Staying On the Mat

“Your life is set up so that you will come face to face with your wounds. Parents, spouses, children, and friends are here to help you see your need for healing, and you are performing the same function in their lives.”
—Paul Ferrini, Love Without Conditions

“We normally attempt to solve our inner disturbances by protecting ourselves. Real transformation begins when you embrace your problems as agents for growth.”
—Michael Singer, Untethered Soul

“Other people trigger the karma that we haven’t worked out yet.”
—Pema Chodron, Start Where You Are


So, I’ve discovered something over the past few years of dating:

I have issues.

Lots of them.

I didn’t really see them during my marriage, perhaps because I married so young and had grown so comfortable in the relationship that I saw the issues which crept up as just the way things were, or perhaps because I’ve only begun reading some of the things that have helped me to see and face them, but in my subsequent relationships I find them everywhere. I’m deeply insecure, mistrustful, afraid, and I have an extreme fear of abandonment. I can be both controlling and manipulative in my attempts to get other people to solve my problems, and I’m constantly seeking reassurance of someone’s love and commitment for me. In short:

I’m a freaking mess.

But I’m also learning. And one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is how to take care of emotions such as fear, anger, anxiety, insecurity, pain, etc. without seeking to avoid them or make anyone else responsible for them. In his book Untethered Soul, Michael Singer speaks of negative emotions as inner thorns we constantly seek to protect ourselves from by avoiding anything that might come into contact with them. Eventually, these thorns, and our attempts to keep anything from touching them, run our entire lives.

“It affects all your decisions, including where you go, whom you’re comfortable with, and who’s comfortable with you. It determines where you’re allowed to work, what house you can live in, and what kind of bed you can sleep on at night. You feel that because you’ve minimized the pain of the problem, you’ve solved the problem. But it’s not solved. All you did was devote your entire life to avoiding it. It is now the center of your universe.”

This is so true, right? We’re constantly seeking to avoid the things which cause emotional pain and discomfort. But if we really want to be free from these emotions, rather than avoid the things which touch our “thorns,” we must remove them altogether. He says the we we do this is by allowing ourselves to fully feel them. This seems like such a contradiction, but Thich Nhat Hanh says that by paying attention to our emotions we invite the “energy of mindfulness” to care for them “like a mother taking a baby in her arms”:

“The next time you are angry, breathe and concentrate solely on breathing: ‘breathing in—I know that I am breathing in; breathing out—I know that I am breathing out.’ After a minute or two, you practice this way: ‘Breathing in—I know that I am angry; breathing out—I know that anger is still in me.’ Ten minutes later, you will feel better. It is a sure thing, on condition that the energy of mindfulness is really there; and if you keep it up, concentration—and not only concentration but also deep looking- will also be there. You will be able to look deeply at the true nature of your anger. This discovery, this understanding, this wisdom, will liberate you from your pain.”

In her book, Love Warrior, Glennon Doyle describes this process beautifully, in a scene which takes place just after she discovers her husband of over a decade has been cheating on her during their entire marriage (this is long, but well worth the read):

