The Overshare of Vulnerability

I recently tearfully (and a little snottily) finished Donald Miller's book Scary Close. In it, he effortlessly chronicles his journey of coming to grips with the fact that he was often being fake and that it had an effect on his relationships, to sum it up in a less moving and insightful way than his pages do. Miller is a writer I greatly admire, in part for a reason he himself notes in that book: he's good at being vulnerable. The way he described it, I could relate. I won't claim to be as eloquent or talented a writer, but I get the vulnerability thing.

Sometimes I make people uncomfortable, - well, okay, I think often times - with my vulnerability. However I've noticed something that matters to me far more than the comfort of those it bothers, it helps the walls between the others of us come down. It's exactly what Miller's book is about, too. I cried through the entire last quarter of the book because he precisely hits the mark. We need vulnerability to have deep relationships, and we need it to get through the walls to have those deep relationships.

Sure, vulnerability is scary; it involves risk, but somehow we've built our social understanding of vulnerability to equate weakness. Another writer I'm learning to love is Brene Brown, a social worker and doctor of psychology who has long studied the interactions of people. She has written entire books on the power of vulnerability and owning your story. As I've been slowly reading her latest, Rising Strong, I'm also often crying or shouting a resounding "yes" of agreement to the proverbial heavens, hoping somehow wherever she is she'll know I needed this validation.

See, I'm naturally a pretty soft, squishy "feelings person" - as I like to say, - always have been. Growing up as a youngest child my siblings didn't get it, so I was often criticized and teased for being "overly sensitive." Maybe rightfully so, I'll never know, but either way their callousness helped thicken my skin a lot. Thank God, too, because people are mean; bosses are mean, middle-school girls are mean, ex-best friends are mean, customers at a coffee shop are mean! So over the years I learned to toughen up and not let it eat away at me, while at the core there's still that sensitive little girl who doesn't want to suffer at the carelessness of others.

Fast forward and, for most of my adult life, that has translated to being unapologetically me: openly sensitive and yet not a punching bag. I'll be honest, I'm still learning but much of that resulted in being a fiery defender of the underdog or raging against inconsiderate injustices (that would've been a mouthful of a band name). I'm passionate. And while I know I have to rein that in sometimes, I'm still not ashamed of it. I'm also not ashamed to be truthful. I place a high value on truth and honesty, partially because I've started to see through people and through the meanness - I don't mean that judgmentally. It seems everyone has a scared being inside them that they want to hide from the world. The sad thing about that is, it's usually the part of them with the most to offer. How can you be your best self if you don't even allow the world to see your true self? This is now what I get criticized for: being too open. Because I'm not afraid to share much, I obviously am sharing too much. This is of course usually decided by those who don't like risking an ounce in vulnerability their self.

I have been going through a shitstorm (sorry if that word bothers you, it's about the only word that seems sufficient) in the past few months - and guess why: I was vulnerable and it hurt, big time. There's no way to say it without sounding mushy or sappy, but I loved and it failed me. Without even fully realizing it, while holding back on admitting it - thinking that'd actually protect me - I put my heart all in and lost out.

I took some time and thought about it. It was a slow start, but I wasn't about to hide my pain from the world as if there were shame to loving deeply and with great hope. I had no idea how I could possibly maintain a semi-normal life and wade through the grief I felt. I also knew that there is power in vulnerability; power in stating that life is sometimes downright painful and ugly, and it can be hard to get out of bed, simply because you risked and lost, and the disappointment is a heavy load. That should be incredibly relate-able, but we shame vulnerability. Still, my goal was to be real, as it always has been.

I wanted to share my story, because I thought even though some may judge my honesty and openness, maybe even look down on me for it assuming a lack of self-control - I thought some people may need this. Some of us need to know we aren't the only person in the world who has had the days where it's difficult to get out of bed. You aren't the only one that's scared to try to love again, want to love again. You aren't the only one crying in the bathroom at work and avoiding eye-contact with passersby on return.

