Friday, February 12, 2010
At the height of turmoil during the looming breakup, LoveBabz asked me a simple question (paraphrasing):
'Why do you answer the phone when the departed His Side calls?"
I didn't have a ready answer, and I felt disturbed about my inability to respond to such a simple query. I knew answering the phone would probably expose me to a pained and frustrated His Side. I knew he would compel me into my own frustration. I knew he would fluster me into wishing I hadn't answered the phone.
For a while, I dealt with this by writing about the war between my own hope and deep disappointment. Much of my analysis focused on my legitimate frustrations with His Side's flaws. More accurately, I was focused on the hurtful ways that his flaws manifested against me in very personal and destructive ways.
But I always answered that phone for one reason: I never spent a day pretending with His Side. And he never had to spend a single minute pretending in an effort to secure my approval.
He always accepted my darkest and most annoying flaws. And I loved him in spite of the decimating wars he fought with his demons. He was unwavering in his sincerity to fight for a love he credits with changing his life. And by all accounts from his family, his love for me represents the most faith and fire he's lived since digging from beneath truly harsh circumstances.
So I kept answering that phone. We eventually fumbled and stumbled into the friendship we share now. Satisfying. Gratifying. Transparent. Tight.
I'll openly admit that many demons fled his presence. That man knows how to fight a good fight, especially after grasping the truth that loved ones should not receive any blows during the battle.
I recognize him now... as the man I saw looming beneath the armor while fighting the wrong war. We're not back together, but we're still a dynamic duo. I know better than to interrupt his transformation with the stress of caring for a romance. And I stay true to myself not to interrupt my own journey. Timing is everything.
I answered that phone because no matter the hardship, it was always real. I enjoyed the luxury of being myself in all of my glorious wonder and broken glory. I have never felt more human, loved, accepted, and powerful in all my life.
I don't worry about our future. I don't stress over the "ifs" of becoming a couple in the future. In truth, it may nevah happen. None of it draws my attention because I must live this day before I can live the day named "tomorrow." And my "todays" are good because 90% of the time, I'm glad I answered the phone.
A special shot-out to LoveBabz for this thought-provoking post:
What Am I Doing, Seriously?
Photo lifted from: Freelancedom
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Oh how I longed for a tall crisp glass of milk today. As I tucked my Special K into the cabinet and slid the milk into the fridge, my touch lingered as memories of an old friend swept through my mind and dissipated. Glasses of comforting milk pepper my childhood experience as one of the few things that never dissapointed.
When returning from a tour of Europe at the age of 16, my mother purchased a gallon of milk each day for a week because I just couldn't get enough of it after stepping off the plane. In between gulps, I almost forgot about the searing blow that came after first landing in France:
"Can I have a glass of milk?"
"Milk? Goats milk. You are American, so you probably don't drink this."
"You mean milk from a GOAT? There's no. cows here?"
"Only goats milk."
::blank stare:: "No thank you."
Well, with age comes wisdom and decreased tolerance for the stuff we stuff into our young faces. For me, a few more years rolled in with a bag full of lactose intolerance. One glass of milk at night can mean an ugly trip to a dark place at about 3am.
But today. This day. This February 2, 2010... I just couldn't resist the call of the milk. It was like the call of the wild. Raw. And loud. And primal. And begging for a side of cookies.
So I had a glass. A tall glass.
And then I had another.
I resumed work and all felt right in the world.
Until that rumble hit.
My mind races: "Oh no. This isn't supposed to happen until 3am. It sounds like a 5th grade marching band in my belly. And they're all farting. And clanking their instruments. And belching. And..."
So I rush to the corporate facilities, launching wolf-bait rockets, wondering if somebody will hear... or wonder if I went home... or walk by and wonder why I ate the precious 5th graders with their marching aspirations.
I give myself the giggles, magnifying fears that somebody outside the door will call a mental-help facility to come pick-up the "suddenly crazy co-worker laughing like a loon in the bathroom."
I rise from the throne, put a gallon of Febreze Air Effects® into the air, and realize the relationship with milk is OVAH. Seriously. Never again.
What? You thought this was about me and His Side? I'll talk about that next time.