1. If you feel a burning need to tell someone to shut up more than three times in one day with ANY consistency....get out.
2. If you have to resist rolling your eyes twice a day with ANY consistency....get out.
3. If you find yourself adding a "...but" after any complement you give someone...get out.
4. If you're more preoccupied with what others THINK you are feeling rather than being sure yourself...get out.
5. If you spend 25% of your time pretending you aren't angry when you are...get out.
6. If your friends have to remind you or offer you compelling reasons to not get out....get out. (And get new friends)
7. If you feel a need to explain or justify your s/o's behavior to get that appalled look off of your loved ones faces or feel alright with your circumstances...get out.
But be warned about taking my advice. I'm a chronically single woman. Perhaps I have no earthly clue what I'm talking about, or I'm the most intolerant person on the planet.
It is so easy to think you're crazy.
It allows you to justify your strict aversion to whatever the consensus believes you should be saying/thinking/doing. It would be so much easier to chalk my defiance up as just being clean off my rocker than it is to say and embrace the fact that many many people in this life completely miss the point.
Problem is...I know I'm not crazy.
And yes, sometimes that feels like a problem.
If you don't think you're crazy, you're simply stuck with walking your own path and staying in your own light, knowing there probably isn't much you could ever do to get the others around you to subscribe to your point of view. That means a lot of odd expressions staring back at you while crickets chirp anxiously waiting for you to help the world understand where you are coming from.
I use this space to remind myself of who I am, and who I am not. I post my random bits of spiritual thinking more for myself than anyone else. It's a way for me to keep track of my journey. My biggest goal is to look back on these posts and feel good about them, as opposed to going back a few years earlier and wincing (which is what I currently do). Growth is good but damn if it's not painful.
Lately I've found it difficult to post. Not necessarily to write. But to post my thoughts for public consumption. My former behavior in life was to keep my truest thoughts and perceptions to myself forgoing my personal truths for something a bit more palatable and entertaining. Fast food. I would protect others and myself with an odd codependent need to care for people and to believe that somehow if they knew what I really thought of their actions, choices, behaviors etc...they would grow angry, pull away, attack me or whatever else falls in a negative category. I told myself that these people I cared for needed me to be something other than who I was. I experienced tremendous guilt anytime I felt a desire to do anything else. I would nurture where I could, love where I could, fix where I could, but I'd find ways to conceal all that I see in others because time has taught me that no one is especially comfortable with someone spiritually disrobing them in front of a studio audience. Even if that audience is as small as us two. Somewhere around 30, I lost my ability to inhale bullshit. I grew weary of smalltalk and people who found clever ways to mask their hearts and minds and truest intentions. It affected my casual encounters at first...but by the time I reached 35 nearly this time last year, it had expanded into the murky and uncomfortable territories of family ties, lovers and the people with whom I've kept heavy company.
Something is happening to me.
As I get ready to greet my 36th year, I struggle trying to forge healthy ties with historically unhealthy people. I grow more comfortable in what I believe, and less comfortable with those who can't say the same. I am intolerant of those who keep repeating their mistakes and then looking for someone to entertain along the path to destruction. I am impatient with those who want to dance with me, but not engage me. I grow bored with hours and hours and hours of talk about absolutely nothing. I grow angry with people who talk extensively, but act rarely.
And yet, I love more than I've ever loved in my life. I see things everyday that make my eyes nearly well with contentment. I experience incredible, incredible warmth in the oddest of ways. I love, harder and more passionately than I ever have before.
And I hope with reckless abandon.
Go figure.
I am not perfect. I'm not even expending any great energy in the pursuit of perfection. But I am going into this next year with eyes more wide open then they've ever been before.
And that makes me, crazy.
The problem with having faith is, we often wait for the physical verification of something before we allow ourselves to completely believe that a thing is possible. We chronically put that cart before the horse.
"Dear God, if you'll just give me a sign...I'll believe I can get this done."
"Buddha...if you'll just show me a glimpse of this dream manifested...I'll believe in it more."
That's like asking for a paycheck before you've done any work. And unless you're some kind of contractor, that's rarely going to happen. And even when it does, you better make sure you deliver on the goods.
Maybe that's it. Perhaps we want to engage God/Universe like a contractor. "Listen...I'll give you what you want (faith/trust)...but you're gonna have to put something up front first."
I wonder what God would say to such a request.
Actually, I know with me...I ask fervently for clarification and insight. I pray for these things all the time. And then do you know what I do once I actually have them? I pick them apart. Analyze. Try to explain them away. Then I go back to God and ask him for something more. I'm almost embarrassed to admit how many times I've had those repetitive requests granted. And still...
I worry. Obsess. Review. Weigh. Analyze. Critique. Dwell in the past rehashing old events as if some new exciting little detail will pop out and make it all come together.
Or at least...that's what I used to do.
My commitment to myself these days is to trust. Not only myself, but in the things I do not see, but know. In the divine force I feel guides and walks with me every day in this existence. I am going to trust me, without needing a green light from God to confirm that it's alright to do so. My hope is that you can do the same, if you are so inclined.
