It's hard to log into Blogger and see all the wonderful pictures of families. Families celebrating Easter, children with eggs clasped in their excited hands.
Nobody tells you that, when getting divorced, you split everything into two and one of you will periodically be stuck with the short end of the stick. Holidays are better spent with family and when yours is split, holidays take on a different shade. Grey with streams of light that sneak through your bedroom window antagonizing your eyes.
"Maybe next year..."
You begin to lose your enthusiasm for the dates that come pre-marked on your calendar. You superimpose your own meaning on days where everybody else is busily trudging away through the daily tasks of life. This makes you creative. But not creative enough to escape the inevitable twinge of melancholy that finds you at 2 p.m., still clad in your pajamas, drinking vodka sodas and watching movies on TV. Because what else do you do when you know you've lost another round of Happy Normalcy?
You go to bed early, you distract yourself with other things, you wake up and wonder if Jack will like jelly beans on Friday the 13th instead.
I sat on top of the parking garage on Park and Speedway and watched the sun blush until it tucked itself away for the evening. That was five years ago. I sat on top of that parking garage and watched the world, seemingly alone. I wasn't. I went home and told your father that yes, yes we would try. We would allow the world I watched from several stories up flip upside down. We would keep the child, tucked away under my clothes, my doubts, my fear. You made us yours and hurling towards us, week by week, we could only hold hands and brace ourselves for the impact.
"Red rover, red rover, send the future over."
Four years ago I walked around the hospital grounds, waiting for you to arrive. It was happening. The culmination of nine months and wondering. Nine months and worrying. Nine months and hoping that everything would be okay.
I blinked and you were born. I blinked and you were crawling, walking, running. You were one, two, three times my baby. But not anymore.
Today you are four.
You want to walk down the sidewalk on your own now. You want to uncover the stories in the dirt for yourself. I offer my hand, try to reel you back into my grasp, but you won't have it anymore. You are on your own mission. "I can walk on my own. You trust me now."
I don't want to believe it. The notion that one day you'll walk on these sidewalks completely alone, without me to point out the colors in the early spring daisies. Without me to say "we're almost there."
You reassure me now. You hold my hand only when you feel I need it. And much like that summer evening I spent staring off into that pink horizon, unsure of the unknown, somewhere deep down I knew it would be okay. You knew.
I've been having a hard time falling asleep lately. Some people think it is the result of the caffeine I run through my body like it's the only form of liquid known to man. I know it's because my body is revolting against the times. These times. These times where I find myself in a dance that I follow mindlessly. Wake up, walk to work, coffee, work, eat, go home, open laptop, struggle, drink or don't drink due to the struggle, sleep. It's been awhile since I've exercised more than the walks to work and the constant movement that my job generally brings. It is toil but it is not the type of exercise one does out of respect for their body. It is a wiriness built out of survivalism instead of a temple built out of discipline and love. It's been awhile since I've eaten healthily. I have taken to preferring easiness and availability over nourishment. I am surprised it hasn't caught up with me yet, at least that I know of. It's been awhile since I've danced. Since I've felt the cramping in my hands, placing threads through needles eyes and craft store diamonds on corsets. Moving my hips in unison with drum beats, letting lyrics allude to what's next. It's been awhile since I've been on here. I know the aforementioned is why I can't sleep. The stagnancy of what truly makes me thrive while the things I just "get through" dominate. At least I've managed this. Perhaps this will buy me a few hours.
Oh, hi. Hello there. How are things? That's a lovely blouse.
I've been MIA for...longer than I would've liked. But, life. Sometimes it just tangles you up in it's own agenda too much. Between working, Jack, and trying to catch the proverbial tiger by it's toe, I let this blog fall by the wayside and it saddens me. I love writing. I love sharing words over the vast universe that is The Internet, and when I fail to do both I get a little down and out about it. A couple weeks ago I ran into one of my high school English teachers (in the bar I quasi-regularly frequent when the going gets tough and the tough need a strong vodka gimlet). She was my favorite of the four that I had. She made us read the best, most thought provoking, controversial books. She made us reach deeper in ourselves. She made me a better writer. "Amanda Sierra?!" "Yes. Yeah." "Wow! Oh man, you were one of my best students. You were one hell of a writer! Are you still doing it?" "Well, kind of. Maybe one day I will seriously, but for now I just keep a dorky ass blog." "Let me know if you need any help. You've got to keep it up. You were amazing." "You were!"
