Too much to do. No time. So many needs. No money. Every ounce of me parceled out, weighed and measured and carefully divided, poured lovingly and hectically into the various people/places/things/goals that cry out for my attention.
That, for me, is almost always when the storm comes rolling in. The last crack of lightning to an already fragile structure that stands no chance and simply bursts into flame. In case you were wondering
Because less face it. . . when shit hits the fan, it hits the fan. The clean up is what matters. I am still in the defecation-spreading-all-over-the-walls-in-blatant-disregard-of-my-orderly-life phase. . . but even still I realized as I sat here, stomach in more knots than a badly done cat's cradle, I have comfort.
In a Boyfriend who stops his entire world every time my s
A friend who knows from a three word text that something is wrong. And quietly shows up in my kitchen, arms open to catch my crazy in a bear hug so tight I couldn't squirm away, forcing me to actually let go and . . . cry.
Comfort in jamming my headphones in to study the rest of the night away (no sleep was forseen) and being unable to ignore the ding of Facebook as another friend firmly instigated a totally asinine conversation. I don't think I was supposed to know I was being checked up on, so. . . sshhhhh, ok?
A roomie who looked me in the eye and informed me of how strong and brave I am in her eyes, and demanded that I try seeing myself that way for a few seconds. I'm trying.
Opening my mailbox, where I have been collecting soft white envelope after soft white envelope, some traced with silver, others tied with dark ribbon, each containing a message of condolence for yet another friend who has lost a parent. Everyday for two weeks I have gone down and placed my key in the lock, listening to the cool metal click open and expose the sadness neatly packaged in the gaping maw of a metal mouth my mailbox becomes. Everyday I place my hand inside and offer a silent prayer thanking God for such a supportive community. I place donations in a small envelope and stack the sympathy on the edge of my counter, trying not to let my fingers linger on someone else's sorrow. Today when I opened the mailbox, a bright yellow envelope greeted me, with cheerful, looping hand writing. A note from a friend, who thought my mailbox (and heart) might need some cheer.
I find peace in the gently prying questions of my pseudo brother, who is maybe the only person alive who has found the right tone between soothing, insistent, and compassionate that will instantly make me open up. Sometimes a lot of crazy comes out when I do.
There is the friend who saw me walking and knew from the set of my shoulders that my smile was lying. There is such a strength in being transparent - the strength of being an Us and not an I.
Finding myself, instead of running my scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream, being squeezed in the papa-bear hug of one of my favorite faculty. 60 seconds - no more, no less - of being hugged and being me and breathing, were required before I was allowed to say a single line.
Joy in the sly smile shared when the last ballet class of the semester holds a mini-rebellion in ballet and the accompanist is a willing cohort!
A sense of hope when I round the corner from work and see beautiful lilacs (my favorite flowers) blooming in the rain, their perfume all the sweeter in the cool damp air.
The pure exhilaration only dancers and athletes know when your body suddenly obeys you. We're talking a triple pirouette here people! To the left. In jeans!
Perhaps most excitingly, my big source of comfort is finding out I have a Cassie Care Package on the way! I wish there was a way to convey to you the excitement this encompasses for me. Imagine a a beautiful and female Mad Hatter. Now imagine her as a former competitive diver. Now set this imagining loose in SoHo. This is who is creating my care package.
And that, ladies and gents, is a beautiful thing.