Companionship

    Big, black horse. Little, white sheep. Grazing close in comfortable companionship. Blissfully oblivious to their differences. Only seeing their similarities and friendship. Fog lending a Hallmark surrealism to the scene. Sends my mind along the path of companionship, similarities, comfort. Happy to be feeling as if I am finding my niche, my family, my tribe, my place in the world.

Beyond Dreaming

    I am feeling like Brain and Body have kicked into high gear of late. Ideas, plans, schemes, are churning, frothing, forming, coalescing, fast and furious. Body is keeping pace with energy off the chart. Is it Mania knocking at the door? I don't think so, because, oddly, emotions are raging all over the map. Mania does not allow room for anything other than elation. Why are the random, erratic emotions manifesting? They are at odds with Brain and Body. Maybe it is just an overwhelming, explosion of all energies, all pent-up emotions. All the strong, amazing emotions that race through me pell mell, no brakes, no restraint, damn the torpedoes. When emotions rage, expect the good with the bad, light and dark, sweet and salty. That being said, emotions are not hindering the creative juices that are spurting through my grey matter, heat innervating muscles, electricity shocking mind to action, fire in the blood, passion in heart. I am flaming, afire, comfortable within my whirlwind.
    My Whirlwind. The question is, can I steer it where I want/need to go? Whirlwind is not inclined to listen to me so very much, taking on a life of its own more often than not. But I feel more focused, more cognizant of what I need, where I want to go, how I want this chapter of my life to pan out. My dreams are more on point, less scrambled. In the past, my dreams often were vague ideas of "a better life." How indistinct is that? Those dreams were borne of a need to pull myself away from same old same old, and onto new and improved. Now, as I move through new and improved, I am learning the importance of focus, striving for specific goals. Not merely Dreaming, but reaching for the Dream.

Juggling Act

    How wrong is it that I wish I were unemployed? I know, it is not a pleasant row to hoe, and I have many friends who have been struggling in the current chaos. I don't want to be unemployed, robbing Peter to pay Paul, facing winter with even more uncertainty. But I would love to not have to spend so much of my precious time enslaved to the workaday world. To spend hour after tedious hour shackled to a desk, making money for someone else, dealing with issues for others, remaining bright and cheerful, the only optimist on the premises. It wears me down. No, it is not a soul killing job, but it is energy sucking, and without challenge or fulfillment.
    What would I do if I didn't spend the bulk of my waking hours working for a pittance? What wouldn't I do?! Oh dear gods, the things I could and would do. I know, so many people say this, and instead learn the joys of hours spent with Judge Judy, The View, Oprah. I can guarantee you, that would not be me. If I could spend time, real time, solid blocks of time, focused on creating, I can only imagine what would come of it. Creating what? Everything. I would write, paint, draw, sculpt, sew, cook, garden. I would make silk banners, totem animal plaques, Pookas, gloriously painted floor cloths. I would finish my shop, my gym, my patio. I would paint murals on my walls, refinish floors, clean my gutters. From the fantastic to the plebeian, the fun to the profitable, I would do it all. My mind scampers down the path of "If Only" on a daily basis, dreaming, hoping, wishing. For a few brief months I worked part time, and loved it. The feel of semi-retirement from the real world, the fabulous hours spent on my own pursuits. It was absolutely dreamy.
    I have so many visions, creations, words, projects, artworks, floating around inside my skull, waiting to burst forth upon an unsuspecting world. So many, that in the brief time I do have to work on my pleasures, I am nearly dysfunctional as they all try to come tumbling out in a discordant mass. Jumbled together, no cohesion, simply chaos. It takes time to sort through all the ideas just to get a grip on the one that is beckoning, begging to be worked on, ripe for the plucking. Being gainfully employed often seems like so much energy expended, so much time wasted, so much creativity quashed.
    How am I to ever develop my own arts into a way of life, a way to make a living, if I am forced to focus so much time and energy working for The Man, living paycheck to paycheck? I imagine I could do it if I decided that I did not want to have a modicum of a real life. No fun. No companionship. No playdates. That is not an option. And so I plot and scheme, let my mind wander the paths of "If Only," squeeze in a few moments here and there to unleash my creative mind. My life is a juggling act of epic proportions at times. Difficult. Busy. Frantic. Chaotic. Fabulous. Amazing. I do love my life.

Faith In Me. Faith In Myself.

