Month: January 2014

Superpowered Theory

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Here was the question posed to me: If you woke up in the morning and had superpowers, let’s say super strength and a healing factor, what would you do?

Honestly, I am not sure but I shall do my best to speculate. If I woke up in the morning with super strength, I would probably first figure it out by destroying a few things, namely my phone, which I grab on my way out of bed every morning as I stumble out to get the living room ready to take my daughter out of her crib for the morning. The thing would be smithereens in my hand, which would stun my still sleep-addled mind. I would crush the door frame that I grab hold of to gain my bearings in trying to understand what was going on. Then I’d try to lift our dresser, which took two grown and strong men to lift while it was EMPTY and WITHOUT the granite top and mirror attached. It would be like lifting Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. Oh, God.

Then I would start to freak out. I couldn’t touch Elizabeth. I couldn’t touch Ben. Not until I got this under control. I couldn’t take that risk. I could not hurt them. And I would burst into tears, inevitably waking Ben and blubbering to try to explain what cannot be explained in words alone.

The healing factor I would probably notice by the absence of my c-section scar, whose presence I haven’t been unaware of since the day it happened, naturally.

 

I know, not really your fun, oh-hey-I-have-superpowers moment. But realistic for me, I think.

The Ache of Being Wanted

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Vulnerability alert!

I got dolled up yesterday for Pretty Lipstick Day (random self-esteem booster days established by one of my best friends) and took my picture. Admittedly, it was rather good. I looked rather good. I was very surprised and even more so at the number of likes and comments that it got after I posted it. For the rest of the day, I felt an ache in my gut. And, if I am completely honest with myself, then I know what it is. It’s the ache for being admired, being wanted.

Oh, yes, I’m admired. I’m wanted. My husband adores me and I him. He shows me how much all the time. But, in the interest of honesty, I have to admit that it’s pretty awesome to be admired by others. My self-esteems was never really the best growing up, as you probably know, though it got a bit better in college as I became more comfortable with myself. However, it has never stopped my amazement and giddiness at being admired by others, both known and strangers. When I am told that I am beautiful, or mesmerizing (that was a bellydance goal for me), smiled at, flirted with, or lingered on, I admit that it feels good. Extremely good. It’s great when I am dressed up and trying to look really nice, and even more so when I’m just…well, me. And it makes me hungry for more.

We all have that ache for approval, that hunger to know that we are deemed “good enough” in the eyes of others. It’s not easy to admit because we are afraid that it might reveal us to be self-serving, arrogant, or even narcissistic. But that is not necessarily the case. It’s a very human ache to be wanted, to know that there is something about us that others find attractive, desirable, and good, and, moreover, to be told so, shown so. It’s the craving for the blush, for the warmth, the swell in our chest that come from being being admired. It makes us feel pretty or handsome, it makes us stand up straighter and walk a little taller, maybe even strut a little. And there is nothing wrong with that. No, we should not place our self-worth solely in the compliments of others; that would be unhealthy. But to deny that we, as interdependent creatures in a highly social environment (introvert or extrovert aside), do not desire admiration, to be wanted and desired, would be a lie.

Yes, I’ve been feeling that ache lately and also working to convince myself, not just you, that it is indeed OK. My self-esteem wars with my reason very often – forcing me to weigh out whether or not I have a right to the emotions that I feel – and, therefore, I do not feel like it is OK a lot of the time. So everything that I’ve just told you goes double for myself.

So, if you feel the ache, do not despair. It’s OK. I do, too. It’s not necessarily fun to feel that way but we can own it, admit it to ourselves, and realize that it is human and it is all right. We all feel that way and we can help each other out, make the ache a little less. Tell a friend, or someone that you just think it of, that they look nice today or that you miss them or enjoy being around them.

How Will I Be Remembered?

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I read a blog post yesterday that told the story of Alfred Nobel and how he came to question how he would be remembered, and I did as the post encouraged and began to think. What is my legacy? How would I like to be remembered? Will I be spoken well of? Will I be remembered with love and respect? Will I be missed?

