Here Be Dragons

I know I promised something more positive, but before that can happen, I think some emotional purging is in order. I used to just eat my feelings, but since I'm trying really hard not to do that so much these days, a blog post it is. The following will most likely be an emotional rant AND a whiny rave; you've been warned...

First of all, I freaking hate the move from Daylight Savings Time. For some reason, this year has been so difficult for me to adjust to. I have spent most of the last 10 days in tears for no discernible reason.

I am really struggling with my job right now (in all honesty, that may be where many of the tears are coming from...). I just don't feel like I am doing any good, and no one cares. It isn't a job that's going to change the world, but I would like it to be a job that makes a difference. It isn't. At least, not right now. I'm not making a difference, the quality of my work these days is mediocre at best, and I'm really tired of walking into a place where I feel almost universally disliked. I don't like knowing that I'm talked about behind my back, by adults who are supposedly professionals; I don't like knowing that these same adults are calling me names. I really hate that they -- these "adults" -- won't take any kind of responsibility for their own performance, but rather blame it on me. I don't need to be adored in my workplace, but I at least deserve to be respected.

I am working on losing weight these days. While it has been successful (so far), I swing wildly between being proud of myself, being able to notice the changes and liking them, and feeling utterly unattractive. Sometimes I am so angry at myself for getting to this point, and have to fight to find some perspective (yes, but I'm doing something about it now). In extra bleak moments, I'm convinced that it won't make any difference. People will still see me as the fat girl; I'll still see me as the Fat Girl. Perspective is somewhat more difficult to find in these moments. Intellectually, I know that there is much more to me than my appearance, particularly my weight. Intellectually, I realize that if someone is going to love me, they will love ME as I am. Intellectually, I know that I have a lot to offer. Emotionally, however, none of this matters. Emotionally, I am just a shy fat girl, who hides behind snark and disdain. Emotionally...

I am vastly concerned about my body image. Most of the time, the best I can do for myself is "I'm not ugly." My friends and family tell me I'm pretty. I've even heard the word "gorgeous" a time or two. What is wrong with me that I can't see that? How do I fix this? Am I foolish to hope the weight loss will help? If it is this bad, can I allow myself to be loved?

You know how most people get married in the Spring? I can't dig it. If ever there is a wedding for me, it will be in the Autumn. Naturally, it makes sense (in my head) that I also want to fall in love in Autumn. I think the final months of the year are tailor-made for falling in love. I did once. I fell in love in the Fall. That relationship is long over, and while I don't miss it, or him, I miss that. I genuinely grieve for the time when I felt loved.

Can I just tell you that sometimes the Universe is a big asshole? (I'm totally calling the Universe out right now, and I WILL regret this, but seriously!) I went into the Top Stop the other day, to get a Diet Coke (or 3), and the gent behind the counter was very cute. Very. (I can hear some of you now: "But, he worked in a convenience store." I know, I know. That isn't really the point. And, yes, I know how snobbish that sounds.) He was also kind of flirty. He was very flirty. He complimented me on my sweater. (Yes, I know: that was really a veiled compliment to my boobs, but they did look amazing in that sweater...) I was flattered. I laughed. He laughed. He was married.

I'm trying to write a novel this month, and it isn't going that well. I may not finish. That's two years in a row. I feel like a huge failure. I've been working on this weepy, maudlin blog post for a week. Not a whole lot of perspective here, either. Oh, well. I'll do what I can.

If you've read this far, thanks for attending my pity party. I'm really not fishing for compliments here, nor am I looking for compliments. I just needed to vent. I have. Now, I will find some boot-straps with which to pull myself up by, and continue working on an attitude of gratitude (my goal since October's General Conference).

Blah.

Oh, Hey, I Have a Blog!

Well, I missed October entirely. Which is too bad, because there were some perfectly lovely days that I should have noted. But, I got busy. Very, very busy.

More recently, I have been having a string of terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad days. Plus, it's dark by 5 pm. And I just.... can't...

I will post something more significant -- more positive -- soon. If only because I need a goal.

A Whiff of Fall in the Air

It was right chilly this morning. The leaves on the trees highest on the mountains are just starting to change colors. The air is more breathable. It's like welcoming home an old friend.

