(Blogger finally let me finish this long windy passage.) Picken' Rocks, Wild Woman, Witches and Other Folk Lore In My Head

My dad, he gave me a broken Nordic Track over thanksgiving break, if that's even what it's called, it's most likely a knock off of some kind, a left over from one of his wives, she took it with her when she left my dad, along with everything else that wasn't tied down or attached to his house in some way, then when she broke it, she brought it back and left it in his basement. An old broken treadmill, just what every basement needs.

(My man, he spent about two weeks tinkering with the broken treadmill, it works right as rain now, my dad had a hunch that the man could get it to workin', and he's not of a mind to throw things away that can be fixed, or to keep things he has no mind to use. He's taught me so much in this life, even with few words.)

Now I'm not sayin' she was a bad person, just that she needed things, and my dad, not so much, no. Everything THING that my dad has, apart from his house, truck and classic car, a thirty year old Riviera that he just can't seem to let go of, could be stored in a fifteen by eight foot storage facility.

For real, he has a bed and dresser, he has a kitchen table and chairs, he has a sofa, small chair and TV--that takes like twenty minutes to warm up since he blew out the Instamatic setting on it fifteen years ago, but, well, he's a patient man--he has a coffee table and two end tables, he has a beautiful old library table, he bought a spare bed for me and mine, for when we come to visit. He has a collection of light houses, six in all, and three mirrors on his walls. He has a few towels, pans, washer and dryer, radio, and his clothes.

He had an expensive sweeper--dad's kind of a freak about cleanliness--but crazy lady took that with her while he was laid up in the hospital.

Not many people can list all of their worldly possessions in two paragraphs, my dad can. He's never been into things. He likes his home sparsely furnished and clean. He likes his life clean, uncomplicated by things, and sometimes people too.

Why am I listing all of his shit? I'll tell ya, lately, since he's been sick, every time I go to visit him he tries to give me some of his things, and it's really beginning to wear on me, because I know, that he knows that he doesn't HAVE much longer.

Oh hell, okay, so nobody really knows how long they have, but it's almost like he's trying to prepare me, trying to force me to face it, accept it, and be alright with it. He's trying to wake up in me the wild woman who snuffles and smells the air, who knows and accepts that we are born, we live and we die. (WTH? I published this thing twice and it's not finished...)

But I don't want to face it, think about it, see it, or smell it even. I turn off my inner voice; I refuse to hear/see. I play in my land of make believe where my dad is always strong, always good, and always there for me if I need him, not that I would actually call him if I needed him, but I could, you know? Yes, I could.

And so, what if, what if every time I go to see him he stopped giving me things? He stopped giving me broken treadmills and little boxes of trinkets that he purchased via readers digest, wrapped in old news paper, clutter he never really wanted but bought for some woman who happened to leave it behind? What if, would he be lasting longer then?

Please stop dad, please stop giving me things, I can't face what it eventually means. Please. He was, is, my safety net. He was, is my connection to what is good and right in this world. He is my half of the world that wasn't messed up. I am not willing to let that go.

I can't.

That easy smile, that uncomplicated, gentle nature, that unspoken comfort and knowing that exists there, between us, we who have very little words to communicate to each other, but me, who knows he was sent here to this place to see to it that I came out alright. To see to me.

My safety net, my refuge, my human who taught me to cope. Not directly mind you, that would have required words, but by his actions, by his presence, by his wisdom and few words.

Snooks, maybe you just need to pick a few rocks, turn it over in your mind, I could tell you what to do, but it wouldn't be the same. You're strong, you're a good soul, go pick some rocks and make it better. I know you can.

Something happened to me when I would begin to bend to pick those rocks, I would smell the earth, smell the air, pick a rock, toss it in the bucket and begin to hear the right voice in my own head. Faintly at first but , with every muscle that moved, the voice within me grew stronger, until I could hear what was right, and would know what I needed to do.

I can't lose that connection, even now, but in listening to that voice I know, I must face what I know to be true.

There is a wild woman in all of us, she lives and breathes depending on how we feed her. She is NOT always nice, she is NOT always compliant, she is NOT always awake, but she is there when we need her, and even there when we refuse to hear her, waiting until we feed her, until we listen to her, or let her speak, until we realize that she is the only one who can save us,

and he gave me that.

He gently saw to it that I knew she was there, and now he is forcing me to call on her to see what I must accept.

And I am fighting her.

We all fight her, we push her down and away when she tells us that we are in danger of losing someone, or being hurt, or both. We tell ourselves that that feeling we have is irrational, and sometimes it is if your cyclothymic like me, but sometimes it's the wild woman telling us to trust our instincts, trust what is innate, trust what we know in our soul to be true.

I'm still looking for that balance, that balance that allows me to nurture her and accept the things I cannot change, to accept this life as it is, the dark and the light, just as the mother wolf instinctively accepts what is, and goes on in this life, and to change the things I can.

I'm grappling, I'm fighting because I know that to deny her is to deny myself, to lose her would be to lose what he gave me; myself, completely and yet to keep her I must face losing him.

So, as usual, I am a fruit loop, without the milk today, yet soggy from the tears that pour from my psyche.

This forum is a place called grumpy old bitches, and I fit that description when I allow my inner voice to be heard; and when I listen to my inner voice. You see when I really listen to that voice I hear about a lot of things in this life that call to be changed, and I hear things that call for resigned acceptance.

It is in separating the two that we as human creatures shine and change the things that need to be changing, and accept that things that we must.

Do I believe that grumpy old bitches is a negative connotation? Oh hell no. See if there's one thing I've learned, that I often forget though, is that we all need to head that voice within us, it is the gnarling, flesh eating, raw, instinctual catalyst that brings about great change, and forces us to accept what cannot be changed and IT knows the difference.

I fight to embrace the wild woman; witch; grumpy old bitch within me, and I live to smell another day, even though I know I must let him go, or I bury her entirely, risk losing myself and what he gave me.