Help

I have a really hard time asking for help. I was raised to be strong and independent, confident and sure of myself, and while those were great lessons, as an adult I find it difficult to say I can't handle something on my own, that I need more than I can give myself.

I believe in turning everything over to God, in asking him to take my fear and make me strong, I believe in the power of prayer and in doing good deeds so that those deeds may come back to me, but I have a helluva hard time asking people to help me. I have this idea that needing help is somehow weak, that if I were stronger/better I could handle everything on my own.

But, I can't. I have to sell my house and my student loan debt is out of control and my personal life is locked in a necessary but painful stasis and I feel like I have about as much control over my life as I do the weather which I guess is true but also scares the living hell out of me.

So, this is my plea to the universe: send me strength. Send me the power to ask for help. Send me the wisdom to know it when it arrives. Send me the ability to receive it with grace. Send me help. I need it.

News

I learned on Wednesday that my little girl dream of being a published writer is coming true.  Blood Lotus, an online journal, accepted my poem "Resurrection" for its May issue. 

As I look into publishing more and more it appears putting poems on blogs is a bad idea for would-be published writers, so I've taken all my poems off this blog and won't be posting new ones.  Which stinks because I love this forum and the feedback I occasionally get, but I want so very much to do this for real, so I am committing to the rules set forth by the industry.

I have a notebook from when I was eleven that says, in hot pink ink, that I will one day be a published writer.  It took 24 years--admittedly I was not dogged in my attempts that entire time--but the day has come.  And I freaked out.  Did you see the video of Kristen Bell losing it on her birthday when her boyfriend arranges for her to meet a sloth--an animal she has loved her whole life?  Her reaction was part joy, part shock, part full blown crazy town panic attack, and I love her for it because that sums up Wednesday for me.

When you want something so much, pray for it, work toward it, convince yourself it probably isn't going to happen, then have renewed hope, then give up again, etc. etc. etc., when the day comes that you get what you want, it can be way. too. much. to. process.  I was wildly excited, proud, scared, anxious, panicky, feeling sorry for myself that all my loved ones were busy so we couldn't rush out and celebrate, afraid to celebrate because then I might jinkx it, and on and on on.

I never really thought it would happen, that I'd be able to say I'm a published writer, but it had and I am still, a couple of days later, reveling.  I probably shouldn't be by most people standards.  I should just sit back, play it cool, pretend like I expected it all along, but that isn't me.  I have wanted this for so long that I am going to allow myself a couple of more days to really enjoy it.  After all, being published for the first time only happens once, and this once belongs to me.

First Love

Tomorrow may be a Hallmark holiday for many, but to me, it's always been proof real love exists.  It's my parents' anniversary, and though their road hasn't always been easy, it has been real, and so have they.


I am learning about real love every day, and trying to understand its myriad twists and turns.  One part of that includes this piece, which I wrote today, as a Definition essay example for my seniors.  Here's to first love, new love, old love, all love.  Happy Valentine's Day, everybody.

First Love

First love, or puppy love as it is often called, is usually defined as an infatuation, a passing attraction, nothing serious.  It is our first experience, as human beings, of being more interested in someone else than we are in ourselves, and those first feelings can be overwhelming.  The first time Allan Gurganus fell in love, it was with a married woman who, at twenty years older than he, seemed exotic and full of promise.  Of course, at eight years old, everything feels exotic and full of promise.  Gurganus, an American novelist from North Carolina, didn’t need to have hit puberty to understand the kind of total obsession associated with first love.  He was in third grade, a smart kid with a beautiful teacher who gave him extra attention, and he knew—all year long—that he was in love. He did not think it was fleeting, something that would pass away with time, and in fact, forty year later, he is still writing about it.  The truth is, no matter how much we pretend it does not matter, our first love shapes our concept of love for the rest of our lives.

