When You Take Aim

Take aim at

My heart

Over my head

It starts there

You should know

It sees you

Sees worth

So up it goes

Heart high

Not for pride

Not for shame

But needing to

Hear its tempo

How it rises and retreats

Races and rests

Releases and reaps

Reacts to your touch

Risks everything

The colorful moods

Truth seekers each one

The parts that make it whole

How it makes ... me

How it has a story

How it wants to tell ours

So when you take aim

Aim for my heart

So I'll always know you're trying

Having

Lately, life teaches me about the concept of having. Those things — perhaps people — that present the possibilities of attachment.

From dictionary.com (so we're all on the same blog page). 

have 

1. to possess; own; hold for use; contain.
2. to hold, posses, or accept in some relation, as of kindred or relative position.
3. to get, receive, or take: to have a part in
4. to experience, undergo, or endure, as joy or pain.
5. to hold in mind, sight, etc.

Like having something in your hand, an object you hold. Or having something held deeper inside.

Most often, the having — that something — is manufactured and fed by desire: something we want, wish for, or hope .... to have. With small beginnings we start to believe. Over time, we release more of our hearts to it. And believe we have something.  In simple terms, having something is real if both people acknowledge it and want the attachment to continue.

However, attachment is a really hard to master. Rarely do both parties want the same level of attachment at the same time, especially early. Or even over time, patterns become obstacles to attachment, which hinder growth.

Early or late, one usually wants a little more; while one usually wants a little less. Or one doesn't pursue while one likes being chased. Or one scares the other with feelings. Or one can't handle the other's feelings. (Which is perfectly understandable; not everyone is everyone's cup of tea.) Or, one settles into the attachment faster than the other. And probably a million other variables.

And therein the dance plays out. Are we dancing together, or just moving awkwardly in close proximity?

More Daring

Sitting in a Starbucks, writing this before my battery fails. I've been learning about vulnerability, and wanting more of it in my life. There's a really great book out called Daring Greatly, by Brene Brown.
In a nutshell, it's about: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent and Lead. It's been an eye opener. Thanks to @LisaDJenkins for recommending the book. I wholeheartedly recommend it, too.

As a single-again-single person, I'm struggling to reconcile where I went earlier in 2012. I felt truly seen for the first time ever, by eyes wanting to see the whole me. It was unexpected, and nurtured me as a newly divorced guy. I took to the reality like a thirsty man takes to water in the desert. It tasted so sweet, and I felt renewed. I valued it greatly, perhaps too much so. And now that gaze, her gaze, has shifted sharply away from me. We weren't in the same place, so it ended. Tragically, we can't even speak.

Something rare was shared in that place. Cherished by me. It's easy to go back to my safe place, one where disengaging from people, feeling defensive, and doubtful of them feels more "correct," but couldn't be more wrong. To hide and withhold again. Getting back to that realness — to total transparency — seems impossible, but if I'm to learn anything from the book, vulnerability is still the goal, and it's not a bad thing. It's still about having the courage to be yourself with whoever you're with. Friends, family, strangers, new relationships, and all the rest.

Can I truly be myself ever again with someone? I'll never know unless I decide vulnerability is worth it in the end.

95

I should be driving 95 today.

We'd planned. But the plan didn't survive.

She drove 95 one day. Back in May. 

We got past six minutes. This was real.

A June Friday, I drove 95 to meet her. 

Our weekend in the middle.

Sunday, same weekend, I drove home on 95, 

had a damn stroke.

95, 55, I-84 and 93, a Gem State of miles between us. 

We Facetimed in the ICU,

me tubed up, drugged up, looking like hell.

Being apart was hell.

She tore up 95 soon after,

needing to see for herself how I was.

Fine. I was fine. We were fine. 

We hung hard.

No time in July, a recovery too.

I wasn't up for a drive on 95.

So I flew in July, right over 95.

She drove me on I-84 right to her door.

August, long and hot.

95 was quiet. 

A month of doubt.

I could tell she wanted out.

September. Let's shrink space, I said. 

Right now. 

Spontaneous drive on 95 south

meets I-84 east in Boise. 

Just a night, but damn if we didn't click. 

It returned. Feeling this again.

September remained sweet. I drove 95 again. 

We hosted a Julia Child party.

"Life is the proper binge," don't ever forget.

I drove 95 home, the last time.

The last either of us would drive 95 for this.

The Way This Ends

Paraphrased, love is patient, kind, a mind fuck. That's all.

Love looks simple. Treading water in the Sea of Love looks easy. We dive headfirst into the idea of love. We leap in with cinderblocks tied to our ankles — those concrete things we think we know about the world, what we want, what we know about people. Things like decency, fairness, honesty, vulnerability. We jump in as fools and try to keep our heads above water. Love swallows us, pulls us under. We drown. We sink alone to the cold, dark bottom.

Is this the way love feels? Is this the way this ends?

The Sea of Love rejects us, too, heaving our lifeless corpses back onto the beach. We're spit out again like a bad taste. Tossed back, rather mercifully. You feel dead. But how can that be when every nerve wretches, aches?

And there, transformed into something unrecognizable, soaked and caked in sandy grit, we shiver our way out of the fog. Long breaths punctuate the pain. But only for a while. Our breath grows quiet with everything else. The rhythm of self reasserts itself. We scour the surf for pieces of ourselves. We stub our toes on the very cinderblocks that took us to the bottom of the watery hell: our expectations and ideas. Like shoes, we lace them back onto our feet.  The chains are hard to tie, but we manage to make the necessary knots. We're dumb and determined, you see. They're our expectations, our ideas. We claim them. Own them. We find our feet and leave, horrified.

Forever changed, so it goes.

The beach behind us only a few yards, the awful experience fresh in our hearts and minds, we can't wait to try again. So we look back, hopeful.