charlie dickens, write me a benefactor.
I was composing a long email to my dearest friend today, and I finalized something that has been pin-balling around in my head since the new year. I will include the excerpt here 1) for you to hold me to and 2) to solidify for myself. It's vulnerable, I know - but I am probably too okay with that.
I will let go of what I assume others are thinking/feeling concerning me.
I will let go of feeling guilty about needing so much alone/non-social time.
I will let go of my need to be needed and let god work more fluidly in my relationships - feeding and acting upon what authentically pours out and refraining from acting out of obligation.
I will let go of feeling abandoned when others get together without me, realizing that I am indeed thankful that they are taking care of each other and not overly reliant upon me.
I will let go of the thoughts that I hate people and that I am bad at loving them and that I can exist without them.
I will let go of trying to preserve my image and instead preserve myself.
There is nothing like the advise, "just let go" to stir up my rebellious anger. I have never been able to do that much less find comfort in the words. In fact, they have served in the past as a demonizer of my already hellish issues. But for whatever reason, I have lately been finding some sort of courage and determination (dare I call it thick-skin?!) to let go. It has been very intentional and meticulous, but so far, not as toilsome as I anticipated. I do not think telling someone to let go will bring about the release they need, so it feels like a very benevolent gift from the cosmos...or perhaps it's all the psychological work I have been determined to see through finally paying off in some way.
Perhaps if I let go organically, I can rely less on vodka. Here's to hoping.
In other news, Joel and I walked to see "Slumdog Millionaire" last night and fully enjoyed it. Though not the goal of the movie by any means, I walked away with the bursting desire to travel. There is so much of this world that I know nothing about. I was close to going home, selling all my possessions, and moving to wherever the wind takes us (this, of course, presents obvious problems for someone with my personality type, but I try not to kill my dreams before they get their own breath).
In the spirit of not killing a dream (that I know won't happen- HEY STOP IT DREAM CRUSHER), let's take a trip down my future excursions.
One month taking Joel everywhere I went in Europe (Paris, Avignon, Cassis, Nice, Venice, Florence, Rome).
One month of Joel taking me to the village he stayed in on a work trip to Poitiers, France.
One week in the Almafi Coast of Italy.
One month in Portugal and Spain.
One month in Morocco.
Six months at home.
One month in India.
A couple of weeks in China and the Philippines.
One month back to Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, and Norway.
One month in London with trips all over the British Isles.
Six months at home.
Two weeks in Mexico with my parents.
Two weeks in Costa Rica.
Two weeks in Brazil.
Two weeks in Chile.
Six months home.
Two weeks in the Caribbean.
Two weeks home.
Two weeks in Australia and New Zealand.
One month in Hawaii.
One year visiting friends and family in Washington DC, Orlando, Savannah, NYC, Cincinnati, Chicago, Arizona, Idaho, San Diego, Los Angeles, Lancaster, Sacramento, San Francisco, Redding, and Portland.
Yes, perhaps then I will feel as though I have lived. I have no wish to travel as an American, but would instead prefer to live with local families while in these various countries, or build houses, or feed children, or any kind of project that puts the local culture right into my hands.
So I am taking names for the position of my benefactress.
Oh Miss Havisham*, where are you?
~determined, released, and dreamy,
crm
*Actually, Miss Havisham is not the benefactress, though Pip thinks so for most of his adult life. In fact, his secret benefactor was Magwitch, the convict. Sorry to spoil the book you should have read ages ago.
me and my mom: 1978
one exposure night by mapleleif (the first artist who saw the artist in me...)
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