“Hello. I’m Amy. Thank you for coming to hot yoga.”
Hot yoga? What fresh hell is this? Too embarrassed to leave, I sit back down, wipe sweat from my face, and stare at the door longingly as the room starts closing in on me. While I scramble to plot my escape, Amy says, “Let’s decide on our intentions for class.” She nods to a woman up front who smiles and says, “My intention is to embrace loving-kindness today.” The second person says, “I want to radiate sunlight to all creation.” I sit, incredulous, as the next few ask for peace, strength, and clarity. What the hell are these people talking about? What am I doing wasting my time in here when my entire life is falling apart out there? Loving-kindness? I have real problems, people! Then it’s my turn and Amy is looking right at me. When I open my mouth, this is what comes out: “My intention is just to stay on this mat and make it through whatever is about to happen without running out of here.” My voice trembles, and the room gets very quiet. Something about Amy’s eyes makes it clear to me that I’ve just said something important.
Amy breaks the silence by replying, “Yes. You just be still on your mat. Yes.”
She starts the class, and for ninety minutes I sit still on my mat with no escape from my self. It is torturous. All the images I’ve been trying to outrun appear in front of me. Ghosts from the past: There I am on the laundry room floor; there is my baby crying into her cereal; there is Craig taking another woman to bed; and there they are afterward, hugging, kissing, laughing. Ghosts from the future: There is Craig walking down the aisle with another woman; there is Tish as a flower girl—wait, is that bride stopping to tuck my little girl’s hair behind her ear? Is she holding my girl’s hand? No, No, NO! It’s like a sadistic game of Whac-A-Mole in which the moles are my worst fears popping up in front of me and I have no mallet. I have nothing to swat at these ghosts with, no way to distract myself from them, nowhere to run from them, nothing to do at all but be still and face them. I wipe away tears that keep forming in response to my misery and the restlessness that feels like it might actually kill me. Sitting there, unmoving, my body hurts as much as my heart does. I feel so alone with my love and pain.
As I watch the others—people who are not just sitting, but stretching, and posing, and contorting—I consider feeling embarrassed. I try to remember that their intentions are not my intentions, their straws are not my straws, their paths are not my path. My directions were specific and personal: Be still and do not run out of here. A few times I choke back loud tears and I feel embarrassed again. All I can do is let myself feel embarrassed. Let them hear you. We are all here for different things. You are here to learn how to stay on your mat and feel the pain without running out of here. Be still. So the images keep coming and I just let my tears fall and mix into my sweat. I let it all be terrifying and horrible and unfair. I sit there and accept how unacceptable it all is. I just let it be.
Somehow, Amy understands. She comes by my mat to check on me throughout the class, and on her face I see respect. She knows I’m learning something important. I can tell she’s already learned it. Many times, maybe. Every few minutes she looks at me and gives a little nod that means, Yes, you’re doing this right. Don’t give up. Don’t run out. And finally, after ninety minutes, we are done. Amy asks us to lie down, and I lower myself to the floor and open my eyes to the ceiling. I realize that I have allowed myself to see it all and feel it all and I have survived. All the ghosts are still there, but they’re less threatening now. They can scare me, but they cannot kill me. They tried, but I won. Everything is still a bloody mess, yet here I am. Alive. I’d been fully human for an hour and a half and it had hurt like hell. It had almost killed me, but not quite. That not quite part seems incredibly important.
I close my eyes and when the tears flow downward toward my mat, I feel surprised that there’s any liquid left inside of me. Then I feel a hand on my arm, and along with it, an immediate twinge of shame: I am sweaty and crying and snotty and gross and someone is close to me. Up close, touching me. But I do not pull away. I do not wipe my eyes or my nose. I just let us be. I open my eyes and Amy is right there next to me and she says, “That—what you just did? That is the Journey of the Warrior. Now, don’t forget to breathe. You need to remember to breathe.” I do not understand why everyone keeps telling me to breathe. I’m alive, aren’t I? Isn’t it clear that I’m breathing? And what is the Journey of the Warrior?
Finally Amy bows to us and tells us that the God in her honors the God in us. She opens the door and the cool air rushes in. I walk out through the lobby and into the sun and experience an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. The Journey of the Warrior. This phrase rings a bell in my soul, but why? I climb into my van, rush home, and pull Pema Chödrön’s When Things Fall Apart off my nightstand. I flip to a page I’ve dog-eared and I run my finger down the lines to a sentence I’d underlined and highlighted but hadn’t really understood until now:

“So even if the hot loneliness is there, and for 1.6 seconds we sit with that restlessness when yesterday we couldn’t sit for even one, that’s the journey of the warrior.”

