Back when I was a kid, I had an aunt that would let us ride on the platform of the swather during hay season. Was it safe? Probably not. But during that time period, The Secret of Nimh was kind of a big deal. It was so curious to me to watch all of the little field mice running for shelter as the swather would come through cutting the blades of grass. Why would they build their home in a hay field instead of the patches of land covered in sage brush… or even closer to the house?
As I’ve grown older, I think about sitting on that platform
with my brother and my cousin. I wonder
if I’ve always been this way… watching the world through the eyes of the little
things that most people might not even notice.
Have I always had to attach meaning?
I suppose it’s one of those things I’ve spent a lifetime
trying to understand.
Is it guilt? Is it woulda shoulda coulda? Hindsight is 20/20? Is it innocence? Is it the belief that things will work
out? Is it forcing? Is it desiring blood from a turnip?
Sometimes, I beat myself up for ruminating on things well
behind me. There is nothing I can do
about something in my past. Let it
go?
But then little things show up in my life that send me
backwards. Sometimes I think it’s the
Universe’s way of trying to help me see things in a different way.
What I do know is that I am fully aware, now, when the devil
is trying to come and dance in a new disguise.
Oh man... have I had a rough weekend. It started out by succumbing to the snot goblins
that like to visit the school on the regular.
It kept two-thirds of my children home last week and sent me running
home Thursday, mid-day. I waved my white
flag on Friday… then rested most of Saturday and Sunday.
In that rest, I had plenty of time to let my mind run
wild. It all started quite
innocently. I finally had a moment to
sit down and write a love letter to myself.
It’s my new favorite tradition… writing sweet nothings to myself 6
months into the future. First, I read over
the last letter I had penned and had to restrain myself from wading it up and
chucking it in the general direction of the trash can. I was a bit mad at myself. How dare I waste
my own time imagining what it would feel like to have a genuine man in my life
when I should be dedicating this time to showing love to myself… that’s how
this whole thing started. To give myself
the love I crave… to cut out the middle man… to pry my dependence of my self-worth
being attached to whether or not I have a partner in this life. But I quickly thwarted those thoughts.
I don’t think there was anything wrong with wanting that
kind of love. There still isn’t. But somewhere along the way, wanting it sort
of became my compass.
So I put my big girl panties on and wrote… straight from my
heart- right now- to myself on my 50th birthday… not a single
mention of what “HE” may look or feel like… or checking in to make sure that “He”
is checking all the boxes that we’ve decided are a must. Raw, gritty, one of the most amazing love
letters I have ever written to anyone was inscribed on eight pages of my
favorite legal pad, folded and placed in my “Space for new things” box to open
on the day of my birth in six months.
In writing that letter, I realized that I have been living
my entire life… looking for romantic love… a partner, based on some stupid recurring
dream that I had from about age 12 until around 17. I’ve looked for that person in every man I
met. Every man that gave me a shred of
attention. It was a game of allowing
those that seemed MOST like that man in the dream… but not entirely like that
man. The biggest part in most of them
was connection. The ability to actually have
a deep conversation. The existential
kind… In the dream it felt like two nebulous clouds coming together and dancing
amongst the stars in the vast darkness of space. It felt safe. It felt like
home. It felt like being known.
I've only ever found fragments of this feeling in my life,
despite spending so much time looking for it. Some could go deep. Some were
soft and safe. Some made me feel seen. Some carried that strange, fated
feeling, as though I was supposed to meet them.
There was this one time that the man I chose to keep me
company met none of the predetermined guidelines… and it was the most miserable
I’ve ever been.
I’ve had my eyes on this prize for so long… but as I
finished this love letter from myself to myself focusing on only me… I acknowledged
that some ideas from my childhood were perhaps false. I’ve held this belief that life unfolds
according to certain milestones, that people show up for you in particular
ways, and that if you love someone enough, they will eventually recognize the
importance of celebrating you. See, in my family, major milestone birthdays
were celebrated in a big way. I remember
surprise birthday parties and big birthday parties, and goofy parties, and PARTY
parties. But none of this, promises the
world had made to me.
When I turned 40, I imagined the man I was with would make a
big deal of it. Instead, I was given, “
if I threw a party, no one would have come anyway.”
And when you’re staring down the barrel of 50… with no one
standing next to you.. to celebrate you… it’s overwhelming.
So I baked myself a little cake on Sunday. I ate a piece while singing happy birthday to
myself… and I saved a piece for the freezer… so I can celebrate myself again in
six months.
And then I realized that I built my house in a hayfield.
I have been obsessed over that feeling from that dream most
of my life. I have tried to fit others
into that box and, at one point, believed I had found him. The longest treasure hunt ever. I do not feel stupid. Today, I feel relieved. Grateful
that I can actually see it for what it is.
Besides, I can’t go back and tell that little girl that she
doesn’t need to spend her life searching for someone from a dream. But I can start asking this grown woman to
keep looking for the feeling in her every day life, not necessarily in the face
of another.
Oh look at that girl… so tough. Living her best life.
The truth is, realizing I needed to let go of this
fantastical dream about some mystery man… my person… out there in this world… has
been harder than I anticipated. Harder, in some ways, than burying my grandparents
and friends… or even this recent divorce.
I feel like holding on to it is holding me back.
I really only found myself holding on to attention I would
receive intermittently from men. I
over-looked so much because I was afraid if I called it quits too soon, I may
never get to the good stuff… that connection I craved, I imaged, would take
years to foster. I was chasing this
dream through whoever was giving me the attention…
Something else happened over the last few days… half a dozen
men reached out to me over the weekend. Those
slick devils… Not a single one even raised my eyebrow. Actually, my fingers were quick to delete.
A voicemail, “I miss you.” A rando, essentially asking for a
boob shot. A late night text message
from a man that ran so fast away from me I didn’t even see the rooster tail of
rocks nor the dust settle. A friend that
pops in and out of my life over the last two years that claims he’s just
checking on me, but probably checking to see if I’m still single if he ever
gets the courage. Another guy telling me
he can be available if I need him (since I was sick and all.)
All this attention. All of this availability. Not a lick of
interest.
I paused for a moment.
I worried that maybe… after all these years of being the hopeless
romantic. Decades of sending so much
love out into the world, of keeping my heart wide open and receptive… am I
broken? Had this last spin finally done
me in? Did the well finally run dry?
All of this interest, affection, availability and longing
and I felt NOTHING.
I don’t know that it means my heart has closed.
I think I might finally be able to distinguish between being
wanted and being cherished.
Being missed isn’t the same as being chosen.
Being desired isn’t the same as being known.
Having someone available when they feel like being available
isn’t the same as having someone who consistently makes room for me in their
life.
I’ve had enough of breadcrumbs and swathers I think…
And most certainly devils...
Have I decided in my heart to no longer build my house in
the hayfield?
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