Monika Basile's Blog: Confessions of a Bleeding Heart, page 2
March 4, 2015
The Voice
The things I regret in life are all of the things I wasn’t brave enough to do or to say or to be.
There are too many of them. There has been so many times that a gargantuan fear gripped me tight and I failed to follow my own inner voice. I wonder about that voice a lot and I wonder why it has never fallen silent enough for me to forget the chances I may have missed to be the human I was intended to be. I have no idea where the voice comes from, if it is mine or some otherworldly noise chattering up a storm and leaving me unsettled at times.
It isn’t a “beating yourself up” kind of feeling. It is more just a tweak of sadness that hangs about my shoulders. We can’t change the past. We can only learn from it. It doesn’t mean we actually do. And that voice—I think it sometimes chants in my ears to remind me that I am more than I am brave enough to be.
Some of my regrets are huge and some are just small tiny things and some I know are not that big of a deal to anyone but me. They are mine. I can’t blame anyone else for how I reacted to my life and I have to also learn a way to forgive myself for being a big ol’ chicken sometimes.
I finished writing my first novel when I was twenty six years old. I wrote it while the children napped, eating grapes and scribbling with a number two pencil into five, five subject college themed notebooks. When I was done I tucked it away, never brave enough to take the time to type it out and submit it anywhere. It still sits under my bed in a box. It took ten years before I got to finish another. But I learned. I wrote the next on a computer and I submitted it. I bore the rejection—the constant rejection—until it wasn’t rejected. I left a mark in the world even if it wasn’t more than a scratch. I regret not being brave enough sooner. I would be much further to my dream.
There were times I did not speak out when I should have. I allowed something to happen due to being afraid of how it would affect me and my life. Now, I live the aftermath of waiting too long and going to the wrong people instead of doing what my gut was screaming at me to do(which was to blow it all wide open to the highest authority). I regret that I wasn’t brave enough to listen to my inner voice and follow its instructions to the tee.
I regret the times I didn’t say something nice when I was thinking something nice and the times I said something ugly when I was feeling ugly.
There are those men in my life that I never was brave enough to tell how I feel. And there were those men that I wasn’t brave enough to kick to the curb at the time I should have been kicking hard. There are those words I withheld out of fear, the truth of my hurt or the honesty of my heart. I regret I didn’t say what I should have and I regret each time I let the anger get the best of me and said something I can never take back.
I hate that there have been times I have walked right on by someone in need because I was broke or in a hurry. I should never have allowed myself to be too busy or self-absorbed to not be a comfort at each opportunity presented. I am learning still and find it very hard not to stop now. But I think about all the times I was in such a rush that I didn’t stop to help thinking that someone else would. My inner voice tells me that in those cases—I may have been just the one that was put there to be of service.
I regret each pity party I have held with party hats and streamers, failing to see the joy that still spattered through. I regret each moment I have wasted. There are so few that we have to live in. I hate that I didn’t appreciate each one as precious no matter what. I am learning still.
There is so much more. There has been, there is and there will be so much more I can do that I won’t, that I will fail at, that I will forget to do or find something I will justify being more important. But I am learning—and I hope to still that inner voice somewhat or at least quiet it to a whisper. I hope at the end of it all the regret will be less and less and that whispering chatterbug in my head and heart says instead, “Hey. You did your best which was all anyone can do.”
Monika M. Basile
There are too many of them. There has been so many times that a gargantuan fear gripped me tight and I failed to follow my own inner voice. I wonder about that voice a lot and I wonder why it has never fallen silent enough for me to forget the chances I may have missed to be the human I was intended to be. I have no idea where the voice comes from, if it is mine or some otherworldly noise chattering up a storm and leaving me unsettled at times.
It isn’t a “beating yourself up” kind of feeling. It is more just a tweak of sadness that hangs about my shoulders. We can’t change the past. We can only learn from it. It doesn’t mean we actually do. And that voice—I think it sometimes chants in my ears to remind me that I am more than I am brave enough to be.
Some of my regrets are huge and some are just small tiny things and some I know are not that big of a deal to anyone but me. They are mine. I can’t blame anyone else for how I reacted to my life and I have to also learn a way to forgive myself for being a big ol’ chicken sometimes.
I finished writing my first novel when I was twenty six years old. I wrote it while the children napped, eating grapes and scribbling with a number two pencil into five, five subject college themed notebooks. When I was done I tucked it away, never brave enough to take the time to type it out and submit it anywhere. It still sits under my bed in a box. It took ten years before I got to finish another. But I learned. I wrote the next on a computer and I submitted it. I bore the rejection—the constant rejection—until it wasn’t rejected. I left a mark in the world even if it wasn’t more than a scratch. I regret not being brave enough sooner. I would be much further to my dream.
There were times I did not speak out when I should have. I allowed something to happen due to being afraid of how it would affect me and my life. Now, I live the aftermath of waiting too long and going to the wrong people instead of doing what my gut was screaming at me to do(which was to blow it all wide open to the highest authority). I regret that I wasn’t brave enough to listen to my inner voice and follow its instructions to the tee.
I regret the times I didn’t say something nice when I was thinking something nice and the times I said something ugly when I was feeling ugly.
There are those men in my life that I never was brave enough to tell how I feel. And there were those men that I wasn’t brave enough to kick to the curb at the time I should have been kicking hard. There are those words I withheld out of fear, the truth of my hurt or the honesty of my heart. I regret I didn’t say what I should have and I regret each time I let the anger get the best of me and said something I can never take back.
I hate that there have been times I have walked right on by someone in need because I was broke or in a hurry. I should never have allowed myself to be too busy or self-absorbed to not be a comfort at each opportunity presented. I am learning still and find it very hard not to stop now. But I think about all the times I was in such a rush that I didn’t stop to help thinking that someone else would. My inner voice tells me that in those cases—I may have been just the one that was put there to be of service.
I regret each pity party I have held with party hats and streamers, failing to see the joy that still spattered through. I regret each moment I have wasted. There are so few that we have to live in. I hate that I didn’t appreciate each one as precious no matter what. I am learning still.
There is so much more. There has been, there is and there will be so much more I can do that I won’t, that I will fail at, that I will forget to do or find something I will justify being more important. But I am learning—and I hope to still that inner voice somewhat or at least quiet it to a whisper. I hope at the end of it all the regret will be less and less and that whispering chatterbug in my head and heart says instead, “Hey. You did your best which was all anyone can do.”
Monika M. Basile
February 20, 2015
"The Mentalpause" or otherwise known as Happy Birthday to Me
Recently I have been losing my mind.
For example:
“Hey, do you have any ice cream?” he says.
“No. I wish I did.” I say. And then I came up with the most brilliant idea! I excitedly burst forward with, “You know what would be awesome? If we opened a business that delivered ice cream! We could make a fortune…” I start thinking deeply.
And then he says, “Uh, There already is one. It’s called the ice cream truck…”
I was disappointed. Then I started laughing and laughing and laughing at the pure idiocy of it. What the hell is going on?