Turns out I was right, at least a few times. I had people thank me for being brave, because they felt shamed when they had pain and they felt alone because of it. I can't help but think how much we could change the game if we were just honest, not brutally so, but truthfully - if we were real with one another. What if we stopped being so concerned someone would think less of us because we're human and it hurts to be sometimes? Maybe through all of these gushing words over these weeks and months I have only helped a few people wipe clear the shame of their pain; maybe only a few people learned something about how to address someone in pain, but I think that's worth it.

My good friend said to me just recently, Vulnerability begets vulnerability. She's incredibly right. I've seen that when I am real about my struggles, others breathe easily around me, and in their exhales share their struggles in return. And when I encounter someone who is open to a fault, I feel more comfortable with them than all the perfect instagram friends I know.

So I won't apologize for being vulnerable, or "too open", if you want to call it that. I won't stop, either. Facing a fear could be viewed as reckless, or it could be touted as courageous, so I'm going to keep pushing to change the landscape, even if only around me by starting with my own open book.

Shapeshifter

I feel like what we were is morphing in memory, a shape shifter; sometimes something beautiful, sometimes something maddening. And my heart strings are woven through that object, slowly wearing down as it changes and moves and alters. Was it always this way? Maybe it was, and it was always fated to fray the strings and, eventually, inevitably disintegrate - though that part is yet to be proven. That is just my pessimistic prediction, as I emerge from the Dark, Dark Place, a little jaded.

Home

The thing is, I never wanted to be in love more than once. I'd never wanted to want to marry more than one person. I've always known that if I make that decision, it will be it. I went into it, not thinking it'd be it, but searching out if it could be. In all the textbook ways (and I mean, really trained not stereotypical, romanticized ways) it relationally had what it takes [to go the distance, as they say]. Neither of us are perfect, of course, - I've never heard of such a couple - but together it was good. I couldn't have imagined getting along with a guy I was dating so well (mostly because everyone says what hard work it is), but so it was. It didn't take long for being with him to feel comfortable and safe and warm, like home. So I struggle to let go of wanting to go home - to think about making home somewhere else.

Maybe it just takes time. It has, after all, healed me of my Dark, Dark Place and is healing me of my weakness and insecurities. Maybe time, too, will smooth over my longing for things to just return to comfort and ease.

In one of my favorite films, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, there's a clinic for ex-lovers to erase one another from memory. Only hangup is Joel grapples with the decision to remove Clementine while the process is taking place. Similarly, I'm not convinced I want time to heal me of missing "home". I grapple with feeling as though really, I can't imagine finding someone I feel that way with; have that connection with. And yet, several big things in my life would drastically change to be with him. So I am, within myself, at a stand still. A stalemate, if you will, of the head and the heart. I just want to be home, but I'm not sure it can be my home anymore. Saving grace is that the pain of having settled into it as such, as home, has decreased and is decreasing. Yet, the desire to go there remains.

If I'm honest, a part of me is confused: should you be able to want to make more than one person in life your person? You've certainly heard the saying, "The heart wants what it wants." Well, I wonder, if my heart ever wants anyone else again, could it even be true? So it must be, that lifelong commitment is not simply a matter of the heart, but a decision; to dive in together, for life, in love. But I fear if I love another, it won't make this love any less a part of my life, rather it will just be a different choice. I never wanted that, to go the opposite direction my heart was.

I've been reading Donald Miller's Scary Close, and in it he says:

To hear her voice and smell her hair and remember half the feeling of home is usually a person.

You know, in the end of the movie (spoiler alert), Clem & Joel meet again after they've mutually erased one another. They're drawn to each other again, and with the fear that history will simply repeat staring them in the face, they stare back and decidedly say, "Okay."

I quietly wonder, what will we say?

Going It Alone & Being Okay

I thought I would write more. Turns out, vacation has been busy! I sit on the rooftop of my crappy but affordable hostel, drinking very cheap wine from a small bottle and eating very cheap chocolate from the grocery store. That's how I do.

