Monday Memory

When I was young, my family took lots of road trips. Why, or when, we stopped is something I've always wondered about. The trips just kind of dwindled out over the years.

Anyway.

Sometimes, as a special treat, we'd stop at rest stops or parks, as opposed to just a quick pit-stop at a gas station. At these parks, Dad would walk around with we chil'rens and point out unique tree knots and holes. "They're Gnome Homes", he'd tell us.

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For a short time, my two younger brothers and I shared a room. Probably long past most kids out-grew them, my dad would tell us stories that he had written: all centering around Alvin, a wizened old wizard who lived at the tip-top of a mountain. The adventure always began the same, with the admonition to close our eyes and keep them closed. He then sprinkled a scented faery dust over each of us, which was inevitably followed by much giggling. I loved that smell, and more, I loved the sound. The sound of the aromatic dust being crushed between his large fingers, magnified a hundred times for the simple reason that my eyes were tightly closed. I think that sound will stay with me for the rest of my life. I can hear it now, can almost smell those herbs ... and still, after all these years, I feel relaxation tickling at the fringes of my consciousness.

He'd then guide us up, up, up into the blue sky; even higher we'd soar, into the lightest and fluffiest of clouds. Once he knew he had our unwavering attention, the adventure would begin ...

We always visited Alvin on horses - Star, Nina and Stardust were their names. Dad would pat our bellies to the rhythm of the horses' hooves. The adventures were never epic, but always captured the imagination.

About a year ago I asked my dad what the faery dust actually was. It was a small vial of crushed herbs (Chamomile, Rosemary) and ... sparkles. Where had he found such a thing? "Oh, at a local mystical shoppe", was his nonchalant answer.

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My father taught me about innocence, about childlike wonder, about making the mundane - magical.

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P.S.

There's nothing better than listening to The King's Singers when you're hurtling down the highway for long distances.

There's nothing to fear ...

... but fear itself.

I suppose.

I'm falling behind at work. There just seems to be so much to do. I complete one task, and a million others fall on top of me like an avalanche.

My manager criticized me today. What hurts more than the criticism itself is the fact that I fear it was rightly placed. I live in the almost constant paranoia that they'll turn to me one day and say, "Kathryn, you're just not doing the kind of job we hoped you would. Goodbye."

A thought just struck me though, and it has heartened me a little:

I've been filling this particular position for about half of a school year. It was my job to pick up the pieces that two different predecessors left behind. Yes, I've let a few things slip through my fingers, but I've also created strong bonds with teachers in many school districts and fulfilled their needs admirably. My superiors see my mistakes because they aren't with me when I call on schools to see my triumphs. Per'aps I should compile a lizt of strengths I feel I have honed so that I am prepared should a meeting to criticize ever takes place.

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I don't talk about my fears often. I feel them, and keenly - but because I don't voice them, they simply fuel the fire of my general anxiety levels.

I feel a lot of pressure to perform. I'll be supporting Merry whilst she goes to school (starting Spring semester). We're moving to a slightly bigger, slightly more expensive apartment in a different city. We're strapped for money as it is. Frankly, I sometimes wonder how we're going to get by. If I lose this job, or simply get demoted, I fear there's no way we'll be able to support the lifestyle we're used to.

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Maybe I should take a leaf out of Merry's book and merely take a step back and make a small, prioritized list.

Yes. That sounds like a winner.

Giving thanks

To the Powers That Be, for these I give thanks:

1. My loving partner - who made me breakfast in bed this morning. 'nuff said.

2. Kisses - that are tender. Kisses that are sweet. Kisses that make tears go away. Kisses that make tears come.

3. Long weekends - we're sharing one at her mother's lake house. I desperately needed it. It has been everything I hoped it would be ... and more.

4. Books - I love to read. I have books on philosophy, theology, music theory, psychology, the occult, comedies, classics .... I love to read.

5. Music - making it, dancing to it (when no one is looking), singing to it. I live it. I love it.

6. Soft grass - that tickles between my toes when I walk on it. There's something so innocent, so grounding in walking barefoot in nature, even if it is only a back yard.

7. Jumping off of the dock - and facing my fears. Granted, I only did it because I knew I could stand up in the area in which I jumped, but it was indeed a momentous occasion: I faced a phobia. (I don't didn't like swimming in water I can't see the bottom of.) Well, that needs to be amended. I can handle standing in it, and playing in the shallow areas. Maybe next summer I'll be ready to try deeper and unknown-er waters.

In memoriam

I have a blue journal in which I write memories of my recently-deceased father.

What you must understand is that I have a notoriously patchy memory at best, most likely caused by the myriad medications I am currently, or have in the past, been on. More than the physical loss of my dad, I fear the loss of memories of him; hence, the Journal. My memory is rather spastic, with snippets flipping in and out of mind pretty randomly, so I like to keep the Journal (or a scrap of paper) handy wherever I go - the idea being ... well, you get the idea.

