I just put a PM Dawn song on the mix CD I am making. It’s official; I had too much wine for dinner.
Today I was feeling especially imperfect, primarily around being in a relationship. I’m not always that good at it; my temperament changes, I get scared by the duration that a long-term relationship requires. If you’ll remember my old post, I am also scared that I am the a**hole.
I tend to spend too much time worrying about how a relationship will change me, if I am getting what I need, or if I am good enough at loving someone else, if I am worthy. On this particular day I was really beating myself up.
And then, randomly, someone who never emails me, emailed me the words you’ll see below. No intro paragraph, not even a “hi, hello, did you see that spreadsheet I sent over?”. I swear, people, it felt like the words were direct from the heavens above.
I offer them to you:
You’ve got it all wrong. You didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That is where you came from and where you will return. You came here to learn personal love…Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love. Infused with divinity. Lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty… of messing up. Often. You didn’t come here to be perfect. You already are. You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous. And then to rise again into remembering.
But unconditional love? Stop telling that story. Love,in truth, doesn’t need ANYother adjectives. It doesn’t require modifiers. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that you show up. And do your best. That you stay present and feel fully. That you shine and fly and laugh and cry and hurt and heal and fall and get back up and work and live and die as YOU.
It’s enough. It’s Plenty.
Not sure why…but it makes me think of you, and if you sing the “whoa whoa whoa” part out loud in the car I’m certain it will help.
My neighbor’s trash blew into our yard and it was all cat food, tiny bottles of liquor and old R&B cassette tapes. I’m not sure if I should judge them, or invite them over to be my best friend.
Life is full of beauty and misery; it is your choice how you want to see it. So when you come down to it, it is YOU who decides what it is.
Similarly, I enjoyed reading The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. It might have helped that I read it while on a beach in Mexico. But regardless, I feel better having read it.
And if you’re on facebook, I like Success Nation for inspiration.
And this song. (I’m the elephant)
Something really weird happened to me this week.
I paid someone an exorbitant amount of money to cut my eyeballs with a laser. Which, to me, felt exactly like being abducted by aliens circa 1976.
Before I had the surgery I had plenty of people tell me “it was no big deal”. Who are these people??? How is getting your eye-ball cut by a laser “no big deal”? Of course it’s a BIG DEAL! I bet they like getting colonics too. Freaks.
The morning of the surgery they give you a little chat, put a hair net on you, slip a Valium under your tongue and whisk you away to the “laser suite”. Like calling it a “suite” makes it sound fun and posh. Like maybe you might have some champagne and talk with a British accent whilst having a little work done on the old eyes, right chappie? But that is not what happens. Calling it a “suite” is like calling the place where you get mammograms “the Getting Felt Up by Brad Pitt station”.
So they whisk you into the suite and they lay you down on a leather bed with your head facing up with a giant mechanical arm over your head and about four people in the room (I only have two eyeballs, what they heck? Why are all these people here?). And the lights are down way low and they are playing the Bee Gees up way high. And the Nurse tells me “not to worry, this will only take a minute.” And I’m thinking to myself “hey, take all the time you need. No reason to be hasty WHEN YOU HAVE A LASER POINTED AT MY HEAD.”
And then they pull the mechanical arm over my head and tape open my eyeballs and my vision gets all blurry and there’s green and red lights flashing and the nurses are putting liquids into my eyes and the Bee Gees are getting louder and I am seriously starting to get nervous.
And then the doctor shoves what looks to be the metal wire cage that comes off the top of a champagne bottle INTO MY EYE and the Doctor (who is just a voice above my head) tells me not to worry because the cage will make sure my eye stays open and I think how I wasn’t worried before, but I am now, because there is metal cage in my eye and I pretty sure that next they are going to beam me up to the mother ship and give me an anal probe.
But instead of an anal probe, there is suction and pressure on my eye, it pushes and it hurts and they are cutting open my eye flap. My eyeball is literally FLAPPING. And suddenly my vision goes black. I can’t see anything. Oh God, why can’t I see anything? I’m sorry I wanted perfect vision, God. I shouldn’t have messed with your creation. I promise to never be vain again. I take it all back. Please just let me see again. Please God, Pleeeeeasssse! And then, just like that, the suction comes off and my vision comes back (but still all blurry and red and green and only in the right eye) but I think, that wasn’t so bad. I take it back God; I do want perfection. I want to not wear glasses at the gym. I want to know look pretty and see well all at the same time. I am vain and I like it! I laugh at your creation! Ha! Science trumps all! Haha hahaaaa God!
And then they bring in the lasers. Oh God. It it smells like burning. And the nurse/alien starts counting down from seven. And there’s beeping. And still the burning, my eye is burning. And also those God Damned Bee Gees singing! And I honestly am not sure I can do this. I choose a lifetime of homeliness. I choose a lifetime of blurry swimming and jogging in eye glasses. I choose the anal probe! JUST MAKE IT STOP!
And then it stops. And I open my eyes and everyone has left the room but one nurse who takes the hair net off me and tells me what a good job I did and guides me to a chair in the waiting room and I go home and I nap. And I nap and I nap and I nap (because the combination of alien abduction and valium makes me quite sleepy).
And when I wake up it’s still blurry and feels like someone pushed my eyes into a sand castle. But I can see. I can SEE! And I spend the next few days playing I-Spy with my boyfriend and I read street signs out loud like I’m five and just learning to read and I know when I put on too much blush before I leave the house. I go out anyway, because I like a lot of blush, but at least I know because I can SEE.
My cat’s name is Bradley.
He was two years old when I got him, and came with that name.
Like I’d pick Bradley for a cat’s name. That’s just silly.
I got him on election day, but “Obama” or “Hope” sounded too liberal-college-sophomore. Like naming him “Guinness” or “Bella”.
I made him a monogrammed stocking for Christmas and changed his name to Brad Lee.
It just seems cooler.
Like he’s a bad-ass country rock-a-billy. Or maybe a martial artist/international film sensation.
If he had a human voice I hope it would sound like Johnny Cash. Or even Kenny Rogers.
But I bet he really sounds like Mr. Chow from the Hangover.
He prefers to go by Brad.
I’m not even kidding.
My mom kindly prodded me to add a new post to my blog. She astutely noticed that the last post I got stuck on for two months was one on writer’s block. Ironic much?
And then she sent me this lovely message about something else entirely unrelated:
Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky. (Rainer Maria Rilke)
How does she know the right things to say to push but not push too hard?