Burning Bridges

Once upon a time, I prided myself on an exceptional collection of good relationships with ex-boyfriends. I'm certain that it seems strange to curate good terms with the gone bad. But I've always been desperately dedicated to keeping the good opinion of the greater population - even those who break my heart. For a long time, it didn't occur to me that these peaceable relations were an oddity. It wasn't until the line of past relationships grew rather long that I realized what an anomaly those tender treaties were.

For the longest time, there was, at the head of the class, the High School Almost Boyfriend. We'll skip The Freshman Year Experiment - it ended badly - and move on to The First Real Boyfriend. That relationship truly went down in flames amidst a cheating scandal (gasp!), but somehow through my dogged determination to be at peace with all humanity, we found our way back to good terms, albeit some years after the infidelity incident. 

On I went to The Long-Term Boyfriend, who was incidentally my partner in crime in the cheating scandal. We held together through five cities, three colleges and universities, and one breakup and reconciliation.The second breakup was of the volatile varietal, and we spent three years in silence while I dated The Second Long-Term Boyfriend. After four years, that fell apart, too; I crossed state lines, and we managed a tentative truce. 

And then there was The Barrister. And if ever one of my relationships ended in a blazing pile of ruins, it was that one. Perhaps those embers, sparking and sputtering in the smokey aftermath, are what kindled those other bridges, which started to burn with ferocity.

The First Real Boyfriend got married and our waning conversations were finally burned away completely. The Second Long-Term Boyfriend assumed a stony silence, and even when I tried to rebuild the smoldering bridge, it crumbled like so much ash between my fingers. And then The Long-Term Boyfriend got engaged, and thirteen years of on-and-off conversation ended in spontaneous combustion that severed everything. The bridge I prided myself on so much went up in smoke.

Now I'm standing on the side of the bridge where fate has left me watching the flames eat away at all those carefully constructed pylons and planks. Every one of those former loves have found their way back to heartbreak - a second heartbreak where I learned that I can't have the elusive friends-after-lovers relationship. I have to mourn the loss again and suffer through the what-ifs and the what-went-wrongs. I have to accept that the place that they had in my life burned away, leaving that fresh, shiny, tender pink new skin. And maybe I have to face that, now that the bridges are burned, I'm going to have to go another direction. Forward, perhaps?

Let's Be Honest

The spiral started, well, how spirals start. At an infinitesimal point behind you that's hardly discernible once you recognize the endlessly loping curvature that looms above you. Round and round and round until the circular shape with its no-end-and-no-beginning ways keeps you from even trying to recall its origin.

That's me, now. Looking back at that spiral, not even trying to fathom how I got to this place at the bottom. And let's be honest - for awhile, I've been slipping and sliding down the spiral with reckless abandon. Acting like I was powerless against the sloping gravity of it all. Like an impertinent child sailing down the banister, I picked up terrible habits with an alacrity that was mind-blowing. The eating. The shopping. The sleeping. The self-deprecation. The self-loathing. The perpetual negativity.

That's me, now. Finally plopped rather decidedly on my arse at the bottom. My first impulse is to offer excuses. But I've been here before, and excuses get me nowhere. So I'm trying something new. In light of my present position, in light of the recognition of my free will to be somewhere besides here, I'm going to explore my choices with all honesty. I'm going to tell the whole truth - the whole ugly truth - and hopefully find my way away from the ugly something less hideous...something tolerable...something that resembles the fragile beauty of hope...

Image via Randall C. Page

Over the Bridge & Under the Moon

This weekend, my friend C. came to visit from the Lonestar State and charged me with taking him somewhere in Georgia he'd never been. And though a well-traveled fellow, this charge really only eliminated spending the day in Atlanta. Instead, we drove up 441, winding up into north Georgia between hills burnished deep orange and coppery brown by the late-arriving fall. The sun was glorious in the sky overhead - a crisp blue that would be cold to the touch, scattered with breaths of cloud.

We wandered through the woods along a narrow path, following the blue smudged arrows on the sides of pines, oaks and birches that marked the High Bluff Trail. There was only the crunch of thousands of leaves under our feet, the slow rustle of a slight breeze in the trees, and the calls of whatever birds were out to enjoy the fall day to punctuate our sentences. It was easy to be in the forest, in the low sloping hills, among clumps of green moss and clusters of mustard-yellow mushrooms.

But later, we hiked down into the gorge, down hundreds of stairs that wound down between rock walls. Down to where the water poured from the gullet of the walls into a river that ran over smooth flats stones in swirling eddies and quick whorls. As we descended we could hear the water churning against gravity, and we were pulled down, too, to where a suspension bridge crossed the river - the only way to get to the observation deck for the falls.

