Things I’m Embarrassed to Say

I hate keeping secrets.  But today I feel so aware of all the things that I dare not say.  Where does that leave us?  Where does that leave the page and the moment and the words that gratuitously sprinkle upon it?  Dunno, but I’ll find myself as the sprinkling sprinkles, eh?  Sprinkle sprinkle little star named Athena, how I wonder what you ARE not saying…
One thing that I’m afraid to say is that I have started wearing rings again.  It had been like two years.  Basically since I gave Eric back his engagement ring, made from his mama’s own pear shaped engagement diamond.  No, none of that is too risky to say… the risky thing is that I have been missing Eric so much for the past month or two.  I feel like I am holding a burning yoga pose.  Life feels like that in general.  Life burns my insides.  But so does the missing of my Beloved.  My best friend.  I miss the way we played.  I still laugh, sure.  But laughing with Eric was ecstasy.  Anyway, I came upon this silver ring in my jewelry box (a birthday gift from his mom) and I put it on the middle finger of my right hand.  This silver ring was the ring Eric originally bought to propose to me… though he didn’t end up using it.  He gave it to me days after.  He told me he had bought it from a Tibetan shop on University Avenue, which was owned by a man he did some wilderness training with.  A man from Bhutan.

At the time, I couldn’t believe that he even entertained the idea of proposing to me with a measly silver band.  Blasphemy!  But I kept it.  And now it means more to me than diamonds.  I wear it on my middle finger and I think of him.  I study its smoothness, its simplicity and its invisible sentimental value.  I look at it on my long, slender hand and I feel… What do I feel?  This is one of those laughable moments where I realize that there indeed has not been a word invented for every feeling scape.  But it’s refreshing to remember that.  It makes me feel so much larger than I have remembered myself to be.  And that is a good thing.  But let me stab at telling you how I feel as I gaze at my hand clad with this cheap-assed engagement token of the past.

I want to say I feel more complete.  But not because I was incomplete before.  Oh!  I got it!  I feel content.  Similar to one of those moments in bed in the morning.  You know, when you are awake, but still slumber-strewn, dream-tangled.  You are in no hurry to get up and bed feels somehow better than usual.  Snugglier, warmer, softer and so safe.  I suppose like heaven might feel.  (I’ll confirm it if and when I ever make it to that privileged village above the clouds) (If you don’t know me well enough, I must tell you that I am making fun of the silly ideas we as a collective consciousness uphold.  And, at the same time, I believe in that heaven.  My mind is big enough for so many paradoxes to take up residency, it can be maddening.)

Speaking of all of that, I found a new trick!  If you are at all contemplative like myself, and you find yourself mulling over truths and meanings, wondering, is it like this, or like that?… And the potential perspectives grate upon one another in your mind, metal upon metal, or more likely, mental upon mental (hahaha), the way that I have found to make peace of my vantage points is to ask myself, “which of these perspectives has me feel most inwardly expansive?  Which has me feel peace, oneness, inclusion?  Those are the qualities and values that inspire me.  But I suppose you could choose the ones that inspire you, and then lean into the perspective that generates those qualities.

Is that all I wanted to say about my ring?  No.  Why was I afraid to say that?  Because now Mykael is my partner and it feels confusing for me to be missing Eric so much and wanting to be connected to him.  I feel wrong.  Ashamed.  Should I exercise more mental discipline?  Should I just hide inside my experience and keep smiling and blushing my way down the path of long term, committed partnership?  Maybe… But I’m way more interested in airing out my closets than keeping them locked for the pseudo benefit of others.  How ‘bout you?

Grief.  Maybe I should check out a book on it from the library or something.  I feel like a novice when it comes to allowing and inviting the grieving process.  But I’m not gonna do that, so for now, I’ll just imagine that I am doing everything just right.  I’ll keep skipping along my path dedicated to truth and trust that someday the dust and the smoke and the clouds of ambivalent glitter will all settle of their own accord.  Quite likely they will.

One more thing that I don’t want to say.  (God, I could write volumes on this general topic!)  I don’t want to say that I went out to dinner with Dan last night.  No, silly, that’s not the part I don’t want to say.  It’s that when I arrived at Caesar, he was already seated and somewhat blissfully sipping wine.  Cool.  So far so good… But then I sat down and gazed at the menu, which titillated me, because last time I checked, Caesar was a Spanish tapas restaurant… and last night, everything on the menu was more Mexican-esque, which I generally dig a lot harder on than dumb olde paella and jamon Serrano and scrambled eggs.  Come on, CRUNCHY chips!!!  Vibrant green avocado mush!  Black beans…  TACOS.  So what am I afraid to say?  Come on, Athena, just blurt it out, already!  Okay, okay… So Dan had ordered for both of us, before I had even arrived!  I was DENIED the privilege of scouring the menu, feeling into the culinary rainbow of possibilities.  Flavors, textures, shapes, scents.

Granted, he knows me pretty well and his selections, chips and guacamole, black beans and jicama (!!!!) with chili and sesame seeds was damn good.  But come ON.  Reading menus and making the perfect choices is what life is all about at the end of the day.  I suppose that’s all we are ever really doing, anyway… reading the menu of life, of the moments we find ourselves in, the thoughts we think, the feelings and the dreams that wash through us, riverish.  And given all the options that we can conceive of, we must choose.  And choose.  And choose again.

Anyway, it was a stretch for me to surrender his choices and just enjoy.  Not that enjoying was that much of a challenge, between the top notch company he is, and the warm spring evening~ twilight giving my skin cool, coy kisses.  Not to mention that he mostly ordered what I would have chosen anyway… BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.  The point is that Dan is probably my number one fan and I’ll send him this as soon as I deem it complete.  And then I’ll be left to blush it the shameful truths of my ever imperfect humanness.  I would be such a better person if I surrendered better and appreciated more and was at least as enlightened as the new age-soap box-brigade who rape the masses by ever selling us self help books despite our hopelessly broken state.  But I’m just me.  And I wish that he didn’t order without me.  And now I will bathe in frivolous shame for that truth.  But not for too long.

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