There was always a side of myself that was never shown to anyone. Not family, not friends, not lovers - though they might have gotten a peek. Over time though, the wall's been crumbling. And last year, with the unwitting help of people close to me and not so close, I took up a sledgehammer and started pounding away. Ended up here.
So what was I waiting for? I turned 50 last year. For years and years I always thought if I made it to 50, I'd be okay. Not sure why I had that thought. But I remember having it even when I was in my teens, twenties and later. So now I'm here and 50 is a memory - of a very interesting year. Unbelievably happy in some ways and heartbreaking in others. Hmm. Isn't that called life?
Friends. They've always been important to me. Even during the many years when they were few and far between. I sort of shut myself away when I was a teenager. In retrospect I think that was a form of self-preservation. Knowing where my thoughts were at then, I probably could have gotten in a hell of a lot of trouble. But I came home every day after school and studied. I listened to lots of music and read and spent time just thinking. Daydreaming. And it's funny, none of the few friends I had in high school have ever turned up on Classmates. And though I keep having people tell me I should join Facebook - I'm not going to (I'm saving that rant for some other time) - I prefer to move forward with my life.
Later on in college I finally started making some friends. Still have one of them. *Waves* After college I met my husband. And for some reason, getting married and having a "home" gave me the courage to start venturing out a bit more - though I did tend to hightail it back at the slightest bit of weather. Having kids though - that pushed me out into the world. I made friends so that my kids would have friends. I did things I never would have done before because I wanted to do them for my kids.
Now my kids are pretty much all grown. My oldest is on her own (this year was the first we couldn't claim her as a dependent on our taxes - ouch!). Her sister is an adult trying to figure out what direction she wants to take. Our son is going to be turning sixteen this summer, and I know from past experience that with or without that driver's license, that age is a real turning point. It comes down to this - they don't need me in the way they did when they were younger. So? What to do?
Well, I've been doing it for years already. I started writing again. First poetry. I've made a lot of wonderful friends through that. Unfortunately lost some too. Then last year I started getting back into the erotica that I'd tried out a few times before. But I never had the guts to really step out there. It was damn scary. But I did. So far I haven't had any "bad" reactions to what I'm doing - though I've been careful and slow about telling folks.
And it's funny, this feels like home. If you're here, you might understand. I'm being "truer" to myself than I've ever been before. That part of me, that I now recognize in the writing and blog posts of others, isn't something to be afraid to let out. I've made some new friends in the past few months that feel like kindred spirits and it is just so wonderful.
As for life, well, we'll just go on living it. If you had of told me a year ago that I'd be where I am today - I would have laughed in your face. So, what are the unintended consequences of waiting? Sometimes by waiting you can get right to where you need to be.
Here's a poem that's about five years old. I thought I had a poem with "waiting" in the title and searched. Sure enough (when you have close to five hundred poems it's easy to forget what you have). And since it just seemed perfect for where I am today... though - hehe - I may revise it a little, we'll see.
Waiting To Be Complete
It rains, and she knows
there will be more weeds to pull.
They grow faster than the pile of dishes
in the sink, the laundry spilling over the basket.
Books linger on the floor
by her bed, unread and needing
to be returned to the library.
Fabric, folded and stacked,
remains uncut, summer
skirts will have to wait
until fall to wrap around her.
Paint cans sit patiently on the
kitchen floor unopened.
Poems with marks and scribbles are
scattered everywhere, waiting.
It rains, and she knows
there will be more weeds to pull.
They grow faster than the pile of dishes
in the sink, the laundry spilling over the basket.
Books linger on the floor
by her bed, unread and needing
to be returned to the library.
Fabric, folded and stacked,
remains uncut, summer
skirts will have to wait
until fall to wrap around her.
Paint cans sit patiently on the
kitchen floor unopened.
Poems with marks and scribbles are
scattered everywhere, waiting.
