The depth of feeling that can come with any experience is frightening. It is wrought with more corners and shards of emotion than is ever expected. Guilt. Fear. Frustration. Anger. Sorrow. Joy. Happiness. Logically I try to categorize each piece. Label with accurate description and place aside for future explanation when asked the fateful question “How do you feel?”

It is not about feeling or my perception. This is what my brain tells me. Which only causes me to feel even more. Practicality is what keeps this world in check. But passion is what makes it move forward. If I get lost in passion, will I lose all I have? Will I lose myself? My touch on reality and get lost in a world that is shunned by those that have a better grip on what is around us?

Making decisions based on feeling brings us to a place imbalance and conflicting sides. Making decisions based on our minds brings us to a place overrun with tragic desperation and frustrating emotion but this time without passion to push onward.

I need to make sure I do not live within my own desires. Where would they lead? To a lack of productivity, to wastefulness, to lacking purpose, to my demise; body, soul and spirit. At least that is what I'm told.

If I do choose my desire, then how then will I make decisions when those desires are in opposition? Scrape my knees onto the floor and ask God above what it is that He wills. Perhaps a third desire. Perhaps no desire at all. Just a command. A word to move with or without feeling. But oh Lord, how will I continue on without feeling? You have created these feelings and molded me to reflect You. So what would You do? And then I remember. You felt so deeply you shed tears of blood, left them to dry in the garden as you walked into the opposite of Your desire. Or was it that you chose your opposing feeling? The desire of obedience. The eternal affair that gives life's blood to all situations. Strength and purpose to the most disdainful of life's moments.

So is the answer to choose that which saves others and causes us to suffer? Are we created as your martyrs, or as Your lovers that walk through the flame to save another piece of Your heart? You call us not to follow our heart, but Yours. That is the point of accepting You, isn't it? That we begin to have a transplanted heart that is worth following. You call us to the edge of ourselves so that You may be discovered. Not only by us, Your children, but by those that see us disappear and see You coming through.

I see that is not my job to be passionless, or merely practical or impractical. To live dangerously or conservatively. To struggle with what the conflicting emotions that can rule life, but to abandon all of that and seek Your heart. Not seeking what to do in the moment, or the situation, but to be so close that its not a decision, just a step to catch the brush of your fingertips, and to keep my foot inside your shadow as you walk towards a larger than my life story.  

Femiphobia part 3

(Please read part 1 and 2 before you read this entry or it won't make as much sense!)

My piles of letters are written and put away, and life continues on. Another moment of definition and then reality brings me back. Unfortunately no matter how deep my thoughts are, or how great my epiphany, the dishes, laundry and bills and other various survival tasks are still waiting. And today's task is laundry.

The great thing about apartment living is the inconvenience of doing laundry. Really one of my favorite inconveniences in life. I think I'd rather watch my toenail polish flake off. Perhaps you're one of those young professionals who continue to live in apartments because of your love for the city, but more likely you probably don't have the luxury of your laundry machines actually being in your apartment. Since I am of the more frugal variety, a.k.a. paying off student loans until I'm sixty, I am one driven to brave community laundry rooms. And let me explain, that apartment laundry rooms involve several strategic steps. It is not for the faint of heart. First, I load up a flimsy basket with overflowing dirty clothes, I then pile on a tub of detergent, a stack of quarters, and wallah, I have a balancing act deserving of the circus. My stuffed bunny clad feet then shuffle carefully down three flights of precariously narrow stairs, through several heavy metal doors and down into a creepy basement. Once past the wire-caged storage units and probably several families of rats, I finally will reach my destination and more often then not the greatest inconvenience of all: full machines. Today is a lucky day, which is good, because I am extremely short on time. There is one machine that is unoccupied. I practically beam as I dump my burden into the machine, followed by a healthy dose of detergent. I count out my coins and then realize why today I was so fortunate. A hand scrolled note is hanging haphazardly from the coin slot; “out of order” ruins my last shred of patience with laundry. I kick the machine, stub my toe, and develop new profanities under my breath. Who knew a former president's name could be such a satisfying obscenity.

The machines continue to spin their loads, and I swear they are all humming the same thing: “ you-will-never-have-enough-time”. Now my inconvenience becomes my convenience, because the next step is to go one below the level of apartment laundry rooms and out to a laundry mat. The only thing that makes it even lower, my clothes are full of soap.

