Wanderess

Posted on

With every trip around the sun that I get the privilege of experiencing, the more evident it is to me that I am a collector. A gatherer of emotions.

A large segment of my soul thrives on capturing feelings. The emotions incarnated by people, places, and even things. It’s an inner craving to feel this life, and an addiction of mine to translate my experience into words. Writing them onto paper is a driving force and an act ignited somewhat by fear. My family genetics do not guarantee that I’ll get to keep the memories I’ve cultivated. Words like Alzheimer’s and dementia are true threats, both of my grandfathers suffered and passed separately from each. For me, writing feels proactive, a strategy that will ensure that my memories, the love I’ve felt and written for people and places, the words that hold my life, live beyond any disease.

After I came back from Maui last year, I came across a word. A name. It sat in a quote written by Roman Payne, and it was enchanting. It was the first time I truly tasted an inhale, the breath needed to dance the syllables of the word off my tongue. I know that must sound strange, but it’s the only way I can describe it. It held life, the same as the inhale.

The word?

“Wanderess.” It connected with every little fiber of my savage heart. I’d found a slice of myself in that word, and if I had to define what the word wanderess encompasses for me, I’d say it’s the endless chase–I’m not lost, or without–rather being led by an inner flame set to pilot, but in constant search of kindling.

Certain people and places are my kindling. My husband. My daughters. My family. My home. Colorado, and the ocean. These people, places stoke a fire within me, setting my heart ablaze.

The ocean, sigh. Eight days ago, after a five-day girls’ trip, I left the ocean and it felt like agony. The emotion was confusing, and quickly guilt arose. Motherhood and even wifedom can be a soul’s ruthless opponent. After all, I was returning to the five loves of my life, my family–the very highlights of any legacy I can craft–and surely I am relaxed and elated, and to every degree that matters I was, and by every degree that contradicts your conscience I was also sad.

I love the ocean. To be honest, it’s a certain type of love affair. After a week of separation, the first glance, feel, and sound of it is still a pristine recollection. I can vividly recall my first step onto the fluffy surface of the white sand, the soothing rustling of waves lapping the shore in the distance, and even the squeal of elation that left my throat.

The sting of the sun, the burn your bare irises incur from the sparkling reflection of its rays upon the rolling waves–the view infinite. To wear sunglasses feels like an injustice. It’s a view you want to see, capture. The way your feet melt into the sand, its swift caress between your toes. The soft glide as it brushes across the bridge of your feet, and caves under your step.

The lick of ocean water at your ankles, and the power you feel as you submerge yourself fully. It envelops you, enticing you to follow the wave receding from your body’s grasp. The taste of salt on your tongue, and the bite it invokes when it invades your eyes. How all renders nearly silent save for the white noise of water shattering against itself over and over.

The ocean is an incarnation of emotion. A seamless paradox, and my wanderess heart is forever captivated, held without touch. ❤

Love Affair

Posted on

lxemu7v0-mq-clarisse-meyer-3
There are so many love affairs in this life. For instance, I have an ongoing love affair with thin mint Girl Scout cookies—I will selfishly not share the box(es) I buy and honestly, I normally consume, in one sitting, enough to kill a diabetic. It’s wrong, I admit it. But thin mints are literally too legit to quit (and if you love them too, we probably can’t be friends because I won’t share. Period. Worse, I wouldn’t be above stealing them from you. Also, I’d make no apologies about said stealing either.  #sorrynotsorry)

I also have a love affair with music, more preferably my apple playlists.  The quote, “can’t explain, but I’ll find a song that can” has almost become the mantra of my life.

But most importantly, I have an ongoing love affair with my tribe of women. These are the women who give me life.

As a collective whole, they offer the best entertainment (the laughs that rival any ab circuit), advice (with wine), and therapy (that doesn’t cost $150 an hour and is just as golden).  They let me exist in a space free of judgment, but have no qualms about telling me when I’m wrong without abandoning me, or chalking me up as a lost cause–even when I play the same broken record on repeat.

These women’s shoulders have held my sobs and squeezed me just as tightly when I succeeded as they do when I failed.  This circle of women, these beautiful souls, fill the emotional gaps that exist in marriage.  This pack of fierce lady wolves have grown me, celebrated me in ways I could never repay.  And my life is so much better for it.

Half a year into my thirties, the truest gift I’ve learned to date, would be understanding that women are one of the most beautiful creations. Period.  We are all things gorgeous, better we get “it” and the ugly. And best, we can speak to it.  There is nothing in this world like having a tribe of women who love, support, uplift, and honor women.

