Think but this and all is mended:

That you have but slumbered here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend.

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tonuge,

We will make amends ere long.

Else the Puck a liar call.

So good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.”

~ Robin in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5. Sc. 1

Oh to be lost in great expectations on the wings of a seagull guided by a fairy whose confessions are read in a bathtub after a very long engagement that spans the universe and goes into the floor boards to haunt me through the bedroom window where my love last lay, oh the turmoil of Wuthering heights, bring me over the rainbow.

I am hopeless for the insatiable pain and joy of love, the courtship, the lust of pirates, the lure of fairies and never land. I long for chance encounters and foreign seas. To be swept off my feet before midnight and seduced to a romance so pure that words need not apply.

I am a hopeless romantic, lost in a world of mystery, sorcery, folk lore and the suspension of disbelief. I choose to believe. To accept that there are vampires, and pixies, that pirate ships sail through the night air, and that when we meet by chance we meet for a reason. I can not deny the stars and the fortunes that will be mine, I will be the star, unconsciously waiting for Tristan to steal me away.

I simply can not help it. I love the ideas of love, but simple, pure love. I long to be courted and pursued ‘properly’, to do for the one I love in service and in duty. Love letters, flowers and curious surprises entice me, and entreat me to a life that seems so far beyond the realms of that which we live in presently. I suppose than I long for the pain as much as the ecstasy , and yet, the pain is seldom in the fore front of my thoughts when diving headfirst into the thought of love. But then in reflection, how many times have I fallen in love, how many can any of us? Is there more than one? Are they all lusts, is any of it any more or less real than that which Puck, as Robin, discloses to us as a result of his meddling? Is this all a dream, is every time that we fall in love a fall in lust? Do we make friends that we can be with intimately and we develop closeness with, but is this why so often relationships seem to fail, and yet why we have so many? Lust is easy, Love is in fact easy, it is the process of sharing time and schedules and life that gets tricky, this is where the romance seems to disappear. I think that we are mostly hopelessly romantic, longing for some form of pursuit, some form of chase, of desire, of effort, of display of attraction and affection. There are those who choose no part, to be removed, to spare themselves the grief and the pain.

Perhaps though, the other ‘they’ are all correct, perhaps it is better to have loved and lost than have never loved at all.

If we are willing to be alone, to grow from our losses before moving on then there is much to be learned of ourselves in our grief, and grief has its own means of being beautiful. The experience is enthralling, is enlightening is one of the few things in the world that drives us to the greatest depths of ourselves and humanity. Here in our despair we are capable of creating and finding beauty, here we are real, we are weak and strong and vile and graceful and forgiving and vengeful. Our grief is our duality, it is the quintessential expression of our greatest love and greatest despair in one curled up, tight fisted, sopping package.

Here is where our desires and our beliefs come to the surface, and it is here in this cacophony of emotion we are most pure, most honest, most deceived, by and to,  ourselves and others. Here I am. Here I chose to be, by choosing to love, by being willing to love again, I too must be willing to be broken and shattered.

I long to be sought after, desired not to better anyone, and not to better myself but to enhance the joy one already experiences in life, and he joy I can grow to find in myself. So come. Come and find me, hidden in my own devices, take me as I am, and take me with fury, bury me in sonnets and daggers, in whispers and under willows, for this is where I long to be forever, as a child, as with my child, lost in fields and bubbles, here peppered in sunlight waiting, with tiny fingers pointing to clouds, deep in an open field, shaded by a wise old tree, barefoot and dreaming.

So I did, I climbed in the dark from a frightening height, and slowly, placed my toes on soft wooden panels; and I peered, with my small light, into the depths under my bed,and in my closet, and into my head, and my heart, and my soul. I searched for monsters that I invented. And when I turned on the light I was as frightened as  I was relived to see me. me. just me.

“What about me? What do I feel? I may be chattering away about the events at———, but I’m not very brave. I’m afraid to go into myself and see what’s going on in there. And I’m ashamed….I was suffering but it didn’t hurt and, as a result, all my little plans were just the luxury of some problem-free teenager. Poor little rich girl rationalizing things, wanting to draw attention to herself.

But this time, for the very first time, it hurt, it really hurt. Like a fist in my stomach: I couldn’t breathe, my heart aching fit to burst, my tummy crushed. An unbearable physical pain. I wondered if I’d ever get over the pain of it. It hurt so  much I wanted to scream. But I didn’t scream. What I feel now is that the pain is still there but it isn’t keeping me from walking or talking, it’s a feeling of complete helpless absurdity. So that’s what it’s like?All of the sudden all possibilities just vanish? A life full of projects, discussions just started, desires not even fulfilled – it all vanishes in a second and there is nothing let, nothing left to do, and there’s no going back?

