The Feng Shui of My Mind...

Recently I have felt like a woman possessed. I have moved bookshelves and beds to clean baseboards. I have taken dozens (and dozens) of bags and boxes to the Goodwill. I have organized my toolbox. I have separated marbles, shells and buttons into cute glass jars. I have painted. I have scrubbed. I have tried on every skirt, jacket and pair of pants (mostly black) in my closet to make sure they still fit. And while I was in there, I colorized the entire closet. I have redecorated both of the girls' rooms. I have cleaned under sinks, beds and couches. I have cleared the clutter out of everything in sight...and it feels good.

I have been suffocating under junk and clutter. Everywhere I looked in my house...all I saw was clutter. School papers. Works of art. Magazines. Shopping bags. Laundry. During this past winter, I thought I lost a few pairs of jeans and a few turtlenecks (Lost? Like where would they have gone, Rose?), so I simply went out and bought some more. Here's the thing. While I was cleaning, I found the 2 pairs of missing jeans and the three turtlenecks neatly folded in a laundry basket under some curling ribbon, two full GAP shopping bags and a of all things? A BEACH BALL.

Clutter.

And of course, I only found weak excuses why not to take care of it. Too busy. Too late. Too many cookies to bake. And it got worst. And my excuses got more creative. Uh, I need to pretend to be a freelance writer. Oh, my heart got broken, how can I expect to declutter my house now? Lots of excuses. Lots of denial.

But I knew the day that my girls got on the airplane headed to Texas, that it would be show time.

Show time.

And here I am, exhausted, proud and happy. The days have rolled by effortlessly...all 35 of them with 8 more to go.

Finally, after all of this time of clutter and excuses, it's now done. Done. It's done. Done. And I have to admit, it is marvelous. But the best part? I realize that my house and I are BOTH truly amazing. Renewed. Clean. Complete. Organized. Balanced.

And life is definitely good.

Recycled Love

When you love someone and it ends, where does the love go? What happens to the love? Surely it doesn't just disappear. Poof. Gone. If you truly loved someone with your body, heart, mind and soul, when it ends, does the love just fade away?

I don't want to fade away. In your heart I long to stay

Yeah, Eric Clapton music at 7:00 in the morning (What next my Jackson Browne Late for the Sky cd?), I have been up since 5:30 and it just seems to be one of those days.

Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Here's the thing. I have two different friends ending relationships; and sadly both are getting a divorce. To be honest, sometimes it hurts my heart so much to see my amazing friends go through the painful (yet necessary) process of divorce. And for both of them, I know there was love, there still is love in the relationship, but now that the relationship is over...where does the love it go?

I realize over time the love becomes something else entirely. I know that time (and therapy)change the love into something different. We learn something from it, it makes us stronger, we grow, blah, blah, blah. But in the present, what happens to the love?

It's almost like the love is in a state of limbo, unsure of the next move. Delicately hanging in the balance of unspoken words. And for some, the love can manifest itself into renewal, anger, peace, sadness or silence.

And sometimes? I guess the love does just fade away.

Love the Message...Don't Love the Messenger

Why is it that we can't see the really good stuff about ourselves? Why do we allow ourselves to only see ourselves through others' eyes? Why do we have to let others validate what we should already know?

Why? Why? Why? And it's only 10:00AM.

But I was thinking...6 months after I separated from my husband of 16 years, I thought I was in love. I wasn't of course, but I truly thought it. Here's why. I thought I was in love because this kind man SAW in me, what I WANTED to be. He saw smart, strong, passionate, sexy, decisive. I saw weak, tired, overwhelmed and old. However, as I moved through the process of separation and eventually divorce, things changed for me. Drastically. I made decisions I never thought possible. I moved across the country with two small children. I slowly lost 62lbs. I went back to work after a five year absence. But somehow, in the back of my mind, I always gave the credit to him. I give the credit to someone else. Someone else entirely. It was never about me. I never felt fully responsible for the way in which my life changed. I never believed that I had it in me. But because HE saw and believed that I had it in me, well, it was enough. It was enough just knowing that he COULD see it. And that's how I fell in love with the messenger.

Now five years later, I realize that I did, in fact, possess ALL of the qualities that this man saw. At the time I just didn't see it. He didn't create the new Rose. That Rose was always there. I just couldn't see her. But just because you can't see something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. I think they call that a leap of faith?

