These Words Hang Over My Head

I believe this about people: All at once, at the same time, we are who we are and yet we are still becoming someone else, whether that "becoming" is reaffirming whatever existed prior to the present moment or it's changing us as we enter the next. We are a paradox.

I have (in my mind) an idea of the "best version" of myself.
That version of me is not the one who caves into her impulses and who scampers foolishly from one negative thought to another. That version of me follows through with the plans to respect (and respectfully decline) the advice of my elders, to make wise decisions out of love for myself and unconditional acceptance, to work harder without seeking an instant sense of gratification, etc.
But I continually find one way to succeed and another way to fail and everyday I struggle with making myself proud. But, when I lose sight of that "Valerie," I crumble and I fret over collecting the bones.

I have been coping, "dealing" with anxiety for a LONG time. It is as much a part of me as anything else. More importantly, it brings me closer to and further away from becoming more of who I am, of being more present and connected.

So, I decided to write myself a note to hang over my bed to help me remember. The note is a physical, textual manifestation of what feels like proverbial truths I encounter through/with/because of other people...and so the universe finds ways of reminding me of what is most true (for me).

These words hang over my head (Mornings when I am actually present, I take the time to read them or acknowledge that they are there):

1) Remember who you are and who you want to be.

2) You will be okay, always. You are strong, good-hearted, and you know the weight of the world is love ---so carry it. Build up your strength. Listen to others who need to be heard. Affirm and make present the resilience and character of all the great women who've nourished you. Speak truthfully and with conviction. Do not be afraid to be vulnerable. Do not be afraid of pain. Give yourself to each task and give yourself up to the moment. Let things go.

That's all I got so far. It's not going to get any easier.

Anais Nin (in a letter to Henry Miller).

"...excessive living weighs down the imagination:  we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails." (A Literate Passion, Anais Nin). 


This reminds me of the episode in Louie when Louie gets dumped and he's miserable and bugs the doctor about it. The doctor tells him that being sick over love and hurting over love is love. That's the good part. 
When I read this, I felt suffocated for her. I thought, "how can someone be okay with "not living"? With being a part of life, but also consciously outside of the pulse. It seems dreadful to know there exists someone in the world that you love and are in love with, but can't have totally. You can't be with them. 
This felt like purgatory. But, then there's this "we." There this "we" that's fated to be outside looking in, living far too heavy in the imaginative realm of our shared experience. 
I guess we aren't ever really alone in that sense?

Her

Draft 1.

se ofrece ha cada momento,

and so everything she does is an expression of gratitude:

her words are a celebration,

her love is insuppressible acceptance,

her compassion stems from knowing life’s insuperable relentlessness:

she knows the sunlight exposes all for its crude sensibility—ripening and rotting the edges of growth, of youth and maturity;

she knows the shadow follows like a phantom limb--a gaping, shapeshifting well where the bucket swings angrily, catching thoughts of the past as they fall from our heads;

she knows that all we have is ourselves

and all we can't ever truly know is each other,

so we must barter ourselves

and never be afraid to give it all away.

she knows pain must accompany the taste of bliss 

because “pain does its work,” 

while love exists to elude us

she knows we musn't labor 

over 

trying

to transform grown-up children 

into myths, 

monsters, 

maravillas, 

Or labor over the useless endeavor to own feelings 

that never truly belong to us,

we must labor over learning,
and loving things as they unfold with us, 
around us, beyond us, for us, without us... 

she knows that roots spring from the soles of her feet 

and the crown of her head, 

and in every way, 

she is connected,

she belongs. 

F.G.-- (edited).

Heavy-hearted somber ghost of a boy who just wanted to be loved.