When I write, I feel like a stenographer, a person of the court, jotting down verbatim the words heard and their source. Sitting there matter-of-factly, boringly, the most exciting thing about me is my wide and transparent-rimmed glasses snapped to chain links hanging loosely around my neck. I’m so boring, so the same day in and day out. So a sideshow stenographizing all the action, but her, who’s she? Who cares! Keep typing, woman!
I don’t want to be a reporter, I shout at the page. Slamming my typewriter to the ground, keys popping out like pogo sticks so that all members of the court stop and stare. That’s right, you heard me, no more. I stand, and walk out, past the badged officer Stan that nods so subtly that only I see. The air on the other side of the heavy double doors is both lighter and heavier. And as I shift my Vespa into gear, feeling alive and ready. I also wonder, where will I go?
“Is my showing you all the positives annoying?” A mother asked her teenager in session today. A shy but knowing smile came over the cutie kid’s face, “Yeah. I mean, sometimes it’s okay, but other times, I don’t like it.” Validation of emotions, even the tough ones or the ones we don’t like, is felt as a gift.
I know it’s been that way for me. Especially when I puked out words in front of my friend Leanne about a panicky and isolating memory. Her presence was calm, and focused, as she was seated nearby on a couch, listening. Gentle. Like a soft purring, curled-up cat. Loving. She wasn’t scared of my feelings. She didn’t run and hide from them. Allowing whatever part of me running for the hills to stop. To about-face. And it was there and then the power that experience would have on me ceased. Sure, it was still disturbing, but not like it was. It was that emotional safety net that taught me a new way, a calmer softer way to be with the intensity of my feelings. And although Leanne is no longer with us, I can’t thank her enough. Or see a peacock image and not think of her.
Earlier the orb in the sky illuminated a portion of the cabinet, a highly trafficked cabinet, spotlighting it just for me. My eyes landed on and then couldn’t unsee the very smudgy and fingerprintedness of it. I’m a cleaner. Like deep-deep cleaner. Something about strong-arming a scrub daddy with a glob of dish soap and hot water does it for me. Whether it’s the track of a window and unearthing dead flies’ decayed leavings or peeling a dried and flattened tomato on the wall, controlling my environment is soothing and satisfying.
As is slamming and smearing thick goops of latex paint on the deck tonight just before the rain came. Although it’s the color of newly shaved pencil wood, a color that should not be but is, in the spirit of updating our house, I’m all about it. The color predates me, and if I’d gotten my butt in gear over the past few years I could have painted it a color I wanted like charcoal or maybe black. Dave likes the color, but there’s something about it I just don’t trust; it’s too cheery for its own good.
I unknowingly, unconsciously minimized the support Dave and I have. And I feel silly. Dave feels touched. An AM visit with his friend Jeff, and PM visit with his friend Patrick, and then the next morning is an AM visit by his other Jeff friend. The love and support post-surgery are well deserved; he is a dedicated and giving friend. And I’m grateful he gets to experience others showing up for him like this.
I still wish for a better sign-off. The usual alright I’m done Love, Jaclynn isn’t working for me. But the five suggestions from ChatGPT like sending readers to my social media or education links aren’t what I want either. Wait, yes I do! Earlier I mentioned validating emotions and a recent video I watched was really helpful with this. Tootles!
Link (start at 8 minutes)
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 