Listen, there's nothing wrong with having someone who helps you through a difficult time. There's nothing wrong with someone who gets you. There's nothing wrong with someone awakening something buried so deep inside your soul it makes you want to change your life completely. There's nothing wrong with discovery, hope, introspection, dreams. There's nothing wrong with any of it. I am grateful for my friend, I always will be. But my issue though is when we give too much of the credit away. To not make it about yourself, but to make it more about the other person. Which is exactly what I did when I fell in love with the messenger. See, when you do that? You don't fully accept the responsibility (and blame?) for the way in which your life turns out. You think that this other person is the only one that can see you in this new, marvelous way. But here's the thing. If the new relationship with the new person who you gave all of credit to doesn't work out (becomes too boring, too empty, too far away, whatever...), you will be forced to continue to search because you think you NEED someone else to see you with those same eyes.

Ah, I have seen my life through too many messengers eyes over the last few years. And for some reason, I have never been able to see it for myself. It has been exhausting. But latest one? The Zen-Like Heart Break of February (I thought I would give it a proper title already, like the Crash of '29.) finally forced me see my life through my own eyes for the first time in 5 years. Why? Because I had to push myself through another excruciatingly painful time, but this time there was no one waiting on the other side to cheer me at the finish line. It was just me. I had to figure out my own message. This time I couldn't envision HOW I was going to turn out by looking through someone else's eyes. And believe me, it was very difficult.

But, dammit, here I am. And I see the person who has made it through all of this. And truthfully? She ain't too bad.

Sure, it's a little scary at first, looking in a mirror and truly seeing yourself. Not how others see you, or even how you think they see you...but to see the person that you really are...it's empowering, to say the very least. Some days I still find myself tired or old or overwhelmed, but for the most part, I am Rose. And I sort of like her message.

Maybe for today, I will keep looking at myself in the mirror...to see my life for exactly what and where it is. I will not give the credit away for what makes me happy. I will not shift blame. I see myself through my own eyes. And I will learn to love the right messenger.

Bleeding Through The Lines

My black suit is coming out again and I'm getting a tad bit nervous. Here's the thing. I have a 2:00pm appointment with the head of some big deal ad agency tomorrow. Okay, okay, he just so happens to be the FATHER of my younger daughter's friend, AND he's the husband of a good friend of mine...but that's beside the point. Really. Believe me. Because no matter what? He is still the president of some big deal ad agency and I am meeting him tomorrow.

I need to work. On paper (or an keyboard, so to speak) I loved the whole notion of freelance writing, but in reality, I have discovered that I am not disciplined (or maybe not talented?) enough to pull it off. Also, it sort of sucked (pretty word for a writer, but sometimes it works) trying to write creatively and intelligently for pay. Before the whole "freelance writer" gig, (another word I love 'gig') I wrote strictly from the heart, from my soul and then poof, I submitted it, and miraculously, it was published. In fact, everything I submitted...was published. Yeah, it blew me away too. But that's the reality of it.

So when I had the opportunity to write full time, it was like a dream come true. Write? Fulltime? Cool. But then I started. And started. And started. And then? Nothing. Silence. Blocked. I couldn't write. I truly couldn't write. And contrary to popular belief, I tried. I really tried. But everything I wrote sounded so trite. Forced. Silly. And it felt so unnatural to count every word to make sure I didn't exceed the word limit for some publications. For the first time since I started writing, I had nothing. Nothing creative. Nothing intelligent. Nothing sarcastic. Nothing sexy. Nothing.

I was having a writer's block party, that's for use.

Ah, and then the whole Zen-like heartbreak thing happened in February and I thought maybe NOW it was going to be time to really pour myself into my work and allow the emotions to be put to paper. Finally.

Nope. Didn't work. It made it even worse. I was stuck. And the broken heart made it worse. (But let's be serious, a broken heart makes everything worse, even sex.)

But I kept trying.

I read a brilliant line once in an email, someone claimed that I was 'bleeding through the lines' when I was pretending that life was okay when in reality I was really hurting. (Hey, screw you, I pay my therapist lots of money to tell me stuff like that...You can't do it for free.) Damn. Bleeding through the lines? C'mon, Rose. That was a great line. One that usually would get me all hot and bothered to write another story (yeah, kinda weird about me...I usually write the title first and somehow the story follows), but not this time. It didn't motivate me at all. Nothing. Alas, I left Bleeding Through the Lines alone in the email.

After a few more times of that type of writers' frustration I decided that I need to give up the freelance writing and go back to work. Listen, I love writing, I know that it lights me up from within. It gives me something to call my very own. Writing has given me more joy then I ever expected. And next to my daughters, my writing is the best thing I have ever done in my life. I am very proud of it. But here's the thing. I don't want to treat my writing like a bad relationship. I don't want to beat something out of it when there really just isn't anything there. I don't want to try so hard to make it work. So maybe, it's time to let it be for awhile, to give it a rest, and try not to force it. And maybe just maybe the creativity will come back to me. Or not.

