The freedom revealed in moments of clarity are fleeting. I know that as soon as I find that moment of peace free of the lists and the responsibilities of my transition, I will begin to worry. Why is it that insecurity stalks our peaceful moments and leaves us breathless in fear? I sometimes imagine that my happy thoughts and daydreams are frostbitten waiting on a change to take me on a vacation. They are packed and ready for the sunny beach bungalows filled with books, friends, wine, and cheese. Every now and then, they send me little snippets of the happy daydreams to keep me feeling light as air. And I embrace them like a deserted soul grasping for mercy. Even the smallest of the memories, and dream, and moments are enough to inspire me to seek clarity’s freedom.
Today, I am as light as air. I know the moments are fleeting, but I don’t mind. What is life if it isn’t living for the next? What is today if we aren’t trying to make tomorrow better? My daydreams and happy moments are motivators. As long as I am light as air, I can stay above the fray that consumes so many of our dreams. What is it that you want more than anything? Does it benefit anyone besides you? Will it hurt anyone for you to have it? Take stock of your purpose, influence, and responsibilities to society. Dream in peace and never stop seeking the clarity that makes you light as air. Freedom is forgiving and fruitful; share it with the world.
Beginnings are frightening. Gloriously, joyfully, frightening. A little over a week ago, I wrote about how hope is temporary. (Link posted below.)
Well, here’s an update. I have my new beginning. I am venturing out into the great unknown. I am at the precipice of one path and preparing to jump the Great Divide. I should be more afraid. It would be smart to be more afraid. Because, fear is a great teacher. It makes you cautious of the unknown and attentive to your ignorance. I am new in my new beginning. Things of the past are merely pebbles in the fish tank and I am jumping into the ocean.
Hope fails if temporary. My hope, however, was eternal and invested in a higher power. My now and His Now aren’t always aligned. My now is driven by my ambition and desires; His Now is the only When. I am grateful for the opportunity before me and even more grateful for the ones I have had. So, here at this precipice, I’m not afraid of the height or the distance I must leap. I’m just going to enjoy the view.
Worth the read: Hope fails if temporary
Sometimes I want to just be free of responsibilities, duties, obligations, and worries. I want to feel light and airy, I want to be a souffle. I want to rise every day and be free to meditate, simmer and stew in my own thoughts and daydreams. I get my best ideas from my daydreams. Remember that post about my dream Saturday? I want to make that happen.
I feel horrible for wanting to be selfish for just a little while. It seems as if so much depends on my attention and so many people need me for my various abilities, that I sometimes forget to be important to myself. Don’t get me wrong. I love all the extra responsibilities that I have and the volunteering that I do. All of it comes from my heart. What I don’t like is being required or requested to do things that can be handled by someone else. What I don’t like is being asked to do something that someone else was just too lazy to do. What I don’t like is being asked my opinion on something as if it will matter, when said person is just going to continue as is!
I have anxiety. I wish to be calm and I want to willingly let go of things outside of my control. But just like many people who I know, I worry about money and work and my students and my parents and one million other things that invade my mind like parasites. I know that I suffer from it because of the early morning fretting and the constant worry about things that I can’t control. My anxiety does not allow me to be calm unless I am writing or thinking about food. Even when I am writing, I worry about what people will say about me, my thoughts, and those words that escape. That’s the qualm before the calm. One day, I will tell all of my worries and restraints, “que sera sera” and they will wait outside my Saturday room while I escape, write, and read. Maybe they will get tired of waiting and stalking me. Maybe they will pack up their bags and leave me for a local politician some distance away. Maybe they won’t be waiting for me like they are every morning at 3:30.
I like being in charge, but I will gladly relinquish control of a situation to someone capable of making it work. Most importantly, I will relinquish control to a higher power. Lately, I haven’t been as close to God as I want to be. I haven’t relinquished control out of want and desire. I established a pattern to single-handedly fulfill my own wishes and needs. I prayed for the things that I wanted instead of the things that I needed. In the end, I didn’t get what I wanted. I got something that was better for me and for those with whom I will be collaborating.
What made me so arrogant in my singularity? Nothing other than lack of consideration or realization that I did not collaborate with God. Foolishly, I considered myself and expert in all things Meka without acknowledging all that He has done for me. You don’t have to be religious to feel as if your destiny isn’t fate. I don’t have a religion; I have a relationship. I forgot about that relationship as I dreamed of happy days and success. Why is it that when the sky is falling and the ground is crumbling, I remember the need for this connection, this heavenly collaboration.
