Monday Mimisms ~ Fresh Hell

There came a moment this week when I should have wilted and broken. I had every right. Every reason. Enough enoughs. But I didn't.  Something made me stop. Something changed my path.
 Fully expecting to run a marathon of pity and in public no less (!) I took one step down that road...two steps...three. Anger. Fear washed over me. Disappointment. What fresh hell is this?  I thought.

 Every foul word I know started to fly out of my prissy mouth.  People are sick in my world right now. Some of my people may even be dying (by the world's medical assessment)..but that is not for me to say, now is it?  Some of my people might not be here next year at this time and some are dying in stages. I see it. Fresh hell
A curse word formed. And another. No one was around.
What would it hurt if I hurled a few out into the ether? Ether is flammable. It causes amnesia. It could catch the atmosphere on fire if I'm not careful. Or maybe it would make me forget. What is more healing in this situation?                                                                              Fire or anesthesia?
I could even throw something if I wanted. No one is going to hear or see.  What about crying one of those ugly ugly cries? Is it prudent to mourn when people are dying before they die? Is it alright if I fall apart and cuss something? My mother would have already done so in decibels loud enough for NASA to catch the reverb in the black hole of space. Pans would have flown across the room. Cupboards slammed. Then the legendary stomping. A hissy fit. Oh, she taught me how to throw a proper hissy fit. If you have ever seen me do this southern dance, then I'll just go ahead and apologize retroactively and proactively at the same time. I do like to get things out of my system (it's healthy sans flying objects, that is).  My aim is better than my mother's. No smashing dishes on the wall for me. Just a pen and a keyboard.

In writing and music and love, all restraint ceases. I bring conniptions to the page every day with a shattering smash. It's therapy on steroids. You can't destroy paper with words, now can you? Relationships, yes. Lyric phrases, no. 
And yet I destroy things in that realm all the time. We all do. Musicians and astronauts live for the crescendo. We smash barriers with sound. Beauty cuts through. Healing happens. Happiness happens. Joy happens. Resolutions in the key of d minor when all you really wanted was a solid C Major. 
I can break myself into little bitty pieces in a story or a song. I use a pen and a sledgehammer; then put myself together again without hurting a thing.Tantrum adulting. Any beautiful creative process worth its salt calls for a hammer.Dismantle. Analyze. Repair. Begin again.

When the light changes, it will feel like autumn in the middle of July.

Something made me cease the onslaught of self-harming verbiage and breathe. I looked around. Yep. Same problems. Nothing has changed. 
I literally stopped myself, turned around on the porch and walked in the opposite direction. I made myself say out loud, "I don't want to be angry anymore. I will not carry this hurt into one more minute of my life. All is well in me."  
That was the beginning of the great Bloggingham flood. Instead of crying in self-pity and worry for people I love, happy tears began to stream down my face. I couldn't believe it.  How can I be happy when everything looks so dire? But happy I was. How can you love life when people are dying? How dare you? But happy I was. A shift in my mind happened the moment I physically turned my body in the other direction and took control of my own happiness.  
I walked and walked and walked and walked. I talked it out with my God and myself. I told Him how weary I was. How tired. I admitted that blaming other people for my emotional state is letting them orchestrate my life for me. That's not who I am.  I told Him I was tired of feeling resentful all the time and that I needed guidance to morph these situations into something more positive. I surrendered all of it. Every last drop. And all I got....was happier.
I heard nothing and everything all at once. "I will sit with you," He whispered to me. "You don't need to do anything. Just sit with Me."
    And so the best part of me sat with the best part of Him. Two became one. No pans flew. No cringy words. No stomping. 
And that's when I remembered my little Bree. When my granddaughter is angry, she lets everyone know about it. She flings her little body around as toddlers do. Just the other day, as I watched her have a tantrum, she looked so much like my  mother....and then I noticed the direction of her gaze. It was UP.  The target of her tantrum, her anger, was the sky.Flinging her curls back and shaking her head, her words flew UP into the clouds as if she knew they were listening to her. 

  She was fierce and brave and said what she wanted to say. It was obvious to me that the Sky heard and understood."I'll tell you a thing or two, Sky!!" And then it was over and she went on to other things.What a beautiful ritual to watch. 
But mostly, she does this...

"I have a boo-boo, Mimi." She holds up her foot.There is no boo-boo.I kiss her heel.All better."Thank you, Mimi."
And this is why she can hold a catAnd tend to pawswho really don't need anything from herexcept her tender healing touch 
I think that's all anyone needs.
I hope she never sees me throw a hissy fit.I hope she always talks to clouds.



Photos: Mimi Lenox and PixabayFollow Me

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