The Vulnerability of Men

Last week my online dating frustrations hit a point where I was whining to my big sister.  She was online dating for a bit and reminded me that our step brother found a wife on Ok Cupid and we all adore her. We were talking about the men that send pictures of private parts or ask for those pictures.  We talked about the conversations that get pulled aggressively into non consenting sex over a WiFi connection.  Those men never get in touch with me again. These things just appear to be the cost of the convenience of meeting someone without going out to do so.  Our talk was one where my perspective was shifted.  I was putting too much care into finding the right person to kill time with. I had my heart set on going out with someone and the ideas of where that would lead are still uncomfortable for me.  It's a nebulous idea that dances at the edge of consciousness and my calm has been in looking at profiles because looking is easier than leaping into another life of being with someone and the good and bad that come with it.

On Match, I wasn't getting many responses. I have hundreds of views each day, but not many people that want to talk or express interest.  I reached out to a few people, but realized that most of the people I was matched with are not actually visiting the site anymore.  Their idea of who sees you filters down to; seeing, clicking on and viewing, liking, winking and messaging.  It looks better on paper than in reality because in reality, many can look, but without a subscription, can not talk to me.  I have more responses and emails on OK Cupid, and a little more fun as well.  They have quiz questions that read into personalities and that helps with matching.

I have gotten messages but they fall into categories of NO.

The really cute ones that are submissives looking for a dominant woman to humiliate them with a strap on  - "You are truly beautiful, but not for me."

The boys that are 21 and 22, and unafraid of rejection.   - "You are cute as a button but I don't date younger men."  - They are persistent.  - "Really, I have a 14 year old and have been able to buy my own booze almost as long as you have been alive.  Hard pass sweetie.  Thanks for the ego boost." They tend to believe in a friendship that will convince me I want more and they ply me with words like "gorgeous, beautiful, goddess." There are a couple I will communicate with in kindness, but there is no interest on my part. I decided I will not date men that are younger than me. I was wrong in my ideas of being a shameless cougar.  I can't do it. She's not me.

There are a few requests from other cities and countries.  I am only looking to date someone in my city because that's the point of finding someone to spend time with. I want to spend time with them. What they are offering is not my idea of dating.

There are the older men.  I won't go above 45, but I've had a lot of requests from men in their 50's and 60's and even an 80 year old.  These men are persistent and ask for a chance.  They'd probably treat me well, but they aren't what I'm looking for.  I give my appreciation and say I'm too uncomfortable with the age gap and wish them well.

Men that want to talk about sex, and have a tantrum because I won't send pictures of my body parts: I block them or ignore them.  It usually comes with another tantrum.

There is one that I'm allowing to think he means a lot to me. It's an externalized abuse for my internalized issues.  When I met my ex, I was dating 7 different men.  I let them all go for my Mr. Right, but at the time, it was a balancing act.  This was when cellphones were about calling, and not about texting.  This was when people were still using pagers.  I would doodle through every call, and make sure to keep track of details about our conversation.  This man I'm texting is emailing pictures of himself to me and acting like I'm the one that holds the key to his forever, but I can hear his missed details in repeating conversations with me, as if it's a rehearsed script and he's lost his place.  He tells me how amazing I am and that I'm his priority and he wants to be mine, but I can hear the false ring to his words and know he's putting in a lot of work and will be disappointed but it's his choice to mask his polyamory habits so I can be the evil person I don't want to be because he deserves it.  That's my justification.  I'm sticking to it. Besides, he is many cities away and I turned him down flatly.  Is it my fault he isn't interested in what I want in his proposed relationship with my pictures? Maybe.  Maybe I should just cut off contact.

There were a couple of men that are looking for their forever.  They are well off and situated in life and looking for someone special.  I tell these men that I'm not the person they are looking for.  I have baggage that will look like I'm playing games and they deserve more than I am capable of offering, but I wish them all the best in finding the right woman. They tend to respect my answer. There's something beautiful about these rejections.  There's something in the vulnerability of their honesty and their desire for a connection.  There's something in me saying that I am not in a position to start a relationship that they would find fulfillment in.

I pass on military men.  They are a special breed of human willing to set aside their needs and wants for freedoms I can't imagine not having.  They live by rules I don't and deserve more than I'm willing to offer.  My Dad is a Vet from Vietnam.  I remember PTSD as that thing that makes me wake him up by shouting from far away because his fists wake up before he does.  It's that thing that makes him forget names and dates because the trauma that feels as fresh as yesterday reminds him that those he meets may be gone in 5 minutes.  I remember fireworks shaking terror into him and Thanksgiving meals that looked a lot like doomsday threats to unsuspecting boyfriends.  I remember the slow walk and hounding trepidation as we would visit the traveling Wall of black stone that was engraved with names of heroes that our nation tries not to forget.  I remember my Dad finding names and touching the cold stone in a moment of profound grief.  It's the sorrow that sits on shoulders, never offering relief, but the weight that flooded his features that day showed me that my Dad was capable of human frailty. It showed me that beneath his bravado he was broken and the shards he held in his heart were sharp and delving deeper as each year of survival pressed guilt on his frame. I feel a military man deserves an equally amazing woman and I choose to not be her.  I choose selfishness and will thank them for their service before saying, "happy hunting love."

I see the props they showcase in children, pets and cars.  I see the backdrop of global locations in their pictures.  I get the need to showcase what they can offer, but I'm not comfortable with being materialistic like that, so I have started skipping past men that are less attractive to me than their dog.  I see their stories as a way to say that they are amazing and as uncomfortable as I am, I try to see how they might be special through the worries that they would be seen less than their accomplishments.  I'm looking at their eyes and some of them have eyes as blue as the deepest seas.  I laugh when I read someone's impression of my body because clearly, they spend enough time in the gym to let their pectorals declare whose body means the most to them.  They tend to like my eyes (no idea what they see, but I'll take it) and my body and a few even mention my verbose blathering in my profile.  They get the apple points for saying I'm articulate and they want to know more of what I think .

I am looking for moments of shyness and insecurities because that is where I am humbled that they took a chance to approach me. I find their vulnerability attractive and I want more. I also enjoy telling the little boys I'm too old for them.  It eases the feeling of being thrown away that creeps up every so often when I slip in my vigilance.

The Art of Gift Receiving

It took a long time to realize that when people give me something, it's because they want to and the best way to honor that is a gracious acceptance and open appreciation.  I'm not an asker.  If I ask for something it's because I have lost hope and I will ask my parents first, and only.  Actually, my kid's school is looking for donations for a new adaptive playground.  I ask for them sometimes.  Something about being born to my parents makes them always the safe people to go to in asking.  There's safety in knowing they always want what's best for me and there's security in knowing they will sacrifice their own needs for my sake when it's possible. A beautiful friend of mine just made a huge career jump from finance to acting.  The payoff was huge.  There's something about people in entertainment.  They are all of the dreamers and visionaries in our society.  They are idealists. They have really strong beliefs. Like me, they desire attention for their craft.  When I was working as a television extra (I'm a native from L.A., it was a rite of passage) I loved that I could get a job because I was cute or beautiful or had a great smile.  Casting directors always compliment when booking.  It was what I needed and helps keep me grounded when weeding through the dating sites full of men that want to get to know me better, even if I am only being polite.  I'm starting to be a little rude and even catty.  I may have to take a break soon.

Squirrelly rabbit trail aside, this beautiful friend of mine is acting which means character development looks like intentional play and scavenger hunts.  She was working on bartering a few weeks ago and I was happy to help.  She was contacting person to person to trade goods and services.  I gave her Japanese panel art that had been sitting in storage, and she gave me a session with a certified spiritual life coach.  I wanted to help my friend and she wanted to gift me with something that would help me grow.

I am a Christian, and most Christians would freak out at the idea of seeing someone who is a clairvoyant and practices candle magic and tarot reading, but I'm not going to ever be typical or like most others.  Look here for That Time I Was a Practicing Witch.  I looked at the session as receiving a gift and when you receive, you take it as it is given, being open to the blessing they offer.

I was early in the area and spent some time in Pan Pacific Park.  There were children playing and people with their dogs.  There were so many baseball Dads and it felt good.  I walked around to the Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust and read the inscriptions on the black granite pillars. I walked along to the children's museum and had a moment of indescribable grief.  The weight of all I was surrounded by really hit me and I was crying in solitude as I touched the tiny holes left as symbols for children.

I remembered a man that always wore a cap on his head, with a faded number tattooed on his forearm.  I remembered the ghost of a smile that would touch his lips but never his eyes. No matter the burdens on his heart or the sorrow in his bones, he always had kindness for others in his warm and calloused handshakes or the care he took in seeing to the needs of his wife. Years beyond his passing and I am still blessed by the memory of his gentleness.

She was petite. She greeted me with a warm hug and her energy wrapped around her in a way that was expansive, but held in check.  It reminded me of a cat, playful and powerful yet indifferent to anything that didn't grab her attention. We walked to her home and the sounds, smells and sights were very east asian.  There were rich reds and bright oranges with dark woods and plush silk pillows.  The lights were dimmed and the room was bathed in the light of the setting sun in the west from a south facing window.  She had me stand with my arms out to my sides and fanned the smoke of burning sage all over my body as she spoke out her intentions or "smudged" me.  It's not a scent easily forgotten. It was a purification to start the work she was preparing me for. She offered me something to drink and it's a habit to decline.  We sat and talked.

I went through the dramas and traumas that are in the blog and even a few details that I normally keep much closer to my chest.  She is intuitive and repeated the same thing a really long Meyers Brigg test and Core Values Index told me.  I shoot from my heart and everything is grounded in love.  She asked what I wanted to do next and I told her I was receiving a gift.  This is her time to bless me in any way she felt was right.  She did a tarot reading and it reaffirmed what I had been hearing from her and others anyway, but there was a shift and I heard what I needed to.

