It Is Good

It is good.
It is so challenging sometimes
that I think I want to scream
or cry out in fear
and lack of strength
but
it is good.

It is good.
Your eyes match mine and
at night when we are finally
alone
they soak me in
And I can trust you again.
I can trust myself with you again.
And it is good.

It is good.
When a little is crying
and I feel alone in your house
and like an ogre next to your
soft, kind children
with tears streaming down their cheeks,
It is good.

It is good.
It is a test of all my strong parts
and I realize in the darkness
of your bathroom
at two in the morning
that this fear I have of
running out of patience and strength
is completely irrational
because I am not the person
I once was,
anymore, but instead I am
exactly who I have always wanted
to become.
It is good.

It is good.
I never imagined I would be in this place
with you
and the littles,
but I am, and
it is good.

Making Peace

To my past self,

It is Sunday evening, May 11, 2014. The air is warm and the sun is spilling golden light all over this little corner of the city. There are fresh herbs growing on my back porch, and the man of my dreams left his handsome cologne scent all over my sheets last night and this morning. It has been a bit of a retreat weekend for the two of us, as he managed to sneak away from his three beautiful young children to take me out on a date for the first time in a month. We sat in a secluded booth at an Italian restaurant and giggled like high school kids the whole night.

            I know it seems so unbelievable to you right now, but life will be better. So very much better. There is a gnawing inside of you that keeps you up at night, keeps you aching for something more. You don’t have to try to squelch it. And you can stop trying to change that boy. He will always love you, and he will need you desperately, as he does now. But you don’t really need him, and there is something inside you that knows that. You are packing your whole life into one big shipping container and about to move over 800 miles and an entire time zone away from everything and everyone familiar. Even though there is some invisible force you can’t explain that drives you to move, to change, you half believe that at any moment you will crumble under the weight of it. Shrivel into a ball of fear and demons and pain. You doubt your own strength, though. All you’ve ever known is the you who has needed a man to feel complete. But rest assured, there will come a time when you realize your own inner anchor. You are scared to death of being alone, but I promise that when you learn to embrace yourself, you won’t be disappointed. You are strong enough. And you will prove it to yourself over and over in the years to come. You are starting a new chapter, and standing in the doorway to a new life. It will challenge you, and there will be tears. Oh so many tears. But today I am here to tell you that you will be okay. You will make mistakes. You will form friendships that will last you the rest of your life. And you will end relationships that seem to crush you from the inside out. But the one thing that remains is your own truth and love. Forgive yourself. Each day. And keep offering that forgiveness to others, because God knows we all deserve redemption.

            Your dreams will come true, dear one. Because you refuse to settle for anything less. And because you will find the only real source of contentment in yourself. 

Love,

Me

The Next Step

I'm not going to distract myself from the pain of heartbreak by running into the arms of someone else. Or by shamelessly flirting with strangers online so I feel better about myself. Or by lying to myself about why it didn't work out. Or by blaming anyone else for my own mistakes. Or by drinking enough alcohol to blur my vision and my feelings. Or by keeping someone on an emotional hook so that they could fill the empty places when I am sad. Or by eating my way to comfort. Or any of the other all-too-numerous ways that I have shamelessly avoided and distracted myself in the past.

I am not going to search for my own meaning and significance in someone else's words. Or someone else's heart. Because really, how many times have I done that, and then wound up with someone else's (well-meaning, perfectly lovely) version of me to live up to? A version that, however nice, just didn't fit me perfectly. A version I began to resent the other person for creating because I couldn't live up to it. A version I hated myself for because I couldn't live up to it.

All problems I could have avoided had I just turned inward instead. Had I just sat through the pain, and felt it.

So now I am.

I am going to sit with my pain. My grief. My demons. I will not ignore them anymore. I will not ask another to fight them for me.

I will not shy away from the solitude. From the loneliness. In my sweet, Christian bubble world, being without a partner, a soul mate, a husband, meant that God was still preparing me, still molding me, still teaching me some unknown lesson I needed before I could move on to the next stage of life. The loneliness, then, was a sign of my failure in faith. (Because if I could just learn the lessons I was supposed to, then God would reveal my husband to me.) Besides, I was taught that I should never let myself feel lonely because God was always there for me. If the whole world walked out on me, at least God was there.

If I felt lonely then, it was simply because I was rejecting God's comfort.

Yet, this idea just doesn't agree with me anymore. As a thirty-two year old divorcee living alone in a big city, my idea of God has evolved quite a bit over the years. As a result, I find myself questioning all of the pillars of faith I used to cling to so intensely growing up.

And years of heartache and relationship failures have brought me here. To this place.

Another heartbreak. Looking back, I see my own behaviors repeating themselves. My own twisted expectations and selfish desires have come back to haunt me, and (surprise!) resulted in another loss. Another person hurt.

And I am alone again.

Except this time, I won't push against the loneliness. I am sitting with it, each day, each hour, each achingly cold, painful minute. I am letting it wash over me. Like standing at the shore in January, openly and purposefully letting the icy salt water spill over my exposed skin. Not running away, but completely feeling the shock of it. Breathing through the intensity. Closing my eyes and experiencing every piercing needle.

Because maybe if I can face it, and face all the ugliness inside myself, then maybe I can figure out a way to love myself anyway.

I think it's the only way I'll ever learn to be whole.

"When we draw a line down the center of a page, we know who we are if we’re on the right side and who we are if we’re on the left side. But we don’t know who we are when we don’t put ourselves on either side. Then we just don’t know what to do. We just don’t know. We have no reference point, no hand to hold. At that point we can either freak out or settle in. Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening." -Pema Chodron

Dear Atlanta

Dear Atlanta,

Wikipedia tells me that you are nicknamed "city in a forest" and at 36%, your tree coverage is the most of any major US city. This makes me happy. Mostly because trees are the lungs of the earth and I love getting a blissful oxygen rain whenever I sit under them. Wikipedia also says you have the third-largest concentration of Fortune-500 companies in the country. This is pretty impressive, for sure. But I must admit, it's a bit intimidating for a small school teacher like me. I'm just hoping that somewhere in the midst of all your trees and Fortune-500 companies, you have a little place for me.

