6 Things I Didn't Know I Needed To Tell You.
Okay, so we need to talk.
There are some things I need to lay out, nice and clean-like.
Nothing's happened, no one's in a fight. In fact, I love you more than ever.
I just need to say some things.
1). I swear a lot. Like, a lot. 'Exclaiming' is my most typical tone of voice. Exclaiming and swearing are such natural bedfellows that it's nearly impossible for me not to lace conversations with curses. I'm surprisingly good at turning it off when my kids are around, and also surprisingly good at forgetting to turn it off when your kids are around. I'm declaring that I will no longer wonder if I'm allowed to swear on my blog, on my Facebook wall, or in conversation with you. I will attempt to adhere to reasonable social norms. Otherwise, you are now forewarned that anything I've written could have 'language' throughout.
In related news, thanks to this video (you should click on that link - no, you really should), my son now says, "Now you listen to me, you sick son of a bitch." This does not upset me, but rather makes me stand a little taller while I dream of the apartment I'll have in New York someday as a result of his successful Jimmy Fallon-inspired comedy career.
2). I know whether or not I love you or could love you or will love you within five minutes of meeting you. I probably won't say The L Word that soon, but I might. Regardless of when I feel it, when I feel compelled to say it, imma say it. Love should not be contained - it should be DELIVERED, directly and immediately, to those for whom it's felt.
3). I've recently become extraordinarily grateful for my alcoholism. I've also become kind of okay with the word 'alcoholism'. It still makes me squirm a little. I'll get over it.
I'm happy to talk with you about my non-drinking. I will not start these conversations; if you wanna talk, talk. I will be totally transparent if I think you're sincere and if you feel like a safe person. I will not preach to you. And please, for the love of all that is good, do not ask me if it's okay for you to drink in my presence or in my home. I appreciate where you're coming from with that, but, Jesus, YES. Please be exactly who you are around me, wherever we are. I like you better that way.
4). I am walking a spiritual path to somewhere good. There are so many fucking roots sticking up out of the dirt on my path that I fall down constantly. But there are also, miraculously, friends and strangers milling about who always happen to see me sitting there, all dusty or muddy. They offer me their hands or their empathy. Sometimes they laugh at me, sitting there like that on a root-filled path, all dirty and tired. These people, the ones who laugh, are my favorite because they disarm me and make me laugh, too. My son is one of the best Laughers out there.
As I discover important landmarks on my path, I'm going to tell you about them. Please remember that the words I use to describe these landmarks DO NOT MATTER. I haven't yet come up with a vocabulary that's settled just right. Sometimes I pray to God, sometimes to Holiness, and sometimes to the Infinite Divine. Sometimes I forget to pray; sometimes I pray for a sign that holiness is really present, and get one almost immediately.
5). I've been certain of very little in my life. But one thing I know, for absolute certain, is this:
We all contain a piece of divinity. Every single one of us. It sits in our middles. It is heavy. It is golden. It is the piece of us that knows everything we will ever need to know. It is the piece of the Universe that was implanted into our DNA when the skies went boom and this gorgeous place became our home. It has always been there, and it can not die because it is not of us - it is of the divine.
As our lives begin to happen, depending on our circumstances, sometimes a bit of dirt gets tossed on top of our golden middles. Sometimes it's just a touch, easy enough to sweep away with good friends and a healthy dose of self-belief. But sometimes, it keeps piling. Sometimes, there's so much dirt that it starts to get dense and hard. Our middles become totally obscured. We live, unconsciously, in darkness.
We start to realize that something feels off - we're unfulfilled or scared or angry. Then, right then, it is our job to dig. We start with ourselves - we're useless to others if we haven't dug ourselves most of the way out - and then we move on to our Tribe. We collect our people, our Tribe, and we dig. Sometimes it's slow and arduous. Sometimes it's not. We dig and dig and dig. It's late-night conversations about marriage and parenting. It's making a meal because you know they need a night off. It's helping with the stove installation and bagging up peed-in clothes.
And then one time we look over and notice that there's a light. It's running straight up and down. It's in us and it's in them. We've dug down far enough so the light's creeping out and the light's creeping in. There's a crack in the hard-pack.
Golden middles deserve more than to suffocate; it is our job to unearth ourselves and each other.
Now that is some shit that I know in my bones.
6). All I want now is to settle into real, true Peace. I want my Peace to be raucous and loud and crowded, with alcoves in unexpected places for moments of quiet wonder. I want it to be full of crazy tears. I want the music inside of my Peace to make me scream with joy.
No. That's not all I want. I want the privilege of seeing your middle. I want you to see mine. I want to pick up shovels together and chat while we dig.
I can't see anything out there that's more important, really.
Also? I fucking love you.