Saturday, March 28, 2015

Holes In the Story


Once upon a time, there was a beautiful. ..  what? Princess? Witch? Sorceress? Amazon? It doesn't matter. Put whatever you want in that space. And something tragic happened. Woe! And then someone saved her, blah, blah, blah. A spell. A kiss. Blah, blah, Blah. Happily ever after.


Once upon a time, there was a woman. Oh, there we go. See? Shit just got real. The story starts with a real woman, it continues with a real woman, and it will end with a real woman. Already, this story's got good bones, so let's just stick with the real woman thing we've got going on here.

I prefer to keep fantasy in the bedroom, which means I want to throw down without the little girl stuff. Somewhere along the way I think my life got so good and real that I lost my tolerance for the whole airy fairy, sunshine daydream song and dance. I am not bitter, angry, or disillusioned.  I am just in reality. I love my life with a burning passion that will raze all doubt that I don't see the magic of it all. 

I think the magic is simple. It's that I'm alive. It's that I've skated to the brink of death and back again. My heart is beating. I am inhaling and exhaling, over and over again. It's that after months of being so sick that I pretty much only left the house to go to a variety of doctor's offices and labs, today I went to the mall for the first time since September, and while I was tired afterwards, I didn't end up in the E.R., which is what would have happened a couple of months ago.

It's that I'm as I'm writing this, my wife is sitting beside me, and I keep looking over at her, and every time she smiles at me like I'm the best news she's ever received. It's that we've been married for six months and one day, and I'd say she's my dream woman, but no, she's better than a dream because she's real. It's that we're both human and imperfect, but we're perfect for each other. It's that we enjoy each other's company so much that when she gets home at the end of a normal work day, it's not uncommon for us to reunite like we'd been apart for weeks. It's the way steady, solid, calming, known presence can also be thrilling, mysterious, sexy, and perpetually new.

It's that my twenty year old daughter visited me last week. Twenty! She's MY child, but she's not a child. She's a grown woman. Not only that, but she's a really good woman. It's that she flew across the country to hang out with me for five days. It's that I gave birth to her. It's that I don't just love her, I really, really like her. It's that she likes me, too.

Things get hard. Then they get really fucking hard. Then they get easy. Blissfully, beautifully smooth. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I don't need anyone to save me from my life. I don't dwell on the positive with hopes that my attitude will shift the material world around me, I do it with the knowledge that it shifts me within the material world. 

I'm not a robot. I'm not always positive and happy. Sometimes I fall into despair. Sometimes I worry about all the made up crap I've created in my head. Sometimes I worry about the very real and very big things that are right in front of me. This is my life. I screw up and make mistakes, and I get it right, and I get it everywhere in between. All of that is shit getting real, too.

Please forgive me if you feel I've lost my sparkle. I'm in the thick of the dirty work of taking responsibility for my own life. I am caked in dirt and grime, I know. But it's a hopeful, rooted down magic. I prefer to feel my bare feet sink into the less seductive soft brown of a fertile and honest Earth, than to walk across miles of glittering fool's gold. This is the place things grow without the need for spell casting, magic wands, or wishful thinking. 

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