Hungry

I've been listening to a podcast with Jon Gabriel and one of his successful coaching students.  She talks about being hungry... hungry for the emotional work she has had to do to be able to begin to finally feed and nurture herself and lose weight.

I have been realizing lately just how hungry I am.  I've done SO MUCH emotional work over the years.  Endless self-help books.  Years of therapy.  Years, now, of meditation and spiritual practice.  

I've dating anyone who would love me.  Dated anyone I thought maybe I could love.  I've spent the past three years, now, not really dating.  Last fall when a dear friend started emailing me regularly, deep in the throes of divorce pain, I thought, again, that maybe THIS was the thing I'd been waiting for my whole life.

That's even what he advertised.  And, at least he admits it, now, with some level of remorse for what he unintentionally did--which was to do exactly what so many had done before him.. make promises he actually couldn't, or didn't want to keep.

And I don't even have (much) regret.  What I have is really, just... sadness.  A lot of it.  My ex-husband and father-of-the-children, in a bizarre twist of life weirdness, has been taking meditation courses, and is now in what we call "core" where he is beginning to wake up to all the things he's been so, so sleepy with for all these years.  And I'm the one who is crying.  Crying about the divorce again (after 14 years).  Crying about the childhood stability that my children didn't have.  Crying about a near empty nest... about losing a key component of my identity that goes back half of my lifetime to this point.  Crying about not knowing what the next forty years could possibly look like since the first forty have been nothing like anything I'd planned.  

And as I continue to wake up to all the things I've been so, so sleepy with for all these years, I realize that this mad hunger I have had for so, so long... is not really what I thought I was hungering for.  I have lived an imagined life.  Not imaginary.  Imagined.  I have spent the majority of my 46 years saying that I'm a poet.  A dancer.  A gardener.  A camper.  A hiker.  A physical being.  But I never dance.  Or garden.  Or camp, anymore.  I haven't actually hiked for years and years.  I haven't gardened for so long that I've forgotten how to prepare soil, would have no time to get my hands dirty.  I can't even find time to clean up the dog poop in my yard.  I've been so, so tired.

I've survived.  I've made it through each week with a few pennies left between paychecks most weeks.  And I've learned and learned hard lessons.

It's true that I've developed some level of expertise in some areas.  People tell me now that I've got some wisdom, and that I'm a leader.  But I still clench my stomach each day as I drive to work--afraid, maybe, that someone will figure it out.  That I have no idea why I'm here on this planet, or what it is I am doing that makes my life meaningful.  Aside from feeding my children, which I continue to try to do, even though two have now grown up and moved out, I am not sure what good I am to the world.  And for some reason, it actually matters.

I'm a skeptic, hungry to know that the world has meaning.  I'm a healer without anyone to heal, having lost the belief that this world can be healed.  I'm a mom with only one child left at home, and a really huge (for one person) house, with old dogs who won't likely live much longer than my last child's final days of high school.  And then it's just me, plugging every extra cent into my nearly empty-at-this-point retirement account, and hoping someday to carve out a few thousand dollars to go see The David in Italy before I die. Me alone in the world, trolling around social media each evening, looking for some illusive connection to other human beings, looking for some online political discussion to crash.  

I'm hungry to get all my words out.  I guess, I'm hungry to write. I used to fill journals and journals with words, working out my emotions and my ideas on the pages.  I no longer believe that anyone will read them.  I doubt those old journals will ever be opened again.  God knows I don't want to re-read all that nonsense.  I've lived it already.  There's nothing I can do to bring back those old imaginings, really.  My kids are grown.  Those opportunities are gone.  What's left is whatever it is---but nothing I had planned, exactly.  It's a strange, strange place to be.

I want to dance I think.  I want to camp again, and hike.  I want to read books.  Not listen to books on audible.com.  I want to read them.  And I want to dig deep into the soil and find a way to heal it, to plant in it, to grow something that will produce a fruit with viable seeds.  

I am hungry for connection.  I am hungry for myself.

OK then, Cupid. Bring it!

So, here I am again.  It's time for my annual post.  I am, of course, just coming off another little okcupid bender.  Well.. I updated my profile tonight, for whatever that's worth.

I've made a commitment to quell my swelling Facebook addiction, and therefore need to find something to do with all this free time with which I now find myself.  Yesterday I called in sick and spent the day ruminating on some frank realities.  First, my youngest daughter is on vacation with her dad which leaves me in a mostly empty house, facing the truth that in three years, this will be my daily condition.  My oldest moves out next month, as does my friend/roommate, whom I'll call "C".  He found the perfect place in the perfect location and put his money down on it this week. I'm relieved to have him go, to be honest.  That's a very long story which it will do me no good to discuss in this blog post, but suffice it to say, his being here has made for a too long (and too short) summer.  I'm happy he has found a place, and I'mn especially happy that his intense emotion and particularly his intense self-focus will be playing out in his own space vs. in mine.  I love him to pieces, but OMG, he's a narcissist, which is probably what I like about him in the first place.  I'm nothing if not consistent in my general taste in friends/relationships.  