In love, she pointed out that right now I am balancing everything and it is a heavy burden.  Right now finding love would mean I'm attracting someone else to care for and my spirit guides are trying to protect me from that.  I need to be filled to attract someone who is also filled.  I told her about a situation that had been on my heart and she described the meaning of mishegas, and told me there is plenty of hope for a shiksa like me. She said the name, shiksa with love and joked about there being plenty of jaffrican americans before me that have been willing to convert. She is Jewish and had never dated another Jew because it felt like she'd be dating her relative. It inspired hope.

We moved on to candle magic.  She mixed essential oils in a mug and picked out an orange candle.  She anointed the candle and placed some oil on my hands and I placed it behind my ears.  Years ago it would have gone around my third eye, but I wanted it behind my ears where the smell would wrap around me during the guided meditation when we lit the candle.

I spread out on a comfortable and blood red couch and let my eyes focus on the blue tchotchke hanging above the tall window facing her balcony. I lit the candle and she started playing soft music and began her guided meditation to clear any chakra blockages and purify any energies.  It had been many years, so being intentional with not allowing racing thoughts was more of a challenge, and at times my mind just went blank in being in the moment.  She asked right away if I had felt anything.  She said she felt my third eye was going mad and I have my own clairvoyance.  It wasn't until I woke up this morning that I remembered the familiar tingle that settled around my chest and the weight of energy flowing through my forehead.  I imagine it as energy.  It might have just been a buzzing feeling of stillness that can't be processed because I'm not used to it. I left in a much better mood than I had been in.  She was a gift to me and I highly recommend her. Visit Gypsy Rogue here

I stopped at the Grove because I had never been there before, and I wouldn't let the fear of it being a couple destination stop me.  It was so much like the Americana.  I enjoyed walking around for a bit and was really excited that I left and didn't have to pay for parking because I didn't make it an all day trip.  On the way home I sang too loudly and laughed into the wind.  I stopped at Phillippe's for a French Dip and potato salad dinner.  I didn't take it to go, but sat alone and smiled at other diners. It was a night of self care and a blissful evening of healing and fullness.

That Time I Was a Practicing Witch

Part of my adolescence was fighting through patriarchal ideals that I couldn't fit around me.  I grew up in a strict Christian home where Dad held the bible over us.  We were taught the 10 Commandments and that our body is a holy temple.  Tattoos would send me to hell.  Then I got older and he would threaten that if anyone ever gave me drugs he would kill them, and he had PTSD from Viet Nam.  I was convinced he would get away with it.  The joke was on him because the childhood trauma was unnecessary.  I hated being high the couple of times I tried pot. Growing up, my parents were okay with me going to other churches.  Dad grew up Baptist, but I was at a Foursquare (pentecostal Christian) Church on Sunday mornings and at a Thai-Presbyterian Church on Sunday afternoons.  I visited Baptist and Catholic Churches with friends.  My Dad followed our family tree to find we are Sephardic Jews.  It makes sense because my maiden name is a typical Egyptian name.  I've never read the Torah, but it's important to my Dad and in his reclamation of a lost heritage, I have a prayer shawl, Chumash, and Mezuzah at my front door.  The family recipe he guards is a challah recipe.  Before I was born, he was studying Hebrew and there is no "J" sound in Hebrew.  To honor what he was learning, he picked my name that typically starts with a "J" and made it start with a "Y" as in Yeshua.  He calls me God's gift.  He would be so tickled if I brought home a nice Jewish boy.  I would be too.  Actually, my ex was part Jewish, but it was a forgotten and discarded heritage for him as well.

For a while, all of my crushes had one thing in common . . . They were all born in 1976.  It was a thing and my thing.  I liked boys that were a couple of years older than I am.  And I went through plenty of them, or rather, let them go through me.  I was looking for something more and something greater.

I was 21 when I first learned about Wicca.  It was beautiful in female empowerment.  There was dancing naked under the moon and it appealed to me.  There were colored candles and intoxicating scents that were part Catholic church and part eastern tradition. There was intention and ceremony and traditions that had order and it was centered on being female. I read books and set up an altar and after all of that performed only one spell and it was a spell to love myself.

It was more about learning how beliefs and religions borrow from each other.  I had grown up seeing a vesica piscis in trinity form printed in gold leaf on my Dad's bible.  It was circled, and stood for the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.  In Wicca, that symbol stood for the Mother, Maiden, and Crone.  I started to see that it had meanings in other traditions too.  I was all different and borrowed from each other.  It was the same for the pentagram.  When I was a kid, it meant devil worship, but in Wicca and elsewhere, it is a symbol of protection. I read about the many high holy days of Wicca and saw the Christian overlap.  After a few months of trying to clear Chakras I couldn't see and Astral Project, but ended up falling asleep, I let it go.  I figured I had been there and done that, and even got the tattoo.

My tattoo is a garter on my thigh, made up of symbols.  I wanted to remember that the trifecta's meaning is about the intention of the person using it.  I wanted to know that the symbols were what I made of it, whether it be my roots in patriarchy or the transformational learning through Wicca.  I chose the vesica piscis because I loved that one translation listed it as a symbol for a vagina.  It was empowering to me.  The band is made of the ing symbol and it wraps around my thigh.  It's a symbol for fertility.  I wasn't planning on ever having kids at that point, and I wanted fertility in thought and creativity. I needed to feel like belief was not control, but a source of empowerment and freedom.

I put my figurative broomstick up after a couple of months.  I am open to understanding about other religions and beliefs but my God is real to me, and I understand that it is all a matter of interpretation and faith and it's not something that could be forced on another with meaning.  I realized that faith and religion and beliefs are what you make of it. I believe that my pentecostal roots were born of a kabbalistic Jew and what Jesus would do covers love, healing and kicking a few tables around. The reward reflects what you've put into it.  I have no problem with other religions because I find people that are accountable to an omniscient being or authority greater than the self are generally more likely to behave in a way that makes them good people.  I won't mock or dismiss what brings meaning to someone else's life because I would hope my God was serious about loving others.

Measure Twice, Cut Once

Life is full of measurements.  We measure the relationships we value against each other.  We place more value where the reward is greater.  We measure out minutes and hours and prioritize how we spend them.  On my dating app, I visit a profile at least twice before I remove them from my search results.  Actually, I spend more time clicking an "x" than saying hello.  The problem with too many options is I find too many reasons to decide how each person won't measure up and I cut them.  I love a good measuring tape and have been known to take one shopping.  I don't love shopping for clothes, but I want to make sure the junk I like will fit where I plan to stick it. I have a haphazard building style.  I know what I want to do and I visualize it and for years I would just make it happen. In recent years, I've learned to carefully diagram what I'm after.  I'll now measure what I want to do and measure it a second time before cutting.  It's a great skill to be mastered if you ever want to get into woodworking.   I will snap a chalk line and use clamps and squares where necessary.

It's like my plans to go to school again one day.  I don't have a date in my mind when I want to go back, but I know  I want to one day go back.  Becoming a geologist isn't as exciting now that the realities of volcanology are more exhausting than my energy reserves could accommodate. I wouldn't put my dreams of a JD to pasture because that's how I plan to fill my empty nest.  In looking at my transcripts, I would need to measure the grades in those math classes, and I may decide to take them over again.  Not as a perfectionist, but to make sure they don't hold back future plans.  Measure twice, cut once.

I've been spending my day looking at areas in my life to measure and cut.  I wish it were as simple as throwing out rotting tomatoes that I forgot I had.  It's not. It's a careful examination where I look at the beautiful memories that were made.  I look at where it fit in my life, and how it made me grow.  Then it's time to cut and release something that meant so much to me, no matter how insignificant it was to the rest of the world.  Tonight I held the tattered remnants long enough to sigh in sorrow and I exhaled in gratitude for what it was.  I know that it still means a lot but what I had wasn't enough as a memory to build a dream on and it's time to let it go.

Letting go of something and accepting the change means something gets changed around my homestead.  The day the ex moved out, I swapped out my bathroom sink and vanity.  I worked around my project, shoving a shim where it needed balancing and ensuring there were no leaks.  Plumber's putty and tape were used and shoving parts in anger meant my blood was poured into the project as well.  I caulked the countertop to the wall and it eased the transition in my life.  I couldn't control a separation I didn't want, but I could put in a sink.  Tonight I put shelves in.  They were first installed in another room, but tonight I moved them to store an insane amount of shoes that I couldn't otherwise keep organized. No injuries happened tonight.  It felt good to hold my power drill and get used to the torque.  My last one was cordless and had more control.  The one I bought a few months ago is corded because I don't use it often enough to keep a battery charged. Both projects were haphazard and I didn't measure.  It just feels better.

It's a night of letting go of a dream that was fueled by fantasies that I couldn't control and its passing will be comforted with homemade corn tortillas and champurrado because thick hot chocolate settles in my belly with love and satisfaction.  In the tearless mourning of heartsongs forgotten, love looks like masa.  It also reminds me of that first broken heart where a boy's mother showed me more kindness than she showed her son.  Masa.

Testing, 1, 2, 3

I love tests.  It sounds insane because tests are usually terrifying and stressful, and believe me, I've had plenty of those that I didn't enjoy.  The tests I love are the ones you can't study or prepare for.  I like the ones that tell me more about who I am. I just watched a video that takes you through the 5 levels of the Stroop Effect test.  I was slower than I'd like on the last stage of the test, but didn't misname any of the colors.  You're given a set of words at a set speed and the words are written colors but the font is in a color other than the word you're reading.  It was a challenge and I loved it.