And then she had me sample her drink and my head spun with how surreal it was that I was sharing alcoholic beverages with somebody I looked up to/look up to. And when she wasn't looking, I cried a little bit. Her words hit me for some reason. They were so needed in these moments where I am reinventing myself and still trying to hang on to what matters.
This dorky blog matters, to me. I want to keep up with it more. I want to keep making myself search out for the words, for the moments.
Anyway (THAT was a longer intro then I meant to write but it's been awhile and the word vomit is happening so I'm just going to go for it)! The Paper Mama is doing a photo challenge that I figured I'd hop in on.
My Self Portrait and Info (I may have mentioned before that all I'm rockin' these days is a cell phone camera with a Retro Camera app so...yeah).
Obsessing over... Revamping my wardrobe on a teeny, tiny budget. I want a more cohesive closet with things that I can wear all the time (there's a lot of random stuff in there that I bought on a whim and that, frankly, doesn't really suit me anymore).
Working on... Trying to write more. Also trying to balance a few other hobbies.
Thinking about... My taxes. Exciting, I know.
Anticipating... A semi-spontaneous jaunt to Mexico for a couple days. I'm hoping the beach and some sun will help with a few things, mainly my head.
Listening to... Whatever is shuffling through my broken (the screen display has been out for some time now) ipod and Kurt Vile.
Eating... Coffee. I'm not a big eater before noon, which is when my appetite starts to kick in. Once it does kick in I'm sure I'll find myself with a bowl of soup (I freaking LOVE soup).
Wishing... For a lot less split ends, a lot more cash flow, less of an achy back/legs/feet (I'm on them A LOT) and for the weather we've been having lately NOT to end.
I put you in a bear onsie because it was cold outside and I liked the idea of a tiny human masquerading as a fierce beast. You crawled all over; boy of the great outdoors you've always been. Ready to spring forth and sharpen your claws on the world. Endlessly fascinated with everything around you. You are an explorer. It gets harder for me to look back these days. To try and focus in on moments gone, memories that seem like houses in a dream that I just can't let myself back into, too afraid of what I'll find if I unlock the door. We played in the leaves like we did before, you laughed like you did before. And, oddly enough, I didn't feel that usual ache of nostalgia. I think I've finally let go of it all, realized that it's better here, now. Living in the moment instead of trying to sneak peeks back into windows with the curtains drawn. It is easier to live this way, to seek out new adventures and make new memories. To be explorers.
Almost as soon as I collected my baggage after landing back in Tucson an odd sort of melancholy set in. I suspected it was normal.
"You just came back from the first vacation you've had in years, from a city you've always loved. This is normal." I kept telling myself this but after a week it began to sound a tad...pathetic.
I've lived in Tucson for over eighteen years, Arizona my entire life. It took half that time for my heart to fully embrace it instead of daydreaming about the Greyhound busses that would take me away to a more glamorous city like some cheesy '80s movie. Eventually those busses just looked dirty and I grew wise enough to know that those "dreams" were impractical (how would someone with zero dance training make it as a Broadway actress in New York City at 17) and my roots started to drop. I found the spots in this city that felt like home and eventually I (tried) to make my own. Until I didn't.
When I got pregnant and eventually married, Greg and I had moved to the north side of Tucson. While I found myself in a new world of motherhood and partnership, the world that I left behind moved on, and quickly. Fast forward to now and one marriage ended, life changing, self reinventing back in the place I had once found comfort in before and- I feel lost.
When I got on that plane to go to Seattle it felt like I was flying into a new version of myself.
"This is it. You are on your own."
Feeling new in a new city was a solid form of symbolism and it felt right. When I got back and felt lost in a city that should have felt like home, a sort of personal crisis set in. Who am I? What am I doing here? What's next?
And then a revelation set in right in time with our annual All Souls Procession that rocked me so hard with symbolism and poignancy that all I've wanted to do this week is lay in bed and cry. It happened when I took a walk in my new-old neighborhood, on a perfect Fall afternoon- a couple years ago Jack was learning how to walk on these sidewalks. A couple years ago we took a chance on each other with hope in our hearts and good intentions. A couple years ago I had a family to visit on Sundays and dinners to make for faces familiar. A couple years ago I didn't imagine myself on these sidewalks alone.
My home has become a graveyard of memories. Nostalgia biting me in the heels just as soon as I start feeling confident again, pointing out the things that are no longer and the feelings that came with them.
And so, I'm trying to learn how to love my city again in a new way. Even with the memories that go bump in the night and sidewalks that hold ghosts underneath, good and bad.
A couple nights ago the streets downtown were filled with people remembering the lives of loved ones lost, celebrating lives all around; faces painted like sugar skulls and sage burning in the air, they marched along to music and memories. For the first time since I got back I felt like I was in the right place.
