Cleaning up the grafitti..

I can see him trying. I can see, in most moments, that he is making an effort to paint over all the old, ugly graffiti in our world with fresh, bright-colored paint. I can see that he is trying the best he can to keep the old words from bleeding through. I can see it. I'm watching. And I'm hesitantly, silently, cheering him on. He may not know it, but I am not a fairweather fan. I've been cheering him on even when he was having a losing season.

Sometimes he picks up the old spray paint can and starts to fall back into the familiar art of the graffiti. I speak up or walk away or just wait. And he picks up the paintbrush and goes back to work on the bright, new layer again. I can see it. I can feel it. I know it is happening. I cheer him on, in my way.

But I'm not ready to move back into his picture. I'm not washed of the graffiti. I can still feel it. Those words are still written on me.  And I know the spray paint can is still within his reach. It isn't empty. It isn't discarded. It is still there and I'm not ready. I have lost my impatience. I can wait.

But, while he is in his own battle against which art he decides will be his future, I have my own part of the wall. I am painting my own picture. With hues of beautiful orange and red sunsets, turquoise water and deep blue seas, green and yellow turtles, bold colored dresses that flow in the sea breeze, and the smiling faces of the people I meet. And I am peeking at his work and hoping again, that somehow our two works can come back together. I thought I had lost that hope, given up on the idea because the art of us had diverged too much. But I find myself hoping again that somehow the ugly graffiti wall that is still between us is swallowed up by the connection of our separate bright, beautiful, new experiences. 

And we can move back together. And our art can become a  collage again.

But I'm not ready yet.

Honestly

It's been a very emotional last two weeks or so. It has probably been longer, but something in me broke a little bit the last couple of weeks. I'm not entirely sure what it was or why it happened when it did. I just hit a point that the tea pot I'd been trying to contain it all in started to whistle too loud. I didn't explode...much. Just a slowly rising whistle that got too loud to ignore. When I tried to turn the heat down underneath, the knob just wouldn't turn this time. Instead of pulling out my tools to fix it, I just let the whistling go on. And it was emotional. Angry, sad, crazy, loud. I just let it go on. Because it needed to boil over.

And it did. And now it's quiet again. And I have my tools out. The knob is moving again. The heat is bearable and the tea pot is intact. The whistling is just a haunting echo that is teaching me yet more wisdom. I suppose it was necessary. It always is.

But in the whistling, I learned. It's odd the things you learn in your most vulnerable moments. It's not what you expect to learn. It's not the big answers to the pressing stressors that caused the whistling to begin with. It's the subtle notes under the screaming high pitches that teach you. I don't know what to do about the big questions. Those are still simmering. But I did learn.

During the course of the last two weeks, I said some very honest things. If I wasn't so exhausted from all the noise and the heat and the lack of ability (or maybe will) to turn it down, I wouldn't have said them. I wouldn't have just blurted out the words. I'd have considered them taboo, or at least private enough that I only ever needed to say them to myself. I trust myself most of the time. But when the boiling starts, I'm not to be trusted. So, I said them out loud.

And it was scary and awkward. I expected to quickly regret it. I expected to be admonished or punished for letting my inside come outside. That's the way it's always been. Emotional honesty thrown at toxic people who answered with poison. Toxic people were all I had. And it was exhausting to try to detoxify myself onto people who didn't have any room to absorb it. They were too full of poison.

But, something has changed. Even some of the same people who were formally poisonous became absorbant. New friends, whom I feared wouldn't understand and therefore would not accept the beautiful swirling mess of me, saw my vulnerability. They didn't grimace or turn away or kick me when I was down. They didn't exploit it. They didn't criticize it. And when I admitted, far too honestly, that I was afraid they'd do just that, they comforted me. They acknowledged the mess and accepted it for what it was. Without judgment or anger or the all too familiar abandonment. They just comforted me.

No one told me what I wanted to hear just for the sake of it. No one laughed or ridiculed me. No one punched me in the gaping hole that I showed them in my character. No one was upset that I let the super hero cape fall off my shoulders. No one ran from my naked emotion. No one minded at all that I was so honest. They just comforted me. They cared. They expected nothing more than who I was at that moment. And it was incredible.

I often think about how easy things must be for people who haven't had the kinds of trauma and rich experiences that I've had. People who just move around with ease and never worry about whether they'll be attacked or derided or diminished simply for being. How does that feel? To not be on guard. To not have that nagging hypervigilence. I've only ever felt that way once when I was far away from everyone and everything familiar. But it came rushing back in any time I came within hearing distance of anyone I formerly knew.

