Not my own.

I wish I could credit the author.

refusing to allow yourself to wither.

FINALLY

Photo Property of Leighann Kowalsky. All Rights Reserved

I thought I would get up in the middle of class and hug the teacher right at that very moment.

I've been dreading for years math class, science class, anything class that decides that there is one answer to every question. My head just screams at me "NO! WHAT IF..." and proceeds to apply every question to a situation which disproves the idea that there is just one answer.

One teacher, in class, just the other morning, stated "There is no absolute. To everything, there is an obverse. It's the paradox of life"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fact of life, theme of mine, THANK YOU!, PROFESSOR!, for proving my own sanity to me with one statement.

There is no absolute, everything is so very moveable and changeable and every decision, answer and thought need to be thoroughly processed and applied to a very specific situation. Beyond thinking things through, it is unreal how important it is to know that there is more than one answer.

That is the art of life. The beauty. That is where we get to be individuals. Free will kicks in, in this little moment where you get to choose what's right for you. There is more than one "best way to do things". Beyond an openness to application and critical thinking, be open as well, to more than one right answer.

A friend of mine, currently, is struggling between two women. One whom he has toiled with for years. They know each other in and out, left and right, up and down. Fears, secrets, thoughts, dreams. There is a bond between "Johnny" and "Jill" that very few people understand or will ever experience. Admiration, appreciation and love all exist cohesively. You know exactly where I'm going with this.

Johnny's other "right answer" is June. Clean, fresh, new. They know little about eachother except what blurts our of their busy little thinking minds. But it feels right. It feels good, and maybe it doesn't even feel like love but it doesn't have to be. They fit together physically, emotionally, and mentally.

As an outsider, the situation is clear. But having dealt with similar emotions, I can understand Johnny's restraint. As human beings, we seek comfort. Homeostasis. Peace and quiet and we like what we know. However, like my memory box from the previous post, sometimes it's time to let go, even if you thought you never could. Sometimes it's time to about-face, and clean up. It's time for a new adventure.

In Addition

I'd like to make a statement based on my last post "Time Heals".

True, many things were trashed. I felt nothing, and I could scarce even recall ever having felt anything at all. HOWEVER.

There was a great deal that stayed in those cardboard boxes. That I ducktaped and in permanent marker, begged whoever may come across it someday to please take care and respect the privacy. The contents of that box...are priceless to me. They represent hours and years and tears and bloodstains on a dancefloor that essentially has built me, the person I am today.

In addition to the immense difference in feeling between what's in the trash bags and what's in the cardboard box, there is additionally, immense fear that I might one day lose the passion I have toward those memories. I do not ever wish to forget the wild ride I survived.

Time Heals.

Photo Property of Leighann Kowalsky. All Rights Reserved.

I'll admit, I haven't given nearly enough thought to the idea that "Time Heals All" to neither disagree nor agree with the statement. One thing I do know, however, is that I now have blatant evidence that it at least heals...a little.

I'm moving out of my home. I'm getting a new office...everything is changing. This makes for a great deal of organizing/de-cluttering and just generally taking an overview of my stuff. Essentially, widdling it down to what is truly necessary. I've already tossed 3 bags of "memories" that I had kept in a box for the last 4 years. I didn't feel a thing.

here's where it gets juicy.

4 years ago, I couldn't part with this stuff. These photographs, these love letters, these old baggy t-shirts that represent a weekend away...packed up neatly and with care and sealed with a kiss, only to become bonfire fodder 4 years later.. Perhaps my situation is particular thanks (and no thanks) to the traumatic experiences I had through my childhood, but either way, I couldn't even remember feeling tied to these THINGS. No matter what it is, these things I once gripped with all my might? I don't need those anymore. No need to clog the brain, to hold onto the past...I have healed enough to let it go.

It feels good, walking forward. Taking steps, feeling a few pounds lighter without the weight of damp memory on my back. I may not be all healed up, all better boo boo, but Time certainly heals. At least enough to let us move on for a while, push forward, and make space for new memories.

Barriers

I'd like to say I've been blessed with the experience of men from many places. Judge away, it's not the way it sounds.

However, I've recently connected with someone who takes the foreign cake. South America is far. It's hot. It's seasons are reversed from mine. Culture is different, Language is different, and I'm familiar with 0% of it. Honestly, I couldn't even spell Buenos Aires previously. The language barrier was something undeniable. Communicating has never been an issue for me, in my whole life. So for the first time, there was a frustration that was a different color, and the newness and freshness of this color made it addictive. (Yeah, I'm freaky, whatever.) I found the need to explore.

I'm reading "The History of Love" by Nicole Kraus ( recommend!) and apart from being fantastic, at one point it depicts the world before there was words. People would communicate with their hands. Every flick of a pinky finger, every degree of a bend meant something. Communication was at a high calibur and has yet to reach that level today, even with words. This reminded me greatly of ancient japanese dance known as "dengaku" or "seragaku" which is literally one person, on stage, almost in complete stillness. The tip of the head downward ever so slightly means the character is mourning. It's simplistic and involved intermittently and is really quite challenging.

