Meandering towards the Center

I thought about wearing my uniform to the Halloween party at church this year.  I can feel the many buttons as I don the uniform - on the pants, maybe five; and on the shirt, another five or six, the many pockets.  I could feel tucking the pants into the boot, and lacing them to just the right tightness.  I could feel the hat pulled over my hair, and the curve of the bill over my eyes.  Shaded away.  My self layered down, a bit away from reality in a world…separated.  Joining the warriors.  We live in the shadows and know what to do when killing occurs.  We know how to kill.  We know how to save.  We know how to run, walk, high-crawl, low-crawl on our bellies through our worst fears.  We live isolated with slivers of connections in a look exchanged with another warrior.  No words, just the look, for we cannot tell another with words where we have truly been.  We simply say, “yes, I have been there, too.”  Many fear hell, but we don’t for we have been there, and a piece of it still exists inside the warrior’s mind.  I can slip so easily away.  I know if I wore that uniform to the party that I would be away from the well-lit social hall echoing with children’s laughter.  I would be elsewhere, low-crawling in the dark.  I clutch and grasp at the rest of the world at times trying to hold on to my own mind.  My own semblance of mental health ever fragile.  I hold on to the leaves changing, colorful cothes, a cup of coffee in a mug.  Here was not there in my war.  I can’t wear the uniform anymore.  It is not a costume, and if I go then I do not know if I will make it back.  I do not know if I will rejoin the laughter and joys of the social hall.  I joined as much as I could, with a thin veil held tight against the lights and laughter.  One step removed by playing a role so that I could be a part instead of apart.  Because I do not know if I could rejoin if I entered in my uniform.  It would be like, well, coming in with both guns blazing.  He entered and killed, just as warriors can.  He went into the other state of being, but he was not away - he was here among the way of here.  I know how that can happen.  I know the fragility, and seek to be here - to keep from away.  I will not button those buttons or tighten those laces around my heart again.  

I feel the separation like flesh tearing.  My blood pours out in her tears, and my heart skips beats.  How can one so extraordinary be so ordinary out there?  The pains of her life are tears, ripped flesh and dripping tears in my own.  Darling daughter, may the world comfort you more, love you more, and soothe your soul more than I’ve ever dreamed.  Blessed be.

crawl

Seems like I learned to run before I learned to crawl. I go very fast, faster than many others. But, I always seem to be trying to catch up with those same people. I am going to learn to crawl, and one day - walk.

I have lived my whole life as if everyone wants me in the other car.

What was I thinking?

Fort Myer is an installation bounded by Arlington National Cemetery and water (Potomac River). Standing atop Fort Myer, you are on an overlook and can see Washington DC monuments and memorials or Rosslyn. You can also gaze upon the Cemetery where today’s casualties and yesterday’s heroes rest. The warfighters of our nation. A short walk to the Pentagon, all of the Commander’s commanders live on Fort Myer - Gen Gates is there now among those that work for him. It is the highest profile installation in the US Army for ceremony. Stables of horses to serve honors, german shepherds to serve in the Military District of Washington, and the soldier’s finest. Men and women that excel are hand-picked by Commands to serve in The Old Guard at Fort Myer. I was there. I was honored to be there. I drove there wondering where exactly Fort Myer is. I wondered at the service of burying comrades in arms. I wondered what the security requirements were. They were tight. You drive to one place and then are forwarded to a bay. It’s a clean, drive-through bay where a soldier has you step out of your vehicle with your ID in hand. Open the doors, the hood, the trunk. The car undergoes an inspection, and then you can drive over the barricades that can rise at the pop of a button - cement with spikes on them. They come out of the ground to stop or slice a car as it approaches or is atop the barrier. Serious stuff. I approached the first stop slowly, and advised that I was there to see the Environmental Group. The sharp MP sent me to the next stop. I stepped away from the car. I then wondered if I should start a conversation - perhaps share that I’m an Army veteran. Perhaps thank this soldier for his service, his somber job, his expertise. I then thought maybe I should open the hood instead of just popping the hood. The soldier watched me as I neared the car and opened the hood. This is the part that indicates that I should never have been in the Army…seeing dry leaves caught between the hood and the windshield, I proceeded to handsweep them away. I grabbed them by the handful and put them on the ground. Yes, on that clean, spotless bay floor. I got one half finished before the soldier came around and looked at what I was doing. He cleared me in that moment, probably to stop me from doing the other side. I had decided better of it anyway having seen the momentary look of awe on the soldier’s face accompanied by the nonverbal question, “What the hell?” or “How could you!?” or just “Really?” My sincere apologies to the soldier that must now clean up after me in addition to cleaning up after our war. I decided not to share that I was in the Army, too. I did not want to further disappoint him by letting him know that I have a glimpse of his world, and could so easily forget it all. But, I did salute the riderless horse among the caisson that carried one of our fallen home shortly thereafter. Blessings upon them all, the living and dead soldiers that live in a world so foreign to and yetin the center of humanity.

The aftermath of a liver transplant gone wrong.

16 months ago, my partner donated her liver to her father.  The transplant went fine, but he died from complications related to pulmonary fibrosis.  She asked for some thoughts, so I’m writing them now.  What did I learn?

I learned to love through quiet witness rather than screaming devotion.

I learned to love through a gentle touch on the shoulder rather than cradling.

I watched my partner’s heart break, and saw cracks in my own from a shattered dream?  a botched plan?  

I saw my partner rise with grace from despair, holding a newfound knowledge.  I see glimpses of that knowledge and know the fullness of it.  But I don’t know what rests in the center.  I know only that it’s hers and that I’m a proud companion.  I see the heroism, and the weight of normalcy in the same moments.  