Yours Truly,
Leah

Waiting

The days pass with the kind of aching slowness that makes me doubt mankind's true understanding of Earth's rate of revolution in space.

Why does it feel like I am always waiting?

For the end of the work day. For Friday afternoon happy hour. For that phone call. For something to change. 

Do the changes happen deep inside me, on a scale so small and slowly moving that I cannot perceive them? I try so hard to change and grow and get better every day. I so try. But sometimes I swear it feels like my shoes and hands are glued to a treadmill and someone thought it would be funny to unplug it and watch me struggle.
....

I just want my heart to feel alive again.

The Night I Say Goodbye to You

I watch you walk away.
Your scent still lingers on my skin
And I linger in the parking lot,
feeling frail and tired from
all the trembling in my insides.

A sliver of moon hangs
low and red in the night sky,
a sharpened sickle, mischevious,
and slick with blood.

I look down
and wouldn't be surprised
to see a stream
flowing out from my own chest.

It happened so fast.

I don't feel the pain yet.
But I know it is on it's way.

For now I just sit and stare,
Amazed at both the love we share
and the damage done.

"Is this the end?" I ask the moon.
The tears (and better judgment)
behind my eyes scream
"Of course it is, you idiot!"

But the hope beating,
bleeding,
in my chest whispers,
"Wait and see."

The problem with memories

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer? ~Lord Byron

 

Recently, memories of my honeymoon have haunted me. I have been waking up in the middle of the night, wracking my brain to recall every detail of my few days in Hawai'i with my new husband. This honeymoon was ten years ago.

I have bits and pieces. Small details like the smell of my lotion, the color of the bedspread, the feel of the rental car. I can remember general events. Like how we went snorkeling one day, how we shopped in a street market another day, and toured a pineapple plantation on another. But the real details, the parts that I wish I could remember clearly, are the exact same parts that will forever remain foggy in my mind.

If you had asked me to recall these details just a year or so into our marriage, I would have smiled broadly and not hesitated to brag about our trip. How excited we both were. How the plane ride seemed to last an eternity, how John had done such an amazing job planning our activities and finding our condo. I would have painted you a picture of two blissful newlyweds, giddy with young love and oblivious to most of the world around us. (And it is at this very moment that I remember one tiny fragment of a memory. Goosebumps form on my arms as it hits me for the first time in years. There was a pool in the center of an open courtyard in our building. One afternoon we were coming back from a day of adventures around the island, laughing and hanging onto each other as only a happy couple can. We were poking fun at each other and John threatened to pick me up and throw me in the pool. I feigned a look of shock but then dared him to try, quickly darting away from his grasp. And although I was fast, he was faster, and he caught me quickly, laughed as he swept me off my feet, and proceeded to hurl both himself and me into the pool. We rose to the surface fully clothed and even more hysterical than we were before we jumped in.)

Yet, if you asked me to recall what I remembered from our honeymoon a year after our divorce, a much different picture would have emerged from my mind. The demise of our relationship and the bitter ending in the courtroom would have somehow leaked into my honeymoon memories, staining even the fondest of recollections. I would have told you about how I felt a sting of disappointment when all I really wanted to do was stay in bed with my new husband, but that all he wanted was to get out and adventure around the island. I would have told you how I hated the feeling of tension between us in even trying to order dinner out at a restaurant. Was I dressed well enough for him? Did I order the right food so he would feel I had appropriately impressed the waitress and the patrons sitting around us? I would have easily remembered the bitterness I felt when he was almost too embarassed to pull off the road for me to take pictures of the tropical countryside because he was worried about what other people would think. I would have told you that all the signs of our failure as husband and wife were all there, all along.

 

Or were they?

As I have been plagued by questions these last few nights, the wisdom of the daylight has brought me just one conclusion: that we only truly remember the moment we live in right now. Once this moment is gone from us, our perception of the past begins to shift and change as time passes, as our emotions ebb and flow, and as we allow others to impart their own bias on the memory.

I was convinced the other night that perhaps if I just made a phone call to my estranged ex-husband, I could ask him about his own perception of these memories that have been haunting me. Surely he could shed some light on what really happened. But no, this is not really a solution. Because just as I have shifted and changed in my own understanding of what happened to us and to our marriage, so has he.

So, in reality, asking the question, "What *really* happened?" (as if just one version of the truth exists, apart from either one of his or my experiences) is completely useless. The "truth" of the marriage, the "truth" of our divorce, and the "truth" behind why it ended lies not in me or him, but instead, somewhere in between. A place in the past that neither of us will ever be able to accurately conjure from our memories. And not through some fault of his or my own. But simply through the nature of time.

The idea that the experience of our marriage (from it's inception when I was just fourteen to it's demise almost twelve years later) lies safely dormant in the catacombs of the past is actually more healing to me than anything else. No one's interpretation or recollection or explanations (including my own) can ever truly affect it. It is in the past. Tucked away. Perfectly preserved. Truth and all. What matters now is... well, now. This moment.

And this moment, I am strong. I am happy. And I am grateful. For my past, for my experiences, and for my ever-changing memories.

On having a big heart

The tendency is to hold back. To conserve. As if the love inside is limited in supply. As if one day I'll wake up and find my heart emptied of all it's love, without warning.

But it's really not like that. My love is an ever-renewing resource.

Moving to Memphis has shown me that. When I first moved here I was broken and tired. Scared that I wouldn't have the momentum I needed (or the motivation) to reach out to another new group of friends. I left behind some amazing people in Wilmington. People in whom I had invested. I could call them at three in the morning and they would know just what to say to rescue me from whatever emotional sand trap I had found myself in. People who had watched me and encouraged me to transform from a depressed divorcee who was recovering from a twelve-year relationship in which she had never really asked herself what *she* wanted, to a spunky, adventurous and independent woman who knew exactly what she wanted for herself.

That doesn't come around every day, I would tell myself. People who love you like that? Those are few and far between. Right?

So upon my arrival in Memphis, my motto was to tread lightly. "You probably won't find anyone as good as you already had," I told myself. Because who is *really* that lucky? To have *that* many amazing people in their life? Not possible. "Besides," I told myself, "You need to save your love for the really important people you haven't met yet."