I have a name for it. It’s called, “The Mentalpause” a more accurate term than menopause or premenopausal or the change of life or getting old or midlife crisis or any of those less pretty terms to signify that I am most likely halfway through. It is a state of mind and I decided to change my thinking. I shall instead go through a glamorous Grand Mentalpause and do it with bells on.
My hot flashes will no longer be that—instead they will be my smoking hot flashes reminding me that I still have time and the desire to be hot one way or another. I will acknowledge that I have been ho tmy whole life and there is no ending of that soon.
Every time I skip a cycle, I will continue to assume I am pregnant. I will pretend, if only for a little bit and pick out names. And then I will thank my lucky stars that mentalpause has hit me and I will do a happy dance knowing that I can have wild sex without the worry of midnight feedings as consequences.
All the glips in my thinking? Well that is just that I am eccentric and worrying about more important issues. My mind is focused on feeding the hungry and healing the sick that I can’t be bothered to remember the ice cream man. He can worry about himself.
The crabbiness that creeps up? SO WHAT? I have spent a half-life worrying and trying to be nice, insisting I be nice. What’s wrong with just being me as long as I am not unkind?
My mouth—my big old mouth that gets me in so much trouble. In another 30 years or so the things that spew forth will finally be acceptable. That is something to look forward to. I can be shocking and others will not judge me—which happens now. They will simply smile and nod their heads, and whisper behind their hands, “Oh, she’s just old…” I should be quite good at it since I have been practicing a lifetime for this moment.
I will wear what I want to wear because I really don’t give a damn. I like my coat of many colors and sparkly shoes and being comfortable in sweatpants and a grungy sweater. Polka dot robes become me and I am rather partial to tiaras and I may crack one of those out soon too.
I am starting the mentalpause and I am changing the mentality of it. No more lamenting my youth. No more wishing I had accomplished so much more or made different choices. Only kicking my heels up, feeling thankful that I am still here…able to experience it and able to laugh at it. I am the lucky one. Some never it make it this far. May this part last a hundred years…
Monika M. Basile
For example:
“Hey, do you have any ice cream?” he says.
“No. I wish I did.” I say. And then I came up with the most brilliant idea! I excitedly burst forward with, “You know what would be awesome? If we opened a business that delivered ice cream! We could make a fortune…” I start thinking deeply.
And then he says, “Uh, There already is one. It’s called the ice cream truck…”
I was disappointed. Then I started laughing and laughing and laughing at the pure idiocy of it. What the hell is going on?
I have a name for it. It’s called, “The Mentalpause” a more accurate term than menopause or premenopausal or the change of life or getting old or midlife crisis or any of those less pretty terms to signify that I am most likely halfway through. It is a state of mind and I decided to change my thinking. I shall instead go through a glamorous Grand Mentalpause and do it with bells on.
My hot flashes will no longer be that—instead they will be my smoking hot flashes reminding me that I still have time and the desire to be hot one way or another. I will acknowledge that I have been ho tmy whole life and there is no ending of that soon.
Every time I skip a cycle, I will continue to assume I am pregnant. I will pretend, if only for a little bit and pick out names. And then I will thank my lucky stars that mentalpause has hit me and I will do a happy dance knowing that I can have wild sex without the worry of midnight feedings as consequences.
All the glips in my thinking? Well that is just that I am eccentric and worrying about more important issues. My mind is focused on feeding the hungry and healing the sick that I can’t be bothered to remember the ice cream man. He can worry about himself.
The crabbiness that creeps up? SO WHAT? I have spent a half-life worrying and trying to be nice, insisting I be nice. What’s wrong with just being me as long as I am not unkind?
My mouth—my big old mouth that gets me in so much trouble. In another 30 years or so the things that spew forth will finally be acceptable. That is something to look forward to. I can be shocking and others will not judge me—which happens now. They will simply smile and nod their heads, and whisper behind their hands, “Oh, she’s just old…” I should be quite good at it since I have been practicing a lifetime for this moment.
I will wear what I want to wear because I really don’t give a damn. I like my coat of many colors and sparkly shoes and being comfortable in sweatpants and a grungy sweater. Polka dot robes become me and I am rather partial to tiaras and I may crack one of those out soon too.
I am starting the mentalpause and I am changing the mentality of it. No more lamenting my youth. No more wishing I had accomplished so much more or made different choices. Only kicking my heels up, feeling thankful that I am still here…able to experience it and able to laugh at it. I am the lucky one. Some never it make it this far. May this part last a hundred years…
Monika M. Basile
January 30, 2015
No Place Like Home
“I have to get out of this gosh dang town”
“I’m not staying here! There has to be more.”
“Anywhere but here…”
There are much more beautiful places I could be living than this town in Indiana. There are oceans I have never seen and ancient ruins I would love to wake up to with the sunrise. There are mountains for backdrops behind cozy cottages and a million twinkle lights and racing cars zooming through the cities. There are places that have eternal sunshine and some with constant rain instead of the cold and blizzards I am used to. There are stars—billions and billions of stars that I could see much more clearly if I lived in a less polluted space. Yet, I live here.—in this spot. Sometimes, I get angry about where I live and can be ungrateful. Most days though, I am thankful that I have my rusty steps to count the stars on.
We all have those moments when we think we have to be “elsewhere” to find our joy. We can forget that we bring ourselves with us wherever we wind up. We fail to realize we can be happy or content just about anywhere. Or we can be miserable wishing to be anywhere but where we are.
We tell ourselves we need to be somewhere different to start fresh. We really don’t. We just need to actually start. We need to start something and that, in itself, will be fresh.
I am not saying don’t move away or don’t go exploring or don’t dream and create the life you want for yourself. I am only saying that no matter how far you run, you can never escape yourself. The things that bother you where you are will be the same things that follow you on.
You are still very much you no matter what wonderful place you live in. If you aren’t thankful for the warm bed you sleep in, you won’t be more thankful for a warm fancy bed in Paris. If you destroy relationships in Michigan you will very easily destroy the new relationships you create in New York. If you hate the people of your home town you will also find many people to hate in the big city. If traffic on the expressway annoys you to death—then getting stuck behind a tractor down a quiet country road will be the same bother.
It doesn’t matter at all where we live and what we call home. It matters how we feel about it and those who are sharing our life with us. It matters that we actually have someplace to call “home” no matter how modest and humble or extravagant and huge. Home really is where the heart is. Life is not easier in one place or the other really. Everywhere has its advantages and disadvantages.
Even in what we might consider the lowliest places—there is beauty and there are good people doing the best they can. In the most gorgeous and affluent places, there can be darkness and sadness and people who never notice the beauty around them.
We can find our joy anywhere. We don’t have to run a million miles to be better off. We only need to take a fresh look at the place we are or the place we are going to and make the point to focus on the best parts. And if we can’t find those best parts, we need to take a closer look at ourselves and create them. It never hurt anyone to become the best they can be.