And as the mother of four daughters, this is a celebrated truth I wish to impart on my daughters–the liberation, power, and love that comes from the bond of having a strong connection to a tribe of trusted women is a sacred gift.  It’s a love affair that rivals very few others.

If I celebrated all of my tribe in this blog post…it would be a tomb and most likely take Proust’s Guinness record, so in lieu of that…I’ll settle on highlighting one.  Strictly because if not for her, I don’t know that I would love women how I love them today.  In truth, because of this, this woman has made me a better mother–which is an invaluable gift.

To date, I haven’t written about her specifically, probably because she’s the thin mint of friends, and I’m not good at sharing those. Ever. (And in a sick way, I’d hurt anyone that steals her. She is mine. *insert the knife emoji here*)

But, I have to celebrate her…it’s how I love.  It wasn’t until my twenties that I understood that a loving rhetoric, words of affirmation, was my default love language for all of my relationships. I believe we should celebrate individuals for who they are versus trying to hide who they are not.

I love through words in all aspects of my life. And because of that I can often be that “person” that most of us have experienced at some point in our lives: the inebriated friend that will make an incessant declaration of love, usually tearfully reciting how much they love a person…except I’m not drunk when I “overshare” why I adore a person. #imkindofalunaticbutlovemethroughitokay

I think it’s partially derived from the word loving harpy within me (that imaginary sparkly crown wearing, tequila wine consuming, type B personality, “I’ll keep you wild” woman that flits and dances on a string of romantic and cruel words inside my skull, and who is constantly at war with “domestic Sarah.” She makes me fun, but oh so hard to love at times).

But Melissa has loved me through all of it and still to this day, answers my phone calls.

I can’t remember the first time I met her (which family function it was). Nor remember having an epiphany that she was the ultimate friendship goals when I hugged her at my wedding, after saying “I do” to her sister’s son.

Truth was, I didn’t know over the course of the next decade that I’d grow to deeply adore and love this woman on a level that is two seconds shy of creepy.  Honestly, I think I fell in love with her and she had no choice but to be my close friend.

By fate, our husbands’ careers brought us together and often kept us in the same towns.  And as a result, I clung to her.  Which means I probably invited myself over, arrived at lunch, and then was that awkward friend that way overextended their stay (yep, I probably stayed past dinner, too) but (if I did that) I couldn’t help it.  She is one of those people…you crave their presence.  And finally, after a decade of friendship, I think I’ve finally figured out why I’m so captivated by Melissa.

She is that woman, the alluring one who owns every piece of her existence. I haven’t met anyone, to this day, that owns “human” like her.

And being witness to the sight…it’s enchanting.  She doesn’t waste time mulling over imperfections, plotting bullshit, tearing anyone down, obsessing, or being a victim of anxiety.  She just lives.

Yet, she is a vivacious conundrum, because she is the most laid back person I know.  She is beautiful, an awesome mama and wife, has the soft soul of a hippie (and is always the giver to anyone in need), holds the wisdom of a 100-year-old grandma that has lived an exciting life and learned from it and isn’t afraid to share what could rip your heart or bless your soul.  She holds an inner spark of life that makes her the life of the party, but only when she chooses.  She doesn’t own an ounce arrogance–it’s part of her enchantment.  She is everything and assumes nothing.

And she is fun. Cool girl meets wallflower with a touch of mischief.

The gift of her friendship has broadened what it means to me to be selfless, showed me that thoughtfulness and openness is a responsibility to self, but so is self-respect, and taught me the art of accepting others without compromising your values.

She lets me cry, whine, bitch, and bitch some more, constantly pulls me back from the ledge, let’s me talk politics, answers all my questions I have about faith and “what does the bible say about that,” has infinite patience with all my crazy antics (like the time I called telling her that I needed help, because Trav had buried his truck, up to the frame, in mud.  Thirty minutes later, she showed up, in the pouring rain, with two shovels.  After a solid hour of digging in the cold pelting rain and trying not to fall face first in the mud and getting absolutely nowhere, she said, “Sis, I hate to tell you, but I don’t think we’re going to get it.  But if you think we can, I’ll keep digging.”

Or the time I threw Trav an 80’s themed birthday party and asked her, dressed like a hot 80’s groupie, if she could please pick up the food at the caterers and she didn’t bat one eye–even when this meant walking into the speciality grocery store, filled of clueless people, looking like she just got done partying hard at Woodstock–green eyeshadow and crimped hair to say the least.