So. I am going back to work.

Ah, work. To work outside the home again. Full time. Go. Put the pantyhose on. Run. Get a business card. Find afterschool care. Do the weekly meal plans. Dry cleaning. Briefcases. Back in the game. Blah, blah, blah.

And that's why I am meeting with the President of an ad agency tomorrow.

Hey, what if it's the black suit that makes me so creative? Could be the expensive haircut and black high heels? I don't know for sure. But I have a feeling that once I stop thinking (obsessing, who me?) about how to write creatively, I will start writing creatively again.

Who knows?

Or maybe I will just continue to bleed through the lines.

I Love a Parade...

My dog snores. Abbey, the Boston Terrier snores. And sometimes that is the only noise you will hear in my house. The girls are with Gary for the summer and silence has been running rampant around here. Listen, don't get me wrong. I am truly enjoying my time alone. Watching Food Network until I am full of Tyler, Rachel, Paula and that arrogant Barefoot Contessa. Eating potato chips right out of the bag. Sleeping until 8:00AM. Viciously cleaning out their rooms, coming out with BAGS of trash. Thinking. Being. Breathing. None of this sucks, I can assure you.

But, it's the sound of the silence that is a little unnerving. Here's the thing. I usually live my life with this never ending chatter in my head 'What should we have for dinner? Do I want to put on the black suits and go to work again? Did I sign the school papers? Is Ilene home? Why did I let him break my heart? Why? Who? What? When? Blah, blah, blah...' But these days the endless chatter in my head has subsided and that makes me a little nervous.

Look, my chatter and I go back a long way. In some ways I think it has helped me survive some stuff. It has distracted me from many things. It is comforting. It has been with me for as long as I can remember. And now I think it's leaving.

I read something the other day that make me think (okay, so everything makes me think, but I digress...), it was talking about the chatter. MY chatter. It talked about how when the chattering starts, simply look at it like a parade. Watch it go by. Enjoy it. Don't. But simply watch it. I liked that symbolism. The whole parade thing. Because even as loud and entertaining as the parade might be, I liked the idea that I don't have to join the parade, that I can simply watch it as it goes by. The words about the parade greatly effected me. It felt like it was written just for me. And I knew that my own parade was about to start.

I am not saying that I am not going to stop thinking...because to me, that would be like asking me to stop breathing. But, it's the chatter, the stuff that I obsess about, the endless clutter in my head, well that is what's changing.

I am letting go of my friend, my chatter. I will watch you go by my like a parade, but I can't hang on to you anymore. You have served me well, but it's time to let go. I will still watch you go by, but I won't allow you to control me. Paralyze me. Overwhelm me. You will always be with me (because that's just the kind of chick I am...), but I am simply going to watch you go by me like a parade.

Because honestly? Who doesn't love a parade?

Boz Scaggs and more...

Don't ask me why, but I have Boz Scaggs running through my head 'it's 3:00am, it's me again and wouldn't you know? Things would have to end this way...' Okay, maybe because when I woke up, it was in fact, 3:00am, I couldn't go back to sleep and decided to create this blog. But now it's 6:00am and that damn song is still running through my head.

'I did my best the perfect guest knew when to go...perfect you knew when to stay.'

Wow. Now it's really stuck. Damn.

I can't sleep. But that's nothing new. Perhaps it's because I think too much? Yeah, I do think too much. And everyone tells me that's a bad thing. I wonder though, how can THINKING too much be a bad thing? It's not like I am stealing too much or coughing too much or littering too much. No, I am simply thinking too much. Humpf. I am not bothering anyone with my thinking. I do not think rudely or loudly. I am just thinking.

What am I thinking about? Hmmm. Let's see. I am thinking about the fact that I have 17 more days before my daughters get back from Dallas. I am thinking about a new job. I am thinking about my friend and her painful divorce. I am thinking about boyfriends and the lack thereof. I am thinking about WHY that makes me crazy. I am thinking about how not to think about that.

'C'mon, tell me that you love me dear...I've been feeling down some too. After all I made it clear, I've been waiting just for you'

Ick. Boz Scaggs. And his song "What Can I Say?" Is that why that damn song is running through my head?

'C'mon, tell me that you love me dear...I've been feeling down some too. After all the time that I made it clear, I've been waiting just for you'

(Certainly not for the lyrics, she said hopefully.)

Anyway, the sun is coming up. I need to go back to sleep. Maybe when I get back up, I will listen to the whole damn Boz Scaggs Silk Degrees CD.

Who knows? Maybe I won't. But I am sure I will think about it.