Monika M. Basile
“I’m not staying here! There has to be more.”
“Anywhere but here…”
There are much more beautiful places I could be living than this town in Indiana. There are oceans I have never seen and ancient ruins I would love to wake up to with the sunrise. There are mountains for backdrops behind cozy cottages and a million twinkle lights and racing cars zooming through the cities. There are places that have eternal sunshine and some with constant rain instead of the cold and blizzards I am used to. There are stars—billions and billions of stars that I could see much more clearly if I lived in a less polluted space. Yet, I live here.—in this spot. Sometimes, I get angry about where I live and can be ungrateful. Most days though, I am thankful that I have my rusty steps to count the stars on.
We all have those moments when we think we have to be “elsewhere” to find our joy. We can forget that we bring ourselves with us wherever we wind up. We fail to realize we can be happy or content just about anywhere. Or we can be miserable wishing to be anywhere but where we are.
We tell ourselves we need to be somewhere different to start fresh. We really don’t. We just need to actually start. We need to start something and that, in itself, will be fresh.
I am not saying don’t move away or don’t go exploring or don’t dream and create the life you want for yourself. I am only saying that no matter how far you run, you can never escape yourself. The things that bother you where you are will be the same things that follow you on.
You are still very much you no matter what wonderful place you live in. If you aren’t thankful for the warm bed you sleep in, you won’t be more thankful for a warm fancy bed in Paris. If you destroy relationships in Michigan you will very easily destroy the new relationships you create in New York. If you hate the people of your home town you will also find many people to hate in the big city. If traffic on the expressway annoys you to death—then getting stuck behind a tractor down a quiet country road will be the same bother.
It doesn’t matter at all where we live and what we call home. It matters how we feel about it and those who are sharing our life with us. It matters that we actually have someplace to call “home” no matter how modest and humble or extravagant and huge. Home really is where the heart is. Life is not easier in one place or the other really. Everywhere has its advantages and disadvantages.
Even in what we might consider the lowliest places—there is beauty and there are good people doing the best they can. In the most gorgeous and affluent places, there can be darkness and sadness and people who never notice the beauty around them.
We can find our joy anywhere. We don’t have to run a million miles to be better off. We only need to take a fresh look at the place we are or the place we are going to and make the point to focus on the best parts. And if we can’t find those best parts, we need to take a closer look at ourselves and create them. It never hurt anyone to become the best they can be.
Monika M. Basile
December 13, 2014
On Tiptoes
It was a simple act that won me. It was him being exactly who he was, honest in his fears, gentle in his approach. It was all the little things that make up who we are. The imperfections of a lifetime that instead are vibrant stars that I hang my heart on.
I can’t pinpoint every little instance when there are so many. The list of “reasons” in adoring him is never ending. It is the impression of Barney Fife in the most inappropriate moments saying the most inappropriate things. It is his way of fumbling through when he is saying something important and confusing me as he talks in circles. It is the mess he leaves next to the bed of a hundred freeze pop wrappers and toothpicks I stab my feet on, the pillows scattered on the floor and his pile of junk from his pockets littering the nightstand. It is that he forgets things constantly but never anything important that I tell him. It is that he reaches out in the night to take my hand. It is that he listens to the television at full blast but watches something cheerful to fall asleep to. It is that he is consistent in his caring for me, in his concern, in his thoughts of me. It is that we don’t have to do anything but be together to be happy. It is him bringing his mother here in the midst of my mess and shouting and laughing, “Hey clean up, Mom’s here” and not giving a damn that she sees me at my worst because he thinks my worst is still pretty damn great. It is his kindness and his patience and that he sings the theme from “Rawhide” at the top of his lungs every time he watches it.
It is most frightening that it can possibly be this easy because nothing in my life has ever been easy. It has taken me a while to understand that it is actually supposed to be this easy—this quiet—this peaceful—this pleasant. It is so much more than I ever thought was possible, more than I ever imagined or dreamed. Everything is falling apart around me and he is there, not running, even when he is scared, he is there. Outsiders looking in I am sure say, “These people are a mess. Their lives in disarray and catastrophe…” It’s true. Most things in either of our lives have not gone as planned and there is much that I wish could be changed for either of us but when he looks at me I know he doesn’t see that. He sees all the real things I am instead. When I look at him I see all he is and the wonder fills me.
I don’t want to fail him. I worry about it—that I will somehow disappoint him. I am just me—and it seems to be good enough but I feel like I want to be so much more for him. I know there will come a time when I create a terrible sort of disappointment, or when he does, yet, I somehow think we will get through that. I hope we do.
In the oddest confusion of his words spinning in circles, I had these fears. I thought he wanted to dump me and he instead surprised me with, “I don’t want to break up. I’m trying to tell you that I’ve fallen in love with you and I am scared out of my mind.” Wow. Me too. It is scary—this whole thing, the real deal is terribly scary. Both of us tentatively putting each other’s hearts in the other’s hands and hoping and praying it will be tenderly held.
We have past lives and past loves and moments that scarred us and twisted our thoughts of ourselves. Most people who have come out of relationships look at the next one as a chasm almost too deep to tightrope walk across. There are no nets beneath to catch us. There is only this faith, this true bravery to begin tiptoeing and start the walking to the other side. We have to chant under our breaths, “Don’t look down!” We have to look ahead or even look up instead of looking down at what lays beneath the rope that scares the crap out of us. Focusing on the danger and everything that could go wrong can cause us to lose our balance.
Instead, we have to take that deep breath. We have to still our racing hearts with the thoughts of what is before us—love. The glory of that far outweighs the risk.
Monika M. Basile
I can’t pinpoint every little instance when there are so many. The list of “reasons” in adoring him is never ending. It is the impression of Barney Fife in the most inappropriate moments saying the most inappropriate things. It is his way of fumbling through when he is saying something important and confusing me as he talks in circles. It is the mess he leaves next to the bed of a hundred freeze pop wrappers and toothpicks I stab my feet on, the pillows scattered on the floor and his pile of junk from his pockets littering the nightstand. It is that he forgets things constantly but never anything important that I tell him. It is that he reaches out in the night to take my hand. It is that he listens to the television at full blast but watches something cheerful to fall asleep to. It is that he is consistent in his caring for me, in his concern, in his thoughts of me. It is that we don’t have to do anything but be together to be happy. It is him bringing his mother here in the midst of my mess and shouting and laughing, “Hey clean up, Mom’s here” and not giving a damn that she sees me at my worst because he thinks my worst is still pretty damn great. It is his kindness and his patience and that he sings the theme from “Rawhide” at the top of his lungs every time he watches it.
It is most frightening that it can possibly be this easy because nothing in my life has ever been easy. It has taken me a while to understand that it is actually supposed to be this easy—this quiet—this peaceful—this pleasant. It is so much more than I ever thought was possible, more than I ever imagined or dreamed. Everything is falling apart around me and he is there, not running, even when he is scared, he is there. Outsiders looking in I am sure say, “These people are a mess. Their lives in disarray and catastrophe…” It’s true. Most things in either of our lives have not gone as planned and there is much that I wish could be changed for either of us but when he looks at me I know he doesn’t see that. He sees all the real things I am instead. When I look at him I see all he is and the wonder fills me.
