I’ve been avoiding the blog. Some of it has to do with the fact that I have work to do and, quite honestly, I’m afraid. Some of it is sheer procrastination (read: laziness by overachievers). Since the last time I wrote, life has been, well… trying to help me re-member some things that were once an integral part of who I am.
The Kid left. You know that. The Kid came back. You know that. I had issues with that whole period. You probably know that too. What’s been happening for the past five months though is energetic and spiritual denial. By me.
I’m a firm believer that Life/God/Universal Energy wants to be gentle with me. I also believe that when I’m like ‘yeah… I’ll get to that as soon as….’, God sends a more serious situation. And when I blow Her off again, she sends – dun, dun, dun, DUN – THE lesson. The one that says ‘listen up or knuckle up.’
Mine is an aching lump on the side of my left boob, near my armpit.
The lump itself doesn’t bother me. It’s what it represents. It represents my abject disobedience to my higher self, to the God in me who wants me to be happy, light and free. The lump represents resistance to the spiritual shifts that I’ve ignored. Its existence translates to ‘You ready to work now? ‘Cuz, you know, She has unlimited resources if you still want to fight.’
I don’t want the brass knuckle treatment. My face is too pretty.
This lump represents me denying the truth that I cannot save my child from himself. That no amount of love will keep him from learning his life lessons in the way that he chooses to learn them. It’s spent energy on the things I cannot change and unspent energy on the things that I can. And when I move back into my Dee alignment, the lump will go away. Sounds easy, right?
So I’m sitting here in this coffee shop finally accepting that protecting The Kid is not my responsibility and probably never was. That months of beating myself up wondering where it all went sideways is not my fault. I wasn’t June Cleaver to The Kid, but I did the best that I knew at the time. I don’t have to internalize imperfection. Even June Cleaver probably took shots and hit the blunt in the bathroom when everyone was away.
Honestly, this shit hurts. A lot. I could probably cry from right now until Sunday night and still feel this… deep mourning. Death of an age for us, The Kid and me. But death always bring life and the hurt is ‘what will that life look like?’
Which brings me to the second part of the feelings. The unknown is what scares me. What if The Kid… just… doesn’t want the kind of relationship I want? And this is when I realize all these years I wanted to be a good mother, but I sometimes lost my way. Denying it was a lie. I love my homegrowns and they represent some of my greatest work. I think about the future a lot because I like planning for most things (except retirement, but that’s a story for another day). I can’t plan for what’s coming so I’m forced to slow down and be present, be in one moment. Immerse in each experience. Be present for everyone who takes the time to share a part of their life with me, especially my homegrowns.
I have to re-calibrate my brain and let me tell you, that’s no small feat.
But this lump sure as hell ain’t a walk in the park either.
I’m at a crossroad: I can choose the path of least resistance. Or not. It’s that simple.
Think I’ll take the easy, low road.