Queen of the New Beginning

A winters day
In a deep and dark december;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Julie's roundtable this week is one I nearly skipped.

It's one of those areas where I am likely to be misunderstood, where I won't "fit in" with the "norm" (which doesn't seem like such a bad thing most of the time) and it's an area where many who read this site might not be able to relate.

It's a chance I'll take. I'm also including this in Wellness Wednesday because the topic is pertinent to both forums.

I am the Queen of the New Beginning. Since becoming an adult, I have lost everything and rebuilt three times. I've walked out on entire households three times. I would have done it a fourth time if it hadn't been for the simultaneous running out of money and visa time.

Ive built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
Its laughter and its loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

The grass was always greener over the hill. There was something waiting and the puzzle was mine to solve. To find it. There was always a clue to be followed and discovered. And I had no qualms about bailing on everything. Jobs, potential communities, households of "stuff", the last of which was a small apartment filled with antiques.

I didn't care much because I didn't feel any connection. Nothing got in and nothing got out. I was confined in a small bubble of my own creation. The bubble protected me from a world I could neither understand nor love. It was a dual battle of running from the wild boulders coming down the hill and the Sisyphian process of rolling them back up.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I was miserable in my own skin and couldn't believe that a 20-year-old, a 30-year-old and then a 40-year-old could just be waiting to die. I lived for dying. I drank a lot. My spiritual beliefs didn't allow for suicide... so I waited. My karma was to wait. That's what I decided. One day, I'd be released from the mortal coil and go home.

I don't have any warm and fuzzy stories for you, guys. Not of that life before. Not even one. And I'm not going to make them up, just to make this easier to read.

Dont talk of love,
Ive heard the words before;
Its sleeping in my memory.
I wont disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Loss didn't mean anything to me because loss was as natural as breathing. Nothing stayed. Nothing was permanent. Nothing lasted.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

Loss was something people experienced who didn't understand that basic fact. They just made up the sentimental stories. I didn't believe them. They were liars and it's just something they were taught to say.

When I was nearly 50 years old, I took a vacation. A friend of mine who had decided to take the ex-pat route encouraged me to come visit him. I wasn't too excited about the idea but he talked me into it. Michael lived in Thailand.

Many of you know the story from there.

Sometimes a taste of honey is worse than none at all. Sometimes it's just what we need. I have a full-fledged family in Thailand. They may not be blood family but blood doesn't count for much anyway. It's connection that matters. It's stepping outside the little bubble we build around ourselves to let someone in. And I have fully let these people in.

Trust is the hardest thing of all and it is what took the longest. During the time I lived with them, I watched vigilantly for inconsistencies in what they'd say and what they'd do. I found it hard to believe that when they said they expect me to come back, that they really meant it. After a while, I finally believed them. I am not an easy person to convince. After months and months of weekly phone calls and yellow slips in my post office box, I finally came to realize they did mean it. I was part of the family. It wasn't fast or instant. But it is very real.

I'm totally against the admonition in recovery circles that "pulling a geographic" is wrong. Sometimes we really do have to find that one place where we truly belong and where we are part of the fabric of life.

It's difficult for me to imagine losing my Thai family because I don't think it's possible.

The things I've gained from them, the ideas, the beliefs, the consistency, the trust.. and, yes, even the love is something that can never be taken away from me. Every one of them could die tomorrow and I'd still carry that with me. It's a part of me.

I have a picture on my nightstand. It was taken one afternoon when there were many people visiting. We are all standing under the house (the house is on stilts). A motley group of folks suffering the heat. I am standing among them, holding one of the children. He is nuzzling my neck and I look at peace. We are all at peace. We are one.

I'm just one of the group. And if someone had told me that I'd go from blue-eyed blonde from Southern California to a blue-eyed village girl from northern Thailand, I would have laughed. I would have had a bitter laugh and poured another drink.

~*