I don’t want to fail him. I worry about it—that I will somehow disappoint him. I am just me—and it seems to be good enough but I feel like I want to be so much more for him. I know there will come a time when I create a terrible sort of disappointment, or when he does, yet, I somehow think we will get through that. I hope we do.
In the oddest confusion of his words spinning in circles, I had these fears. I thought he wanted to dump me and he instead surprised me with, “I don’t want to break up. I’m trying to tell you that I’ve fallen in love with you and I am scared out of my mind.” Wow. Me too. It is scary—this whole thing, the real deal is terribly scary. Both of us tentatively putting each other’s hearts in the other’s hands and hoping and praying it will be tenderly held.
We have past lives and past loves and moments that scarred us and twisted our thoughts of ourselves. Most people who have come out of relationships look at the next one as a chasm almost too deep to tightrope walk across. There are no nets beneath to catch us. There is only this faith, this true bravery to begin tiptoeing and start the walking to the other side. We have to chant under our breaths, “Don’t look down!” We have to look ahead or even look up instead of looking down at what lays beneath the rope that scares the crap out of us. Focusing on the danger and everything that could go wrong can cause us to lose our balance.
Instead, we have to take that deep breath. We have to still our racing hearts with the thoughts of what is before us—love. The glory of that far outweighs the risk.
Monika M. Basile
November 27, 2014
On Gratitude
I think I do poorly in expressing my gratitude. I never can quite capture my thoughts or even put it into words. I feel like I don’t know how to say it with the actual truth of my feelings behind it in such a way that those I am grateful to can comprehend the magnitude of the meaning they have brought into my life.
There is something about thanking people that puts us in an odd place. There is a fine line between obligatory thanks and true gratitude. It’s a heart thing, something that touches the heart and soul, brings tears of joy or relief and it is a huge thing no matter how small the act was. There are no small acts of kindness, each is large, none are simple but actually complex in that they lead into a ripple effect.
It is hard to put it into words when someone has changed your life. It is hard to articulate that their presence has affected you so deeply along this journey, that you can actually pin point the moment when a difference was made.
Today I try and I know I will somehow fail at saying it correctly, to tell of moments, to speak of the life change kindness has made.
In the beginning there were my parents, who loved me and gave me a good home and a more than average childhood—an exceptional one. I was lucky and blessed to have you. I still am. Mom, the day you told me that you understood my loneliness, that filling my life with the children work, writing etc., nothing could replace the love of a mate—that was the day I knew you understood me, it made us better. And Dad, you stepping in to help me with the kids when I became single—you didn’t have to but I am so grateful because you gave them such love and a great example.
My dear Aunts and Uncles—what a luxury it has been to have each of you as long as we all have had you. Those who are still here and those who have gone on, the lessons you have taught all of us—the fun we all had—the sanctuary’s in the storms of life that all of you have provided—I thank you. I thank you from the very center of my soul.
My sister, I can’t tell it, I can’t explain, you are my dearheart and I am grateful that you are with me always.
My brother and my sweet sis-in-law—there is so much laughter and joy between us no matter how far away you are. “kringle” you know what that will mean my brother.
My Grandpa Sam—forever you are stitched throughout my memory. You were the first storyteller of my life and made me fall in love with the stories. You are in all of us, these little pieces where Grandpa Sam lives on.
My cousins—we are who we are because of each other. We are wonderfully woven together through thick and thin. Not everyone has that kind of family and I am grateful.
My dear co-workers who turned into dearest friends—I feel damn lucky to know you are in my corner in more ways than one.
My best friend Patty—I remember all of it—every single moment and I am grateful for it. It’s what keeps me since you have been gone.
Stephanie—my partner in crime. I am so happy we never lost touch and are still finding the wonders of the universe together.
Mandi—you know why, all the reasons over all these years—you know why I can’t write them here.
My children, each of you are my favorite. I know you were all mad at me that day when I whispered in each of your ears you were my favorite and to keep it a secret. But you never could keep secrets and told each other. I meant it. Each of you has brought me treasures by being in my life. I know each of you will bring the world treasures too. I am thankful for each of you—who you were, who you are, and who you are becoming. You are the culmination of my life.
The man who loves me—the day you accepted all the eccentricities I brought to this relationship and loved me not only in spite of it but because of it—that was the day you became my miracle.
My God—that I am here—even after all the times I have been less than I should have been, the times I missed counting blessings, I am still here to have one more day in this short lifetime to explore this beautiful thing called living. I will never be able to capture the gratitude of that though I know you know exactly what I feel.
I find that I could go on for pages and pages, there are so many people I have crossed paths with that have changed my life— that have touched me and made me better. I have been so damn lucky. We all are. If we have people in the world who love us, we are blessed. There should be no obligation to love back—just a true heart of Thanksgiving.
Monika M. Basile
There is something about thanking people that puts us in an odd place. There is a fine line between obligatory thanks and true gratitude. It’s a heart thing, something that touches the heart and soul, brings tears of joy or relief and it is a huge thing no matter how small the act was. There are no small acts of kindness, each is large, none are simple but actually complex in that they lead into a ripple effect.
It is hard to put it into words when someone has changed your life. It is hard to articulate that their presence has affected you so deeply along this journey, that you can actually pin point the moment when a difference was made.
Today I try and I know I will somehow fail at saying it correctly, to tell of moments, to speak of the life change kindness has made.
In the beginning there were my parents, who loved me and gave me a good home and a more than average childhood—an exceptional one. I was lucky and blessed to have you. I still am. Mom, the day you told me that you understood my loneliness, that filling my life with the children work, writing etc., nothing could replace the love of a mate—that was the day I knew you understood me, it made us better. And Dad, you stepping in to help me with the kids when I became single—you didn’t have to but I am so grateful because you gave them such love and a great example.
My dear Aunts and Uncles—what a luxury it has been to have each of you as long as we all have had you. Those who are still here and those who have gone on, the lessons you have taught all of us—the fun we all had—the sanctuary’s in the storms of life that all of you have provided—I thank you. I thank you from the very center of my soul.
My sister, I can’t tell it, I can’t explain, you are my dearheart and I am grateful that you are with me always.
My brother and my sweet sis-in-law—there is so much laughter and joy between us no matter how far away you are. “kringle” you know what that will mean my brother.
My Grandpa Sam—forever you are stitched throughout my memory. You were the first storyteller of my life and made me fall in love with the stories. You are in all of us, these little pieces where Grandpa Sam lives on.
My cousins—we are who we are because of each other. We are wonderfully woven together through thick and thin. Not everyone has that kind of family and I am grateful.