I guess I'm back home, or at least as much as my heart will allow for these days.
I have been off work for the last hour and a half. We have eaten and undressed into the final shreds of the evening. Pants have been thrown into the washing machine. Dishes await the pre-scrub and then the dishwasher. The carpet needs a vacumming.
Jack and I cuddled for about five minutes. A record for what has been far too long, but he needs his space. There is an entirely different person forming under the body that I refuse to accept as anything other than the infant that was pulled from my womb one temperate March morning. There are ideas and wills more powerful than his mother's embrace it seems. So I let him be.
It is starting to seep in though, the reality of my not being able pull him into my lap and talk about whales any time I please. I knew it was hitting the bone when, on the city bus, I spied on a boy Jack's age sitting in his mother's lap and I instantly started crying. I blamed it on hormones, after work fatigue, fluorescent lighting. I blamed it on what I could to whip the lion in the eyes that was roaring in my ears "this is real".
This is happening.
On Tuesday and Wednesday I will be packing up the same things I came into this relationship with; clothes, books, movies, toiletries and potential. I will be moving them in with my dear friend Colleen for the time being.
Greg and Jack will be moving into the new house he purchased. It's a beautiful home, saltillo tile and wooden beams on high ceilings, a backyard that Jack can romp around in. I'm glad they'll have it.
I've decided that I'm going to sign up for overtime at work once I move out. Since I won't be coming home to Jack every night I figure it's best to not come home at all. I will make money out of the silence and eventually I will have my own place to fill with noise again.
Out of all the painful logistics comes one silver lining- we are both living in truth now. Uncompromising truth in worn out, gutted shells. Bare bones ready to be built over again with pieces of who we really are and who we hope to someday be.
I expect this move will be cathartic. I expect that there will be times when I am weighed down by the "too much-ness" of it all. I expect that out of these ashes something will grow again.
It was a decision we both made for the better (odd to say something so bad is for the better, but it is, for us). I was going to write about it all but it's hard to put out there properly.
We will remain friends. We will still raise Jack together. I'll probably still laugh at him when he records movie ideas into his Droid and I still ask for his opinion sometimes because I respect the hell out of the man, the father of my child.
I wanted to post about it here because it will be a massive change and I'm sure getting used to my life as a single mother will be odd, but that's just it...it is life. Life will move forward; change shapes, ideas, plans, people. And as always, I'll continue to write about it. It's the only way I know.
I'm a big 'ol failure. My 30 Day Dare project went totally MIA and I've been beating myself up about it on the regular. But the truth is, it failed for a reason. It was stupid. It's kinda dumb for me to saddle myself with tasks that in the long run only merely amount to "hey, I did this for a month!" I took my perpetual need for change and turned it into a goal instead of a lifestyle. I lucked out in choosing going vegan for a month because it turned out to be truly enlightening and did actually effect me for the better, so it wasn't a complete bomb. But I sat down with my thinking cap and got to writing down what I feel will TRULY help me.
Cut The Fat: Ideas For The Betterment Of Your Shit * Come up with a monthly meal plan. Don't be afraid to experiment. * Put together fourteen outfits you LOVE. Mix and match, make them transitional, take pictures to remember if you have to. What's the point in wearing clothes you only feel lukewarm about? Donate the rest. * Weed out the music on your Ipod/Itunes/whathaveyou. I collect A LOT of music and sometimes I do grow out of it, download random things without REALLY listening, etc. If it doesn't make me feel sublime or inspire me than it doesn't belong there anymore. *Make more plans with people you can't live without/haven't seen in a long time/inspire or ground you. *Read more books, less internet. Remember how that felt? *Find new places for (cheap) thrills.
I can start on those first. And I'm playing for keeps, not just thirty days.
It seems like when I become really productive with one thing, ten other just as important things go unchecked. I need to check up on those other things. I have much to update and write about, but right now I need to finish a couple projects and tie some loose ends. So, instead of a post, here are my favorite posts I've written thus far.
These last few days I've been feeling guilty for finding anything pleasurable. The after effects of Saturday still find themselves lingering in my head. How could it not? I live a stones throw away from the scene. I was reminded of it today as I was driving from the park with Jack, grievers and flowers lining the corner in my rear view. And though I can't stop thinking, though I wake up from nightmares of guns and empty arms, I realized today that I could only do one thing-
Live still.
I refuse to be allow the fear consume me, make me fear or doubt everybody's motives. Living well is the best revenge. Keeping the memories alive and holding Tucson tighter is what will help heal us.
