pushing my car down Lake Michigan Drive. She still thinks we should have done it, rather than using our free towing service. :)
Yesterday was pretty bummy as I ended up having to shell out 200 dollars in unplanned car repairs. In the throws of absolute major panicky breakdown when I found out that I would have to have the thing taken in to a garage, imagining the money I've just started putting in my savings account flushing down the toilet bowl with graffiti on it reading, "God hates my guts!" I called my mother and she said, in between my sobs, "What? You feel like life isn't worth it because of your car?" By this time, I was on her doorstep, and started laughing at my absurdity. We got the car towed, and it ended up working out. I thought that I was going to have to come up with hundreds and hundreds of dollars, and in the end, I will be able to pay this.
It was fascinating, though. My inner dialogue was so ridiculous. I kept thinking, "This is your fault. You cannot take care of anything." And then I realized that that is absolutely ridiculous. I started to realize that so many of my thoughts come from things I was told long ago. And it's very sad. I remember realizing what was going on in my head, yesterday, and suddenly feeling this great compassion for myself. It was nice. I think everyone should have that every so often, a good dose of compassion for themselves.
Anyway, while my car was getting fixed, my mom took me out to Chinese, and then we went back to her house so I could fix her mailbox, which was hanging sideways next to her driveway. Supposedly she keeps getting hate mail from her mail carrier. So, after we pounded this stake in to straighten the mail box, laughing and being silly the whole time, she wanted to re-glue this wooden slat on top of the mailbox. After she glued it down she went around looking for something to hold the slat down while the glue dried. Finally she brought out this HUGE box of kitty litter with "Fresh Expressions" printed in big block letters across the front, and the image of a kitten pawing through grey and white pebbles. I had to pull out my camera. Seriously. My little mother trying to balance a box of kitty litter on top of her mailbox in the middle of a sub-division. And she just bought this house. I thought we might have to explain to her new neighbors, "Early onset of alzheimers. Very sad," or, "She was just trying to return it." :) I laughed histerically, and she did, too.
Then we played Mario Kart on the Wii, and drank chocolate milk.
I love my mother. Can I just say that? I love her. She's hilarious, and so warm. She was so good to me yesterday, and I don't know if I enjoy playing Wii with anyone else, quite as much.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Joy, deeply.
Last night:
In my mother's living room, I played Great Lake Swimmers', "Unison Falling Into Harmony," and danced around, finding out how difficult balance has become. It was interesting, dancing around by myself, on my own, discovering that it is nice to dream without expectations, without faces to put to dreams. I sang, danced, changed songs, listened for water boiling over in the kitchen, stirring mac and cheese noodles, calling down to my sister talking to her boyfriend on the phone.
Once, when going up to change to another song, some bluesy thing, Melody Gardot and Eva Cassidy, I noticed these clay hand prints my sisters and I made when we were young, and though it seems cheesy, and maybe it is, I put my hand in the print, and realized that once, I was very young. I was very young, once. I was small.
I have had very small hands.
I had this moment looking back into my memory, mostly composed of old photographs, thinking of myself back then, five years old, silly, restless. And I thought of how much my mind has taken over. How, back then, life was running. It was tossing about with my sisters in snow, in the yard. It was chasing the dog, and exploring color and new stones on the driveway. It was bending down to see. It was getting real close.
Looking back, seeing myself as this separate small person, helps me develop this compassionate view of myself. I have grown. I have been through legitimately painful experiences. I have survived, and I have learned joy, deeply.
And I have met people who are willing to bend near to me, to take me in, whatever I am, and love what they have in their hands. I love them, too. They are in my grown hands, and I am proud of them.
In my mother's living room, I played Great Lake Swimmers', "Unison Falling Into Harmony," and danced around, finding out how difficult balance has become. It was interesting, dancing around by myself, on my own, discovering that it is nice to dream without expectations, without faces to put to dreams. I sang, danced, changed songs, listened for water boiling over in the kitchen, stirring mac and cheese noodles, calling down to my sister talking to her boyfriend on the phone.
Once, when going up to change to another song, some bluesy thing, Melody Gardot and Eva Cassidy, I noticed these clay hand prints my sisters and I made when we were young, and though it seems cheesy, and maybe it is, I put my hand in the print, and realized that once, I was very young. I was very young, once. I was small.
I have had very small hands.
I had this moment looking back into my memory, mostly composed of old photographs, thinking of myself back then, five years old, silly, restless. And I thought of how much my mind has taken over. How, back then, life was running. It was tossing about with my sisters in snow, in the yard. It was chasing the dog, and exploring color and new stones on the driveway. It was bending down to see. It was getting real close.
Looking back, seeing myself as this separate small person, helps me develop this compassionate view of myself. I have grown. I have been through legitimately painful experiences. I have survived, and I have learned joy, deeply.
And I have met people who are willing to bend near to me, to take me in, whatever I am, and love what they have in their hands. I love them, too. They are in my grown hands, and I am proud of them.
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