Good Mourning

Looking around my home, I notice that there are few things in my possession that I have owned for more than 10 years.

the night stand on the right side of my bed was a hand-me-down from my half-brother's grandparents.
I received it the summer he was born, in 1987. I used to keep my Barbies in the bottom drawer for a awhile.
Periodically it has held journals, books, incense, photos.
Presently it contains books, eye pillows, ear plugs, leftover glow-in-the-dark stick on stars from my ceiling (which are a collection of both the ones I had in my room as a teenager and left overs from an old roommate's sister).

On the other night stand sits a lamp, its base spray painted silver about 7 years ago. It's original purchase dates back to 1988. It was bought at Kmart. We had moved into the house on Brogden Street that July, and the bedrooms didn't have overhead lighting. It used to be porcelain white with a decal of colorful wildflowers on it. Sometimes I wish I hadn't painted over it- because those flowers are more me than the silver paint. I did so, because at the time there was a part of me that wanted to glaze over the parts of my childish past. I wanted to declare my adulthood, which was clearly recognizable by my sophisticated taste. ha.

In the office hangs a 2x3 oil painting I made my senior year in high school. I constructed the frame in Sept of 1996. That same month, my classmates and I drove up to our Art teacher's beach house one Saturday morning. The house is on Netarts Bay. We spent that beautiful, cloudless afternoon painting a sand/glue mixture on the jessoed canvas, right there on beach of the bay. I didn't really have a plan. Some people painted the sand on in an obvious picture. Later on back in the studio, I started to put color on randomly. Half-way through, I realized I was painting scenery from my out -of -body experience, from 2 years earlier. Now when I look at it, I am not only reminded of the places I have been, but also too, how I use to go there.


These things do not define me, though they tell you (and me) bits about who I am. Or rather who I have been in this life, so far.

The last couple of days, I have found myself in mourning. Like post-birthday depression, it snuck up on me. The weight of it laying over me so stealth- like I hardly knew it was there, until I did. I did not have words to describe what I was grieving. Until this morning, finishing up a book that involves terminal illness (My Sister's Keeper"). It became clear.

I was mourning the life I have been waiting for, to show up.

After sobbing a bit at the story's end, I got up from bed. Still in my pajamas. Opening up the the door leading from my room to the back courtyard, I stood barefoot on the small slab of concrete. The sun warm on my face, the wind soft on my skin. The sound of the cars muffled on the freeway close by, mimicking the sound of the ocean in my mind.

I am so blessed that I get to stand here.

I suddenly thought of my best friend, Shauna. She would get this feeling. She would understand this overwhelming intensity of gratitude for this moment. She would also understand the grief.

Because she and I are alike in that way. We understand each other without words. We know each other by the silence between phone calls.

If not for my self-imposed Communication Vacation today, I would, for once, call her. To say these things. To hear her commiserate and relate deeply on the other end of the line. But whether I call or not- I know she will hear me, won't you Babycakes?

The grief for what will never be is a little uncomfortable to carry. I don't want to carry it around.
It is made up of the hope I once I had for the life I would live.
Which may sound contradictory to some. I know I come off as quite optimistic and so sure and so connected. Wise even. And I am all those things at my core.
And I am human too. Not so far up on a cute little pedestal that I don't get knocked down every once in a while.

You see, I thought for sure, by now, that my life would be different. Looking back ten years ago, it would look on the outside like a lot has changed. And it has.

In ten years I have:
changed jobs
lost my father, his mother, and his father
lost myself in relationships, only to find myself again
moved 6 times
gotten out debt
gotten back into debt
lost 40lbs
grieved pets
been promoted, twice
had my wisdom teeth pulled
traveled to Egypt by myself
married people
accepted my intuitive gifts
studied astrology
made new friends
let go of old friends
"ridden the bull"
taken up running
read countless books
cooked Thanksgiving Dinner
been a brunette
hosted some amazing parties
found a magical cottage

Inside, I feel a lot of the same things I have since I was a child. While I am grateful to wake up everyday- it also feels like "Groundhog Day". I am still "here". It might look different, and it feels the same.
It feels as if nothing really changes.

Sometimes I wonder, ironically, now that I have finally decided I would someday like to be a mother (that clock isn't ticking yet), that maybe I am not supposed to be one.
Maybe, depsite the fact that I feel I have lived many lifetimes as a spiritual hermit, that isn't supposed to change this time around either.

Maybe its always supposed to be just me.

Perhaps I should be content and in acceptance of this great life I live, and not get greedy for more than I have been graciously given. Maybe its just not my lot in life to have more than this.

And its not so bad. In fact, its pretty awesome.
I am blessed with a magical home, the companionship of a sassy and sweet cat, a circle made up of the most wonderful friends, an important and satisfying day job, interesting and fulfilling life work of intuition, astrology and planning, and a family that supports and loves me

My goodness. Isn't that enough? Perhaps nothing is missing at all.

Perhaps I am like my old night stand- still very much present, made up of the same things. The bones in tact sturdy and strong. The contents stored inside, change from Barbie Dolls to works of fiction and hope of what might be, and then onto ear plugs, rubber bands, ball point pens, post-it notes, and lip balm.

Maybe we need different things than we think we do.