Ready for Morning.


Photo: don’t call me betty on tumblr/via Pinterest

I was supposed to go to this this morning, a morning “rave,” (straight) with yoga and dancing and juice. How fun!

Yesterday two of the friends who were maybe going to join told me that they weren’t. It made me feel sad/mad.

So immature.

How old am I anyways, 14?

It’s not right to be mad “at” them…and I’m not…though a few bails in a row (there was more than this) can sting a bit. But it brought up a certain anger/loneliness that’s been building (read: hanging around for much of my life but really obvious and strong right now). It reminded me that, mostly, people aren’t with me on this “morning” thing…and in fact mostly I’m on a different schedule than people all around. The amount of times I’ve gotten up and gone for coffee, walks, etc. in the mornings during my life—well I do it all the time, because I like the way I feel in the morning. But mostly people don’t come with.

Even if there is someone next to me, they pretty much never come with me. 

I am a morning person. Not in that betty crocker way — I’m not perky necessarily. I just like it. I feel fuzzy sometimes, but clear. There is hope in a morning.

I’ve been single for ages, so not many chances to lounge with lovers in the morning. When I did it was special.

I miss that so much. That person, that feeling.

So much.

And I can’t tell them. Most of the people that I miss are bad for me.

The last two people who woke up with me regularly didn’t really appreciate it/me in the end. And that makes me feel sad sometimes too.

People who have it every day or some days don’t even know.

But I’d rather wake up alone and a little lonely than beside someone and lonely.

This much I know.

I did wake up at 6 today. I didn’t go—because it’s far and I have to work and blah blah excuses—but I did remember that this is an important time of day for me.

I like being up.

I walked yesterday, in the morning, to an awesome cafe where there was flamenco and music. It was glorious in it’s own way. I tried to appreciate the hell out of it. Walking through the green and looking at the massive old stone houses…that was so cool. All of it was cool.

But I didn’t feel glory.


The weight.

I thought of all the things I could do this morning…which are actually limited, given that some places aren’t open. But there is the gym and the pool, yoga, and writing. Even reading. I decided that I’m going to just get up and make my mornings what I need to make them.

Push it a little more, lonely soul and all. I’m tired of this being my story. In fact I think I’ve been writing here that I’m tired of it.

But I think I’m angry enough now to use that for good.

The challenge is to get up on my next few days off (unless an actual party should present itself) and do this. This. This. This.

I constantly feel like I’m missing out on life, living it alone. It’s hard to shake that feeling.

I need to do everything in my power to shake this feeling.


To the one who was once my love(r): this is how it goes.

I will keep finding these things out.

It will keep happening, over and over again, in one way or another.

I’ll learn from her or her or him or them (you) that I’m really not “the one,” that you have moved on.

Not just “moved on,” but moved on.

I may have acted like I moved on first but I didn’t realize how much I hadn’t until I saw that photo, that face that I loved so much next to that other face that I don’t really know but you actually do love so much now.

Or at least you choose, now, to be front and center in your life, a place I never had. Or maybe I sort-of-kind-of-in-a-way-for-a-second did, but never like that.

Scrolling across that smiling photo of you and her late at night is an all-too-familiar slap in the face a slap that stings and echoes.

It didn’t matter. You didn’t matter. We didn’t matter.

Enough. Enough. Enough. 

Mostly stings and then I get over it.

But if I actually felt (read: feel) something for you, it hurts in more than a superficial way. So that it’s more like a punch.

I still do feel something for you, right?

Sure. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ve lost the chance that I had to love you right. 

I probably fucked it up, in fact, which is why this always stings the way it does. Or where I fucked up was in falling for you in the first place.

It hurts. Except that I can’t sit in that for too long. I can’t dwell in it because I’m one of those resiliant kinds, you know? The kind that projects strength, publicly, when I can/should.

But that thing is still there. I still care…a little too much.

This slap (punch) still happens often.

What hurts is that it’s not now. What hurts is that I never was your front and center. You probably learned things and I never got credit for what I had to offer and now it’s just over and I pretend that it doesn’t hurt.

But it does. With every experience I learn how to move on in a different (better?) way. But this doesn’t mean that it hurts less.

I’ll shove that shit aside (again) anyhow because this self pity doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I want to to be gracious and grateful; accepting, strong and compassionate. And because I’m too old to keep getting shoved aside.

Anhow, I got myself into this mess, didn’t I? I was (you were) far too self-absorbed to love you (me) well.

Then I somehow need(ed) to be alone and that was obvious. It still is. Maybe this alone-ness is not something that I even want. But somehow I need it. It is both glorious and heartbreaking and this is what I will accept right now because I have to.

I’m bigger than that and I still love you so much more that you will ever understand because this is where I’m at.

Some part of me feels like I’d still give anything to be your front and center, though. I don’t understand where that part is from because you never invited me. You never let me.

You never received me.