I didn’t see it coming, but felt the world shifting as it happened.  Gone were self-centered concerns from the moment of “yes.”  First grave concern for her, then him, as it should be for me.  But it never lifted - it just got heavier and finally broke.  Grief came rushing and consumed us more than any surgery, any day of confinement in the hospital, any part of it. 

Would I have said “no” if my knowledge ran deeper?  If my intuition screamed?  It wasn’t my decision to make, and I wouldn’t change it if I could.  I have wishes, but no regrets.  I know more of life.  I know more of love.  I know more of giving than I ever have before.  

Mostly, I was participant and witness to an exchange of love truly beyond the expression of words.  And my heart has held love differently ever since.

My life is integrating - present and past - in beautiful truths when I allow each to arrive.  I’ve lived in years of shame, guilt, pity and pains of judgements belong to others and more harmful self-judgement.  Reprieve came in strange places - the strongest when my partner and I worn out from arguing rested for a moment in the deep truths of who we truly are.  I remember the weight and freedom from the weight in those moments.  I wanted to stay in the peace, and was terrified of the vulnerability.  My partner waits for me to arrive in my self all of the time.  She knows I’m in there, and waits.  Sometimes with patience and tolerance, sometimes in utter frustration and anger.  I come to.  I come to me.  I come to my truths, slowly.  I turn and face my fears, my pains of the past, and look with new eyes.  Maybe, just maybe, all that has caused the shame, the guild, the pity and pains of judgement weren’t because of me.  Maybe.  Just maybe.

Truth floats from the inner self, through the muck of ego, to greet me just where I am.  It’s what I do with it that matters.  I’m tired of stomping on the truths as I did when my mother presented me with a crocheted dress that she’d made.  Stomp.  It wasn’t me, and I didn’t want to wear it.  Stomp.  Truth was in the stitches - the stitches held her dreams of a little girl in a dress.  She got me.  I wasn’t a little girl that liked dresses.  Stomp.

I’m going to allow the truths to rise a bit more today.  I will greet them with all that I can muster, and be just a bit more of who I am.  I come to me.  I’ve been waiting all along for these moments.  Right alongside my partner.

Am I qualified for the life I’m living?

Pets

I’ve always identified as a dog person until we got our first pet cat a few years ago now. It’s taken me these past few years to understand that I may now be a cat person. I guess the human rule is that you have to be one or the other. I’ve always run up to others to please, to lap their face if they let me, to reach with my face and my paws, to at least stay close by their side. I now realize how truly annoying that can be for a human being, and I haven’t even gotten to sniffing hind quarters. I’ve been hurt. I’ve done harm. I’ve had my wagging tale fall between my legs. I’ve sleeked away, but always, always still watching to see if there’s an opportunity to please. Somewhere in the room, there’s a sleeping dog waiting and wanting to join. I’m going to let it rest there. So, my family and I met Pixie the kitten and brought him home from the dairy farm of my partner’s ex-fiance. Obviously, there’s a story there but it is hers to tell. Pixie was not a nice kitten that loved immediately. I have only one memory of Pixie ever fulling letting himself stretch out on my chest and relax. I was too much like a dog, always reaching to pet Pixie when he didn’t want to be pet. He was stunningly beautiful. His tabby-ness was random and glorious in both color and line. I could feel a sense of peace just looking at Pixie, and I drew him once. That’s the first time I have spontaneously drawn since grade school. Pixie was an outdoor cat, and he met a tragic end. I don’t feel all cats should be indoor now. He had a beautiful life, though short, and was meant to be an outdoor cat. If it wasn’t supposed to be that way, it wouldn’t have been that way. My daughter having suffered the pain of losing an outside cat led the way to our family adopting two kittens and keeping them indoors. It seems a good compromise to the indoor-outdoor question. One is a social kitten who follows activity eagerly and unguardedly. Zenia is curious as a kitten, playful and silly. We love her so. The other is the one that is converting me to a cat person, and we love her just as much. Her name is Pickles. She is not seen as often in the room when human beings are there. She sleeks in and out, scurries at noises and likes to be under furniture in an observing mode. She defends her self by shying away. She likes to be pet behind the ears and along her chin. It has taken a while to know this, and I’ve had to change. I used to reach out and follow her to pet her. Noting that she ran quickly from me, I started to simply reach out. I’d hold my hand out for a long time to no avail. Every time she entered an area within four feet of me, I’d hold out my hand. To no avail. Finally, she approached me along the back of the couch. I reached up and pet her. She left. She did it again. She came back. See, I didn’t think she’d come back because it took a long time. I thought she didn’t like how I pet her. I believe today that it didn’t have anything to do with me. She needed that much time and space to come back. She’s on a different time zone than a dog, and she’s on a different time zone than a dog person. I’m between time zones. I don’t identify as either a cat person or a dog person. While I love the intimacy of constant companionship, I also enjoy the solitude and quiet of being alone. While I love physical contact, I also enjoy the slower approach. While I love being close, I also enjoy the space between. Mostly, while I like life on my terms, I’m learn and enjoy it even more when I can experience it from another perspective. I’ll keep on walking as a two legged critter, occasionally reaching out a hand but without so much clutch and grasp. Letting go of expectations is a life long process for me whether I’m a dog person, a cat person, or simply just a person.

I finally told the kids what I have needed to hear my entire life:  I am enough.  Just enough, no more, no less.  I’m not “too much” though some may find me so, and I’m not “missing something” though some may find me so. 

I believed everyone else was enough.  I thought that belief was all that I needed.  My wish for the world today is that everyone stops, stays in a place of self-acceptance, and then begins operating from there.  Perhaps, I’ll try that myself.