“Rien de Rien”

I really don’t. For those unfamiliar with Edith Piaf and/or French, basic translation of today’s soundtrack is no regrets, and for me it is always sung by a chanson whose life and voice are equally moving. It is one of my three favorite songs, and one I request be played if anyone insists on ever having a memorial service for me, assuming this dandelion ever dies.

I owe much of my finally moving  forward again to a young and gifted artist who put a paintbrush in my hand freeing with music, color and movement the pain for which I could not find words.

I blogged yesterday, and then I painted yesterday and then I went to a barbecue with my SCA family who had Veggie dogs and grilled veggie kabob. (Plant based consideration in itself by a host leaves me verklempt, so add in chocolate porter and the kindness was transforming). I ended my perfect birthday week in the way I had begun it, with a group of lovely people who expect no more of me than just being unpredictable, imperfect me.

I made choices of who and what my soul needed, it all came together, admittedly there was not time to include everyone I love in my birthday celebration, and there are a few exceptional bits of human light and friendship where I am consistently unable to attain even temporary orbit these days. Life gets busy sometimes.

Those I chose to spend time with were ones I know see “me”, all of me without idealization, or its flip side of  fear and blame. I gifted myself with those whose presence is always the best present. That’s what I gave myself for my birthday this year.  An entire week of being just me

And it was just what I needed.

Yesterday I blogged, I painted, I partied with friends.

And then I came home and cried, and cried, and cried.

And today I woke with a headache but  some of the blanket of grief lifted

I wanted to paint more, but I am out of paint, and I think I need some other brushes, so here I am listening to Edith Piaf Radio on Google because life is good, and I can.

I am still really struggling with words, but that’s okay…rien de rien

Even the music in my head is jumbled. By the time I am done with this entry maybe a song will stick, maybe I will have a title. Maybe some day soon I will write a poem again, I will truly feel happiness again, maybe I will actually find a way to start these tears and cry until I stop.

It has been 5 months since the last post, not easy months but not bad ones either.  I go to work. I eat. I sleep. I move through life maybe a bit more hermit like than this time last year but maintaining an appearance of normal.

The losses of important friends have been monthly. People continue to surprise me with their incredible ability to be beautiful. While other times people surprise me with their narcissism and meanness. I am the sidekick in an incredible mashup of a Nicholas Sparks and Stanley Kubrick movie.

I wake up most mornings feeling peace, joy and gratitude. I can sometimes make it through a whole morning without thinking about the rape. Maybe lunch or the music on the way home will make me think I need to call one of my friends…and then I realize that cell phone reception will never reach that far.

Do others guess that everything looks like its like it’s filmed through a Vaseline wash? They see my smile, hear my words, exchange news, even hug. Are they aware of the thick woven wool scrim interjected between us?

Nothing touching me. Grief is the perfect isolation tank.

I need a mental equivalent of Clyndamycin to free myself of his memory, all the bad memories, all the betrayals.

And I need emotional morphine to live with all these happy memories of those I have said good-bye to this year.

But I am still getting up.

And getting on.

Cause that’s what I do

and sometimes I just play along, why don’t you come too.

if it’s a friend you need, let it be me.