Messy

Monday Missives #10

Earlier today, around 9am, I was on my morning walk (because, when in doubt, that’s what I do; for reference, see last week’s post), and listened to Messy by Lola Young (a woman who is many years younger than me and perfectly articulates the exact nature of much of my experience in an (let’s call a spade a spade) emotionally abusive relationship which reminds me of the power of art in general, music in particular, and shared human experiences in essence). I was tempted to sing along at the top of my lungs but, since I was out in public (and not in my studio), I thought that would be weird for the neighbors (who may or may not be at home and may or may not be able to hear me). So, instead, I started to skip down the road until, quite accidentally (and also very much intuitively), I shifted into some fancy footwork (there were hints of Kevin Bacon in the warehouse dance scene from Footloose mixed with a little bit of Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing (fast forward to the 3:37 mark) vibes happening for sure) and by then I only briefly thought about (but also did not care) what those same neighbors might think if they looked out their windows and saw me literally working things out in the middle of the street.

The longer I did that (moved my body and danced), the more the tears formed in my eyeballs. Then my chest heaved as it constricted and released. And then finally, a sound emerged. Right there, in the middle of a side street in a suburban neighborhood nestled between downtown small town and a mega (ever-expanding) hospital complex, tears ran down my face and I almost (but not quite) let out a scream. The loss of Barbara—my “mom” and spiritual teacher of almost twenty years. The loss of large parts of my family—because to care for myself, I made the decision to love them from a distance (and have ignored how painful it is to me that I feel the need to make that kind of a decision in the first place). The loss of one part of my identity (lady in an office) while I build up a different part (lady who writes, records, and gathers stories—or maybe it’s that I am reclaiming that part and that’s scary?). The loss of a (false) image of myself (as a scared, frozen little girl who begs for help and affirmation because she fears humiliation) and the fear of claiming the truth of who I am (a confident, strong adult woman who is grounded in humility and purpose). And the loss of my little snuggle bug morkie Harley (who taught me how to love, really love).

Just as I was having this (much over due or maybe right on time) catharsis, I got a call from a friend. Without hesitation, I answered, and I was so glad I did. She too was having a messy kind of morning. So, as I kept walking (and no longer dancing), I listened to her tell me all about her fear, her sadness and her anxiety (aka her grief that sounded very similar to my grief even if it was about something totally different), and how much she did not want to make this call to me (because, f*ck, who wants to be that kind of messy in front of someone else?) When she was done, I shared with her that I did not want to call anyone this morning (in fact, I thought about calling her but decided against it) because I was annoyed with myself (for being in fear and self-doubt—again, no, still) so it was quite fortuitous that she happened to call me. And because she had shared with me about what was going on with her, I felt comfortable not only telling her about my grief but also crying as I told her about it. Then I shared with her about going to the Josephine School Community Museum with a friend yesterday afternoon. Being there, and chatting with two of the elders who hold space there every Sunday, reminded me (again) of the power of community and storytelling. It matters who is around us (I saw that very clearly when I was in the room with Barbara up until the moment she passed away) and it matters (even more) who tells the story—our story; who gets to record and who gets to edit; who gets to distribute and who gets to listen; who gets to speak up and who gets to choose to stay silent. Which brought me all the way full circle and back to where I am right now, here, today. A woman who is helping others tell their stories by continuing to write her own.

As much as I want this (weekly) Monday space to be a place where I have some fun (after all, that’s what I said it would be) and show the (very big) fun side of myself (I am seriously goofy), this is also the second (maybe third?) week in a row that I woke up on a Monday morning and did not want to get out of bed. And I share that not to demand your pity (you feel however you want to feel or nothing at all) or wallow in my own self-pity (I did that already when I was on the phone with my friend and got it out of my system; or, I should say, let it go just for today). I share it because if I do not, I am not telling the full, true story. I am not being real, which means I am not being me and that is something I refuse to do today. Because being me is the one thing I have spent the last five (especially the last two) years learning how to be while I re-built (painfully and painstakingly) my sense of self (from the ground up and the inside out).

And all of that is messy.

Ever changing “stickers over the glass case” at Hideaway Cafe. FYI-Mercury is currently in retrograde so I will keep that in mind.

Meals Out: Mostly ate in (!) but don’t worry—I did not cook either so the “new home” smell reigns supreme in here. I did go for lunch at Roma’s on Saturday and, as usual, had the Greek Salad with Chicken (one of my absolute faves). I grabbed a coffee at Hideaway Cafe Saturday morning (I love their sticker collection) and while I did not eat anything at the Twisted Oak Farm Brewery when I went there on Sunday, I did enjoy a pint of Clarke County Kolsch (even though I am not a beer person) while hanging out with Arlo.

Arlo

Listening (voice): Ezra Klein and Derek Thompson Have a Plan for the Left, Honestly with Bari Weiss. This is a new-to-me podcast (in fact, The Free Press, in its many iterations, is new to me) and I really enjoyed this conversation for many different reasons. As someone who reads news across different outlets and viewpoints, I will add this to my media diet—especially because I know I will, at times, be challenged by what I read or hear in this space.

Listening (song most likely on repeat): Messy (obvs), Lola Young. (When I got back from my walk, I went into my studio, put this song on repeat, turned up the volume, and danced it all out like a maniac in the style of Flashdance while singing at the top of my lungs—which, if my next door neighbors are home, I’m sure they heard.)

Quick aside based on a very small sample size of three movies referenced in this one post: turns out, the 80s were telling, no, showing us how important it is to be in our bodies and that movement, especially dance, is a great way to release all those trapped emotions (esp. rage and grief). This may be a subject of further inquiry for me. Maybe something like: “The 80s: Big Ideas and Big Moves Not Just Big Hair.” I’ll keep working on it.

Watching: I finished all the seasons of Murder, She Wrote that are available on Amazon Prime. If I want to watch the other six seasons, I will need to sign up for Peacock and I steadfastly refuse to sign up for any more streaming services (in fact, I keep canceling the ones I already have which I may or may not regret later). So, only time will tell if my desire to spend more time with JB Fletcher (and her sly advocacy for equal rights which—hey, the 80s sneak stuff in again!) wins out over my irritation with maintaining (and paying for) all these subscriptions.

Reading: I have been reading a wonderful, new-to-me Substack—the premise is 1 topic, 10 stories, 100 words or less (each story). It is flash writing at its best and to me, it resonates as poetry. Check it out: 10x100. If you like it/are curious, leave a comment below and include “10x100” or send me a message. First five (5) people who reach out to me will get one of the free subscriptions I have to share (I will need your email too). And of course, I would love to hear from you any time and for any reason!

Most Hours Logged Doing: Did a bunch of different things and nothing in particular and on Sunday morning, when I had the schmoops, I phoned a friend.

Monday Morning Meditation: 3.24.25

Accepting help makes it possible for me to do anything because I can face everything.