Me versus My head

I’m trying to shove my head out of the seriousness it nestles in and devote my day to carefree, purely amusing thoughts. Should this be hard? As I write this, I am focusing on relaxing my furrowed brow that suggests I’ve been under intense concentration or am perplexed, but I am not particularly ---- right now. It occurs to me that I have this furrowed brow constantly. In fact, trying to flatten my brow muscles and let my jaw fall slack is requiring more coordination that I thought it would. Vicious cycle. To free myself of an intense expression, I must concentrate intensely…

I turned thirty this year and have realized 30 brings with it the ability to stop excusing yourself for the little ways that make you… you! (When I say ‘you’, I guess I really just mean me, because I don’t know if this is shared sentiment.) Fitting into the world is less important and finding what fits nicely into my own world is my new outlook. Quite refreshing. So, I no longer try to be funny, or get frustrated at my poor… really poor joke telling skills. I no longer feel offended when I meet someone along side my sister and they ask, “What happened to you?” as they take in the obvious difference in height. And I accept that I am serious, in general, remaining somewhat aloof, consumed with the frantic thoughts that are buzzing around my head as I try and navigate my way from one to the other, snatching them down to study, and in the mean time not hearing anything the people around me have just said. A friend I adore said to me once when we were having lunch, “I really love watching you do that, by the way.” When I asked her what she was referring to, she said, “You know, completely zone out. I just watch you go away to wherever it is you go, and then you’ll pop back.” This friend gets me and we feel sure we were friends in another life. This trait of mine is not necessarily a positive one, as it most likely irritates the shit out of my mother and my husband, the ones who have to deal with my chatter and aloofness, and who have the task of trying to understand me as I verbalize all of the whizzing thought flashes.

Perhaps, I reveal too much here. I have no mental disorder; I am just stuck in my head. My diving coach used to tell me the same thing. “Beth, you think too much. Just do it and stop thinking.” I sported the furrowed brow even then.

My sister is not like this. She’s happy-go-lucky most of the time. My parents are not like this. It’s just me. But, that’s okay. I prefer it this way. There is no other way to be for me; it’s my nature.

Luckily, my husband is serious too. Although, he thinks in a completely different pattern than I do. It’s point A to point B. Cut out the fat. Straight and direct. He probably only zones out when I’m analyzing our entire lives. He has this look he gives me when I’m going overboard with loop de loop thoughts. He turns to me really slowly with his mouth slightly open, his eyes slightly crossed, as if his face has lost all control and he has no effort left to process my words. It’s a funny face. Makes me laugh and makes me either sum it up or shut up. I get it done when he gives me this look.

This carefree day is going to be difficult I can tell. I usually sit here and write… about life, death, love, loss, and human nature, that kind of stuff. Or I read about politics and how we “are so dumb, really dumb” as Antoine Dodson would put it. I have fits at all the liars in ties coming across my television. I cry at all the abused animals and children. I have bouts where I feel I need way more education on the ways of the world and interrogate my husband for all he’s worth. Or, I do what I did this morning and exhaust myself running around my home with a broom in the air chasing a wasp. I opened the window, had my glass and piece of paper on stand-by for trap and release purposes, and tried my hardest to direct the (increasingly weak) wasp out the window. I finally gave up when he situated himself in between the molding and blinds that are a good 20 feet in the air. And, yes, I saw myself. I was very aware of how ridiculous I looked. But, these things fret me. I attach feelings to even wasps. Little sucker’s going to die up there if he doesn’t cooperate.

I think the only possible way for me to achieve my goal of laid-back-Beth is to immerse myself in my pups. Selma Lu, for one, is the silliest, quirkiest creature I know and if I follow her lead she’ll take me to the land of carefree. Although, she has the mother-of-all furrowed brows. China is fearless, we all could use a bit of that. I’ll let you know how it goes. That’s assuming anyone even reads this… and they make it through the entire entry… and they care about my head and what’s in it. I have a feeling I’m not going to like this at all, but we’ll see. Open minds are learning minds. And to get out of mine, opening and then, slamming a sound proof door is strategy number one.