Once I arrive at said laundry mat, and my soapy clothes are spinning happily away, I settle into red plastic chairs to wait. I squint against the fluorescent lights, smell the warm dryer smells and begin to people watch. Now I know what your are thinking, how is a relationship phobic person such as myself going to like people watching? Let me explain to you this under appreciated art. First, you have to find an alternative place to direct your attention in case of a people watching emergency. The first rule: never get caught staring. Usually places like laundry mats have plenty of outdated magazines to feign interest in, or if you're lucky, there may even be a distant television. The farther away the TV the better. This gives you space to peruse the room between you and the program you are “watching” with a easy opportunity to look up quickly if someone glances your way. Rule number two, if someone does notice you looking, act as if you don't notice and quickly engage in your fake activity. Rule number three, if someone is watching you, and attempts to catch your eye, pull out your emergency pair of headphones and pretend you are napping. Rule number four, if you are combining eavesdropping with people watching, make sure you stay silent, your face neutral. One time I laugh out loud when listening in on a conversation. It was bad, I had to pretend I was crazy.

I tried to enjoy my observation time, but today I felt too jumpy to really get into it. Every time the little bell above the door would jingle, I would catch myself looking up to see who was coming in. Time after time I made eye contact. Its hard to look inconspicuous when you look like you're waiting for someone. That was exactly how I felt, too. Like I had told my best friend or boyfriend that they should meet me over our delicates to chat. But I didn't have a boyfriend and there was no current best friend to call, so why did I feel so expectant?

I picked up last year's US magazine and tried to distract myself with the day to day of the rich and famous. Why people pay good money to watch Bradjolina buy coffee is beyond me. There are starving kids in Africa and we feast our ego on how ugly a famous rear looks with a swimsuit wedgie.

Extraordinary of the Everyday Kind

The quietness of a new morning; the world recovering from an entire year in one night's going away party. Some drank in celebration of the best year they've had, others in hopes for a better one with cleans slates and new resolutions. Inside they plead with the unseen world, that if they celebrated enough, this upcoming year will fulfill its promise. They had hope and expectation; they ignored the fear for tomorrow; the clock's ticking, for the first time that year, made them feel free from past mistakes.

But now this last day's midnight has come and gone, and its the beginning of the first day of a year's mistakes, and the day is calm and clear. I barely see more than a car or two on a normally busy highway. It's eight in the morning and the peace is still undisturbed. I haven't set my goals for these upcoming twelve months, 365 days and fifty-two weeks. Right now the only thing I'm resolving to do is drink more water and find my bed a little sooner tonight. I had to fake awake with caffeine this morning and will have counterfeit hydration throughout the rest of the day with no small amount of lotions and lip gloss. All I want to do is attach an IV drip to my arm and plop face-down into a pile of pillows. I'll decide on tomorrow's goals...maybe tomorrow?

I wish I could keep driving, and enjoy this time to myself. Slow the speed of the day and the season and breathe. But the ticking of the clock is still going, and I wonder why time is now my enemy, where last night we cheered it on to bring in the future with celebration. What do I want this year to bring? What do I want to discover and learn? What will change?

I feel the grief of dying dreams, of readjusting reality, and the clarity of practicality coming into focus. Once again I've stepped towards an unknown purpose, and away from all that I thought life would be. And I breathe a prayer, “Lord, my dreams are lost by the wayside, show me what You've already decided for me.” I know He never wanted the pain of the death I've experienced, but I've clung stubbornly to the supposed to be's. I've censored His vision, and when my ear was not tuned to His call and direction, I listened to whatever screamed the loudest. But now the spectacular is stripped away, the potential is a pile of nothing, and I am left waiting, average, suspended, hoping to be simple enough to be used. If being last will make me first in His plan, if having nothing to offer is everything He is asking for, than my empty hands, all though blindingly painful at times, are open, and I'll wait. Whether the morning is peaceful, or the rush of the day pushes in, I'll offer up the absolutely nothing that I am.

Next year when the clock moves forward, the ball drops down, while some people celebrate and some mourn, I will know that whatever happened is extraordinary, even if it is of the everyday kind.

