Monika Basile's Blog: Confessions of a Bleeding Heart, page 8
June 26, 2011
My Real Life
In my real life (You see this is not it. This is not the life at all I imagined for myself.)I am having a lovely time. In my real life I sit on a sunset beach gazing upon gentle crystal blue waves. I am sipping on a glass of sweet red wine and the wind is blowing softly in my face and carrying the scent of hibiscus and jasmine with it. In my real life—it is peaceful and quiet and the noise around me is not drowning out my thoughts.
In my real life I do not worry about how the bills will get paid or how to fix all the broken things piling up around me. In my real life, I am writing my tenth best seller and I am scheduling the next book tour with the hope it does not coincide with my vacationing in Tuscany. In my real life there is a limo waiting (not the granny panty car with constant loud noise coming from somewhere) outside my luxurious home as I am rushing to prepare myself for the party I have been looking forward to. In my real life I wear diamond earrings the size of robin’s eggs dangling from my ears to every occasion.
In my real life I don’t worry about how many groceries are in the house because I eat out at five star restaurants or the cook will cook for me at home. In my real life the maid does very well keeping up and there are clean sheets on my bed each and every night. In my real life there is a balcony off of my bedroom with wide French doors and I sit in a wicker rocker and am surrounded with white twinkle lights and stars in velvet skies. In my real life I never sleep single in a double bed with my freshly washed sheets at night. In my real life I am loved and cherished.
In my real life each child is respectful and polite to me. They call me, “Mother Dear” instead of “Hey Ma”. They never leave a mess in the bathroom or get in trouble. We sing together around the baby grand piano and we call each other sweet nicknames like “Biff” and “Skip” and “Kitten” instead of “Idiot” and “Stupid” and “I Hate You”.
In my real life I never have pity parties like the one I am having here. There is no need. In my real life everything is ideal and wonderful and perfect.
That’s how I live in my real life you see—not in this one.
This version, the one I never imagined, is much harder to live in than my real life. I suppose it is a way of building character to have to stick it out in the tougher life and still be able to find the joy in it. Maybe that was the thought God had when he decided to give me this life instead of the real one. I guess its okay.
If I can’t have the life I imagined, my actual real life—I am happy to take this one and make it my own.
Monika M. Basile
In my real life I do not worry about how the bills will get paid or how to fix all the broken things piling up around me. In my real life, I am writing my tenth best seller and I am scheduling the next book tour with the hope it does not coincide with my vacationing in Tuscany. In my real life there is a limo waiting (not the granny panty car with constant loud noise coming from somewhere) outside my luxurious home as I am rushing to prepare myself for the party I have been looking forward to. In my real life I wear diamond earrings the size of robin’s eggs dangling from my ears to every occasion.
In my real life I don’t worry about how many groceries are in the house because I eat out at five star restaurants or the cook will cook for me at home. In my real life the maid does very well keeping up and there are clean sheets on my bed each and every night. In my real life there is a balcony off of my bedroom with wide French doors and I sit in a wicker rocker and am surrounded with white twinkle lights and stars in velvet skies. In my real life I never sleep single in a double bed with my freshly washed sheets at night. In my real life I am loved and cherished.
In my real life each child is respectful and polite to me. They call me, “Mother Dear” instead of “Hey Ma”. They never leave a mess in the bathroom or get in trouble. We sing together around the baby grand piano and we call each other sweet nicknames like “Biff” and “Skip” and “Kitten” instead of “Idiot” and “Stupid” and “I Hate You”.
In my real life I never have pity parties like the one I am having here. There is no need. In my real life everything is ideal and wonderful and perfect.
That’s how I live in my real life you see—not in this one.
This version, the one I never imagined, is much harder to live in than my real life. I suppose it is a way of building character to have to stick it out in the tougher life and still be able to find the joy in it. Maybe that was the thought God had when he decided to give me this life instead of the real one. I guess its okay.
