Unbelievably Lost

I need to stop trying to escape the winter. Whenever I go out of my way to avoid bad weather, the cold either follows me (like that time I fled from Ireland and my plane landed in the coldest winter the French Riviera had seen in 15 years), or it sneakily bides its time, waiting for me to get back before it triumphantly unleashes its frigid flakes.  

Like now. When I went to Mexico to avoid the cold, came back to Colorado in March, and was snowed at the end of April. 

Boy and I went to Bagels for our morning coffee. I muttered profanities into my mug and glowered at the falling frozen crystals. Boy celebrated.

"Want to walk in the snow with me?"

"No."

"Want to walk in the snow with me?"

"No."

"Want to walk in the snow with me?"

(This repetition is not a typo. This is how Boy and I usually talk to each other. We think we're hilarious)

"Fine."

(This is not how the repetition usually ends, though. But Boy looked so damn happy about the snow that I couldn't keep saying no)

Boy grabbed his coffee and umbrella (which we've named "Madeline". The umbrella, not the coffee), we linked arms and strolled down Main Street under the fat flakes of snow.

The last few weeks have been an emotional roller-coaster for me. Moments of bliss with Boy and luscious pieces of triple cream brie, and moments of misery with Boy and all the pushback.

There have been those who've reached out to me, welcomed me, encouraged us, and treated us like our relationship is a beautiful thing, as is. 

You guys. Have no idea how healing you've been and how thankful we are.

And the pushback?

This is my blog and not Boy's, so I can only mention how it's been affecting me.

The anxiety.

The panic I feel whenever I see Boy holding a letter.

The gut wrench whenever his phone rings.

Life has become a series of triggering events.

A letter from a loved one exhorting my Boy to leave our relationship behind and return to The Path he's "abandoned" sent me to the bathroom, yet again.

I spend a lot of time here, these days. At least it's a nice bathroom. 

I hadn't cried so hard in years. My sobs are usually the silent ones. Eyes turn downwards, tears trickle quiet streams down hot cheeks. Hands tremble and shoulders cave inwards. But there was nothing quiet or controlled about that long hour of violent grieving all over the bathroom floor.

Boy held me until it was over, doing his best to soothe my re-opened wounds and to let me know --

"I love you. I'm with you. I love you. I'm with you. Aimee... Aimee..."

We'd figured the most challenging stages of our relationship would be the two and a half months I spend in Guatemala and then the vagabonding during the first two years (we hope) of our life together in Europe (as it'll be Boy's first venture into the nomadic lifestyle).

That all seems easy-peasy now.

We expected some kind of push-back, for sure. I mean, I'm well aware of the fact that I'm not the kind of partner most mothers would wish upon their beloved sons (I certainly wouldn't wish me upon anyone). My life is chaotic and ungrounded, I may or may not be independent to a fault, I don't understand the majority of society's "shoulds", and for all the Christian mothers, my epic stack of books on zen buddhism, chakras, mantras and mudras might prove rather disconcerting.  So I definitely didn't return to Colorado with the unrealistic expectation of being welcomed with open arms (except by Boy, my family and friends).

But neither of us quite expected this.

Caught off-guard entirely by the first phone call and feeling deeply wounded and anxious, I wrote, "More than a Word." I'd hoped that it would give me some manner of strength. Give me a voice. Give me a personality and help keep me out of the bathroom. Neither Boy nor I wanted to create more hurt or pain amongst those concerned for his wellbeing (and for the wellbeing of his soul). I simply wanted to be more than a word to the people telling Boy to leave me, because in my experience, once words transform into people, judgement transforms into empathy. We read through the blog together several times before I clicked the orange "publish" button, discussing the possible outcomes of publicizing such an article and hoping that I would be humanized.

However, I wrote "More than a Word" with a hole of hurt in my heart. It's probably not the most sensitive piece of prose I've ever published, and for that, I do apologize. I could have communicated what I needed to communicate with more understanding and with less, "fuck you, I'm a cat."  I stand behind everything that I said and I stand behind my right to say it (if my Boy is receiving letters asking him to leave me because I believe such and such, it makes sense to me that I would write a blog explaining why I believe aforementioned such and such), but I wish I'd been in a more equanimous place when I'd pushed that "publish" button.

It's difficult to exude tact when consumed with hurt.

(as I'm sure the people who wrote those letters can understand)

Boy might call this the definition of "grace". The ability to show love and understanding when you're feeling attacked. The ability to show love and understanding when you're feeling betrayed. The ability to show love and understanding when you're feeling afraid.

I'm good at love.

I'm not so well-versed in grace. When shit hits the fan, I tend to lay my cards on the table. If my cards aren't well-liked, I forfeit the game and move on. Take what I learned and begin again.

Grace seems to be when one chooses to stay. When one chooses to love in spite of it all.

Life is presenting you with an exercise in grace, Bourget. Oof. Which is even more difficult than training alpacas to walk calmly over muddle puddles instead of spiting in your face and kicking at your shins. 

In a more equanimous state (albeit a tad frustrated and confused), I returned to "More than a Word" to edit out a few careless, polarizing sentences.

A comment! Wow! Hardly anyone comments on my blog these days. Man, do I love it when people take the time to give me some feedback. Just helps me realize that what I write is actually being read. Which is always a pleasant realization to a writer. 

I clicked the "unpublished" button in delight.

...

.....

...

To the author of the anonymous comment, telling me that I sound unbelievably lost and selfish...

I AM lost. I'm so desperately, magically, beautifully lost.

I'm very much aware of the fact that I haven't "found" myself.

I don't want to "find" myself. All I am is already here. I would much rather give myself the freedom to BE myself.

I'm relishing the spontaneity -- the playfulness -- the openness of being lost.

I don't have to "find" anything to be more complete. I don't have to believe anything different to be more worthy.

During this part of my journey, I'm simply allowing myself to be. To be lost. To be confused. To be conflicted. To be unsure.

"Do not ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do that. Because what the world needs is more people who have come alive." 

-Howard Thurman

Giving myself the freedom to BE myself is what helps me discover what makes me come alive. 

And I would rather be passionately giving the world something that energizes and fulfills me (and by extension, the part of the world I touch) than dutifully giving the world something society tells me it "needs". 

My desire isn't to be "selfish", and I sure hope that's not what I'm communicating. My desire is only to create a free space wherein I can be myself.