Mr. Rogers would not approve…

In the not-too-distant past my husband and I made the brave decision to downsize and move into an apartment. I say brave because, well, getting rid of stuff can be a little scary, and also because we are of the belief that once we grow to certain ages/stages of life we are just too old for apartments.

It turns out we really are too old for apartment living, but not in any of the ways we thought. That truth aside, we do  love our little rental and will being staying right here until the good Lord moves us out of the mitten state.

Apartment living has its perks. Maintenance, for instance, after a nightmare home-owning experience (think Money Pit, but throw in a rebellious and defiant teenage daughter for extra dramatic effect) can be a really beautiful thing. Our toilet sprung a leak on Sunday evening and after a seven-minute visit from the maintenance guys, it was repaired. SEVEN MINUTES. There were no repeat trips to Home Depot, no profanity strewn moments of frustration, it was simply this easy phone call and then pure, stress free magic.

Also, we spend a fair amount of time outside. Lush grass is nice (and almost non-existent, as of late) but not having to be the one to maintain it, trim it, etc is really, REALLY nice!

The sad truth is that all of the things I can find to love about living in an apartment would theoretically involve no people. While it takes a person to fix the toilet or cut the grass, it isn’t them I find joy in. We live in a modern, midwest American neighborhood where people take great strides to avoid their neighbors. Sometimes it absolutely baffles me, and then I spend a small fragment of time out in said neighborhood and I find myself coming home from my walk with a leashed dog (or two) and so much annoyance at other people.

I have developed a few beliefs that I’d like to share with you. Some wisdom, if you will. The end though, the end is the most important part, so simple and yet so profound.

You’ll see…

  • If you own a dog, pick up your dog’s poop. Not only does every store, in the nation, sell some form of poop bags, but our little community also provides high quality ones, free of charge. They are bright green, and even if you struggle to differentiate between shades of green grass,  green trees and the neon poop bags mounted on the wooden post 12 inches from where you let your dog do his/her business- there is good news! Everything is currently a pale state of yellow so they are easy to spot. Extra good news: your dog’s poop isn’t green so this task should, in theory, take you less than a second to take care of. The pay off is you get to be a considerate neighbor and sleep better at night. {Belief: if you refuse to pick up after your dog outside of your home, you probably don’t take care of him in the home either and he needs a new home.}
  • (Probably) Sweet, young, naive teenage girls… PLEASE put some clothes on. I know it’s hot. That’s the sun, and the humidity and the heat index. These are three of the five very reasons you SHOULD put some clothes on and stop laying out. (on other people’s driveways) The fourth is skin cancer, caused by those first three. The fifth is that all of the men who slow their ride to look at you, all of the servicemen who snack and stare- these are NOT good things. These are BAD, BAD things. It does not make you beautiful, it will not ever make you feel value, it is tragic. {Belief: More like questions really. So many sad things here… HOW do we infuse self-respect into girls? How do we teach them that a form of modesty is not old-fashioned, it is called self-respect?}
  • If you are the guy(s) slowing your roll to stare, or munching your chex mix and daydreaming- STOP. DO NOT BE THAT GUY. I have no grace for you, which, I get it- that’s my issue to deal with. Just stop. {Belief: While it wouldn’t be right, it could be fun to devise a consequence using the by-product of neighbor number one’s issue… Then again, sadly, neighbor number one might also be THAT GUY.}
  • If you’re a woman, it is never (ever) appropriate for your “private” parts to be on display outside of your home. Ever. It is disrespectful to every single person in our community. Put some clothes on. {Belief: Nothing good.}
  • If you pass someone’s door step and you see a package, do not feel consumed with jealousy/greed/___________ and decide to take the package, or open it up to see what’s in it. Just be happy for them (or better yet, ignore it) and move along. {Belief: While its super annoying to contact customer service and have to have things replaced on a regular basis, I am really sad at what the lives and hearts of these people are like, to feel the need to do this anyway. I hope they are loving my Happy Givers T-shirt about LOVING YOUR NEIGHBOR!}
  • If someone unknowingly parks in your driveway, do not aggressively park behind them, key their car, leave a nasty note or any other form of ridiculousness. Simply knock on the ONLY OTHER DOOR the guest could be at, and ask if they could move their car. It takes less time, expels less energy and like with neighbor number one- you’ll sleep better at night.
  • ALSO, do not make statements to your UPSTAIRS neighbors about how their dogs sound like a thunder-storm whenever they move, question if they are hiding ten more 90lb dogs upstairs and should management get involved, make passive aggressive statements about how you used to be able to sleep before the herd of wild dogs moved in, etc… (First of all- it’s a pack, not a herd. Second, you made the decision to live in a lower unit of a complex where 95% of the residents have medium to large dogs, not me. I have a chronic illness and would have LOVED to not climb stairs 900 times a day, but I knew I didn’t want dogs dancing around on my ceiling, so I chose the stairs.) Also- perhaps consider what it sounds like when your teenager plays techno music at all hours of the night, so loud that art work rattles on my wall. Also question why she feels the need to put her BLARING bluetooth speaker on her window ledge so the 3 A.M Dance party can trickle into the entire county…
  • If your neighbor knocks on your door, suspect it might be important. Don’t look at them through the window and then ignore them until they go away.
  • If your neighbor offers to include you in the nice air conditioner maintenance they are doing so that the entire building doesn’t slow roast like a pork slab over the holiday weekend, don’t be dumb. If you like to slow roast then just say, that’s kind, but no thanks. {Belief: As the last four posts are about the same person, I might just really believe I have the worst neighbor ever. We did see a snake come out from under her door ledge once and I wanted to knock and warn them, and then I didn’t. The den of snakes that lives under our building lives under their floorboards, not mine. It’s not nice, I know.}
  • Don’t be a stereotype simply because you are a minority. Just don’t. Your skin color does not give you justification to act certain ways or treat people badly. Rise up, embrace humanity and admit that you are better than this. {Belief: if more people had human vision instead of ethnicity/sexuality/victim vision, so many of our current worldly issues would vanish.}

