The man who has everything gives away nothing. The man who has nothing gives away everything.
I spent 29 years of my life dating and married to a smart man, an excellent provider, who could not even bring himself to tell me goodnight.
For four years now I have been with a man who barely escaped high school, but who chooses to warm both our plates in the oven until we both can sit down to eat, toasting glasses and sharing conversation.
The difference is astounding.
Tomorrow I face the first man, my ex, in court, again. The 6th return to face off on what was his bogus and yet, successful, bid for child support and my hopefully, tied up soon, challenge for reimbursements and equity. I am not certain Justice will prevail, but I know I must fight, for myself; for my daughters.
A few days ago as I walked in the woods behind my house, I recounted all the things I hate about my ex. I made a mental list so that I wouldn’t forget. 1) the smell of his head and shoulders hair 2) the way he clicks his tongue in conversation 3) the way he chews m&m candies while watching a movie, loudly, with his front teeth 4) his never clearing his own dish, much less anyone else’s 5) his desperate need to account for every dollar spent at my weekly visits to Target. I could go on.
He has yet to share his tax return with me, an obligation for mediation, so I am nervous about what stunt he will try to pull in court tomorrow, what verbal tango he’ll perform in an attempt to manuever his way around the truth.
Civil war. “Everything we were went into that war, and everything we are came out of it.” (Johnathan Gill)
I thought I knew what I wanted, “Wooster, psychology, fall in love and be happy,”
It took a long time to admit it, but I finally did: what I had was not what I wanted, and no, I was not happy.
And so I left. And one step at a time (and two steps back) I’ve made it. Here. To a life that’s mine. A house that’s mine. A dog that’s mine. A job that pays the bills, mine. A lover who makes delicious morning coffee, mine. A bed where I sleep with yesterday’s clothes at the foot, mine. A shower (lacking repugnant head and shoulders), mine. I clean when I want, I eat when (and where) I want, I sing and dance and cheer. I like candles (mine) and watch corny movies, I chat with friends (mine) and text with my daughters (ok, ours, but mine all mine when we take selfies on the deck (mine).
I went into the war with everything that I was, everything that I had. I gave 3 decades to the battle and came out with scars. And though I gave all that I had to give, it wasn’t enough. It would never be. And so I surrendered. And now I am all that I am and more. I am mine. Everything I am now, came out of the war. I have won. I am me.
Last we exchanged notes we both were going through a tough time. My marriage was over and your old dog had passed away. Those scant three years ago feel like an eternity, don’t they?
Three years hence and I am no longer in Reston, no longer have my old lady dog, and am no longer with Mission BBQ…
I now own my own townhouse, have a brand new 10 month old crazy pup and a fledgling career in communications.
Lucy left yesterday for her senior year in college and Annie Rose began her last year of high school last Thursday. Both girls are doing very well. We’ve all worked really hard at forgiveness. I think our bond is stronger than ever.
Jace and I are still battling one another in court. The next appearance is Sept 14. He emailed me tonight to see if we could settle and then in true narcissist form, scoffed at my boundaries (to see his tax return). I am no longer victim to his bullying. I will not yield just because he tells me to.
I have found my voice. I have found my sense of purpose. On good days I am productive and happy. On others I take deep breaths, and strive to do the next right thing.
I am a work in progress. And that’s ok. I’ve got the rest of my lifetime to learn how to do and be me.
I hope you are well and that things continue to grow and prosper at the Center for Relationships. It seems like a million years ago, and yet like it was only yesterday that we were there, going to workshops, individual and group. You taught us so much back then. I wish I could say we’d learned enough:
I’m sorry to let you know that Jace and I separated a year ago, and have been in mediation since February. Our divorce papers were filed in Loudoun County yesterday. What a journey. I am incredibly sad that we couldn’t make it work, but I do feel hopeful about our futures apart. It was beyond time, and beyond necessary.
I have a lovely apartment in Reston. I love the trees and the walking paths. I have a new old-lady-rescue-dog named Roxie. And, I have a new job as “Community Ambassador” for the Mission BBQ store that opened recently in Sterling. The job is the perfect mix of food and schmooze. I also earned a massage license four years ago, and continue to see a very small number of clients out of my home.