But as I got settled in my little pink apartment on the third floor, I couldn't keep my heart buried. I knew I wanted another strong woman to connect with. I knew I *needed* another strong woman to connect with. So, I imagined her. I closed my eyes and pictured her. She would be a lot like me, and she would be able to know my heart because hers was just like mine.

Maybe her name was Lindsey. (The name my parents almost gave me when I was born.) That sounded like a good name.

I wondered how many Lindseys there were in Memphis. (My Facebook search yielded several thousand.)

And then I found her. She was smiling in her profile picture, and I saw something familiar in her eyes. So I messaged her. And the rest is history.

The whole story of Lindsey and I is really a testament to having an open heart. Lindsey, along with several of the other beautiful, strong women I've met here in Memphis have all taught me that. In fact, I wouldn't have this absolutely amazing network of friends that I do have if I hadn't opened up my heart and loved on some strangers long enough to make them my friends!

Keep opening up your heart. It will absolutely surprise you with it's capacity to reach out and love others.

My heart has been broken. Numerous times. I went through a painful divorce that I was pretty sure had shattered my heart into a thousand pieces. I lost friends over it, and then lost other friends over various disappointing circumstances later. I have started over more times than I care to admit. Each time, my heart feels raw and vulnerable and completely disoriented. And don't get me wrong. There is definitely value in isolating yourself for a time while you heal and to get your feet back underneath you. But I have found that my heart never completely recovers until I swallow my fear and step back out into the world to love again. It feels so counter-intuitive in the beginning. It feels like it's never going to work. All this putting-yourself-out-there isn't going to amount anything.

But then something magical happens. You start to love. And it feels good. And you start to realize it matters less about how much others return your love, and more about letting your own heart gush all over everything and everyone around you.

Having a big heart is a beautiful thing.

Anger

No, I will not send you naked pictures of myself. You may be newly single and bored, but I'm sorry. I won't do it.

No, I don't want to meet you for cupcakes in the middle of the day so your fiance won't suspect anything. And no, I'm not going to wait around for you to finally work up the nerve to tell her you're not happy in your relationship.

No, I don't want to listen to you brag about your asshole tendencies.

No, I am not impressed by your fan club. And unless you are actually *doing* something worthwhile with your life, I don't want to sit and chat about all the amazing reasons why you *could* but just aren't quite there yet.

We all have flaws. I know this. I will be the first to admit mine. I lost my first marriage because of them.

But sometimes, life is about growing up. And learning lessons. Lessons like how not to use others simply because you're lonely or bored or horny. Or how you really need to be emotionally available in your heart to make the next relationship work. Or how being mad at the world doesn't help anyone at all, and that self-destructive behavior is completely selfish and unproductive. Or how talking about things is useless if you never actually get out and do them.

Grrr...

Getting Off Track

This sappy self-help book I’m reading called Mars and Venus Starting Over (yes, I’m lame and reading sappy self-help books) makes the argument that as long as you have unresolved issues in your heart over a past breakup, you will continue to attract the same kind of mate. The kind that is not right for you. You will continue to force yourself to replay the same situations over and over, albeit with different people, until you finally face the underlying problem inside your own heart. 

So, here I am. Just having recognized the problem inside my own heart, I said goodbye to yet another man who wasn’t right for me. Because I refuse to keep playing out the same mistakes again and again. Call me a heartbreaker. Or a pessimistic fool. Or a selfish bitch. (Of which I’ve been called all three at one time or another.) I have been walking in circles around a track, holding onto the same worn out patterns of behavior, unwilling to look myself in a mirror.

(On a side note, I suddenly understand why people often hold onto things that aren’t necessarily good for them. Because in the very least, they are familiar. The track, regardless of how small and dirty it is, is also the most safe path to take. Because you always know where it leads. Getting off that track may seem exciting at first, because of the countless possibilities that exist outside of it, but ultimately, fear creeps in. Too many options are terrifying. Standing out in the open, arms empty, with no idea where to go next, and suddenly the idea of that old familiar track doesn’t seem so bad.)

The funny thing is, when I finally started looking at myself in a mirror, I wasn’t as disappointed as I thought I would be. In fact, with each passing day, I was more and more proud of the woman standing in front of me. I was learning to be kind to her. To forgive her for each time she'd get back on that old, worn out track. As much as I knew how much of a mistake it was for her to get back on, I also knew that she needed that time to gather her strength a bit more. And she needed to keep loving. Even if it was a man who wasn’t right for her, she needed to keep loving him. To remember what loving feels like. To remember why we love others. To let her heart get bigger and stronger. And, in a weird way, I think that man needed her a while longer for the very same reasons.  

An even funnier thing is that my worst fear, of standing off the track, isn't nearly as scary as I thought it would be. I'm not really ready to take off running in a particular direction, but for the first time in a long time, I'm happy to be standing here, in my own skin, and proud of it.

For now, standing here, off track, is the best place for me to be.  

I *heart* hot peppers

I love pepperoncini peppers. They are spicy and bite me back when I chew them. I love them because they wake up my tastebuds and smack me in the mouth and make my upper lip sweat and still keep me coming back for more.

Something about them makes my heart perk up. A familiar sentiment.
Sometimes this is what I want in love.
Except for the "smack me in the mouth" part, obviously. :)

Challenge me, boy-I-haven't-met-yet. Make me think. Shake me up inside and make me wonder. Make me sweat and keep me coming back for more. Because I will challenge you, if you let me. I will make you wonder. To see stars and rocks and water and trees and cupcakes like you've never seen them before.

Change my mind. Open my eyes. Teach me something new. And flip the switch in my brain that sends butterflies careening down to the bottom of my belly.

In the meantime, I'll keep munching on these little peppers. And think of you.