The most recent addition to the Blue Journal:

My dad and I are a lot in common. When we get a bee in our bonnet, we follow the idea to an exhaustive end. Take, for instance, the Year of the RV. He researched different RV's, the pro's and con's of each, where to buy them, how much they'd cost ... and eventually purchased a trailer and red F250 truck. We only took one or two road trips with it, but spent many weekends with one of those smallish, white TV/VCRs you can buy on the cheap at Wal*Mart, watching movies and having sleepovers - sometimes with friends, but mostly just we chil'rens and dad. We kept a veritable arsenal of candy out there, for just such an occasion.

Around the same time, but something that wasn't followed through on, was the horn upgrade for his Honda Civic. He wanted the same kind of horn that Semi trucks use. I mean, the obscenely loud, low-pitched ones. I clearly remember standing next to him, looking at a few on display, smiling kind of bemusedly at his childlike enthusiasm. But, wow. Thankfully that one buzzed right on out of his bonnet.

So. I miss my dad.

/post.

Life Patterns

I have a pattern in my life: I tend to disappear, to make myself scarce when stress gets too high, or I get scared, or things become difficult. It is the one thing in my life that I am most ashamed of. Though I've been getting better about it, the urge to run is sometimes almost irresistible. If I'm so ashamed of it, though, why have I not scrutinized my motives, putting the issue on the table and dissecting it? I'm good at analyzing things to death, but - is it so surprising that I stick my head in the sand when the issue is close to home or painful to look at?

I have a history of severing friendships with nary a word of warning to the severed. Again, if I feel uncomfortable with a situation or relationship, I stop returning calls. I stop accepting IMs. I become invisible, a mere memory.

I've done it with viola teachers. High school friends. College friends. Friends I made when I was attending church. The people who could help me find a way through the darkness that I fear so much are the ones I push away.

And when I come out of the other side of the tunnel, I'm too ashamed to try to re-establish contact, for I know, I just know I'll push them away when things get intense once more.

The ones I do have the chutzpa to contact again ... inevitably get pushed away, over and over and over again. I almost feel as though I can't stop myself from running.

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I've been making a few new friendships and have rekindled two blasts from my past, and it takes conscious effort to turn to them when trouble arises, rather than running for the hills.

I suppose I should celebrate my baby steps, my progress, and let go of past shame and guilt, moving forward in the process. I try not to brood, but I am prone to it, and I sometimes find myself mourning the friends I feel I've wronged.

Here I sit all lonely hearted ...

Tried to write, but only farted.

On that profound note...

My brother returns from his mission for the Mormon church tomorrow. I can hardly believe it. He's been in Brazil for two years. I haven't seen my brother in two years, and I can't wait! Unfortunately I won't be able to meet him at the airport because of work, but I will be dropping by my mom's place after work. Hopefully he won't be asleep after his long day. :D

It'll be weird being a whole family again ... or as whole as we're ever gonna get, anyway. I have many fond memories of growing up - we used to hang out in his room until wayyy past "bedtime", talking about nothing and everything. We'd laugh so hard and goof off all the time. You know, they're not so much memories as remembered feelings. Does that make sense? If I were to press my memory, I might be able to come up with some of the conversations. What I remember is the laughter, not the joke. I think out of all of my siblings, I was closest to him for a long time. It hasn't been until recently that I've been cultivating deeper relationships with t'others, something that I've been finding most rewarding.

Honestly, it feels like upon the death of my father, we all grew closer - which isn't a bad thing. I relish the growing bonds between each of my siblings and look forward to seeing it continue to grow.

Letters to God

I just read someone's Letter to God. In it, she said that it's scary to follow His will - she fears it will be "riddled with discomfort". "Once I start wandering from Satan's influence, he's going to make it troublesome for me".

Why?

I once believed that as well: that Satan had some kind of power over me, that he was hell-bent on making the Path of God a difficult one to follow, that he, well, existed.

Yes. I just said it.

One thing I don't believe in is "should"s. Guilt, though I sometimes still feel it, has no place in my life, and I do my best to rid myself of it. When I do something, I ultimately do it for myself. I do things because it feels right, not because someone or some One tells me to. Most of all, I don't believe that there is an entity whose sole purpose is to trip me up. I do enough of that on my own.

"I'm sorry for what I do ... and don't do. If I simply did what you've asked of me, I would feel you."

Reading her letter made me feel sad. We try and try and try to do things to feel God's presence, when in reality, it is in the not doing, in the quietest of moments, that He can be found and felt. When we align ourselves with ourselves, it is then that we can feel God. When we become true to ourselves, at peace with the knowledge that we are imperfect beings by nature and that no amount of forcing can make us otherwise, a whole world of serenity and possibilities opens up to us.

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I've spent a lot of time hating and mistrusting God, or at least the God of my fathers, the one I grew up believing in. He had a lot of "should"s attached to everything, and I didn't like that. For years, I looked at the Great Divine as being female. It was easier to palate, to assign more loving and less restrictive values to.

Right now? I think gender in regards to the Divine is irrelevant. It just Is, and that's enough for me.

Do not contact ... or so it seems

Last September, I started taking viola lessons again. I was timid, but was enjoying it immensely - so much so that we talked about me re-entering college and once again pursuing music as a career. Last November, my father died in a car accident and I lost my spirit, my joie de vivre. How could I make music? My soul felt crushed. Naturally, my teacher understood, and lessons ceased.