Femiphobia Continued

Part 2 of a story I am writing titled Femiphobia....

I just can't seem to bring my hand down on the regrets box. I had a flash back of junior high, check “yes” if you love me, “no” if you don't. Before I could think anymore, I checked yes, plus one. I ran back downstairs and dropped it in the outgoing mail before I could change my decision. On my way back up I realized my error. Plus one! What was I thinking? Was I really thinking that I'd have someone worthwhile to bring with me in just a few short months? It was bad enough I checked “yes” I love you...but did someone really have to come along for the humiliation? This wasn't a class reunion. I didn't need to prove how successful I'd been in the last eight years. “Yes, hello, congrats on your marriage, the ceremony was beautiful, and yes, this man next to me is my date. I had to pay him to come along because I was afraid you'd think I was pathetic and alone. That, and I didn't know if you would allow my cat to come.” I mean, sure, that may not be as bad as going alone. There isn't much more I hate than sitting at a table full of people I don't know, tinkling my glass for someone to make out in front of me that I know won't even remember I came. Well, at least past the point of “so glad you could make it” and then later when they write the thank you card for the impersonal gift off of their registry. As if I just happened to guess what the color of towels they would love to have in their bathroom.

I finished off my tea, now cold, telling myself to forget about the invitation and the impending doomsday celebration. I should be thankful, I could be a bridesmaid and have to spend every weekend until the wedding thinking, talking and prepping for that day. My checklist was much shorter. Find a dress, a date, and a gift. A date? This could possibly require as much preparation as the entire courtship and engagement story of the future wedded couple. I caught a glimpse of my reflection again, and stopped to peer closer. Starting with my hair, eyebrows and cleansing routine. This is the trouble with relationships.

Now, in the world of women, the perfect story line to my dilemma would be for me to go to the wedding alone, meet Mr. Perfection, who just happened to not be able to find a plus one as well. We would dance the night away, oblivious to the drunken line dancing and chicken dances, because new romance and wedding magic would be spiking the very air that we'd breathe. Or another acceptable story, would be Ms. Bride to call, she had received my RSVP and would continue to tell me about her maid of honor who contracted a contagious disease, incapacitating her through the date of the wedding. She would beg me to fill in, ironically tying me to the wedding every weekend until the ceremony. But again the story would end happily, despite annoyances and misunderstandings along the way. The best man would be single and amazing and we'd live happily ever after. Of course, first we'd fight publicly and he'd chase me down, probably in a cab, and it would rain. But still would end happily. Unfortunately my life is not written by overpaid screen writers. There will be no regurgitated story line with different half-baked but beautiful talent for all of us heart starved women. My life, well, it doesn't seem to be written at all, just absently and tragically shaped by my decisions based on past and jaded experiences.

I wonder what is wrong with me sometimes. Why I have built these walls so thick that people can cause a small panic attack when they get too close. It reminds me of those signs at the zoo, warning parents to not let their children wander off alone, not to feed the animals, or get too close to the bars. If they get too close, will I end up hurting them? Or being the one who is hurt?

Secretly I hold out for some of those lost friendships. Its usually the ones that hurt the most that are the hardest to let go. Its amazing how some friendships that end hurt as badly as if you were in love. Sometimes I like to lay in bed and daydream that I run into one of those lost persons again. They ask how I am, and then once the small talk is out of the way, we dive into regrets and forgiveness and how we've been unable to function without each other. The pain we caused each other seems to disappear, because we know that we are kindred hearts that are meant to be together. And there is joy, and I can once again be myself on the outside. Whether its the little girl that is real, or someone else I'd like to be, they won't leave. And the insecurities no long incapacitate me, and tears of loneliness are not wet on my face, and are not leaving pools on my pillow. But I realize that the tears are there, and the loneliness is as sharp as when I began to daydream, and that person will never be there again. They wouldn't even answer if I called.

I always had such high expectations for myself. But now I am a cold, paralyzed, mediocre woman who is afraid of people. Or even to go to a wedding alone. What has happened to the expectation? I always knew I had potential, but as I get older, potential is not enough. Potential should be turning into results, dreams should be moving from abstract and into reality. But I am average, and scared, and hurt, and alone.