My dear co-workers who turned into dearest friends—I feel damn lucky to know you are in my corner in more ways than one.
My best friend Patty—I remember all of it—every single moment and I am grateful for it. It’s what keeps me since you have been gone.
Stephanie—my partner in crime. I am so happy we never lost touch and are still finding the wonders of the universe together.
Mandi—you know why, all the reasons over all these years—you know why I can’t write them here.
My children, each of you are my favorite. I know you were all mad at me that day when I whispered in each of your ears you were my favorite and to keep it a secret. But you never could keep secrets and told each other. I meant it. Each of you has brought me treasures by being in my life. I know each of you will bring the world treasures too. I am thankful for each of you—who you were, who you are, and who you are becoming. You are the culmination of my life.
The man who loves me—the day you accepted all the eccentricities I brought to this relationship and loved me not only in spite of it but because of it—that was the day you became my miracle.
My God—that I am here—even after all the times I have been less than I should have been, the times I missed counting blessings, I am still here to have one more day in this short lifetime to explore this beautiful thing called living. I will never be able to capture the gratitude of that though I know you know exactly what I feel.
I find that I could go on for pages and pages, there are so many people I have crossed paths with that have changed my life— that have touched me and made me better. I have been so damn lucky. We all are. If we have people in the world who love us, we are blessed. There should be no obligation to love back—just a true heart of Thanksgiving.
Monika M. Basile
November 10, 2014
Battle Cry
When my time has come may I be able to say I never stopped fighting the good fight. May I be able to say with all honesty, that I tried for the most part to make it better.
I don’t always do the right things, say the right things and sometimes I am not the right thing. But I try—even if it puts me hanging from a precarious edge—to do what I can. It is not noble, it’s risky. It is not grand, it’s merely dangerous. It isn’t at all what anyone aspires to do—to put yourself out there, by the skin of your teeth, praying that when you speak out that it doesn’t somehow destroy you in the process.
The thing is this. I don’t know how to live with myself if I don’t. And I’m scared that my big mouth gets me in trouble when I speak for those who cannot or will not speak for themselves. I am finding that a whole bunch of trouble drops into your lap when you tend to be one of those people who can’t just walk on by.
I have this little voice that is sometimes quite powerful and persuasive. It chants in my ear and torments me. It is a physical feeling—a buzzing, a flair of colors before my eyes, a twitch in my bottom lip, the sound grows overpowering, similar to that of when you hold a seashell to your ear. There is only so long I can ignore it and then my mouth opens and I speak though I am a bit terrified. That’s when the trouble starts. Sad to say too, that sometimes it changes nothing but me.
Sometimes, when we use our voices and speak out against an injustice—nothing else happens and those we speak to, the ones who can actually help— do nothing. It is beating your head against the wall except you don’t damage the wall and the only damage is to yourself. You make your life harder and circumstances stay the same.
Except…
You can sleep at night.
Except…
You can look into the eyes of the one you spoke for and know that you fought the good fight even if they have no idea that you did. There is this still place in your heart that knows—truly knows—it was worth it no matter what trouble it caused—no matter what—it was worth it—if only because you can still look them in the eyes. Sadness does not come from your behavior because you know, at least this time; you did what should be done. You can’t control the outcome—only your own voice in it.
Except…
You can face your own reflection. You can look upon your own face with the knowledge that you tried and will keep on trying. You will go forward and you will keep fighting the good fight, a weary soldier, disillusioned and sometimes scarred from battle. You don’t have to win though your heart of hearts would have loved that to happen. You just have to continue to believe that there are things worth fighting for.
Carry on.
Monika M. Basile
I don’t always do the right things, say the right things and sometimes I am not the right thing. But I try—even if it puts me hanging from a precarious edge—to do what I can. It is not noble, it’s risky. It is not grand, it’s merely dangerous. It isn’t at all what anyone aspires to do—to put yourself out there, by the skin of your teeth, praying that when you speak out that it doesn’t somehow destroy you in the process.
The thing is this. I don’t know how to live with myself if I don’t. And I’m scared that my big mouth gets me in trouble when I speak for those who cannot or will not speak for themselves. I am finding that a whole bunch of trouble drops into your lap when you tend to be one of those people who can’t just walk on by.
I have this little voice that is sometimes quite powerful and persuasive. It chants in my ear and torments me. It is a physical feeling—a buzzing, a flair of colors before my eyes, a twitch in my bottom lip, the sound grows overpowering, similar to that of when you hold a seashell to your ear. There is only so long I can ignore it and then my mouth opens and I speak though I am a bit terrified. That’s when the trouble starts. Sad to say too, that sometimes it changes nothing but me.
Sometimes, when we use our voices and speak out against an injustice—nothing else happens and those we speak to, the ones who can actually help— do nothing. It is beating your head against the wall except you don’t damage the wall and the only damage is to yourself. You make your life harder and circumstances stay the same.
Except…
You can sleep at night.
Except…
You can look into the eyes of the one you spoke for and know that you fought the good fight even if they have no idea that you did. There is this still place in your heart that knows—truly knows—it was worth it no matter what trouble it caused—no matter what—it was worth it—if only because you can still look them in the eyes. Sadness does not come from your behavior because you know, at least this time; you did what should be done. You can’t control the outcome—only your own voice in it.
Except…
You can face your own reflection. You can look upon your own face with the knowledge that you tried and will keep on trying. You will go forward and you will keep fighting the good fight, a weary soldier, disillusioned and sometimes scarred from battle. You don’t have to win though your heart of hearts would have loved that to happen. You just have to continue to believe that there are things worth fighting for.
Carry on.
Monika M. Basile
October 25, 2014
Little Blessings
It is half past ten p.m. I sit in the gravel driveway and scan through my phone to text my daughter, “I’m here.” I notice this is part of a long column of “I’m here’s”. I realized that particular phrase is quite lovely in its simplicity.
I’m here.
How many times have those words been a saving grace? How many times have we not even bothered to be grateful for them? Isn’t that a beacon of light in the darkness on more occasions than one?
I’m here. I have text my daughter that hundreds of time. Does she realize the magnitude of those words at all? I AM HERE. Always.
How many times someone has spoken that phrase or text it at the bottom of my stairs waiting to come up and I have not realized how important they are or failed to understand exactly the meaning of two tiny words?
I think we need the” I’m here’s” as much as the “I love you’s”. We can shout I love you and not mean it, but being there—that in itself is the proof. When we actually show up—that is the important part. That is when another may finally understand we actually mean it—we believe they are important enough that we make an effort, conscious or subconscious—to be there.
I’m here. They are magic words, words to send a heart leaping, and words to make a body sigh in relief, words that end waiting. Sometimes they are not even spoken out loud. Sometimes an “I’m here” is said with a hand slipping into our own. Sometimes it is an arm thrown around a shoulder, a glimpse of a smile knowing someone is happy to see us, a glimmer of sadness in an eye to express the heartfelt thought of “I am with you.”