I'm wiped, and shush, don't tell anyone, I could've gone home yesterday. But let's start with the good part, since today I happen to be particularly wiped and cranky that I felt to ill to truly enjoy The Vatican I spent €20 to visit.

GETTING HERE
I started my trip by flying through New York. I ventured out of the airport like a big girl and made my way to Manhattan to visit my friend and sort-of-coworker Debbie. She kindly made me lunch, and we caught up and took a brief walk in a sunny and vibrant central park.

After, I hurried back to the airport, bragging on social media about figuring out the formerly intimidating subway, only to get lost. On the right train, I ended up chatting with a black man I observed as he chatted with nearly everyone in small bits. He had construction gear with him, and though he looked tough, he emitted an evident kindness. He ended up sitting next to me once enough people cleared out there wasn't someone else to relinquish the seat to. Somehow, I don't recall, we ended up talking. He asked where I was going and where I was from, with my obvious traveler look, backpack in tow. When I told him Minneapolis, MN, he said something about back country and farms. "Y'all tipping cows and stuff, huh?" "No," I think I belly-laughed, "it's a city, like a real city. I've never tipped a cow in my life, I don't know if I've ever seen one [up close]." He told me I was brave traveling all over Europe by myself. He had a new tattoo which I noticed, and shared with him my best healing advice don't bother with A&D, it heals way faster. By the end of the ride, it was like we were friends.

THE DARK DARK PLACE
Between that and finding my way in and back out of the city that day, with plenty of time to spare before my flight, I began to realize further the importance of this trip: being okay with being just me, by myself.

As an adult, that's been one of my strengths, - literally in strengths finder, "adaptibility" is one of mine - figuring things out on my own. The strange ying to that yang is I don't prefer being alone (as you may have read I wrote a great deal about recently). In the very weird space I've been in since the end of January which signified the end of my relationship, I now refer to it as 'the dark, dark place', I slunk into desperately needing people, but not trusting almost anyone with the truths of my heart. No one seemed to value or understand The Dark, Dark Place.

In that place, I felt as though I fell back into insecurity that I hadn't felt in such a long time. At some point, I'd grown into a lot of confidence which caved under me with massive heartbreak. People seem to make all heartbreak out to be massive, but I'm not convinced it is so. For me, a formerly resilient and confident woman, I felt myself cowering at situations I once would not have blinked at. I felt scared at feeling scared, - would I return to myself? And in how long?

I kept thinking I finally had been back to normal, then I'd find myself crying again, or avoiding something I used to find adventure in. I continued to wonder, when would I shed this new awful skin? It actually changed right before I left - well, in part...

I started to be able to hope again in tiny, microscopic bits and I felt joy coming naturally again. I felt like joy just wouldn't come for so long, and that scared me - because it's not who I am. Joy has always been a constant fruit in my life. I noticed these two things, joy in laughter and company. Hope in that I met someone who I was attracted to! Even if the smallest bit and someone I now know is unavailable, I found a man interesting.

I also returned to prayer the last Sunday before my trip. I have prayed a few other times, but I felt ready and faith-filled. Oddly enough, a guy came up to me who was going through a very tough breakup. He needed to talk it out, I could tell because he just poured out his heart. I nodded and listened, eventually telling him just how much I understood. To me, that was God at work. Because I know how much it further hurts or does nothing at all for your pain when someone cannot empathize with depth of it.

THE TRIP
I connected through Brussels, and thought with a six hour layover I ought to see the city. It was dead on a Saturday morning at 8am. I wandered and ate a waffle, eventually had a beer. Then hurried my butt back to the airport.

