a space for nurturing authenticity

Month: August 2016

Because Love Never Dies

Just over a month ago I wrote a poem in honor of my Yorkie’s Geburtstag.

The prose ended something like this:

I’ll see you again

When this life is over

There is never an end to love

Last week I lost a person who meant a great deal to me. I loved him perhaps more than anyone I have ever lost. There are so many layers to relationships and it may seem harsh to compare loss to loss. Nevertheless, this is the greatest loss I have yet known. My friend entered my life a decade ago and held a strong presence ever since. I still remember him telling me his college career strategy that afternoon– Fierce. He didn’t like putting things off and preferred to conquer life with haste.

Over the years, my friend saw me at my highest of highs and lowest of lows. He wasn’t afraid to put me in my place because he did so with the utmost care and understanding. Often we laughed together until we couldn’t breathe. He is one person I enjoyed talking Politics with, not because we always agreed. Because we challenged each other. He stood as a confidante with a vast heart. He loved people with soul and tenacity. His imagination was larger than life. My animals adored him, Feline & Yorkie alike. I can still hear his laugh echoing in my head as I feel his blue-eyed smile in my heart. And I miss him insatiably so. I miss the memories over meals we will never again be able to share and the brainstorming of business ventures to come. I miss his quirky humor.

He is thirty years old with a monumental life ahead of him. How could this possibly be real? The Five Stages of Grief step in. I looked them up, not as a way to overcome loss by cleaning up the murky mess into tidy spaces, but in a deep realization of Denial. I am in Denial my friend is gone. The Five Stages of Grief claim Denial helps us to “pace” our grief, and that grace exists in denial as nature’s way of allowing in only as much as we can handle. I saw his burial but I don’t believe he is truly gone. In fact, I believe it less now than before the service. Friends tell me he is always with me, and I am doing my best to hold onto the theory through the immensely heavy grief. Despair lies in grief and I feel it. Desperate, excruciating hurt.

The other Stages are Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. The Stages are not linear, one after the next. Instead, we ebb and flow among them, bombarded by one, then another, and back again. I can attest. Last week I felt Anger rage through me. I experienced myself Bargaining to restore my friend’s life, playing “if-only” along in my mind, making an honest attempt to negotiate my way out of the pain.

As of this moment, I feel Depressed my friend, my family, is no longer in my world and the worlds of many. Unsettled is my soul. I struggle to sleep and wake to loss’ magnitude. I realize Acceptance may merely arrive in the form of experiencing more good moments than bad ones.

I do not wish to be asked questions about my friend’s death. I do not wish to answer inquiries about his services. I do not wish to be asked how I am doing. Last week I did the hardest thing I have ever done in saying goodbye to one of my best friends and greatest relationships of my lifetime. Some moments I live in complete devastation. Other times, I am overcome by the hilarity of fond memories. If I choose to talk, listen. Don’t tell me about how you think you know where I am at, or attempt to relate your parallel stories of having “been there.” Right now I am grieving and I do not wish to be told about your Christmas plans. Last week took the ground out from underneath me. What I considered plan-worthy changed completely.

The only truth I seem to know now: There is never an end to love.

 

Naked. Part 2.

A few Sundays past, I spent the better part of the morning watering and working in my garden wearing only my old, second-hand Sperry boat shoes (now deemed my garden shoes) and a pair of knee-length plaid shorts.

One of my summer goals is to tan my chest. Quite frankly, I feel tired of the tan lines… Tired of the strain a bra creates on my back and my shoulders… Tired of the fact that in the society I live, only men may stroll shirtless in public. I am a woman who sees nothing wrong with seeing breasts. I am the type who feels we should allow nudity on television before we allow our children to be bombarded by network violence..

I prefer being naked. I like clothes too. I like dressing  up, getting sexy, and equally, donning my workout attire. I also really enjoy taking it all off. Being me. The way I entered this world. Naked. Skin. Pure. Natural.

There was a time I wouldn’t have felt as comfortable as I do now, walking around shirtless. And I believe this is where the topic turns full circle.

When I was a young teenager, maybe 14? I showed a boy my breasts. He scorned me. Not to my face– to all our friends. When my girlfriends inquired about the situation, I lied to them. I told them I hadn’t given him this sneak-peek when I had. Then I felt shame. I was a teenage girl who felt she did not own nice breasts all because of what an asshole kid said. I did not like my boobs for years. At 17, I even talked to my Doctor about breast reduction surgery.

Here I sit outside in the shade, half a life later, writing this prose bra-less with only a shirt on reading “Rebel Chic.” My breasts lay slightly sweaty along the top of my rib cage. Gravity and time take their toll on heavy weighted structures, wrinkles form, scars acquire, and these are just some of the many beauties to behold within the human body’s evolution. We should praise the evolution.

I am thankful I did not let a Doctor change my figure. I am thankful I grew into liking my Self naked. Perhaps if we raised our communities with a greater acceptance of the human body in its naked form we would struggle less from body-image issues. Perhaps we’d live in communities which built each other up much more than we tore each other down. Perhaps we’d raise confident people who were less apt to rape and force themselves upon others. Perhaps we’d be in less debt because we weren’t running to be fixed by the knife, or spending to meet an ideal which does not exist.

My boobs are real, weighted by gravity… perfectly imperfect just as they are.

I am also Pro freeing the nipple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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