So, to get to the discovery of the week.  I'm 45 years old.  Yep.  Soon to be 46.  And in three years, my youngest child will be moving out--heading, if she has her way, to make her fortune in LA, the land of dreams and disappointments.  I like my job. I like my life.  And what in the f*** am I going to do with the next 45 years of it?  I know, I know.  I could technically be dead tomorrow, but if I were to make a guess at what will most likely happen, I'd have to admit that 3 of my 4 grandparents have lived into their 80s-90s, which means I basically could be at exactly MID-life.  My plan was to do what my parents did.  Marry.  Have kids.  Raise them. Travel. Build a successful career.  Retire with my spouse of a zillion years, and live happily into my golden years with grandkids tumbling all around me.  Serve in church callings.  Maybe serve a mission.  That was my plan.  But here I am, 45, not married, not religious... and alone, with no real prospects.  I am tired (out-of-my-mind-tired) of trying to create something new in the way of relationships at this stage of my life, especially given that most of the men who actually want to grow old with a spouse are still happily married to the one they originally chose.  C, I believed, was my last, best hope.  I believed this for a number of reasons.  But, that's so never going to happen, I now see.  The bridge has been entirely burned. And so here I am, wondering how to "restructure" my life plan in a way that makes sense.  I have the successful career-building thing going on.  check.  I've nearly raised my kids, (who aren't sure if they want any tumbling children to fill my house with). check.  But the marry thing, along with every additional, sad relationship attempt since my divorce, has basically amounted to 23 years of disastrous failure and disappointment, not to mention exhaustion.  I'm done with that, I believe.  The travel thing may never happen, given the realities of my financial life, although I do intend to keep working toward at least one trip to Italy before I die.

I used to imagine a romantic gondola ride through the streets of Venice, but I'm slowly letting go of such fantasies.  What I want, more than a romantic boat-ride fantasy, is whatever is actually real.  And what may be real about my life and my future is that it's time to develop a romance with myself (and when I get to Italy, a romance with the city, and the experience, itself).  I am coming to terms with the reality that I don't actually need a partner to have these experiences.  I really might prefer to wander Italy alone, lingering where I want to linger... taking in the beauty of whatever beautiful thing catches my eye.. without having to make it good for someone else, or without having to cater to someone else's whims.  No.  Traveling alone doesn't scare me at all.  Traveling alone might be ideal.

What frightens me is coming home each day to such quiet, day after day after day.. for 45 years.

I've used Facebook as a way to "feel" connected, and in some ways, it's the perfect connection for me.  I  can act all smart, all politically informed, all conscious and conscientous, without having to listen when Facebook talks back.  I can pretend that these "likes" and "posts" and "comments" somehow mean that I have friends, and a life.  But this past week, as my daughter prepared and left for her week-long vacation, it really settled in around me.  The quiet.  The reality.  In the end, Facebook creates an illusion.  I like it, but it doesn't fill up the silence when the long weekends loom, one after the other.  The routines of my daily life aren't enough to make up for the lack of meaningful interaction with other human beings.  Work fills up some of the gap, but my co-workers go home to their spouses and families each night.

And so do I.  For now.

I just wonder what will fill my time when I AM my family.  When the girls are gone and my old dogs have passed away, what will I be doing each evening?  How will I stay connected to the world?  What will I do for 45 years?

I don't have to solve this or fix it right now.  I imagine my life will unfold, as it always has, and in unexpected ways.  But I want to be realistic and know where I'm headed, at least.  Assuming that my kids continue to show signs of being healthy human adults with friends and lives of their own, I have to start looking at all my available choices for building a life of MY own. Is this house where I want to live?  Is this job where I want to stay and retire?  If/when I come home to the quiet every night, what will make my life meaningful?  What will make me feel like I'm living? I've already explored and had a myriad of sexual experiences. I'm already on a meditation/spiritual path.  I"ve done every kind of relationship configuration (ad nauseum).  I've raised kids, rehabilitated pets, seen births and deaths.  I've been religious. I've left religion.  I've volunteered. I've taken little community classes.  Besides traveling, there isn't much I haven't done. So what next?  A tattoo?  Lol.  Maybe.  But then what?

I've spent so many years just giving.  I love to give, but I don't know how to even begin giving to my Self.  Being with C was going to mean having someone to share with, to talk to, to "build" something with.  I can build something for myself but I guess I'm unclear about what it is that I want to build.  And what is actually possible?  The trips to Cozumel that he promised are not an option, even if I wanted that--which I don't, actually.  One trip to Italy, might be my bucket list goal, and will be far in the future, if at all.  And planning one trip to Italy doesn't give my life meaning.  It gives me a project, but a project isn't enough.  

Age 45.  Generally content. Wondering what I want to be (and do) when I grow up.  It's an odd little place to be, this middle age.