Thankful Thursday: Vulnerability is supposed to be a blessing



boldly.jpgOk Wolfgang, I’m waiting for the mighty force of God to intervene. However, I also accept that God has probably already intervened multiple times on my behalf and I’ve not been paying attention.

Life is really hard.

I’ve been feeling exceptionally vulnerable, sensitive, depleted, sad, anxious and overwhelmed this week. Astonishingly, I’ve been exceptionally productive in the paperwork department, but I’ve felt on the verge of tears most of the time.

I’m struggling with something that takes exceptional bravery to talk about, and I don’t know if I can do it, but I’ll try.

I’m deeply in love. I love the life I have. I love my home, I love my land. I love that the person I love is a doer and will make things happen. He is always on the go and has the same restless energy that I have. Sometimes the circumstances of our life together makes me insane. But mostly, it is really really good. I love that I have more children to love due to this relationship and home I’ve created with him. I feel lucky in that regard. I know deep in my soul that Tom was sent to me, and I was sent to him. I know that we belong together and that it is right. I need to say that, I must say that, and make sure readers hear it, because I don’t want anyone to take what I am about to say as a way to think I feel any less for Tom.

Tom is the deepest ocean of love I’ve ever belonged to. Nothing will change that.

But the holidays are here, and I’m feeling super sad. I’m sad because I can’t just expect that holidays will revolve around my own children, their dad, and me. It seems so selfish to miss that right now, but I do. I miss being married to the person I made babies with because I knew what to expect, I knew where people would be, where they would go, where their alliances were.  In no way does it mean I don’t love what I have. But I am feeling the loss of not having the old way right now.

I know a lot of these feelings are coming up because Will sold the home we all shared together,  and so now it’s not a part of the four of us (me, Will, Piper, Liam)  anymore. It stings so hard, this final goodbye. It is the last remaining connection, the last tie that brings us together in a way that we can feel is still there.

It is no longer there. It’s gone. It’s done. Goodbye.

I have driven by the old house multiple times in the last two months, since Liam and his dad moved out, looking at it, watching it get transformed by the workers he hired to fix it up. It has hurt every time, and I’ve driven off crying every. single. time.

Does this ever stop? This sad tear in my heart? There is this absolute horror that I said goodbye to the life I’d built for decades. Decades. Gone. It is just so tragic in my heart sometimes. I think, “could I have done anything? Anything? ANYthing to save this?”

Relationships have ebbs and flows. My marriage to Will was in a deep ebb when we ended it, and is painful to think of it. It ended at this time of year, three years ago, and I am one of those sad people that has deep chronological and calendar memory. It will probably take me a decade to move past this “oh, it’s Thanksgiving, this is when the shit hit the fan, it was exceptionally traumatic…feel it NOW!”

I don’t have enough years spent with Tom to know how he and I really ebb and flow. We flowed and then we built and built things. It was like we were making a massive Ark to protect ourselves for future onslaught of feelings that were bound to create rivers and storms and floods of emotions and made from tears.

Not bad on the imagery, huh?

Although in my undergrad I was quite the fan of Goethe, it is Will that first told me of this quote. It was in a middle of a compliment, when he was trying to recognize how he likes my insatiable spirit for manifesting my own destiny. He used to call me the “anvil of GOD,” which really never felt like a compliment. When he said this, I felt like all the big decisions in our life were him feeling like I dropped an anvil on his head like the Road Runner and Coyote and dragged him to where I wanted him to go. It felt raw, and mean. He made the comment repeatedly after any major decision in our lives, and did so over decades, and I always felt like the brunt of the joke.

A few weeks ago, when we were talking about his house sale I was saying I wanted him to get the best deal possible.  He said, “go ahead and anvil of God it.” I called him on it, and he explained that it’s from an Ursula Le Guin quote, and he got it wrong. It’s “the lathe of God.” He wanted me to know that he always meant it as a complete compliment. He admires how I can manifest what I want, that I’m self-actualized.

Ok. Will. I am not your wife anymore, and you are not my husband. But you still want me to manifest what I desire and to live my best life. And I want the same for you. It catches in my heart and my throat to think and say this.

Thank you for making the home with me that you did. It stings to let it go. No, it hurts immeasurably. But I regret nothing. And I love you.

Happy Thanksgiving.



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