I stayed one night in Crete's capital city, Heraklion. It was narrow and uncomfortably crowded with beautiful teenagers. I'd initially forgotten it was Saturday night. The next morning, I walked to the ferry. I met a girl along the way, from BC, Canada. A waif, she seemed nervous and shy, but as we got to talking she was well-traveled and probably about 30. We were seated separately. My seat-mate was a 50-something greek woman named Lida. She just happened to speak great English and be a pediatric neurologist. No big deal. She was so kind, I wanted to keep taking to her, but I arrived.

Santorini was the perfect way to start the vacation: island life. It is charming, laid-back, and picturesque. This was a big bucketlist item, I'd always secretly wanted to honeymoon there. I could've spent a week, but I planned three days. The port is of course way down the cliff from the town up top. The bus wove around the hairpin turns, cliff drop right out the window. I hated that part and was happy to be flying out later.

I burned myself badly spending over six hours at the beach the first full day with two girls, one of whom was in my room at the hostel. We talked about all sorts of things, and I explained my breakup in the most calm fashion I maybe ever had - crying later of course. The girls were to leave the next day.

That morning, we went to get greek donuts together, and I saw my new friends Sophia and Lina to the bus with parting hugs. I love when people are easy company like that. I decided late in the day to rent an ATV, since I couldn't go to the beach burnt and honestly there's not a ton to do there otherwise. This is my least favorite part of Santorini. Within the first 5 minutes of curving roads full of buses and cars impatiently passing me, I almost get in an accident that surely would've landed me in a hospital. As I was careening into the path of an oncoming car, I actually thought "I'm going to a hospital in Greece and I declined insurance. My mom is going to be pissed." I lived, no accident. But shaken and with 5 more hours booked, I took a breather and pressed on, muttering "I hate this," on every winding turn. Soon as I could, I stopped - conveniently at the famous winery. It is like something out of a movie. If Jennifer Anniston ever stars in couple's retreat comedy on Santorini, that's where they'd go. I met a nice woman, also alone, named Kim. She offered to take my photo as I was taking one of the view and my wine glass, probably looking somewhat pathetic. Then after a while she offered me some of her cheese in exchange for company. Me with my splurge of €3 glass, I said sure. We talked about travel, about Santorini, and I told her about the ATV. She told me I was brave, she could never do it. I repeated that I didn't like it, she repeated that I was brave.

ATHENS
Athens felt very different, for obvious reasons. When I came up out of the metro, I was initially stunned by the busyness of the square near my hostel. I was exhausted and just wanted to check in. I wandered a while, found my cheap gyro for lunch and eyeballed all the tourist shops. I walked everywhere in Athens. EVERYwhere. It was a very walk-able city and I picked the right hostel. I saw all the sights to see there, I walked my butt up the acropolis - puffing my inhaler like a nerdy 6th grade boy. I couldn't believe I was really there, amid ancient structures that have long outlived their builders. My hostel there had a bar on the roof. One night I decided to check it out, but encountered so few people that spoke English that I bright brought a book. Me. Something I noticed, it's apparently quite strange to dine alone. The first few times I felt a little embarrassed, but I told myself this is a part of ripping off the bandaid - or my healing, rather. Sitting in the discomfort of being alone, and finding out how to be okay with it. So, the last night, I took my book again and enjoyed my cheap wine alone in the crowded, bustling bar.

ROME
At this point, I was quite tired. I'd had noisy roommates at all the hostels. Some people apparently have no remorse for the fact that others are sleeping while they slam doors and talk like it's not 2am. I was ready for my nice, splurge hostel. I'd waited to book, so I had to spend a little more but it looked fancy. Pictures can lie. Sure they have some nice rooms, and they have some that look like rows of beds in an orphanage in the 30's. That's my room, four beds. The bathrooms are worse than any I've ever consistently used - and I traveled through Vietnam for nearly three months and grew up with eight people sharing one bathroom. This. Is. Gross. It's happening, so whatever.

I was more excited for the sights here than Athens, but heard so many pick-pocket horrors, I was sure it was going to happen. I pictured everywhere teeming with shady looking people, that I wouldn't know who to trust. To my surprise, everyone holds their bag and the streets aren't overrun with thieves.