Tricks We Play

It is 7:52pm on a Monday night. A deep darkness fills the night sky. I have turned on all the lights in my apartment. It is a trick I try to play on myself from time to time, in an effort to lift the weight of winter from my mind. My kitchen smells of leftover jambalaya just warmed in the microwave. The inside of the microwave is clean. I marvel at this for a moment, and realize it is probably yet another trick I play. A clean microwave means a clean kitchen, right? The sink full of dirty dishes behind me would surely growl in disagreement if it could. I curl up on the end of my couch with my laptop and realize I am still wearing my workout clothes. Tonight is full of trickery, I conclude. Another one of my favorites: changing into my workout clothes after school, yet never going to the gym. After standing in front of the full length mirror earlier, I had decided that I am not yet horribly jiggly enough to require any kind of crazy work out regime. (Read: any kind of work out regime. At all.) My tolerance threshold for flab hasn’t quite yet been breached, apparently. For now, my workout clothes trick works. I settle comfortably in front of my laptop and eat my bowl of jambalaya. Slightly bothered by the way my stomach bulges underneath my sweatshirt, but not bothered enough to let it move me from the couch. Sigh...

A quote I read earlier today floats through my mind. “The future is completely open, and we are writing it moment to moment.”

How long will I trick myself out of this present moment?

My stronger self reminds me. This morning, driving to work in your “monster Monday” mood, you had no clue that several great things would ever happen to you today. In fact, this morning you climbed the stairs to your classroom with a bit of gloom hanging over you, grateful simply to be clinging to your mug of slightly bitter, mulled apple cider. Yet today brought you sweetness after all. You weren’t even asking for it. You were encouraged in your teaching by a supervisor. (Your lesson made “her heart pitter!”) You were inspired to start a blog on teaching. You were touched by two students who came to you, all flushed and bursting with excitement, with a wonderful science question. “Miss K! We found a rock! We don’t know what kind it is, though. We thought it may have been pumice because it has little holes in it but we put it in water and it didn’t float so we know its not pumice. But what could it be? It looks so cool!” You were so happy to see their eyes all wide and curious that it broke your heart and made you laugh out loud all at the same time, especially since you had to tell them that they had uncovered not a rock but a tiny piece of concrete. Today was beautiful, indeed. Yet this morning, you had no way of ever knowing this, and no motivation to even be hopeful for it.

If I can’t even imagine or anticipate a Monday being so sweet and wonderful, then how horrible am I at envisioning my infinite future being bright and hopeful and happy? Am I letting the tricks I play (to get through this moment so I can hurry up and get to the next one) determine my outlook on the future?

Dear future,

I love you. I trust you are beautiful. I embrace you. In this moment. And all the moments I will write tomorrow. I am going to try hard to keep embracing you, and all the hope and love and possibility you represent, instead of the little tricks I usually hold onto tightly. Thank you for being patient with me.

Love, Leah

Greater expectations

My little dream of a happy life has always been to find my soul mate, get married (and *stay* married), have a few kids, and grow old with my husband. This has always been my biggest hope and dream. For the most part, the rest of my life has been all about waiting for the aforementioned one to really begin.

But the problem with my expectation of a happy life is that it leaves me feeling lost and sad and incomplete, since in my current situation, I am single, childless, and alone. Disappointment is a familiar friend. And fear creeps in when I start thinking, "What if I never have this dream of mine? What if I don't ever meet my perfect mate? What if I never have children of my own?" 

Or ... *LIGHT BULB MOMENT*... Is it that if I never met him, never had those children, then I could somehow rest assured that the alternate reality of my future would be equally fulfilling because... I made it that way?

Hmm... Perhaps I have more control over my own future than I ever realized. A powerful thought. I can choose to be disappointed. Or I can choose to find fulfillment in the present moment, as well as whatever future I find myself occupying. I know this, somewhere deep inside me, but to be THAT strong? THAT content? Do I have it in me? Do I *want* it in me? (Why do I feel like I push against a hardwired baseline of discontentment? Where the hell does that come from?!)

I am sitting in a box. It is one of those big refrigerator boxes like my brother and I used to play in as kids. Except now it is sealed shut. With me inside. I haven't minded the darkness. Or the close quarters. Until now. I found a little crack in the corner, and a little beam of light cuts through me like a knife. Pressing my face to the cardboard, I peek through the crack. THERE IS MORE OUT THERE?! My whole world suddenly becomes very, very small. For a long time I just sit and let the reality of my discovery sink in. Then I start to feel cramped and uncomfortable inside, yet mortified of what lies outside my safe little cardboard world.

Today I am sticking my head out of a hole I've cut in the top of my box. Just looking around, content to feast my eyes on all there is to see, and determined to be gentle with myself. I may not be out of my box, but that's okay. Where I am, in this moment, is okay.

I am okay.

Side note: I am a control freak. And a planner. I know this for certain now. It is one reason why my cardboard box is so small. I made it, and I control it, and it makes me happier when I feel in control. I ask myself "Could I be THAT strong?" without realizing that it actually may require more strength to try to control and plan everything that I do on a daily basis. It may be easier, and require less strength, to simply LET GO. And it amazes me that I can turn something so simple as "letting go" into some gargantuanly difficult task that I have to "be stronger" in order to do. 

Sigh. :)

So what?

Strangely, in a completely unrelated conversation with a friend today, I found myself asking "So what?" in response to a stranger's ranting about education. I was immediately struck by the impact of those two little words, and on my commute home while sitting in five o'clock traffic on the interstate, decided to try them out on myself.
You see, my usual mental repertoire in the car often goes a lot like this: "(Pulling out of the parking lot) School was great today. I'm tired. I have so much to do when I get home. (Sitting on the entrance ramp to the interstate) I don't do enough while I'm at school. I should be more efficient with my planning periods. (Finally merging onto I-40) One reason school is so wonderful is because it's the one part of my day where I don't give my brain (much) room to obsess about... him. My hometown ex-boyfriend. What is he doing today? I want to talk to him. But that's not what I SHOULD do. I should just stop hurting him by being in his life. I have hurt him so much already. Broken his heart so many times I've lost count. But he's doing so good these days. I'm so proud of him. But how can I keep being supportive of him if I don't see spending the rest of my life with him? I really don't see the rest of my life with him? Am I sure? For god sake, Leah, you are such a mess." By this point I've pulled into the parking lot of my apartment, and can usually be found pitifully bawling my eyes out in the front seat, car still running.

It's what my afternoons usually look like. Yet today, the words, "So what?" kept tumbling around inside my head.