So I’ll just sit in the corner of the bar until closing and write until my fingertips bleed and try to carve out a new body and new loves and a new life. I’ll scrape at that. And maybe it becomes a work of art and maybe some scraps on the pavement but I’ll try again and still extend love over to you in my way because that’s what I do.

And some days I’ll be happy, some days sad. And no matter how much others tell me to move forward there will be days when my heart breaks for “us.” The days that we spent together and what we *could have* had and how maybe I fucked it up.

But then for all the times that I maybe fucked up I remember that we parted to leave new things open for each of ourselves.

Ultimately I/we did this out of love—not because we knew what (our) love was, but because that was just all there was to do.

Squeezing out Crap & Letting in the Good.

sidewalk in the sun july 2014

I feel it happening, little by little, as each slightly embarrassing bead of sweat that leaks out of my skin and hits the yoga mat.

I’ve been doing hot yoga for two weeks now and sometimes when one of those little suckers hits the mat I still instinctively think…ew. But I already don’t think it as often as when I first started. I am trying to think of each little teeny plopping sound that is made as a marker of progress…like I’m letting go of little bit of of myself that I don’t need anymore.

Little salty tear-like drops of myself, just coming out.

Our bodies are strange and unpretty things.

With every little push then it just falls away. But the pushing part is work. It’s good work, but not always comfy.

That that is part of the growth process, after all. That it is why we are all in that steamy stinky intense room together.

Those little sweat droplets are the pathway into the new life that I am building. Middle-aged. Single. Insular. Footloose. Unsure.

Free free free.

Maybe too free.

You could call this a kind of detoxing—but that implies that it’s possible to get it all out in one go. It doesn’t come out in one go. It’s much more complicated than that. It takes time to actually transform.

Even to “lose” one pound (change our body) takes time.

Squeezing my body (fat) into pretzel-ish formations. Looking at it in the mirror. Not being happy about what I see, but doing the thing anyway. Trying anyway. Knowing that after each class I can feel it getting there. Such small steps.


The scariest thing about changing your body is that to do it for good you have to step away from the habits that are so deeply engrained. Sometimes that means friendships, family, other things that make you happy.

With every little bit of trying, with every little push into dropping that sweat, it gets easier. What gets easier is not the yoga, but the understanding that the loving (ourselves, another) is in the doing, not the seeing.

It is not easy to know when that is not what you’ve really known for the past 36 or so years. I’ve figured a bit of that out, but mostly what I know, deep down, is not that. It’s not engrained in my psyche that doing something active daily (and leaving out a ton of other stuff) is what will keep me the most solid and genuinely joyful in the long run. We are taught that an 8 hour work day is the priority and then if we’re lucky/determined we get an hour on a treadmill every other day and that that’s enough.

Except this is absolutely not enough!

And that makes me mad. Nothing to do with my particular upbringing, but with how deeply we are generally conditioned to just do what we are “supposed” to do—which generally does not leave much room for deeply caring for ourselves or our space or our planet.

How are we living like this? 

So this is sort of a metaphor of all that most of us have to spend time unlearning in order to find the spaces where the real joy comes through. Exercise is just a facet of this, an example of the kind of thing that most of us just aren’t offered or taught or brought up with.

So with this as an example, what I didn’t quite know before is that the belief in self—in change—comes with the action of grounding down, of something that feels like pain but is actually just feeling.

There are so many bits and pieces to unlearn and let go of, each facet of life affecting the next. Each piece of crap that’s let go of affects the others. We have ourselves so deeply convinced that a specific thing is “good” that we don’t even know that it’s crap. Or maybe we know that it’s crap but we don’t understand how that one thing deeply affects the rest of our lives and the lives of others.

For instance: insisting on buying the cheap soap at Wal Mart because it’s on sale. It’s just one thing but over and over again it’s so much more.  Or not keeping an extra bag in your purse. It’s just one thing but it’s a habit that in the grand scheme of things is about so much more.

It’s freaking hard to unlearn the crap.

But it’s the only way we can let in the good.

For  me, a part of this was was releasing my hold on most of my possessions about seven months ago with the long term intention of not having much stuff. But with an influx of money and time that came with moving to a new city, that meant more money and time to buy stuff.

And holy crap is it amazing when I invest in something quality that I know I’ll use regularly for years to come.

But there is still lots of crap to be sorted through and dropped off.

So this is a lifelong thing, this getting lighter. But I’m doing it. It’s not a smooth road. I fell off the path a couple of times but I’m back (still) on it.

I know that the people that do and have and will love(d) me for real don’t care about the new creases on my face or the growing patches of cellulite on my body. Maybe I can change those too sometime. Maybe not.

That’s not really important in the long run but it’s a part of a bigger picture that is scary: aging.

Change is scary. I’ve read and felt that a thousand times in small ways. But actually figuring out what the crap is that you have to drop and admitting that it’s crap is the scary part.

With every real thing dropped I’m lighter and freer to actually live right, to do this life thing in the best way I possibly can.

That’s where I’m at.