I sit down on the floor and as I read that sentence over and over, I understand that my entire life has been a race from the hot loneliness. I picture ten-year-old me, feeling my anger, fear, jealousy, otherness, unbelonging for the first time and understanding these uncomfortable but normal human feelings to be wrong, shameful. I thought I needed to hide these feelings, escape them, fix them, deliver myself from them. I didn’t know that everyone feels the hot loneliness. I didn’t know that it would pass. So for the next twenty years, every time anger or fear or loneliness started bubbling up, I reached for an easy button—a book, a binge, a beer, a body, a shopping spree, a Facebook feed—to shove it back down. I’d press that button and find myself magically transported to a pain-free place. Distracted, numbed, underwater, gone. Off my mat again and again. Running out of here.
Oh my God—what if the transporting is keeping me from transformation? What if my anger, my fear, my loneliness were never mistakes, but invitations? What if in skipping the pain, I was missing my lessons? Instead of running away from my pain, was I supposed to run toward it? Perhaps pain was not a hot potato after all, but a traveling professor. Maybe instead of slamming the door on pain, I need to throw open the door wide and say, Come in. Sit down with me. And don’t leave until you’ve taught me what I need to know.
I’ve never let myself trust love because I’ve never let myself trust pain. What if pain—like love—is just a place brave people visit? What if both require presence, staying on your mat, and being still? If this is true, then maybe instead of resisting the pain, I need to resist the easy buttons. Maybe my reliance on numbing is keeping me from the two things I was born for: learning and loving. I could go on hitting easy buttons until I die and feel no pain, but the cost of that decision could be that I’ll never learn, love, or be truly alive.”

I love Pema Chodron’s words about sitting with our restlessness for just a few seconds longer than we were able to the day before. Each time my “thorns” are hit, I challenge myself to sit with them for as long as possible, but also give myself permission to distract myself when I can no longer hold it. And the amazing thing is: it’s working. It’s hard to believe that negative energy can be transformed simply through the act of paying attention, but it’s true. I have noticed that the length of time I’m capable of sitting with pain/anger/fear/etc. has gotten much longer over time, and the more often I do this, the less things trigger me (for a more in-depth discussion of why this may be, click HERE.) I’m still insecure, but less so. I still become anxious, but the effects aren’t as intense. I still experience fear, but not nearly as often. And when I do experience these emotions, I now know how to take care of them.

I am learning to stay on my mat.

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For the past three years, I’ve struggled to put the experience of my “faith crisis” into words. I wrote a little about it HERE and HERE, and HERE, but haven’t quite been able to explain how months of struggle culminated in an event—a heart-felt, gutwrenching prayer—and how I left my Christianity, but did not leave my God.

Recently a friend, struggling through a similar shift, asked me: “What if everything I used to believe is true?” I knew exactly what she meant, because I had struggled with the same question. 17 years of Christianity had taught me to do everything within my power to interpret the passages of the bible correctly. It had taught me to fear experiences central to other religions as “portals” to the demonic, and that salvation could be lost. At one time, those beliefs lived in me just as surely my belief in gravity. But then one day I sat under a tree with God and poured my heart out to Him. This is my best attempt to recapture that moment…


I sit beneath a tree and begin to close my eyes against the brightness of the sun, but stop myself. I want to see the light. I want to feel the pain of it burning my eyes. I want my senses to anchor me, somehow. Desperate for some feeling of security, I want to wrap myself with the sound of birds singing, the sight of ants weaving their way through blades of grass, the musky-sweet smell of fall’s decaying leaves. Tears trace a path down my cheeks and my breath catches as I attempt a deep inhale, preparing myself to meet God the way I’ve always tried to: In truth. I have denied it for so long, fought against it, struggled with it, and now I have to face it. I have to tell Him:

I am not who He thinks I am.

It was a ridiculous thought, I know. Of course God knew exactly who I was. But in that moment, I felt hidden. For months I’d been sneaking, cowering, pretending to be the person I used to be, praying the prayers I used to pray. It wasn’t that I wanted to hide. It was just that I thought if I waited long enough, fought hard enough, tried hard enough, things would go back to normal. But they hadn’t, and now I had to face the fact that they never would again. I had changed.

