Heaven holds a sense of wonder….











{August 8, 2010}   La Langue d’Amour

Believe it or not, I have a hard time with words. I like to be able to say *exactly* what I mean, and oftentimes, words don’t come close. This is why I like American Sign Language, I think – you’re signing concepts, not words. You can illustrated those concepts using body language, facial expressions, repetition, exaggeration/minimalism, and so many other factors. You can make one sign mean a hundred different things with just a couple of subtle changes. It’s also why I like writing. Because I can type something out or put it on paper, and look it over and say to myself, “That sounds so trite… let’s make it more meaningful.”

But lately, I can’t find the right words. I sit here and stare at the screen and think about all the things I need to let out, and I feel a huge swell rising up within my deepest core, threatening to break the dam and wash out everything good I’ve ever done. I sit here, and everything I want to say has already been said before. I’ve been living in Groundhog Day. The same things keep happening…

Well, almost. There’ve been a few changes recently. I got another job, and my original job has moved me to a different position, so that I can stay, as a janitor. And I just got hired on as an assistant preschool teacher. I’ll be working, all told, about 38 hours a week – a big improvement from 18 hours. And it’s every week. Consistency – that’s different. But I haven’t started yet, and the PTB’s really seem to be wanting to test my faith in all that is good. I got the job, had one really good day, and then found out our “new” car’s previous owner drove the hell out of it and ruined the clutch and the shaft. So Pickle’s not been able to work because the mechanic (bless him) has been bustin his balls to figure the whole mess out so she can get to work… we’re late for rent and short by about $450. Everyday it seems like it’s something new to set us back.

I don’t like to complain (but there’s no raaa-iinn). I try to keep my head up high and focus on all the things I have to be thankful for. Count my blessings, as it were. I’m a positive person by nature, an optimist. Pickle’s the opposite. She’s cynical as they come. Most of the time, we meet in the middle – we can both be pretty pragmatic. But in the height of stressful times like these the optimist in my goes into overdrive and she tells me to “Quit spouting your hippie-dippie crap, I don’t want to hear it” (though if she hears it from someone else, she’ll listen). I try to stay even and together, and I can usually do it for a good chunk of time, but after a certain point, it takes every last bit of energy I have to get out of bed because I am in so much despair.

We’ve been doing this for the better part of a year. We’ve been together for over a year. It’s like it doesn’t matter what I do to make it better, it always falls short. I’m getting exhausted.

And don’t get me wrong – it’s not Pickle that makes me feel like I’m falling short. It’s seeing the situation in front of me, knowing what I’m capable of, and seeing it not happen. I’ve always been great at networking, at finding resources, at making things happen. This last year… I’ve failed at those things more than I have in my entire life. I used to be the kind of person that, when money was tight, I could close my eyes and visualize money coming my way, and the next day, find $50. Not so, these days. I’ve lost my touch.

I’m learning that I need to be more open with real people who actually care about me… anonymity is good sometimes, because I can express myself without reservations, but I need to practice doing that with my friends. I’ve just had to find out who my real friends are, which ones I can do that with.

Pickle has a hard time with this blog. She’s a private person. My talking about my life means talking about hers, too. That’s the big reason I’ve done this anonymously. It still bothers her when it gets put up though. Sometimes she’s ok with it, and sometimes… well, not so much.

Part of it is that she doesn’t understand my obsession with words. “Great,” she says sarcastically, “More pretty words.” What she doesn’t understand is that this blog, as much as I write about her, isn’t about her – or even us. It’s about me, trying to understand where I fit into all this, where I fit into my own life, coming to terms with a reality I tried for so long to escape from, to deny. This blog is a personal exploration, a spiritual journey, and as such, my words, however pretty they are, are merely symbols for larger concepts I’m trying to embrace and love. The more I manipulate my words, the more I come to understand the concepts, their light and shadow sides, their nuances.

I’d love to write her a letter or poem, but she’d just see “More pretty words,” and tuck it away… she’s afraid I’ll make promises I’ll break, I’ll build her up for a fall. And all I want to do is paint a picture of how beautiful she is to me, how extraordinary her influence has been, how much I just freaking LOVE her.

But we’ve moved beyond words, now. My words mean nothing to her…. she needs something real, she needs action, she needs something she can see. I guess I’ve been doing that, but I don’t understand it, I don’t have a frame of reference for it, I can’t see my own actions on paper and understand them and manipulate them to mean exactly what I want them to mean. I’m speaking a language entirely foreign to me, and when I try to express it in my words, all I hear is reasons, justifications, rationalizations, insecurity, confusion. I don’t hear the positive, optimistic things that I’m really feeling and trying to express. It doesn’t translate well.

But I’m willing to learn…. I’m nothing if not doggedly persistent. People have had to figure harder things out. I can learn to speak another language.

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