Dearest

You are everything I could ever hope to be. And I wish I would have could have told you that. There was something so deep and dark and scary going on for those years and I was so afraid. Whatever tie I had to you was so easily drawn away and life was so intensely complicated. I felt like I was living my life incorrectly and that if you knew who I was, you would be disappointed. Now that I’m older, I know that isn’t true. And I know that you tried. But the heaviness of that life lingers. And some days, it’s too much.
 
It is an anchor in my heart.

I took on the burden of everyone. You and us and them. Everyone that left and everyone that never reached out. I took it as my own and held it and tried to keep it quiet. I was deeply and wildly lonely for you.

In my brightest and happiest dreams, I think that you can see me and that I make you proud. I hope that I shine like a jewel in your eye and all is right and well. Every time my hands create something out of nothing, I think that I’m honoring you. That’s why I keep a picture of you in my kitchen.  I look at that image of us and I think, ‘This is what she would have done.’

And I know it’s true because it always works. Just like you always worked. Never sitting, always fretting. The smell of the kitchen and clean laundry and starch and your soap. I can picture your hands, slightly knotted, feverishly working away to feed your family. This is what love looks like to me.

There is a piece of you that I hold that very few know. All those nights spent, feeling the safest and most content I have ever felt. Those moments settle in my heart and slow my world down for those few minutes before I fall asleep. And sometimes, I feel you there.

You are my deepest love.

My greatest hope.

And my dearest memory.

 

 

Grow(th)

 

There's something about permanent or continued responsibility that freaks me out. I get a little cagey when well-meaning people around me start to ask me about my plans for the future. And by PLANS, they mean 'start popping out kids, already'.

 

And while that subject deserves it's own post or ten, this is more about my apprehension toward the requirements that come with tending to something so it doesn't...you know...DIE.

 

Put that to scale and you have a recipe for a shutdown.

 

So imagine the paradox of really, really wanting to be as self-sufficient as possible in conjunction with practically shrinking into myself at the thought of being relied on to keep an entire vegetable garden alive. I know this all sounds a little, if not a lot, overdramatic. But this is serious business, my friends. Lives are at stake.

 

There are a million things that have lent their hand(s) to my personality. I know why I'm so opinionated, just like I know why I'm so great with kids. I know who I got my maternal instincts from just as well as I know whose sense of humor I have. My face is my mom's and my coloring is my dad's. I'm incredibly sensitive...although, I'm relatively certain I was just born that way. I'm a thinker and a processor, just like my younger brother (he's a lot funnier though).

 

But.

 

I don't know where my trepidation for permanence comes from. Not in relationships. But in responsibility. It's not laziness. I'm pretty ambitious and determined. And a really, really sore loser.

 

Well, then. It's fear. Right?

 

Not fear of failure or fear of the unknown. It's fear of disappointment. What if it's not all that it's cracked up to be? Something I've noticed about myself over the last 3 or so years (and consequently, something I'd like to change...or at least modify) is that I have impossibly high standards. And that leaves no room for error or growth. Which is ridiculous.

 

So my husband planted a garden and he patiently waited for me to stop hyperventilating over the responsibility. And reminded me of what's to come:

 

Growth. And lots of veggies.

 

 

 



Who Do You Love?

Do you tell your friends you love them?

You should.

I think it's been measurably easier for me to tell people I love them since I've been married. I know there has to be some sort of psychological connection, but I don't have the patience to analyze it right now. What I do know, is that for a long time, telling anyone I loved them was awkward and difficult. Somewhere between my brain and my mouth, the words would get stuck. I'm sure it has something to do with a painful adolescence and fear of rejection and blah, blah, blah... But the point is, I got over it.

And I'm glad I did.

Because love is important.

 

 

And who wouldn't love these weirdos?