Before there were words, people communicated. Words are a tool, not a necessity. I have learned through my new friend, that I can see what he means in his eyes. In the way he smiles at me I can tell exactly what he's thinking. His motives, his dreams, his hopes. I can read the stress of the day in the lines on his face, and I can watch them fade as we laugh at each other in advancing the night. Potentially effective is the color his voice makes. It matches certain emotions and thus I can get a sense for what he's trying to say. I've learned a valuable lesson, having always been a talker/communicator extraordinaire; communication has nothing to do with words after all, and barriers are only barriers if you let them hold you back.

Death

Oooh. The title of this post even has a spookier-than-usual twang to it. I guess it's just because I happen to be surrounded by the haunting monster that is death lately. After having written death as a "haunting monster" I don't want to backspace, but I do rescind that statement. It's only a haunting monster if you're not ready for it. More on that later.

Anyone who pays attention to, or pays attention to someone who pays attention to someone who watches the news can tell you there have been some eerie group deaths among birds and fish. One friend of mine stated "Birds and Fish...yeah, but the humans are actually doing pretty well!" I tend to disagree. In the last week, here's my list:

My grandmother, Anna Satoris.
My mothers best friend's brother.
My Time Warner Cable rep's sister in law.
My good friend Mons' grandfather.
My co-worker's Great Grandmother
My co-worker's Uncle.
My other co-worker's grandfather.
Lady-At-The-Gym-With-Cute-Shirt's undefined relative.

Granted 7 is no 1000 fish, but isn't a human life of slightly more worth? And why are they all so close to me?

A few months ago a family friend died of Cancer. She was in her 50's, with two children who both recently were married. Lived a good life, but deserved to live even longer. Upon her death, the envy I felt of her was unnerving. I was I jealous of someone dying? How cynical is that? After some self-observing and self-questioning and all of that inner-thinking business, I came to the conclusion that I was tired. I was tired, and somehow satisfied with life already. Or rather, complacent. (Figured that feeling out- and accepted it; since overcoming the envy of death by discovering how much of the world I have yet to discover.)

Despite my minor accomplishment in understanding feelings regarding death, there are still questions. The rant I'm on lately is that of the world simply being desensitized to death. My sister and I both have yet to cry over my grandmothers' death. She lived with us for 6+ years. Practically raised us. But to me at least, she died years ago. Her mind has been deteriorating, and I've already accepted her death..before it even happened. This disgusts me! It's selfish to want to mourn quickly and move on. What about honor? and celebration of her life? It's also disgustingly modern to be moving quickly about anything at all. Do we really appreciate life anymore?

More on this, I'm sure.

Up

Property of Leighann Kowalsky. All Rights Reserved.

We've all heard of 'poetic license', correct? When William Shakespeare would make-up or combine or change the syllable structure to fit into his format? Well I think today's day and age needs to take license beyond that of poetry (which we're not even doing properly anymore, goodness), and take license of life.

My mom always used to tell me" Buy those shoes!" Meaning; sure, we are in financial ruin. You're father has blown his entire retirement and we're holding onto our home by our cracking fingernails. BUT, those shoes are too darn cute, buy them. Similarly, "Eat that cake!" or simply "Do It Anyway". It's a short way of expressing the fact that nobody gets out alive, and we only live once, and it's short as an exhale, so why not spend more time enjoying things like cake and shoes than worrying over dimes and calories?

An old Irish Rock Band used to have a song called "Do It Anyway".
One line is as follows:
"You're scared to tell the world what you're doing here? Do it anyway."

I want to let the world know that I am here.

A Toast

I'm already beginning to see a pattern and theme to this new year, 2011, and we are only 6 days into it. Good Lord what a whirlwind this will be.

Whether just before the new year, or currently on the horizon, I am witnessing many "firsts".


A few weeks ago I journeyed to Mexico. Not the first time out of the country, but the first time to a third world country, and the first time out of the country without parents. First time at an All-Inclusive Resort, and first time jet-skiing in the ocean. In the Spring, I'll roam to Europe, just for fun, and Vegas for my birthday - you guessed - for the first time.

I noticed it this morning when I called my mom excitedly just to tell her about my ski-trip weekend planned for New Hampshire. My "First" all weekend ski-trip. I felt naive and just about every other synonymous word, but ya know what? Here's to feeling like a kid again. Here's to firsts, and here's to trying everything. Here's to being a 20-something and recognizing that I have alot to learn, and alot to experience.

I've always felt like I grew up quickly. Went on my first working tour when I was 15, and etiquette school all the years before that. I could tell you the proper grooming habits of a German French Poodle and what's going on at the root of a wavy-haired beauty, and why her hair isn't pins and needles straight instead. But 2011 will be about finally being a kid, and I'd like to toast to that. Here's to having the maturity to know that it's OK to be immature sometimes.

Pity

I have a diamond pendant necklace. It was a gift, and it is beautiful.
Resting on a sterling silver chain, it bobbles and sways around my neck with ease.

I recently noticed that there had formed a knot in the chain, preventing the diamond to either slip off the chain and onto a new one, and was instead containing the diamond between clasp and knot.

I thought I would cry.

The only way to free that perfect little diamond would be to break that perfect little chain.
Having to choose between two articles of purity and simplicity and...pretty-ness.
Two articles that each on their own are just not quite enough, but together create this specific harmony. And to seperate them again? One would have to break, and be left without use, without purpose; to be tossed aside.