Reading: Secret History of the World by Mark Booth
Listening: Zen Garden, OK Go, Ed Sheeran, not an Airplane
Eating: Mediterranean Chicken and Orzo microwave dinner from Target
ON MY MIND: Getting a massage, working out, blogging on Original Bliss again, finding my Muse again (I lost him somewhere...he was feeling neglected and ran off), and....
It had become a bad word, love...the worst four-letter word EVER. When 'fuck' has more appeal, you know you have a serious problem.
But, unfortunately, it really had become that way, and for so long I haven't thought I would find my way out of that mindset...or heartset, rather.
By nature I am a lover. Put the balls-to-the-wall attitude and risque mouth aside, I am one who always moves to seek and find and give love in the world. It is the bottom line for me, of singular importance. If love is off, nothing else fits. When love is right, everything falls into place.
Every day I try to find a way to be an expression of love in the world, with my children, with my friends, with the strangers I meet, with nature, and when I have one, with my lover. At the end of the day, the final question I ask myself is: "Did I love well today?"
If, in some way, I did not, then I try to remedy the situation. I apologize as soon as possible. "I'm sorry" is one of the best expressions of love~right after "I love you."
But what happens when another has hurt you, has made you feel unloved and uncared for? What then?
See...that is the kicker...right in the jimmy.
It is especially bad when the unloving act(s) are harsh: abandonment, dishonesty, unfaithfulness, physical harm, emotional abuse...those create wounds that take so much time to heal. And sometimes they never really do.
Unhealed wounds ooze bitterness. You know those people. We all have them in our lives; hateful, bitter and hard, the evidence of the unloved.
See, I was really proud of myself. I had overcome my totally devastated heart...sewn her right back up with some leftover thread I found around here and ventured back out in the world. She was a scraggly-ass mess, though. Her rage was still too present in every encounter.
So I pulled back, gave her a little time to put a scab on. Then I put a little cover up on 'er and hit the bars with her again.
To be honest, I was really only looking for the three-letter "f" word (fun), hopefully with a little four-letter "f" word on the side.
That worked out a lot better. I found them both! In one guy!!!! It was great!!!! I was smiling again. The fancy was tickled.
But then...after a time...the 8-letter "f" word came along.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
And that is when scabby-ass heart didn't hold up so well. She got a little weird. Well, in my case weird is normal...so she got a little weirder than usual.
See, half-healed wounds are not much better. They weep mistrust and keep the heart tight. The half-healed heart, while not spewing hate, still cannot create real love in the world, let alone with a partner. Every thing it touches with its love-attempts is tainted; with fear and with negative expectations.
So the scabs started to itch and scabby-ass heart started to scratch. She became afraid. She wants to pull. She wants to push.
She wants to hide herself away again until the scar tissue takes. "It would be for the best," she says. "So no one gets hurt."
But then she doesn't. She wants to move into it. "He has a scabby-ass heart, too," she says. "You both are kinda fucked up."
"If you just roll with it, and are honest, it will be what it is. And that will be fine."
So that is really where we are today, me and my scabby-ass heart.
If you've ever been there, holla.