    It is no surprise that after a weekend of great company, stimulating conversation, not enough sleep, too much food, and constant laughter, that I am starting my rainy, grey, work week with the optimism usually reserved for early summer weekends. My mind is whirring with ideas, thoughts, plans, schemes, on a foundation of love, understanding, encouragement. Hours spent talking, laughing, learning, sharing, dreams, fears, passions. Surrounded by family, friends old and new. Invigorating interplay. Energizing interactions. Fire of youth, Wisdom of age. In a setting of Ponderosa forests, high desert, frosty air, clean breezes, Nature adding her powers to fan the flames of creativity, joy, love.
    It would be nigh on impossible to walk away from such a weekend without knowing that the path to change, achievement, triumph, personal victory, lies within. Within my own heart and mind to affect change. Yes, I have always known this, and this last year I have proven it to myself over and over. But to have the knowledge reinforced, encouraged, lets me know that I am still, and always will be, the hand at my helm. At times I get tired of pushing through the difficulties that life likes to throw in my path. I work long and hard, to exhaustion and beyond, driving myself forward until I feel I can not take another step. I try and fail, try and fail, over and over until I reach the point when I feel it is futile to keep trying. Then, despite the odds seemingly against me, I stand up, stare life in the eye, and refuse to be beaten. Often, I am the only voice talking me off the ledge, the hand reaching down into the abyss to pull me out, my own lifeline. Times like this last weekend make me understand to the very marrow that mine is not the only voice telling me to move forward. Intelligent, encouraging, loving voices. There are strong hands when I need them. Strong arms, strong shoulders, strong minds, strong hearts. All there for me, if I need them. But I also know that I, too, have strong arms, strong shoulders, a strong mind, and a strong heart. By surrounding myself with those that have faith in me, it is easier to continue to have faith in myself. Even if it was just a weekend, a long, glorious, fantastic, hilarious weekend, it was more than enough to refuel my soul, energize my spirit, reinforce my belief in my shining future. I need these words written, penned, published, saved for future days, to be revisited when the darkness crowds in on me, demons whisper in my ear, the dank air rises from the abyss. This is a letter to Me, a Note To Self, a future reminder that I am capable of following what path I chose, and if that path dead-ends, I can and will find another. They have faith in me. I have faith in myself.

Flashback

    I had an odd, and unsettling flashback last night, all because of a sweatshirt. yes, a sweatshirt. After showering I pulled out my favorite sweatshirt, fresh and warm from the dryer, and slipped it over my smoothly scrubbed skin. The flashback? 9 months ago, on a dark, frigid winter night, I donned the same sweatshirt, warm from the dryer, preparing to climb into my cold bed, in my cold house. I was overwhelmed with the realization that it was the closest thing to a warm, hug I had felt in over 5 months. I cried. Cried out of despair, desperation, abject loneliness. Alone. So alone, and fearing I would be alone forever, that I was not worthy of a warm loving embrace. Yes, I had hugs from family and friends, and love, but that is not the same as being cradled in loving arms. I climbed into my cold bed and wept. And wept. I can't say I cried myself to sleep, because I was not sleeping much at that time. I can't even say I cried myself into exhaustion, because I apparently have superhuman stamina when it comes to abject weeping. I can't even say that this was an unusual or atypical scenario. It is no great secret that night after lonely night I lay in my dark room, silently crying, sobbing, body wracked with shuddering spasms of grief and loneliness. I was bereft. But that moment, the warm sweatshirt induced despair, sent me along a path that only prolonged my grief. It led me to a misguided attempt to recapture what was long past and dead. My fear of eternal loneliness dredged up feelings that were best left alone, untouched, past and forgotten. But fear makes people do astonishing, and unwise things. I can't say I am sorry for my actions over the ensuing month, I do not regret my misguided attempts. But I am honestly grateful for my failure. This turned into a prime example of failure being the best possible outcome, allowing me to have a deeper understanding of the path that was right for me. My True Path. It finally let me step clear of the rutted path I had been slogging along on for far too long, in endless circles, revisiting the same scenes, straining against the same obstacles, exhausting myself, expending far too much energy to get nowhere at all. But that night, in the warm sweatshirt, I felt as if my life had been drained of color, energy, warmth, affection. And I wept. Bitterly, painfully, disconsolate, despondent, defeated, abjectly heartbroken. I wept through the night.
    Last night, in the warm sweatshirt, all this came flooding back. But without the visceral impact it might have had even a few months ago. Instead I remembered that night, what now seems like an eternity ago, almost as if it happened to another person. It came back more like a scene from a movie, or paragraph in the story of a fictional me. It did not evoke strong emotions, just the realization of how far I have come. Where I am now versus where I was then. It is a different life for me now. A new life. Far removed from the forlorn, demoralized, weepy mess that lay in the darkness feeling abandoned and alone. I stood stock still for a moment, marveling at the difference, the 180 change. What I was, where I was, who I was, a few months ago. And now, having returned to my true self, my true being, on my true path, leading me into a new life, a new world, new adventures. I was, quite honestly, amazed and thrilled to be reminded of just how far I have come in such a short time. Amazed at how far I have come, what I fought through, the tough choices, the brutal impact of those choices, my Trial By Fire. At times like that, I amaze even myself. I do love my life.