If I can’t have the life I imagined, my actual real life—I am happy to take this one and make it my own.
Monika M. Basile
June 21, 2011
Tuesday at Toni's
This is for you, Aunt Toni, because I am not sure if you really know who you are to us.
I have been blessed to be part of a large Italian family. However, it has only been the past five years that I have been able to come back into the fold. I was estranged from my extended family for most of the years I was married and the minute I decided to end the marriage I crept back, I ran back, I jumped back as quickly as I could. I was welcomed there, at my Aunt Toni’s house. I was made a part of my family as if years had never separated any of us. At Aunt Toni’s house I felt safe and loved and unashamed of what my life had become.
This is you, Aunt Toni. This is the effect you have helped to create in our family and I wonder do you know how the simple olive branches you always reach out are truly what bring us all back? Us nieces and nephews who wander in and out of the family—somehow, we all feel the need to come back at one point or another to you and everything you represent in all of our childhoods.
Aunt Toni was the best aunt any child could hope for. She is still the best aunt to every child that enters her life. She always had time for us and never thought twice to pack up all of us in her bright orange VW beetle and take us skating every weekend. I remember being a tag along throughout her young adult life for shopping trips and then ratting her out to my grandmother by accident and telling how much she spent. I remember sleeping in her room when I spent the night at my grandparents, giant hot pink flowers on the wallpaper and the smell of her perfume on the sheets. And her closet beheld many delights of gorgeous clothing and high heels to try on when she was out, along with the vanity to try on lipsticks and break them and hide them hoping she did not notice.
Aunt Toni always had time to listen, to talk, to play, to tease, to hug and to hold us. She was as silly as we were and I think we knew she actually really liked every single one of us whether we were behaving well or not. She is still like this. In her eyes, there are no bad kids. Just kids. (now I am not saying she is a saint and that some don’t get on her nerves. I am saying she would never let a child know they were on her nerves.)She has never been one to put any of us off. It has always been in times of troubles, “I’m here. Right now. I am here right this minute to help you.”
Today was what we call “Tuesday at Toni’s”. Our family gets together at her house and gathers in the summer. Aunt Toni cooks up a storm and everyone is welcome. Today, as I ate her wonderful stuffed mushrooms I looked around at my family and I felt so very thankful for my dear Aunt. It is her. It is YOU, Aunt Toni, you are the reason we are here. You find us all when we are lost. You reach out, you call us all back and you never give up. I have never known you to stop reaching out to those you love. And because of that we are together. What a blessing to see my Aunts, my Uncle, my parents my cousins and all of the children on just an ordinary day and for no reason other than we want to be together.
I know some are still missing and this makes you sad. But they are coming Aunt Toni. Truly they are. The call of your heart is strong. Sooner or later, we all come back to you and each of us is so thankful that you always want us.
Thank you for never giving up.
Monika M. Basile
I have been blessed to be part of a large Italian family. However, it has only been the past five years that I have been able to come back into the fold. I was estranged from my extended family for most of the years I was married and the minute I decided to end the marriage I crept back, I ran back, I jumped back as quickly as I could. I was welcomed there, at my Aunt Toni’s house. I was made a part of my family as if years had never separated any of us. At Aunt Toni’s house I felt safe and loved and unashamed of what my life had become.
This is you, Aunt Toni. This is the effect you have helped to create in our family and I wonder do you know how the simple olive branches you always reach out are truly what bring us all back? Us nieces and nephews who wander in and out of the family—somehow, we all feel the need to come back at one point or another to you and everything you represent in all of our childhoods.
Aunt Toni was the best aunt any child could hope for. She is still the best aunt to every child that enters her life. She always had time for us and never thought twice to pack up all of us in her bright orange VW beetle and take us skating every weekend. I remember being a tag along throughout her young adult life for shopping trips and then ratting her out to my grandmother by accident and telling how much she spent. I remember sleeping in her room when I spent the night at my grandparents, giant hot pink flowers on the wallpaper and the smell of her perfume on the sheets. And her closet beheld many delights of gorgeous clothing and high heels to try on when she was out, along with the vanity to try on lipsticks and break them and hide them hoping she did not notice.