So I loved a man. Loved him but didn't fall in love with him. Is that so horrible an offense? Does that really deserve such a bitter, daily ritual of self-loathing? I put my heart out there. I gave everything I had. So you loved him, Leah. So what? There are so many more worse and more hurtful things you could have done. Hell, you did more than just love him. You inspired him. You challenged him. You helped him be a better man. So you loved him. So it ended.

So what??

("Let it go," my soul whispers back for the millionth time.)

The freedom in these words catches me by surprise. With the sudden lightness in my chest comes a cool, sweeping calm. I want to hold onto this little bit of peace for as long as I can, and I beg my battered heart to let me remember every moment while it lasts.

The Rest of My (Mis)Adventures, abridged

So, I actually started this entry like two weeks ago. But life, as it tends to do, has gotten in the way and I haven't had time to finish it until now. Oh well. Rewind to the weekend of October 1st.

I have had a simply beautiful weekend. Friday night the girls came over for dinner. I made spaghetti with meat sauce, veggies, and salad. We sat together, laughed together, and smooshed together on my little couch to watch a movie together. I don't remember feeling that giddy in a long time. I'm pretty sure I crawled into my pink bed and fell asleep smiling from ear to ear. On Saturday I soaked up the delicious fall breeze on my back porch with a cup of coffee and a cupcake, then went to a housewarming party. There was a bonfire, a clear, starry night sky, and my best friend huddled next to me. Today I should be feeling good. But instead, I am reminded of my loneliness. My original intent was to publish each of my "Internet Dating (Mis)Adventures" as separate stories, filled with lots of funny details and self-deprecating humor. It was even suggested to me that I write a book of all my hilarious experiences. But as time has gone on, its become more and more difficult for me to find the humor in them. Perhaps I've mulled over them too much at this point... I don't know. But now feel a bit burdened and embarrassed by them. They feel more like a list of my failures, really. My disappointments. And now I just want to be done with them. So, I'm posting them here, in a little purging ceremony of my own creation. The last of my internet dating (mis)adventures. Abridged for your sake.

Glover, the needy, almost-gay vet tech with no car. Claimed he "didn't have any condoms" shortly after I made the mistake of making out with him on the bed in his tiny, one room garage-turned-apartment. (To which I promptly responded that I "didn't have any time to stay.") The bed which was the bottom in a bunk bed set. The top bunk belonged to his four year old daughter. The Sesame Street sheets were the last straw. Lesson learned: When a guy says his car is "in the shop" and needs a ride to the date, what he really means is "I'm a pushover and a huge waste of your time."

Hank, the sexy, incredibly handsome fireman who took me out on Halloween night, got us both back safely to my place after a drunken but incredibly fun night out, and surprisingly didn't even try any moves on me in bed. Took me out a few more times, swept me off my feet, and was a real gentleman. Thoughtful, sensitive, intelligent. I could have fallen head over heels in love with this guy. Yet he dropped me like a bad habit three weeks later in favor of his psycho ex-girlfriend. The one he swore he could never go back to, but who was obviously more familiar, and more safe to him, than me. Yeah... that one stung. Bad. Lesson learned: Karma is a bitch.

Logan, the ex-marine gym manager with PTSD and night terrors, who had an amazing body and didn't mind being a fuck buddy, but who also drank all the liquor at my place (including an entire bottle of $65 champagne) on New Year's Eve and became so drunk and belligerent that at one point had his hands around my neck. I kicked him out of my apartment and called the police shortly afterward when he remained outside my door, shirtless, screaming at me. Lesson learned: the terms "marine," "manager," and "New Year's toast" unfortunately now make me shudder a little with fear.

Sam, the fast-talking ex-frat boy with braces, in school to be an orthodontist, who was just now getting his life together at 30 years old, but who still enjoyed partying with the barely legal sorority girls when he wasn't cramming for his MCAT. On our first date together he actually spoke in text-language. He literally said "BRB" right before he got up to go to the bathroom, and said "OMG" and "LOL" the way a 13-year-old would in a conversation at the mall. Lesson learned: I teach middle schoolers. I don't want to date them.

One day

One day I will laugh at your jokes. The deep kind of laughter
that bubbles up from my toes and makes my eyes water.
One day I will be impressed. By how you fold your t-shirts
and how you made it through the loneliest time of your life.
You are as stable as an oak tree.
One day I will sit under your branches and feel
safe enough to fall asleep and dream of our babies.
One day I will shiver at your slightest touch
and every day feel more beautiful in my own skin and yet
more challenged to become stronger, better, bolder,
just because of who you are.
One day I will know down in the marrow of my bones
that I am in love with you,
that fifty years from now when we're old and wrinkled and slow,
I am still in love with you.

One day my heart will be open, and I will be ready for you.

(Mis)Adventures of Internet Dating, Part 2

Internet dating is a lot like shopping at Wal-Mart. Eighteen different brands of fishing poles? Check. Thirty different kinds of Hamburger Helper? Check. One container of Italian Marscapone cheese? Good luck! Certainly if you're going for quantity over quality, then look no further than the billions of personal ads littering the World Wide Web. Just to illustrate my point, I've copied and pasted a few shining examples below for your viewing pleasure. I've also included some of my own commentary, in pink. Enjoy!

"I like all shapes sizes and colors of women.luv to have a good time,I'm very laid bck kool to be around.and very sweet funny and very ready ........" (Read: I'm just looking to get laid. Now.)

"I work out 5 days a week I love shopping ..and goings to the movies....very out going young very witty man...I'm different in my thinking processes..im a man of many characteristics good and bad but over all a decent young man" (Wait. He works out AND he loves shopping? Different thinking processes? Pretty sure this one is batting for both teams.)

"I like meeting people and having interesting conversations. I enjoy playing music, meditation, exercise, helping people and petting my cats. My taste in music varies widely, but as a general rule I'm not a huge fan of easily digestible pop." (Honestly, I couldn't get past the "petting my cats" part.)

"I am a Real guy, w/ a REAL job, a REAL car, and very soon a REAL place of my own...I love down to earth people who can conversate (what?) about anything and can find good/fun in any situation. I plan to own my own business very soon and looking to share my free time with someone looking for fun." (I literally laughed out loud at this one. He should have just come out and said, "looking to share my free time with someone other than my mom.")