From being pregnant at the same time (me with my first and her with her last), for being a solid fixture (I will talk you through this) in every rough patch I’ve experience in adulthood, to choosing to stand for me against those you loved, for our Ada and Ardmore days, our vise nights, every room you’ve helped me paint and all the furniture you’ve helped rearrange, the f.u.n. we had at Justin Timberlake and Robin Thicke concerts, for helping me move several times (and all the labor intensive projects I’ve roped you in and never once have you ever complained), for watching my beauties any. time. I. needed. you, for it all…

Melissa, you are one of the great loves of my life and I am so thankful for you.  For your love.  And your friendship.  Thank you for being such a subtle vixen, a true paradox, who I immensely admire!

I love you, always.

P.S. I hope if you’re reading this that you have a Melissa in your life.  Also, tell people how you feel, even if it makes you vulnerable, or them uncomfortable.  Celebrate those you love, they deserve it! #trustdoesnthavetohurt

 

 

Daughter, When You Break Your Own Heart…

Posted on

photo-1429277005502-eed8e872fe52

Years from now, when your eyes reap these written words, you will note the worry strung behind them was mildly premature.  You are so young now, skipping through billowing clouds of innocence; heartbreak seems eons away.

But as I witness you chase after experience, maturing before my eyes, I feel the weight of life’s realities closing in.  The thread of your childhood is swiftly becoming shorter, more fragile with each passing day.

Right now is a reprieve: a true bliss, as my peripheral catches all two feet of you dancing outside of the office doors dressed as Elsa.  This current phase of your life feels safe, because heartbreak is just another word you are learning to pronounce.

At this very moment, it is not a feeling.  A place.  A person.  A memory.

No, not yet…

But it is undeniable, an unstoppable force, a simple truth among mankind that you will make acquaintances with its meaning.

Heartbreak.

{intense and overwhelming grief, especially through disappointment in love}  

There is no escaping its touch, a rite of passage, an experience cementing your existence. It will find you, because you are human.

But truly, I do not fear heartbreak, the kind inflicted by others upon you. This notion does not keep me covered by a blanket of insomnia, lucidly trapped in twilight, nor make my heart skip beats in angst for you.

Those breaks, the dark strokes upon the canvas of your heart, will keep the spark of your humanity lit and in this cruel world that seeks to make your soul hard, those experiences will keep you soft.

As you whimsically twirl out of sight, I can’t escape instinct.  Every fiber within me desires to its very depth to keep you safe, to ward off any ailment of the heart, to shield you from impending, innate heartbreak from others, but I can’t.

As your mama, this truth pushes dread over my body like a dark, suffocating tide.  But it’s not complete dire…

My despair, my tidal wave of deep dread truly lies in the heartbreak of the greatest love affair of all—the love affair you have with yourself.

(self-inflicted) Heartbreak.

Your heart marred by great sorrow, dipped in agony by your own two hands… 

It happens.  We all, at some point during the journey, walk this stage, go down this road–left a prisoner of our own self-pity, feeling trapped behind an unsightly veil of our own creation.  The trial of despising our inner reflection, feeling as though the picture of our own person does not replicate the goodness that lives in our soul.

When this crossroad finds you experiencing self-inflicted heartbreak, casted as the villain behind your heart’s anguish; when you watch your heart break on the hard axis of your own gravity, shattering…

Hear these words, my beauty…

You are not alone.  You are not the first and you will not be the last to walk this path.  The love affair with one’s self is not a monogamous match made in heaven. It is a constant evolution of self-worth. And my love, you are so worthy.

We are all plagued by the human condition; we all suffer, we all make mistakes.  This life is meant to leave marks.

But do not fear, my love.  Heartbreak can be beautiful, it can mean the chance to redefine love for yourself.

In the midst of your sorrow, do not forfeit, or turn blindly away from who I know you to be…

Strong.  Intelligent.  Kind.  Important.  Beautiful.

Face your suffering head on, gaze into its eyes.  Own your agony.  Bloom your remorse.  Accept your own forgiveness.  And let yourself rise.

Feign the courage, baring the will to fight against the dark side of being human.

Do the next right thing for yourself, because you, most of all, are so deserving of your own love.

When you find yourself here, feeling broken by your own volition, pluck those gorgeous pieces of your beautiful heart up off the ground, brush them off with care, lace them together…and let it beat wildly again.

Because you are important to this life, this world, this universe.