Station One

    Tonight was drill night. Not an epic night. No gearing up and riding in a fire engine. No playing with hoses. No Darth Vader-esque breathing through the SCBA. It was a long meeting in a warm room, following on the heels of an arduous workout, hence making me drowsy and muddled. Sitting in a room with forty people, listening to them express their opinions, agree, disagree, agree to disagree, and feeling the overall sense of camaraderie was pleasant and satisfying. To know that any one of these people, strangers a few short months ago, any one would have my back and be there when I needed. It is overpowering. After the meeting broke up, I got to visit my engine, help with rig check, climb around her checking fluid, breathing in her familiar fragrance. Talking with my fellow probies and the Lieutenant about inconsequential pleasantries, joking, learning a little more about each other, checking SCBAs. It has become a familiar and homey routine, calming, relaxing. I know I come off as a total dork about the engines, and I honestly love the trucks. Honestly. Love them. But the true pleasure of Station One is that feeling of acceptance, I am One of Us. One of the family. Accepted without question. Without judgement. Without Bias. I feel as if it is something I have been seeking without knowing that I was looking, that I have found a part of me I didn't even know was missing. It is frightening, and fantastic. Station One.

Disengage

    I understand my own Lunacies. I go toe to toe, look them in the eye, stare them down, try to keep them in check. At the very least I have learned how to minimize damaging blow-back, protecting those around me when I go into meltdown. I think that what saves me from being clinically insane is the fact that I do understand my psyche, work to maintain it, and when it is spiraling out of control I roll with the punches until things simmer down. I do not repeat the same action over and over expecting a different result. I have learned that if one path does not work, find another path, and another, and another, until one leads me out of the darkness. I am often confronted by those who are every bit as dodgy as I am, if not more so, and are totally unaware of their insanities. How can this be? How can you move through life, sabotaging yourself, raining angst down upon those you profess to care about, spreading malaise, draining the life force from your surroundings, causing mayhem, and be totally unaware of cause and effect? I do not understand how a person can be so blind to their own psychosis. But there it is, people all around, blinders on, blundering through life, vitriolic, hostile, finger pointing, feeling blamed and blameless. These people refuse to accept any accountability for their actions, their effect, their anger, their mistakes, their own failings. Every day I am faced with it, surrounded by it. When I screw up, when I fail, I step up to the plate and admit it. I will look you in the eye and say, "Yeah, that was me. I did that." To fail, make mistakes, is how we learn. How we hopefully learn, anyway. I believe it is how we grow, change, adapt. It is what gives us depth.
     My problem truly lies in the fact that since I understand my Lunacies, and since I am willing to face them, I want to help others understand and face their own inner crazy. I want to lead people to a better understanding of the reasons behind their actions, reactions, and to face down their demons. This leads me into trouble, since most are not even willing to acknowledge their culpability, much less admit to failings, and, god-forbid, deep rooted psychosis. Instead I face hostility, denial, anger. I need to stop trying to help those that do not want help. I am learning to disengage, walk away, separate myself from the issues of others. Their problems are not my problems. Their issues are not my issues to fix. And quite frankly, their crazy can exacerbate my own. My oft times fragile inner being cannot handle frontal assaults. I must disengage.
    I am learning. For my own health and sanity, I am learning to remove myself, disengage, walk away. I have to even as it goes against my nature to want to lead people from the darkness into the light, away from the abyss, into peace. But I cannot make the journey for another, only for myself. And so I walk away. Disengage.