a single pink rose bud

He sauntered into the place in his usual, unassuming, long-legged gait. Twirling a single, pink rosebud between his fingers, he sat down at the table, seating himself across from yours truly. Dear reader, several hours later, when I departed for home, I had that single, pink rose bud in my possession.

Single – unique, one-of-a-kind. Pink – gentle, soothing, patient. Rosebud – a work-in-progress, clenched ever-so-tightly to itself, just beginning to open … oh-so-slowly, so much potential, requiring a little extra nurturing and care. And patience.

someone

He’s got the heart of a photographer.
It’s clear, from his work, that he understands the soul of a woman.
He’s shown me his raw vulnerability.
He’s a broken doll, too.

a date?

“So I guess this was a date, huh?” He turned to look at me as he spoke those words. Ahhh ~ I find those blue eyes sooo very irresistable.

“Yeah …” I replied with a smile.

A date … first one in MANY years.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

vestiges of a marriage

And so, for the past 3 days I have spent time rummaging through the last vestiges of my former life ~ as a wife, a yuppy, and a consumer-driven, stuff-collecting middle-class zombie. For the first time in years, I fished my wedding dress from its box, encased in its plastic dress-bag, and complete with veil and head-piece. I’d even saved the shopping bag in which the head-piece came. And then, I came across the matching ‘granny boots.’ How different, the shoes I wear now, and the steps I take in said shoes.

For the last time, I washed and folded his clothes ~ bits and pieces he’d left behind. I sanitized and purged. Washed so many blankets, even a few pillows, and … also the shower curtains! I do suppose that’s my OCPD creeping out … organize, de-clutter, strive for perfection. I’m molting my marriage skin.

scatter and gather

It’s happened. After 9 months of separation, living under the same roof, He has moved out. I feared, even just a few weeks ago, that the dissolution of the partnership would dissolve me. For … who have I been these many years? Someone’s wife. Someones’ mother. Someones’ nurse. An employee. A student. A patient. A victim. A fuck. An income. Defined in relation to others. Defined by a role I assume in daily life. Defined by an affliction. Defined by an action. Valued for the pleasure others can derive from their interaction with me.

I feel liberated. I feel relieved. I feel renewed – like I have the energy to sort through all these material things and purge, purge, purge. An external activity and process that mirrors my internal processes. Scatter and gather.

first day of … just me …

… feels weird …

scouring the topography

The topography of my heart ~ jagged shards that pierce and draw blood :: tender, silken flesh, glowing with warmth :: the bitter taste of regret and grief :: an inhospitable, icy tundra :: hungry flames of passion that want, that compulsively and without contemplation consume all in their path.

I have begun to scour the landscape of my heart ~ the topography of its flesh, shards, even its flames and ice. Often, I cannot seem to reconcile the facts with the truth. Truth feels and looks so far-removed from the facts. Perhaps it transcends the minutia of fact. I dunno.

Here’s what I do know.

1. We must offer forgiveness in order to receive it.
2. Forgiveness and love increase in their value with our difficulty in giving them.
3. Taking responsibility for one’s own actions sometimes feels unpleasant. Its the only path to freedom, however.
4. Unconditional loving fucking hurts.
5. The more I learn, the less I feel I know.

Weary Friday Night

“I forgot my toothbrush.”

He stood there, silent and motionless for mere seconds that magnified themselves into infinite segments of eternity. Then he spoke.

“That’s not exactly what your voice message said.”

The words cut through the awkward silence that hung thickly between us like the sharpest scythe. And then he smiled a weary, Friday night smile.

“Welcome, Roxanne,” he positioned the door wide open and gestured to me enter as he spoke. He spoke with that familiar, subtle warmth in his voice. I felt the fatigue and its encasing surprise. An incredible relief fell upon me as I walked across the threshold, and into that old, familiar living room. A fury of fears and anxieties fell across and away from me, like a gentle breeze falls across and away from itself.

In these moments, it occurred to me just why the caged bird sings of freedom.*

* The Caged Bird Sings of Freedom is a poem by Maya Angelou*

Still …

I love Him still. Dear reader, that does not always suffice. Particularly when one loves at the very fringes of madness … and perhaps, beyond. My heart insists we have not seen the end … only just an interlude … a harsh lesson love must teach its feeble pupils. His extreme dichotomous nature confounds me … saddens me … frightens me … enrages me. Jeckyl and Hyde. Eventually Hyde destroyed, devoured, dissolved Jeckyl. How can I save my dearest Jeckyl?

I have come to see that the tinest, most benign-looking flaw can prove quite noxious … can grow into the gravest of infections. The location of the flaw ~ not merely its size ~ determines the scale and intensity of destruction and devastation wreaked upon hearts and spirits. Learning ~ that’s what we call this. It leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. But … it works.

a bitter taste

I love Him still. Dear reader, that does not always suffice. Particularly when one loves at the very fringes of madness … and perhaps, beyond. My heart insists we have not seen the end … only just an interlude … a harsh lesson love must teach its feeble pupils. His extreme dichotomous nature confounds me … saddens me … frightens me … enrages me. Jeckyl and Hyde. Eventually Hyde destroyed, devoured, dissolved Jeckyl. How can I save my dearest Jeckyl?

I have come to see that the tiniest, most benign-looking flaw can prove quite noxious … can grow into the gravest of infections. The location of the flaw ~ not merely its size ~ determines the scale and intensity of destruction and devastation wreaked upon hearts and spirits. Learning ~ that’s what we call this. It leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. But … it works.