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Uploading pictures regularly to Flickr. |
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But how do you start your entire life over again when you're 29 years old, clipping along in your merry life full of friends and family and work and church? And what does that even look like?
— March 9, 2004 (this entry is particularly interesting to look back on at this time) |
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To see is to forget the name of the thing one sees. — Paul Valery
It is difficult to commit to living where we are, how we are. It is difficult and it is necessary.
— Julia Cameron |
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Anodyne. A gorgeous poem sent to me by Megan. who reads this journal. Thank you, Megan — I am loving this poem.
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I can be reached at romanlily ~at~gmail.com. Or you can join the notify list here. |
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March 8, 2005
Rebeginning
Greetings from the room with the blue walls. I've been spending an awful lot of time here these past couple months. This is just an update to say that I'm still here. And the ground is slowly ceasing its trembling.
This room I'm in has four walls painted deep blue. It measures 12' x 12'. There is a bureau, a desk, a nightstand, and a bed pushed into the corner. There is a green rug on the floor, and gauzy white curtains at the window. The sun comes in through that window, and wakes me up in the morning.
My heartbeat is slowly returning to its traditional tempo. I had it checked out last month by a creepy doctor who told me that I was fine, who told me, in fact, that I had "the blood of a teenager." I've been doing yoga, eating my veggies, taking supplements and minerals that he recommended. Every once in a while my heart beats strangely as I'm lying in bed, just to remind me that I'm not out of the woods.
Heck, maybe none of us are out of the woods.
The days have a routine, and that is a blessing. Wake up. Shower. Cold cereal. Off to work, which could mean any number of places. It has been an enormous blessing to not have to struggle to find work during this time of transition. There has been just the right amount of work. I should be able to finish paying off my ridiculously expensive computer this month, and I'm so glad. What's more, I work with really good people. People who are very generous and talented. Sometimes they even buy me lunch. It's really something.
In the evening, there are friends, or there is photography, or there is cooking, or there is dance. Dance! When all else fails, there is dance. It has been a saving grace these past few months. I think that dance is teaching me how to have a body. And not just any body, but a fully functioning body, one that bleeds and feels and stumbles and twirls. I am so grateful for this body. It feels sometimes like it might just burst into flame.
There was a dance here a couple of Sunday nights ago -- an "advanced" dance, which generally means that only the most commited dancers show up. At the end of the evening I was dancing with a wonderful favorite partner, G., a dear man whose eyes may actually contain all the wisdom of the entire world. And a thought took shape around me in the moment — it occurred to me that despite the ragged sadness that is everywhere lately, despite the huge unknowns and fears and worries lurking behind every corner, everything is okay. Everything is going to be okay. I am wounded, but still breathing. In pain, but happy. Genuinely happy. And I almost burst open and rushed out onto the floor right there, stained those lacquered boards like wine, realizing, I am really happy right now, and I really could not be any happier if I tried.
Tell that to the doctor. Tell that to the nurse. Tell them to put that on my chart. Broke-down heart, but happy and dancing. She'll make it.
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