For the first time in my life I understood the meaning of the word never . And it’s really awful. You say the word a hundred times a day but you don’t really know what your saying until you’re faced with a real “never again”. Ultimately you always have the illusion that you’re in control of what’s happening; nothing seems definitive…But when someone that you love dies [and there are many forms of death]. . .well, I can tell you that you really feel what it means and it really hurts. It’s like fireworks suddenly burning out in the sky and everything going black. I feel alone, and sick, my heart aches and every moment seems to require a colossal effort. . . someone had begun to play the piano…we stopped short and took a deep breath and let the sun warm our faces while we listened to the music drifting down from above. “I think —- would have liked this moment”. . . I have finally concluded, maybe that’s what life is about: there’s a lot of despair, but also the odd moment of beauty, where time is no longer the same. It’s as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, and elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never. Yes, that’s it, an always within never“.

Here in my hands I hold nothing, and everything. In my hands have been the blood sweat and tears of my self as well as many I have and do love. My hands have been burdened by weight, burns, cuts and sprains. There greatest triumph is the ability to increasingly grow in their strength, flexibility and grace as my son and I age, as his weight bears down harder, as my fingers move more slowly, as daly toils take their toll, the grace of my hands increases.

These hands have displayed the luxuries of sapphires and diamonds, of Tiffany’s and heirlooms. These hands have helped and hurt; healed and injured.

Daily I use my hands. The more I use my hands the better I can say I feel. The dirt and mud, the smell of herbs and dogs. There has never been better work than that I have done with my hands. This delicate feature, fingers and nails, require great up keep for display, for my adoration –  lotion and filing and trimming and oiling – all for me, for you, for a perfect background for the tokens to be displayed. It is hard work for a mother to keep her hands, well respectable. My nails likely will not amount to anything to glamorous, and they will constantly battle dry skin, but, they are strong and capable. They create. They feel. They lead. They toil. My hands are the beginning and ending of every day. They turn on and off the alarm, they gentle wake my son and send him to sleepy bliss. They catch my tears of joy and of sorrow. My hands are well used, well loved. They dig in the dirt for play, and for nurture, they cook for joy and care, they clean for me and for others, they blow bubbles and build puzzles , they write and they turn pages. My hands are my guide, they hold my head up when I pray to God, they squeeze my son when they day has been long, they pick a flower and brush my hair.

They are not the most well maintained. I perhaps abuse the privilege of such talented hands. There are days I forget lotion, or stay submerged in the water. I try, but some how I have never been bothered by the appearance of my hands. Some how, I have always allowed them more room for imperfection, I understood them to be a tool. I have always understood the capacity at which I have been able to function at the cost of my hands. Cards, meals, dishes.  I thought that my hands were a tool to express love, to show others how I cared. I don’t think that is invalid. I do however, think that I overestimated the ability to which I could express my love through products of my hands.

I understand now that the love I have for others can be shown through small tokens crafted between my fingers, but also the touch of my fingers on a forehead, a back, holding hands, a tickle. Perhaps our hands are as much a means to our soul as our eyes are.

In many ways our hands are all we have. They are our primary tool, our means of being real. Our hands allow for all of our daily functions, all of what is needed to be alive, to be part of this species, part of something more. Applying our hands to daily tasks helps to create the path for ourselves and for others. We are as successful as our ability, as our hands, as our being will allow.

My hands may not take me to fame, to notoriety, to riches; but every day they take me home, they feel the small toes, short hair and soft cheeks of the small child that I brought into this world, a child I hold with the same loving hands as the day he was born. And though my destiny may be bigger than I imagine, for now, if all my hands do is fish, garden and wash hair, well for now, thats simply enough.

Pure. Simple. True. Devoted. Unconditional. My hands are an expression of my love for life, my love for self and my love for others.

We go through life with so many various relationships. Perhaps there are layers to us, and I am certain that we end up with those who we can use/need to find out more about ourselves. But within this process we also make many choice, commit many acts, say many things, and when we care significantly about the well being of others, especially those who have impacted our lives, I like to think that is altruistic. The thought that we choose to do something or think something only for ourselves bothers me significantly. Though, in some cases the trickle down affect may play a role – it may make us feel good to see the reaction on some ones face when we do something nice – but did we do it to feel good, or because we wanted them to?

