The Heavy

If the earth needs night as well as day, wouldn't it follow that the soul requires endarkenment to balance enlightenment? ~ Tom Robbins, "Jitterbug Perfume"
Lila was a surly little thing tonight. Furrowed brow, pouty lips and all, she smattered me with heavy questions when I scooped her up to kiss her tan cheeks and drop her pj'ed bottom underneath her Indian print quilt: "If all I do is draw and, and... talk, what else am I to do. With my life?" then... "I love my family, I do. But, if another family doesn't know me, and if strangers don't know me, well... then they won't love me. Why won't I be loved by them?" (Heavy sobbing, big questioning hazel eyes, followed up by): "And where is Maximus? He doesn't even know that I love him? Where is Tinkerbell, by the way? I met her. Where is she?" Holy toddler angst.

A few of my friends have had a rough go of it recently. Understatement. And with awful Irene, the looming 10th anniversary and constant memory of 9/11, what's going on in Libya and Somalia, barrages of sad photos and news on the Internet... Man. How is one supposed to keep shit light 24/7? Seriously. Are we even supposed to?

I haven't figured it out. I get bummed. Big time. Many of us have amazing reason. And I don't mind sharing that this shit makes me so incredibly sad sometimes. Hell, I'm even sharing it with the eleven people who read this blog. (Ten? Oh kay.)

I like the thought of being honest with each other. For some reason, this is enlightening to me:

I am a Liberal, Red Sox loving, Penn State alumni who believes in God; embraces Buddha; kisses the ocean; wishes she were a surfer, were it not for her primal fear of sharks (hailing from Upstate NY); and prefers fans over A/C, Corona over Cosmos, puns over rehearsed humor, and Levi's over Gucci suits. I have a love affair with nighttime snow, I seek refuge in friends with history, and I will never discount New York City for the best night anyone can ever experience. My musical tastes range from Muse to Jack Johnson; Sinead O'Connor to Matisyahu; the Little River Band to Amos Lee; and George Winston to Mickey Avalon. I like my body, I get pissed at my hair, I'm the exact same nerd I was in high school, and I'm the worst dancer you'll ever meet. And I've always believed in love. Ever since I heard Elvis C's "I Want You," and perhaps Vivaldi.

Oh, and I got to figure out all of the aforementioned because I had both a sad and happy path. I didn't end up the way I thought I would. I worked my ass off to make relationships not work. I tried so freaking hard to make some love affairs bust. I danced too long with guys who looked across the floor. (Not at me.) I loved more people than I should have. Maybe.

Thank God. Thank Buddha. Thank you, Ang. Thanks to Will Farrell. Who knows, but I am so happy for the miserable mistakes I've made and the incredible realizations I've come to. I have the "heavy," still. But it's sitting underneath my cooler of Corona. And it's melting.


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