Briggs Meyer ENFJ-A

As a surrogate mother, I was having a moment of questioning if my motives were the right ones for wanting to carry another child for another couple.  I can't remember if it was my 2nd or 3rd surrogate pregnancy.  I felt like I was doing it because I loved being pregnant and it helped me to relive the joys of pregnancy without any of the fears and concerns that plagued my pregnancies with my children.  I felt I was being selfish. As a surrogate, I saw a therapist on a monthly basis with other surrogate mothers and she suggested I take the Briggs Meyer test. I don't think it mapped out an answer to my worries, but I my personality is a Diplomat and Protagonist.  I'm supposed to be charismatic and an inspiring leader but I'm still trying to get my sons to not pee on the toilet seat.  Honestly, reading the whole list of strengths and weaknesses in different areas of my life really hit me in waves and when the wave ebbed away, there was a clarity I didn't expect.  My personality type gave me closure with my marriage.  I was able to point at my personality as the reason why I held on for so long, and it gave me peace when I saw that I had decided to walk away and never look back.  It's who I am and there are others like me (President Obama and Jennifer Lawrence, so cool people all around.)

Core Values Index - Merchant/Innovator

My favorite part about job hunting everywhere is the testing.  Everyone wants to know how capable I am with various software.  I do very well, but so does everyone else because software is pretty user friendly, or it wouldn't be used everywhere.  Some companies insist on personality tests and another one I've taken is the Core Values Index by Taylor Protocols.  I'm a merchant/innovator which means I'm all about love and wisdom.  It's another set of insights where I can absolutely see myself in their explanations.  It tells me what motivates me and where I find fulfillment.

If anything, these personality tests make me feel like I should be more of what they say I am, and it's not a bad push toward being a better version of me.  I enjoy these tests because I love moments when I see more of who I am with a shifted perspective.

Just before I started writing this, I had edited my dating profile.  Again.  In all of my writing, this blog included,  I tend to write furiously to get it out of my head because if I don't write it, I'll lose it in the many other thoughts that crowd out my mind.  My brain doesn't shut off.  Typically I'll quickly post it and later go back to read what I've written. I then will read and re-read what I've written until I've edited it into submission.  This last reading of the "In my own words" section of my dating profile helped me see what I couldn't the first few times I read it.  I was writing parts to a specific person.  I got to a point where I started addressing the man I'm looking for and I wrote:

I want to be challenged and I want you to be unafraid to say something that will open my eyes and shift my perspective. Call me out when I'm wrong. I want to spend my free time with you. I want to get lost in your beautiful and intelligent eyes. I want to know what makes you tick and what makes you happy. I want to obsess over every observation I’ve made about you and I want you to be so great I’m driving everyone nuts because I want to share my secret so badly. I want you to be smarter than I am and I need you to challenge me on an intellectual level. I’m excited about the day a single random text from you will make me smile uncontrollably, giggling with giddiness, and seeing you will make every thought disappear. I'm looking forward to sharing a meal with you. I want to converse with you about silly things and major life. I want to walk through sifting sand along the Pacific with you and I want to learn how to play your favorite sports with you. I believe there are rights to exclusivity. If we're dating, you won’t find me entertaining someone else in the ways you’ve claimed as your right, and I expect the same assurance. I will never leave you wondering because I believe in transparency and have no reason to lie to you.

I wasn't writing to some idea of someone but I was writing to someone specific, echoing words I've already put into this blog so long ago.  Yikes.  With the shades of shame heating my cheeks, there's also a moment of pleasure because those memories are fond ones.  And this man isn't my ex.  Good times.

The Commodification of Affection

This should be a rant about paying to meet someone. It's not. Dating sites have a service to perform.  I get it. Life is all a varying shade of prostitution if you choose to see it that way. For example, I give you words and you pay me in views and likes. I think I make off like a bandit, because I believe I've expanded your perception, and no one ever tells me differently.  I also don't get a lot of feedback, and that's okay. I've been chatting with men I'm meeting on Match.com. No one blog worthy has gotten my attention. There are no Obsessive Observations of My Latest Crush Because He Was Hot (and so fun to watch). I'm consistently generally insulted once we really start talking past hello and how is your day going. That's when I'm objectified and used for a fantasy I was never invited to, because I would have declined the invitation.

There are a large amount of men sharing pictures of their cars or talking about how successful they are and it feels rude to say I don't care, so they blather on while I flip channels or brainstorm my next rant or blog post. I don't care about what someone else drives. Their car isn't registered in my name and I'm not on their insurance.  I will not have to worry about parking it or washing it, or filling up the tank and checking oil.

I have a car. I love it. I got it on my own and there is so much pleasure in reliable brakes, tires that aren't bald, and working seat belts. My car is registered in my name and I make the payments on my lease. I don't really care what someone else is driving. It's not status.  A car is the worst possible investment a person can make because outside of transportation, it depreciates the minute you drive it off a lot.  It's about freedom and independence to me and I won't find that in someone else's car.

The job thing gets me too. I understand an identity formed around a job title or profit margins, but I'm not offering their next career move. I'd rather see them offer a hot meal to the person sitting outside the restaurant we go to because it's something I would do.  I will listen to someone talk about work, but it's for their benefit, and not mine. I carried babies for wealthy couples and couples that were comfortable.  I never once expected their wealth was a reflection of mine, and a child grew in my body for them.

You can buy me dinner but if you expect me to accept anything more than an amazing date after I've just met you, I'm not the one for you.

I love the many places being travelled to.  It's awesome.  I have young children and shared custody.  At this point, my ideas of travel are short jaunts that won't take more than a weekend.  I'm good with small escapes.  I have a life here, and won't be travelling to every distant land.

I'm a single mom. My kids are my world and even if I forgive my ex, I don't want him back but we are still legally married, even if we only communicate through terse emails on a website. I'm not in a hurry to share someone new with my world. Not my kids, or my family. I want to meet someone to spend free time with and look forward to talking to. I want to meet someone smarter than me that will challenge me on an intellectual level. I want to see amazing leadership qualities because on some level, I like the idea of following a strong man into a new life that I have yet to imagine.  Think Aladdin and Jasmine.  She had to trust him first.

I learned long ago that love isn't a game and if you're playing then there are no winners.   Finding several men interested in my looks alone was easy enough when I was an adolescent and if the requests for sex over a phone line I've gotten in the last few days are any indication, it likely still is.  (Side note, your endowment can't scare this mother because I've walked around with a crowning child.) I'm not really looking for love as much as companionship, but I'm not closing my eyes either.  I'm looking for a person who can change my mood with a single random text. I'm looking for someone to share a meal with and converse with about silly things and major life.

Dating in Bold Audacity

I had a great day with my cousin yesterday.  We're not really related, but we might as well be.  Our parents knew each other about a decade before we were born and we crawled and toddled together.  One summer I ended up with a cast on my leg, and a week later he had a matching cast on his arm from doing the same thing.  He ended up in a hospital bed for a while and a couple of years later, I ended up in the same hospital bed.  When we got older, he was the one I would drag clothes shopping because I trust his judgment.  He is the best wingman and buffer when needed. Yesterday I picked him up for a slow route down Santa Monica to the 3rd Street Promenade.  It was like being the person I was before I met my ex.  Instead of rating each man 1 to 10, I was giving a quick "yes" or "no" with a description of a shirt color or the really cute guy talking in French.  I'm not a fan of shopping, but he is and he wanted to stop in all of the shoe shops.  We walked the pier and saw a sea lion swimming below us and hoping an angler would toss fresh fish to it.  At the end of our walk, we sat on a bench and he made some changes to my dating profile. There was a handsome man walking by, and I gave him a slightly inviting smile.  It wasn't predatory.  It was enough to make him smile back, then look at my cousin as if he was defiant and afraid.  We laughed about it because I wasn't that interested.  The day made me feel like I was a teenager again.

We talked about the time we were shopping at the Pier 1 Imports in Hollywood.  I got home and couldn't stop thinking about the boy that was helping me, so I called the store to leave my number for him.  He was too young for me, but that was a boldness I let go of.  Even when I first met my ex, I was at the bar, and I told the bartender what I was drinking and nodded toward the ex, saying he would pay for it.  Once upon a time I didn't need a wingman.  Once upon a time I would have leaned out of my car window with a set of cards I had made.

You've just received my card which means I would like to see or talk to you again.  Give me a ring sometime.

(With my name and number on it. Yes, I was that person. I still have one around here somewhere, I'm sure.)

As much as I'm still hating online dating, it still seems like the best option for now.  I saw several beautiful men in person.  There were none that made me forget what I was saying, but there was one today that made me forget where I was going, and I missed a turn this morning. . .  I was saying, plenty of beautiful men, but I don't have the boldness I used to.  I noticed that now I'm much more careful about looking for a ring or a partner attached.  I was watching for body language and I'm sure I read a few indicators incorrectly.  I'm not a drinker, so bars aren't really an option.  At the grocery store, there was a really attractive man picking up a cranberry goat cheese log, but his boyfriend was a few feet away.  So I'm resigned to the website for right now, and I expect one day I will get back to the person I once was.  For now, I will continue to be nervous about opening emails, and becoming a sexual fantasy based on my pictures, and I will hold out fistfuls of hope.

Another online dating tip: Seriously, even two days of texting is too soon to assume I want to know the size of your endowment. When you are doing something, you're less likely to talk about it.  If you have to announce what you are doing, that sounds like insecurity. Don't assume I am afraid of what you're wielding because an insult is likely to make me want to hurt your fragile feelings.