I ordered this awesome shirt from Happy Givers, because my sweet friend sent me a gift card. The package was stolen. I walk my dogs, avoiding the piles of neglected laziness, many times a day. Our dogs walk around the apartment. Very rarely does the puppy get into a running spell. They never bark. We pick up after them, we take care of our garbage. We are considerate of everyone around us. We help our elderly neighbors, whom we adore. I am kind to the people I encounter, even the ones on this list.

But I am a hypocrit.

While they may suck as neighbors, the second I allow my vision of these people to be clouded with frustrations and negativity, I suck too. Even though vengeance is not something I plan to carry out, it isn’t a good thing to have people so physically close in your community thinking any kind of negativity about you. It cannot be a community of unity (which is the point: COMMON-UNITY) when I avoid people, get frustrated with the poop, etc. Today I would have proudly worn that shirt, and then I would have made frustrated sounds walking my dogs, I would have smiled at Mr. Stereotype while thinking all of the negative thoughts. If I crossed paths with my downstairs neighbor, I would have been kind outwardly while every single irritating item on my list of reasons she’s the worst neighbor ever paraded through my thoughts… It will never work, if I don’t.

Maybe I’ll bake something for her, and she’ll throw it in my face.

Maybe I’ll gently ask THOSE GUYS to stop their mental violations of the young girls. And Maybe, in response they will insult my weight, or ___________.

Maybe I’ll try to genuinely get to know the Sterotypes, realizing we are all people living lives which have been shattered a time or two- and we’re all doing our best the best ways we know how… And maybe we’ll all be the best of friends. Then again, maybe we won’t.

Maybe I’ll buy a $20 pooper-scooper and pick up the ten thousand piles of nastiness out there, only to wake up and find ten thousand more. Is that so terrible? I mean, then we’d only have ten thousand instead of twenty, and that’s a good thing right?

Maybe I can make the effort to intentionally be a better neighbor, and it will make someone’s life a little less terrible, and that will be worth it. And maybe it won’t, and they will all be ten times as terrible, but you know who will be less annoyed? Less frustrated? Much happier? ME… I will. Then, no matter what they do, it will be a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

And also, maybe I should get a PO Box…

Apartment living isn’t really anyone’s first choice, and the residents here are no exception. This isn’t a community of 20-somethings, just starting out. This is a community of people with lives lived behind them, and though I wave, smile and say hello, I’m wondering if I’m not the worst neighbor of them all…

Letting Go, a lament…

This year of letting go has been brutal.