Crumbs for Thought

A crumb falls on the floor, like many more, but what makes the difference is this crumb… it has become more than merely a morsel; it was thought escaped and lost. Who’s gonna come and snatch it up? Who’s sniffing and snatching your thoughts away, taking them as their own and leaving you with nothing but an empty, aching mind? More painful than starvation, is your loss, this mindless existence. Carry on, idiot. Walk blindly through ignorance, not understanding that this is not bliss. It is not knowing the difference.

Contentment is a virtue they say, but I challenge this, if I may; why not call it appreciation instead? Appreciate and strive for what’s in sight in your creative mind. Contentment may be your masterful disguise of dying. Wither and wilt away in your stagnant, static day or shoot farther; go past more. Go where you dream and feel no guilt for not settling into the gray mass of everybody else.

Grasp your identity. It is your thought. It is your dream. This is who you are.

Energy it may take, but nothing more, to keep your crumbs from hitting the floor.

Eyes Where Love Resides

This was me.

I'm sitting in a pew; sad, but contained. I have said goodbye to my sweet Edna. My emotions are in check. I have cried already, many times; and have also successfully reversed what seemed surely to be another flooding a few times. I am uncomfortable losing control of my emotions in front of others. So, I try and combine being present with being detached from this moment. I say "This is just ceremony. This is just ceremony." over and over in my head. I pretend I'm blubbering my lips with my fore finger. I'm trying to do anything that will displace me so that I can read aloud without embarrassment. My cousin sings, a few words are said, and it's my cue.

I walk up to a podium, that luckily covers the majority of me, set my papers down, and smooth them a time or two. I adjust them, stalling. I make eye contact with no one. I know if I see any sympathy or affection shown to me, I break. Compassion unties me. I announce that I wrote two poems for my grandmother on the drive to Mississippi the day before and will read the first now. Then I attempt what I know will be the hardest part. I read the title "Missing My Sweet Edna's Eyes" and crraaaack. I'm undone. No fixing it here, right here in front of my family and others; I'm exposing all that controlled emotion. I ask for a moment, 'ooops' make eye contact with Aunt Linda, and realize I have to begin. To regain my composure is impossible now.

My grandmother had eyes where love resides. That is why these first words are tough. I am visualizing her eyes.

"Missing My Sweet Edna's Eyes

Real life has its virtues; it's true
But in my world, in my mind, I like the view
Of memories, of love, of lore from days left behind
You, my sweet Edna, will be forever in my heart, in my mind
In real life or in my mind's magic; in past time or in my moments yet to be
Forever your love lasts with me
And sometimes love is letting someone go
I will try to remember that which I know
When feelings of loss flood my senses with sadness
I will remember love is eternal and without rest
I will smile instead
love, Beth

I thank you for your love."

At the end I give a little smile so that I don't completely contradict my written words. I sit. And I feel better. I did it. I read the hard one already. Relief. Take two.

"That which I know

No finality
No, not for me
No crossroads
too wide to pass
No pathway
too narrow to take
Meander the way
to eternity
and you'll wind your way
back to me"

This one is more hopeful and is written in reference to the first poem's line, 'I will try to remember that which I know'. I read this one clearly. And I think she smiles. She smiled always.

Tears flow still in the car with Nick. But I have his big hand on my knee and I know this is my safe capsule where I can let go completely. Strangers show respect as they pull over and beam their headlights; one man takes off his hat. We travel along a road I have travelled on once a year since birth and I wonder 'When will I be here again?' I remember the moment I found out she left us, which wasn't long after she left, and I think of what I first said in my head. I didn't say "No." or "I love you." I said, "Thank you for your love." And that is representative of my grandmother. Selfless and loving.

A single butterfly is nearing our plot in the graveyard. She's a monarch. She flies under our tent and beautifully over the flowers on the coffin and out again into the distance. There are no more butterflies around and the air is so still and heavy one could drown. Edna is transformed now and she's sending us signs of love. She may not be at the other end of a phone call, or sitting in her favorite chair, but as a great lover of games would have it, she is sending us signs and watching us figure it out. She is with us more than ever before.