My first night I treated myself to a sitdown dinner. The restaurant down the street had affordable pizza. The waiter was nice. Turns out the waiter really wanted to have a drink with me. I tried to decline, but that good old language barrier... Eventually these two middle-aged ladies sat at the table next to me. As I heard them chatting about their walk, I could bet my left cheek the one was from Colorado. I know my home away from home. They watched the waiter dote on me, and I figured we were going to talk. Eventually we did, and I was right! Butt cheek saved. Again, I explained that I was in fact traveling alone. You should've seen the look on the Coloradoan's face, "Oh wow. Good for you!" They asked how it was, and when I stupidly didn't have enough for my bill, the other gave me €2 to round it off. Then the waiter brought me an after-dinner drink trying to convince me at 9:30pm to stretch out my evening til he was off so I could come over for a drink. He couldn't understand why I'd turn down his repeated offers. I jokingly asked the women how to leave, my CO friend said "Did you pay? Get out while you can!" I grabbed my things and practically jogged down to my hostel.

I've spent the last two days walking a different way so as to not cross his path again.

Today was the Vatican, and things didn't start out great. I slept horribly because a group of people were partying and arguing at 4AM across from our open window. You know, no AC in this charming place. Then, the metro was closed across Rome and all the cop could tell me was "trouble" and "no work". The Vatican is an hour walk, and it's period day one (surprise!), so that was not happening. I waited nearly an hour in a crowd for a bus. Everyone crammed on like it was India. A nice half hour or so later, I knew I was close enough, so I hopped off.

I wearily wandered the Vatican, hot, irritable, and in pain. Several times I thought to myself "Don't puke in the Vatican, you cannot puke in the Vatican!" Certain I might pass out if I pressed on, I found my way to the metro, wishful it was back up. Saving grace, it was. My afternoon since consisted of a nice siesta nap, some budgeting for the remainder of my travels, and a grocery trip. I don't mind Rome, but I think I'd like to visit again when I'm not a broke nonprofit writer. Stay somewhere nice, not get my period, and drink way more wine.

Tomorrow, I'll hopefully make up for today's defeat by climbing the dome of St Peter's basilica and if there's time visit the Pantheon.

SURVIVAL
I realized this trip is about being thrust into standing on my own two feet again. Not because I didn't in my relationship, just that it's demise caused me to forget how. I kept expecting something grand to happen, and I'm not sure anything more grand will than the trip itself and the small victory that is taking it alone.

I'm very ready for Paris, a reunion after almost five years. My heart has longed to return and though it won't be the same without the others who helped make it the experience of a lifetime, it will be like seeing an old, familiar and beloved friend.

...But are we sinners?

**Disclaimer: This piece was written pre-deconstruction of religious beliefs and faith system. Many of these beliefs inform the sentiments of the writing and are not in alignment with my values. As this is a part of my journey and an extensive blog over years, I have chosen not to remove a majority of my posts written on faith. Please as a reader, take this into consideration and take what works for you, leave what does not. I also apologize for any harm my words from this past perspective may cause to any readers.**

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." Romans 5:8

The Greek word "yet", or in more translations "still", has a meaning that implies it was a state that is no more. The interesting thing in this verse then, is that the implication of Paul's words is that we were sinners, but are no more. The language of this verse, as well as the context tells us Paul did not presently buy into the identity of "sinner" for himself or other believers. 

Even in Romans 7:24-25, Paul says that God "delivers" him - present tense. In the midst of the struggle within himself as to what he will or will not do, God delivers him through Christ. He even concludes at the end of verse 25, that he has a dual servitude: in his mind to God's law, in his nature (or flesh) the law of sin. 