I put a magnet to the wedding invitation. I wash my breakfast dishes, refill my cup with more tea, and wonder what I should do next. Flipping through my contacts in my cellphone, I try to choose someone to call. If ever I am going to get out of this mediocrity, I am going to have to do something to change it. There has to be someone with whom I could have a clean slate. Someone who doesn't know what I've done, or not done. I snap the phone shut in frustration. Maybe I should volunteer, take a class, what does one do when they have purpose in their life?

Maybe I just needed to enjoy life more. Life begins to become so scheduled, planned and expected, perhaps I needed to stop and smell life, even if it wasn't much like roses and more like the food smell in the hallway.

It didn't seem like I was going to be able to solve my life's disappointment in one morning, so I began to accomplish my checklist. Life's tasks were always something I could count on and control. Laundry and dishes and grocery shopping filled the rest of my day, but still there was a nagging sense that there had to be more to come home to. More to do in my life. I smiled at clerks, and made polite conversation, but the scared little girl was sick of hiding. I was tired of pretending everything was okay and making sure that I was socially unobtrusive.

Throughout the day I would automatically respond to inquiries to my state of being with I'm fine, and you? This would only make me more frustrated. Why do I say I'm doing well, when I'm not? Is it really because I don't think they'll want to know? Or am I afraid if I crack that door, ever so slightly, the whole rush of pain will come spilling out on them. What would they think of me if my crazy smeared itself all over their day?

I read somewhere that you should write a letter to someone to grieve a past relationship, to say goodbye. Something about the therapeutic qualities of truth being put into words. You never send the letter, you just write it for yourself. I always thought that sounded strange, and scary. As silly as it sounds, what if someone read it? What if they knew it was about them? Would it just reinforce my pity party? But being completely fed up with myself, I decided to sit down and write my letters. And so I began apologizing to each and every person that I had let down, that had in turn hurt me. And so, to my friends, I'm sorry I've hurt you, I'm sorry if you see yourself in these letters. I'm sorry if you read this, but I need to forget you. I need you to leave my daydreams, my hopes need to be dashed that you'll ever care again, that you'll ever answer my call. Hope is a perilous companion. I'm not sure if I can let go, but I'm afraid that I'll never trust anyone again if I don't kill the hope of your friendship. I will change your names, so maybe you can fool yourself that it is about someone else. Or so others won't know how horrible our time as friends has been.

Dear Jackie,

I hate you. I hate that you turned my friends against me. I knew that you were all whispering lies, and for what? For a guy. If it was for revenge, I do not know for what you were paying me back. You're married now, probably having babies, he's married too, and you are not married to each other. And I don't speak to either of you now.

You e-mailed me a few years back, saying we should get together someday soon. As if nothing had happened. You stole two of my best friends. And yes, you were one of them. You were the friend who allowed me to be myself. Or so I thought. I told you the secrets of every dark corner in my life. With you I could be crazy, and happy and carefree. Absolutely ridiculous, and I loved you for that.

I know I hurt him, and you pounced on the opportunity to be the better woman. You added salt to his wound, and told him that the salt was from me. You preyed on his anger and his frustration. And you began to believe the lies you shared. You told my secrets, the darkest stories that later I had to act incredulous about. I lied. I told them you were trying to steal him away so you made up stories. And I was so ashamed, that the stories were real, that I had trusted you.

And now you are happy, married, and I'm assuming he is happy, and married. And I look back on that day that changed our friendships. I was a terrible person, controlling and impatient, but you loved him and yourself more than you loved me. You pounced on my imperfections and capitlized on them for your gain. I don't think you intended to, not at first. But once you started, it became easier. I believe you truly were listening to my secrets and cried with me when I told you, not maliciously storing the information for your gain, but when the opportunity presented itself, I had given you all of the ammunition you needed.

I loved him. For years we danced through loving each other at opposite moments, for years it went on. And you pounced. I will write to him as well, and I will forgive him, because I know he just couldn't handle the pain anymore and for that I do not blame him. But I blame you. And no, I don't think we should get together someday soon. I will not fake a smile for you. Congratulations on your marriage. I hope you will ride away into the sunset together. So far away that I never see you again.

Sincerely,

Me.