It is hard to consider these questions and not feel a measure of arrogance. I mean, any person who acknowledges their humanity would want the answer to these questions to be “a good one”, “well”, “and “yes” on all accounts. But you really have to wonder if that is true.

I hope it is. I truly do.

Visual Inspiration – Photo Prompt

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From Strangling My Muse:

What was I supposed to do? It just fell open and everything started happening! Cities with skyscrapers built of spindly black lines sprouted up, coordinating suburbs circling in on themselves in their cul-de-sacs further down the page. Little drawn people of all shapes and sizes and, apparently, professions began running hither, thither, and yon, some even going so far as to traipse off the pages and scamper off into the library in search of their own private heaven in the guise of the science, education, or fine arts sections. How am I supposed to find them and put them back? Oh, no, no, no! No Ark exodus! No, come back!

Review & Reflection: I Like a Girl Who Reads

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“So, what do you go for in a girl?”
He crows, lifting a lager to his lips
Gestures where his mate sits
Downs his glass
“He prefers tits
I prefer ass.
What do you go for in a girl?”

I don’t feel comfortable
The air left the room a long time ago
All eyes are on me
Well, if you must know

I want a girl who reads.

This is the beginning of a slam poem by Mark Grist entitled “Girls Who Read”, the video of which on YouTube has garnered over three million views. A friend of mine posted this video on Facebook this morning and I had never heard of it before, much less watched it. As I watched the video and Grist went through how he loves a girl who reads and who “uses the added vocabulary/She gleans from novels and poetry/To hold lively conversation/In a range of social situations”, I felt my heart warm and that familiar burning behind my eyes that tells me I’m going to cry.

I know that girls who read are appreciated but an homage like this is a fabulous reminder that made me feel wonderful. I read compulsively, you know that. I love a story that flows, that challenges, learning new vocabulary, descriptions, and falling in love with the characters I find in novels. In junior high, I was teased pretty mercilessly by the other kids in my small eight-grade classroom. They didn’t understand why I read the books I did or why I read books at all. I did my best to ignore them but the truth was that it hurt, a lot. When I got to college, I found an outlet and use for my voracious reading as an English Education major/Literature minor. In graduate school, I wrote my Master’s thesis over some of my favorite short stories, even. And I found a man who loved me for my imagination, for my love of reading. The first significant amount of time that we spent together was spent discussing Tolkien and poetry over coffee.

So this poem/video meant a great deal to me today. Five stars! Well done, Mark Grist, and thank you!

Enjoying to Love, and Loving to Enjoy

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This is so very true for me. I fall in love with characters all the time. Sometimes I have a vague notion of how they would look to me, even if there is a description of them given by the author. But it ultimately matters little to me just how they look. I fall for the way they speaks and think, the way they interact with others. A prime example of this is Mercedes Lackey’s incarnation of Robin Goodfellow in her Elemental Masters  series, and Ceclia and Marco of Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus. The newest victim of my ‘soulful love’ thus far is William Bellman of Diane Setterfield’s Bellman & Black. When it comes down to it, he is nowhere near as lightheartedly charming as he was before the death of his mother but I still admire the character in a way that I cannot fully explain.

I enjoy falling in love with novel characters. I enjoy loving them and I love enjoying them.

Another character that I came to love was the Phouka in Emma Bull’s War for the Oaks. Sure he was annoying, superior prick at times but he was genuine in his desire and efforts to protect Eddie and, eventually, in his care for her. I admit that I tend to fall for the supernaturally charming characters. Can’t really help it. Sometimes, they prove unworthy of it but, at others, they prove to be wonderful underneath all the bluster and brine. And that’s why falling in love with characters is totally worth it.

A Scar or a Smile

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I have a scar. It is low, beneath my belly, about six inches long. It’s my only scar, a reminder of my only trip to the hospital, my only surgery. It is still strange to touch it, to feel its knotted roughness beneath my fingertips, feel the skin prickle with sensitivity. Stranger still to see it, an unfamiliar smile from pointing from hip to hip.