I was no longer a Christian.*

I knew it, but hadn’t yet admitted it. Not even to myself. I’d spent months trying to hold my Christianity, struggling to maintain my grip as it slid between my fingers, capturing it with one hand as it slipped from the other, watching it become less substantive and more unstable with every new catch. In that moment, under that tree, I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I laid down my Christianity.

I laid it down, even though Christianity had been my identity for almost two decades.
I laid it down, even though I had raised my children to be “good Christians.”
I laid it down, even though I had believed for almost half my life that I could only please God by doing what the bible told me to do.
I laid it down, even though I had made unimaginable sacrifices in my search for what was “right” and my commitment to doing what I was “supposed to.”
I laid it down, even knowing I might go to hell.

I say “knowing” and not “believing,” because at that time, I did not believe, but knew, I stood at the edge of hellfire. One wrong move would send me tumbling, and this—this acceptance, this refusal to fight any longer, this laying aside of everything I’d ever been taught—was exactly the wrong move.

And yet…

From the deepest, truest part of me I knew I must make that move. A fire in my soul screamed that in order to trust the voice inside, the voice I had come to believe—with everything in me—belonged to God, I must be willing to truly embrace relationship over religion and step outside the confines of my theology and take a different path. Just one thing held my terror at bay enough to do what I must: the belief that if God truly knew my heart the way I believed He did, He would understand that this decision came from my fervent, all-encompassing desire to follow Him.

To follow Him, though everything I’d been taught told me this was not the way.
To follow Him, though I’d been told not to trust my heart.
To follow Him, though I could quote entire passages of scripture which proved me wrong.
To follow Him in a brand new way.

My body trembled in fear as I tried to find a way to talk to God, to face Him as a believer but not a Christian. Yet I felt hope, too, spinning its threads around and through the fear, shining in a way that made me certain of something beautiful taking place. If nothing else, I was approaching God in honesty, and I have heard it said that while truth isn’t always hopeful, the telling of it is. And so, with an aching, bruised, terrified but soaring heart I spoke to the one I had called my Lord for nearly two decades:

“Lord, everything I’ve ever been taught and everything I’ve ever believed tells me this is wrong. But everything inside me tells me this is right, and I don’t know how to reconcile the two. But I do know if I go back to doctrine, if I go back to searching the bible for all the rules and all the answers and all the “right” ways to live, something inside me will die. Something important and vital—something I believe with all my heart connects me to you—will cease to exist.
God, there are many scripture verses that tell me not to trust my heart, but there are more that tell me to listen to the Holy Spirit, and might this voice be the Holy Spirit? Because I have never felt so alive, so at peace, so connected to you as I have these last few months as I’ve followed this voice. But now it has led me to a place where the bible (or at least my interpretations of the bible) tell me I’m not supposed to go. It has lead me to reading things I’m not supposed to read and believing things I’m not supposed to believe and doing things I’m not supposed to do, and I am terrified I’m heading in the wrong direction.
But I choose to trust you. I choose to believe that you judge the heart. I choose to trust that you know my intentions are pure, even if my actions are wrong. I choose to believe you see my heart clearly, that you see inside the deepest, truest part of me and know this decision I’m making— to follow this internal prompting, even if it leads me away from scripture, away from Christianity, away from all I’ve been taught—is made from my sincere belief that this voice I’m hearing is you.
And, Lord, even though I believe this wholeheartedly, all I’ve been taught keeps me locked in terror that it might not be. I’m terrified I’m being deceived and I’m going to be one of those who “fall away” from you. I’m terrified I’m going to lose my salvation. But I believe you when you say you judge the heart. And I know my heart is sincere in this. I choose to walk this path because I truly believe you have led me to it. And if I’m wrong—if all I’ve ever been taught is correct—then I find comfort in the fact that if all the bible says is true, I will be judged according to my motives. I ask that if I walk a thousand miles in the wrong direction, you come after me as the lost sheep you promise to search and find. I ask that your mercy truly cover me, even if I end up in a place where I no longer believe anything I was once taught, because it is my belief in you that led me here. And I ask that if this voice is you, as I believe it is, you continue to guide me and lead me where I ought to go.”