Aunt Toni always had time to listen, to talk, to play, to tease, to hug and to hold us. She was as silly as we were and I think we knew she actually really liked every single one of us whether we were behaving well or not. She is still like this. In her eyes, there are no bad kids. Just kids. (now I am not saying she is a saint and that some don’t get on her nerves. I am saying she would never let a child know they were on her nerves.)She has never been one to put any of us off. It has always been in times of troubles, “I’m here. Right now. I am here right this minute to help you.”
Today was what we call “Tuesday at Toni’s”. Our family gets together at her house and gathers in the summer. Aunt Toni cooks up a storm and everyone is welcome. Today, as I ate her wonderful stuffed mushrooms I looked around at my family and I felt so very thankful for my dear Aunt. It is her. It is YOU, Aunt Toni, you are the reason we are here. You find us all when we are lost. You reach out, you call us all back and you never give up. I have never known you to stop reaching out to those you love. And because of that we are together. What a blessing to see my Aunts, my Uncle, my parents my cousins and all of the children on just an ordinary day and for no reason other than we want to be together.
I know some are still missing and this makes you sad. But they are coming Aunt Toni. Truly they are. The call of your heart is strong. Sooner or later, we all come back to you and each of us is so thankful that you always want us.
Thank you for never giving up.
Monika M. Basile
June 3, 2011
The Birds and the Plan B's
I am sitting at the dining room table when I receive this text from my daughter’s bedroom ( yes, this happens all the time—the texting from a room away):
Mom? Do you have to have a parent to get a Plan B pill?
Oh my God! I tell myself not to panic. I tell myself that I can do this. I talk about this stuff all the time with a wide variety of people. It is in fact part of my job description—to educate on human sexuality. I am somewhat of an expert. Do not freak out I tell myself while I sit in the dining room trying to come up with a response.
I finally begin my text and explain how to purchase it. I text about side effects and complications and how the Plan B pill actually works. But at the end of my response I do panic some— is this for you Kate?!
This of course sets off an angry response from the girl: It is not me! I said it’s for a friend and I mean it’s for a friend. How long does it take for the egg to be fertilized?
I then explain in text messages the art and miracle of conception and how we don’t really know an exact time. Yes, I have explained this several times over the course of my children’s lives. My son’s would ask me questions to shock me—but I shocked them by giving them honest informative answers. Then they asked questions because they truly wanted to know and they would refer their friends to me with questions too. (This was most embarrassing to discuss sex with teen age boys and trying not to blush or embarrass myself or them) With the girls it has been different. Very different.
They wanted to know nothing about the changes to their bodies. The youngest covered her ears screaming. “Shut up! Shut up I don’t want to hear about this!” and proceeded to put fingers in her ears and started singing at the top of her lungs. “I don’t need to know this! La la la…”
Our children do need to know this. They really do whether they want to or not. I talked anyway—even though it embarrassed her. I educated anyway. I gave knowledge of the physiology of sex as well as the emotional aspects. It has embarrassed me but I did it and do it anyway. It doesn’t deserve a crown in sainthood to discuss sex with your child. It does not stop teenage pregnancy or sexually transmitted infections. But maybe, just maybe it makes our children stop and think for a moment before making irrevocable and life changing decisions. And maybe, it gives our children the security of coming to us when something does happen that is beyond their control.
Kate finally comes out of her room. “It really isn’t me, Mom. Really.”
I take a deep breath, “If it were you, would you tell me?”
“I think so.” She says.
I hope so. Even though these kinds of things are hard to hear, I really hope so.
Monika M. Basile
Mom? Do you have to have a parent to get a Plan B pill?