One could rightly conclude, though my nature without Christ is to serve solely sin, in duality as a baptized believer, I am presently also in service of God's law. I think too often total depravity would say we are useless, worthless, incompetent...but that seems to discount that God delivers us - present tense! That Romans 7:25 is followed by one of likely the most well-known verses and truths of the bible - "There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ, because through Him the law of the Spirit who gives life has set us free from the law of sin and death."

I don't know just how or why that verse tends to get lost, ignored, or downplayed. Nor the one to follow (8:3) where it says the law was weakened by the flesh! God's law was weakened by our flesh warring against our desire to serve [the law] as our master instead of our sin nature. So, God had an alternative plan for handling sin, one that was equally just and merciful. Why do we insist on preaching God's justice but not living in His mercy? Why do we insist to land on one verse of Paul's letters and build an entire component of theology around it, placing ourselves continually under the burden of sin? Again, further in Romans 8 at verse 5, it says that those who live in accord with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires. If we have our minds set on our sin nature, do we not hold ourselves to the fire in spite of the Word telling us we're already refined? Does not the insistence that we are worthless diminish what Romans later tells us, that though our body is subject to death, the Spirit gives life because of the righteousness of Christ in us? 

I tend to get a little perturbed when I hear people say they're sinners, clenching to that name for themselves, because I believe they're holding themselves in the mindset of the flesh, not fully walking in the freedom from the law of sin and death! Nothing about reading Romans gives me the impression that is strictly limited to the life after this one. I therefore refuse to refer to myself as a sinner...

Does my nature try to tempt me away from God? Yes. Shall I go on sinning so that grace may abound? Certainly not. Did I deserve Christ's death? It depends on which way you're asking - I deserved the punishment He took in my stead, but I did not deserve that He should take my place, yet I was worth it to Him. In fact, it was an act of love (as 5:8 tells us), that while I was undeserving He took the place which was rightfully mine. It was love, not law for which Christ took the cross. The law could remain in tact and thus we could perish, but He wouldn't have it, instead showing us love by His sacrifice to meet the law's wrath for our iniquities. The act is done. 

The place that was ours was taken by Jesus so that God could demonstrate His love for us and reconcile us who were sinful to Him through love, into righteousness. 

"The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.” The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs — heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory." (Romans 8:15) 

I Am the Sky

I'm apparently convincing more and more people, by no intention, that I'm an introvert... I've tried to stop being indignant when I hear someone matter-of-factly refer to me as such. I'm not anti-introvert, some of my favorite people are introverted, but it's more that it's not totally true of me.

Something I've learned is that I need to think things through and make sense out of them for myself. Some things take more of this processing than others, and then some may require no thought at all -- if I say "I've never thought about it," I'm likely just being honest. I process a lot, not just often but on repeat. Yes, sometimes it's overthought, but mostly it's just processing. The chaos, busyness, and noise of life can become overwhelming, and are at times cause for great adventure, others cause for retreat. Whether experiences, plans, goals, or tasks, I need to settle into what I think or feel about things, to be comfortable and confident in navigating life. That may be a very internal thing, but I have never fully lived in my inner world.

In the last year I've gone on an arduous journey; falling in love, fighting for it, then being separated from whom I shared that love with. Which, all in a year, I can hardly believe!

Love grew quickly, which I think we couldn't help. It was natural and we were easy companions. My family wasn't really in favor - well they were, then they weren't...some maybe were again, I don't know. See they had a lot of thoughts and assumptions - many of which they didn't share with me (which of course still got back to me anyway, as news travels in large families). Then there was the distance which prevented my friends from really getting to know him, or his getting to know me. They knew only of the plights of the relationship, shared to solicit their insights. No one could know how we felt about each other, how easy it was to trust one another with our stories, how close we felt.

Through this I began to find that the safest, most familiar place in my outer world was him. He was the person who noticed if he didn't hear from me for a few hours. He was the person interested in my every stupid thought, or passing whim. He was the person who called because I sounded sad over text. He was the person that put up with all my quirks and frustrating habits, rather patiently. He was the person who never grew tired of me.