Don’t take it lightly. Please don’t take it lightly when folks actually show up in your life and become who they say they are. Don’t pretend it’s “nothing” when someone is consistently with you, consistently there and happy to be there too.
It is one of those little things again that grow so large. It is meaningful and we have to make sure we don’t miss that as we rush through our busy lives or wallow in our darkest moments. The “I’m here’s” are love songs sung in the sweetest of voices, or whispered with a surety, or shouted in a testimony that you are someone I value.
I hope I am someone who is there for the people I love. I hope I am never too busy to show up. I can’t save anyone from anything however much I want to or may try, but I can be with them as they are walking through it all. I am so thankful for all of the “I’m here’s”. They have been the words that have pulled me up, pushed me through and carried me on to the next parts of life.
In all reality, when there is nothing we can do, we can be there. This counts. This counts more than we will ever know.
Monika M. Basile
I’m here.
How many times have those words been a saving grace? How many times have we not even bothered to be grateful for them? Isn’t that a beacon of light in the darkness on more occasions than one?
I’m here. I have text my daughter that hundreds of time. Does she realize the magnitude of those words at all? I AM HERE. Always.
How many times someone has spoken that phrase or text it at the bottom of my stairs waiting to come up and I have not realized how important they are or failed to understand exactly the meaning of two tiny words?
I think we need the” I’m here’s” as much as the “I love you’s”. We can shout I love you and not mean it, but being there—that in itself is the proof. When we actually show up—that is the important part. That is when another may finally understand we actually mean it—we believe they are important enough that we make an effort, conscious or subconscious—to be there.
I’m here. They are magic words, words to send a heart leaping, and words to make a body sigh in relief, words that end waiting. Sometimes they are not even spoken out loud. Sometimes an “I’m here” is said with a hand slipping into our own. Sometimes it is an arm thrown around a shoulder, a glimpse of a smile knowing someone is happy to see us, a glimmer of sadness in an eye to express the heartfelt thought of “I am with you.”
Don’t take it lightly. Please don’t take it lightly when folks actually show up in your life and become who they say they are. Don’t pretend it’s “nothing” when someone is consistently with you, consistently there and happy to be there too.
It is one of those little things again that grow so large. It is meaningful and we have to make sure we don’t miss that as we rush through our busy lives or wallow in our darkest moments. The “I’m here’s” are love songs sung in the sweetest of voices, or whispered with a surety, or shouted in a testimony that you are someone I value.
I hope I am someone who is there for the people I love. I hope I am never too busy to show up. I can’t save anyone from anything however much I want to or may try, but I can be with them as they are walking through it all. I am so thankful for all of the “I’m here’s”. They have been the words that have pulled me up, pushed me through and carried me on to the next parts of life.
In all reality, when there is nothing we can do, we can be there. This counts. This counts more than we will ever know.
Monika M. Basile
October 5, 2014
The Elvis XFiles...
When memory fails there is always Elvis. Really.
I work at a retirement village and I carry an Elvis purse. In the assisted living area, which consists of many dear folks afflicted by Alzheimer’s, dementia and other awful brain disorders, I have noticed a constant. It’s Elvis. For all the treasures of memories that may have been forgotten, these sweet elderly ones—they remember Elvis.
A lovely lady one day came up to me and hugged me. She kept pointing to my extra Elvis bag—the one I carry my paperwork in—the one where Elvis is dancing to jailhouse rock in black and white and his name is outlined in red. She pointed and smiled widely and kept touching the bag. “Elvis!” I said and she nodded vigorously and clapped her hands.
She kept creeping up and touching it and then shaking her head. “I know! I know. I don’t have the right words.” She frowned and wrung her hands.
I patted her hand and told her I knew just what she was trying to tell me, that Elvis made her happy a long time ago, that she loved his music, that he was handsome( I figured that one out when she blew my bag kisses.) She clapped again and smiled and hugged me and then went on about her business.
My purse catches the eye of many. Through the nursing pavilion I walk and random strangers comment. A woman in a wheelchair says, “Oh I know him!” and shakes her finger at me and rolls her eyes. Some hate him and some love him but it seems in most cases that Elvis is someone not easily forgotten.
Recently I made the mistake of putting my purse down in the lobby of the assisted living facility. I was waiting for my interviewees and kept having to run across the parking lot to the healthcare area since they kept showing up in the wrong place. When I returned, my purse was gone. I checked everywhere and could not find it. One of the directors contacted everyone whom might have possibly come in contact with it. “No one has come in. I swear it. I have been sitting here and look each time the bell goes off. I can’t imagine where it might have gone.”
I tentatively inquire if one of our residents might have taken it. Not accusing anyone of stealing, and I try to explain the reaction that Elvis has been getting. He shakes his head and says he doubts it. The nurses and CNA’s say the same.
I can’t seem to keep it all together anymore when I start thinking that my car keys are in my purse, my debit card, my single credit card, my ID and my work ID’s and everything that will be so difficult to replace. I go outside and cry for a little bit and start making calls to figure out a way to get home. I am utterly unprofessional with the ones I am to interview and thankfully my coworker had taken over.
When I finally composed myself and went back in the building. The director shouts, “We found it! You won’t believe where it was!” he proceeds to tell me how it was pressed up against a wall in the fake bushes so you could not see Elvis’s face—hidden away. Obviously the resident was someone who didn’t care for Elvis.
“I told you that somehow Elvis is a weird fascination to our folks. No matter what they may have forgotten, they remember him. And I think too they remember if they liked him or not.” I laughed, happy that I didn’t have to start replacing bits and pieces of my life.
It isn’t the only place I find Elvis to have some sort of healing property or soothing ability. I also work in a group home for seriously mentally ill adults. Here, we play Elvis and it does wonders to improve moods, especially mine.
I recently realized that whenever I am stressed out with the ridiculous amounts of unnecessary paperwork, my coworker slips the ”I Am An Elvis Fan” CD into the player and suddenly I get into a rhythm to get the work done. In the dining room there are feet tapping and folks are singing off key and a bit of magic permeates the air. The music lifts us all up.
I remember once when I was cooking in the kitchen I had Jailhouse rock playing. I heard laughing and stepped into the small mudroom where the CD player was only to find our elderly gentleman client dancing the jitterbug with one of the ladies and both were smiling and laughing and clapping their hands.
I have cut out pictures of Elvis all over the group home though I am sure that makes some higher up angry. But I don’t care. My clients find it amusing. I even hung my spare velvet Elvis painting in the hallway when one of the clients kept removing and hiding the picture that seemed to bother him. The Elvis painting never gets hidden.
There is something about Elvis that brings people back and maybe sometimes it simply brings them back into the living. That mystery may never be solved.
Monika M. Basile
I work at a retirement village and I carry an Elvis purse. In the assisted living area, which consists of many dear folks afflicted by Alzheimer’s, dementia and other awful brain disorders, I have noticed a constant. It’s Elvis. For all the treasures of memories that may have been forgotten, these sweet elderly ones—they remember Elvis.