A smile. I never really think of it that way, but I suppose it is one way to do so. A permanent smile in my flesh, made by the arrival of my daughter.

What Remains of War

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This belongs to Melissa Snyder

The river had swollen with an early thaw, overflowing its banks and swamping the riverside. Standing sentry in the flooded bank, the river still running with ice flows, was a bare, spindly-branched sapling. Caught and waving from its bent fingers was a shredded swatch of red, fluttering weakly in the late-winter wind. The ravaged flag, its golden sunburst obliterated by mud and fire, was only vestige of the bloody battle fought here. The Winterwise had washed away all other evidence, hiding it beneath the ripple of its icy skirts.

A flash of glossy black with peacock sheen broke the grey of the waterlogged landscape, standing out in stark relief to the white-capped river ripples. Landing on the tree branch, the rook pecked at the remnant, attracted by the golden flicker of the sunburst. Its beak, however, dislodged the flag’s tenuous hold on the branch, and the icy wind grabbed hold with greedy fingers to sweep it away through the grey air over the Winterwise.

The river had swollen and overflowed its banks, washing away any evidence of the battle that had splattered the crystal snow with hot blood.

Dear Tearful Mom

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Cross-posted from my Mommy blog.

Dear Tearful Mom,

I know you’re exhausted, I know you’re frustrated, even angry, I know that your eyes and back and head all ache, your chest hurts with holding in the tears, and you’re half-crazy from having to sing the “When You Feel So Mad” song from Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood to yourself as often as you have recently just to keep your cool. I know you worry about being a “bad mommy” because you can’t be constantly patient and cooing and sweet when your little one fusses and bosses and then refuses any sort of comfort you try to give. You love your little one and fight vehemently the feeling of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. It’s not their fault; they are little and needy (maybe in pain) and they don’t understand or know how to do for themselves or what will make them feel better. The doctors want them to be independent but the truth is that they just aren’t. Not yet.

You haven’t been alone, truly alone, in months. You haven’t been able to go out, or even just stay in, and relax on your own terms. Truly relax. You might not have had a solid night’s sleep in a while. You haven’t been able to live on your own schedule, recharge your batteries in the way that is best for you. You feel weary and wilted, tired and tearful. The tears fall without you really noticing, large and plentiful, when you’re too exhausted to hide them anymore.

It’s OK to feel that way. You’re not alone, I know how you feel.

Because I feel that way, too.

All Alone, On My Own.

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I ran across this picture this morning that Word Porn had posted on Facebook, along with the question, “Do you spend enough time alone?” The answer was instantaneous for me.

No. No, I don’t.

I used to spend a goodly amount of time alone, which is kind of integral for someone with my personality. It was when I would recharge, when I would get my energy back. It’s when I recounted my experiences, searching through my thoughts and my emotions, and figured things out. It was also when I relaxed. There were those quiet hours on Saturday morning, just me, my coffee/hot chocolate, the cat, and the TV/book/front porch/whatever I needed that day. There was the hour or so spent watching movie trailers on Hulu and getting excited for new stories being told.  There was quiet time with just me and my journal, my thoughts pouring out to be pored over and their implications considered. But, of course, ever since having my daughter in 2012, that’s rather gone out the window.

During the summer, I would grab my alone time while Bizzy napped. My exercises, a shower, lunch, and perhaps even time to read, journal, and nap. Now, it’s winter, she’s older, more mobile and active, and naps don’t last nearly as long. I am also less active, not being able to go outside nearly as often, so I tend to opt to nap when she does now over anything else, for fear of waking her as well as being just exhausted.

I have to admit, I miss being alone. I miss being quiet and reading. I, a noted bibliophile, have read finished only one novel since Bizzy was born over a year ago (though I have memorized Ten Little Fairies), and I’m practically over the moon that I have read almost 100 pages of Diane Setterfield’s Bellman and Black.  I miss watching people, getting lost in a crowd, content in not being noticed while I observe the world around me. Yep, I miss being alone.

I’m not telling people to go away. I’m not saying that I am tired of my daughter. I am just an introvert who misses her alone time.