Emptied of all I’d been carrying in my heart, I sat in silence, breath even, eyes clear, body light as if something critical but corrupt had left and in it’s place the most overwhelming sense of peace I’d ever experienced. It felt similar to the emptiness I’d once experienced after a long fast, a muted hunger softened by tranquility.

Three years later, I continue to feel both that hunger and peace. A hunger to draw closer, dive deeper, go farther, and more peace than I ever had during my 17 years of Christianity. In a fascinating paradox, more of the bible has become clear to me over the past three years than ever before, and two verses, in particular, resonate in a way they never had:

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves. You will know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thornbushes or figs from thistles? Even so, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit. 19 Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Therefore by their fruits you will know them.” … “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.” (Matthew 7:15-20 and Galatians 5:22-23)

According to this, I will know what is false by the fruit it produces, and I have experienced more “good fruit” in the past three years than in all my years of Christianity. I have followed God more honestly and sincerely during this time than I ever did in all my years of searching the pages of the bible to figure out what was “right,” and I have walked in more love and compassion and kindness than I ever have, before. I certainly have a lot of growing left to do, but this I know:

In laying down my Christianity, I have become more like Christ.


“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”
—Thomas Merton


*  When I say I am no longer a Christian, I mean it in the sense that I no longer embrace many of the popular Christian doctrines and interpretations of the bible. Perhaps it would be better to say, as one of my favorite authors Anne Lamott says, “I am a Christian. I’m just a very bad one.”


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No, I was not “born this way”

(I meant to post this during pride month, but true to form I’m running a bit late)…

“What if I wasn’t born this way at all? What if I married Abby not just because I’m gay but because I’m SMART? What if I DID choose my sexuality and my marriage and they are simply the truest, wisest, most beautiful, most faithful, most divine decisions I’ve ever made in my entire life?”
–Glennon Doyle

For almost twenty years, I lived my life as an extremely conservative Christian. When I fell in love with a woman for the first time, the narrative most people around me, including Jon, adopted was that I’d always been gay and due to my upbringing or perhaps the stance of the church, I had simply repressed who I “really was.” I accepted this narrative, though it didn’t quite ring true for me, because it gave Jon a reason to support me (“she can’t help it”) and it gave me a socially acceptable justification for my actions (“I was born this way.”) It was easy to defend my decisions if they were the result of something I couldn’t help because otherwise—if I’d chosen this, if I’d dared to follow my own heart out of my marriage and into the arms of a woman—well, then, I was just a selfish bitch. So, for me, rather than being a statement of freedom and self-identity, to say I was “born this way” seemed a cop-out—an easy way out of judgment. Additionally, the terms  “gay,” “lesbian,” “queer,” and “homosexual” carried feelings of shame and moral failure for me, not because of my Christianity, but because I saw the possibility that I might never be able to sexually connect with a man as a sign of spiritual regression. I hated the idea that I couldn’t love someone in that way based solely on their gender. But a recent conversation on this subject brought the words of Elizabeth Gilbert to mind:

“One thing I know about physical intimacy is that there are certain natural laws which govern the sexual experience of two people, and that these laws cannot be budged any more than gravity can be negotiated with. To feel physically comfortable with someone else’s body is not a decision you can make. It has very little to do with how two people think or act or talk or even look. The mysterious magnet is either there, buried somewhere deep behind the sternum, or it is not. When it isn’t there, you can no more force it to exist than a surgeon can force a patient’s body to accept a kidney from the wrong donor. My friend Annie says it all comes down to one simple question: ‘Do you want your belly pressed against this person’s belly forever—or not?’”

