Resurrection of the Phoenix

Already this morning I have done two loads on laundry, made breakfast and loaded the dishwasher. This might feel like an accomplishment if the rest of my house didn't look like a bonafide disaster. Or worse yet, if I didn't look and feel like a bonafide disaster. Sad, but oh so true.

I wish I could throw everything away and start all over again. Every room a blank slate, a pristine canvas to carefully accessorize with the thought process of less is more. But I'm a holder-on-er. One of those people who can find an emotional attachment to a dishcloth. "Oh dishcloth ..."

This could possibly be why I spend so much time looking at the ceiling. Looking anywhere else usually makes me drop my jaw and pound my head against a wooden table wondering where and how I should start. I remember reading somewhere once that the state of a persons house was usually a good indicator on the state of their life. It wouldn't take a trained eye to see my house - and perhaps myself as well - are desperately crying out for help.

What would a stranger think if they were allowed access to my home? Would they wonder about the woman who allows the dust to pile up on a bookshelf overflowing with books? Would they notice the pictures hanging on the wall or the way the curtains just seem to hang from the windows limp and lifeless? Would they see the half finished painting peeking out from beneath the entertainment center or the collections of faceless angels that seem to be overlook the room with a sense of detachment? Would they notice the warmth is really a cold, deep freeze pretending to be something other than what it was? A room stuck in eternal winter, emptier for being full.

So many things here are here because I simply didn't choose. I didn't choose to say, "No. This really isn't my style." I didn't say, "I'm sorry. I really don't have the room." Instead I spoke with my heart in my mouth and said, "Let me make your personal attachment mine. I promise to keep it forever."

As silly as it sounds, this is sort of the downfall of my personality. My hang up for hanging on. There's no running away from it. And God knows, I've tried, failed, tried again, failed again and tried some more all to no avail. And really, it's too bad that this tenacity of mine picks and chooses what it will fight for and what it won't.

And that my friends is the crux of the problem. My warriors heart that refuses to pick up the sword and battle for my truths, finding it easier to say, "Not now. Not tonight. Let things be the way they are. This is good enough. This is as good as its going to get. You want too much. You can't have the world."

But I do. I want the world. I want everything. I want open doors, open minds, the power to take a chance and not be afraid of failing. The power to risk it all and come out on top in the end. The power to get in my car, to board a plane, to see the world without fearing the journey itself. To forget the dangers, the darkness, the wolves that lurk just beyond the path and to see only the sun, the moon and those brilliant blazing stars above me. This is what I want. Not to be held down by convention, invention, or intentions that always seem to be saying "No. You can't."

My wants are needs. I need more than I want. I need to do this to know I'm living and not just watching from the sidelines wishing I could be out there doing something more. I need me not to give up on myself. Not to give in to the pain of holding on to the too muchness of the things I remember. To fight for the woman who is today, the girl who still has dreams in her eyes, the woman who isn't afraid to wield the power of herself.