A Really Bad Start to Online Dating

I've been looking for a date online for the third day in a row, and it has yet to impress me.  When you are online, people can hide behind a keyboard, but it also makes them bold and there isn't always beauty in boldness.  I understand the need to not feel alone, but does it have to feel so dirty? There's a certain age range I want to stay within. I couldn't date someone if I'm old enough to be their teenaged mother, and if he's old enough to have fathered me it is just as disgusting to me.  I want to meet someone that will get my pop culture references.  I want to meet someone that is smarter than I am, but not from many more years on the earth.  The benefits of being able to sit in pajamas and meet and greet people from home mean that I went from one or two random meetings a week in person to over 300 views in the last two days alone.  The numbers and bad behavior have me jaded and disgusted already.

A large bit of disgust is about the random men that say hello, you're sexy, and start telling me about the ways they want to satisfy themselves while looking at my picture.  They lead with questions that are more about how I can satisfy them and have nothing to do with what kind of person I might be.  How people think that is okay, is beyond anything I can understand.  Last night I asked a man to tell me what he loves about the work he does.  It went from laying pipe, to making love and I had only been talking to him for a few minutes.  It always escalates quickly.  I don't have that level of disrespect happen in person.  It's not flattering to be used as a fantasy.  It's gross.

I'm not a fan of the 20 something year olds or the men in their 50's or 80's that want to imagine something romantic with me.  It feels creepy.  It feels dirty.  It is amazing that so many men that are older than me, see my age as too old for them.  I found myself dreading the notifications that announced new emails and winks or that someone liked my picture. In the few days I finally decided I might be ready to date, I've had a few men make me wonder if my skin really isn't thick enough for this.

On the plus side, I'm really getting to see what I like and it's not just about who will talk to me or what kind of chance I may have.  I've always had a thing for a certain look, but I'm really into blonde hair and blue eyes.  I like redheads with green eyes and I love freckles. I'm into upper body strength, but I have my limits because there really is such a thing as too much when muscles have muscles.  And I'm weird about facial hair.  It works on some men but definitely not on everyone.

I might be better off finding a wakeboard I love, and teaching myself something new.  I'm not giving up yet. I'm stubborn sometimes.  If you happen to be looking for a connection online and the opportunity comes to force someone to go for a ride along in your x-rated fantasy, just don't.  Don't prey on the loneliness of others. Be a better human being.

Self Confidence and Online Dating

I spent many years as a stay at home mom.  My days were spent chasing babies, cleaning up messes and doing yard work.  The yard work made me happy.  I love fresh dirt under my nails and working up a sweat in pulling stubborn weeds. It was often done in bare feet or running shoes.  Mainly bare feet.  When I went back to work in January, I decided I wanted to wear heels, but it was hard on my calves and I had to work through some seriously solid comfort zone fears. I wasn't used to walking or standing in heels.  I used to be.  I could spend a night dancing in heels at one time.  I still miss my black Esprit Mary Jane pumps with a chunky heel. It was a long time ago.  Pushing Past My Comfort Zones To Reclaim Ownership of my self-imposed value system came with rewards, but the first few days it mainly came with serious calf cramps. I was talking to my regional manager about my shoe issues, and she said she never wants to lose her confidence in heels.  The word, "confidence" immediately shifted my perspective.  It shifted everything.  That was when I really saw that confidence is something you decide you are going to accept as part of your identity. When I was walking without confidence, I had this fear that my ankles would twist and I would teeter and fall.  When I realised it was about confidence, I started walking as if I knew I wouldn't fall because my confidence made the decision that I wouldn't.  The change in my stride made my calf pain go away.  I wasn't walking like I would fall and my muscles didn't have to compensate for my insecurities.

I'm building my confidence in my dating profile.  Funny story:  I set up my preferences based on my type, and someone I know ended up in the search that pops up when I open the app.  He's not my dating option, but he pops up, and I remember his smile and the real life person I know.  For some reason, the views and likes and messages I've gotten since yesterday are all compared to him and they all fall short.  I'm chatting when I'm I get an email or chat window, but they're already rejected based on the person I know in real life.  It's sad.  On the other hand, it was a moment of joy to realise that I'm no longer comparing everyone to my ex.

The app and website are boosting my confidence.  I don't have to go out and turn down polite interest, I can do it from my phone in my pj's while getting laundry done. And there's something that feels good knowing that in 24 hours, I've had over 150 men click through my profile.  The numbers may be average or sub par, but it's far more than I was getting while out and about. Some of them might have read my verbose ramblings and checked out the profile I've plastered with several vapid examples of vanity.  I like reading, "nice smile, " and that I'm a "striking eyed beautiful woman," even if the smiles he can screenshot are all he'll ever see.

Right now my confidence is looking for balance.  The person I was the last time I was dating was intimidating and aggressive.  She was also a bit of a slut. I'm at peace with that.  It isn't who I am now. I'm trying to dial it back a lot and this in between gray area is foreign and frightening.  Besides, I still feel that I am having a great lot of  Fun Dating Myself and I feel I am pretty phenomenal.

There's something to be said about online dating.  I like real life interactions where I don't really pay attention to cars, status, or even looks until a man has said something that makes me want to learn more about him.  In real life, I can feel the guilt when I start to become materialistic, but online it's expected and I'm eased into it without the real life person in front of me to remind me there is a person with genuine feelings before me. The online version has made me look at these men in a different way, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.  Realistically, I look at profile pictures and the first thought I have is, would I be willing to see this man naked and be attracted to what I see?  It happens in person within the first two minutes, but I can usually get past that.  Getting past my vanity and physical attraction is how many of my long term relationships were born. Online, he won't get a chance to make an impression.  I usually like conversations about interests and likes but online they become a blur.  I'm missing the expressions and cadence in a voice that makes me obsess like I did when I wrote That’s cute, and Getting Back on that Flirtation Bike.

Everyone's profile duplicates each other after a while. The profiles in my searches all have readers and outdoorsy types.  They like children and animals and water.  They want someone fit and attractive and happy.  And they all make insane amounts of money. The woman they are searching for needs to be driven and make him a first priority.  So many of men want to show women a great time, snuggle and travel the world. I'm just hoping to find someone that's already survived their midlife crisis, but I won't add that to my profile. They like motorcycles and fast cars, and I can't help but remember I'm not dent proof and will lose in a car fight and become a victim to their need for speed.

I find lots of really driven men that have worked so hard on a career that they missed the part about starting a family, or stayed in a relationship for longer than it was working.  I was in a marriage that I thought was working.  I get it.  I was putting our kids before my career and now I'm starting over, but on my terms.  I'm not the financial powerhouse I plan to be one day.  That confidence will grow once I start a career path that I'm designing, and not one that I'm trying to fit into, and once I find work I can be passionate about.

I can't help but see the lack of confidence on these profiles.  It's not always obvious, but it is often shy and insecure in the last line of an open invitation.  It's in the pictures of places they've been and their pets, children and cars, instead of a bright and wide smile.  It's hiding behind sunglasses as if they can't imagine anyone getting lost in their eyes.  It's in their disdain for a sales pitch they know is a sales pitch that they aren't fully confident of. I'm just as guilty, talking about the places I like to go and feeling like I may be padding a resume while I do it.  At the same time, I'm not advertising my blog and a full visual of what makes me who I am.

I am being honest though.  That is huge for me.  I'm not lying in my profile or in private messages.  I have no reason to because I'm not ashamed of who I am or what my life looks like right now.  I'm not even lying about my lack of gainful employment.  Go, me.

Fun Dating Myself

I gave up the Jewish dating site.  The first person to contact me was disrespectful and disgusting.  The second one was an 80 year old man from Florida.  As much as I would have loved to find a sweet Jewish man on their site, it's clear that the men were looking for their sweet Jewish girl and I'm not her.  I was able to get a refund and subscribed to a more diverse dating site. I was planning a night at home, but there was a moment when I couldn't unsettle the sticky film that was squeezing and scratching under my skin.  The ex is going through something that has nothing to do with me, but because I'm not suffering in a way that satisfies him, he makes his hate palpable when he directs his rage at me.  I didn't like the way his ire was affecting my joy, and I had to get out. It's not about him.  It's fine that he doesn't like me right now because normally I don't care.  I'm just not used to being disliked.  The feeling is uncomfortable, but it has nothing to do with him.

I started at Pan Pacific Park.  The last time I was there was in 2008 and I remembered all of the young families and the feeling of contentment that settles along the slopes and pathways.  Don't let the irony of the holocaust museum sharing that space slip past you. There is joy when you honor the sorrow of the past and learn to move forward.  There were people playing sports, and throwing balls to their dogs. I spread out a blanket and worked on my dating profile.

The sun began to set and before I left, there was a cute and fluffy white puppy that ran to me and kissed my face.  Then she flopped right in front of me for belly rubs.  Her owner was mortified, but I didn't mind.  You can't complain about kids or dogs when you choose to lay on their level in a park.  I left after the sun set and the chill in the air was making me shiver.

My next stop was Santa Monica.  I walked the pier and ran into that photographer that always greets me with a smile and a handshake.  Last time I saw him he gave me a hug and it was a little creepy.  Tonight there was a hug too, but my perspective shifted enough that he's not so creepy and it's just who he is. I treated myself to chile relleno at Maria Sol. It was time to walk over the memory of a romantic dinner that happened in 1997.  It was slightly nerve wrecking to walk in alone, but once I was sitting, it was natural to smile at the other diners around me.

