Returning
Like a little gopher, I am popping my head out of a hole. Bared to the eyes of the sky and land. I have been hiding, scuttling through corridors in the earth, building tunnels and patting my walls, firming up the soil. I cannot explain my time underground. I did not deserve the sky. The stars left me friendless. It is not a good place to remember because I had never been so lost. Hope was a diamond beyond my means.
I think I talked about recovery in the past, about N.A., me on again, off again. It helped in the way that all central truths do when we are reminded off them, when we begin to apply them. Things like forgiving yourself, your feelings, the people around you. Things like understanding surrender and graditude, learning to live in grace (at least sometimes.) Accepting that you are not in control, that you are powerless most of the time, and learning to let go and let God. I believe now I needed the emotional support more than anything, but I don't believe I would have died without N.A. either.
And now? Now I do minimal drinking and smoking. And I've grown to be fine with that. While I have fond memories, there is no electric tingle in my body when I get a case of the "Fuck it"s. I have come back to writing in some small ways and in a few major ways, and returning to myself feels good. I'm growing stronger most days. I am doing writing exercises that are creating sparks and building good habits. I have plans to sell my work. Lofty plans that I firmly believe I can achieve, that I feel is somehow meant to be. I am writing an essay for Salon.com. It centers on a violent act in a book, which confronts you with a love so big and desperate it guides a mother (a runaway slave) to kill her children rather than have them return to slavery. It's about reading that book at 18 and not being able to accept or come to terms with that murder. And how, now, I have a different perspective, because I am reading it as a mom.
Booya!
Yes. I have a daughter.
She's the most amazing being! Her eyes are lit by stars and her skin is mine, but lighter, and feels like satin. She is beautiful and smart, friendly and usually easy-going, though she does get contemplative and will chill quietly for a long time. She is the very best thing that ever happened to me, although deciding to have her and dealing with pregnancy (and all the things that come with it: like telling your dad) were very difficult to go through. The birth was amazing, though. What it does to you, what you witness and feel, cannot be anticipated. You are torn apart and rebuilt. You join the churn of history, of man going on, and are at peace with it because you now understand what the body is for: for creating, for giving, for going on. The scraps of you - some bold and shiny, some frayed and pale - are balled up in this living, breathing creature you brought into the world. How can it be possible that something so pure is there, nestled in your arms? Her chest rises and falls, matching its beat to your body's tempo, your heart's rhythm. How have you managed to live before this moment?
Her name is Mary-Alice Kay Campolongo. Good long Italian name... ha ha. She is named after three grandmothers, and we call her Mary-Alice. I could go on and on, of course.
Anyway, my daughter is now six-and-a-half and we live together with my boyfriend (her father) in a little apartment a few blocks from the beach. Life is simple and complicated and, in the end, ultimately simple.
I struggle, like everyone, but the baby is a constant reminder of all the magic in the world. All it takes is one smile and everything is washed away and you wonder: How can my heart encompass a love that big? Who knew such love existed in the world? We are all fools.
OK. So here she is!:
I think I talked about recovery in the past, about N.A., me on again, off again. It helped in the way that all central truths do when we are reminded off them, when we begin to apply them. Things like forgiving yourself, your feelings, the people around you. Things like understanding surrender and graditude, learning to live in grace (at least sometimes.) Accepting that you are not in control, that you are powerless most of the time, and learning to let go and let God. I believe now I needed the emotional support more than anything, but I don't believe I would have died without N.A. either.
And now? Now I do minimal drinking and smoking. And I've grown to be fine with that. While I have fond memories, there is no electric tingle in my body when I get a case of the "Fuck it"s. I have come back to writing in some small ways and in a few major ways, and returning to myself feels good. I'm growing stronger most days. I am doing writing exercises that are creating sparks and building good habits. I have plans to sell my work. Lofty plans that I firmly believe I can achieve, that I feel is somehow meant to be. I am writing an essay for Salon.com. It centers on a violent act in a book, which confronts you with a love so big and desperate it guides a mother (a runaway slave) to kill her children rather than have them return to slavery. It's about reading that book at 18 and not being able to accept or come to terms with that murder. And how, now, I have a different perspective, because I am reading it as a mom.
Booya!
Yes. I have a daughter.
She's the most amazing being! Her eyes are lit by stars and her skin is mine, but lighter, and feels like satin. She is beautiful and smart, friendly and usually easy-going, though she does get contemplative and will chill quietly for a long time. She is the very best thing that ever happened to me, although deciding to have her and dealing with pregnancy (and all the things that come with it: like telling your dad) were very difficult to go through. The birth was amazing, though. What it does to you, what you witness and feel, cannot be anticipated. You are torn apart and rebuilt. You join the churn of history, of man going on, and are at peace with it because you now understand what the body is for: for creating, for giving, for going on. The scraps of you - some bold and shiny, some frayed and pale - are balled up in this living, breathing creature you brought into the world. How can it be possible that something so pure is there, nestled in your arms? Her chest rises and falls, matching its beat to your body's tempo, your heart's rhythm. How have you managed to live before this moment?
Her name is Mary-Alice Kay Campolongo. Good long Italian name... ha ha. She is named after three grandmothers, and we call her Mary-Alice. I could go on and on, of course.
Anyway, my daughter is now six-and-a-half and we live together with my boyfriend (her father) in a little apartment a few blocks from the beach. Life is simple and complicated and, in the end, ultimately simple.
I struggle, like everyone, but the baby is a constant reminder of all the magic in the world. All it takes is one smile and everything is washed away and you wonder: How can my heart encompass a love that big? Who knew such love existed in the world? We are all fools.
OK. So here she is!: