be present, be purposeful

i want to be present in my life. i want everything i do to be purposeful. starting right now i'm going to mean everything i do, say everything i mean, and take the consequences.

now that i'm on the path to recovery, and what a long terrible journey its been so far, i can look back now, now that i am single, have hit rockbottom and have no where to go but up, and see how destructive avoidance can be, how tragic intolerance is, how pathetic emtpy eyes see the world, how being green is a disgusting thing and being positive can truely bring positive changes.

i've changed, not for the better, but now its time for damage control. i'm ready. i'm going to make this count. i'm not going to waste a broken heart or two of the greatest years thus far on the theory of pity; instead i'm going to live with purpose and hopefully not regret my tardiness in doing so.

i'll always love ryan o'brien, fisher o'brien and his lovely parents and brother. but i'm no longer part of that clan, by choice as well as decree, and so i must move, in any direction, so that i can verify whether or not i'm living again. and as long as i'm present, as i'm purposeful, as i'm all-in, i'll be alright.

its coming in waves, the sadness, the freedom, the tragedy, the goodness. its amazing how painful it is to take down all artifacts of the last two years; little remains on my walls, my pillows are bare, my tabletops now artless. i don't even know what to do with everything. i know i won't get rid of it, mostly because most of it is art made for me by someone who has my heart, who was my best friend, who got me through africa, who gave me the gift of being a faux-parent, who inspired me to do great and terrible things, who is gone now, forever i fear, and whom i'll never have again. i can't look at that stuff, it can't be up there as a reminder of what was and will never be again. of the joy, the light, the shooting stars. the giddiness. the hands. the baby boy. the tuk.
so the walls are barren, the toys in a box to be sent over to fisher, the anger in a letter for laura that i'll never send, but unfortunately, the failure, the sadness, the loneliness, the love lost, thats all mine to bear.

and all on this tragically, in-your-face holiday.

valentines is a day of reflection; sadly my reflection is of one, not two or three faces any more.

but as ryan said during our last talk, "lets make this count, lets make everything have been with a purpose" and so, with those lovely, leading words, i'll say this:
i'm going to paint the walls, i'm going to get new sheets and rearrange most everything, i'm going to organize, my closet, my car, my debt and my life, i'm going to be the best person i can be knowing that that is all ryan has ever wanted for us to be: our best.

be good to yourselves today. and more importantly, tomorrow.

heavy be lifted lightly, lashes be weighed with beauty black not salted tears

When I first returned from Mali, and up until today, I haven’t worn mascara on a daily basis, like I had for the 10 years leading up to my departure, because every single day, I wept. I didn’t cry. I wept. Heaved. Sobbed.
I had left a country that I had involved myself with, eaten the food we had sown, bathed with precious water, slept under heavy stars, read my way through terror inspiring rain storms, sweated out sweltering, unforgiving heat, and befriended beautiful people with a different tounge. I had come home to a place of impossible beauty and bounty. To a family and a loved ones and dear friends and precious pets and a welcoming community and was entirely lost within my head, my heart. Everything felt overwhelming. Everything was heavy and dripping with memories. I slept outside because I couldn’t handle walls for a few months. The walls of the canvas tent swayed and put me to sleep like the breezes that would meander through the screen of my bug hut, under the same stars, just somehow much further from them.
As symbiotically replenishing as a good, thorough cry can be, these I believe have officially lasted long enough and are, as of today, Skylar’s 30th birthday, 4 February 2010, over.

The days of the big lashes are back. Lovely.

the first one is always the sweetest

so here it is. sweetness in type.

outside its cold, somewhat cloudy, both in air and aire. inside, though, its lovely, toasty, the dogs, Zoe and Saul, are curled into each other at the base of the stairs. sure things could be better, but they could be a hell of a lot worse, and since its neither, i'm just going to enjoy the simplicity of normality. of normalcy. of being home, of being in a home, a structure built with more than just maneur and grass. but then, when i was in a muck, mud and grass hut, i was pretty thankful. more thankful, actually.
i wonder what that means? when you're forced to have nothing over your head but what you normally walk on; what protects you from the elements is in fact an element and in some instances causes more grief than relief; when you're living within walls made of poo, currently inhabited by roaches and beetles and termites, that you can find it in your soul to be grateful, thankful, indebted. yet, when you're in a home, and the dictionary confirms this as a fact in our realm, with walls, and paint, and windows (with glass), and a door, and a heater and with love hanging from every hook, every artifact is a memory of something someone you love enjoyed enough to bring home, that you can sometimes then find yourself ungrateful.
shocking. i know.
gross even.

but then you make yourself understand the importance or relevance. of reality. that there are different realities that help you assess your situation. some make up realities for their own good, own evil, whichever. but some, most i hope, just need a nudge in the right direction with the right inflection and suddenly, you're grateful for everything, everything, every bit of paper, every photograph, every paw print, every toothbrush, every pillow.
and you should be.

tonight, i'm grateful. its a lovely feeling. one i hope to employ daily.
maybe that will be my resolution. my constitution.