I also wonder about people who just hold it all in. They've had the trauma and the rich experiences. They've heard the whistling so long that it's a part of every day life and  they don't even hear it anymore. I wonder how those people survive every day with complete ignorance of their loud dysfunction. I guess ignorance is bliss. They seem ok with themselves, even if they don't seem ok to me.

But, I'm neither of those. I'm comprised almost entirely from a collection of my experiences and the wisdom gained from the acknowledgement of them. I'm acutely aware of the whistling. I've learned how to quiet it and learned that sometimes I might need to be driven a bit mad by it. I know me extremely well. And I know that I can trust me now, even when the heat gets too high and I go a little crazy. I know how to be honest with myself.

But there's something new I learned in the last couple of weeks of emotional rawness. It turns out that I can be honest with some other people too. I can spew out even those darker parts and still be accepted as more than just those parts. I can be vulnerable and not expect to have salt poured into the painful spots.

Maybe that's the wisdom of choosing people to have around me that are a bit safer. A bit better. A bit less toxic. Or maybe it's my perception that's changed. Maybe it's the world's. Maybe it's both or nether. All the same, I'm grateful.

And the whistling as subsided. The knob is fixed. Everything is being properly regulated again. Decisions need to be made, but they can be made in quiet, as slowly as they need to be.

I've had stress on my mind a lot lately. Mainly because I've been stressed in a way that I haven't felt in a long time. A nagging way that makes my chest hurt and makes it hard to breathe. I have confronted that stress and have been trying to reconcile it with my faith and my promise to myself that I would never allow this kind of stress to overwhelm me again. It's not because it's unpleasant. I can deal with unpleasant. It is because this level of stress has only ever been an indication to me that change is necessary and has to occur. It's because my promise to me was to always embrace the internal freedom happiness Mexico Shano very often had. My promise to me was to control the things I could and let go of the things I could not. My promise to me was to walk away from stress and embrace calm happiness. And my decades-old promise to myself was to try, with all of my ability, to follow my faith, as it has never failed me when I mindfully embraced and learned from it. 

So, I've had some burning questions about my recent stress. First, my stress is nothing to do with my life situation as a whole. My stress is related to a mid-stage change that ultimately will culminate into a much better situation that will bring a later positive and reduce a longer-term stress. It is temporary. But, in reality, all stress is temporary. So, why is the stress so necessary? Once I spent a bit of time with these questions, I realized my stress has almost always been necessary. And that this stress, too, is necessary. 

Second, isn't it the general goal of my faith to recognize and then move past suffering, aka, eliminate stress? Aren't I suppose to be striving for living in the present moment and not spending needless time worrying about the future, which is what stress essentially is, isn't it? Aren't I betraying my own faith by not maintaining a constant calm and a steadfast belief that everything will work out just as it should? Shouldn't I be taking the "live in the moment" approach and just "going with the flow" with the blind faith that it'll all just work itself out? For this, I had to do some research. I had to look back into teachings and interpretations. I had to look to Buddha himself and to the many wise interpretations of his teachings. I had to look into the essences of suffering and what centuries of teachings made of it. I had to take some time. And, ultimately, I found an answer. The answer that, my stress is necessary and has a purpose. 

Both answers jived together as the same answer. Some stress; this kind of stress; the stress I'm feeling now, is completely and fully necessary and has a purpose. It is not the same sort of purpose that other major stresses in my life have had. The stress is not related to needing a major life change or a full purge of current circumstances. It only means that I have things to do. Many, many things to do. And that I'm not doing them to the best of my ability.

There are a lot of factors to that. Mainly, I'm not the only person who is necessary to check things off my growing to do list. To borrow the old yet time-tested truth, I can only change what is in my control. I cannot control what others do and do not do. But, when others actions, or lack thereof, impede my own progress, I get a stressed. So, my necessary stress is partially unnecessary. Or, at the very least, prolonged. 

The Mysterious Universe

I try to be a good person. I try to align my actions with who I am and what I believe. When I fail, I try to get back on track, forgive myself, and focus on the person I want to be. I keep my faith that everything happens for a reason and, in the grand scheme of things, everything is exactly as its meant to be. I believe wholeheartedly in karma. I reap what I sew and the universe gives me the message I'm supposed to get about how to right IT, whatever IT was. When I've been in bad situations, when it felt like everything was just falling to pieces, when it seemed everything was destructing, when it reached a fever pitch that was intolerable, I always knew what was wrong. Deep down underneath all the facades and lies and denials to myself and others, I knew what change needed to come. I knew what path I was supposed to be taking. I knew what I had to do. Whether I wanted to do it or felt strong enough to do it or not, I knew what IT was. I knew how to right the ship. I knew what the universe wanted me to do. And I did it.