I am left raw and bleeding, stripped away layers of love, of life, of skin and  laid ready for something new. The new is hard, terrifying… I love the old, the old like you.

When I knew, to my core, that this year would be the one for letting go, I feared the most that the end result would be you. I feared this down deep to my soul, but that intuitive certainty seemed to whisper this truth.

Here, in the almost middle of the year-long-journey, I have already released my grip on so much.

So many habits, a friendship, crutches and dark things long gone now…

The thought of you too, as it grows clearer and clearer, makes me want to take back the whole plan.

I can’t do this.

I can not let you go…

And yet, as I loosen my grip a little, I realize I am the only one holding on anyway.

Just me.

It is just my hand there, fingers clinging to your loose one.

You let go a long time ago, but then I wonder- scared to ask, had you ever held on at all?

To let go of the love means also letting go of the lies, which should seem like a good thing, shouldn’t it?

It does not.

The losing you part has never been a parcel of my bargain, and yet, it seems this is what it comes to anyhow.

How?

I truly don’t know.

My chest is so tight from the fight to breathe, I want to kick and scream, to conquer your demons for you so that you can learn to love me again. Assuming, of course, you ever did. I used to believe it, but beneath the crafty way in which you seem, I am beginning to doubt that too.

I know, I can’t do that… I won’t even try. They are your demons to release or draw nearer, and they are what you’ve chosen. I am not.

I am not.

I will repeat the words until my insides cease throbbing.

I will stop allowing patterns to blanket me, which have only slowly ripped me apart.

You are yours now, you never claimed me.

In the deepest way possible, I am gone.

Entombed within this landscape I have woven- painting it beautiful so that you had somewhere safe and whole to belong- I cannot think about what comes next. Whatever it is, I know that the course of us changes forever, again.

Forever, always.

Words meant for something spectacularly earth shattering, in the best ways- not like this.

I did not wish this, I did not want it.

I do not want it.

But you do not want me, so why hold on, anymore?

Good-bye being lied to,

Good-bye being lied about… (This will still happen, of course, you seem to know no other way of making it through a day, but perhaps this will finally not affect me like it always has before.)

Good-bye disrespect,

Good-bye raised-fist-shattered moments and brutal words, spread like meat hooks, within the crevices of my mind.

Perhaps I’ll make it to the clouds, finally able to exhale…

Maybe instead I will struggle again, day in and out, never catching a break.

Either path it is, I guess is better than naked and lonely, splattered there on the ground.

Even If…

rainydayinmay.com

On Fridays I often join a tribe of internet writers as we journey through a prompt given to us by the lovely Kate over at Five Minute Friday… I enjoy the challenge, the writing exercise and, ultimately, the talent and depth within this little writing community. If you have time, you should hop over to the linkup and read some other contributors.

The format is simple… Considering the word, we free-write for five minutes. So, here we go…

~

If that someday should become a one day, or even better, an our day, I hope to stay present and aware of the magical moments and the beautiful, undeserved scope our lives would have moved into…

If my kitchen table once again holds the smiling faces of my now-adult-once-children, I hope to breathe them in, freeze frame their expressions, memorize the common things they speak, to remember to inhale/exhale through the painful searing of the moment to my heart, to bring me companionship and comfort as they’ve left to live their own grown up lives…

If my home holds a porch paired with rocking chairs, I hope we will sit in them (together) so often that those wooden slats hold the form of our shapes long after we are gone, and that the porch railings cling tight to the love and the laughter we exchanged while sitting and swaying back and forth…

If my feet get to sink, sand deep, at shoreline points, whenever my heart desires- I hope I never take the miracle of that life affirming moment for granted…

If I someday make it to an agent, from an agent to a publisher, from a publisher to a book store, book tour, and all of the imaginings which follow- I hope I remember the why’s and the who for’s, I hope I never forget that fragile seven-year old girl who wanted nothing more than to write the things meant to help the people, to love the people

If these things which I dream of and pray for, are never granted passage, I hope I’ll embrace the answers even so… If I wake up, still here, twenty years from now, may gratitude be the one constant to clothe my spirit, and a disciplined habit be the one which led me to store treasure moments within my soul.