The older we get, the harder it is to have deep friendships. I began to notice this a while ago, but managed to be okay with my extroverted world full of a-little-more-than surface level friends. I know plenty of people who have a feel for me, yet know so little about the depths and lengths of who I am. Then we happened. I had a best friend that was as into the friendship as I was, a love, the only discord being our distance-separated worlds. My world became phone calls and texts, time between weekend visits, and thinking about how to defend my most important relationship to all the other important relationships. I often thought about how it was like being forced into a corner where I was virtually alone.

Fast forward to this relationship ending, against my hopes and heart. Now, my world is vastly different than it was little over a year ago when this all started, my outlook is different. There are a lot of relationships I haven't invested in in a while - a lot that haven't invested in me in a while. Most of all, with hands full of heart pieces, I don't feel like letting just anyone in to my world right now.

Society is full of people with quick tongues - heck, I'm sometimes guilty of that! (But I'm learning.) Right now, I often live in my inner world, and have been for a while, as I've trekked this path. Many people who've been unfortunate as to only really get to know "me" on this leg of the path have seen me in atypical form. I may very well appear to be an introvert, when it's actually that I've found a lot of pain which has sent me inward. And I ran out of grace for people taking the opportunity to express opinions such as I was settling anyway, or good for me, or there's someone else "better". So not only did I lose my best friend, but a lot of trust elsewhere was damaged. I had been very vulnerable, and so became very hurt, but only because I loved very deeply. For all that pain, I still hold that that was a worthwhile journey, to love and be loved deeply...so when I'm told some sort of 'attaboy' or 'good riddance', it only hurts and causes me to linger in my world.

After so many times hearing it said with the same sureness one would use in naming the color of the sky, I'd begun to wondering if I was now an introvert. But that's something I've learned this year, when there is no safe place to process verbally, I retreat inward. With that and the slow rebuilding from my brokenness, I have certainly been more in my inner world this year than any other time in my life.

I could understand how in a dust storm so many would think the sky is a muddied gray, but in fact when the dust settles they will find that it is a rich, bright and deep blue.

Haunting

The other day, my friend tried to set me up with a guy. Sort of. He showed up to lunch with us wearing my favorite shirt of Shawn's. Not just any old Target shirt, or something - a very specific t-shirt-sleeved button down with tiny beige flowers all over and those pearl-like buttons.

The next day, Facebook drew my attention to a memory; a picture of the ex, his ex, and me, all in an awkward row at thanksgiving nine years before present. Another of my mom holding their daughter as a baby, seven years back. Spooky.

I felt proud to go a few measly hours without thinking of him, and without feeling like something's missing. Usually like two or three is something to be proud of. I headed home tonight and thought about this being the life I live - 10 minutes to home from my favorite dive bar, out seeing some cute guy play in a band, then going home at nearly midnight, a little buzz on a 'school night'. All the while knowing, he is fast asleep hundreds of miles from reach. No buzz, no band, likely no thoughts of me, and for more than a few hours...

Often, I miss his head - of all things! I see pictures of him or us, and I just want to wrap my arms around his head, hold it to my chest, tousle his soft, yet wiry locks. And I miss his nose. Sometimes I'd run my index finger down its bridge, starting between his bushy brows and skipping off its end like a ski slope, landing on his top, then bottom lip. He'd just let me, not even a question asked.

I miss his smile. Though I didn't see it in all its unbridled glory too many times, when I did, it lit my heart on fire. His laugh! Oh, his laugh...

I miss his gaze. The one where I knew he was absolutely vexed by me, in that moment. It was accompanied by a soft smirk of astonishment. I'd kiss the apple of his cheek, just above the treeline that was his beard. It always seemed like the best place, wanton.

And I circle round and round, why it is no more. Why such torture and longing...why such deep fancy, mutually displaced by differing convictions.

And, of this, I'd tell him: "I guess this is what you get, for dating a writer."