It's not that I keep my emotions bottled up or anything, in fact I wear them right there on the skin of my arms or on the edges of all the ways I describe things, you know when I say "the fog lies dark" I mean my heart is in a turmoil of fear and hope and loss and impossible dreams and when I say "colors of the leaves" I really mean I've told myself for years and years that unconditional love was just a fairy tale. That's really what I mean.
Or maybe it's not. In my bed these days I am tangled and turning to find space or almost-empty, I've changed my life and loosed myself from spouse and you know how they joke about whose side of the bed you're on, well. I'm to the point of hanging hammocks for boys and toting fresh-smelling futon mattresses on bikes, of sleeping on sheets still wrinkly with the tang of eco-friendly dyes. I have no side and sometimes when everyone is asleep I arrange myself back down with a child on my belly just to feel a heart beat next to mine.
I have made a new practice of rising early. It happened within weeks of my 40th birthday and I'm not one to make a big deal of calendar dates or maybe I am but my 40th birthday changed me. Is it a practice I made or a solution my body has imposed to fit my heart? I rise early and I walk on dark sidewalks to coffee shops and I'm not looking where I'm going but I hardly ever trip. There are things I say to myself or think of saying before the sun makes light that I could have never written as my own dialogue were I to write a hundred books.
Or maybe they're what I would have written, did write, all along. I will open essays or stories or blog posts I wrote months ago and didn't publish or didn't finish and I'll gasp, because either this was a prophecy or now's a fever dream. What I wrote was "playing in the dirt" and I meant "I'm making a list now and it's really just little bits of you, " what I wrote was, "it was hot" and I meant "there are flames running up and down my calves and somehow I've convinced myself they're from the way I run fast and the heat of the sun," what I wrote was, "maybe" and I meant, "for forever. For fucking reals."
The thing is this blog post was supposed to be partly about fear and sadness and longing. The thing is this blog post didn't come out like I thought at all.
I keep my emotions spilling out all over my edges and I lots of times don't know 'til later what it was I really meant. What it was I thought. Right now I'm in a state of manic clarity and I keep knowing things, how people feel or why and what it is I have to do in these relationships. This is the way I'm telling you I filed for divorce. This is the way I'm telling you I'm looking for a new way to the words that mean "family" and you can't get there any way but through.
My kids are ok except when they very, very much aren't and I'm not doing any of the things I should except that I'm making a new "should." My rules of life are all untied like shoelaces and hell if I care how to knot them back, it works as long as the shoes don't fall off and even then, sit down on the sidewalk, stretch out your leg and flex your toes a bit, put the shoe back on.
This is the way I tell you I'm happy.
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