Dear Boy that I loved,

I never knew if we were meant to be or not. It seemed that we were. We each lived through watching other people take our time and love, but when we loved each other, the times never seemed to coincide. Until one day they did, but then a half of a breath later, you chose her, over me, because I think we both knew we would just hurt each other again, but with her...there was always that chance. I am sorry that I was so oblivious. I am sorry I played those games. I'm sorry I lost your friendship. You were my innocence. You were the real thing. And I took you for granted, searched the faces and hearts of others for the love that was always right in front of me.

But you hurt me too. And most of all, knowing that you are happy without me, and I am alone, that is what makes me so angry with you. And you believed all of those lies that Jackie told you. She gave you the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. To think you believed the worst of me. You, the one that really knew my heart. Well dear friend, I am sorry, and I say goodbye. You will always haunt my daydreams.

With regret,

Me

Femiphobia

A story that I am starting....tell me what you think! Or if you have a desire to where to story should go! I always need ideas.

To my friends, I am sorry. I beg your forgiveness for who I am. I have disappointed you, or scared you, or offended you until you've all slipped away. And for that I am grieved. I am sorry that your love was not unconditional. I'm sorry that your perfection could not play with my tainted spirit. Maybe I deserved you with your lack of patience, and understanding. Sowing what I was reaping, but still, I am sorry that you left, and despite my faults, I still love you.

Friends, lovers, neighbors, classmates, all the relationships that are meant to come and go; but do they have to go so quickly? I find myself, now thirty years old, unable to have hope in new relationships. I'm afraid that soon I'll be the cat lady, people finding me too eccentric to fit into their schedule. I am left with aching memories and an album of bitter snapshots.

I've heard from many women a familiar story of pain from the circling vultures called female friends. But can you be friends with a creature that preys on the death of others? Femiphobia, how ridiculous that we have to fear our own kind. But for me, I have a fear of all relationships, male or female. On the outside, when needed, I can be socially acceptable, gregariously outgoing, but inside the little girl shrinks in fear at the outstretched hand or welcoming hello. And God forbid the probing questions of how that little girl feels or her opinion on the world's events. I try to protect her with small talk and shallow bits and pieces of myself, but inevitably someone always tries to get too close, and I have to quickly excusing us, the big girl on the outside and the small girl crying on the inside, to the restroom, or to the other side of the room where there is another person I just remembered I need to speak with immediately.

This morning is like many other mornings. I have the day off and my list is a mile long of things to eat up my time, but I find myself lethargic and nostalgic. I see pictures from when I used to be the center of attention, the breath and life to the party, and I wonder how I fooled them all to ignore my faults back then. I make myself a cup of tea, a dash of milk, half a spoon of sugar and stare at my apartment. The tea burns my lips but is already in my mouth before I can stop it, and now my tongue is scalded as well. That is how I see my time with people. Warm and inviting, smelling of roses or mint, but once they get past my closed mouth they burn me from the inside.

The doorbell buzzes and I almost drop my cup. I glance in the mirror, hair pulled into a ponytail but still disheveled, no makeup. At least I had enough time to slip into some jeans and a sweater. Oh well, I open the door but the hall is empty. I look left, the smell of unidentifiable food and muffled television noise dancing around me, but all I can see is someone's coat and boots slipping out the front door. I look down, a package. I have the sharp childlike thrill of expectation and wonder at the brown box. I pick up the mystery, but when I see the return label, I remember the order I put in last week for some new books. And my Christmas moment is over. I close the door but the package reminds me I haven't gotten my mail in two days. The small mail box must be about to burst. I slip on some shoes, grab my keys and open the door to more smells, more daytime television. How can food smell so badly? I wonder if my neighbors really can't cook, or if its the hallway's fault for the offensive mixture of odor. I breathe through my mouth, creaking down the stairs until I get to the rows of garish gold boxes. My box is full, I assume with bills and other not very exciting surprises. I flip through the pile as I shuffle back upstairs. Bill, junk, bill, and oh, the unmistakable thick and expensive paper of an invitation. That's right, the season of weddings is approaching. I toss the pile on the counter and try to ignore the bulging envelope, pretty pink and pearl. Who is it this spring? The only thing more depressing are baby announcements. Wedding invitations usually just make me mad. People you haven't spoken to in years pay way too much money to kill way too many trees to make the perfect invitation for the people they know won't come. But hopefully, this expensive investment will at least reap for them a gift of cash, or at least the jealousy of all their former vultures. I mean friends. And if they are good enough friends or family to feel obligated to come, the pretty wrapping is thrown in the trash, the invitation stuck the refrigerator, partially covered with photos and grocery lists until the appropriate day it joins the rest of the expense in the trash. What a waste of money. Despite my cynicism, I know eventually I'll give in and tear through card stock and tissue paper.

