Being

A call back to basic being me.

My identity. "What makes me special."  It isn't being a novel, disruptor of preconceived American stereotypes.  It isn't being the light on a tram in a dark place.  It isn't being the wealthy distributor of generosity.  It isn't being the young pretty mom and giver of Halloween goodies.  It isn't being the yoga guru, drinking and smoking at a cafe with international Chanel model friends.  It isn't being the lavish United card holding world traveller jet setting to a new country every other month (are you sure God?).  It isn't because of what I know, and have experienced, and touched and smelled and ingested. But even typing these things opens up such a hole in my soul the tears are fighting to fall from my eyes. Bruxelles you made being me feel so special.

And maybe I hate him because now he is special again and I am not.  And I live in the land of people who are trying so hard to be special.  And I don't think they are special one. bit.  I find their attempts to be special shallow and ridiculous.

And so are mine.

"From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands.  God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us.  For in him we live and move and have our being.  As some of your poets have said, 'We are his children'."
Acts 17:26-28

And that makes being me special.  

Unpacking

"I have so much to unpack."

Wow.  7 months in and all the physical objects have been unpacked and now the emotional unpacking has begun.  This. is. so. painful.  And just like unpacking my bags

there is stuff   e v e r y w  h  e  r  e.  

And I don't have room for it all.  And it doesn't fit anymore.  It looks HUGE in this tiny, ugly carpeted, insignificant, unstable place.  And I have to decide what stays and what goes.  What was just for that time and what is for now.  I am a horrible decision maker.  It's exhausting.  I start to put away one item to one specific location and then I drop it only to be distracted by the next item that needs to be put away in a totally different place in my life.  And then along the way my kid interrupts me with some need so I just drop it there.  "Oh wait what was it that I was doing?"  And some of the things are broken or damaged and it makes me so angry.  I can't get that back.  And someone else's carelessness resulted in this.  And I am alone. The worst alone because I had a husband but he is off at work in a job he loves so now I am left to unpack it all in this job I hate.  And I better keep a good attitude while unpacking because my kids and others are watching me...they are always watching me.

Sometimes I just throw stuff out because I can't bear to have to make another decision about it.
Sometimes I just sit and cry for hours holding my stuff until life forces me to put it away.
Sometimes I just put it the washer trying to make it all clean because the smell of it is too painful.
Sometimes I just cram it into any place because I just can't have it in my face anymore.

And then there is always those hidden pockets or those areas in which Jon just shoved stuff. It takes me twice as long to put that stuff away because it came out of nowhere, and I am not sure why we still are holding on to it.  I have always been able to get rid of more things than him but I don't even know anymore.  And I have to make room for all that stuff in my life and he never appreciates it or asks where all that stuff went.

So I stand over the mess littered throughout my entire space.  I fear and doubt that it will ever all get unpacked or that I will make some horrible decision about it that I will regret for the rest of my life.

"Who will love me enough to just sit with me while I unpack it all?"