2009; The Year of Being an Invisible Sponge

There are more than a thousand things that were good, great even, about 2009. But, the Pollyanna in me is pissed off and won't come out to play, and so I will also say that there are more than a thousand things about 2009 that were not great or even a little bit good. I'll do my best to explain while still keeping my cards close to my chest for fear of exposure. Also, know now in this first paragraph that this post will be long. Feel free to sit a while, or, stop reading now if you fear being bored.

This has been the hardest year that I've had in a decade. Am I even old enough to say that? Yep, I am. If you sat me down, gave me a couple drinks and asked me to explain it, I'd clumsily try, not knowing at all where to start, dancing around what to and not to say, and then feeling stupid, I'd probably end up either in a mess-a-tears or I'd quit you altogether and be quiet.

I've learned a lot in '09. One of the greatest lessons my experiences of this last year have taught me is that in life, we sometimes fail. We learn the most in and through our failures and disappointments, I'm convinced. And sometimes failure is just what you need to nudge you up after having been flat on your face, to a new direction to start again. It's been a forced Robert Frost experience where you-have-to-take-the-road-less-traveled-by-because-it's-the-only-path-left, kinda year for me.

So, yeah. I never used to look back over the last year with a contemplative brow, but, the older I get, I do.

Here's what I know:

I miss my dad more than ever. You'd think ten years later, this ache and groan in my soul would have gotten smart and gone away or at least hibernated. In some ways it had, and then I find my hot-mess'a-self here again, missing him, who he was and the way he made me feel.

I'm reminded of him by smell when I open up a bag of fresh turkey from the deli (there's a memory attached to this, but it's mine so I'll keep it that way) ... When I look at whimsical modern art that has a jazzy feel to it because of the two paintings (that hang in my house) he painted that one summer while an art major here in Fayetteville, in 1967, of his "Jazz Guys". Nothing makes me feel closer to him than when I look at those paintings and imagine a young, skinny him in a tight white t-shirt, paint tubes and brushes feverishly strewn about and then I wonder what record he might have had on in the background as he painted.

... Speaking of music, when I hear Dave Bruebeck, especially "Take Five", The Beatles or "The Twelve Days of Christmas"... When I unexpectedly find money I've left in pockets or consoles ... When there's an empty chair at any family function ... Every first Razorback basketball game at Bud Walton Arena ... Every time when in Fayetteville, I drive down Center Street, past Uncle Sonny's house or Whitham Street, where he rented some old widow's basement that summer he studied art here ... And when I write something.

He used to edit for me as a young girl. I felt so confident to turn in something he'd looked over ... I miss the way he laughed. For months after he died, I couldn't remember anything about him, like at all, but his laugh. It terrified me that I couldn't remember the sound of his voice or the features of his face. It all slowly came back, but at first, I could only hear his laugh.

The glue is gone. I sometimes feel silly that I still miss him so much, when at 31-years-old, I seem to need him more than ever.

Last year was also rough for this old gal because I said goodbye to four of my closest friends. Within a span of a few months, one after the other would sit me down and say, "Milton, I'm moving." The bottom of it all just seemed to drop out from underneath me. It was delayed at first, the reaction. And then all that loss caught up with me. At one point last summer, like cold water to the face, I realized I just wasn't "myself." However, it was too late. I'd withdrawn. I'd slipped slowly into a depression.

I tried to smack balls around and tennis-play my way out of it. I gave myself writing goals every Monday, here, in the hopes that having that carrot dangled out in front of me would keep me going. I painfully learned through it all (and a friend named Anne) this last year, that over the last several years, I'd started to forget myself.

Do you know what an awful feeling it is to feel like you've forgotten yourself? Trying to figure it all out, I dipped toes into murky waters, tried new tonics and looked for sunshine in places that weren't sunny at all, always facing North. I went through some ridiculous existential crisis, that I have to admit I'm still not really even "through."

I thought a lot about God. In some ways, I became the doubting Thomas I'd been years ago. I'd mish and mash theological concepts with political ones, philosophical ones with ideological ones. And what came out in the wash at the end often seemed to look worse than what I'd started with.

As I wrote last September, my two-year-old son broke his femur at our old gym where I used to play tennis (haven't picked up a racket since August 29) and it still haunts me that no one taking "care" of those children knows how he did it. He'd been there ten minutes when he broke his leg. It was supposed to be my first tennis tournament that day. Their insurance company recently denied our claim. It looks like we have an uphill battle in front of us with all that, too. I'm tired, though, and I miss my dad's wisdom here greatly. I have no idea what to do next.

There were things I used to think I was OK at, that I don't think I am at all anymore. And vice versa, if that's possible. Could what I'm good at be not at all what I've been doing? Still workin' that one out, too.

I miss the feeling of being as unconditionally loved and known as humanly possible by people that know me deeply. I've also been surprised to have met new vessels of love in the most unexpected people and places. There really are people who love me and what I'm about, complete with flaws and scars. Heck, in spite of my flaws and scars. That was a good thing I learned this year.

I've learned that I hate being complicated. But, I am. I mean, I'm not special. We all are in some way, I guess. I've wished away my personality many times. I've closed doors to rooms that were empty and needed filling, but, I couldn't seem to find the strength to get up and open those doors. I guess I did open a few, however, I trust myself less and less. But, could that also be a good thing?

I have wanted to be invisible and stay invisible. It's easier that way, but lonelier for sure. Being by myself has never felt more like burn cream to a deep flesh wound. I think I've done well at keeping invisible to most. There is always that one or two that sees, though. They're the true stinkers. I'm thankful for those stinkers, though, I have to admit. They keep me on my toes. They show me they care by taking notice. They teach me about myself without meaning to.

I've always tended to be this way, but I feel I've been somewhat of an invisible sponge this year, always quietly taking in, and without meaning to, leaving traces of me behind.

When I've wanted and needed my mouth to form words and push them out through my teeth several times this year, it gets all clogged, fumbled and bunched up. Or, I just say too much. Must remember needle and thread in those instances. I feel like I never want to win anything because direct light burns fair skin.

Being someplace where people recognize you, but don't really know you, seems maybe, to be my theme for this last year. I've taken a lot comfort there, actually. And there have been times when I felt like I was about to be painfully exposed, and so like a rat in a sewer, I scurried on, trying to hide from daylight, but, because I'm a living thing, surfaced occasionally, in desperate need of air and vitamin D. This process is both tiring and comforting.

I don't know what this all means, but for now, today at least, I think I'm OK with this thick, untamed jungle of a place to be. I say that, but really, I'm only OK with it at times. The other times, I just sit here and read stuff and try to figure it all out in my mouse trap of a mind.

Still feeling a little stung by the slog of it all, 2009, I will say, I have managed some great laughs and some good times this last year. Yes, there were definitely perks. Which is good to know '09 wasn't all for crap.

So. 2010, to you I say, welcome, and that I will make music out of you. Just, please don't burn quite like 2009?