Even so/even if- that I never forget to cling to the grateful, embrace the miracle, savor the exceptional and find breathable life within the small things…

~

Quilts and Ice Cream Spoons…

www.rainydayinmay.comI stir the ice cream, there in that bowl.

Over and over, spoon to side, and back again. The grinding sound is creating the milky masterpiece that I love so much.

Often the act begins with scoops of Cookies & Cream, the one which will remain a lifelong favorite. Most often though, they consist of French Vanilla, what I remember to be your favorite and a flavor I simply cannot stand.

The grinding, noise of metal spoon against glass, annoys you. This isn’t why I love to do it, but it doesn’t seem to deter me from my mission either.

As long as I can make that ice cream last, fading from firm scoop to sweet cream, the more of a victory I seem to feel I have won… I never questioned why, or why I stopped playing with the treat once I no longer lived under that roof. Have I ever done that as an adult? I’ll have to ask my husband. If I have, it was more from habit than intent.

As a girl, it was deliberate- thought out. It took serious concentration and I was committed to the act as if humanity’s survival depended on it…

Whenever something prompts me to reflect on my childhood, and the sorts of things I loved, liked and found interesting, that silly little ice cream habit is always towards the top of my list. I would shrug it off internally, chalking up to one of those dumb things I did to be weird. Today, suddenly, in this adult moment I am simply not sure…

We only had ice cream when you were there. We only did a lot of things when you were there. Movie nights, game nights, real dinners, actual dialogue and verbal interaction that didn’t involve yelling or verbal abuse. Which, I guess, isn’t entirely true. There were manic moments which included late night dance parties between her and I, or crazy drives in the dark where she’d sing and dance in the car and I would try to force myself to absorb how incredibly fun my mom could be. It would be well into my own adulthood when I would realize my mom’s manic habits really weren’t fun, but to a child those were the best versions of her that I saw.

On the nights when you were there, after the evening meal, after the kitchen was clean and the ice cream was eaten- this is when I was encouraged to sit on the couch beside you. This is when the bad things which I had always known, would happen. She would turn slightly, towards the light and away from us, and there- with a movie on the television, my little soul would fragment again and again.

Of course we were quite a group, the three of us. There was me, the girl who really hadn’t a clue what was happening as I disappeared catatonic, to a dark place deep within. There she sat knitting, in the role of my mother, choosing not to see it because then she could convince herself of innocence. And lastly, you. I don’t know why you did it, I don’t know how you could hear the word Daddy, be the keeper of my more stable childhood moments, be the teacher or my board game and bicycle skills and still be the monster with his body parts between my little girl legs…

I will never know the full extent of what happened.

I will certainly never understand.

I do know that I don’t hate you. It’s a complicated place to arrive, but I have. It was. It happened. It’s over.

I’ve found myself in the repeating situation, as of late, of hearing another share their own abuse story. I have found myself in awe of the quilted fabric we survivors lay across this earth, together connected by stitches not visible to the human eye, yet very real and binding. We are each so different, yet it is often in the connection of together which makes it the most beautiful…

It is beautiful.

This scrap of fabric, the fragment which remains after the use and abuse of the rest of a once shiny and new linen- it becomes something heavy with warmth and stitched with love. Something which will cradle a newborn, nurture the sick, protect our children from the elements and splay so much hope and beauty on this fragmented world.

Four sat around a table today, talking about life and motherhood, about marriage and technology, about childhoods and dark things like this. Of the four, only one had not known such darkness. Only one… I saw it then- this quilt protects the babies so that the one can one day become three– and some glorious day- four. I long for a day when four women can come together and not one of them will know the unwanted sexual touch of another.

I am a part of an often faceless sisterhood, and while I cannot be glad for what took me there, I am grateful for the banding together of something bold and beautiful, sprouted from the ugly it was born.

