ASYD - Day 39 - Finding Peace

A friend of mine regularly wishes peace for me. Not happiness, not unbridled joy. Just peace. He hopes that I find peace.

It's probably one of the kindest things anyone has ever wished for me. It's a promise of finding pleasure in the moments, and of learning to accept the life I have instead of wishing for something that may never be. It's a wish for a calm mind filled with reason over drive; a warm heart, not a burning passion. 

Today started rough. My uncle died. I wasn't close to him; in fact, barely knew him at all. What I did know, however, was that he was a kind man with a good heart, and his passing at 76 will hurt all of his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and most of all, his wife. He, like his older two siblings - my mom included - died far too young. They all died around 75-ish, my grandfather lasting to 78. Most of you have heard me say that we are not long-lived people, and now you know why I say that. 

This means that all things being equal, I may only have 25 years left, give or take a bit. (Yes, I know that I'm not my parents' generation and medicine has come a long way and and and... hush, please, and just listen to where my mind is.) 

I'm already suffering from all of the ailments my mom had when she died, shy of the lung cancer that killed her. I don't smoke, and never have. I rarely drink anymore - that which killed my father. I exercise regularly, and try to eat healthy. But I'm overweight, and I'm apple-shaped, and so I'm a ticking time-bomb by nearly every CDC standard. My only option is to drop weight... all of the excess weight that I carry, because nothing short of that will help my hip-to-waist ratio, my magic number. That sounds so awfully daunting.

I'm scared, so I'm working hard to get there anyway. 

It's not just the weight that scares me, though. Twenty-five years isn't a very long time anymore. I have a long list of things that I want to do, and only a handful of years to do them. Travel comes first for me, always. I waited a very long time to be able to see the world, and now it's where I will spend my time and money whenever possible. My kids come a very close second, though they've got their own lives to live without a weird old mom in the way. And third, I'd like to find someone that will cherish me - and all of my foibles - while allowing me to be cheesy and cherish them back. Because before I die I want to know what it's like to be truly loved, passionately and openly and shamelessly. 

The morning started with news of my uncle's passing, which led me down this dark tunnel of knowing how short time is now. I took stock of my life - specifically my past loves - and then I went into the office bathroom and cried for a solid 10 minutes. So much pain in those relationships. So many questions about whether the men I dedicated so much of my time and heart to actually reciprocated it. None of them had to work for my love; I gave it freely and with abandon. Yet, I now look back and see all of the work that I did to gain their love. I have no idea if they would have loved me if I hadn't. That wasn't the point. 

The point was that I worked at it because I believed - and still believe probably - that it was the only way that I would be found lovable. If I did the things, said the stuff, felt enough for both of us, then it would be enough and they would love me. They would share that love freely, openly, shamelessly. They would envelope me in their love, their lives, their hearts as I did them. I would be found valuable. Not because of who I am, but because of all that I did for our relationship.

Only that's not how it's ever worked. I've done so much freaking work, and at the end of the day, it wasn't enough. I'm still single at 49, wondering what I could have done differently.

Now the clock is ticking, and I find myself just not caring. Like, Mr. Perfect could walk up to me tomorrow and my response would be, "Yeah. Okay." Because I really don't have the energy nor the drive to be Ms. Perfect again. I've tried it multiple times and all I've gotten is a hell of a lot of heart-ache. I don't want to go there again. I'm 39 days into my self-prescribed celibacy (just over 10% done) and for the first time, I'm grateful that I'm not allowed to even bother. 

It's not that the guys that I dated/married were jerks. They weren't, for the most part. With one notable exception, they were pretty decent guys. Both of my husbands were kind, caring, and good dads to my kids. Nearly all of the guys that I spent any length of time with since college were decent guys, just trying to figure crap out like I was. They weren't the problem; I was. I mean, why work when it's given so easily? Why put in the emotional effort when your partner is willing to do it all? That's a natural response. It's not to say that they didn't care or put in effort. It's to say that I didn't step back and allow them the opportunity to really show me how much I mattered. Because my thinking was that if I did that I might find out that... I didn't matter at all. 

So these things are swirling around my head while I'm trying to navigate my work, and I'm realizing that I'm not going to find chaos out of order the way things are going. Even after the cry - and a good conversation with a dear friend - my mind spun in all the wrong directions. So I gave myself a time-out from thinking, and I spent my lunch hour walking in the sun along the Willamette River. 

The path was packed with people, as it should have been, but I had my little personal-space bubble. For once, I wasn't looking at the men, wondering who was single. I wasn't stressing about the zit on my chin or my frizzy hair. I just walked, alone. The sun felt amazing on my face and shoulders. The wind off the water kept me cool while I exercised. The sound of the river lapping against the concrete walls overwhelmed the chatter of the people around me. I focused on the seagulls flying overhead, on the bridges that spanned above and across from me. I watched the bobbing kayaks paddling down river, and the swollen sails on sleek white vessels with names like "Merry Me" and "Dame Judy". I breathed in and out, as I've done for decades when the chaos tried to overwhelm me. 

For a mile, I ignored everyone around me and focused instead on the natural world and my breathing. Then I turned around and headed back, this time, listening to the chatter, watching the faces, seeing the bodies around me, all shapes, sizes, and colors in varying degrees of motion. I was part of them, but separate, and I reveled in that feeling of individual unity. The mile back went quicker, seemed like less effort, and erased the noise in my mind completely. 

There was peace for me. Not the peace that my friend wishes me - his offer is one of unending peace and this was ephemeral - but peace, still. I was able to work freely and easily. I left with the feeling of successes, small though they were. To build on this feeling, I met my ex - let's call him S for the sake of these blogs - at a preserve with the dogs, and we walked another three miles, mostly joking and just being at ease with someone we love and care about, no strings attached. He's not my soulmate, if that's even a thing, but he is a dear friend, and if nothing else I'm eternally grateful that we salvaged that from our doomed courtship. 

Home now, I'm relaxed, at peace still, I guess. Joyful in the moment; finding pleasure in the mundane tasks of doing dishes and folding the laundry. This is closer to the peace my friend offers. Still ephemeral, but closer. Oh so much closer.