The kids are wonderful. Lucy will be 18 next week and is off to William and Mary in the fall. She wants to re-write all the healthcare policies for women and babies in this country. Annie Rose is 14 and will be a freshman at Potomac Falls HS. She’s arty and is super into musical theatre. Infact, she’s “Taylor” tomorrow night in a summer production of High School Musical.
I’d love to tell you that Jace and I really tried hard. I suppose we thought we had. But the truth is, as perfect as we are for one another on paper, in real-life, we just were oil and water. He’s a good person. I’m a good person, but we couldn’t find common ground anywhere. Our relationship was fraught with tension, resentment and a decided lack of intimacy. In the past few years, I strayed, just to get some desperately needed physical affection. I’m not proud of that, but it was the only way I could reconcile staying together, which we were stubbornly determined to do.
However, last summer, we decided to “press pause” and take a 90-day separation. We were under the care of the “Center for Relational Recovery,” which I naively thought meant, “Relational Reconnecting,” but in our case, the relationship [we both] needed to recover was the one with ourselves. I’d become esteem-less, depressed and fully believing that I was not worthy of being loved the way that I was, that I was broken. I’ve learned now that that isn’t true. I am worthy of love and I was created the way that I am, and there is nothing “less than” about me. It’s been an unbelievable year.
I wanted to share this with you, as you’ve been such an important part of our history. There’s a part of me that wishes we’d given up long ago, but then again, I wouldn’t trade my girls for anything in the world. So, here I am, starting over at nearly 52. It’s worrisome, but I’m not scared. Not every day will be easy, but as the song goes, “Every little thing is going to be alright.” Sending you so much appreciation for the work that you did with us, and the role-modeling you provided for me that there IS life after marriage.
“Sometimes I see myself fine Sometimes I need a witness And I like the whole truth But there are nights I only need forgiveness…” (My Friends, Dar Williams)
“I have this friend in a bright and distant town…” the song starts. Dar singing about her friend, but what I hear is a message for myself: The version who loves and accepts herself.
“She says ‘He’s writing something, Hey now, why don’t you talk about it?” And he doesn’t make a sound He’s just staring at his coffee And I know there’s all this beauty And this greatness she’ll defend, But I think it’s in my friend.”‘
Man, that’s me. The old me, anyway. Defining herself by the reflection of her lover on her face. But I’m starting to learn that the glow I can absorb from the beautiful sun around me, is really so much more about MY OWN light.
Four years ago I left a miserable marriage. And for a long time I believed that I was a miserable person — just because someone else saw me that way. But in these past four years, I have learned that I do not have to be defined by what anyone else sees or doesn’t see in me. Or anyone else’s reflection passed off as my own.
I am whole and worthy just exactly as I am.
I came into this world, all 5lbs 2 oz of me, fighting for survival, umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. That cord is gone now.
I am independent, I am happy, and I am free.
“She’s found a common balance Where you do your work, and you do your love And they pay you, and praise your many talents.”
“And I’ll act like I have faith and like that faith never ends.”
‘She says “You know I think you remember every part of me…”‘
I just took a long walk and was thinking about a drawing I had to do when I was at the IOP for love and sex addiction. It was to be “of my childhood.” I drew a house with lilacs in the yard. But I was no where to be seen. I realize now, in the absence of all the meeting of other’s expectations of me, aka their reflections, I had/have no idea who I am.
Now, as I am healing, and deciding what my boundaries are, I’m beginning to take shape.
It’s a Fred Eaglesmith kind of night. It’s kind of gritty, dark, cloudy and chilly, too. Like story, or a train, or a storm’s rolling in.
Over the past few years, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things: I’ve been thinking about boundaries and limits, and desires, and truths. And it’s taken me a while, but finally I feel like I am understanding what they mean–for me. For starters, a truth: After decades playacting, I am finally becoming me. Wild, young and free, me. The me who had never had a haircut in her whole life til she was 12. The me who loved horses, dogs, and calligraphy, intrigued by the shapes and “personalities” of all three. The me who was always pleasant, silly, friendly, and kind. Decades after abandoning her, being instead, who I believed everyone else needed me to be–I am returned.