A lovely lady one day came up to me and hugged me. She kept pointing to my extra Elvis bag—the one I carry my paperwork in—the one where Elvis is dancing to jailhouse rock in black and white and his name is outlined in red. She pointed and smiled widely and kept touching the bag. “Elvis!” I said and she nodded vigorously and clapped her hands.
She kept creeping up and touching it and then shaking her head. “I know! I know. I don’t have the right words.” She frowned and wrung her hands.
I patted her hand and told her I knew just what she was trying to tell me, that Elvis made her happy a long time ago, that she loved his music, that he was handsome( I figured that one out when she blew my bag kisses.) She clapped again and smiled and hugged me and then went on about her business.
My purse catches the eye of many. Through the nursing pavilion I walk and random strangers comment. A woman in a wheelchair says, “Oh I know him!” and shakes her finger at me and rolls her eyes. Some hate him and some love him but it seems in most cases that Elvis is someone not easily forgotten.
Recently I made the mistake of putting my purse down in the lobby of the assisted living facility. I was waiting for my interviewees and kept having to run across the parking lot to the healthcare area since they kept showing up in the wrong place. When I returned, my purse was gone. I checked everywhere and could not find it. One of the directors contacted everyone whom might have possibly come in contact with it. “No one has come in. I swear it. I have been sitting here and look each time the bell goes off. I can’t imagine where it might have gone.”
I tentatively inquire if one of our residents might have taken it. Not accusing anyone of stealing, and I try to explain the reaction that Elvis has been getting. He shakes his head and says he doubts it. The nurses and CNA’s say the same.
I can’t seem to keep it all together anymore when I start thinking that my car keys are in my purse, my debit card, my single credit card, my ID and my work ID’s and everything that will be so difficult to replace. I go outside and cry for a little bit and start making calls to figure out a way to get home. I am utterly unprofessional with the ones I am to interview and thankfully my coworker had taken over.
When I finally composed myself and went back in the building. The director shouts, “We found it! You won’t believe where it was!” he proceeds to tell me how it was pressed up against a wall in the fake bushes so you could not see Elvis’s face—hidden away. Obviously the resident was someone who didn’t care for Elvis.
“I told you that somehow Elvis is a weird fascination to our folks. No matter what they may have forgotten, they remember him. And I think too they remember if they liked him or not.” I laughed, happy that I didn’t have to start replacing bits and pieces of my life.
It isn’t the only place I find Elvis to have some sort of healing property or soothing ability. I also work in a group home for seriously mentally ill adults. Here, we play Elvis and it does wonders to improve moods, especially mine.
I recently realized that whenever I am stressed out with the ridiculous amounts of unnecessary paperwork, my coworker slips the ”I Am An Elvis Fan” CD into the player and suddenly I get into a rhythm to get the work done. In the dining room there are feet tapping and folks are singing off key and a bit of magic permeates the air. The music lifts us all up.
I remember once when I was cooking in the kitchen I had Jailhouse rock playing. I heard laughing and stepped into the small mudroom where the CD player was only to find our elderly gentleman client dancing the jitterbug with one of the ladies and both were smiling and laughing and clapping their hands.
I have cut out pictures of Elvis all over the group home though I am sure that makes some higher up angry. But I don’t care. My clients find it amusing. I even hung my spare velvet Elvis painting in the hallway when one of the clients kept removing and hiding the picture that seemed to bother him. The Elvis painting never gets hidden.
There is something about Elvis that brings people back and maybe sometimes it simply brings them back into the living. That mystery may never be solved.
Monika M. Basile
September 29, 2014
The Creeps
Love has a funny way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. Please note I am saying, “not expecting” and not the infamous phrase of “not looking for it”. There is a difference.
I am almost fearful to even write about it, as if it will all disappear simply to put it into words. At the same time I have wanted to shout from the rooftops, “Here now! It’s happening!” Instead I have been more quiet about this gentle surprise—wanting to keep it all safely hidden away so no one picks it apart—especially me. I tend to be someone to overanalyze things. I am sure most folks have figured that out.
I think it’s quite humorous for God to put someone in my life that I never in a million years would have thought I would have fallen in love with when he once had literally made me puke.
He was one of my brother’s friends. I met him when I was six or seven. We walked to school each day, my brother and him and me. I remember him being funny and making me laugh—except the day I puked after listening to him burp the ABC’s. We were in a heated car, my father driving the boys to bowling and me the tag along. He was himself, a goofball, and started to burp these long horrendous sounds, making me nauseous. When we arrived at the bowling alley I went right inside to the bathroom and was sick. This is my most distinct memory of him. I also remember him walking this tiny little dog he told me was named Killer and how I laughed and laughed over that. I find out now that it wasn’t even the dog’s name.
He crept up on me. I crept up on him. Love can be creepy. Who would have thought it?
It’s here now—in all its imperfection and I am just amazed at how different it is than I thought it would be. It is an odd feeling that he stays. I have this fear that he won’t, not because of anything he does because he is consistently consistent. It is something I have to own—this unreasonable fear that I am trying hard to shake, because it is just that—unreasonable. It is amazing to me too, that when I told him that—he didn’t run right then.
Trust is not an easy thing to give when you have had it broken over and over and over again. Yet, I have chosen to jump in with the faith that I have placed my heart into the most tender of hands—in the hands of a man who loves me back.
I come into this from a place of gratitude. I feel lucky. I don’t feel like I am owed this or deserve this or I did anything special to obtain it. Everyone deserves love in their lives but it doesn’t mean they will have it. We can all be doing all the right things, being exactly who we should be, and it doesn’t mean it will happen. I feel so thankful, not out of desperation, not out of loneliness, but out of the sheer appreciation of the man he is and that the great orchestration of events allowed him into my life. It feels like such a wondrous adventure to just sit and do nothing—to let it be and allow it all to unfold as it will. I am grateful for the experience and I am blessed that I am utterly aware of the gift of this time.
I only hope it creeps past so slowly so I can savor every moment.
Monika M. Basile
I am almost fearful to even write about it, as if it will all disappear simply to put it into words. At the same time I have wanted to shout from the rooftops, “Here now! It’s happening!” Instead I have been more quiet about this gentle surprise—wanting to keep it all safely hidden away so no one picks it apart—especially me. I tend to be someone to overanalyze things. I am sure most folks have figured that out.
I think it’s quite humorous for God to put someone in my life that I never in a million years would have thought I would have fallen in love with when he once had literally made me puke.
He was one of my brother’s friends. I met him when I was six or seven. We walked to school each day, my brother and him and me. I remember him being funny and making me laugh—except the day I puked after listening to him burp the ABC’s. We were in a heated car, my father driving the boys to bowling and me the tag along. He was himself, a goofball, and started to burp these long horrendous sounds, making me nauseous. When we arrived at the bowling alley I went right inside to the bathroom and was sick. This is my most distinct memory of him. I also remember him walking this tiny little dog he told me was named Killer and how I laughed and laughed over that. I find out now that it wasn’t even the dog’s name.
