R&R #4: Counting My Blessings(?)
An unorganized flurry of thoughts I’ve shared and concocted over the past few days or so.
Feeling blessed and stressed; they’re both at equilibrium and at odds with one another.
When Honey Sugarman (Bojack Hoseman’s grandmother) was spiraling and heading into a breakdown about losing her son and she said:
I’m not crazy. I write down and memorize license plates of cars with attractive men in the driver’s seat but I’m not crazy.
A month ago to the day I tweeted, “I’m truly never gonna be the right girl for anyone.” I don’t quite feel this way anymore, but I do feel like very few men will be able to provide the extraordinary love and life that I desire.
I think my eyes are closed to things that have the possibility to be blessings because they don't "look like" what I thought they would look like. I prayed about this the other day — for friends, for love, and a full life — and a few people from my law school cohort have reached out to me a few times and I also got invited to play DnD with some possible new friends, and I can’t even bring myself to be excited about it. What is it with me and blocking my blessings? Why does it come so instinctually to me – a primal instinct like lions stalking their prey and bees flocking to pollen?
Why do so many Gen X/Boomer women have an almost chronic issue with constantly tearing down other women’s bodies and appearances? Do they think that will make themselves look younger?
I want to be more intentional about enjoying the little things of life and practicing gratitude.
“Everything has its time.”
“The nature of life, the nature of being.”
There’s beauty in the waiting and in the passage of time…beauty in living. Beauty in loving, even if it’s lost. No virtue in not loving at all.
I want to be done with shaming. That of others, yes, but mainly myself. Because, after all, everyone is you pushed out, right?
This morning I saw the smallest U-Haul truck I’ve ever seen attached to the back of some nondescript black SUV. It was so funny and sweet at the same time. I often think of what it will be like when my lover and I are driving to wherever Point B is, wherever we’ll start our lives together, his hand lovingly caressing my thigh as I sit Passenger Princess across state lines. We’ll probably need a really big U-Haul for all of my stuff. My husband is going to be simple and sentimental. And he’ll have a lot less clothes than me.
I think I’m answering this “Who am I?” question that I’ve struggled with for so long by figuring out both what I respond to and how I respond to them. I know that I am someone who is passionate about women – women’s rights, women’s lives, women’s experiences. I am creative – I come alive when making my own creations or being lucky enough to gaze upon the creations of others. I know that I love the dynamo I morph into when nobody’s watching, dancing irreverently, naked, fully let go and free and in the moment. No embarrassment until it’s all over. The answer is not fully fulfilled but it’s a start.
Life truly is complex and simple all at once – or, at least, its truths and secrets are. We have so much to learn that it’s almost endless, yet also, any random 12 or 13-year-old girl says shit that is more profound than anything Freud or Aristotle or whoever could come up with.
I have the tiniest piece of apple skin stuck between my teeth and I can’t get it out. Fuck.