My day started in a meeting of women from across two continents, sharing their stories, feeling the feelings, and owning their lessons. One of them asked if I’d read Untamed, by Glennon Doyle? (I haven’t, but I absolutely will.) My friend had heard a podcast of Brene Brown’s, with Glennon being interviewed about her book. I listened, too. And was blown away by what I heard. Truths about womanhood and motherhood so painfully accurate that I began to tear. I recognized myself in so much, but especially in her story about the trained cheetah: The one who did what it knew, but always, deep, deep inside, had a sense that what they were meant for something, but whatever it was, was not this. I have spent nearly my whole life playing a role, a really, really good role, mind you, when I knew, deep, deep down inside me lived a spirit screaming to break free. That was the first time today I was leveled with realization.
In this morning’s group, we women also talked about boundaries, what do they mean? And whether they aren’t just a more polite means of being controlling? What are my boundaries? Where do I end and you begin? Who, and how many do I want on my island, and how do I want to treat, and be treated on it? Now I know just how good I feel when I enforce my newly realized boundaries. Like I’m someone who is worthy of protection. Like I’m a kid who wants a parent who will tell me what time to be home at night. Like I’ve got someone who loves me enough to teach me when to say, “We’ve had a really good time, but now it’s time to go home.”
I am learning what I really want: To give myself permission, to take alone time, to play. I want to live a life that’s real, and messy, full of accidental mistakes, and with amends with great intention.
I want a life that comes with joy and with pain, and some lessons are hard-learned. Like the one when you see your hand heading slowly towards the stove and though you know exactly what’s going to happen next, you’re unable to stop. You can see the burn before you can feel it.
Fred Eaglesmith is an alternative country singer songwriter. He writes gritty songs about gritty people. I’m a gritty singer songwriter from an alternative country. The one-woman land known as me.
Wilder Than Her, Lyrics by Fred Eaglesmith
Well I’m wilder than her, what else can I say? But I guess that’s why she fell in love with me She’s a house on fire, she’s got all those charms I’m a house on fire too, but I’ve got four alarms
And I’m wilder than her, drives her out of her mind I guess she thought that she was just one of a kind But she’s a summer storm, I’m a hurricane One just blows through town, one blows the town away
And I’m wilder than her
When we go driving in our cars, racing through the night She can drive as fast as me but she stops at all the lights She says it’s ’cause I’m crazy, she’s probably right But I think the reason is that I’m twice as wild Because I’m wilder than her, drives her out of her mind
I guess she thought that she was just one of a kind But she’s a summer storm, I’m a hurricane One just blows through town, one blows the town away And I’m wilder than her
But when she takes my hand and she looks me in the eye I see something that I’ve never seen in my life
She takes the fire and turns it down low She takes the night and makes it not so cold She takes the distance, breaks it into miles She makes my life just a little less wild
Because I’m wilder than her, drives her out of her mind I guess she thought that she was just one of a kind But she’s a summer storm, I’m a hurricane One just blows through town, one blows the town away
And I’m wilder than her
Note: I would never have known about old Fred or this song if it weren’t for Dar Williams. The attached video is not either Fred nor Dar. Title and lyrics borrowed without permission. I hope Mr. Eaglesmith won’t mind.
We walked along the path leading into the woods the leaves on the trees so vibrant it almost hurt to look at them the same way I felt when I look into your tired eyes it’s been a hard year but you’re hanging upside down in a batman suit I love you crazy throw me and I will return
New Years Eve
You fell asleep and I was all alone with my friends who were awake but not here with me and even though we rolled on the floor with the dog and drank bubbly wine when we kissed at midnight it felt more like resignation than resolution in the morning you were gone yet again I’ll return
Easter
The cherry trees are blooming despite the sudden cold the sun shone just above the river where you held me the jumping fish scared us until we laughed the dog enjoyed romping in the woods tonight even though you weren’t here to see it so much that you won’t see you’ve apologized and thrown me again
Halloween
The days have truncated but the sky is still blue I recognize this path faithful dog by my side I picture the gap in your bottom teeth as you’d smile and realize it’s been months since I’ve awakened thinking of your face I see myself reflected in the puddled water and know to whom I’ve been returned
It’s nearly April and the Bradford pears are in bloom. In normal times, that would mean that we’d be heading to Jammin Java in about a week’s time to hear our friends, the Nields, play their it’s-spring-break-in-New-England-so-time-to-visit-the-Grandparent’s-in-VA annual show. Of course, this is not normal times.
Instead, I’m sitting here in my kitchen watching Nerissa, and Katryna (and Dave) play to an audience on Facebook. I’m grateful I still get to hear and see them.
