This is the Actual Blog for Today

And, just as I'm thinking I should be falling asleep because I am so damn tired, the real blog for today makes that impossible.

Let's stop pretending this is a cute little howdy-do kind of blog. I've always been fairly gut wrenching in my explanation of my life on these pages. I'm sorry for tip-toeing earlier.

I noticed my old blog "Outlaw Gardener" picked up another follower. I haven't written for it since May. The pictures on the last blog are so outdated, so sparse, of a land that had not yet grown to its full potential. I read the last blog, and I remembered that small part of my pain that I keep to myself most of the time because I can't imagine who would understand. I'm just going to let it go now. If I talk about it outside of my head and my walks, during which I cry very briefly and quietly on occasion, perhaps I can more efficiently let it go. So, here it is:

When I moved here, I wanted so badly to be a part of what Brad was doing at the restaurant and winery. I felt so utterly useless most of the time. Everyone had a place but me. I begged to help out, but was rebutted. I don't know why. I cannot fathom any reason, but I do not share a mind with my past loves. I can only see my part and try in some way to see his.

I planted a garden. I planted a garden for him. And I say it like it was nothing, but it was everything. Every single day for a year I spent 4+ hours on 2 acres. I walked with no shoes when the ground was newly tilled, soft, wet from the torrential rain of October 2009 that washed trenches through my spinach rows. I wore nothing but clothing stained in the mud and clay because there was no point in wearing anything else. I trudged through the creek, carried pails of water back and forth because it took a year to secure a working irrigation system. I dug ditches. I pulled weeds. I hurt. I sweat. I froze. I worked in the rain and snow. I watched the weather. I woke up in the morning, every morning, in anticipation of the first frost. And in February, I awaited the end of the cold. I know what the earth feels like when it's frozen. I know when it's ready to give. I had no idea what I was doing, but I did everything I thought would help. And every day, I waited for him to come and to see what I had done.

But he didn't. And every day I wrestled with my own anonymity. The hidden member of the family. Alone in the garden. I begged for a raise to make ends meet, but I was refused. My work wasn't important to anyone...but me.

When Jenni told me she was leaving, I cried. Jenni was my help. She was scared to make decisions most of the time, and that made me crazy, but she was inspiring and comforting. She truly gave of herself to the earth. But she hated it here, and when she left, I cried out loud because I hated it too. Because no one saw nor heard me. At least, that's how I felt.

So, everything fell apart, despite my efforts to hang on, it hurt so terribly much to be invisible. So I let go, but I kept working for him. I couldn't let the garden go. And I brought in someone that I thought I could trust to replace Jenni. Someone that I enjoyed. Someone that I knew could teach me.

Over a period of three months, I was gradually pushed aside. I did get to see the fruits of a year's labor. I enjoyed it too. I learned so much about myself. I learned so much about life, and for that I am so grateful. I had one of the best jobs anyone can ever have. Trust me.

But I had to let it go. And I still cry about it. I still feel like I'm a part of those two acres. When I started digging the beds for the fall garden in August 2009 by myself, I would sit in my car when it rained and draw pictures of what I had done, and what I envisioned for the future.

The garden taught me how to be an artist again. It taught me to take risks, to dig in, to work hard, to hurt. It reminded me of how it felt to be a child, and it quelled my fears.

I quoted Emerson in my first blog post on Outlaw Gardener:

Our age is retrospective...Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?...Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of life stream around and through us, and invite us by the powers they supply, to action proportioned to nature, why should we grope among the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe? The sun shines to-day [sic] also.

For a year, I rested in the arms of nature and let the floods of life stream around and through me; thus, I cannot continue to grope among the dry bones of the past. I have been invited to action proportioned to nature, to action as mighty as the earth and her workings. The sun shines today also. And I am grateful for that.

It only takes me so far

I had a bit of a fantastic/frustrating/empowering weekend. I'm not going to go detail by lame detail, but I will say, I feel a bit at sea, or I did this weekend...at times. At sea like, on a cruise that's kind of great sometimes, but also kind of lame other times. You know...those cruises...that are like that.

It's scary to put yourself out there. I will also say that. It's scary to open up. It's like jumping off of a cliff. You know how it sucks when you convince your friends to do something or go somewhere with you, and they seem to be all about it, but, when you get there, it's just you?

I don't know what I'm trying to say. I kept feeling like I was going to throw up all weekend. I couldn't make it stop. My skin feels too small right now. I hate feeling like no one gets me. I'm a what you see is what you get kind of gal. I don't say much that I don't really mean, and I tend to take people at their word. This gets me into trouble. A lot.

Anyway, enough about that. I'm tired. HA! I was so excited about getting home tonight to finally finish my laundry (I was holding off for fabric softener so as not to pull crusty clothes off the line) that I promptly changed into stretchy pants, climbed into bed, cuddled up with Alexander the Great, and am thinking about staying here until I fall asleep.

Today rolled at a pretty good pace. I thought I would be miserable having slept a mere 5ish hours, but coffee came to my rescue, and I powered through, even after an afternoon bath, but now, I'm dying.