Imagine you are a six year old girl.  You come home from school one day and discover a puppy has been adopted by your family.  The puppy is a Golden Retriever, a soft yellow ball of fur and love.  She licks your face when you come home, sleeps curled up in a ball at the foot of your bed, and accompanies you on the walks you take around your block.  As you get older, you start to play sports and train to be a runner.  Your puppy, Goldie, is now a four year old, fully grown dog who wags her tail and smiles at you every time you walk in a room.  There is no one and nothing who loves you as she does.  In high school, you date, you get your heartbroken, but Goldie is always there for you.  You go away to college and miss her so much, it is as though one of your arms has been amputated.  And then, without much fanfare or warning, Goldie dies.  Your first love passes away and with it all of your hopes and dreams for a love that can last forever.

Did you always know Goldie would die?  Of course.  Did you understand she would not live your whole life with you, side by side, laughing and wagging?  Of course.  But the loss of Goldie, the end of your time together, makes you leery of love, and you learn not to give your heart away so completely because it can only end in pain. 

While we do not all grow up with a pet, the scenario outlined above is common.  Be it animal or human, when we attach ourselves to something or someone and then lose them, it can be devastating.  Children learn this lesson and it sticks with us, impacting our future relationships even when we don’t realize it.

Perhaps your first encounter with love was a fairy tale.  There is a common misconception that women are the only ones who buy into the dreams of true love living happily ever after, but many young men ache for that same kind of connection and security.  So what happens when a young man, kind and considerate, compassionate and loving, gives his heart to a girl who throws it in the trash only to stomp it like garbage beneath her slutty boot heels?  Well, that young man is going to be disillusioned and afraid to love again, closing himself off from future love in an effort of self-preservation.

Not all of the examples are negative, of course.  Many of us have happy experiences with our first loves, two people who care deeply for one another, share good moments and make loving memories together only to grow apart, maturely and without any of the drama and pain associated with angsty teenage breakups.  But, the reason there are so many sad stories to tell is that first love can be rough, full of the kind of weepy, angry and devastated moments that make up some of our best love songs.

When we lose the person or object of our affection, we can beat ourselves up, thinking we do not deserve love or that it will never come our way.  We can shut down emotionally and decide never to let anyone in again, or we can decide that our experiences so far have been so bad that they simply have to get better the next time, right?  So we take another shot.

First love, no matter how we encounter it, has an impact that ripples far beyond those initials pangs of joy so sweet it is almost pain.  When you see the person you first fall for and your heart stops, your breath catches in your throat, and you know if you could only get the chance to make that person happy, you would never ask for anything else in this world.

Our world is divided into parts and pieces than any one person could ever list.  We separate ourselves by our race, our gender, our sexual orientation, or religious beliefs, our political affiliations, whether we like Coca-Cola or Pepsi, if we prefer winter or summer, the list goes on and on.  But the thing that unites us, if we can only take a moment to remember it, is love.  So, this Valentine’s Day, think about your first love and how it affects you even now.  And remember people all over the world are thinking about it, too.  In fact, somewhere, someone may even be remembering you.

Steve Earle. 'Nuff said.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZ2V9w9W6aY&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Lines

There's a fine line between who I want to be and who I am.  Some days, these two ladies meet up and it's like a party you wish you'd been invited to--good music, laughter, delicious food that won't make you fat--but others days it's the sad ass party you threw as a kid that no one, not even your stuffed animals wanted to attend.  The one where everyone was supposed to speak in a foreign accent and sip tea like they liked it even though no one really discovers tea until their twenties.

That line is fine, hard to see, but it trips me again and again.  Just when I think I have a handle on how to be a friend and teacher, a daughter and sister, a woman and still--deep inside where very few people get to look--a little girl, something happens and I am tripping all the hell over that line, mixing those women up into a cocktail of doubt and anxiety and swirling purple strains of sadness.

I read recently, in Nicholson Baker's "The Anthologist", that old lilac wood, deep in its center, has streaks of deep purple in it.  I've been obsessed with that image, that heart of color beating inside something that seems outwardly dead, something royal buried in something forgotten.  I feel like there is that in me ("I know not what it is, but I know it is in me"): that same richness is here, but I have to be cracked open to get to it and I'll be damned if I'm not tired of cracking. 

I don't want to have to trace these lines or watch out for them or fill them in with expensive products or color within them.  I want to acknowledge their existence and move the hell on but who ever gets to do that?  It feels like an impossibility, most days, that moving on.  But I'm trying.  I am, forver it seems, trying.