Can we love others for the sake of them, or is it only for our selves? Because if to love is only for our selves than that sort of tarnishes the concept a bit, that we could love another for them…is it possible? We all seem to crave this affection, attention, companionship and closeness, but why, does it serve an evolutionary purpose? Is the idea that we fall into eternal bliss? Seems unlikely, in a species which is still contingent upon our ability to reproduce, it seems more likely that love is a means by which we find the support necessary to work our way through the world and all that comes with it. This act, making it, surviving and thriving is important to our offspring and to the future of our species. Bliss puts us in the position where we feel compelled to mate, physically, and often emotionally. This is not that uncommon. We are in the game to survive, to improve and evolve.

Now that I have said all that, it is important to know that I am a hopeless romantic and truly adore the pains and euphoria’s of love. These peaks and valleys are where we learn the most and accept the most. Being in love is the greatest, and most costly ride of your life. Those that we need in our lives are often given to us, there and ready to be accepted should we choose to accept them, there are likewise those we don’t need, a true test of how well we know and understand ourselves and our needs. All relationships good and bad, have a message, a  gift to deliver. Our ability to think about the actions, the reactions, and the moments will allow us to accepts and enhance ourselves and others through the gifts and the lessons we have received. And to learn about ourselves is the greatest gift and challenge of all.

To be given the gift, be it through triumph or sorrow, to glean the desire to explore and analyze yourself is a fantastic. We, as people do not like to admit our fault or our shortcomings. It is painful, embarrassing involves great thought as to our character then and the way we want to be, and wanting to be anything else must come from within. The problem I see is that often people think that you have to make drastic changes and really re-evaluate who you are. I found that I am incredibly happy with who I am, but not so happy with how I have always chosen to express that person, or how I have chosen to communicate my thoughts and feelings with myself and others. And my desire to grow, to lear and grow is for me, and hopefully to the benefit of others, but initiated for me.

And as those I call family and loved ones have been burdened with much of the stress of my ill handling of myself, I can only hope for them a benefit as mature into a wiser person, a more in control, a more balance person. Through my thoughts and my feelings I have reconciled great weaknesses, and through my thoughts and my courage I have begun to confront those. And through my personal desire to be a better person, I have begun to make choices that directly affect how others, and how I experience myself, life and the world around.

So cheers to family, be them genetically connected or not, you are my family, and I thank you for your time and patience and love, and I pray I am able to better share in your life and return the kindness to you.

However, the routine visits to validate our position in the pool of those awaiting death and welcoming life is really rather benign compared to the maintenance of our vanity.

Vanity. To be vain. According to the dictionary, this is excessive pride in one’s own attractiveness. Am I vain? Is this blog a hidden vanity pouring itself out in digital dialogue? Is a study of my person an attempt to get others to view me, to see me and to experience me as beautiful and confident? Or I guess the last question implies the lack of vanity, if this was vainly motivated I would be posting the pictures to prove that I had achieved or experienced that which is otherwise socially acceptable to those that may be unfortunate enough to receive my blog.

I would like to think not. I would like to think, and truly have until this moment, that all my exposure, my study and my attempt at physical acceptance is not vanity, perhaps a transition in confidence, but not out right vanity. I believe that vanity implies I would, or anyone would be concerned with the opinions formed by others in excess.

This – excess – is the heart of vanity.

For the past two years I have lived in vanity. I have needed, sought and wanted the approval of others, of ‘those others, those in the groups a places that I assumed mattered socially, as a result mattered in how I was liked, and if I met people and so forth. Previously, I lived in the vanity of my estranged husband. I sought the acceptance, tried to be more or less of this and that. I have lived a roll in the vanity of my son and sought his acceptance.

What has been so fantastic about this blog is that is has afford me the chance to come to terms with my vanity. First, we all have some, and some I think is healthy. However, it has to be guided to feeling good for your sake. The jeans I have decided I really like are expensive. But, I did not but them because they were a certain name or style, I did buy them because after going to seven different places they fit me better than any other pair, I instantly loved how they fit and how they felt. Being in the jeans made me feel good, so did the matching bra and panties I bought. I almost always try to coordinate them. No one can see them, but I know they match and there is something sexy about that; and a women who feels sexy is a woman who is confident and a woman who is confident is a joy to be around. For this reason I have begun to embrace my vanity. But the days of doing it for others are gone. I do not set sights on meeting a boy or making an impression. I set sights on feeling confident throughout the day and feeling good in my own skin, and my own jeans and my own self. I shop GoodWill and I shop Lucky and I shop Target and none of it really matters. I like what I like and I am who I am.