Can you tell that my brain is currently holding itself together in fragments? I wish I could find the balance. It seems I am either out of my mind busy, or bored as hell. Are you bored as hell reading this? I'm going to try to get up early tomorrow, do yoga, wash dishes, and finish this God-forsaken laundry. Going to try not to focus on the fact that I'm terribly lonely. BAH! Pretend I didnt' say that. Okay?

What's on the Other Side

I had a thought this morning. I know. Crazy. Why is it that I can only think of two songs about rainbows: Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and Rainbow Connection, which actually inquires, "Why are there so many songs about rainbows?" I love that song. I love it so much, I want it to be a pizza topping. But, I can't think of more than two songs about rainbows, and that does not equal "so many."

I had the biggest crush on Kermit the Frog when I was a child. I also had a crush on the Robin Hood fox from Disney's Robin Hood. I'm serious. I wanted to be a cartoon marvelous much so that I could marry that Robin Hood fox. I miss those simple urges. The child-like dream that perhaps there is a world in which cartoons are real, and they are waiting, just as I am, to be friends.

Last night, after my show, I took some complements, changed clothes, simmered down, and went home alone. Man, I was sad. It's hard to look forward to an evening alone after something as earth shattering and intense as the role I'm playing right now. Of course, I still feel that my college acting coach would not be happy with my performance, but that's not really important at this juncture. I went home alone, and I was sad. And I thought, "if only I didn't have to go home alone..." If only. There was a time when that thought would end there, but not last night. Last night, only moments after the conception of the first thought, I replied to myself, "Going home to someone is not always the happiest of things." And it's true. It isn't the person waiting at home that brings happiness. I have had plenty of nights, when I was in a relationship, that coming home to someone was not the proverbial icing on the cake.

The truth of the matter is that it isn't up to the person waiting at home or the person that wants to be with me after the show to make me happy. What a horribly difficult responsibility to bestow upon anyone else. No, my happiness is entirely up to me.

OH NO! I've figured it out...the answer at least. Practice is the hardest, most frustratingly painful part. And that's where the rainbow song comes into play. So, there aren't that many songs about rainbows, but the songs that do exist are fantastic. So, there's no one waiting at home to tell me how fantastic I am. I have a home. I have a bed. I have cuddly animals. I have me. I always have me. I wait for the day when the comfort is that I am waiting on the other side. I follow the rainbow from one end to the other, and I find...me. Comfortable, strong, loving, and happy.

No subject

It's hard to get back into blogging. At it's height, I feel like my blogging was pretty entertaining, but it always starts a little ragged. I lose the ability to start with a bit of a thesis, ramble, and then tie it all back together in the end. PLANNING. I've never been good at it.

I'm back in the whirlwind. I had forgotten how much time and energy is required to make theatre happen. I'm reminded of my days as an undergraduate student. At the end of every semester, I would look back in awe of how I had managed to survive. It's hard to see it when you're in it, though. I feel fine. I don't feel like I'm falling apart or anything. I just feel that if anything shifts, if only slightly, I will. So, I'm trying very carefully to balance.

My least favorite aspect of theatre kids (and I'm speaking as one of them) is their propensity to have competitive conversations about who is the busiest. I used to sit and listen, while drowning in my own hell of too much, to everyone, "You think YOU'RE busy, well I...," blah, blah, blah. I resented it. I still try to stay away from competition. I simply tell people I'm busy, and I'm sorry, but only when I need to. I don't begin to think that I am perhaps more busy and important than anyone else. I'm trying to stop thinking of myself as the star of the only film ever made.

It feels good though. I think that's why we like to talk about it. It gives purpose. It opens our eyes, pushes us to the limit. Makes beer necessary and good. ;)

And busy-ness often leads me back to this: blogging. I may have only an hour to myself every day, but if I can spend it putting my thoughts into words, it is a well spent hour.

I'm going to try to be "back" for a little while

It has been OVER A YEAR, I know. This past year has been absolutely...just life, the way it should be, I suppose. I turned 30. I'm about to turn 31. I am no longer in a relationship. I have a dog. I teach theatre at NGCSU. I'm fully active in a number of improv projects in Atlanta. I live in a small house off the Dahlonega square. I refuse to mow my lawn on a regular basis. I worked on a farm for a year. I spent most of my days for a whole year working outside in all types of weather. I built wooden compost bins in the snow. I dug ditches in the heat of the afternoon. I had a killer tan. I swam in rivers. I ate. I drank. I was merry. I hurt. I was hurt. I hurt others. I repented, or, at least, I tried to. I sang karaoke.

I've been practicing trust. I'm not always good at it. I do yoga. I meditate. I'm not always good at it. I've been practicing forgiving myself. I'm not always good at that either. I've been practicing self love, self acceptance, and self awareness. I'm not always good at it.

The only thing missing is writing (or ego stroking, call it what you will). So, I'm going to try to be back for a little while. Let's see how it goes. I'm not lying when I say I'm not always good at this, but you know that already.