There was a drunk couple in front of me and they were my entertainment for the night.  She was wearing what could only be described as a onesie.  I've put my kids in enough of them to know what they look like.  She kept sitting on her boyfriend's lap and the woman at the table next to us expressed her disgust.  There was nearly a brawl in front of my table and I kept wondering if I should pick up my drink or my purse.  In the end, the angry table next to us left.  At some point, the drunk woman was surprised that I was eating alone and offered for me to join them.  I politely declined.  When they left, the waiter found a half empty bottle of Ciroc they left behind.  A couple of times, the manager threatened to throw them out.  I understand why he didn't.  Their inebriation could have been his liability.

I was thinking about the date she was on, and the one I was on with myself.  I didn't have to worry about being with a sloppy lush and embarrassed. She kept telling her boyfriend to STFU and I couldn't imagine talking to someone like that.  Especially if I wanted him to believe I loved him.  It was a relief to be alone.  I was enjoying the views and likes my new profile was getting and I messaged a few people back.  It is funny to me that I'm younger than some of the men I was looking at, but too old for them to date.  At the same time, I was rejecting a few men that were too young for me (28) and others that were too old (50), so I get it.

After dinner, I walked to the end of the pier and watched a ham of a seal swimming in the water.  I'm sure he was hoping some angler would toss him a fish or two but we all just wanted pictures.  The anglers held onto their catch but the fish were biting tonight.

There were a couple of young men standing next to me and we struck up a conversation.  They were really cute but I couldn't help but feel like they were too young.  There was something about finally really opening up to the idea of dating that shifted my perspective just enough.  I didn't feel like a cougar.  Well, not until I left and thought about it a little more.

I headed home by the streets again and stopped at the Hustler store because every date should make me blush at least once.  I answered two calls on my date myself night and I decided I would ignore all calls except emergencies in the future. If I had been on a date with someone else, I would have ignored all calls.  I played really loud music and sang even louder on my drive home.  It was good.

Beauty in Rough Winds and Angry Waters

I headed to the beach, but today was different.  It was windy and my first views of the ocean caught my breath.  That hasn't happened for a while. It wasn't a block of darker blue beneath a block of blue sky.  I could see the white waves where the surface of the water was being pushed by the winds and breaking the normally calm sea into white crested waves.  It was beautiful.  Standing on the sand, the waves were larger and pulled farther toward me.  The violent crashes came in quicker succession.

There was something about the abuse of the wind against the waves that was beautiful and uncomfortable and it spoke to me about the storm that is my right here and right now.  As cool air numbed my hands, the winds blew away the mark of human trails across the sand.  The choppy sea looked different and picturesque.  Little waves generally shine in peaks reflecting the sun, but these waves were forced into small crests of white.  There was beauty in the chaos.  It was really cold and I left Will Rogers to check out Venice Beach.

Venice Beach is one of those places I like to see once every handful of years.  It is a mix of amazing that I really love to see and "Dear Lord, get me out of here unscathed." Will Rogers has a more natural sand line with heavier, wet sand that stays where it was intended to.  Venice was plagued with mini sand storms that flew up in sheets.  I walked along shops where I was asked if I "blaze" which I do not.  I'm boring that way.  The sun was filtering through the palm trees and I would have taken a picture, but the sand blowing cold air and the men asking for more of my time was uncomfortable. Then it occurred to me that I wouldn't really want to walk alone with closed shops once the sun sets.  I headed back to my car, watching the athletes for a while because, well, yum.  Then I headed back home, taking the streets back to PCH, then Chautauqua Blvd. to Sunset. I wanted to try something new. The sun winked behind the mountains while I was on PCH and the painted sky ushering in night highlighted the many beautiful homes I am starting to look forward to seeing on my drive on my favorite curvy street.

I suppose my lesson is that there is beauty in the chaos and storms but I have to look for it.  I have to be aware that it will be uncomfortable and painful, but if I open my eyes to look for the pretty parts, I will see what I'm searching for.

When I got home I decided to try another dating site.  My niece laughed at me and said, "good luck with that," when I told her I wanted to look for a nice Jewish boy.  I suppose for a shiksa like myself who can't even pass as sephardic, finding a purple unicorn might be easier.  Maybe that's the point.  Maybe I'm just looking for someone to hang out with so I look a little less creepy when I'm people watching or venturing outdoors.  Either way, I'm enjoying these profiles from men who are less creepy than what I had been seeing and full of humor.  I think one or two "about me" sections made me teary eyed because of their tender honesty and sweetness.  These unicorns exist!  It's the morning and my account is still active and it has pictures.  I haven't subscribed yet, and I'm not sure I will, but the looking has given me smiles and laughter and right now that might be enough. It's been a chaotic few weeks but I'm finding the beauty in the storm.

Update: I'm at an appointment and a very attractive Jewish man started flirting on my dating app. It ended because I wouldn't cooperate with his sexting fantasy. He is now blocked. He wasn't my purple unicorn, but now I have a subscription. At the moment where I wanted to run out for Ben and Jerry's and maybe a good cry, (because he was being a jerk) an older man next to me started singing in Hebrew. It was beautiful and uplifting and hopeful with a heavy hand of sorrow. It was a low ballad, and when I told him it was beautiful, he sang another song to me and it was louder and it was the sweetest balm.

I Can't Keep Playing Hide and Seek

"The man who thinks a thousand dragons sufficient to watch a woman, when her inclination takes a contrary bent, will find all too little; and she will engage the stones in the street, or the grass in the field, to act for her, and help on her correspondence." - Pamela, Or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson

I'm really trying not to hide lately but hiding has been my default.  In new relationships I was so driven by who I wanted to be with, that I often shifted their perspective of me so I would fit, not giving credence to the fact that my value from beginning to end would always end up more meaningful to me in the end. So far they have all left my daily life, and I'm still here. I lied because I didn't believe in the value of my thoughts or feelings.

I'm a bookish broad.  I love a good story with romance and magic and very little sex.  I'd rather read through loads of build up in angsty infatuation than literary porn without satisfaction and a set up for real life disappointment.  Besides, not every author's idea of kink is a good fit with mine.  I used to buy Amazon gift cards to hide how much I loved new books.  I'd spend an extra $25 on a grocery store receipt to hide the books I was buying. I loved reading and losing myself in novel after novel, but felt that was something to be ashamed of because it brought pain to the ex.  I made him jealous because I spent so much time with my favorite authors in my head that his value was then in question.  It was like going on a date with your face glued to your phone.  It was very rude of me. The insidious irony is I still believe that no matter how much I believe in the freedom to read.  There are people that have died for that right.  (Are the gaslights dimming, or is it me?)

I wanted to print out pay stubs for the job I had earlier this year.  I set up a password for the Paychex system they use and I saved it on the computer, but the computer I saved it on was the one that stayed at the company I no longer work at.  As I was explaining this to the person on the phone helping me reset my password, I was laughing about never working for that temp agency again.

I told her about the last interview I went on for this agency.  I didn't want to go to begin with.  It was farther than I would want to work. I got there and the people I was interviewing with had this really strong dislike of people in general and I didn't like being there for the little while I was there.  It was like that spidey sense we all get when we are sitting with someone that means us harm.  You feel it in raised hairs and tingling at the back of your scalp.  You know it without having words to nail it into finality.  I bombed the interview.  It wasn't on purpose and maybe it was just my personality.  Either way, I was okay with not working there.  The agency rep ripped me a new one like I was a child.  I took it because that is what you do when you need a job, but we hung up and I decided I don't want a job where my boss would send me somewhere I told her I didn't want to be and have her pitch a fit because I wasn't grateful for her lack of interest in my needs.  It's not servitude I'm looking for but service to a company I want to retire with.  The actual company I was at would have fit that bill, but I'm looking forward to the open possibilities before me. I'm okay with the idea of waiting for a company that suits my needs and not just a paycheck.  I hit a few beaches that day because it was a day for  Beach Days and Bombed Job Interviews. I decided I would no longer go on interviews that I didn't want to go on and it was a liberating feeling.  That was another way I was hiding.  I was hiding in looking to take jobs that wouldn't fit my needs because that's what family and friends and society as a whole thinks I need to do. It felt good to decide the needs of my children and myself are most important to me. I need to send my boys off to school in the morning and have dinner with them at night.  I can't spend most of my night in traffic and give away the little time I have with them in shared custody.  I can live with crock pot dinners, but I will not only see my children as they sleep and every other weekend. My last job showed me that I could find passion in what I was doing.  I could wake up excited to go to work.  That's the bar I've set and I don't want to stumble below it any longer.

For so long I hid behind my marriage.  I fell into the idea of fate and destinies and I knew I married the right man, so it was so hard to let go even after he left me.  It was hard to see that I was wrong.  He left and I hid behind the ring I still wore and the marriage license that is still valid.  I was hiding behind a vow he broke and a covenant he walked away from.  I was hiding behind scriptures and ideals and refusing the norms that are part of who we are as a society.  My turning point was in a nonchalant admission of "I'm dating," and a leg kicked out in petulant defiance that made me feel that dating wouldn't destroy me.  It's been blogging about past loves that remind me he wasn't the first forever I was willing to commit to.  I've had 2 long term boyfriends I would have given forever to, and 3 other boys that strung me along because I was willing to be walked on for the forever I saw in their smiles.  There were also many, many Mr. Right Now contenders that aren't worth an individual mention. I never took statistics, but if that could happen in a span of 8 years before dedicating the next nearly 16 years to someone else, that tells me he might not have been the one, especially when he was happiest with me when I was hiding myself from him.  I can accept being wrong because it's better to have been wrong than to admit that my forever destiny is to be let go.

I'm not hiding today but a lot of times I need the reminder not to. Sometimes the effort for transparency is more difficult than I like to admit, especially when it involves conversations with my parents.  In stepping out in other uncharted territory, I'm learning that in doing, I am more capable than I imagined in my fear.  The past week has been filled with unfounded terror, and there have been specific moments when my doubts were crippling. I was letting my insecurities harden into bitterness and it was stealing my joy.