I have been blessed with family and friends with collaborative spirits. We meet and tackle troubles head first. I have no doubt that, at any time of the day or night, someone is willing to help me. I hope and pray that everyone has that same collection of supportive people. One by one, we are singular in our motives and our successes; but, imagine if we collaborated on our dreams and hopes? We could advance our communities with limitless resources. That transcends religion. Regardless of what you worship and in whom you believe, our relationship with a higher calling makes us want to do good and present the best of ourselves to the world. I like to believe that 90 percent of our issues with society can be eradicated with a little spiritual and wholesome collaboration. I want better; you want better. We should collaborate, ya dig?
Unless preoccupied in the thoughts of my dream world, I always greet people with a smile. I was raised that way. Regardless of how society feels about salutations and respect, I say Ma’am and Sir. There is always room in the inn and food in the fridge. I was raised by a very hospitable family. I can remember my mom and dad cooking dinner and feeding anyone in the yard. Once, my dad fed a yard full of hungry kids with one pitcher of Kool-Aid, a bag of chips, and hotdogs. It wasn’t a planned meal. My dad was outside doing yard work. He threw some hotdogs on the grill and that was that. I’ve seen my mother feed ten people with one chicken, and everyone ate until they were full. Growing up, it never occurred to me that this wasn’t normal. I thought every family shared what they had. I can remember sleeping on the floor on pallets because family was visiting from out-of-town. What hotels? We slept on the floor and talked the entire night.
My childhood was an instructional manual in hospitality, Southern Comfort. I never knew my parents not to be willing to help anyone, family or not. They embraced everyone, even long gone exes. That’s another story. The miracle of it? They weren’t rich. Even by middle class standards, they were modest. However, they were abundantly limitless in love.
Forget Emily Post and all those manuals and books, Margaret Barclay is the most hospitable and charming lady. She could (and would) give lessons to you and feed your some of the best fried chicken you’ve ever eaten.
I don’t want this to be the end. I don’t even want this to be the ne plus ultra of my ability. So here I am bearing my deepest want. Here I am paint-stripper scraping the basement of my soul and telling you, the reading world, what I want. I don’t want. I don’t want finality to be mundane. I want you to read my words and feel as if you were breaking your Fitbit goals in my head. Run around in here, have a seat, get comfortable.
But that’s the hard part. Who can ever say that they feel genuinely naked and unafraid with how they are perceived? I don’t. Even when I am exhausted and having that moment of clarity, I hold back from what I really want to say. Not that I fear frightening people, I fear letting you know me. I fear the finality of your lost curiosity and disinterest. If you get to know me, the writer, you will know my soul. And that personal revelation feels final.
Still, I want my finality to be the crowing achievement. I want to leave the words uttered from the depths of my living soul to never die. I crave the immortality that only literature can deliver. In a hundred centuries, I want some one to dust me off, open my cover, and fall in love with the words that desperately escaped me.
Cotton candy. I can remember going to the carnival and waiting in line. The air was always sweet from the sugar of the cotton candy machine and salty from the popcorn machine. My mouth watering, I was gloriously juxtaposed between the two alluring treats. First, it was always the cotton candy. I loved pinching off little sections of the fluffy mounds and letting them dissolve on my tongue. i habitually licked the sweet off my fingers and then wiped my fingers on my shorts before I pinched another sweet cloud. I was mesmerized by the candy floss artist as he flicked his wrist and twisted the paper cone around machine collecting a perfect pink cloud with every try. I recently tried to master this skill. Needless to say, I ended up with more stuck to my lashes and hoodie than I could attach to the cone.
Bedroom. My bedroom was a Better Homes and Garden photo-op staged by my mother. From the pink ruffled canopied bed to the Laura Ashley floral wallpaper, my room oozed “Darling Little Girl.” At night, the bed and the walls glowed pale in the moonlight. It was so pleasant that nightmares sat for a spell and enjoyed a cup of tea. Speaking of tea, my mother collected miniature tea sets and cleverly duct-taped them to the pink shelf above my headboard. In the daylight, my room became a Spring Sunday afternoon, bright and cheery. I would often fling myself across the bed only to be told to not get the spread dirty. I have so many wonderful memories of that room.
Medicine. Every child of the 80s remembers that bubble gum pink concoction, Amoxicillin. Why make medicine taste so good? I would look forward to that stuff only to be teased by two spoonfuls. I think those were the only times I ever finished the doses of any antibiotic. On the other hand, I ran from Pepto Bismol with the gusto of a life-sentenced fugitive fleeing the law. I would rather suffer through the episodes of vomiting than take one tongue’s lick of that unearthly muck. I can remember thinking that I was going to die from a stomach ache that I achieved from eating too much junk. My mother had to bribe me to take a dose of the Pepto-Dismal (as I called it). Even then, I convinced myself that my death certificate would read “She took Pepto.”