What to do when a bird gets stuck in your house


Chosen families, of
21 August 2012, 2:53 pm
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The plea:

I should be happy they support each other – they are alike in so many ways – they have needed someone to validate and reaffirm and complain to. They have found that in each other (I say as the voyeur, because neither one of them talk to me.  Ever.)  But I hate the word “should,” so instead I am thinking of the hours I spent on the phone – where is the recognition for that? – and of the constant struggle to show understanding, to be patient, to be there, to know that I think she is making terrible mistakes but they are hers to make, not mine.   I think of the pain and the heartbreak year after year.  The disappointments, the embarrassment, the let downs.  I feel deep sorrow for not being included in my own family, like I’m just looking in through the windows.  I feel petty and mean and jealous. My ideal, enlightened self feels far, far away.

So here it is.  I feel terrible.  I don’t know what kind of pep talk would get me out of this.  I don’t even know if there is a pep talk to give, maybe I’m not done being in it yet.  I had a yoga teacher who said that you need to acknowledge and honor negative feelings and emotions before you can let them go.  The acknowledging part is easy.  This honoring business sucks ass.

I was going to end this email by begging you grrrlz for help, because my well of wisdom feels dry and I know yours are always overflowing.  But even just getting here, to today’s end to the long, stupid chapter of the story that is my family’s life, has felt enormously helpful.  That said, got any wisdom to spare?

The response:

Overwhelming.  I was wrong.  My ideal self is never far away.  There are three of them, in fact, and one email has all three tapping on my shoulder, reminding me of who I am, who we all are, our little chosen family.



Pas facile
16 August 2012, 2:41 pm
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Kind of lost my shit today at work, staring at a box on the screen, reading the words sent over an ocean as reality sunk in.  Lourd.  That’s how I feel.  Heavy and sad.  My whole concept of the country is now different; when I travel to my “second home,” by best friend will no longer be right down the street.  No more moto rides across humid nights, palm wine I probably shouldn’t drink, marveling at his ever-pregnant wife’s expanding belly and secretly hoping it’s a girl this time.

This is silly, indulgent.  No one is dying.  He is moving to another town, took on a position that will likely pay him more than we ever did.  Even now, I know, this reaction seems overblown.  This is simply the end of a chapter, one of so many that preceded it, but still.  Il y aura une vide, I say in my bad French.  Il n’y a personne comme toi.  He responds, the words stringing together in a line that crosses the Atlantic, gently.  Please, I will cry.  In English.

I stop, hands resting on the edge of my desk, thinking how much easier it is to be brave across time zones.  Or maybe it just makes it easier to not have to admit: I’m already crying.



Vicolo Di Mercurio No. 6
9 August 2012, 2:53 pm
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Remembered this in a slow descent of discovery, brushing off layers of memories until the words strung together.  I read these fragments from the past like a journal started in earnest and forgotten about 15 pages in.

What did I want to do with this space?  Did I come here to hide, or to show off? 

I feel like I’m on the edges of Pompeii, having found a quiet ruin of a house with a slim bar of shade.  Hoards of tourists stream by like a colony of bees, buzzing incomprehensibly.  I sit inside, bursting full of news, the best news, enough to fill tomes.  

The sun god will continue on his path, eventually surrender to night.  My bar of shade will move; the guards will shoo me out.  These things are sure.  Eventually you have to slip into the stream.