Sick

My homesickness is similar to the flank pain of renal failure.  Throbbing… walking through my back and abdomen when I’ve lain still just a moment too long.  I wonder if I would’ve grown up here if I’d be on the east coast feeling the same thing.  I love it out here and want to stay as long as it will have me, but I wish those that I loved were here too.  I missed McCai being born and that hurt.  I miss Zander calling me Yee-Hee and giving me goodnight hugs, kisses, and expressing his wishes for me to read him a book.  I even miss him tiring of my storytelling, shutting it promptly and asking his mommy to take over. 

I miss sleeping on a friend’s couch.  Not only because she carefully made the bed with borrowed sheets and a loaned pillow. But because she is no more than a room away and raises alarm when she hears me blow my nose in my distinctly violent way.

I miss driving home around dinnertime and stopping by a neighbor’s house to pee and raid their fridge.  I miss glasses of wine dipped in the familiarity of years.  I’m exhausted with the thought of “putting myself out there” like the possession of some Hollywood madam.  I want to sit solidly in the presence of love and know that its kiss is only inches from placement on my skin.

I don’t miss Hershey, or Pennsylvania. I miss my people. 

I miss

… understanding the vocabulary of a toddler I’ve known since before his birth

… Middleswarth barbecue chips and all the unhealthy wonderment

… longboarding on familiar roads that didn’t, in the least bit, resemble the death trap hills of now

… remembered breakfasts at The Pantry with a friend who is more like a mother

… a grey haired beast of a puppy who is more needy than any child I’ve ever known

… the accessibility of love

I love

… being so close to the natural world that I love

… the proximity of possibility

…  the possibility of tomorrow with my people of now

…  the sudden simplicity of my wardrobe

…  the passion which bubbles the surface of this city

… the views

… how I feel

… the intellect of Seattleites

… the conversation with coworkers in the tiny moments

… the crisp Seattle air that bites when I breathe

… being here

I want

… nothing more than to acknowledge the juxtaposition of emotions that have graced me with their presence.  I wouldn’t change where I am, or how I feel for a world of gold.

Sometimes the only cure for this sickness is being grateful that you have something to miss.   

Blog Pride Day

I'm coming out of the blog closet-- soon.  I've hidden this little puppy from everyone except Amy, Kim, and Barb for many reasons.   One, they don't judge me ... ever, at least not to my face.  :) Everything I write here is something I've already told them about over the phone, or in Kim's case g-chat.  I just need the catharsis of typing/writing it out. I'm choosing now because apart of hiding in the closet was because I was afraid of what people will think.  Will they judge me for my anger or my longing?  Will they think less of me?  They might and that's alright.

I'm moving in seven months, that's actually a nice amount of time, and people will want to know what I'm up to.  I'm going to get a prepaid cell phone for emergencies.  I'm not going to part the Red Sea trying to find a job.  I figure a monthly cell phone bill costs as much as Garvey's dog food from this wonderful establishment and if I have to choose a phone or my best friend, I'm gonna choose le pup.

Going through my old blogs wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. It wasn't hard at all. It didn't feel like anything.  I fixed a few glaring grammatical mishaps, deleted one sentence, and that's it.  I was proud of myself.  I didn't feel the need to hide anything from anyone.  When I started this blog with "I saw at sea a great fog bank between two ships that struck and sank..." my heart was crumbling.  I felt like life had ended and forgotten to take me with it, gosh was I pitiful.  I needed an anonymous outlet.  The profile information, the email address, the picture, all faux material.  But no more, I've been hiding in the closet because I was used to it; not sharing my story because it involved other people.  When I was going to group, it's been like a year since my last visit, one of the women whose husband's behavior had damaged her so severely she lost sight of her self and attempted suicide, told us she's not going to hide because "...it's her story to tell."  Those words rang out and resounded in me like a toddler with a musical triangle walking through a cave. My life is my story. I have never, nor will I ever post disparaging remarks about anyone.  That would defeat this blog's purpose.  I write to reflect.  I don't need to mow anyone over for my own self-actualization.

My Icebreaker baselayer pants are coming in the mail today. Yay!  I'll wait to go for a run until they arrive.  I think my trekking poles will also arrive so I may go to the rails to trails and do a test run.  Rasta's front paw is injured. She's not putting any weight on it so she'll probably have to stay here.  :(  She's so much fun. I think I like her more than I like Garvey. Uh-oh.  It's just apart of her charm.  I think Garvey loves her more than he loves me.  So we're even. She does resemble Buckeye (the SBA three- legged dog) as she runs. That is unfortunate.

While I'm waiting for my Fed-Ex boyfriend I'm going to sit in my down sleeping bag (I turned the heat off last night so I could test it out: A+++) finish some planning for MLK Jr. Day, take packing boxes to the basement, vacuum shards of tile from my carpet and take a shower, maybe. My apartment is freezing and being cold and wet are a combination of my two least favorite states of being.

All-in-all I'm feeling mighty fine.  :)

I am the umpire

I called it: They're engaged.

My friends all called me to make sure that I knew before I came blindly into work; I'm grateful for my friends.

I feel badly for her. I can't fathom surviving in a marriage such as theirs. But I don't have to, because I won't have one such as theirs.

I'll have my own someday. The thought of that makes me smile.

For now, I'm driving to Carlisle to talk about my Phoenix tattoo.

I'm grateful for every single thing that has happened in my life.