I said I couldn't, but C. didn't understand that bridges are not an inconvenience but a terror. Not a dislike but a panic. He never gave me the option to not go. So I closed my eyes and held his hand and took a step out onto the wooden slats held in the air by thick wire cables. I could feel the vibrations of the bridge under my weight; I could feel the blood in my ears. I could feel my fingertips pressing hard against my eyelids; I could feel a hand in my sweaty hand and I squeezed it tightly, focused on that hand to lead me to the other side.

***

Later, back at my house, I put on my pajamas and pulled back the covers on my bed. It's only the third time I've slept there, and I crawled between the sheet in a familiar bed set in a still strange landscape. I clicked off the bedside lamp and lay there in the darkness for a moment, keenly attuned to the sounds of the hardwood floors settling. To the heat hissing through the vents. To the weird way that the grate on the carport door sometimes twangs. Straining to categorize every sound, it took me a moment to realize that cool, silvery light had slipped across my face and fanned out across the blankets. I turned onto my stomach and peeked through the blinds. There, high above my house, gazing down into my bedroom window was my beloved moon. After all this time...so many months...it was only then that I discovered my old friend looked in my window, just as he has all my life.

So We Meet Again

Last night I dreamed of being in a house that wasn't mine. Someone with me - a friend, someone I knew - said to me, "There's Kudzu." And I said, "That can't be. He's gone." But when I looked, he was there on a quilted white oval bed. I walked over to him and picked him up. He was still light, like he was when he was sick. But he seemed whole. I draped him over my right shoulder, cradling him against my body like I always did. I rubbed my cheek against his head and stroked his soft, sleek back. I felt his weight - light, but meaningful. Significant. He was warm. And he purred gently, vibrations I could still feel echoing in my chest when I woke up this morning.

Requiescat in pace, Kudzu

My dearest, my most beloved Kudzu, may you rest in peace.

May you rest knowing that you were loved to the greatest depths of the human heart. May you rest knowing that you were and are cherished.

May you rest knowing that your constant companionship warmed even the loneliest, the most sorrowful of hours. May you rest knowing that you were light in a dark and sometimes unkind world.

May you rest knowing that your presence brought joy, comfort, happiness, peace. May you rest knowing that you were all things good (even when you were bad).

May you rest knowing that beyond pet, you were family, as much my lifeblood as anything. That you were my very heart.

May you rest, fully restored to your gray fuzzy bellied glory, with no scars or marks or patches to evidence of your illness.

May you rest knowing that you will never have to endure my picture-taking ever again.

May you rest after your long and hard-fought battle. Having been so brave and true, holding on for so long for me, so that I could accept that it was your time.

May you rest knowing that I never wanted you to die, except that one time you ate my blue merino wool J. Crew sweater (and even then, not really).

May you rest, weary traveler, from all those thousands of miles on the highway between here and North Carolina that would have been so much longer without you.

May you rest, knowing that you will never have to be stuck in the car with me in the McDonald's drive-in in Leland, North Carolina while I have a panic attack over the holiday weekend traffic.

May you rest knowing that you will be remembered in repose on the windowsill, on the kitchen towel, under a blanket nestled against my stomach.

May you rest gently purring or making sleepy kitty noises as you slumber. With your snaggletooth hanging out.

May you rest with my gratitude for having never eaten my eyeball as I feared you would.

May you rest having served me well with the greatest devotion and loyalty - no matter what mistakes I made in life.

May you rest from leaping onto the cabinets, the countertops, the bookshelves, the bed with sprightly grace.

May you rest with an endless supply of spider plants whose leaves you may nip to your heart's content.

May you rest from strewing toilet paper from the downstairs bathroom into the kitchen.

May you rest, never to be forgotten.

May you rest, my darling. May you rest from exhaustion, from pain and from this namelessness that has consumed you.

May you rest in the hands of the Heavenly Father who made you.

My dearest, my most beloved Kudzu, may you rest in peace.

Miscellany & All That Jazz

* Today I bought a pair of sunglasses at the same time I bought underpants featuring characters from Cars for Dillon. I felt compelled to explain to the cashier that they were for my nephew because I don't have a kid so these aren't for my kid that I don't have, but instead, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that no one cares but me.

* I bought a house two month's ago that I'm still not living in because I can't move Kudzu at the moment. It's now serving as the world's most expensive storage unit.

* Dillon asked me yesterday why I wear glasses. He found it delightful that "my peepers don't work right." I'm pretty sure I set him up to say that to a stranger in an embarrassing manner before long.

* As I've unpacked items at the *new* storage unit, I've found pictures from 3, 5, 10 years ago. And no matter how recent or distant from present, they all seem like lifetimes ago.

* I'm wondering if it would be taking advantage of the intern to allow him to mow my lawn. He says he likes yard work, and I'm pretty sure that I'm not gonna.