"OK IMMA MAKE THIS SHORT AND SWEET LOLZ.. I WORK MY ASS OFF, LIVE ON MY OWN, I LOVE FOOTBALL, BBQ'S, TACO TRUCKS, TXTING, BEER, .... MANY OTHER THINGS ... BUT REMEMBER I SAID IMMA MAKE THIS SHORT AND SWEET LOL .. I LIKE A REAL WOMAN.. ONE THAT'S CARING,SWEET,CUTE, HAS CURVES, *NOTE* NOT INTO SKINNY CHICKS.. GOTTA HAVE MEAT ON UR BONES :). ANY ?'S JUST ASK.. AND PLS NO FAKES.." (This one has it all. Text speak, all caps, a mention of taco trucks, and the infamous "real woman/no fakes" reference. By "no fakes" does he mean he doesn't go for silicone breast implants? Or perhaps he means he wouldn't be attracted to a woman with a prosthetic limb? Or is he just against female robots?)

Alright, as much as I enjoy poking fun at complete strangers, I shall now move on to more of my personal internet dating mishaps. I should probably preface this next section with a bit of a disclaimer. After the first few dates (see Part 1), my view of internet dating started to evolve into a kind of desperate "surely more dates is better" mentality.  I was booking myself for an outing just about every night of the week. (How could I possibly be sad and depressed when I was so busy?) My expectations were changing rapidly, too. I began to broaden my idea of "good looking" to include the more all-encompassing "visually tolerable." My list of "must haves" was starting to resemble an ever shortening list of "as long as he's nots." My original hope of finding true love was morphing into a much more superficial desire for something fun to do on a weeknight. (Then again, perhaps I should have just gotten cable instead?) Well that, and my loneliness seemed to urge me, like a little devil sitting on my shoulder, to wholeheartedly pursue Mr. Right Now. I could almost hear the little horned bastard in my ear: "I don't see the right man anywhere, missy. However, I do see several fun-for-now-free-dinner-keep-you-warm-tonight-gone-tomorrow men lined up outside your door!" It was a sad state of affairs, really. I wouldn't exactly say I'm proud of this time in my life, but it has since proven its value, hindsight being 20/20 and all that. So now that you've been appropriately warned, let's get to the good stuff.


Enter Jason. Assistant basketball coach for a prominent professional team in the area, college graduate, and had even spent a few years teaching math at a private all-boys school. His resume was impressive, to say the least. In his pictures, he appeared tall, confident, and had an approachable, easy smile, with (get this) straight teeth. He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but I was hooked when I saw the nice smile in his online photographs. After a few emails sent back and forth (where he proved he had sufficient spelling ability), we decided to meet at Bonefish Grill for dinner. He was punctual and polite, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief that he was the same guy I remember seeing in his pictures. Although he was a bit more gangly than I had anticipated, (his long arms and mannerisms reminded me a bit of a marionette doll, for some reason) I shrugged it off when he waited for me to be seated before he sat down himself. A gentleman? This guy's got potential. Sixty seconds into the date, and I'm thinking, "What's his last name again? It better not be something weird or hard to spell." He sat down across from me, smiled, and we exchanged a few pleasantries before the waitress came over to take our orders. The small talk was appropriately balanced between him talking and me talking, but the more he spoke, the more I became fixated on his mouth. There was a funny, barely perceptible almost-whistle to his speech, and I realized within a few minutes that his jaw was set back more than I had noticed before, giving him an enormous overbite. That, and his top row of teeth (although straight) were downright massive. Damnit! This was going so well.

The waitress took our orders and the small talk continued, although a little more awkwardly now. I shifted the conversation in his direction, asking him questions about his experiences in the classroom, wanting to keep him talking so I could thoroughly analyze exactly how devastating this overbite was going to be for me tonight. In his defense, he hid it well, and had apparently learned at a young age to alter his speech in such a way as to downplay its severity. He was rambling on about coaching basketball at this point, and was telling a story of how he rescued one of his players from a crazy night of binge drinking the night before a big game. I remember thinking there was something I found familiar about his face, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was.

When our food arrived at the table, I was thoroughly on the fence with this guy. I had actually been considering giving him a chance. That is, until we started eating. Well, I should clarify. Until I started eating, and he started... gorging himself like a wild animal who hadn't eaten in months. Our entire conversation came to a complete halt when he picked up his fork. With both elbows up on the table, he instantly transformed into some sort of hungry, zombie caveman. He was actually trying to talk again, apparently undaunted by the mouthfuls of food he was tossing around underneath his giant overbite. I sat there for a moment, in shock, then looked around. Surely someone else was seeing this ridiculousness. Little bits of food were dropping like bombs out of his mouth onto the table. (And was that a spit bubble I just saw?) I suddenly imagined myself jumping up, ripping the tablecloth and plates and food off the table in one violent apelike move, beating my fists on my chest, then huddling over the mess and shoveling food into my mouth with my bare hands. Instead, I stared down blankly at my own forkful of pasta and giggled to myself, "I can't compete with this."

When the waitress returned later to take our plates (mine was practically untouched), I was mesmerized by the ring of crumbs and unidentifiable soggy bits of post-chew left on the tablecloth. My stomach turned. When he offered to pay for dinner, I didn't argue as much as I normally would, and then suddenly remembered why his face seemed so familiar. He reminded me of Mister Ed! You know, the talking horse. I wish I could tell you more of what he talked about that night, because he did a lot of talking. What I can tell you is that I remember hoping that the little green piece of spinach stuck in his front teeth (I had actually stared at it so long that I contemplated giving it a name) stayed there all night so he could go home, look in the mirror, smile, and then suddenly realize why I would never be calling him again. And as much as I appreciated his chivalry in paying for my dinner, I learned my third very valuable internet dating lesson that night: Free dinners always come at a price. Tonight's price? My appetite.

Why Fedoras are Awesome

(A Tribute to the Two Most Amazing Men in My Life)

1. My dad rocked a fedora in the 70's.
2. My dad is my hero.
3. My brother presently rocks a fedora (and a kickass mustache).
4. My brother is the coolest guy I know.
5. My dad and my brother are, and will forever be, my favorite men in the whole world. They have shown me what unconditional love looks like, and will forever be two shining examples of truly great men. They have taught me many things, including how to laugh (and how to make others laugh), and how to never compromise one's own originality. They never cease to amaze me with their talents and abilities. (Even though I never really learned to rock and roll, or surf, or play sports, or shoot guns, they have loved me and put up with me anyway!)

