** After Divorce
After my divorce from my first husband, I went out and bought a few new things. A pair of black high heels, a pair of red high heels, the tiniest little black dress, new lingerie and lace, new running shoes, new yoga mat, and a laptop and digital camera to record my newest life.........my sneakers are never at rest for long! My yoga mat, usually rolled out on the floor of the three season room where I usually retreat to, right after my morning run, and before I begin my day of writing freelance articles, and the now fulltime job of blogging.
** Things About Me
I love the rain in summer, I hate the cold in winter, I dance naked when no one is home, I love music like it is my job, and oh, by the way, Adele, to me, is a god! I like vintage, and I like lace, flats and heels, chunky artful jewelry, and, yes, also all things sparkly with little gems attached to them, and those ‘little black dresses," well, they just call my name. I love books, and books love me. Authors have amassed small fortunes from my spending alone. I dream, I philosophize, I write, I breath, I run, I meditate, I sweat, I fear, I rationalize, I love, I romanticize, I miss, I ponder, I methodically organize my reasoning and thoughts, I think things through, and sometimes not, I love what I love, I hate what I hate, I am impulsive when it feels good, or when it doesn’t, but then afterwards feels lewdly incredible. I can carelessly pick myself up, and then land myself down, a gypsy by trade. I like subdued sexy, the feel of the sun on my skin, the music in my soul, and every brand new day that is conjured up to me. Born of Irish Catholic stoic decent, I have learned it takes letting your hair down in life to really live in purest abandonment. I write letters to myself, and on occasion, to someone else. Always send thank you notes, and no, not email ones, how rude. I attend a church, (not necessarily a Catholic one any longer, please, no one tell my Irish mother) thankful to 'some form of a God' for all of his and my private conversations and his answering of my prayers. I believe in him, he believes in me, my seat awaits me every Sunday. Antiques fill every idle corner of my living space, the old, the worn, the hidden character of yesterday. I adore them all, the dark wood, and the iron gates. My most appeal would have to be, the beauty I see in rocks, ther are most alluring to me. The colors, the granites, the shapes, and the boulders I have collected over the years. They sit in my garden, on my steps, in my house, on kitchen counters, dining room centerpieces. They are as small as the palm of my hand, and large enough to need a crane to hoist. Yes, my rocks are truly a statement of who I am. They carry for me, the "baggage" of my years!
How My Writing Began
I was sitting on a beach, when first struck by a flash of genius. Journal and pen in hand, scratching out raw pain, sadness, hope, joy, a plan, a path, an execution for that plan, guided by a seagull purging on lunch droppings, as he eyed me in puzzled stare. Legitimizing my hope that I might someday, actually, reach my destination, through the dark storm clouds which gathered like an angry mob, the clouds which reminded me of how long I had stayed in the weeds before being pelted by hail and delivered into a landscape that grew green and lush again, until it opened the door to a broad expanse of writing for me.
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Writing is what happened when I was trying to escape from something else, taking me far away from any point in my life, transporting me into a farthest place than where I started. Every road that led me to detour, a dead end, (and in my life, turns out, there where a lot of those roads,) became compiled into a series of journal books. As opposed to the writer who sits steeped in stare, lost without words, I have endless dialogue, the story, my story, hasn't always been an easy one.
I run to taste my sweat, practice yoga to harness my breath, write so words stay still and silent, these are the benefits to being on the front lines of soul searching, as each pivotal point in my life finds its way to a tag line for a journal, a book, a story, a blog, an essay, a repetitive motion. Small steps have seemed to legitimize my journey, to a final peaceful destination. I have approached people I might never have approached before, some remain, some I've since let go of. There is a sweet awkwardness to the moment you find a parachute for your feelings, and then you take the leap. (that long, close your eyes tight leap, where you are hanging onto a bungy cord for dear live)
My next life, well, I am hoping it will be minus the bounce of a bungy cord, riddled with romance, conjecture, and a life properly fitting of a Queen or Matriarch.
What one can decipher from the nude canvas of my face, is beauty, sudden sadness, gratitude, pain, forbearance, solitude, destiny, awkwardness, calm, panic, love, loss, strength, weakness, emptiness, fulfillment, passion, empathy, discernment. What one can see are the aches of life worn on my sleeve, as my fingers run themselves along the rim of my coffee cup, thoughts glowing through the early darkness of dawn, poignant, sharp, and repetitive.
Turning the page, getting on with life, as my words pull together in paragraphs, strength narrates the darkest corners making them less intrusive, less harsh. Softness of the sun now breaking through on my doorstep, as New Year resolutions babble from my soul. Think I will head out the door,
running as if I am leaping for the moon.
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