But right now, I'm being signaled and I don't know why. There are things happening that are beyond my control. There are things going wrong that are nonsensical and unusual. Things that are small when they happen alone, but are collectively massive. They are a message. I'm supposed to learn something. Something is supposed to change. Something needs to be done. I know this. I know it as well as I know how to breathe and walk and smile and cry. I recognize that the universe talking to me. It always has. It always will. I recognize these feelings of stress, pain, anger and desperation. I recognize the symptoms of my world out of whack. For the first time in my life, I don't know what I have to do. I have no idea what IT is. I can't figure it out. I don't understand.

My life is not in shambles. Things aren't wrong. I'm not pretending to be a champion swimmer while I try not to drown as I've done so many times before. There's no secret horror happening behind closed doors. I'm not faking it. My life is peaceful. Calm. Happy. Good. It's right. In almost every way, I'm in a better place than I've ever been in my life.  I've stumbled around in this safe cocoon of peace and normalcy and somehow managed to find forgiveness and healing. I've found a sort of strength I've never had before. The strength to stop being so strong. A strength to rest. A strength to ask for help. A strength to trust. A strength to believe that I am fundamentally ok now. And I am, fundamentally, ok. Nothing is wrong.

But the universe is throwing its message out there. It started in a low whisper. I heard it then but thought it was just hypervigilance. I was imagining a message where there was none. The message coincided perfectly with a change cycle that has been consistent throughout my adult life. Every few years, I finally stop ignoring the message from the universe and make the major change I know I am supposed to make. I thought I was just restless, but I have gained enough wisdom to know I can't ignore even a whisper from the universe. And I didn't.

I took a long road trip. I spent almost a month with no one but myself, all day, every day. I went places I'd never been. I got out of my comfort zone. I ate alone. I drove alone. I slept alone. I relied on no one but me. I sat. I walked. I listened. I thoroughly explored what the universe might be whispering to me and came up with nothing.

And then, I came home. I came back knowing with certainty that I was ok. I came back grateful that I didn't need a change. I came back with a certainty that I'd only felt one other time in my life, my time in Mexico. I came back from that trip and let myself be immersed in the peace I felt. I forgave myself for all the mistakes I've made. I forgave myself for the fumbling about I'd done in my life. I forgave everyone else as well. Everyone. People I didn't believe I'd ever be capable of handing my forgiveness.  I decided that was what the universe wanted from me. It wanted me to know that I was truly ok. It wanted me to forgive.

But it didn't stop. The whispering became a low rumble. The low rumble became louder, then louder still, until it became a scream. And I don't understand. I don't know what the message is. There's no denial. There's nothing I've missed. There's no bigger picture problem that I'm avoiding by focusing on little things. There's no false facade I'm maintaining to hide the deeper problem. There's nothing. Everything is good. There is nothing wrong. So why isn't everything working like it should? Why are things crumbling like they do when a change is necessary for survival? What is happening? And WHY?

In my world, there's no such thing as a "run of bad luck." There's no such thing as coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. My path is exactly as it should be and always has been. Every decision I've made, good or bad, had a purpose and a reason. I was to learn something. I was to make an impact here or there. I was to become everything I am. I will continue to become more with every experience. This is how it works. This is what I call "the universe" because I have no other word or phrase for it. Most people I know call it "God."

So, what am I to learn? What am I to change? I've explored every option. I went and talked to the ocean. I've meditated. I've even gotten good and drunk to let any pretenses or denials I might have had fall sloppily to the ground. Nothing. I am digging deep. And it's only made me surer that everything is as it is supposed to be. More positive that I am ok. But the universe keeps screaming louder and louder. It keeps throwing things in the way and refuses to stop.

I don't understand. I cannot understand. What does it want?

Am I?

Are we meant to be together with one person forever? Thats what we are taught. That's what society hands us. And isnt that the goal, socially and inherintly? Isnt that why we flirt and date and seek and marry? To find a mate. Procreate. Reproduce. Find love. So we can be with someone, forever. But does that work? Are there really any couples who are celebrating 50 years together that can say that theyve all been good ones? That they have no regrets? That they wanted to be there all that time? Or were they there because they honored a commitment society told them to make.