He crept up on me. I crept up on him. Love can be creepy. Who would have thought it?
It’s here now—in all its imperfection and I am just amazed at how different it is than I thought it would be. It is an odd feeling that he stays. I have this fear that he won’t, not because of anything he does because he is consistently consistent. It is something I have to own—this unreasonable fear that I am trying hard to shake, because it is just that—unreasonable. It is amazing to me too, that when I told him that—he didn’t run right then.
Trust is not an easy thing to give when you have had it broken over and over and over again. Yet, I have chosen to jump in with the faith that I have placed my heart into the most tender of hands—in the hands of a man who loves me back.
I come into this from a place of gratitude. I feel lucky. I don’t feel like I am owed this or deserve this or I did anything special to obtain it. Everyone deserves love in their lives but it doesn’t mean they will have it. We can all be doing all the right things, being exactly who we should be, and it doesn’t mean it will happen. I feel so thankful, not out of desperation, not out of loneliness, but out of the sheer appreciation of the man he is and that the great orchestration of events allowed him into my life. It feels like such a wondrous adventure to just sit and do nothing—to let it be and allow it all to unfold as it will. I am grateful for the experience and I am blessed that I am utterly aware of the gift of this time.
I only hope it creeps past so slowly so I can savor every moment.
Monika M. Basile
May 20, 2014
It's Only a Masquerade
Because at the end of it all, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks or says. It only matters what you do. If you shout out big words of “someday” and do nothing, you haven’t gotten anywhere at all. You are musing aloud and ruminating but are you brave enough to actually work towards the immense uncertain future of someday? Are you actively seeking your life and living in this wonderful world feeling the experience? Or are you merely dreaming?
This world is full of dreamers and that is indeed necessary and good. However, dreamers should not stop at dreaming and begin doing while they dream. So much of ourselves we keep hidden, afraid to take a chance and tip toe out into the great unknown because we might fall flat on our face. We might hurt. We might fail. We might just humiliate ourselves in the midst of it.
I can’t even count how many times I have embarrassed myself or been a fool for love or like or even infatuation. I still cringe when I think about it. “How could I have said that? How could I have done that? Why the hell did I expose myself like that and set myself up to be hurt?” And slowly this has caused me to build walls around me—this place of failing and fear. It has caused bars to go down, guarding my soul from more of the same. I didn’t even realize it and I don’t like it one darn bit.
I have considered myself to be a very open person. I expose the inner workings of my psyche all the time here in this blog and to anyone who cares to listen to me. I talk all the time about the real things in my life and how I feel and what I think. I never thought I was one of those who hid herself anywhere anymore. Yet, I realize I actually do and I really, really don’t like that at all. I wear the “mask” at times that all of us do, afraid to let others in to see all of the real things.
The thing with masks though is that they eventually interfere with your breathing, with your vision and your nose even begins to run and you get all hot and sweaty and not in a good way. I am sure hiding my skeletons and plastering a mask to my soul has hindered me in many ways. It has stopped people from connecting as deeply as they could, as deeply as I wanted and still want and need.
I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to be humiliated. I don’t want to be rejected. No one does. Everyone clings to their masks as a means of self-protection. What are we protecting ourselves from? Its life—all the parts of life when we refuse to peel the mask away and just let ourselves be exactly who we are. We protect ourselves from truly having the love in our lives that most of us so cherish the dream of having. We put ourselves at a disadvantage because eventually the truth comes out, our secrets are revealed and the being we have become as well as the being that is our core shows itself in one way or another.
We count down nervously to that someday finally arriving. The dream of removing the mask becomes somewhat of a nightmare as we think of bearing our soul, of allowing another to love us with our warts, our creepy skeletons dancing about and our dirty little secrets that will eventually sneak up on us. We worry about that moment finally arriving, or maybe even arriving in several smaller moments, when we finally stand there feeling naked and vulnerable allowing the one we dreamed of to see us as we really are.
When someday comes they will know exactly how crazy we really are, how we have ridiculous fears and annoying habits, that we have done something awful a time or too, that we are not perfect in any way and that we, without the mask, are an actual reality. We are no longer dreaming big dreams in the midst of “someday’s” arrival. We are simply living them with baited breath that the person who is discovering the reality of who we are accepts us and loves us anyway.
Monika M. Basile
This world is full of dreamers and that is indeed necessary and good. However, dreamers should not stop at dreaming and begin doing while they dream. So much of ourselves we keep hidden, afraid to take a chance and tip toe out into the great unknown because we might fall flat on our face. We might hurt. We might fail. We might just humiliate ourselves in the midst of it.
I can’t even count how many times I have embarrassed myself or been a fool for love or like or even infatuation. I still cringe when I think about it. “How could I have said that? How could I have done that? Why the hell did I expose myself like that and set myself up to be hurt?” And slowly this has caused me to build walls around me—this place of failing and fear. It has caused bars to go down, guarding my soul from more of the same. I didn’t even realize it and I don’t like it one darn bit.
I have considered myself to be a very open person. I expose the inner workings of my psyche all the time here in this blog and to anyone who cares to listen to me. I talk all the time about the real things in my life and how I feel and what I think. I never thought I was one of those who hid herself anywhere anymore. Yet, I realize I actually do and I really, really don’t like that at all. I wear the “mask” at times that all of us do, afraid to let others in to see all of the real things.
The thing with masks though is that they eventually interfere with your breathing, with your vision and your nose even begins to run and you get all hot and sweaty and not in a good way. I am sure hiding my skeletons and plastering a mask to my soul has hindered me in many ways. It has stopped people from connecting as deeply as they could, as deeply as I wanted and still want and need.
I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to be humiliated. I don’t want to be rejected. No one does. Everyone clings to their masks as a means of self-protection. What are we protecting ourselves from? Its life—all the parts of life when we refuse to peel the mask away and just let ourselves be exactly who we are. We protect ourselves from truly having the love in our lives that most of us so cherish the dream of having. We put ourselves at a disadvantage because eventually the truth comes out, our secrets are revealed and the being we have become as well as the being that is our core shows itself in one way or another.
We count down nervously to that someday finally arriving. The dream of removing the mask becomes somewhat of a nightmare as we think of bearing our soul, of allowing another to love us with our warts, our creepy skeletons dancing about and our dirty little secrets that will eventually sneak up on us. We worry about that moment finally arriving, or maybe even arriving in several smaller moments, when we finally stand there feeling naked and vulnerable allowing the one we dreamed of to see us as we really are.
When someday comes they will know exactly how crazy we really are, how we have ridiculous fears and annoying habits, that we have done something awful a time or too, that we are not perfect in any way and that we, without the mask, are an actual reality. We are no longer dreaming big dreams in the midst of “someday’s” arrival. We are simply living them with baited breath that the person who is discovering the reality of who we are accepts us and loves us anyway.
Monika M. Basile
