"i want to fill your life with color and warmth. i want to fill it with light" (p. 140).
you are all fair, my love; there is no flaw in you. song of solomon 4:7 (p. 305).
that's what i've been trying to do here, with this blog lately. i'd grown tired of it. i've grown tired of me. the past month or so has been quite the challenge, and i'm not handling it very well. i'm trying. but... a girl can only take so much; i keep thinking i've had my fill, and karma says, no. no, you can take a little more.
like when i go to the grocery store for my boxes of cap'n crunch and honeycomb--kids' cereals are great comfort foods--and run into a woman i knew long, long ago. i recognize her sweet, smiling face. i'm happy, so happy to have run into her. and she seems pleased to see me.
and of course the questions come: how've you been?
the answer is: miserable. but i can't tell her that. so i lie and say i'm fine. or i'm doing alright.
and next is: are you married?
i like it so much better when young girls ask me this question. sometimes i go watch my nephew's t-ball games, and the little girls play on the bleachers, waiting for their brothers to finish. they're fearless, these girls. they marvel at the smallness of my eyes. they try to take the few pieces of jewelry i wear off my hands so they can admire the silver on their own skin. they ask me if i'm married.
and yeah, the tug's still there. the twinge of disappointment. the regret that i have to say no. but with these girls, i can quickly brush it aside, smile at them, raise a brow and ask, are you?
the way they look at me then--all big-eyed and silly--that does wonders for smoothing out that twinge.
but when an older woman's asking.... when she's standing there with her teenage daughter. i have to look away. i can't say i'm barely capable of getting any of'm to ask me out to dinner. but i can't ignore the question, either. nope. i can't seem to find a good man, i say.
to which, of course, she replies, well don't give up. you'll find him.
most of the time i just kind of shrug it off, and that's the end of that conversation.
today i couldn't do it, though. i couldn't leave it. i'm mad and i'm tired. and this question hurts. i know they mean well. i know we love to talk about love. but i can't do it.
i'm forty-two-years-old, ma'am. i'm pretty sure all the good ones are gone. i could feel the daughter's eyes on me. i didn't look. i didn't even look at the mother, but turned back to cereal and sought help locating the cap'n crunch.
the only colors i see right now are red and blue. and there is no warmth. there's scalding, lukewarm and frigid. those are sights i know right now. those are the sensations.
and if not them, then there's the darkness that's plagued me since my childhood. and i'm home alone right now, which makes it so much harder to shove back.
i've taken what little energy i have and am pouring it into the this page.
and i am clinging, desperately, barely to that bit of scripture... that all this hell is fleeting. that i am good despite it.
that i am all fair... even with the marks i've put upon me--some of which are never coming off.
they are strong words, those. some of the best ones i've read. and when i was hunting for quotes to use here, i was so, so glad i'd happened upon them.