* I've had a spate of Facebook invitations from people I obviously went to high school with but of whom I have absolutely no recollection. And I'm pretty sure I'd remember someone who went by "Jeff Bo."

* Lately, I've dreamed a lot about travel. It reminds me how reluctant I am to take the time, spend the money, make the leap. And so I just stay put and dream.

* How long does it take for water to go under the bridge? I mean, are there just people/relationships/occurrences that you have to let go? But let go in a float downstream unresolved kind of way? And not in the we can be friends kind of way?

* Is it worth it to keep the big fat box of skinny pants? Or should I just accept my fatness.

* In my office of eight, five are women. In the last six months, one got married, and three are engaged. One is pregnant.

* I want some banana pudding.

* Kudzu is in my lap and purring, and I don't want to move him so I may just sleep crooked on the couch.

* I am stupidly excited that the AP Stylebook finally relented and made "website" the correct spelling over the historic "Web site."

* One of my favorite clients took another job in another state. I won't miss the mild sexual harassment, but I will miss a client that curses like a sailor and laughs at my jokes.

* I named a microbrew by a local brewery in town. It's one of my greatest professional accomplishments.

* Lately I've encountered people who remind me of my hopeless quest to be a cool kid and the hopelessness of it. Because, let's face it, there will always be cool kids. And I will never be one of them.

* Friday I ate a blood orange "handcrafted popsicle." I'd like another, please.

* One of the signs that Kudzu's anemia might be worsening is if his tongue gets pale. I never thought I would have such a high per diem of saying "His tongue looks pretty good."

* Right now, my mother's cat is asleep on my right toes - just the little one and the one next to it. His breath is tickling my foot.

* Reese says "hi" in the most charming manner - just a sing-song "hiiiiii."

* I have to go to bed now and pretend that I'm going to get up early and make it to work even before I'm supposed to be there to catch up on work. I have such a good imagination.

Receptive: Pitcher Plant

Potpourri

*Helped Mom and Justin can six gallon-sized freezer bags of fresh tomatoes today. Dad picked up two five-gallon buckets from a friend of his on Friday night. We've had tomatoes for every meal since - including Justin's and Mom's summer marinara pasta sauce with sausage. Deeelish.

* Went to see The Dark Knight with my dear intern on Thursday night. It was delightful to go with a 21-year-old who giggled every time I mentioned how hot Christian Bale is. Oh, and the movie lives up to the hype.

* Dreamed last night that I was at a conference (in Hotel Entrapment, as fate would have it) at which I was forced to attend a Civil War reenactment.

* Due to my father's weekly watching, I'm...um...kind of beginning to like NASCAR. And, for the record, Kasey Kahne is very cute.

* The Tales of Beetle the Bard will be available from Amazon in December. I reserve judgment. It's both thrilling and...well, also potentially a recipe for extreme disappointment. I hope it takes us back to a delicious, bittersweet bit of the Potterverse...and doesn't fall flatter than an overused Fanged Frisbee.

* I wish I could resist the urge to click on the People.com link and feed the Brangelina Baby frenzy. But...I...just...couldn't...not...click.

* Hired a real dynamo at the office last week. No really. She's conversational in 13 languages. I felt my job security slipping.

* School is starting this week. It makes me want to buy pencils. And a Trapper Keeper.

* Today we made blackberry cobbler out of the last of the summer blackberries, and it was August.

Moment of Acceptance

Right now, I am sitting alone in a hotel room with a king-sized bed on the sixth floor that overlooks the Savannah River. Right now, darkness is squeezing the last of the color down to the horizon so that the skyline is black as charcoal against the blush of pink. Right now, I am looking down at a river, flowing fast past old buildings, new buildings, boats docked at its edge. Right now, there is a bridge in the distance. Right now is a very odd reflection of my old life looking back at me. And fittingly enough, I am on the other side of the Savannah from the city...so it really is like looking at my old life across the Cape Fear from a different vantage point.

Earlier, I sat in a meeting where people said "we" a lot. And about halfway through, I realized that I'm included in that we. I am part of the we. I am a cog in this machine. I stand under their umbrella. And when they talk about the company as a family, they consider me part of that tree. At first, it was odd. And then someone said something funny, and I got it because, after three months, I finally sort of understand how we work. And I laughed and looked around me, and thought, Okay.

That's all...just...right now...okay.

The Girl Who Lived

"You can't help but wish that maybe you aren't really all Muggle -- non-magic folk -- but have some bit of wizard blood in your veins that would allow you the chance to visit Hogwarts....and so I've had my nose pressed into the pages of the first four books--rather lengthy, they all are. I've been obsessed with Harry, because in Harry's world, there is no graduate school. A fire-breathing dragon or a life-ending curse, but nothing as bad as moving to the next state."
-- Journal dated August 8, 2001, three weeks before relocating to N.C.