If this is true (and I believe wholeheartedly that it is) then the reality is that just as I have preferences regarding age and intelligence and interests, I have preferences regarding gender. I don’t want my belly pressed against a man’s forever. I have sexual longings and desires that simply don’t include men. What if this is not a failure at all? What if it IS a choice? What if it’s me imagining the truest, most beautiful life for myself? What if it’s me finally, finally listening to that still, small voice that has been silenced far too long?

I made a life with a man. I made a beautiful, wonderful life with an amazing man. And now I am entering the second half of my life. The half of my life where I have chosen to honor the deepest, truest part of myself and follow the internal leading I spent years ignoring. The half of my life where I have chosen to imagine the most beautiful, most fulfilling life I can and seek it with every bit of my physical and emotional energy. And when I ask that deepest, truest part of me what I want for the second half of my life, the answer is clear:

I want to spend it with a woman.

“And what if I demand freedom not because I was ‘born this way’ and ‘can’t help it’ but because I can do whatever I choose to do with my love and my body from year to year, moment to moment–because I’m a grown woman who does not need any excuse to live however I want to live and love whomever I want to love?”
–Glennon Doyle



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Choose Wisely

I wrote this a few months into my first romantic relationship in almost 20 years, my first romantic relationship with a woman, and the first romantic relationship I’d ever entered while still married to my husband. One night, struggling through immense fear and anxiety about whether we could make it all work, I found myself asking: How could I bear to face such an uncertain future?
This was my answer to myself…

–Choose Wisely—

I’ve heard it said that pain is unavoidable,
and if we evade the pain of one thing, we invite the pain of something else.
I cannot know what pain may lie in store for me,
but this is what I do know:
I can determine what it will accomplish.
I can choose my suffering wisely.
I’ve heard it said that anger
and fear
and grief
can be formed into the very things that nurture
and hope
and love.
I cannot know how this will end,
but this is what I do know:
I can use this relationship to bring forth what darkness lies hidden in myself
and what light lies buried within her.

I’ve heard it said our goals determine our results,
and if you change your focus, you can change your life.
I cannot see through a lens into my future,
but this is what I do know:
I can shift my focus.

Rather than seek love, I can give it.
Rather than seek comfort, I can pursue growth.
Rather than seek answers, I can ask questions.
What can I do to make her feel beautiful?
What can I do to make her feel loved?
What can I do to help her see the good in herself she might not otherwise see?
And how can I use this time to help her live a better life,
both now and in the future,
whether that future includes me or not?

From this place,
with these goals,
I lay aside my fears.
And whatever the future holds,
whatever pain may lie in store,
however, whenever this ends,
I will know my suffering served a purpose.
I will have chosen wisely.

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Regarding the inspiration which led to her song Love Me Anyway, Pink once said: “I’m a hard person to be in a relationship with. I have a really high bar for myself and a really high bar for others. That makes it very difficult to love me, and that’s where the song comes from. If I’m all of these things, are you still going to be able to love me? Are you going to be able to handle this? Are you going to stay? Are you going to be with me? I’m impossible. Can you love me through all of that? Can you love me through all of my mistakes?” This poem is part of a larger work, written during a time when I was struggling with the number of people who have, at one time or another, labeled me as “too” something (too sensitive, too intense, too cerebral, too impulsive, think too much, read too much, write too much, etc.) and felt overwhelmed by the thought that I may never find “the one.” Again borrowing from another language, the title of this comes from a boro word used to describe the bittersweet feeling that occurs in those who know their love won’t last…

Maybe there IS no “one.”
Maybe nothing is forever.
Maybe love is something we ought to give, over and over again,
Without condition.
Without reservation.
Without expectation.
So today I ask myself:
Can I be brave?
Can I allow those I love to come and go?
Can I experience the passion,
The joy,
The overwhelming sacredness of connection,
Without asking for the security of commitment?