Several months later, she called. How was I doing? How were my plans progressing for school?

Many things had happened since then, not the least of which was my Christmas present to my partner, Merry. Her entire adult life has been spent at one job or another, never having the means to go to college ... and yet she had been willing to work a menial job to put me through school. On Christmas eve, I told her that it was time for the tables to turn - regardless of whether I got the promotion I had been gunning for (which, incidentally, I did get), it was she who would go to school first.

And so it went - we prepared mentally and emotionally for the momentous change that was about to take place.

.: Fast forward to the phone call :.

How was I doing? Was I excited for school?

I was faced with a decision: do I tell her over the phone, or do I make small talk and schedule a time to meet in person? I plunged ahead - I told her over the phone that my education would once again go on hiatus so that my beloved could go first. I was not eloquent. I stuttered and stammered. I was under pressure - she of all I did not want to let down, but I felt convicted, and remain so, that these new plans feel right in my heart.

Though she offered her congratulations, it sounded strained. We said our goodbyes and hung up.

I wish I had told her in person, so I could read her better, and she me. Would things be different if I had?

That conversation in February was the last time we've spoken, though I have made a few attempt at contact since then.

I tell myself she's a busy woman. She has a studio within the college, as well as a thriving one outside of the school.

But I can't help but wonder ...

I feel I've been a problem child. My departure from Academia was not graceful in the least; rather, a hasty exit Stage Left. I know she invested herself emotionally into my education - she's an amazing teacher, very involved - and felt disappointed when I left. When I resurfaced, she seemed beside herself with excitement, as was I.

So it isn't a stretch to imagine she felt disappointed once more when, on the verge of starting lessons again, I told her my news.

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Something to consider, too, is that I am prone to spells of paranoia by times. This could all be in my head, and I fully recognize that. When I think about this, I feel sad, frustrated, but not obsessive.

I have held out the hope that she'll contact me again, but I fear the time of waiting has passed. I am practicing - again, timidly - and if I am ready for lessons, I have another teacher I can contact, one that would be closer to home.

But I miss my professor.

Good grief...

I used to believe everything happens for a reason, across the board. I mean, everything is a learning experience, a new challenge to grow and think outside of the box. And then my dad died. I can't think of a single good thing that has come of it. And yet I still look at situations in my own life and those of others and see learning experiences, things that happen - and had they happened any other way, life would be completely different. That doubled fact, that death has no reason and that everything has a reason, has shattered my faith.

I used to believe in an afterlife, that everything continued on in some sense, whether through reincarnation, being a spirit guide, or by going to a final resting place. But with my shattered faith and broken heart, I cannot see my father as living on in another plane. And yet, I believe in an afterlife.

I don't know how to move forward. I mean, if I believe in an afterlife, shouldn't that be a balm, a reassurance that my father is ok? That things will be ok? That he sees me and loves me and wants the best for me?

I just can't wrap my head around it, and it eats at me when I think about it (which I don't often let myself do, as a coping method I suppose).

I feel lost, lost without my papa.

Sometimes I wonder ...

Have I lost it?

You know, it - bits of my personality that I once cherished, which seem to have fallen by the wayside over the years.

I feel I've lost my ability to look at the events in my life as a third party; one who is able to pinpoint the dramatic irony of it all with an acerbic wit rivaled by none. Lard knows that I've been through hell in a hand basket and I'm feeling a little worse for the wear, a little embittered. Once upon a time, I was at least wry and embittered. I could sit down in front of a monitor and spew my bile to anyone who would listen, but still make it funny. At least to me, and that's what's important. (Isn't it?) It made things bearable. But ... what happen? (Someone set us up the bomb).


I'm petrified to play the viola.

I just read that sentence and nearly changed it to read "... my viola". I stopped myself. Why? I thought it was telling. I've distanced myself from it. I feel far removed from the music that once swelled in my breast, saddened at a time long past. I feel something akin to sexual frustration regarding my instrument. I yearn for it, but feel I have no outlet. I could blame a million things for the fact that I've not been playing it. I shouldn't blame anyone but m'self, but I do. I want to take private lessons again, but haven't been able to reach my professor. I'm tired from my new-ish job. There are so many things to do around the apartment. I'm embarrassed to play in the apartment since the walls are so thin. If I were dedicated, would that deter me? Am I ready for it?

Merry says I should set manageable goals, so that when I reach them, I feel victorious. Rather than saying a general, "I should practice. I really want to practice", say, "I'll practice once this week". When I reach that goal, set another manageable goal.

But still, I'm scared. I don't know what of exactly, but I am. It could be as simple as fear of commitment, or of the unknown. Have you ever been so used to just "getting by" that a break from the mundane is frightening? Mediocrity is easy. It's the aspiration of greatness that scares the shit out of me.

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I think I'm too hard on myself. I just don't give myself the chance to utilize what I view as talents. When I become too busy to explore myself, it is then that I feel emotionally dry. Y'know?

So. Forgive this excessively negative First Post Back. Things are better than I paint them.