In fact, I am already walking towards the counter and towards the sparkling paper. I am sick at myself and my morbid girl curiosity. I tear open the envelope, the pearl and pink's magical embossing reveals the name of a girl I knew from college. Which, by the way, I graduated from eight years ago. Two years longer than the last time I've seen her or heard her voice.

I start to throw the invitation in the trash when a pang of guilt overcomes me. What was I thinking, I should at least RSVP that I wouldn't be there. But if she thinks she's getting a gift, she's got another thing coming...I pick up a pen and the RSVP card, my hand wavering above the check box.

To be continued....

Battle Lines

The delicate balance of revolution and peace blurs more every day. We are taught our whole lives to love, to share, to live in tolerance, and always consider the opposite side of what seems so clear to us. Yet, we are also instructed to stand up to injustice, to declare our beliefs, to always hold that answer in our back pocket for the moment someone asks, why do you believe? Unfortunately it seems that too often the answer has been stuffed in that pocket for so long, so folded and creased, so worn on its edges, that when it is pulled out it is presented as deflated and flat. And like a wobbly Jenga game, we hope they don't see the piece that is ready to be pulled free, the gap in our armor.

However, there are those rare moments when indignation forces itself through the plastic training, a nerve has been awakened, a belief has been prodded, and then a whirlwind begins. We are unprepared for the confrontation that feels so inevitable. It would be easier to keep silent. Yet, the pressure keeps building, the hours of sleep get shorter, and wondering is constant.

This is the torture that has wound its grimy hands around my neck. What is the most important of all values? Friendship? Respect? Support to authority? Or justice and truth? I know above all else we should live in love. But I see so little love. The line of revolution and peace gets more blurry while the battle line becomes clearer. I see that line and wonder what next? Do we sharpen our plows to swords, or continue to plod on, sowing the seed, leaving a trail of growth, hoping as we sweat the day away that others will follow? Both require a breathtaking amount of sacrifice.

And then I return to love, and patience and being a living example, keeping fresh the answer for anyone who asks. No creases or soiled and unused answers. I continue to cry out for wisdom, and for strength, because the silent battle is the hardest to fight. It rages not only against the transgression, but also against myself and the desire to give up the fight, the fight of leading the way with love.

A Personal Revolution

Sometimes in my mind I go somewhere great. The verse of a well written song takes me away and my thoughts deceive me that this isn't my sofa that I'm sitting on, and the pile of dishes don't exist. The warm coffee sitting next to me excites my smell and raises my pulse with its caffeine,with a strangely calming familiarity. I feel creativity pushing against the normal boundaries, crying out for me to become extraordinary. But oh, what do I do next?

The idea of living out the change that is so desperately calling is so much easier to dream about than actually stepping outside my door. I wish I could pick up a trumpet and call the dissatisfied individuals to my front lawn. Maybe then we could encourage one another past the point of discussion and into the world of action.

Yet, the first battle to be won is against myself. I must find motivation, vision, conquer time management and the ability to silence the distracting din of those dirty dish moments.

The next hurdle is teaching, conversation, mentoring, and sharpening the iron in me against the iron of others. We forge a workable idea that is based in a deep relationship. But first comes the relationship, the time, the energy, the polite hellos and social gratuity that is required to bond deeply enough to begin to change the world. When we trust each other, when we've cried and shared and prayed and dreamed, talked and fought, and seen one another with bed head, a dirty house and in foul moods, then we can walk towards the ever elusive change. I'm exhausted already. And the dreamy lyrics have died away, the caffeine is crashing, and I don't know how to play the trumpet.

I want to be inspiring, but that can only be done with a family of revolutionaries to walk with me every day. This is what I long for in community. To give and to be given to, so that we can become all that God has planted deep inside of us. If eternity is written on our hearts, then why are we so fearful to live by them?