A Short List of Other Reasons Why Fedoras are Awesome:
1. The word fedora first appeared as the title of a play in 1882. The heroine, Princess Fedora, donned a hat similar to what is now known as a fedora hat. The fedora became a female fashion that lasted into the early part of the 20th century, and then eventually became a male fashion later.
2. Humphrey Bogart... Casablanca.
3. Dick Tracy
4. Freddy Krueger
5. Michael Jackson
6. The Blues Brothers
7. INDIANA JONES

Need I say more??

(Mis)Adventures of Internet Dating, Part 1

"One in five relationships start online." That's the part they tell you on Match.com's website. What they don't tell you is the one relationship they are referring to is more than likely short-lived and good for only one thing (okay, maybe two, but I'll get to that later): giving friends and coworkers a hearty, doubled-over, laugh-so-hard-they-cry source of entertainment. If you didn't have anything to talk about over the office lunch break before, sign yourself up for some internet dating, and Bingo! You'll suddenly be the talk of the lunch table. (Just like when you were in high school, except this time you don't mind that they are laughing at you.)

I've been told countless times that I should write a book about my various internet dating disasters, but since I'm not quite confident enough or motivated enough for the book thing, I thought this blog would be a sufficient substitute. A little light-hearted, self-depricating humor seems appropriate at this point, too, especially after the gravity of my first post. So, here goes.

It all started about two months after I first moved to Memphis. It didn't take me long to realize that working in an environment populated by 99.8% women for 40+ hours a week, followed by spending the remainder of my hours alone in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with my dog, was not exactly conducive to meeting men. I had just broken up (again) with my hometown love, and was in desperate need of... some distraction. So internet dating seemed like a completely sensible, innocuous option. I could pick from thousands of local singles, and talk to only those I was truly interested in,  all from the comfort of my living room couch. Besides, it would give me something else to do on weekends besides eating my weight in cupcakes and watching all three seasons of Veronica Mars on Netflix.

My first encounter was with a guy I'll call Peter. At first glance, his profile was impressive. He was intelligent, well-spoken, and educated. An archaeologist, in fact. He had a very academic look about him, and even sported a sharp looking fedora in his pictures. I was immediately reminded of my childhood crush on Indiana Jones, and contacted him about grabbing a beer together sometime. That week we met at a bar across from U of M, and I learned my first valuable internet dating lesson: Always ask for additional pictures. In real life, Peter was indeed intelligent and well-spoken. However, he wore the fedora in every picture to hide his male pattern baldness, and hadn't smiled openly in any of this pictures because of his horribly (and I mean HORRIBLY) crooked teeth. As if that wasn't bad enough, he spent almost the entire date talking about the values of a communist society, and within two days was blowing up my phone and Facebook asking if I could come save him from killing himself. Yes, I said killing himself. Turns out he was still devastated by a recent breakup and would drink himself into oblivion, then talk about hurting himself to end his heartache. And so ended my interactions with Peter.

Next up was Mike. Again, much like Peter, his profile was well-written and intelligent. He had a graduate degree, glasses, and seemed well-adjusted and up on current events. (Can you tell I was going for the bookish, intellectual type?) I was most impressed with him because of his creative date idea. He had invited me to a costumed swing dance party a few weekends before Halloween. It was to be hosted at the University and would be complete with a live Big Band era musical group. Having done a little swing dancing in high school, I was immediately intrigued. Luckily I didn't have to wear a costume, but Mike warned me ahead of time that he would be donning one, although strangely he wouldn't tell me what it was.

That night, I arrive at the Student Center and stand awkwardly in a roomful of costumed strangers for a few moments, hoping for one of them to come toward me and introduce himself as Mike. I scan the room anxiously. There is a vampire with a beer-belly over there (I decide in that moment that I will run out of this party straightaway if that turns out to be my date), an aging, zoot suit mobster with flaming red hair across the way, and over there a homeless man eating hors d'oeuvres... No, that's not a costume. I'm pretty sure that's a genuinely homeless man enjoying the food and central air conditioning. Finally, a man in a giant Daffy Duck costume waddles over to me, sticks out his hand, and says through a giant yellow bill, "Leah?"

This man is head to toe duck. One of those rental costumes that you're afraid to ask how many others have worn (and never washed) before. "Yes," I say hesitantly. "Glad you came! I'm Mike," he says loudly. I wait for a moment, expecting him to remove the gargantuan duck head before I speak again. There is an awkward pause. I am still staring at the duck face. He continues, "You look great! Are you ready to dance?" His voice is muffled by the duck head, and I can't even make out an outline of his face through the black mesh of the giant duck eyes. I suddenly picture a horrifically disfigured elephant man hiding underneath the duck costume, then picture myself screaming and begging him to put the duck head back on. All I manage to say is, "Yeah... did you say there was a refresher lesson first?" He answers, "Yep. How has your weekend been so far?"

I stand there dumbfounded. I feel beyond ridiculous talking to the giant duck head. Why isn't he taking that damned thing off already?? We must have talked for fifteen achingly long minutes before he finally took it off his head. Thankfully, when he did take it off, I didn't run screaming. Underneath he was just as he had appeared in his online photographs, except for being a bit sweaty... undoubtedly from voluntarily trapping himself in the thick, slightly dingy looking rental costume. He was not an unattractive man (but not particularly attractive, either), and he had a kind smile. Unfortunately he made me dance with him the whole night while he wore the giant duck head. And worse than that, he was a terrible dancer. He had no sense of rhythm whatsoever, and his giant yellow duck feet kept stepping on mine the entire time.

