The Rugged Road of Love or The Post Valentine’s Day Massacre

Even if one has a special someone, the subject of valentine’s day is a highly pressurized one. I say this as an objective observer. For this was the first year in many that I actually had any sort of Valentine’s Day at all. For a long time I wore a mask of a woman who protested Valentine’s Day saying it was just propaganda by the floral, candy and greeting card companies. “It is for those poor slobs that think,  I better do something nice today or I am going to pay for it for the rest of the year.” I would proclaim. “I don’t have to worry about that in my relationship.”

At least this part was true. There was little point in stressing about something that was not going to happen. I was covering for a relationship with huge flaws, emotional neglect not being the least of them. I was not going to get what I needed from it and had given up trying. Well this year was different and perhaps has saved me from complete cynicism on the subject. No, I am not about to give further details on that, I do not kiss and tell. But I do smile when I think of it.

I recently heard someone describe what it was like to get glasses when you did not realize you needed them. I could see fine, or so I thought. Then someone gave me glasses. What had been obscured or reduced to blobs of color, took shape and were suddenly rich with depth and texture.  I can indeed see and now I cannot stop looking. The more I look, the more I see.

Relationships may very well be our biggest challenge as humans. It is never listed among what we need to survive, yet it should be; food, water, shelter & genuine human contact. We are tribal creatures after all and no one of us is truly an island. I believe it is that quest that is the underlying motivation for everything else we do. It is our search for approval, acceptance, connection . . . . love and how successful we feel that search was, is ultimately how we will define the success of our lives.

I am very fortunate to have friends who are intelligent, warm and wise. We seem to have weathered our own natural disasters coming through to the other side of the storm with our hearts enough in tact to heal and try again. For each other we post road signs as we travel down various paths. Paths will cross as paths often do. Like a trail of bread crumbs there are signs along the way; slow, stop, yield, do not enter, caution, dangerous curves, construction ahead, dead end, one way, detour and so on. Even when we cannot see. . .these signs glow in the dark.

The most important of these signs is the Welcome.  When we have successfully and safely navigated through a challenge, or a process, or a season . . . those that love us are waiting just beyond the Welcome sign. We give each other hugs, congratulation and of course there are balloons. To me no celebration is complete without balloons.

There is a friend among us traveling down a particularly difficult path right now. I would like to say that she should be through it already. However, we all move at our own pace and it is unfair to measure anyone with someone else’s yardstick. It is not that the path is hidden in darkness, it is that she has her eyes closed. She does this because she knows what lies beyond the Welcome sign.

Yes, we will all be there to embrace her upon her safe arrival. Nevertheless, this welcome sign marks the end of something very precious to her. She stumbles along, sometimes crawling; battered, bruised and bleeding. As painful as this is to watch, there is only so much we can do. So we continue to call to her and offer bells, horns and whistles to beckon her on. We illuminate the road signs, which she spots on occasion when she peeks through her fingers. When she has learned what this path is designed to teach her, she will find her way to the Welcome sign; where we are waiting with hugs, first aid and of course, balloons.

D-word 1: To Blog or Not Blog OR The Critic’s Chair

It is hard to sit down to do this and not think of Doogie Howser or Lisa Simpson. But a computer journal that everyone gets to read? A public journal is an oxymoron to me. Besides which I don’t ever think I will get over the word Blog sounding like something the cat coughed up. If it sounds like I am trying to come up with reasons not to do this. . . I am.

My English Professor would tell me to write because I have something to say. Well anyone who knows me would tell you I ALWAYS have something to say. But is that a reason to write? What do I have to say that hasn’t been said? This is when my writing teacher would tell me that no one would say it the way I do.  Ok. But who is going to care? This is the moment when all the critical voices in my head scramble to grab a seat in the critic’s chair.

The critic’s chair is an imaginary space in my head. When I picture it,  it is a combination between an opulent throne and the captain’s chair on a star ship. It is lavish, comfortable, very high-tech and a place from which everything about me can be controlled down to the cellular level. There is a constant battle of pushing and shoving between the negative voices in my head to jockey for this coveted position. Who are these voices? Oh probably very similar to the ones in your head. Class bullies, various ex lovers, disapproving teachers, certain family members not the least of which. . . my mother. You get the idea.

Don’t get me wrong the critic’s chair is important. It keeps me in check, keeps my ego tame and makes me go over things with a fine tooth comb. But I must be careful who I allow to sit there and when. For a long time that was something I did not understand. The voice that came from that station, did so with my permission. It has taken several years to put this notion into practice.

At times I like my mother in that chair. At a dinner parties or important social events she reminds me to stand up straight and smile. She reminds me which fork to use. But at times like these she is not the person for that seat. She says things like, “Oh Honey, what are you getting all wound up about? Who is really going to care one way or the other?” Good question Mom. Answer? I am. I am going to care.

I have realized not only am I capable of seizing control of that chair, it is important that I do so. When it comes to any sort of creative project, no one is harder on me than me.  So fine Mom, you can sit there on Sunday when we are having guests for dinner. But not now. I must admit I have found great joy in saying “Mother get up, you’re in my seat!”

So when I wake up in the middle of the night, as I have tonight and I cannot get back to sleep I begin to think of all the things I need to get done. Vacuuming? Perhaps I will keep that on the to do list till morning. Catch up on phone calls? Ummmmm no. There are of course several projects in various stages of completion that would be quiet activities to work on. Yet what do I keep hearing in the stillness of the wee hours? A euphemistic cat tucked way back in my psyche coughing up a hair ball, “Blog, Blog, Blog.”

I have a lot of writer friends, many of which have been encouraging me to BLOG. Why though? I have a journal. I have been journaling since I was 12. Maybe because I do have things to say and no one will say those things way I do. And because no one is reading my journals till after I am dead! And maybe because it is less about who is going to hear it and more about the courage to say it in the first place.

Wow I guess I did it! My first blog. This was far less painful or laborious than I had anticipated. But as is all too often the case, we spend far more time and energy finding excuses not to do something than the actual task would take. So tomorrow when I am distracted doing laundry and my mother sneaks into the critics chair to tell me I am folding the towels wrong. . . that will be fine. Because tonight the seat was all mine and it felt good.

After this, the seal is broken and the genie is out of the bottle. There are many more blogs to come I am sure.