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