By the end of the party I was so tired of holding the giant fuzzy duck mittens covering his hands, and my neck ached from keeping my head slightly back so his giant yellow duck bill wouldn't hit me in the face. The few times we sat down to relax or grab a drink, he was horribly awkward and quiet. I'm pretty sure Daffy Duck himself would have had better social skills than this guy. Oh, and did I mention that he smelled like rotting cauliflower? I couldn't decide if it was actually his dripping sweat that made him smell that way, or the dripping sweat mixed with the stale, matted, and mildewy duck fur. If strike one was the duck head (and lack of social grace), and strike two was the horrible dancing skills, then strike three was definitely the BO. Overall, he was just not my type. Yes, I can appreciate an intellectual man. So long as this man is not so cerebral that he can't carry on a decent conversation. And so long as he doesn't smell like last week's produce accidentally left in the back seat of a car in the middle of July. Regardless, I had learned my second very valuable internet dating lesson: If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, it must be... a duck.

Stay tuned for more misadventures in Part 2... Coming soon!
 

Standstill

It is barely September. I am already mourning the loss of summer. All the sweet, salty, sandy memories of the sea, and of family, friends, and my last love haunt me at night. I sit in the dark silence of my apartment, alone, and try with all my might to hear the ocean waves tumbling rhythmically onshore. Instead, I hear the drone of Interstate 40 outside my window. In the daylight, I try to settle back into my life here in Memphis, and cling desperately to the little joys of teaching, to the furry energy of my puppies, and to the faces of new friends I barely know.

At this moment, there is a pressure behind my eyes, from tears years old, but tears I have cried a thousand times before. They feel hot as they sting my eyes, and I hate them already. I know them all too well. A familiar argument starts up again inside me. The one between my head and my heart. It has been so long now, this fighting, and both my head and my heart are bitter about the lack of resolution, yet neither has been able to compromise. Meanwhile, I am left tired. A growing sense of self-loathing won't leave me alone.

My head screams at my heart, for the millionth time, "But if you would just be IN LOVE with him, then we could be happy! You keep begging and pleading to be happy, but you can't embrace the man who loves you more than anyone on this earth??? We could be married with a beautiful family by now, the white picket fence... EVERYTHING YOU WANT!! All the pain and loneliness of searching would be over if you would just BE IN LOVE WITH HIM."

My heart, exhausted from the fight, whispers simply, "But I am not in love with him. I have tried. But I am not."

My head insists on presenting a litany of arguments to my heart at this point. Even though we have all heard these arguments a thousand times. "1)He is so in love with you. 2)He dreams of making cute little babies with you. 3)He would treat you like a princess for the rest of your life. 4)He is committed, and would be forever committed, to honoring you as his wife. 5)He wants to make you so happy. 6).... 7).... 8)...."

My heart and I sigh at this point. We are both so weary. It has been three years. The shame in this fact sobers my head for a moment, and I realize there is a gray cloud gripping my heart. What kind of damage have I done to myself over this time? Being stuck on this carousel, damning myself to make the same mistakes over and over again, has no doubt taken its toll.

Letting go of him terrifies me. I have tried numerous times. Each with various and obviously limited amounts of success. It seems that there is always a critical moment when I cannot continue. Not one more step forward can I take, and I go running back to him, to his familiarity, to his comforting embrace. I do not know how to operate without him in my life. It seems the love I have for him is painfully not enough to make me feel comfortable with the idea of "forever," but equally and painfully enough so that envisioning life without him is like ripping off a limb. This purgatory of in-betweenness is maddening.

Last Tuesday night, surrounded by a group of strong, supportive women, I stumbled upon a little bit of truth that blew through my soul like a cold, crisp winter breeze. It started with a little bag filled with stones.  "Ask a question. Anything you want. And pick a stone." So I did.

"What's going on with my love life?" I asked. The little stone that emerged from the bag had a single straight line carved into it. Isa. Meaning standstill, withdrawal, ice. Laughter escaped my mouth before I had the chance to think. "How very fitting," I heard myself say.

The explanation for Isa:

"The winter of the spiritual life is upon you. You may find yourself entangled in a situation to whose implications you are, in effect, blind. You may feel powerless to do anything except submit, surrender, even sacrifice some long-cherished desire. Be patient, for this is the period of gestation that precedes a rebirth. 

Positive accomplishment is unlikely now. There is a freeze on useful activity, all your plans are on hold. You may be experiencing an unaccustomed drain on your energy and wonder why: A chill wind is reaching you over the iceflows of old, outmoded habits.

Trying to hold on can result in shallowness of feeling, a sense of being out of touch with life. Seek to discover what it is you are holding onto that perpetuates this condition, and let go. Shed, release, cleanse away the old; doing so will bring on the thaw.

Usually Isa requires a sacrifice of the personal, the "I." At such a time, you cannot hope to rely on help or friendly support. And yet there is no reason for anxiety. Submit and be still, for what you are experiencing is not necessarily the result of your actions or habits, but rather arises from conditions about which you can do nothing. What has been full must empty, what has increased must decrease. This is the way of Heaven and Earth. To surrender is to display courage and wisdom.

And yet there is another face to Standstill. Just as winter is a time for going within, drawing Isa can announce a time of restoration and renewal at the deepest level. In your solitude, exercise caution and do not stubbornly persist in doing your will. Remain mindful that the seed of the new is present in the shell of the old, the seed of unrealized potential, the seed of the good. Trust your own process, and watch for signs of spring."

As I read the explanation, a strange sense of familiarity and relief spread over me, and tears poured down my face. My soul began to breathe again, it seemed. This little stone, Isa, has now become both my meditation, and my challenge. I want to walk forward into my winter, with a sense of calm, and "trust my own process." The hope of spring gives me a reason for the cold struggle, and helps me forgive myself for all the mistakes I make along the way. I must let go (my god how fear grips me in just having to type those words!) and cling to the notion that the best is truly yet to come.

As I stand in the doorway of my winter, holding tightly to my new found resolution, I am quickly reminded: Oh yeah, I am a control freak. Letting go comes about as easily and as naturally to me as playing softball does. (Picture an awkward, athletically-challenged preteen doing pirouettes in right field.) Indeed, this letting go is, and will continue to be, a daily struggle for me. Especially when with it comes the fear of so many things, namely (more) pain and heartache. Tonight's solace (because I can only handle things like this one day, one night, one hour, and sometimes only one moment, at a time): a quote by Paulo Coelho, which comforts a bit of the anxiety that bubbles in my heart.

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."