -- yet. Still, you are beautiful and brilliant. To think you are incapable of deciding who you want to love or who you want to try and make a life with is to take away everything that I love about you. It is not my place or anyone else's to rain on your parade. Marriage won't be easy, but it's not impossible. There will be something you will learn, multiple things actually and the gifts you will take away from the time spent (if there is an "away") will be worth the experience -- whether those gifts are children or just a better understanding of your self. You will make a beautiful bride. 

That is all I know to say. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

I miss him.

Tonight, I am missing him. The question is, who is the him? Cleaning out my bedroom in an effort to begin the tedious task known as packing and sorting, I found a letter I wrote several years ago. I remember the night exactly, even though the letter was not dated. My mother had found, and in turn, gave me pictures of my old boyfriend. Looking through the pictures, I fought the smile that inevitably crept upon my face, before handing them back saying I no longer cared. In all honesty, I really didn't care anymore; he had left a long time before. Still, it was nice to see his face. The one that will never age now, and will forever be sixteen. I allowed myself to have a moment, that moment, the one that missed the way his eyes looked at me, and how his hair felt when I ran my fingers through it tenderly. I remembered a look that used to cut me to the core and gave me butterflies. Briefly, I wondered if he was still capable of doing that? I surmised he probably was. Once the moment was over though, it didn't matter anymore, and I was once again the young twenty-something that had let him go.

Since writing is how I deal with my life and the things I don't understand, it did not surprise me to find another letter. This one was all kinds of messed up, as I started it on the wrong side of the notebook paper and continued that trend throughout the letter. Looking back now, I no longer remembered which page or which side came first; it was fun trying to piece my own letter together. Unlike the boyfriend who left by choice, this letter was to my grandpa -- he did not leave by choice. My hero. The best man a ten-year-old girl could ask for, when her own father was no longer around. The man who is irreplaceable, and unfortunately for any man who tries to come into my life now; will always be the model of what love and family should look like. The night I wrote his letter, I was missing him then too. When I was a little girl, and after he died, he would frequently show up in my dreams until I told him to stop visiting me; the pain was too much to bear when I woke-up and he was no longer there. After that time, I have seen him less than three or four times; he came only when I was in such a desperate place in my life, that he was the only one that would suffice. The night I wrote the letter, I was lamenting the fact I just wanted to see his face once more, as it felt like I was forgetting him. I didn't need him though. My life wasn't falling apart. I knew he wouldn't come, but still, I couldn't remember whether his eyes were blue or green, and that was cause for alarm enough. If I remember correctly, I didn't see him in my dreams that night, in fact, I still haven't. And yes, he is fading, but I know my love nor his never will; just the physical nature of his body fades.

The only other him I could be missing is the son I never had. The child who earned his angel wings before I got to meet him or hold him or find out what kind of man he'd turn out to be. He's been on my mind a lot here lately, as different things have made me think of him. A friend has a blog that she writes to deal with the loss of her sweet baby girl, and it had me reduced to tears just last night, as I read through her day-to-day struggle to achieve normalcy; whatever that is now. I think back to a friend who miscarried a year or so ago. She told me at the time, when I confessed I had as well, that she felt like she joined a secret society that she never wanted to be apart of. The tragedy we as women endure, the ones who carry the child, can feel their kicks and are their sole protector for nine months; the tragedy that unites us, but the one we never speak of in public. Today I saw a baby, a three month old little girl when I was out to lunch with the father of my children. We both watched the new, young mother as she tried to handle a diaper bag, her purse, the baby and a stroller all at once. We smiled inadvertently, and even chuckled as she managed the juggling routine, but we never said a word. Every now and then we have those moments where we understand. The loss is bigger than the both of us, and there is nothing to say.

I miss him. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy