Retrospect
". . . there are visions that come to us only in memory, in retrospect." This is said by the narrator in Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. I'm finding all kinds of cool quotes in this novel. Retrospect is powerful. I don't think of it as just looking back. It's looking back and dealing or re-evaluating. This can be a daunting task. There are some things so buried in us that we may never dig down and deal or re-evaluate--too painful. Other times, a sort of clarity comes over us and we realize why we did what we did or why we didn't do what we should've done. Or we forgive ourselves and move on. Sometimes events that meant nothing to us at the time are extraordinarily powerful in the present. I'm still waiting on this one. Or maybe I'm not thinking hard enough.
Our weakest moments define us. Is that true? For me it is. In retrospect, my weakest moments show me in the rough. It's not pretty. I've been a blubbering idiot. I've taken the blame when I shouldn't have, thought only of myself, put myself in danger, not taken the blame when I should have, lied for no apparent reason, tried to be like someone else. I've been terribly jealous. I've gossiped and passed judgements on people I meet for the first time, cold-heartedly cut off friendships without much explanation (or without giving the real reasons b/c I was too chicken). Based on these examples, I'm a pitiful human being. Is this who I really am? It is part of me. But like most, if not all, people, I'm complex, contradictory, a weak and mean character juxtaposed with strength and goodness.
You think you know me, but you don't. (Not my original saying. I don't know who coined the phrase, but I think at this point it's cliche, so no need to credit the quote). If you really knew me, you would know that I spend a lot of my time worrying about things that are out of my control. I know this, but continue to worry and work myself up inside. This may be why I have occasional chest pains. I do not show my anxiety. I harbor it. Massage is the only way to get it out, and I pity the poor soul who tries to get rid of all the rocks in my back, shoulders, and neck muscles. One hour is simply not enough time. None of my close friends would EVER say I'm a worrier. They would say "care-free" or "spiritive." Ha! What a joke!
If you really knew me, you would know that I question everything and don't like vagueness. Some of my friends know this about me. I constantly think and ask what if? This probably annoys some people. It even annoys me. I cannot accept things as is. I don't have faith. I don't believe in miracles. I do believe there's some sort of higher power, and I think we are all connected in some way.
If you really knew me, you would know that I function best alone. I cry a lot at night in bed when no one can see me just thinking about things like losing people I love, our world and how sick it can be, dreams, fears, etc. I run away from passions such as writing, teaching, photography. I constantly compare my work to others' work and never feel good enough. I quit, then later return to my interests because they are all I have.
I'm a loner, but I like to talk to people and get to know something about them. I'd rather be behind the curtain watching and recording the drama than be in it. But when I was a child, I would stare out the car window on road trips with my parents and daydream about being the singer on stage as Olivia Newton-John sang "You're The One That I Want" hoo, hoo hoo! or Air Supply "Here I am, the one that you love, asking for another day! Understand the one that you love, loves you in so many ways!" I know, they were two guys, but they sounded like girls, so I imagined myself squatting down, reaching out to the audience with one hand while the other squeezed the microphone and I closed my eyes and let my voice mesmerize everyone. Yep. How do you explain those two juxtaposed characteristics? Contradictory, right?
If you really knew me, you would know that I dislike disorder. I don't like my routine messed with. One little mishap sends me spiraling into the depths of the black bitch hole. Yet I am not neat. My thoughts are a mess, rarely finished before others begin; clothes, books, paper, notes, camera equipment are scattered all over the place like my fragmented ideas. But I want to be in order. In those rare moments when I catch a wild hair and decide to put things in order, I like it. I feel at peace. But it's not me.
If you really knew me, you would know that I get fixated on topics. I will study something, dive into it, learn almost everything there is to know about it. I will get so caught up in it, my enthusiasm rubbing off on others. Then I suddenly quit. I get tired of it, bored. This happens with people, too. Many times I have been genuinely interested in someone and what they have to say. Soon after I find myself bored and not wanting to have anything to do with them anymore. This doesn't happen all the time but occasionally.
If you really knew me, you would know that I love quiet. I like to be outside in the early morning hours when no one else is awake or late at night when everyone else is asleep. I like to listen to silence. I rarely get these opportunities. I'm not an early riser and now that I'm a mom, I don't stay up late. When it is really quiet, and I can hear the wind, feel the fog mist, smell the trees, there's a presence. The only thing better than this would be nakedness and quiet. This I have not done. Yet.
Death is terrifying to me. My crying in bed at night is mostly about death. I will think what if I lost David? What if I lost Arden? What if my mom died? What if my dad died? What if Ray died? I imagine my life without them, and I work myself into such a cry that I sometimes come close to hyperventilating. Meanwhile, David is snoring peacefully next to me. He has no idea. He doesn't know me. I bet I don't know him either. But I do love what I know about him. Maybe if we both really knew each other, we wouldn't be together?? Possibly. Maybe not. We are so intertwined now that it would have to be something really threatening to give up what we have. I also think about people I love who have passed on. I don't want to forget them. And I wonder, did I really know my grandma Jean? Papoo? Hee-Haw? David's dad? Irene? I'm crying over what I knew of them, but I didn't really know them. I never will. That makes me cry.
Our weakest moments define us. Is that true? For me it is. In retrospect, my weakest moments show me in the rough. It's not pretty. I've been a blubbering idiot. I've taken the blame when I shouldn't have, thought only of myself, put myself in danger, not taken the blame when I should have, lied for no apparent reason, tried to be like someone else. I've been terribly jealous. I've gossiped and passed judgements on people I meet for the first time, cold-heartedly cut off friendships without much explanation (or without giving the real reasons b/c I was too chicken). Based on these examples, I'm a pitiful human being. Is this who I really am? It is part of me. But like most, if not all, people, I'm complex, contradictory, a weak and mean character juxtaposed with strength and goodness.
You think you know me, but you don't. (Not my original saying. I don't know who coined the phrase, but I think at this point it's cliche, so no need to credit the quote). If you really knew me, you would know that I spend a lot of my time worrying about things that are out of my control. I know this, but continue to worry and work myself up inside. This may be why I have occasional chest pains. I do not show my anxiety. I harbor it. Massage is the only way to get it out, and I pity the poor soul who tries to get rid of all the rocks in my back, shoulders, and neck muscles. One hour is simply not enough time. None of my close friends would EVER say I'm a worrier. They would say "care-free" or "spiritive." Ha! What a joke!
If you really knew me, you would know that I question everything and don't like vagueness. Some of my friends know this about me. I constantly think and ask what if? This probably annoys some people. It even annoys me. I cannot accept things as is. I don't have faith. I don't believe in miracles. I do believe there's some sort of higher power, and I think we are all connected in some way.
If you really knew me, you would know that I function best alone. I cry a lot at night in bed when no one can see me just thinking about things like losing people I love, our world and how sick it can be, dreams, fears, etc. I run away from passions such as writing, teaching, photography. I constantly compare my work to others' work and never feel good enough. I quit, then later return to my interests because they are all I have.
I'm a loner, but I like to talk to people and get to know something about them. I'd rather be behind the curtain watching and recording the drama than be in it. But when I was a child, I would stare out the car window on road trips with my parents and daydream about being the singer on stage as Olivia Newton-John sang "You're The One That I Want" hoo, hoo hoo! or Air Supply "Here I am, the one that you love, asking for another day! Understand the one that you love, loves you in so many ways!" I know, they were two guys, but they sounded like girls, so I imagined myself squatting down, reaching out to the audience with one hand while the other squeezed the microphone and I closed my eyes and let my voice mesmerize everyone. Yep. How do you explain those two juxtaposed characteristics? Contradictory, right?
If you really knew me, you would know that I dislike disorder. I don't like my routine messed with. One little mishap sends me spiraling into the depths of the black bitch hole. Yet I am not neat. My thoughts are a mess, rarely finished before others begin; clothes, books, paper, notes, camera equipment are scattered all over the place like my fragmented ideas. But I want to be in order. In those rare moments when I catch a wild hair and decide to put things in order, I like it. I feel at peace. But it's not me.
If you really knew me, you would know that I get fixated on topics. I will study something, dive into it, learn almost everything there is to know about it. I will get so caught up in it, my enthusiasm rubbing off on others. Then I suddenly quit. I get tired of it, bored. This happens with people, too. Many times I have been genuinely interested in someone and what they have to say. Soon after I find myself bored and not wanting to have anything to do with them anymore. This doesn't happen all the time but occasionally.
If you really knew me, you would know that I love quiet. I like to be outside in the early morning hours when no one else is awake or late at night when everyone else is asleep. I like to listen to silence. I rarely get these opportunities. I'm not an early riser and now that I'm a mom, I don't stay up late. When it is really quiet, and I can hear the wind, feel the fog mist, smell the trees, there's a presence. The only thing better than this would be nakedness and quiet. This I have not done. Yet.
Death is terrifying to me. My crying in bed at night is mostly about death. I will think what if I lost David? What if I lost Arden? What if my mom died? What if my dad died? What if Ray died? I imagine my life without them, and I work myself into such a cry that I sometimes come close to hyperventilating. Meanwhile, David is snoring peacefully next to me. He has no idea. He doesn't know me. I bet I don't know him either. But I do love what I know about him. Maybe if we both really knew each other, we wouldn't be together?? Possibly. Maybe not. We are so intertwined now that it would have to be something really threatening to give up what we have. I also think about people I love who have passed on. I don't want to forget them. And I wonder, did I really know my grandma Jean? Papoo? Hee-Haw? David's dad? Irene? I'm crying over what I knew of them, but I didn't really know them. I never will. That makes me cry.
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