Yesterday was a really good day.  It was a day of unexpected blessings and encouragement. It was a day that reminded me I can't be intimidated in a corner if I'm busy being the greatness I choose to live. I'm not hiding today.

Spring Forth Through Winter's Heartache

"April is the cruelest month… breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain." – TS Eliot, The Waste Land Eliot nailed the angst coursing through this month. There's too much to do and my heart aches with longing to be more than I can right now.

There's a blending in the flow of memories that dovetails the many into a nebulous "he" and each sin is muted and sharpened by the collective act of their rejections.

The place where I was in the mixing of "we" flows in chaotic jagged edges. In leaving me, they took too much and I was unable to do more than breathe and ache. I am a series of ripped seams and messy scars. I'm moving in fits and starts because I must. I can not stagnate. I will not.

There are steps being walked through. Tiny steps. Baby steps. I need to trust that I will not fail myself once more in attaching my hopes to another crumbling ledge by placing my hope in the hands of another fleeting love.

I see the winds have cleared the clouds and the cool air is tempered by a warm sun. The rain drops and drying tears of yesterday bring new growth. Decayed leaves mulch tender roots, keeping moist what would otherwise dessicate in death. There's an unspoken promise that is stronger than words and it flows in honeyed nectar in each flower that blooms. Each dawning realization is a promise to be better than I was.

Gates have creaked open in stiff disuse and what is without will grow within and I await the cool dusk where I stand a little taller under the warmth of a fading sun. Reaching. I wait for the fury that rages with the fall of night in hushed anticipation of my sleepless slaughter of self because each day I am stronger with a boldness of courage I can't always feel.

Where certainty falls short, faith holds my firm belief.

Sleepless Nights

Long after dusk settles into indigo night, the stars shine proudly with haughty indignation. Clouds filter through windy skies in a dance of shadow and light.

They see the thoughts that intrude through sleep and wake racing thoughts from fitful slumber.

Whispered memories tell me I'm not enough and there is no beauty or jewel within.

I know the lies but can't separate them from truth without the light of his vision to see through.

I know to look in opposing views from the perspective he gave but memory shifts and I only see the failures painted over me by his artful brushstroke of rejection. 

His bright light shines too far from memory to cast more than a haze of soft shadows dancing in the periphery.

My anchor becomes a distant memory in a dream imagined from hopeful fascination.

All thoughts of self disappear in him.

His words.  His laugh. His joy. His shy smile and his proud stance.

My surrender.

Our words wash over me and I'm surrounded by his dreams. His accomplishments. What he does to make him be who he told me he was.

His beauty blinded me from seeing who he was.  What was still fades and I have yet to see.

But I'm no longer blinded by the radiance of who I made him to be.

I see that in fitting our world around him, we left no room for me.

I see the spaces where I fit were outside of who we were and the empty spaces were full of my longing.

I whisper to the approaching dawn the ideas that form a weapon against insecurities.

You are amazing because of who you are and not what you do or what pleasures are found in you because you are worthy of being pleased.

Murmuring lips whisper prayers for peace and a love that sinks below skin and settles in the marrow of my bones.

I am enough to be and in the acceptance of my limits I find I have an abundance.

I'm Curious.

I have an insatiable curiosity that is generally only satisfied with exhaustive research. When the boys were little and before Kid3 came along, I read about cowboys using ashes from a campfire with bacon grease to clean their dishes.  I was curious about mixing fat and lye and creating soap.  That directed me toward learning about cold process soap.  I spent hours online looking up recipes and videos.  I wanted to see pictures of what the trace stage looked like.  I made a few batches of cold process soap.  It smelled delicious and it was a gift to be able to play with chemistry and create something new.  Working with lye is extremely dangerous and I stopped because the fear of my child picking up a cup of lye water was terrifying.  Getting the measurements perfect by weight was another issue.  My soaps were a little alkaline and unkind to delicate skin. I may pick it up again.

Soap making required dyeing my soaps.  I explored mica for pigmentation, and started exploring geology as more than the pretty rocks I've always picked up.  It was about seeing how ground up rocks could lend bright and bold colors during the trace phase, because any sooner and the batch would seize.  I started learning about other dyes, and this was when I first learned about foods using ground up beetle bodies for color.  I exhausted that research until I was disgusted.

I was using waxes and carrier oils and found melting and burning points fascinating.  What would make beeswax take forever to melt over a low flame, when coconut oil was liquid at room temperature?  I could tell which oils were which by how long it took to melt and the color and scent.  Cocoa butter smelled like chocolate and shea butter was almost unscented.

Making soap led to making lotion bars and lip balms and bath bombs that fizz with citric acid and baking soda.  I used beeswax for all of it because what else do you do when you buy a pound of it?  I went through a stage where I wanted beeswax candles and honey in the comb and I wanted to know all there was about beekeeping.  I wanted to know about smoking them into calm and how the queen determined the health and life of her colony.  I loved that each bee had a job and how organized they are.  I was interested in the flavors that certain flowers would impart and how each batch of wildflower honey would taste different depending on the season and what is in bloom.

My Pinterest addiction only feeds my curiosity. Or maybe it's the other way around.  I have boards on rock hounding treasures, leadership, new ways to learn, woodworking, and needle craft, life hacks and homeopathy. I loved learning that brewed and cooled tea could ease my kid's sunburn.

I signed up for another dating app.  This time it lasted a whole hour or so, with a picture uploaded and everything.  I haven't done that before.  It took about that long to realize I wasn't interested in meeting anyone, but I really wanted to know what 40 year old men in the dating arena look like.  I was curious about what they are looking for and what they think someone like me is looking for.  I've already made my profile private again, but it was fun to window surf.  I'm sure I'll revisit this before I go on a first date. And that first date will be with someone I've met in person first because that is where my comfort lies.

Having Babies as an Act of Faith

When I was younger, I didn't see myself having kids.  They were messy and demanding.  I didn't even see myself getting married when I met the ex. I liked picking my date each night and it was like putting on a persona with each of them because I was good at being what I thought they wanted.  It was lots of dress up and pretend and nothing was too serious.  Okay, so keeping track of who I was dating and what I wore on each date and where we ate or what we did required more work and brain power than it was worth, but I was happy to do it for as long as I did. And once in my lifetime is enough to teach me I prefer dating one person at a time because I'm happiest when I'm obsessing over one person at a time. Even when I got my fertility tattoo, it wasn't about procreation, but about fertility in thought and creativity. There was something that felt right about the ex.  I didn't see an endless fantasy of right now and fun, but a lifetime of caring for each other.  We spent the 6 months we dated doing a lot of night fishing and making wishes on falling stars.  I felt I could live like that for the rest of my life. I saw something special in him that made me feel like it would be good to bring children into the world that would learn to be just like him.  The dream in my head didn't pave the course of our reality.  I had no idea that children would change everything, including how much I would want to avoid large bodies of water, or how much their wants would guide my actions.

There was something so amazing about getting called by the doctor's office the day after a routine physical to tell me I was pregnant.  There was excitement and I was inexplicably happy about something I wasn't sure I wanted just the day before.  The ex was right next to me when I got the call and from the bits and pieces he could hear, he understood and the news made him so happy he cried.  Every bout of morning sickness was silly and fun.  I laughed after I puked because it happened so rarely.  He went to most of my prenatal visits for that first pregnancy. We explored every single stretch mark that traced the growth of my belly and the life blooming within me.  I developed the pregnancy cradle, where my hand was constantly drawn to my belly, to touch the child that I knew was there because I was told he was. It's often how I can tell if someone else is pregnant.  We want to touch our babies, even when they are only our secret.

Once Kid1 was born, the reality of how unmotherly I was really set in.  I had sisters and in laws and my own Mom at the hospital, coaching me to support his head, and burp him gently.  My nurses had a firmer hand, and they had their own pitying looks to depart with.  I didn't feel like I might know what I was doing until he was a few weeks old and one of the wise sages telling me what to do couldn't calm him, but I did.  Her inability highlighted the fact that for his whole life, I had been doing what she told me I was doing wrong, and he told me I was doing it right.

After Kid1 and Kid2 were diagnosed with autism, we found out we were having Kid3. At the time, the odds were somewhere around 1 in 150 kids would be diagnosed with autism.  Six months ago, Autism Speaks was holding that statistic at 1 in 45 according to the newest government survey.  Either way, I was two for two and probably had some insane gambling luck I should have tested out. Our families gave us a hard time about a third child we couldn't afford. Some time when I was defending our choice to risk a third child with autism and not terminate a surprise pregnancy that I wanted, I realised what a true act of faith having children can be.

Bringing life into a world full of death and pain on the news and world wide is an act of faith.  You have to believe that there is enough good in the world to keep your child safe.  There is no way to be within arms reach of your children for 18 years, so you have to trust that there will be friends, family, teachers, clergy and strangers that will not harm your child, although they will have opportunities to. You have to believe that in your life, you will be the example of a person that will contribute to society, rather than take advantage of society and the weaker ones that make up our society.  You will want to give every benefit of your labor to your children while instilling generosity in their gratitude, and a servant's heart to give of themselves as well.

In being a surrogate mother after my three children were born, I was acting out faith that each of my three couples will continue finding ways to consistently choose to love each other.  In agreeing to carry their children and go through fetal testing, I had to believe that months of shooting hormones into my hips wouldn't end in a terminated pregnancy and the emotional burden of turning my back on all of my beliefs about abortion.  I was believing in my ability to safely bring children into the world and to send them off and potentially never know how they are doing and what kind of people they will become.  My faith was based on the love and care they offered me as their surrogate and I have no regrets. I quietly remember each birthday and reminisce through each scrapbook I put together for each pregnancy from time to time. I don't miss the children, but the feelings of love and hope that met every phone call, meeting and shared appointment.  I miss the friendships of parents that would never have met me in a perfect world. It was amazing to have a cheering section and experience all of the joys of pregnancy with none of the worries outside of a happy and healthy child or set of twins.