I've just finished rereading Goblet of Fire for the I-don't-know-how-many-times, and I can't help but think of the first time I read Harry Potter. It was six years ago to the summer that Niki convinced me that I had to read Socerer's Stone. I remember reading that first chapter with Dumbledore and the Put-Outer and the flying motorcycle and thinking, "What is this?" I don't recall exactly the point at which I got hooked, but once I was hooked, I was all the way hooked.

It was a tough summer. I'd just graduated from college, and on my graduation day, I had no plans. No job. No apartment. I was waiting to hear from UNC Wilmywood to see if a spot had come open in its MFA program. And on top of that, I decided not to get a job that summer, owing to the fact that Mom needed my help since Anna and Justin decided to get married less than 30 days apart. Did I mention that my boyfriend at the time was in D.C. doing an internship?

Everything was changing, my whole world upended and the future totally uncertain. I was lonely and worried. And I was suffering the fate of the youngest child, which is that everyone else goes on to the next stage of life without you. I suddenly felt like the classic which-one-of-these-doesn't-belong?

But in the midst of it all, I found Harry Potter, who was suffering a bit himself in a world so far removed from my own that I could almost forget what was going on here. I was insatiable; I carried the books with me everywhere. Car trips, waiting rooms, dress fittings, hotel rooms. At 2 in the morning, I sat in the recliner in the den deep into the graveyard scene in Goblet of Fire, and was more than a little spooked by the dark yard outside the sliding glass door. Upon finishing, it took me a bit to calm down enough to brave walking past the big glass door and go to bed. I may have finished the book, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. But it was okay that the next book wasn't around yet - it was time for me to go to North Carolina.

It was two years after that when Order of the Phoenix hit the stands, and I made myself nearly sick and hysterical reading that giant tome for such a stretch. And the death in that one hit me particularly hard, and I was inconsolable for days. Two years after that came Half-Blood Prince, whose release caused an absolute temper-tantrum when it wasn't delivered as expected. But that was nothing compared to the quivering mass I was after the outcome of the book.

And now it's coming down to the wire. Less than 25 days before all will be revealed in Deathly Hallows, Potter's last stop. I'm on schedule to plow through OOTP and HBP before the big day gets here. Today, I read an article with a massive spoiler, a possibility that I hadn't considered, and it was the first time during all my conjecturing that it really hit me that, whatever the outcome, this is it. Whatever's on those final pages, whether it's Harry's death or happily-ever-after or a mysterious sentence ending in "scar," it's the end of the story and we'll all have to live with whatever ending Rowling penned.

I can't help but recognize that there are eerie parallels between reading those first pages of Sorcer's Stone and now anticipating Deathly Hallows: the waiting, the need to escape reality, this strange station between one chapter of life and the next (a Platform 9 3/4 time in life, if you will). There are similar trappings - temporarily living at home, my stuff scattered everywhere, and me not really belonging anywhere. And more than once in the last couple of weeks, I've thrown up my hands at the job search and buried myself in Potterdom just like I did way back when, only then I was trying to avoid registering for classes and folding wedding programs.

Me and Harry have been through a lot together. (Like the development of my slightly unhealthy obsession. ) The intervening years have been as much an adventure for me as him. And whether or not he lives or dies, his adventure is coming to an end. But me? I'll get to be the girl who lived. For me, there will be another chapter.

Res-o-LU-tion (rez-uh-loo-shun)

Resolution is a funny word whose varied meanings include both the onset of a decision (resolving to do something) and the ultimate outcome (the final resolution). But for most of us at this time of the year, resolutions are about promises we make to ourselves that we don't intend to keep. They are the lofty goals. The proverbial carrots hung out to give us something to strive for in the coming year. We say we will lose weight, eat less, exercise more. Quit the bad and take up the good. Put aside selfish and embrace selfless. And with these resolutions, these declarations of improvement, we hope to have a better resolution to 2007.

My resolutions are usually empty, dashed off on New Year's Day to the first person who asks me what mine are with little thought to ever keeping my word. So each year, I make the same thoughtless promises about the kinder, gentler, thinner me, but end up pushing the same rock up the same hill just to have it fall back on me the next year. Yet, even with such a jaded view, it seems such an opportune time to really reflect and make change where change is necessary - to put my shoulder to the rock once more.

Perhaps my problem in the past has been making the wrong resolution - resolving on things that weren't truly important enough to abide by. And so this year, in an attempt to make progress with the rock, I'm making just one simple resolution. And that is to be to be happy with myself. To very simply recognize those things which make me happy and embrace them. To discern what is clouding my view and dispel it. To laugh more and cry less. To be good company when I'm the only one in the room.

Musically speaking, resolution is the moment in which a tone or chord eliminates dissonance. Chemically, it is the reduction to the simplest form. And for me, this year, resolution is both of those. Happy New Year, y'all.