Rina Marie

30 days of Poetry, Day 27

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I Want

I want to be the one who knows you.
Your likes and dislikes,
your preferences,
and your little idiosyncrasies.
I want to be the one you can talk to
about anything and everything
without fear of judgment.
I want to be the one you run to when you’re sad
and laugh with when you’re happy.
I want to know all your favorite foods
and how to cook them
just the way you like them.
I want to take you to all your favorite places
and do all your favorite things with you.
I want to grow a garden with all your favorite flowers
and paint pictures for you
and surround you with beauty.
I want you to make me curse
and yell
and laugh
and cry
with the fullness of your emotions
without fear they’ll ever be too much.
(they’ll never be too much.)
I want to dance with you in the kitchen
and sing with you in the shower
and laugh with you in the bed.
I want to kiss your neck while we’re folding laundry
and rub your back while we’re watching TV
and brush your arm as you pass me in the hallway.
I want to fold your sheet back just the way you like it
and put your laundry right-side-out
and save you the last of the cereal.
I want to walk your dog
and wash your socks
and help you find your keys (again.)
I want your clothes on my bed,
and your hair in my drain,
and the dishes you never wash cluttering my sink.
I want you to steal my covers
and put your cold feet between my legs
so I can keep them warm.
I want to leave gifts on your nightstand,
so they’re the first thing you see
when you wake in the morning
and love notes on your pillow
so they’re the last thing you see
as you fall asleep each night.
I want to rearrange all the clothes in your closet
and all the food in the cupboards
every now and then,
just to drive you a little bit crazy.
I want to work to make you smile,
every single day,
for the rest of my life.

Rina Marie

30 days of Poetry, Day 26

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Two Years of Journaling in a Nutshell

Someone told me recently that writers tend to present their best selves in their work, so I thought today I would invite you into my crazy and publish a little peek into my not-so-great self.
Elizabeth Gilbert once wrote that her mind is a dangerous neighborhood: “I have a particularly muscular storytelling instinct, but the dark side of my gift is that my mind is also capable of generating terrible, frightening, life-annihilating stories about myself and about the world. I can scare the living shit out of myself, and—in the process—destroy my life.” I can relate to this, and often use my journal as a place to work through all my crazy so it doesn’t see the light of day. This “poem” is taken entirely from journal entries and actual thoughts I had over the span of an almost two-year relationship with the first woman I ever dated…

She called me twice; I feel so loved! She didn’t answer my text; I feel like she doesn’t care. She wrote me a card; I feel so appreciated! She got off the phone early; I feel so rejected. Does she want to talk to me? Does she want to see me? Does she want to be with me? Does she love me? I worry she thinks I’m demanding. I worry I may be too much. I worry she will get tired of me. I worry I’m doing something wrong and don’t know what. Why hasn’t she kissed me? Why is she sitting so far away? Why won’t she hold my hand? Why am I so damn sensitive? I am so sad. I am so happy. I am so blessed. I am so hurt. Why did she say that? Why did she do that? Why is she so quiet? Why did she make that face? Is she angry? Is she happy? Is she sure? Is she confused? I’m afraid I’ve come on too strong. I’m afraid I’m not doing enough. I’m afraid this is limerence and not love.
I’m afraid I love her too much. When is she going to text? When is she going to visit? When is she going to tell people about us? When is she going to take the next step with me? I worry I overwhelm her. I worry I bore her. I worry she’s only with me because I make her feel loved. I worry she’s going to leave me because I make her feel like crap. Where has she been? Where is she going? Where does she want to be? Where do I fit into her life? I want her to be free. I want her to commit. I want, more than anything, to be her friend. I want, more than anything, to be her partner. Who is she talking to? Who is she visiting? Who is in that picture? Who is she sharing that with? How do I love her as she is? How do I accept things for what they are? How do I make her happy? How do I know what to do? What does she want? What does she feel? What does she see in me? What do I have to offer? I feel like I can’t tell her anything. I feel like I tell her too much. I feel like I’m not good enough. I feel like I would be perfect for her…
If it weren’t for the fact that I’m me.

Rina Marie

30 days of poetry, Day 25

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