Nerissa said she’s working on a new song, called “When I Was a DJ”. Just so happens that at one point in my life, I was a DJ…this song is true.
When I was a DJ, I was tall and blonde
And when I was a DJ, everyone loved my song
They adored my lilting voice
And my witticism interspersed
And tuned in every Tuesday to hear my thematic verse
When I was a DJ, they asked if they could see me,
If they could come to the studio door?
And I said that if I looked like I sounded
Wouldn’t you think I’d be on TV?
When I was a DJ, every Monday night
I’d write out my playlist, I wanted it right
I picked A sides and B sides and then in the morn
I’d come in the studio and a new show’d be born
No two were the same,
Two for Tuesday in northeastern Ohio
No two were ever the same…
When I was a DJ I was Queen Bee
Stories to tell and no one to see
the signal barely extended beyond the campus walls
I talked to my dad on the phone this morning. He sounded tired, but still was chatty. My dad doesn’t hear very well anymore. If anything, that just gives home more reason to do most of the talking.
“Dad, how are you doing? What are you guys up to today?” I kicked off with, he took it from there.
I bought a corned beef the other day. $17, you know, the kind of roast beef that’s packaged in the brine? All you have to do is put it in a pot on the stove and cover it just barely cover it with water. I cut up cabbage too and put in potatoes. It’s not hard to make. You simmer it on the stove. 1 hour per pound, that’s what they recommend. It was so good! Sandy loved it. It was a lot of meat tho. Do you ever make that? Make a corned beef? It’s delicious, and it’s not expensive, we got 3 or 4 meals out of it. Today I’m going to thinly slice the rest of the cabbage, very thin, add some mayonnaise, make a little coleslaw. You know, you can pay $4 for a half lb of premised coleslaw, but it’s so easy to make.”
I noticed during the conversation how many details my dad included, the price of the meat, the detailed cooking instructions. My dad was a teacher, and I suppose at 89, that’s what he still is. Every conversation, an opportunity to explain, to illuminate.
He started talking about current events, I’d interrupted his Sunday news show with Farid Zakaria. He was listening to them talk about China and that led him to explain to me the history behind the settlement of Taiwan, what it was called first, how it came into being and what the Chinese perspective is about it now. “They won’t go to war over it, he exclaimed calmly. They threaten to every decade or so, but they won’t.”
Then he spoke about education and how teaching a kid to memorize facts and figures does nothing to teach them how to think. “You have to teach the context, don’t just say the Civil war happened x. Explain the circumstances that lead up to it. The south didn’t just attack Sumpter, they were provoked. Did you know that? Their food was cut off so there was a response. You have to consider what lead up to the things that happened.” He’s absolutely right. These days, pressure to adhere to curriculum and perform for standardized testing has dissipated the kind of learning our kids get. My dad says, “It’s a shame.” And he’s right. I have a college degree, but my knowledge of world history, politics, language, religion, it all pales in comparison to my dad’s. And he’s likely forgotten 50% of what he once knew.
My dad goes on. He loves food, has always loved to cook. Like me, he’s a peasant cook, “a little of this, a little of that, cook it till it’s done.” He doesn’t just say, we had fish, he shares with me that he bought a thick slice of orange roughy, from Joseph’s market. Orange roughy, he explains, comes from New Zealand. He goes on, sharing the seasoning he used, the sides he prepared with it. How long he cooked it. How delicious it was.
My dad loves details, he loves to share. Mostly though, he loves his family. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen him. Thankfully my middle sister and I made a quick visit to Florida 18 months ago for his 88th birthday. I know each one more he gets now is a blessing. He mentions he’s coming up north for a week in May. I am caught off guard by this news, grateful. I realize that I am tearing up at the thought of seeing my father again. I miss him, the stubborn old dude.
“They opened the pool area back up again,” he shares, with a sense of relief in his voice. I recognize how hard the isolation has been for this extrovert, head of the classroom guy. “I wrote a very strong letter to the community management, a very strong letter. I told them, look, we’ve all been seeing one another down here for nearly 20 years, and most people don’t stay all year. They go back to NY before Passover, so we don’t have much opportunity. These are our friends. We can socially distance and wear masks. Why can’t we gather at the pool?” There was a sadness in his voice. I could tell that he’s been lonely. And also, perhaps, that he recognizes there may not be that many days left to tell his stories, to recount the details.
mindful musings 