It’s a new year and along with that, come the inevitable resolutions – to do more, to be more. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions and stopped making them a long time ago for two reasons:
I started this post almost a year ago – I found it today in the dredges of my laptop – a stark reminder of how things can change so drastically yet, in many ways, remain poignantly the same. The lesson in humility is not lost here.
By all accounts I have had a good year; a lot has changed. I am learning, and settling in to my new life – I’ve started dating again and am in a fun, new relationship. My kids are doing well – we’re doing life together in a magnificent way.
My BF stayed the weekend at my house and no one died – so, there’s that.
It was awkward, but not lethal.
In the making of my new life, I’ve taken my time to decide what I want and lay down its foundation. I’ve come to the harsh reality that a new relationship, and inviting someone else in, needs to be a part.
We’re not meant to do life alone, even though there are places in me that scream it would be much easier that way.
My post-divorce checklist looks something like this:
I have a confession. I used to think I was better than other people. I don’t want to say I was ever a racist, but I might have been. It’s hard not to be when you grow up under the guise of white privilege in the United States. My confession: I had little understanding for those who were different from me. And I didn’t need to – I never stepped out of my realm of convenience (my bubble). My life was good. I attributed that goodness to something I had done; but the truth is there is nothing I could have ever done that would explain the level of status to which I was born.
This is a fact of being a white person in America. You believe you’re just a little bit better than everyone else.
Sometimes people aren't very nice. Or rather they're not considerate and intentional with their words and the implications of such.
People are hurting. And hurt people hurt people.
It really is that simple.
How many tears have I cried over these things? How many have a held back? Stoic - as they begin to eat me alive from the inside out.
It was about 6 months ago. I decided I wanted to focus a bit more on my writing. Besides this blog, I had yet to take on a personal writing project.
I think in words – filtering almost every experience through the grid of how I would string letters together to create something meaningful to describe it.
How would this scenario play out?
What would this person do?
I did what any aspiring writer would do in my situation, and Googled local writing groups – I hoped to find something near me, and people – to help me in my new endeavor. I found several that fit the bill, arriving on a Tuesday evening clad in my standard jeans and T-shirt – yes high heels are required uniform for me– just to give you a picture.