My gremlin is approximately 300 pounds, which wouldn't seem quite so overwhelming if he weren't my height. He spits when he snarls, which is all the time. He's perpetually ill-tempered and he survives strictly on the briny tears and pungent fragrance of fear. Sometimes he lies in wait for the moments when I muster them. And then...
there are sometimes when my gremlin has tired of waiting.
I know when he's waking, deep in the bowels of me. An uneasiness that without name, begins to search my mind for thoughts on which to nurse. He stirs so that I struggle to complete any thought or do anything else but prepare for his impending arrival. I check the lock on the dungeon door. He smiles just behind it with teeth glinting ominously by the last rays of moonlight reflecting from my doubtful eyes. We both know my efforts are in vain. We both know he is coming. It is a matter of time, nothing less.
I move around my home, anxiously trying to ensure all things are in their proper place. I wonder if there are items I might bribe him with. He will accept nothing but my total and complete forfeiture of belief.
Faith. Hope. Trust. I lock them away in a heavy trunk beneath my bed. In all my foolishness, I think I should put them there to keep them safe. I have not yet mastered the heart of the warrior to know that they are the only weapons I can use in defense of me. They are not for safe keeping. They are for spiritual warfare. They are the keepers of the moonlight. But they are buried in a place just out of my reach, as I hear him burst through the dungeon door.
In a heartbeats time, he is moving through the still quiet of my home, turning over lamps, knocking bookcases clean, dragging his razor sharp claws through all of the things that personalize this space I live in. He is the bully from 2nd grade. From 3rd and 4th too. He is the wildly angry and restrictive battle guard, telling me what to think, what to say and what to do. He chastizes me for my choices. He tells me I am unlovable, and worthless and forgettable and that's why I am battling him here, alone. And then he reminds me of everything that's ever hurt, and he makes it out to be just more proof of how deeply unlovable and undesirable I am. He works to destroy every flower I have ever tried to tend to blooming. He paces and snorts about me, throwing his facts and failures in my face until I have no choice but to choke down his words crafted with jagged stone. He persists until my eyes fill. I curl tightly into a ball, as if to protect myself in the wake of his fury. It is only then that he relents, for now I am obedient. Standing over me, ever victorious, I feel his hot breath sticking to my skin. He waits.
I offer no defense.
Sensing that I am finally broken, he turns his back to me so that he may survey the spray of disorder he has wrought. He tastes my bitter tears on his tongue with approval. He wishes me to stay in this position. Curled tightly, subserviently behind him as he looks over the bleak horizon. This is his safety. This is the space he owns. There is no hope. No light. There is no promise of anything, which then means no work to be done. There is only his will and my despair.
Beneath my bed lies my trunk. It whispers to me, a tone only I can hear. The trunk calls to me so that I cannot miss it. As my gremlin retires, fat and complacent from the fruits of his labor, I slide my fingers through cool linen, down the side of my mattress, curling my torso until I am touching the clasp of the trunk beneath.
"Open me."
I wonder if I have to wield these treasures like weapons. I am not sure of my own strength. I hesitate. I am told that all I have to do is open...the rest will be done for me. There is no time to doubt. No time to plan. There is only this moment to act. To choose when I think I have no choice.
All the gremlin hears, is the soft grating of metal scraping metal. He turns only to be blinded with light. Blinding, light. I hear his cries of anguish as I bring my forearm to my eyes. Then there is the sound of my own breathing. Fast. Short gasps that gradually become long and languid. My bedroom curtail rises and falls to the rhythm of my chest. There is quiet.
My gremlin is silenced. Made reverent by a power stronger even than him, he is made powerless.
Faith, Hope and Trust prove victorious always....
but not without the power of Choice.
Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. - Philipians 4:8 (thank you, Barry)
DISCLAIMER: while I believe in giving people an opportunity to clarify and defend themselves - I also believe in people taking their actions and decisions seriously, especially when their decisions impact the lives, convenience, safety and general wellbeing of others. So while I typically like to review both sides of the coin before jumping on the "bitchin' train"...this time I am ALL ABOARD.
I know better than to travel during a mercury retrograde, but I did it anyway - mostly because I didn't pay one red cent for the trip. My flight in to the Bahamas was mostly uneventful with just a slight delay out of Austin. However, my coworkers were delayed up to eight hours, arriving on the island about an hour after I did, when their trip began 10 hours before mine did. Not good. I suppose it was my turn for fuckery on the return trip...and so...with that in mind and while I shake an angry fist at mercury...I present the ten questions I would love USAirways to answer:
1. Understanding that you must cut some corners to try and get by in this economy, I have to ask you...would it kill you to offer me a bag of peanuts or pretzels or a cookie or something? I'm not bitching, I'm just saying. Two and half hours in the air, trapped in a confined seat, there's only so much water sipping I can do before my tummy rumbles.
2. With the same understanding about cutting corners...could you perhaps try and ensure you have enough spare flight crews on hand to perhaps suspend the need to delay flights for five hours while pilots try to dash in from the other ends of the earth?
3. Understanding that these things could still feasibly happen....might you be able to at least give passengers accurate delay information so that they don't have to stare at poor unsuspecting gate agents who have nothing else to do but pretend they don't feel us staring holes in their heads?