Thus begins September

I can't help thinking how lovely it is that this September started on a Wednesday. It just feels so synchronistic. Of course, this may have something to do with the Personification Synesthesia I enjoy. (And I do enjoy it, make no mistake.) September and Wednesday just feel the same. I won't take it personally if you don't understand that. Or look at me like I'm a little bit crazy.

I came across this little delight earlier:

"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness." --Robert Frost

Is that not perfect?

I write the first drafts of my poems in pencil. I think it's because I want to make sure I have the "sense of wrong" perfect. And a first draft isn't perfect. But I don't erase. I cross out, and write above, and scribble arrows, and interject. I want to see the journey. When it's right, then I put it in pen.

I contacted an old friend today, and thought of others I'd like to say hello to. Told myself I would say hello. And I will. Soon.

This Wednesday also graced me with the strength to forgive, and a dear friend made me laugh.

Not a bad start to September.

100th Post, In Which the Universe Provides a Gift...

This is officially my 100th post. One hundred should be marked by something, right? A list of some sort? Pictures? Perhaps. But I'm not feeling any of those things at the moment, so I'm going to mark it with this:

I really like dragonflies. They are delicate, lovely little things. In Japan, they represent strength, courage and happiness.

I was beginning my drive home one day last week, and it had not been a good day. It hadn't been a good week. I was exhausted, headache-y, and a little heart sore. I pulled up to the first of the many stoplights I'd have to wait through, and sighed. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of wings. I looked, and fluttering right outside my window was an absolutely massive dragonfly. It stayed there, outside my window, until I began to drive again; then, it kept pace with me, flew to the front of my car, fluttered there for a moment, and took off just as I made my turn. It helped. I was no less exhausted, and the headache lingered, but I felt decidedly lighter in heart. And I smiled.

Thank you, Universe, for the reminder that we are never alone. That there is One who knows our names, knows our needs, knows us. That we will be provided for, even in dark moments. That we are loved. That I am loved. Thank you for the dragonfly.

Sensing a Memory

There is a certain smell of plastic that reminds me of my childhood toys. Smelling it is pure nostalgia. The first poem I ever memorized was "El Dorado," by Edgar Allen Poe. It was one of my dad's favorites. I was 12, and I can still recite it. Suave hairspray, the cheapest kind in the pink bottles, reminds me of being 13 and in the throes of my first major crush. An unexpected whiff of Crush cologne is like a punch in the gut. I remember where I was when I first read "Labysheedy," and "Digging," and "What lips my lips have kissed..." I have eaten potato cheese soup at my grandma's every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember; it tastes like Christmas now. The first word I remember actually reading, on my own, was "mountain." The first song I ever learned after starting voice lessons was "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." When I hear it now, I am swimming in emotions, if only for a moment: gratitude for my mother for allowing the voice lessons, Mrs. Sullivan for providing them, tenderness for the little girl I was, humility at the gift I was given, and even after all these years, a genuine liking for the song. (These days I'm partial to the version Iz Kamakawiwo'ole sang.) Every so often, the sight of the mountains -- this place I call home -- takes my breath away. I can always tell when someone is smoking a Camel cigarette, and for a second, I desperately miss my old friend Tyler. I remember the first time I found the Big Dipper on my own. Leather reminds me of my dad, since he always smelled like his gun belt, Doublemint gum is my mom. I don't think I have ever borrowed a tissue from her that wasn't redolent with minty sweetness. I will never forget the first time I saw "The Kiss," by Klimt. The first John Denver song I learned all the words to is "Annie's Song;" it is still my favorite one to listen to, and to sing. I still have a copy of the first poem I ever wrote. The smell of wood fire is the smell of home.

There are other, more vague sensual experiences that prompt a memory. Although I can't really define them, I know them when they come. And I'm grateful, even for those that are hard to remember. They remind me of where I've been. Of who I am. And that I'm alive.

Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. *

I have felt vaguely unsettled the last few days; mildly restless. As if I am standing outside a door; the door is locked, and I don't have a key. On the other side is something for me; I don't know what. Something good, perhaps? Something wonderful? Simply something new? I am waiting for the key to come to me. Then I can open the door.

I know learning to trust the universe means learning to trust the timetable the universe uses, and I know that life is a series of doorways; sometimes we are outside, sometimes we are passing through, and sometimes we have found ourselves on the other side of a door. I've been waiting at this door for a while. And on this particular porch, I've found peace. But now, waiting to actually open the door is something else entirely. It's slightly disquieting...

*Quote from Carl Sagan