Autumn has arrived. Marked by falling leaves when the wind gently shakes the trees. Streaks of red and yellow are beginning to appear.
Births are happening all around us. Fall flowers bloom, pumpkins ripen, caterpillars hatch, and acorns line the trails.
Fall used to be my favorite season. This year I’m lacking excitement. I have been referring to myself as broken.
But this week I came to the conclusion I am wrong. I’m not broken. A small, valuable piece of me is missing.
2 years ago a new relationship was born. Exactly 1 year ago that relationship completely died when he left. Today I’m admitting for the first time I’ve never healed from that loss. I haven’t figured out how to completely let it go so I can move on.
Part of me doesn’t want to completely let it go. I don’t want to live as if it never happened. I want to embrace it. I want to learn from it. I want that experience to give birth to hope.
** Prompt Here **
I lack the ability to understand how the word “social” got into the term “social media.” There is absolutely nothing social about sitting at home alone looking at a computer (or cell phone or tablet) screen.
I must be the only person on the planet who feels this way. Lonely. Isolated. Never invited anywhere.
Here’s what I would imagine a conversation to be like if I were to actually hang out with one of my “friends.”
“Friend”: It’s good to see you. We never see you anymore.
Me: I never get invited anywhere and you never come when I invite you
“Friend”: That’s not true. We went out to dinner last night.
Me: oh really? Nobody invited me.
“Friend”: I posted it on facebook right before I left work yesterday.
Me: Oh I see. So I’m supposed to do nothing but stare at a computer screen all day every day just in case for some reason you happen to decide to do something and you post about it on facebook. Then I’m supposed to assume it’s an open invitation for anyone to join you? And I’m supposed to just show up at whatever random place you posted about and hope you’re there at the same time?
The old microwave beckoned her with a hollow ding similar to a bell. Mouth watering, she pressed the button to pop open the door. The site was disappointing in the least. Her chocolate-peanut butter mug cake had oozed over the rim, devouring the mug while a fluid-like remnant sizzled in the center of the mug. Tears streamed down her face. This cake was supposed to be her sweet release – a joy after yet another horrible day at work. Instead she faced a metaphor of her current state of being. Overwhelming emotions oozing forth beyond her control. She dropped the mug in the sink, failing to notice it crack, and grabbed a bottle of wine with a screw cap unwilling to risk the bad luck of breaking a cork and pushing it into the bottle.
** Prompt found here**
Daughter. Granddaughter. Niece. Student. Soldier. Hunter-Jumper. Swing Dancer. Coach. Manager. Athlete. Patient. Client. Friend. Jack of all Trades. Employee. Sales Associate. Customer Service Rep.
I have been called many things. Fit into many categories. But there is one I am not proud of. There is one I kinda feel ashamed about. I didn’t type it in that list. I feel ashamed. I am disappointed in myself for making poor life choices.
Society doesn’t have respect for teachers. The government blames teachers for low test scores. Parents complain their child – who attended less than 20% of classes for the semester – failed a class and demand the grade be changed. Administrators and counselors change grades. Students skip class, talk back, do many other things (talk on their phone, text message, social media, watch movies, play games, etc.) during class, don’t complete assignments, verbally abuse teachers, vandalize, and leave trash all over classrooms. Districts don’t even put enough desks or buy enough text books for the students enrolled in the classes. Families expect teachers to use their own money to buy school supplies for their kids.
I wanted to be a mechanic. I wanted to take a full ride scholarship to go to auto mechanic school. My mom said no way. Why in the hell did she ever let me go to school to be a teacher? It was the dumbest choice ever.
I’m in a dark place… hating my job… disappointed with my life. I need a new name. A new career related name… like Instructional Coach. or Instructional Designer. I need a new social status name… like Wife. or Mom. I need life changes.
The thing I miss the most about high school and college are the dances. I loved getting dressed up and dancing. It seems I have now joined the West Coast Swing community where I can have that. I don’t get to wear super fancy dressed, but I can dress nicer than normal. But you’ll never guess the best part?
At a Westie Fest, I can dance all night long until the sun rises! Isn’t that amazing? I mean, sure… I’ve probably had only about 9 hours of sleep since I woke up Thursday morning, but that’s not really the point. The point is swing.
I think it might be an addiction. I’ve had 13 hours of sleep in the last 76 hours… and I’m itching to do it more. If it wasn’t over, I’d still be there even though I’m exhausted, my body is sore, I have a slight pulled muscle and… well, the term is “swung over.”
The point is, swing dances are way much more fun than high school and college dances… and some of them last 36 hours!
Soaring through the skies
was a gift meant for the birds, the bees, the dragonflies…
until the Warbirds flew.
never quite the same.
Once he maneuvered that particular plane.
But this pair –
a match made in Heaven
destined to become legend.
It was a love affair born on first flight.
A bond cemented through
They died together,
as most soul mates do.
On a Sunday morning
that came way too soon.
The car beeeeeeeps a high-pitched, yet quiet protest. I silently scold myself for not being able to lock the door correctly. I probably shouldn’t have driven home, but the bottle of wine I started drinking is safely standing upright in my bag. At least I didn’t finish it before I decided to drive home. I pause as I walk toward the house, listening to the crickets’ cadence. For the first time, I realize all those sounds can’t be crickets. There are too many different pitches and variations of rhythm. It’s really more of nature’s band playing. I honestly haven’t listened in while. I go to bed too early and then there’s that window A/C unit that has been necessary in this excessive heat warning. But honestly, I can’t remember the last time I stumbled home this late at night. It’s 11:34 pm. I lift the wine bottle from my purse and pour until the bottle is empty. On one hand, I’m thankful to be alone. On the other, I hate that I’m here, drinking a bottle dry without anyone to share it with. The hardest thing to recognize is that I’d rather be here, drinking alone than with company that judges me. I’m not an alcoholic by any means. I’m not concerned about someone chastising me for drinking once a week. I’m concerned about being analyzed… my pauses in conversations, the clothes I’m wearing, the way I danced with person A versus person B… I question whether I can handle being with someone. I question sharing a life with a partner. My mind wanders to the past… the person I was comfortable with. It must be possible on my part. But why is it that nobody shares that feeling for me? I dig my phone from my bag. Scroll through my contacts. There’s his name. I press delete… then confirm it by touching “OK.” I haven’t been able to do that sober, but there’s enough wine flowing through my blood to make it possible. Symbolically, I hope it frees me. However, I don’t believe in such types of symbolism. I am confident his number has changed since then anyways. I know he… and that feeling are lost to me. I don’t believe in anything like soul mates. So I question why? Why is it that I can’t feel the same about the guy I’m dating now? Ultimately it doesn’t matter. I’ve been distracted by nature’s band calling cadence outside. It must be time for bed.