I am not what you did to me, but I am forever changed because of it. It may have felt otherwise, and it might still I guess, but the reality is that the only victim in our exchange is you…

I think of you, of that favorite bowl and that flatware spoon every time I eat ice cream. Woven into my soul, you’re there. You are there in the small green Monopoly houses, in the 1980’s horror movies, in tall sweaty glasses of iced tea, even in the smell of grilled steak… You are everywhere, somehow in almost everything. It is both complicated and simple. Hating you, I finally see, would mean hating me. So, instead, I’ll roll the dice and keep my fingers crossed that I get to own the Orange and the Greens. I’ll savor bites of ice cream and I’ll occasionally enjoy a steak and iced tea- I can not let the memory of a man, both father figure and monster, ruin things I love- just like you didn’t ruin me.

I’ll show you my brave…

www.rainydayinmay.com

Brave to you will likely look very different then it does to me…

I was recently challenged to consider the bravest thing I have done. I thought, instead, of all of the courage and bravery I have seen in the people I know and love. I have friends who have literally chased down muggers/assailants. I have law enforcement friends. I have inner-city-teacher friends. I know several people who travel the world, adventuring into unknown and remote locations… (I recently read a story about an Anaconda, in the Amazon, that stalked someone in the water. It STALKED them. Snakes are in the wild, unknown and remote locations. This is a problem for me.)

My sister Joy lives in a beautiful home in south-eastern New Mexico. (she also has snakes who stalk and intrude on her life) My son is a soldier, as are so many friends. I know a beautiful soul who is a surrogate. The list goes on and on. I see bravery demonstrated so regularly and, when I look at myself, I feel like there is no comparison.

And therein lies the issue. There IS no comparison. My brave won’t look like yours. While it may have been brave for me to fight for my marriage and stand by my husband after infidelity and betrayal, it may be brave for another woman to walk away from a similar situation… And that is the thing about courage- no one else gets to decide it. A soldier, in and of itself, does not make them brave. A soldier who is willing to protect us and fight for what is right, even if it costs him his life- THAT is the brave part. Courage and selflessness in the face of danger is their brave. We can define ourselves a thousand ways, but brave will never be located in the title.

My brave can be found in my pursuit of motherhood long after I lost my uterus. I was shattered, but did not give up.

My brave can be seen within the moves I’ve made, the jobs I’ve taken.

My brave is there, beyond my comfort zone. In the once-awkward situations, the stranger-conversations, the elements of life just beyond my natural limit. I have grown to push myself there, into that place. Sometimes it is downright nauseating.

My brave is rooted deep, in my writing. To be authentic, raw and displayed does not come naturally, but it is the only way that it feels right.

My brave may have been born the day that I realized it was up to me to stop the patterns of sexual abuse that were happening within my childhood. There was no shame, only a concrete knowledge that the more  people I told, the less likely it was to happen again.

I told everyone.

It never happened again.

Perhaps the most ironic part of each one of those things though, is that they never felt brave. They often felt woven with elements of worry, anxiety and more than a healthy sprinkling of fear. Second guessing was my second nature during the seasons that, upon reflection, reveal themselves as brave. Bravery often makes me feel like I need to throw up, pass out, curl up in my bed and hide… The list goes on and on, but never have I though Woah! Now that, Misty, that was one mighty fine act of bravery! And it’s pretty unfair for me to hold myself to another soul’s standard of bravery before I’m willing to label it is as such.

Maybe you scale rocky mountainside’s for fun, eat nails for breakfast and only date psycho clowns- if so, my list probably seems pretty mild to you. (I’d also like to point out that two of those three things aren’t brave, they are reckless and that’s not actually always a fine line. Sometimes it is a gigantic 8-lane interstate.)

I don’t know when I’m brave, always.

I am pretty sure I could sit here and list out the ten-thousand ways I have felt and acted the opposite, just this month.

I’m working on accepting my brave for what it is. I’m learning I don’t need my neighbor, brother, husband or friend to call it brave, for it to be. Most importantly though, I know to my core that I need the brave list to be growing longer, by the day, while the other list grows smaller and smaller…

So that’s my plan.

(Minus any and all snakes, anyway.)

What has your brave looked like?