Named Days

This will be short as I am repressed memory/childhood trauma-deep in the third day of preparations for this evening’s big family gathering here at Sepia Fallows, but I did want to check in.

First (and second and third), I am grateful for my Mommy, and for my aunt, Sissie, who filled in when I was impossible and when Mommy’s life was impossible, and, more recently, for Duchess Goldblatt, who despite her status as Fictional, gives me more real support and love at a heart and soul level than I have had since Sissie died. I am grateful to all three of these icons of maternal warmth and Love and Light.

momma and charlie cropped Sissie 3 Duchess and Charlie

Maternal warmth and Love and Light; that. The world needs more. I would like to imagine there can be a world in which we remember every day to shower love and appreciation on those who support us, who soothe us, who nurture us, who encourage us to love who we are, right now, this moment, every moment, today. A world where we are all parents and children and friends and family and connected, concerned, treasured souls. Just souls. No labels. You see, I have never been biologically responsible for a child, but I have parented, many, many times. Too, I’ve been parented by those who had nothing to do with my genetic make-up. So, I’ve nothing against Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day (well, actually, about that . . . no, never mind), or Christmas (then again . . . no, never mind) BUT, wouldn’t it be better if every day we all practiced being full of recognition of one another, seeing one another, being truly with and of and in and about one another? Those would be the only gifts we’d need, the gifts of presence and acceptance.

All of which starts with accepting and being present in ourselves. Right now. This moment. This moment, it’s really all we have, isn’t it? My life has always felt temporary to me, or, rather, to put it less positively, I have always been afraid, worried how long anything — any situation — would last. I suppose a counselor would (and did, actually) attribute this to the trauma of my father’s disappearance when I was too young to remember it or consciously understand it. I am always waiting for and expecting people (and things) to go. I have always – consciously or not – felt myself responsible for the going, for the loss, somehow having gotten the core, foundational belief that I am not good enough to deserve or keep people, love, things.

I have worked to get past this, now, here in my sixth decade of being alive. Just a few days ago I distanced myself from some men to whom I was a convenience, who cared nothing about what I needed. I hasten to add this was no fault of theirs, they were not bad people, I was equal partner in the agreements we had and I’ve no enmity toward them nor do I feel bad about who we were, what we did. I simply decided that now — this moment — I would rather have someone who was inclined to rub my back, too.

I miss my Russian from my New York trip. But he was able to do what he was able to do because I was temporary. That word again. We were a visit. A fantasy. And when I decided the other night in what was — I confess — a fit of “why doesn’t anybody really love me” pique to erase apps and people who wouldn’t lead to my back being rubbed, I lost the Russian.

He’s gone. The others are gone. And, more fool me, who deletes Grindr (and other such apps) just when the experimenting, beautiful desperate, frequently drunken college boys are coming home for the summer? Timing. I never had any anywhere except on stage.

Temporary. And back from New York, I’m again reminded — ironically while in the middle of a few days of preparing for this family Mother and multiple birthday feast — that this living situation is also temporary. I’m going to have to find a way to make money, a place to live, a way to live, and somehow monetize all the things (or, any of the things?) I do. Because being a domestic god, blathering on in this blog, reading and writing about it, counseling people as they need it, giving great hugs, and being on call for one’s mother (and others) does not keep one safely walled and housed. Truth, the knowledge that I’m going to have to pack everything up and move again makes me want to do ugly things like — well, I don’t know, but UGLY.

So, Named Days, like this one, yes. Fine. But, more important — and not to go all self-help-y — but how about we honor everyone for who they are and what they mean to us every day. Just as they are. Right now.

And, for fuck’s sake, haven’t I done enough over this life to deserve a full-time Russian to rub my back?

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