I don't regret any relationship ending in my life. I only regret having promised not to end them. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie sometimes, didn't others, but it was always a lie. Is it a lie now?

He knows I'm up to something. He's even asked. Am I? I don't know.

Cracked

I am covered in skin. And no one gets to come in. Its an awkward truth. One I lost somewhere and then regained again and then again. This has been a comfortable place. A cacoon. Somewhere safe to hide. No expectations. No requirements beyond my capabilities. I have just been. And that was good. That was necessary.

But have I felt? Have I experienced? What have I been doing? Just wrapping up in this spindley blanket of caterpillar spat safety? Am I to stay here? It's warm. And safe. And easy. But can I fly again? Is it worth it? Do my wings still spread? Do I still flutter and glide and land gracefully?

The cacoon is breaking open. What colors will I be this time? It is not ashes I rise from here. I did not burn to the ground and come up again with fierce, fiery might. It is a slow rebirth. A timid one. An unsure one.

What colors will I be? Bright? Black and White? Shades of gray? Will I be caught up in another net? Captured and contained? Or can I just fly? Flutter. Glide. Land gracefully.

The cacoon is cracking. The time is coming. Reborn again.

When I die

I don't expect to die any time soon but when I do someday, I have a few requests:
1. Donate any possible part of me for organ donation, science, whatever. I'd prefer to be useful.
2.  If there is some cost effective way by then, press parts of me into 3 jewels and give one each to my sons so I can be forever with them.
3. If those are not an option... do not embalm me! If I end up embalmed,  I swear on all the soul I have left that Im coming back to haunt whoever made that decision! Ill figure out a way! DO NOT preserve my body in an unnatural state after I have left it and moved on! Just dont!
*exception made if I'm donated to science. I get it. It'll be necessary to do something like that in that case. It's cool as long as I'm being useful. After I'm done being useful proceed to the other options.
4. Return me to the Earth. My absolute preference is to be buried in an unsealed box (or no box at all) so that my body can do what all bodies are meant to do and become food and fuel for nature. Yeah. Yeah.  You don't want to think of me all gross and getting eaten by worms and whatnot. Listen, I'm not going to be there anymore. I'll have moved on. My body will be food. As it should be. Don't think too much about it. Just remember I want to feed the flowers. Those flowers and grass and trees will be part me. And that is beautiful. And as it should be.
5. Ok. So it's possible there are laws against that sort of thing. It's also possible that I was donated to science and/or all split up into worthy recipients of awesome parts of me. MAYBE I am all embalmed and hacked on and used up from being useful. No worries! Burn me! If you bury me now that I'm all preserved, I'm not natural food anymore. So Burn me!  Cremate me and return me to Earth. Preferably half on a mountain and half in the sea. Just as long as I'm returning to the Earth, I won't be too picky. The yard is fine if that's all you can manage. No urns or trashbags or god forbid a tomb! Earth! Sea! Fish food! Yes please.
6. Erect a memorial if you must but don't lay me down next to 1000 others in a sea of Grey markers that all look the same. Give me a memorial that says "THIS IS SHANO! She was unique." Make it small or big or whatever but make it unique. *Sparkles preferred.* And I've never been grey. Who would describe me as grey?? No one hopefully! I'm deep black or colorful blue or black and white checkered or vibrant red or neon pink! I'm not grey.  Don't make my forever memorial grey either!
7. Regardless of how anyone might feel about this statement, I am not a Christian. I am Buddhist. Please don't have a pastor/priest do my funeral service and quote bible verses and generally droll on about how I'm tromping up the Stairway to Heaven. I'm not. I've moved on. I'm already starting my next life and my soul is probably in or on its way to another living creature just beginning. Instead, please gather and laugh and celebrate this life I had and wish me luck in the next one. Maybe you'll cry and ok. I mean, I understand. But laugh more. That's an order! I want to be remembered with a smile and an eye roll and a laugh and stories that make me live on forever. Do Not remember me with somber tears and silly talk of my new castle in the sky. I don't even want to live in a castle!  Remember me for my shiny moments and make guesses on where and in what form I've moved on to! (Hopefully I'll be reborn in Fiji. Fingers crossed!)

PS. If you happen to hate my guts and we are arch nemeses and all that life sort of stuff: I demand that you dance at or near my funeral. Show up and do it.  It's only right. And I would totally do it to you! You know I would.