This Love Business

Should I feel ashamed of my strength, my toughness, the tenacity that has saved my life again and again? Should I be embarrassed of the events and circumstances that have brought me to this place in my life? Should I feel less than beautiful because other people have told me that's what I am?
The trouble with being tough is this: how exactly has it damaged me? I know the benefits of being one tough bitch with a generous shot of dyke thrown in: I've survived mental illness, I'm raising a wonderful and well adjusted child, I have incredible friends and a good relationship with my family. I'm smart and sensitive, empathetic and understanding. I've lifted the weight of the world and not broken in half completely.
The damage, however, is the utter pain I make myself feel when someone else disappoints me. The damage, perhaps, is expecting others to be as tough and awesome as me. And the damage that is done to my heart when I finally let go of the toughness and trust another to love me is like a hot knife in the chest. Fear and pain corrupt me.

Technology and Grief

On the couch at the hospital, clutching my cell phone, mp3 player blasting sad piano notes into my ears, still can't block out the world, still reaching out for comfort but only able to handle it through technological means. What does this say about me and my defenses? I am already crying, if someone touches me tenderly I may dissolve. Reach out only through technological means: can only handle the comfort, removed.

How, how is it that life is so incredible? Mountain highs and valley lows, all in one epic hike. One moment the trail kicks the shit out of you, the next someone is helping you up that steep incline. How can life begin and end simultaneously? How can I feel searing grief and giddy hope at the same moment in my time? So many associations are filing into my head now - the simple act of walking: one foot forward into hope, one foot left back in grief. Same body, same direction, same intent for life.

Pretty ladies, boys and ice cream

Dylan Thomas, Emily Dickinson, The Black Keys, pencil and pen, sketchbook, pretty ladies, boys and ice cream - all my friends today as I tried to soothe myself after visiting my father this afternoon in the hospital. And surprisingly, I was able to make a drawing, a good one. What a sweet, small gift! Maybe my hands remember how after all. I've been so critical and discouraging of those hands. When they don't perform, I get angry - even though I know I haven't exercised my drawing muscles in ages. It's certainly a skill that must be used and used and used, in order to maintain and hopefully, improve drawing skill.

I know this blog has fallen by the way side, but I'm not feeling guilty over it. It serves its purpose when need be. And hey, who reads this stuff anyway?

i carry your heart with me

ee cummings:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world (for beautiful, you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope, or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

F Bombs Ahead

STRANGE. That is how I feel...all this existential, uncharted territory, unsure human feelings crap is all so damn strange, considering the attempt at routine lives we all make. Then again, there are stories of those trapped within their routines, struggling to get out of it, to feel passionately about something, anything...then there's me, who feels so much goddamn passion it's enough to make me want to stick my head in the sand sometimes. It seems I do nothing by the book. I am not straight forward, I am not boring, I am not bored. Fantastic, wonderful, you say. Gee, sure sounds romantic, Marsh! Well, fuck romance. This bullshit is hard.

I am empathy, incarnate. I am love, alive. I am a raw bloody heart just asking for more road burn. Please kind sir, please family, please God, drag me along the fucking diamond road of sharp pain to the gut. Fill up my capacity for human sorrow. Throw me from the tree tops in a whirlwind of joy and ecstasy. Then, make me feel small and ashamed, or, expansive and beautiful. It's all in there. I've got it all, maxed up. Mind you, I am so thankfully not of the subset that has these feelings to an unbearable degree (such as those with Bipolar disorder) but, Jesus, why did you make me this way???? Fuck.

My detail oriented, obsessive digestive digressive self seeks endlessly. For what? Meaning? My life is over crowded with meaning. If I see even a fraction of the lives around me, a part of people's love, loss, triumph, sorrow, struggle -- I am blessed. I am also overwhelmed. This job of being an empathetic, seeing-eye human, whose self proclaimed* mission it is to 'love and serve. serve and love' --this job is harrrrrrrrrrrrd. Man, the times I have just wanted to tell people to fuck off and check their bull shit at the door...but nope. I attempt grace. God must be looking at me, saying 'Aw, aint that sweet? Little kitten thinks she's a dog! Watch out kitty, you gonna be devoured.' No Marsha. He's probably more likely saying 'Aw. My baby's trying so hard. She's got it so backasswards, but she is so fuckin' sweet. I love that kid.' Thanks God. Love you too.

Fight the negativity! Fight the thought traps you lay for yourself. And for fucksakes, quit over thinking everything...just try to feel the wind in your face, unfettered, as your bike careens down York, knowing full well your brakes are a little iffy. Feel your muscles tighten when you paddle that kayak, knowing full well the current could sweep you off and you could end up in a bad way. Don't be afraid of feeling good, knowing full well you could end up sad and afraid. It's ok to love. It's good to love. It's crazy to love...it's so damn human to love imperfectly.

aHEM. Sorry for the delay. It's been busy!

Since I have recently directed someone to this very spot, I figured I should check in and write a little something something (what's the onomatopoeia for THAT?)