But back to the body image, which actually has not been brought up yet, but it is where the idea to ramble about vanity came from. I had an epiphany.

I previously hated my body and was so uncomfortable in my own skin because I was always viewing myself through the magazine, through the pinch or the  size. I was not seeing myself as smart, witty, curious, social, etc., I was seeing myself as an object. A model image, an idea (I do think this is the first in a series of blogs to examine vanity, healthy and otherwise.), and I was trying to figure out how I could be representative of these beautiful confident women that seem to grace the planet at every turn of the newsprint. Then it dawned on me.

The beauty is in the confidence.

Here in the quiet and the dark I am exposed. Under the guise that I am shielded by the peaceful sleep of others, the comfort of my home, and tree covered dark – I am yet exposed, my most vulnerable, my most curious, and my most focused.

The night has become my labyrinth, a place to weave in and out of confidence and insecurities.

Here amongst bats and spiders (and here in SC the ever lovely roach) I have begun to enjoy the time I spend on me. On understanding the places I have developed from, the actions I have taken and the consequences they have had. In trying to understand, or analyze oneself there is a need for risk, and painful exposure, and honesty. In light of that, I have always been as uncomfortable with my internal as my external self. Never nurtured to the comfort of flesh and feeling, I am underdeveloped, a late bloomer, a timid statue of a grater expression. Therefore as I have confronted some more emotionally taxing issues as of recent, I suppose it is time to tackle some more taxing physical issues as well; mostly as a means of breaking the general insecurities I have harbored for so long.

I have always carried more shame then I would ever been willing to admit. Afraid to see who I was/am as much I was afraid to be seen naked, even by, at the time, my own husband.

There is comfort in flesh, in skin, in touch, in curves, and nerves. I ignorantly associated this comfort with a pure desire for sex for the sake of sex. How untrue that is, a tainted conception that evolves from abuses that will not be addressed here. None the less, the body offers a fantastic means for evaluating us each most truly, most purely. The body is something that we all possess. We are all made of skin and bone, though often built quite differently from one to the next, it is here in hips, and toes, and hair and thighs that we are ultimately all common, and yet how incredibly varied in our similarity. This body, this form, this commonality is so shunned in many cultures. To view any portion of the body exposed is to view sex, sin, and lust. This may often be so, but only as a result of our own conditioning to the idea.

When viewed more detached, or perhaps more involved, we can see beauty, even in forms we may not generally appreciate for our tastes. The beauty that is a nude statue or painting is evident, it captures the essence of our sensuality, our fragility, our grace. So why is not the nude photograph understood with the same affection? Before I go on, yes, I do agree that there is a difference between study/classic art and pornography, if it needs to be defined, then you should probably just stop reading here. For the rest of you, there is an obvious abuse of the body that exists in forms of exposure many term ‘art’. For this purpose I am implying those images which capture curiosities,  lines, humanity, or art as it is in the distorted figure. I am not implying that these pictures are art. What I am implying is that in taking the pictures I am experiencing myself as art, as beauty. Its not that I don’t find myself interesting, or attractive. But to understand  yourself as art, as something worth looking at simply because to look is interesting, and beautiful, indicative of confidence and curiosity,  not because its sexual. I am art. I am as much a work of art as the Mona Lisa and to think anything less of myself is wasted energy. The thought may seem lofty and pretentious, but I assure you it is almost essential to maintaining and developing a love of your body and  so yourself.

Do I think that I am perfect, by no means. I am certainly not the standard to which other women, or things, are found to be beautiful or great. I am me, an individual that has struggled with balancing the roles of mother, wife, friend, lover, sister, housekeeper, tutor, worker and student. How do those manifest simultaneously and with a positive result? Well, recently I realized they manifest naturally if you are in balance with yourself. When you are resolved to accept the many parts of who you are – crazy, artsy, nerdy, momish, hard working, emotional, stoic, lazy, tiny toes, stretch marks, imperfect skin, thighs – you come to accept you, and that you are a complex sculpture that requires maintenance and upkeep, much like a classic painting, and some will love what they see, others perhaps not so much, some will understand at sight what you represent and the type of person you may be, or be portraying, others will be blind.

No matter how we come to understanding who and what we are, or when we are given the opportunity to understand, we must be open to it. To understanding that we are a masterpiece in the making, and the more sound in mind and body we become the longer our legacy will last. Those who are the most pure of heart, body and spirit always seem to be remembered the longest and the best. I am only to improve upon the character I am increasingly understanding.

