country love songs

"What are you doing?"
"Thinking."

"So many things," I said when he asked what I was thinking about.

"Do you ever stop thinking?"
"Not really."

But what if instead of thinking, I called it dreaming? Why does it have to have a point or a backbone? I'm not thinking...I'm letting my heart float out and feel the space around me.

moonrise

I wonder how other people pray.

Do you ask for things - a list of what you need?
Do you listen - quietly waiting to be told what to do, what to think, what comes next?
Do you vent?
Do you complain?
Do you share what you're grateful for?

And does it matter, what other people do? Isn't it more important what I do...what fits for me? And maybe it's not the same every time.

And what is praying, really? Is it praying when we call a friend? Is it only praying if you're kneeling with folded hands? When I run and let my mind free, is that praying? When I sit in the car after a long day and feel the sun pouring down on me and I close my eyes and listen to my thoughts? When I stand by the water and breath in so deeply that I can feel my heart change...

brain drain 9/20/2019

The impulse to do “good” / to make the world “better”. Heavy on the quotes because I understand that I need to view these words critically, but I don't have a good enough understanding to say them any other way. Teaching as a “philanthropic vocation or romantic calling,” "schools as secular churches,” things that make my skin crawl because they feel wrong, but also because I'm not different.

I allow the myth that I know exactly what I want to persist. I thrive on being seen as driven, passionate, purposeful. I want the gold star that people give me with their eyes when I say I'm a teacher. "We need more people like you." It's not why I do what I do, but it matters to me. Is that wrong?

Selfless/selfish

If we see ourselves a certain way, that encourages others to see us that way. If we question that, is it wrong to want people to still see us that way? Should my flaws be public, to be more human? Or should I hide them, because by putting them out into the world I burden others with complications?

“This notion of giving voice to the voiceless - that’s, to me, very flawed. They’ve always been talking. No one’s been listening.” - America Ferrera

Highway Queen

When I talk about my students, I talk about starting each day fresh. I preach about a student who struggled and was labeled as a bad kid, I (humbly?) tell about how we changed his course together. "There were still bad days - we all have them," I say. "But the next day I always made sure to tell him that he's not a bad person, we just needed to figure out better strategies and practice them. Everyone needs chances." In this story, I'm wise and compassionate. "We need more people like you," they say.

In another story, I come home and I'm still mad at you. I've been mad at you for days. For weeks. For years. I like the other story better.

When I explain why I'm frustrated (/upset/sad/hurt/scared/sad/annoyed/hurt/hurt...never "mad") I tell you that what you did plays into my fears. I can explain it so clearly. If I wasn't healed, how could I communicate so well? I told you from day one what I was afraid of, and shed responsibility then. We sat on your bed and I told you what I needed, and there in that humid dorm room I decided without deciding that I didn't need to work on it anymore. He's here now, he'll listen, he'll fix me.

I know. I know, I knew, and I will always know. Why do we do things when we know better? Why does it take 6 years to realize that we knew better? Why do I have to break open to go back and start again when I knew? We played it out so many times - I came home, I sat in my anger, you came home and pretended you didn't notice. I lash out. You know. you knew! You KNEW and you still did it. Proof that everything I felt and thought and conjured and projected was true, because you knew better, and you didn't break open and you didn't go back and you didn't start again.

You had so many chances. You didn't get any chances. Your bad days made you a bad person and I believed to my core that I should be scared of you. I waited for you to prove me wrong, but I was the only one who could change my own mind.

Gaze

"I don't regret things." And then I look back, and I re-read my writing, and I realize that years ago I told myself what I was doing. And promptly buried that concern in doing all those things. I feel shame, but not regret. Because I don't regret things.

I excel at the 5 paragraph essay. Tell what you are going to say, say it, tell what you said. It's so clean. I created a version of myself that is so clean. I created a version of myself that gets up at 4am to work, that reads non-fiction, that arrives to things on time...that breaks down and falls apart because it's not me, and I feel "lost" "lonely" "confused" "_______". I CAN do it all, I tell myself. I can. "I need to be right and I will make it that way," I tell myself, my soft heart hidden below all my walls and to do lists.

"Write for yourself." Me writing for myself is self-flagellation. The voice in my head tears apart each thing I write until there is nothing there. It's a strength and a weakness, I tell myself...the stories I tell myself. I am critical and thoughtful and reflective.

You overthink, he told me. You're too deep.

How long did it take to build this wall? How long does it take to break it down?

even though...

I look back over everything I wrote in the past 6 months, and over and over again, I told myself to go home.

[2/26]: I have been blaming this feeling on New York, but maybe that's unfair. This emptiness in my chest, when it feels like all the warmth is gone. Like nothing is sitting right. I can feel the knot in the bottom of my throat; my emotions sit right there, with no layer to protect them.

I grasp for easy coping mechanisms...I scroll through other people's thoughts and pictures, looking for something that feels right. I call people I love, hoping it will be *that* conversation where we connect. I have started reading again, but that's risky. Sometimes books wrap me up, and other times books strip me down and disclose my fears. It hit me today as I scrolled that I wasn't just looking - I was looking FOR something. I was looking for a quote or a picture or an experience that made me feel less alone. It's why coming home to Nala is the best part of my day. Her eyes love me without requirements. But then I take her outside, and she's cold and scared, and the knot rises and exposes again.

This city makes me feel more. This city exhausts me. This city forces me to be brave, it forces me to care so much. But I haven't found the right things to soften the experience.

"Go, even though you love him.
Go, even though you once said you would stay.
Go, even though you don't know exactly why you can't stay.
Go, because you want to.
Because wanting to leave is enough."

And that's the thing - it's about softening the experience. It's not about forcing it to work, about putting one foot in front of the other, about doing what I said I would do. It's about joy and love and healing and all the other cliche sounding healthy wholesome feelings.

Babble

strength to endure whatever it takes to make it work/
the fear of letting go of control

introversion, boundaries, and skepticism/
the fear of not being loved

intuition for others' reactions and enough humility to apologize often/
the fear of losing love because I am weak, or because I made a mistake