I believed in the covenantal bond of my marriage being a cradle of nurturing that would see our children into adulthood.  There's been a necessary shift, and now my belief is that as parents, we will do what we can to ensure the emotional wellbeing of our children, even if I can't see or talk to the ex without having to quiet my rage.  I forgive him but it's a choice and I'm still letting go of my anger because my emotions are not chosen. I have to feel them as they flow through me, and choose to redirect my passionate rage into open hearted joy. I believe that no matter what I face as a single parent, there will always be enough of what we need.  For 50% of their lives, I will have to be both parents and that means putting my selfishness and unease aside, even if that means allowing their boundaries in my home.  I have to give them space to be and allow the idea that growing up means allowing them to grow away from me, in the way they have since birth.  And it means I will have to accept that there will be times when they will need me to coddle and support them because the great big changes in their lives can at times be bigger than they can handle.  I have to put my pain aside for their needs, and believe that it is what is best for them, even if for a while, it goes against what my selfishness needs.

As much as I love being pregnant, I'm not sure another child will come from my body. Yes, I'm talking about a seventh pregnancy. Birth control pills did their worst and gave me pulmonary embolisms.  It's a side effect risk and I am quite good at odds, apparently. I will never be able to go on hormonal birth control again. I am fertile and a pregnancy would be high risk.  And yet I don't believe in abortion. That just means one day I will find myself in a complicated conversation and today I don't have to make any decisions.

What I do believe in is the good in children and I have 6 siblings through adoption.  I would adopt.  I believe in children, even if I have days where I can't believe in me. The best part of adoption is teaching a person that they were not a surprise, but a perfectly planned and chosen member of a family that was missing them. Birth parents in this way have honored us in their selfless sacrifice. I love being part of an adoption family. 

Good Grief

Being an inner city kid means I was greeted with  the death of my peers much sooner than any child should see it.  We grew up being told to stay away from gangs and drugs in school but you can't tell a person to unsee what they saw in school and outside of school.  On my first day of Junior High, school let out and I walked home along with the rest of the after school exodus. I transferred in from a school in Brentwood to my home school because I didn't want to have to keep riding a bus into a nicer neighborhood. I got to the Mcdonald's on Sunset and Fountain, and right in the parking lot was where I saw someone get jumped into a gang.  I was relatively sheltered.  My sisters took a special interest in my friends.  My parents made sure I was dropped off and picked up until I told them I wanted them to stop.  I was generally a good kid until I was a rebellious  and legally responsible adult.  I didn't skip school and if I did, I would ask for permission and because I did it so rarely, my requests were granted.  There were a few people I knew and connected with in superficial friendships that died before they had the chance to go to a prom or finish high school.  I was blessed to have grown up with extended family.  With heavy laden holiday tables and kisses that were wet and warm and hugs that hold you together come the loss that is part of a cyclical system of life.  The day of my aunt's funeral is a vacant loss of memory.  At some point I snapped out of it.  All I remember was dropping an orchid in a really deep hole because it was a plot dug at double depth to later accommodate my uncle.  That afternoon the kids were home with us and I was in bed with my ex.  At some point the kids got into the eggs and I had a dozen and a half broken and seeping underneath the fridge.  I remember the ex had had enough of my depression and he needed to leave for a while and I was scraping dried eggs off of the floor and not understanding the profound loss I felt.  There were other family members who have slipped beyond the veil into fading nostalgia and bittersweet memories.  Each of them had given me so much love that I was so lost when it hit me I was left with memories.

When I was in high school and Selena died, I didn't know of her music enough to fully mourn her loss.  I got to know the sound of her voice posthumously and will still be moved to tears in singing, "Como La Flor," and "El Toro Relajo," even though I have no idea what that second song means.  My spanish is limited to food and love.  Two years of high school language and I only remember what I learned in kitchens with boyfriends and mothers that felt I needed to eat more.

We lost Aaliyah just before September 11 when our nation suffered the greatest loss in my memory. Tragedy is the tree of life our nation has been grafted on and I won't say one series of losses is greater than any other.  There is no pleasure in comparing the pain that marks us all.  All of these losses were more than just saying goodbye to a talent.  It was more than geeky fandom.  It was releasing a part of our youth, our heritage, held together in melodies that spoke to our hearts when we couldn't find the words.  Mariah Carey, Toni Braxton and now Taylor Swift will take a huge part of me with them when they belt out that final swan song. It is in saying fare thee well to people that made us laugh and feel through acting while we set aside the emotions we felt to borrow theirs for a while that we honor their gifts and offer sacrifices of solemnity.

Driving down a street lined with Jacarandas in bloom, of course I thought of the artist formerly known as Prince.  Like most of my generation, I grew up on the sound of his soul. There is a profound duty to those who are blessed with the emotions of loss we suffer.  To lose someone means we were once gifted with the grace of their walk or the way they carried themselves in the face of their plight of existence. We are supposed to regret their parting, even if we haven't heard their voice in years.  We are meant to sing their songs and relive the heartache they walked us through. We owe them a moment to reflect and respect the feelings they helped us understand, or laugh through.

It feels natural to grieve the loss of a life we held so much expectation for and reliance on.  What I'm also learning to mourn is the loss of a dream or an idea or a level of comfort.  There is a loss and the loss helps me to celebrate the tremendous joy I feel in doing what feels empowering. It helps me to relax into the task of resting.  It helps to expect that the valley I may be in has a peak that is coming where I can be more than I imagined.

Ambulance Ride

My first ambulance ride was about 9 years ago.  There were no lights and sirens.  The seatbelts were tucked into the bench and I held my little boy's hand as the ambulance drove from County USC Hospital to Kaiser Sunset.  He was stable and he was being transported for observation. Kid3 was 8 months old.  I didn't process the fact that there was standing water in the bathtub or that it could be a hazard to the baby crawling on the floor. He wasn't walking and I didn't know he could pull himself into the bathtub until he pulled himself into the empty tub about a week later.   Kid1 was home alone with their Dad and had his hands in the tub with a Lego Boat he wasn't even allowed to play with when his brother was awake because Legos are an obvious choking hazard.  When I got home with Kid2 and Kid3, I was unloading groceries and the ex was running out of the door.  We had one car at the time and he was ready to escape the moment I walked in.

I was having a tickle fest with Kid1 when Kid2 started tugging on my shirt.  My nonverbal autistic 4 year old son saved his brother's life.  My baby was in the cold water on his back, arched and blue faced.  I pulled him out and tried to remember CPR.  I took the classes and knew the drills but in that moment I forgot it all. I pushed on his little belly and water flowed out of his mouth. I didn't realize I could have made things worse if he had aspirated that water.  I was frantically screaming for someone to call 911. I was screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to help me. I was home alone and so helpless.  I didn't have neighbors to call on because they saw too much. We didn't invite them in because they saw enough from outside.  I found a landline phone with my limp son in my arms and called for help.  The ambulance came and the paramedics took him away.  His chest was rattling in air and he was otherwise unresponsive. We only had one car at the time and I was stranded at home with two children.  I waited until my sister came, or maybe it was my mother in law.  I just know that I waited for them and the ambulance took my son.  One of the fire trucks stayed, then took me to my son.  It was agonizingly slow.  They obeyed all traffic laws and carefully kept an eye on me because I was a caged animal.

My house was a mess.  I had been at the store, and my major clean up day at the time was Sunday evening. (They go to their Dad on Wednesday, so that's my new day.) I was tickling my son and preparing to get to work.  I picked up here and there throughout the week, but caring for two children, aged 5 and 3 with sensory integration dysfunction and a crawling 8 month old that started walking at 9 months meant my house was a disaster.  Dealing with the messes on my terms meant I was angry a lot less and able to play with their trains and Playdoh. It meant not freaking out over yogurt on the ceiling and peanut butter on the walls.  It also meant the house was a hazard. I didn't have help and it was less stressful to not invite people over.

When I arrived at the hospital, I was held at a distance until they were sure I wasn't trying to kill my son.  It was standard practice for the situation.  They see that on a regular basis and had to imagine the possibility that I could do the unthinkable because other mothers had thought it. They interviewed my family and neighbors.  They asked if there was abuse in the home and my Mom later asked if there was because she suddenly wasn't sure what she had seen and what I had said because I was not living like the daughter she raised, spitting fire and raging at the world.  I was in someone's shadow and I was still defending my position there.

My neighbor across the street expressed her concerns about the times I was yelled at or other times she saw anything that wasn't love.  She saw power and aggression and she reported what she saw and for years I didn't want anything to do with her because she saw what I refused to acknowledge.  This is the same neighbor that filmed what my ex took out of the house when he left and offered to call the police for me.

Two days ago my chest pain was extreme.  I couldn't stand up straight and the band of pressure was squeezing me painfully like I was placed between two icy plates of stone.  For a person that has willingly given birth 7 times, I can say I never want to relive the sensations I felt Wednesday. It was hard to stand, and I was slick with sweat.  I called 911 and stayed in bed, barely pulling on yoga pants and a tank top. I asked Kid3 to help me and get dressed and I've never had his obedience react so swiftly in the months since I've become a single mom.  When they arrived and asked me to sit up for them, I vomited in a waste basket as several paramedics watched and checked my vitals.  They moved sticky contacts from my chest to my legs to get the best possible reading. I was given pills to chew and a spray under my tongue because I was presenting as a heart attack, and they checked the important things.  I was given baby aspirin.  I had to take it during IVF because studies show baby aspirin helps keep you pregnant through the first trimester of an IVF pregnancy and it's not a taste you forget. It was becoming clear to them it was probably stress, but still felt I needed the lights and sirens on the way to the hospital.

