self-hatred

is there no end to the self hatred, the self deprecation?
by the time i got to school this morning, i had already discounted every admirable quality i own
i had already begun to hate myself
the hate itself incites more hatred
damn myself for not liking myself more!

i am living in a golf-score economy
and according to my waist band, i have no currency to barter with
another reason to despise myself
thanks to living in a world of mirrors
that reflect every detail (except the ones that matter)
i can be reminded of that hourly

these rules are cutthroat
these standards are lethal

by the time i write this poem
i will have thought of other reasons to loathe Me
no discipline
no perseverance
no beauty
and cant write her way out of a paper bag.

even my self-hatred refuses to be a part of me out of disgust
and in an act of portentous independence, disembodies itself so that it can be critical from afar and
speak in third person.

look at how her clothes dont fit!
look at how one eye is wider than the other when she smiles!
look at how many chins emerge when she looks at her shoes!
she thinks she's a writer, but she cant finish a single thing she starts!

these rules are cutthroat
these standards are lethal
truly lethal

musings upon musings

my personality is as evident in the way i write as in anything else: i am rash, impatient, eager to put down and release what i can hear in my head.

planning? structuring? looking ahead? formulating a big picture to fit the pieces within?
pshaw!

but really, it does leave me at an impasse. i have all these ideas, all this beautiful language, and it sits in pieces here and there, not a part of anything larger or more purposeful.
i have been working for a few months now on a collection of memories and musings on growing up in a large Christian family. but even it is in broken pieces down the page, disconnected. how does one learn how to do what it is not in their nature to do?

until i can figure that out, i am simply adding to the mass. that's what im doing this morning! mikey has been encouraging me to get away for a few hours on a saturday morning to write--something that i cant seem to do at home when surrounded by a host of other distractions. i havent had a free saturday in a while, but today here i sit, "alone" (that guy over the intercom, announcing that people's food is ready, is really starting to get to me), writing.

originally, i thought that i wouldnt be able to remember enough about my childhood to put down on paper, but as i write about one thing, another comes back to mind, then another and another until i find myself not nestled in front of the fire place at panera, but back in Pittsburgh, PA climbing trees and making mud pies and having a funeral procession for a tiny mole that we accidentally killed in the yard. I see myself on a hillside, surrounded by family and singing "Shine on, Harvest Moon" while its light is eclipsed slowly before our eyes. i feel myself warm and close in a tunnel we fashioned out of tightly packed snow, or riding our bikes in a circle in the driveway until nightfall.

and tears are coming to my eyes. childhood is a fabulous thing. perhaps that is why we resort back to its innocent state when we enter our gray years. perhaps we are so astounded by it as adults because it holds a magic that we long to have again--a magic that will be ours once more in the after-life.

i know i had conflict with my siblings when i was young, but i do not remember a single one of those fights clearly. at least up until about age 10 or 11, i just remember blissful days of creative play, romping around rural Western PA.

these days, when working through relationships with even siblings is difficult and full of complexity, those memories are so sweet. they are a gift, actually. something that brings me back to a place of love and comradeship even in the midst of learning how to be friends with family members who you may not have much in common with but DNA. i am truly thankful today that i have those fond, fond, remembrances.

fragmented thoughts about history and about loss

a new self-discovery: history is important to me.
personal history. relational history.

it is the one thing that i am running short on these days, and i think i might be starting to panic.

it seems that all the history ive spent years of my life cultivating has gone through a season of pruning. for years, i spent time, love, and energy, and risked vulnerability in organizations and relationships that i viewed as long-term investments. for years, they thrived and helped me grow--fed me and made me feel secure. now when i look at my immediate surroundings, i feel that i am facing new fields to be sown and watered and weeded and tended. new relationships. new endeavors.

i am not the kind of person who faces change and breathes it in like a fresh breeze, inviting it in, excited about its possibilities.

rather, i bury my head in a pillow and scream, hoping it will pass quickly and painlessly.
(it never does).

i am tired. i am tired of investing so much just to watch it slip away from me. and tired of starting over again and again and again. i want history. a solid foundation, a basis for understanding and empathy. but im tired of putting in the work to build it. and im afraid (have i mentioned that yet?). afraid of investing and then saying goodbye...again.

i am reading lewis' "a grief observed" and while i have not experienced a loss like lewis, i am finding his thoughts insightful and helpful. this advent, my season of longing has been accented by grief for some things lost this past year.

here at the end of 24-7 prayer

our 24-7 prayer week has been over ONE DAY.
just one day. i already feel like i should have entirely cleaned my house from top to bottom, written all my Christmas cards, finished my knitting projects and read a book.

just fyi--i have done none of those things.

in fact, i've barely made myself a meal and put clothes on to go to work. yesterday, the rest of the day after cleaning up 24-7 prayer, was rather pathetic. i lay around all day in my pajamas, watching absurd amounts of television.

i feel a bit empty, though. last night, i had a dream that i was in this year's prayer room, slowly wandering from station to station, reading others' meditations and occasionally praying myself. i felt very at peace there. waking up knowing that everything is back to normal, that even that space has been filled back in with clutter and noise, makes me feel heavy.

this year, during my 2am-4am time slot--those deliciously serene, still morning hours when the world is painted in a softer palate than that of garish day...to borrow from shakespeare--i found myself stuck at this one station, staring up at this tiny image of myself that i had painted, meditating on this one thought:

i want to be authentic.

that thought has followed me into this evening where it cornered me on the front stoop and inundated me with emotions grand and terrifying. i am hoping that it is more than hormones, that it is my outer shell breaking down.

that's what i prayed for. i feel the flood of myself clamped until only a small stream gets through to drip slowly into the world. i feel like a ghost version of the weighty me that i sense is in here somewhere. i didnt always feel that way. in college, i felt real--no fuzzy edges but crisp, clear lines. i dont often wish to go back in time--i try to consider that i am where i am for a purpose. but there is something about my confidence and joy that i want to carry into this adult world of mine. im not sure why it got left behind in the first place.

so the tears tonight were welcome. they made me feel very present, and i enjoyed really feeling the autumn breeze and listening uninhibited to the quiet night rhythm of the neighborhood.

i wonder to myself if there might be something difficult and beautiful on the horizon. is it time to dive into the waters we've been sticking our toes in for years? is it time to leave behind the secure for the dreams? will i finally be able to rekindle the girl inside who cut her own hair, wore suspenders on campus and danced the night away with those sweet, burly irish-men? is it time for freedom once more?

waiting

we hate waiting. that's really what it all boils down to. and we hate that our world is made up of one interim after another--gray times, thin and stretching and long...ever so long.
everything is waiting. everything is gradual.
pregnancy.
learning an instrument.
learning anything.
growing friendships.
getting in shape.
(keeping your shape).
making a meal.
perhaps it wouldnt be so bad if we didnt live in a country that stands defiantly, chest puffed out, and shouts "I REFUSE TO WAIT!"
so our friendships are fake.
and we give up our dreams.
and we use surgery instead of the treadmill.
and we drive through to pick up dinner.