the Longest Day

That's what they say, it's the Longest Day. Not being Pagan -- or much of anything, for that matter -- I cannot confirm this statement but enough folks that I love are celebrating, and it seems as good as anything else to do today. Plus, there's acupuncture involved and I cannot turn down medicine for the spirit. Oh, and a trampoline.

I am letting him treat me and I am enjoying it, guiltlessly. He feeds me and waters me, kisses me and kisses me, gazes and smiles and sniffs and nuzzles. I have let myself fall, I'm not holding back, I feel happy in my yearning and fearless in my release. Last night we were awake like teenagers until a ridiculous hour when we gave up, gave in, forgetting the children and regretting the morning. Handmade empenadas, poached eggs and jicama, tea and laughter, so much good in one morning until he left to fulfill his offspring duty from which I am strangely grateful to be exempt.

Today is Father's Day and neither Fergus nor I have one of those. I know a lot of fathers, Marc is one of them and he fathers Fergus well and his daughter even better, but for now we exempt ourselves from any obligatory recognition. I will speak for both of us and venture that we are grateful all days of the year, not just the one marked on my artsy Roman calendar by a lone drawing of a fishing rod and reel, and that there is no expectation, yet, of poorly-written cards or breakfast in bed just to extend an extra thank you. We try hard to honor our blessings regardless of the date. I received a lot of HappyFather'sDays from friends who call me both mother and, but I'm no dad. I'm just a really hardworking mama, and I don't want to father. That was someone else's job and he chose to quit; for now, we make do with and appreciate beyond expression what is extended to us in love and compulsion.

Hinge Oiling

I remember how I used to love being the squeaky wheel, I relished speaking up and making good and getting results; now, the sound of my own voice and the words that come out of my mouth can make me cringe, recoil and jump over the edge in an attempt to catch them and shove them back in. I don't love this new part of the process, the one where the crying starts again but this time it comes from frustration, from desire, from impatience and longing. I'm over this part, I'm ready for the next step.

Recently it was brought to my attention that I speak of It too much, too often, and it was suggested that I move forward, that I get over It; recently, I refrained from suggesting a foot up the suggester's ass. Recently, I was loudly and profanely blamed for It, accused of carrying It out myself; recently, I found myself in the street engaged in a Springer-esque tête-à-tête with said accuser, sobbing and slobbering and behaving like a deranged rooster hell-bent on waking the neighbors whether or not they wanted. Recently, I was once again infantalized beyond my control and crumbled like so much veiny porcelain under a giant's foot. Recently, I conjured courage from heaven-only-knows-where to put out my hand and accept what's put into it without too much shame.

I am tired of fighting. I fight for change, I fight against it, I fight my urges and I fight my protests. I fight against love, I fight against grace, I fight against admiration and I fight against criticism. I am at war with myself, all the time, I am covered with scars and bruises and contradicting badges of glory and failure. I am the State and the Enemy. We are poor bedfellows and we keep each other awake too often.

I am ready to go, this time for real. I am allowing myself to miss someone now, I let in the longing and I give into it more, I don't deprive myself as much. I wasn't aware that I was doing it, I'm not sure I had control over it, but my footing has returned and I am standing, four-corners grounded, waiting with steadfast impatience and quite aware of the contradiction. I'm full of that.

Beyond this pile of bricks at my feet, I found second salvation. I found gratitude and humility and face-aching happiness, I found brutal honestly and the pain that goes along with true love. I found that I don't need to squeak as much; more importantly, I found that my squeaking is acceptable, accepted, appreciated and forgiven. When they, ubiquitous They, suggest that forgiveness of one's self is essential to divine forgiveness, They are not speaking of me.