This morning I wondered why a brunette isn’t referred to as “Bombshell.”
Blondes are called bombshells.
But everyone knows Archie wants Veronica, not Betty.
Then it hit me.
Blondes are bombshells.
I, a brunette, am not.
I am not the encapsulation, I am not the shell.
No, that’s not me at all.
(and you can have it)
I am the substance. The thing within that detonates.
I am the explosive.
And I am ok with that.
The number two is important. I don’t know why yet.
Interesting to me that people would rather be told a lie in a calm and soothing manner than have the truth passionately presented at high volume. It’s the yelling that offends such delicate sensibilities, not the insidious nature of the lie.
If you are triggered by a person, it’s because something about them resonates with your shadow. The part of you that disgusts you. Worth looking at.
The number two. Sides, partners, compliments. Balance, reciprocity, light and shadow, black and white, gaining momentum. Solidarity, brotherhood, twinship. Somehow significant, according to my dreams. Perhaps the message is to embrace both sides. Embrace each other.
I have favorite words. Eviscerate(d) is one. Trepidation is another.
I have favorite numbers, too. 222. 11:34. 86.
Saturday was a test. I felt great about it. I passed. Now I’m on pins and needles to see what comes of it.
My kids taking yoga class is a balm to my heart. How lucky I am.
The grief is beginning to wane, knock on the big wooden door that leads to the netherworld…
Today I didn’t feel like she was dead, I felt like she is alive and with me and in all things. I’ve been working on parenting like she would, spending time outside, appreciating the gift that is life and not lamenting what I can’t change. It is helping, some.
When Bonpapa died (on 7.7) I visited his grave every month on the 7th for a year. It was a devastating loss and I feel things to an approximate depth of 1.2 trillion times more than the average human. So, as felt appropriate to me at the time, I found a way to honor him and who he was to me in dramatic fashion. On the last day, July 7th one year after he passed, I stood over his headstone crying, and I heard:
“Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, he is risen.” It’s Luke 24:5 for those of you not figuratively waterboarded with scripture by old nuns in Catholic school growing up. I got this message, and it was a revelation, and I walked away from the place we buried my beloved jolly wordsmith with a sense of peace I hadn’t known since he died.
Impetus for today: The woman who gave birth to me said that my grief made her look bad, it is disrespectful to her that I refer to my Bonmama as my mother. This went on for days, messages flooding my inboxes. I didn’t respond I just went inward. I blocked her on all but one channel. Later I found out that when she couldn’t get a rise out of me she went to my brother, screaming threats and insults into his voicemail box, calling us ungrateful, threatening to tell people about all the ways we’ve hurt Bonmama before. I mean… yeah. She was enraged. Unhinged.
By the way, if you’re a person I flaked on in the last two weeks, this is why. I just kinda shut everything up, out, and down. I had to. I’m sorry.
If you’re a reader here, you know how much my brother means to me. You know that I am the big little sister, and I watch out for him. My brother is the firstborn, the sensitive caring emotional highly intelligent high-performer. Perfectionist, a little OCD, a lot generous, and a lot genius. He was a sweet, sweet, kid. I won’t pour out our childhood on the page today but I would say that most of his issues fall squarely into the lap of our mother. Bonmama used to say “it’s a wonder you’re sane”.
Bonmama was the closest thing to a mom I had, loving and funny and nurturing. My mom is like a jealous, narcissistic sister.
But I digress…
Today I was driving my kids home from an impromptu trip to Barnes and Noble. You know the kind – where each child has earned around $8.25 doing household chores and somehow it’s enough to buy the $22.95 thing they want so badly it’ll be lost between the bed and the wall in two days time? Yeah. It was good. So they were happily occupied in the back seat and I was lost in thought about Bonmama. The feeling was similar, the thought was similar:
She is alive, and she’s with me, and I can do this.
This whole thing continues to be such a roller coaster but I am learning when to hold on and when to throw my hands in the air, and throughout I continue to be grateful. Gratitude. Another favorite word of mine.
Attitude Soup 