Blathering on about God, food, and more….
*****WARNING**** For those of you who are sensitive, there is some language in this you may not appreciate. I found I could not say what I wanted to say with milder words. I tried using asterisks and hashtags, but they just didn’t do. If it bothers you, then move on. But, for those who are not sensitive – read on.
Now that we are into February of the new year, I’m at a place removed so I can adequately reflect on the year that was 2012. It has taken the better part of a month to process, and even still, I’m not sure how to digest it all. But here’s a first crack at getting my thoughts, questions, and overwhelming confusion out of my head and into this blog.
During my year of major life changes (divorce, left job, started seminary, moved twice, sold old house, purchased new house, lost friends, made new friends), I began dating again. My ex-husband and I were together for eight years, five of them married. So I was a bit rusty. I dated a lot in college, but that was college with college boys and a college schedule. This was big-girl dating, and I wasn’t sure how the process worked in the big-girl world.
Arachnidiot (ar ak ni’ di ot) – n. A person, who, having wandered into an “invisible” spider web, begins gyrating and flailing about wildly.
The signs were there, yet I did not heed them. In 1990, I had another life. I was married to a different man, had a regular job at a regular company with regular benefits, and I lived in a suburb with cookie-cutter houses, where most of the residents had the same education, income, and race. I actually went to Tupperware parties. Two Tupperware parties. {—-shiver—-}
Let me say this: My parents love me a lot. Anything you read hereafter, please keep that in mind. The circumstances to which they exposed me were out of a genuine intention to free me from my fear. That it did not work and that I am scarred is in no way a reflection of their greatest desire for my life to be lived in happiness and purpose. It is not their fault their daughter was born arachnophobic.
Second grade was not a stellar year for me. Academically, I was fine, but it was the first time in my memory that a teacher did not like me – a rare occurrence, considering I’m an over-achiever and eager to learn. Most teachers love having a student like me: anxious to help, anxious to please, and anxious to get an “A.” But, Mrs. Anderson only saw that I was anxious. My anxiety got on her very last nerve.
Of all the things that frighten me this season – of all the drifting phobias of ghosts and goblins and witches and monsters – the only thing that scares me to the bone isn’t supernatural at all. It’s spiders.
My grief is palpable. All summer I planned a singular week by the sea – one week in which to process the vast changes my life has wrought these past few months – one week in which to reacquaint myself with my family – one week in which to actually rest.
I’m not opposed to the occasional cliché. They exist for a reason. Much like uncomfortable stereotypes, clichés apply in situations I wish they did not. And while clichés tend to amputate critical thinking, sometimes they simply cannot be avoided. Such is the case with my garden.