Letting Go June 11, 2011Posted by sarahsfate in My Own Personal Trials, PostADay2011.
Tags: broken dreams, Dream, dreams, let go, letting go, Life, Love, Relationships, starting over, Thoughts on Life
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Verb 1: let go of – release, as from one’s grip
Until today I don’t think I ever really understood the significance of letting go. I hear people say ‘let it go’ all the time when something is upsetting or annoying. Topically speaking, it just means ‘don’t worry about it’. Or when something bothers me I say I’m just going to let it go. Again, so as not to worry and stress over it. But this almost always means that whatever that something is, it is small. Insignificant.
Letting go, is entirely different.
Today I wandered around my house thinking about the past. The past equals all things that have effected me up to this point in my life. 32-years worth of little somethings that create a larger whole picture of Sarah. Some of those little things I no longer remember and it doesn’t mean that those things were bad things or boring things…they’ve just faded away. Some of those little things are happy memories I cherish all the time…things that have followed me through the many days, weeks, months, and years of my time here in this life.
Other things, though, are bad things. Sad things. Angering things. And today I thought about the sad things. One thing, in particular. I had this person in my life for years who I built so many dreams around and he was (in my mind) someone very special. Special to me. Special in this world. Just special. And I kept trying to find a way to fit him into my life even though no matter what I tried, I failed. And I’m not a quitter so I kept trying. For years. I simply could not let go of that dream. It’s like growing up with the plan to go to Harvard, or Julliard, or to be an actress or quarterback. It’s a dream for your future that you work towards in a lifelong commitment of smaller plans that lead up to the great plan.
But I’m the quarterback who sustained a life-altering knee injury in the game. And just like that, the dream died. Stubborn and unready to give up on the dream, I worked out and stretched the injury, slapped band-aids on it, fought back the tears. But eventually I came to realize the dream was over.
And still I fought against it. I’ve lived in my own mind now for a long time, sequestering myself and my future in and around this dream. Until today. Today I realized that no matter how much I still want that dream and no matter how much I think those band-aids might eventually turn into wound-altering sutures, I have to let it go. The idea of taking something I love with my whole soul, tying it to an invisible balloon and letting it float away on the breeze, is terrifying. Heartbreaking.
That’s how I know letting go of something is significantly different from letting something go.
Holes June 9, 2011Posted by sarahsfate in My Own Personal Trials, PostADay2011.
Tags: bored, Life, Love, writing
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“One must desire something, to be alive.”-Margaret Deland
I am 32-years old and have always loved a man. Not always the same man. When my heart has been broken, it has taken the desire of a new man in order to heal my heart and move on. Therefore, even though it’s not always been the same man, I’ve always loved a man.
The difference in my mood, behavior, and train of thought is obvious to me. I find very little funny, very little interesting, and very little worth the effort of any effort whatsoever. It’s deadening. I’ve been sitting here thinking tonight about the feeling…trying to figure it all out because I’m an overly-analytic person. And what I’ve realized is that Margaret is right…you have to desire something in order to be alive. Even if your desire isn’t a mate, you need the feeling of excitement — those butterflies, the breathless anticipation of whatever it is.
For me it is the breathless anticipation of the sound of his voice, the smell of his skin. When you desire someone, the whole world fades into insignificance, disappearing altogether until the moment of his arrival and suddenly the hills really are alive with the sound of music. It’s like that scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy steps out the front door of her black and white existence and into techni-color munchkin land.
I try not to be so stupid about love, I honestly do. And sometimes I’m fine. But other times, seems more and more frequently now while I’m in this hole, I wonder why I bother painting my face, artfully securing my long hair back, and changing out of sweats. Why do anything more exotic than rolling over in my bed and returning to sleep. Because the dreams are currently better than reality.
It’s pathetic I know. I just…I’ve never experienced this hole before. It’s as boring as this blog.
The Smell of Grass June 1, 2011Posted by sarahsfate in My Own Personal Trials, PostADay2011.
Tags: Earth, garden, Grass, green, Home, Landscaping, Lawn, Life, memories, Plants, smell of grass, Thoughts on Life
When I was a little girl I used to sit outside in my grandmother’s yard while she talked to me of things of old and I’d lose myself in the smell of grass. I spent hours lying on my back in the grass, staring up at the blue sky and lazily drifting puff clouds, daydreaming and losing myself in the smell of grass.
What is it about the tangy scent of a freshly mowed lawn to capture the senses? Those thin blades are so vibrant, so green, and testify by their very existence the continuity of life. Even if that life is nature. How long has grass existed on Earth? Longer than I have. Longer than any of us have. And still its here. You may not see it in the city where people have chosen to live sans landscape, but in the country the grass grows wild in a haven of unencumbered life. It’s unrestrained, undemanding and, if left alone, will branch out in an untethered blanket of billowing green.
It’s beautiful. I love driving through the country with my windows down so I can inhale the crisp scent…there is nothing else like it. And while I love the smell intensely and might wonder (for the smallest of moments) why it remains unbottled…I suppose I would rather smell perfume on my skin…perhaps Noir, which I find desperately lovely, rather than ode de grass.
But…it’s a thought.