What doesn't kill you...

People who build you up. People who inspire you. People who break you. People who enter and exit your life without you noticing. People who shape you. People who you help create.

The other night I was conversing with a dear friend of mine when he said, "... I am a master at keeping people well past an arms length from my heart... She not only broke my heart, but my soul as well..." This conversation, these words have lingered in my bones for days. They have dangled like chandelier earrings while I brush my teeth in the mirror each morning. They have massaged my scalp, repeating as I wash, rinse, repeat. It's not the notion, the idea of being broken by someone. I am more than experienced with the devastation rooted in a broken heart. It's the idea that has wedged itself in between the curve of the B, lounging like James Dean on the T. People, and how a person can effect us.

It is wildly debated, does a person have power over us or do we ALLOW them to have power over us. I really don't know how I feel about that. I know that even though I walk around daily with a false bravado and confidence brushing my shoulders like my red curls what people say haunts me. Is that because I ALLOW it to, or because the truth is people are what makes the person?

I can think, without strain, of at least five people who have helped shape me into the woman I am today. A neighbor who let me borrow her sexy romance novels when I was 12. A man who I was too scared to call "Dad." A teacher who taught me to read. A man who engulfed every ounce of me like a Cuban cigar, letting me stain his fingertips and make a home of his lungs, just close enough to his heart to make me feel warm before releasing me into the stale, cool air. Women who inspire me. Women who encourage me. Women who are better than me.

A person is the company they keep. A person is the experiences they have.

I think people need to focus more on what is going on, instead of what is ahead. The stranger sitting two seats in front of you on the bus, the girl who brings you your pasta bowl refill, the boy who rotates your tires... who is the judge on what is significant? Who decides what is significant, and what will or won't effect you years down the line.

I know I carry with me far more than I ever expected from the people who I have crossed paths with. But, at the end of the day it is those things I carry that create the creative, loving, affectionate, ambitious, ruthless woman I am today.

I feel no shame in that. Maybe hesitation. Perhaps a little fear. Even a little resistance. But no shame.

Potential

In one of my favorite scene's of one of my favorite movies, the 2006 Jason Matzner movie titled Dreamland, Justin Long who plays Mookie tells Agnes Bruckner who plays Audrey "I want to read everything you write" right before they have a very extended, passionate, almost kiss. It's a big climax in the story for both characters for different reasons, and the intensity just lingers along the sandy desert as the scene fades out with Mookie walking away.

I've always loved that movie, especially that scene. To read everything a writer writes is like stripping them naked and discovering every inch, every freckle, every imperfection and perfection about their character, their soul and there heart. It's more than being naked, it's being ripped open.

I had a similar experience recently. It didn't include a long, extended, passionate, almost kiss or the extent of deep emotional climax... but to hear the words "I want to read everything you write/I love everything you write," was touching and flattering.

Truth be told, my heart is still fluttering from the unexpectedness of it.

I suspect it will be for quite some time.

Back to Basics

Anyone who knows me, or reads my blog regularly knows I've had an extremely difficult year. In July Rick and I separated, and then in February decided to formalize our separation with a pending divorce. With countless fights, numerous emotional breakdowns, broken promises, lies, two moves, two jobs and countless sleepless nights I lost myself. I could feel that things were off. I didn't feel like myself. The night of my second move this year I sat in the backseat of Mitch's jeep while Mitch and Cale sat in the front. With a few beers in me, and the top of the jeep down I leaned back and let the crisp air wash over me like a baptism. I felt calm, I felt happy. Laughter erupted from me without hesitation, transforming from a chuckle to a full blown cackle. I remember Mitch smiling and saying to Cale, "oh the cackle, how I have missed the cackle."

His words have lingered in the back of my mind for a month now. I've tried to remember instances in the past year when I have laughed like that. I can't remember a single one. Until recently. I've been lucky enough to spend time with a friend recently who makes me cackle, and that alone makes me feel more like myself then I have in over a year.

I know it seems odd, to associate so much of myself with something as simple as a laugh. I just hope the cackle remains. It feels good to be able to laugh so hard again.

A Feeling I Need.

I remember how it felt when I sat behind the wheel of Rick's Exterra in Georgia and realized the smiling soldier was him.

Fear. Anxiety.  Love.  Excitement. My heart literally melting at the joy in his eyes. I've never felt so proud and so appreciated because of the relief across his face.

I remember the feeling... but I can't imitate it. And these days, I wish I would have let it linger longer or bottled it up so I could feel it now.

I need that feeling now.