This has been highly more internal than it was intended, but noticing that I am in need of more pictures to continue this on a more external level I will leave it at that.

On a walk I noticed that the likelihood of life flourishing in death is as great, if not better, then life otherwise existing. In plants, there are two general means by which life and death coincide; and both demonstrate a greater strength than life or death independent of each other. In some species, the pod must shrivel and dry before it will fall to the ground and propagate the species. In other instances, most notably fire, the sprouts flourish in the nutrients of the ashes, at some instances, the plant may live and die simultaneously.

There is life in death. Not just life, but an exuberant life. Here in the grace of death we can thrive, as the plants, we as individuals can too thrive. It is here that our sorrow, and our grief and our weakness can be used to extend the degree to which we understand ourselves as we wake and breathe to a new day. In the atmosphere of grace we are beautiful. Our beauty will flourish in this atmosphere of grace, and we will grow more beautiful should be open to the death that precedes it. We will prosper in the radiant light of endurance that rises within us from the turmoil, and by accepting the grace that is bestowed upon us, we strive to be better. Better than we were yesterday and the day before and six months before and ten years before, and better for those around us, but mostly for ourselves. For without being better for ones own benefit, one can be no better for another, and the degree to which we choose to profess our commitment to being a better, more graceful, and more beautiful person, is the degree to which we choose to grow.

It is not a choice when to grow, but it is a choice to grow, and how to grow. And though it may take time to come up through the ash, or to ripen and fall, it will happen. We will choose to grow, and to plant our roots and to develop larger, taller and more fully then those around us; and so long as the choice is pure of heart, we will grow strong, endure, build character, and create new hope.

The choice to accept the beauty of grace is the choice to act for ones self. Our action must first make us better individuals, only then can we become better to those that we love.

The choice. We do not get to choose when, or how, or why the events of life lead us where they do. We do get to choose what we take from those events, and how we take it.

I thought then, and think more so now, that in order for this realization to come to pass I had to be put in a situation of desperation. A situation that felt so bleak, so lonely, so isolating, that I very quickly had to process choices I made, and choices I did not make. Through doing so I have come to learn a great deal about myself.

First and foremost, I have had to take ownership of my ill actions. I have had to face the reality that I stand where I do now as a result of my recent actions, or lack there of. My actions were perpetuated by those of  another, however, no situation is the fault of one individual. For a long time I have been scared, afraid that no matter which choice I made it would be the wrong one. I always knew what I wanted to do; and yet I was always afraid that what I chose would haunt me. I never wanted to feel so bad again in my life, and then, i felt worse.

Owning up to my portion of the situation has been hard, embarrassing, and frustrating. There is a part you that then tries to justify your actions so as to soften the blow to your own ego. Yet, no matter how I try, if I justify away my responsibility then I can not hope to grow from the situation.

I own it, I accept it, and though I know should the stakes get any higher I will suffer a blow, I also know that I have no choice but to accept that life must go on in a highly altered way. And if it is meant to be any other way, then with luck, my personal beliefs in myself others, and God, and instinct will benefit me. Yet, I am not naive enough to think that those odds are in my favor.

For weeks I have cried. Though not been self piteous, I do not believe in it. Being self-piteous is almost as selfish as suicide. I will face each day and do so to the best of my ability. I will be strong. I will learn to live my life, as me in this altered state.

In recent readings and self explorations I have increasingly realized I am comfortable with myself. My body, my skin, my style, my likes and dislikes, my imperfections. I have begun to see where I faulted, where I was weak and where I fell short – both for myself and for others. Through this process though I have had to make a choice : feel sorry for myself, or change myself.

I am changing, growing, and evolving. I am doing so quite naturally with no drastic movements or alterations of who or what I am. Rather I am embracing me. I am accepting my femenimity, my personality, my intelligence, my self. I am certain in who I am without that person be contingent upon my son or any other man or friend or group. I am me. I am certain of who that is.

The task now is understanding what I mean in the context of others and how best to communicate to them what they mean to me. I need to learn skills of communication and expressions of love. It is important to express how I feel, but it is equally important to understand how the persons I care for understand love and the means by which it is expressed. Some value gifts, some words, some touch. Though we all likely know what each form of communication means, we are each more receptive to one or some then others. I need to improve upon understanding the needs of those around me, and the needs of myself….

That saved a wretch like me, I once was lost but now am found.

Was blind, but now, I see.

T’was Grace that taught, my heart to fear.

And Grace, my fears relieved.

How precious did that Grace appear,the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares, we have already come.

T’was Grace that brought us safe thus far, and Grace will lead us home”