4. Has some psychologist erroneously told you that putting up false departure times that you know we'll NEVER actually meet makes people happy or deludes them into a sense of false assurance so strong that they won't grow angry when you've done it five times, and there's still no pilot, or crew in sight? Do you enjoy having people walk up to you when the time on the board says 7:15pm departure and the time is now 7:30pm? I wouldn't think so.
5. Do you think, after two hours worth of delay, your passenger audience wants to hear you begin your 7:30 announcement (for said 7:15 departure): "Okay folks, I have some news....we're not departing at 7:15! *chuckle, chuckle*" Have you seen any movies depicting angry mobs? Are you in business trying to create one?
6. How is it, I seem to be able to get more information on the status of an arriving flight from sources like flightaware and your own website while at the gate, then the gate agent who is currently under your employ?
7. If you actually had to feed us (or offer vouchers) for any delay going longer than two hours (instead of the industry standard 4, which is not publicized) I wonder how much faster folks would work to get aircrafts out and on time?
8. Aren't there airline or FAA regulations that states\ you are not to permit visibly unruly or intoxicated passengers on board aircraft? Is there some reason why you chose to bypass that law on my flight? And if I decided to take any action, it appears USAir wouldn't want my account anyway, just the accounts of the attendants that permitted the passenger in the first place.
9. Was the drunk bastard that was assisted onto the aircraft reeking of alcohol after YOU fetched him from a bar in the gate area, who repeatedly got up after everyone was told to stay in their seats and spent the entire flight trying to initiate conversations with the people around him and punching himself in the face while yelling "asshole" NOT a hazard to me? The person sitting directly beside him? I suppose I would have been the unruly passenger for throat chopping him if he flailed and struck me during his stupor.
10. Can you give me any reason why with your horrendous delays and irresponsible flight management I would EVER try to defend you again when my Delta loyalist mother constantly wonders why I even take the chance with you?
I didn't think so. Your tagline, "Come fly with us." Needs to be shifted to: "Come fly with us...at your own risk."
We just got back from the ride.
32 miles.
Yes, I did
.
I completed the 32 mile Tour de Cure bike ride in about 4 hours I think. Time was kind of a blur at the end. Most of the ride the temperature was at 98 deg F.
Every hill in America must have been on the route we took. All uphill. In the snow. OK, not snow. You know, what they say is true. It’s really not the heat. It’s the humidity.
I was counseled by a co-worker that runs marathons, Dave Vause, to not take a purist approach. He suggested that I actually stop or coast or even walk. Dave did not realize that my plan was to attack EVERY climb up a hill, pedal hard down EVERY hill, and put pedal to the metal when the road before me was flat. That plan lasted for about 5 miles into the ride and ended after the first hill. By the 10th mile I decided it was best to not look the hills directly in the face and to make no sudden threatening moves lest I make the hill angry and it get steeper and longer. Head down in first gear was the new plan. I mean 1st gear on both gears. Rides downhill were enjoyed with wild abandon and no pedaling. That’s called coasting. Rides on level ground were filled with prayers of thanks.
As I wrote in text messages to some of you, dragging a 225 lb butt up a hill ain’t easy. It’s hard out there and all. There were 2 rest stops at 10 miles and 25 miles. Shock and awe is the only way I can describe how I felt as I rode toward the water stations. Shock, that I was still alive. Awe, by how good bananas and pretzels taste. That’s fine cuisine. BOY! THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY! (for Karen – Seinfeld Addict).
Before the second rest stop there was a hill. I’m sorry. That was disrespectful. Before the second rest stop there was a Mountain. A Mountain that I lovingly named Death. Somewhere near the 20 mile mark, I must have mistakenly looked directly into Death’s eyes. It grew into a Rider slayer. There were people strewn all along the sides of the road. Most of them letting their bikes fall hard to the ground as they dismounted, just wanting to sit down out of respect for the behemoth that few conquered. I have a better understanding of the thousand mile stare I heard talk of that war vets get after a gruesome battle. My only victory on Death was that I did not throw my bike down, but let it down as gently as I could before I stumbled to a spot in the shade and sheepishly sipped my Gatorade.
A friend of mine, Barry Wynn, sent out an email about a year ago that described a new type of therapy for athletes. It was called the Glove. You stick your hand in this Glove (a coffee pot looking thing) and it cools your body down by cooling your blood. Afterwards you feel completely rejuvenated. I am heading to the closest thing I have to the Glove, my freezer. I am going to climb in and take a nap.
Day two:
Today we did some shopping. Someone please make me stop buying sarongs. I've got a growing collection. Did some meditating and writing this morning, went to a team breakfast, walked the beach and jumped into some incredibly warm water. Consumed copious amounts of Bahama mamas and pina coladas.
Listened to some live music, found it impossible not to have fun. This evening includes dinner and more drinks. But before all that will come a nap.
Tomorrow there will be snorkeling, then a bonfire dinner with fire dancers, live music and who knows what else. Oh yeah, drinks. I've heard talk of parasailing. We'll see how it goes.
Having a blast, wishing half the world were here.
Love,
RPM