So, I have given my moments of silence. I have cried, held in the anger, wondered why, prayed, hurt. I won't forget. But I also won't hold myself back. None of us should.
"I wanna see you be the one whose first light Harbours in the new day And see you settle into yourself And never be afraid"
I was extremely apprehensive about moving to where we now reside. It was on the "wrong" side of town (well not "wrong" in terms of crime or violence, it's actually in a pretty decent part of town where I wouldn't be surprised if many people leave their doors unlocked) for me, it was the "wrong" style, it was just "wrong". And I made it abundantly clear. I pouted on the way up to sign the lease, I didn't smile once while talking to the apartment manager or while touring the area and when we drove back home I fought with Greg over his trying to "strip me of everything I was by moving us to the most uncultured, boring part of town." I made the dramatic scene only a girl voted "Drama Queen" (not in terms of offstage personality, mind you) in her Drama class by her peers could. But we needed to move. We needed our own space (we were living with roomates at the time), we needed to save money and Greg was growing tired of the commute from downtown to the opposite end of Tucson. It's been over a year that we've settled here. We aren't ready to look for a house again, especially after the first experience and the fact that we just don't want to settle for something we don't like just for the title of "homeowner". And I've still approached our apartment with the same apprehension I came into it with. An unwillingness to let myself care too much for it. "It's just a place to eat and sleep and bathe in. Why should I really love it?"
But I've noticed I have started to take some bricks out of the wall I built around myself regarding our little abode. Started chipping of pieces of myself and letting them rest where they catch the light.
I'm still reluctant to drop roots in a place where fines are administered if artistic inclinations are carried too far. But I think I'm softening the edges a bit. Embracing as much of this place as I can instead of rejecting it to the bitter end.
It's not the downtown wooden-floored bungalow that I fantasize about every other day, but for now it's where we live. Where we color, laugh, fight, make up, make food, make music and plans and memories. It's where we find shelter from the heat and rest for the weary. It may not be forever, but for right now it's home.
As I sit in my apartment staring at the trees rustle and shimmy in the wind, I can't help but use it as an easy metaphor. "Winds of change," I think. Color me cliche but it works, for nothing could be more true in the current juncture. I've been struggling with the stay at home mom title I've adopted in the last two years (I'm gonna kill my guidance counselor*) and after much long and careful deliberation both out of frustration and financial necessity (we aren't sinking, but this isn't exactly a raft ride down the lazy river either) I decided to make a move, seek a change and starting soon I'll be going back to school to become an aesthetician. Since I've worked in a spa before and enjoyed it, along with the chance to set my own hours and not succumb to too much corporate strangulation I figured it to be a good choice. For the first time in a long time I can feel and electric buzz pulsating through my body out of excitement for change. For progress. In enrolling for school I discovered I would need three letters of recommendation. When I first read the line I heard that voice in the back saying "who the hell would recommend you? You really think you're the type of person worthy of recommendation?" I've long felt internal feeling of inadequacy. Though at times I may masquerade them in witty say-isms or well applied make-up they still reside somewhere in my skull. Only until recently and through guidance and help have I started taking measures to abandon that voice, kick it to the curb if you will. Change. I wrote a message to my old coworkers from that spa asking them if they would write those desired three letters. Within the hour all three of them answered with a yes. And more then that they answered with support, encouragement and open arms. Even as I type this I find myself fighting back tears of gratitude, of the beauty of kindness in people. Also semi-recently, two wonderful ladies in our beloved Tucson have been dealing with the moving of their store. Not too long ago corporate fat cats decided to buy out a prime section of our Congress street. A street that for 2 years had been a home for Preen and other cherished local businesses. It was a big smack in the face for many locals and owners when we realized that many of those store would no longer be there by next year, moved to make room for carbon copy sports bars, gentrification to "help promote downtown culture" while simultaneously stripping it away. Then I saw this- *art by Adam Cooper-Terran
And my heart jumped for the second time today. Preen will prevail. Erin and Emilie will continue to give downtown Tucson style and a "mom n' pop" shop that just won't quit. I'm so proud of them for it. The new location will be just as fabulous as the former I'm sure, if not doubly for the character the store has developed in it's attitude of "hit me with your best shot!" They moved, but they did not falter.
Change is happening all around. Beyond this post I have friends in relationships progressing, in new career ventures, some are leaving Tucson and some are staying, simply making it a little brighter. But nevertheless, change. Progress. And I think 2010 may be a good year.
*Not really, my guidance counselor was a great woman.