It's different when you're the patient.  Normally I'm hyper aware of everything, but there was a haze of activity.  I don't know how many paramedics arrived.  I don't know what I was given. I remember being put in a chair and being bumped up a flight of stairs and out of my front gate in a bed that was a chair but was a bed because that felt better to me. I didn't even notice being swabbed before  I was stuck so they could check my blood sugars. I just know that my neighbor across the street held my son's hand and called my family.  She met me at the hospital and took Kid3 to his Dad for me.

My nurse asked about my stress levels. I told her it probably was just stress.  I explained the way my life looks right now and that I was sending my kids to be with their Dad.  It's the same stress I've had for months but some days are harder than others. At some point I was given Ativan and the giggles started before the pain subsided and I drifted off to sleep. They should bottle that stuff and call it happiness because it was like being drunk only I wasn't and it was like being high . . . which is probably why it's not handed out like candy or sold over counters.

Right when I was being discharged, my Dad picked me up.  My neighbor still checked on me throughout the night and into the next day.  I have good neighbors and I owe her homemade brownies or something equally less stressful than macarons or homemade toffee. My Mom and Stepdad came by.  My sisters have been calling me.  I feel loved and cared for.  I am loved and cared for.

I've been resting for the last couple of days. I've been sleeping when I feel I need it and I've replaced coffee with cocoa.  The only marathons I'm contemplating are on Hulu and Netflix.  I may start a Xena Warrior Princess Marathon because I loved that show when I was younger.  And Star Trek because . . . Well, no explanation is necessary, but I'll be sipping Jasmine tea because I don't like Earl Grey.  So now my geek is showing but it is who I am.  I'm still happy.  My joy wasn't stolen. I just need to give my body the rest it needs when the stress builds.  I could've built a castle with my shoulder load on Wednesday and if I'm lucky, there will be no more ambulances in my future.  The next time I see a paramedic or firefighter, I will thank them for their service the way I first started to almost 9 years ago.  I still thank every one I see because of the handful of people that saved my son's life and kept me calm when I was afraid for his life.

The Day I Knew I Wasn't a Teacher.

After I finished my undergrad, I took the CBEST.  I passed all areas in one day without studying.  Not studying was because I don't know that I was taking it seriously, but I felt good in knowing I am smart enough to teach kids.  I majored in English because reading and writing are my passion.  Studying literature tried to kill that passion, but most English majors go into teaching or law. Teaching is a fast track career in comparison to law school, and my kids wouldn't have to become orphans to the stacks.  I wanted to see what teaching would be like before committing a year and a half of my life to a teaching credential. I was brought on as a substitute teacher at a local college prep school.  I had a long term teacher's aid position with kindergarten and a lot of hopping around through all of the other grades.  I also had a long term teaching assignment as a high school English teacher. I was covering a couple of classes at the end of the day, a few days a week for a teacher that found a better opportunity teaching a class in a local college. I won't go into the bad side of private schools for students or teachers, but I will say I will never again teach at one, nor have I ever wanted to put my children in one.

The kids were great.  They were bright and friendly and energetic.  There were a few girls that reminded me so much of myself as a teen.  I wanted to wrap a sweater around them and tell them they were so much more than what they looked like.  I wanted to prove to them they could get attention from their work, and they didn't need it from the football team or a Dad that was always travelling for work or at work so he could pay her tuition fees.   There were lots of bright exchange students and kids that were so hungry for the attention that comes with being smart as a birthright.

One afternoon, I had the high school English class break into groups of three.  Throughout class as is often the case, some lunch time drama was spilling into class and rather than break it up, I let things fall where they did.  Don't get me wrong, when the kids talked about a fight after school, I was the first person to bring it up to the Dean.  When bullying became teasing through text, I confiscated cell phones. This was different.  This was a boy acting like a jerk, and thinking he could get away with it.  I'd seen him do this throughout the semester and didn't intervene before.  This time, she said (loudly and with authority) that she had taken it long enough. She went into a fully expressed tirade and I stood silently and let it continue until she was done. She stood up for herself in the last few minutes of class, then stormed off.  I quietly had a friend of hers go get her and come back to me once the bell rang. After hiding in the bathroom, they both came back.

The rest of the class started to tease him, and I intervened enough to regain some decorum.  We spent the last two minutes going over the papers they were critiquing for each other.  I couldn't quite find my joy in making their papers bleed red with corrections.  I felt conflicted because I knew what I was expected to do and didn't do it. Once the bell rang, I assured this boy I would have a talk with this girl, and to try his best to get on with his day.

When she returned to class, I had her sit for a bit with her friend and promised I would be held accountable to their next teacher. I won't forget how her delicate shoulders were still trembling with what she had done. It was a free period, and I wasn't in a hurry.  She calmed down enough to start explaining why she was justified in telling him off. I stopped her.  I told her that she didn't need to make me feel better about her choices.  I told her that friendships are a two way street and if you find you are becoming the road instead of heading in the same direction together, it's okay to find a new direction and travel buddy (a lesson I've needed to remind myself about my marriage repeatedly).  I also told her that the changes that teenagers go through can mean an uncomfortable shift and we hurt the people we trust the most, but that didn't make it his right to make her a punching bag.  It also doesn't mean it's too late to heal their friendship but it would require her to decide it's what she wanted.  I asked that next time standing up for herself might happen out of my classroom so it's not a reflection on my ability to keep order in the classroom.

I went home that day and thought about the situation and how I handled it.  I saw what I should have done as a teacher, and couldn't see how I might have done it differently because I didn't want to.  That was the day I knew I wasn't cut out to be an educator.  I can't teach people how to do what is right in the classroom when the Mom in me was standing on the table and cheering her on for standing up for herself and kicking the patriarchy in her life.  That, and I couldn't find passion in the classroom.  I watched the clock right along with the students.

Being On Guard

I let my kids play on my cell phone.  The worst that could happen is they might ignore a call or text and when they are all with me, the rest of the world matters much less anyway. I'm not setting up dates or sexting with anyone and anything that might upset them gets deleted.  They don't need to see angry texts from their Dad any more than I do. Last night Kid3 swiped left from my home screen and my top Siri Suggestion was the picture of a man I had been texting.  It was nothing too serious, and special enough that while it was what we were making it, I wanted it private and only mine.  He was beautiful and masculine and smart but now he's just a random contact with a great contact picture linked to his Facebook profile.

Immediately Kid3 wanted to know who he was because he could see what I did when I saw that man's face. He wanted to know who was talking to his Mom because the reality of another man taking his Dad's place is something he wants to face with his eyes open. His curiosity was piqued and teased with the sense of intuition that I felt when I knew there was another woman in my ex's life before he decided he was leaving. I knew as much as my son knew in seeing this chiseled face and the smirk of a juicy secret that there was something worth looking at and questioning. I assured him that I'm not dating anyone and the one person that makes me laugh and giggle on a regular basis throughout the day is only a friend. Right now, it's the truth. Honestly it was the truth when we were still texting and I was obsessively analyzing each word he sent. As far into the future as I can see, it will remain the truth until I meet a man worth changing my relationship status.

Yesterday I had 3 kids at the pediatrician.  We were running late and skipped breakfast so when I'm awarded Mom of the Year, I will skip the vending machine breakfast and the fast food lunch on the way to school in my acceptance speech. I forgot to make sure my order was wheat free, and I spent the night in pain. Dharmic balance, right?  I had a small chili from Wendy's and my milder discomfort was chest and back pain that woke me up throughout the night.  Envy me, I dare you. (There is a point, keep reading.)

Lately my dreams each night tend to lose focus by morning and I'm left with vague impressions and generally a good mood. Last night was different and I realized it was in letting my guard down. Usually before bed I rehash what I've done and what my next day will accomplish.  I enjoy flooding my mind with what I want to do and focus on.  My dreams then take on an adventurous flair where I am my own hero.  Sometimes I will have lucid dreams where I'm fully aware that I am dreaming, and I will visit people or have conversations where I am my own tour guide because I know I'm dreaming. In pain last night, the only focus was finding a comfortable position.  My dreams defaulted to the last two men I have wanted to think about lately. I actively redirect my thoughts when they cross my mind, in fact. They were pleasant dreams, but dreams I hadn't entertained in a while with intention.

When you are so driven to protect yourself, the hard shell that covers you makes it hard to see the sunlight and harder to breathe in the beauty around you.  Your vigilance searches for an attack and that search will usually find something, even if it is only in your head.

In my awareness of redirecting my thoughts each night, I lose out on the specifics of happy dreams.  I miss the joy that comes from letting my mind wander into the places where there was happiness, even if that joy is now a series of melancholy memories.

For my sons, one day I will meet someone amazing and I will decide he will be able to meet my kids.  My sons will be hyper aware and looking at this person in comparison to their Dad.  He'll treat me in a way that is better than their Dad treated me toward the end.  They'll see how happy I am and feel guilt because that's how this will play out.  They'll be angry because they can't control these changes in their lives. They won't see that there's someone so great with kids I will trust that he will be gentle with mine.  They will only see the consequences of choices they have no decisions in. They will always be on guard and it will take an amazing man and lots of patience to help them see otherwise.

Today I will not allow skepticism and doubt to rob me of the beauty I might miss.  I will let my guard down and there will be joy and pleasant surprises.