Oh my God! I tell myself not to panic. I tell myself that I can do this. I talk about this stuff all the time with a wide variety of people. It is in fact part of my job description—to educate on human sexuality. I am somewhat of an expert. Do not freak out I tell myself while I sit in the dining room trying to come up with a response.
I finally begin my text and explain how to purchase it. I text about side effects and complications and how the Plan B pill actually works. But at the end of my response I do panic some— is this for you Kate?!
This of course sets off an angry response from the girl: It is not me! I said it’s for a friend and I mean it’s for a friend. How long does it take for the egg to be fertilized?
I then explain in text messages the art and miracle of conception and how we don’t really know an exact time. Yes, I have explained this several times over the course of my children’s lives. My son’s would ask me questions to shock me—but I shocked them by giving them honest informative answers. Then they asked questions because they truly wanted to know and they would refer their friends to me with questions too. (This was most embarrassing to discuss sex with teen age boys and trying not to blush or embarrass myself or them) With the girls it has been different. Very different.
They wanted to know nothing about the changes to their bodies. The youngest covered her ears screaming. “Shut up! Shut up I don’t want to hear about this!” and proceeded to put fingers in her ears and started singing at the top of her lungs. “I don’t need to know this! La la la…”
Our children do need to know this. They really do whether they want to or not. I talked anyway—even though it embarrassed her. I educated anyway. I gave knowledge of the physiology of sex as well as the emotional aspects. It has embarrassed me but I did it and do it anyway. It doesn’t deserve a crown in sainthood to discuss sex with your child. It does not stop teenage pregnancy or sexually transmitted infections. But maybe, just maybe it makes our children stop and think for a moment before making irrevocable and life changing decisions. And maybe, it gives our children the security of coming to us when something does happen that is beyond their control.
Kate finally comes out of her room. “It really isn’t me, Mom. Really.”
I take a deep breath, “If it were you, would you tell me?”
“I think so.” She says.
I hope so. Even though these kinds of things are hard to hear, I really hope so.
Monika M. Basile
May 20, 2011
Beauty is the Beast
Growing up I thought I was the ugliest girl in creation.
I felt that in a group of girls and women, I was the unattractive one, the one that no man would choose first, and the one that the other girls would make fun of. When I looked in the mirror, I only saw each and every flaw as if someone had held a magnifying glass up to my eye just to see them a bit more clearly.
I am not alone in this. I know I am not. Most of us women were this same young girl picking themselves apart. Most of us women didn’t believe it when our mothers told us we were indeed pretty and maybe even beautiful. We just figured they were our mothers and they had to say that. We never imagined that it might actually be true. Instead, we chose to believe the lie our lying eyes told us instead. We chose to see the ugly part of the truth and dismissed the beautiful parts.
We became our own worst enemy and our biggest critics. We learned to hate “fat” mirrors and sometimes glanced away from the store windows as we passed by so we did not have to look at ourselves. We discovered contraptions to hold our stomachs in and new bras to create deep cleavage; we learned to shadow our noses so they did not appear too long, and to straighten our curly hair and to curl our straight hair. We bought booty lifts and girdles. We bought every fad diet. We worked out until we tore ligaments. We envied other women their curves while the curvy coveted the slender. We didn’t stop to realize—that everybody is somehow beautiful or we wouldn’t be trying so hard to look like the woman standing next to us.
We do everything we can think of to keep improving, to get better and better and better, and what are we missing while we do so? We are missing our lives. We are missing our lives while we try to somehow create this “better life” we imagine we will have if we were just the damn prettiest woman in the room.
There is nothing wrong with make-up unless we use it to hide ourselves. There is nothing wrong with pretty clothes unless we think that it is the clothing that makes us pretty. There is nothing wrong with having a sculpted body unless we fail to see we are more than our body. Perfectly white teeth are attractive, but they do not make cruel words sound pretty. Manicured fingers are elegant but they do not soften the harshness of a slap.
I am waiting still for the day when I can look myself in the eyes and just accept that I have really beautiful eyes rather than getting distracted by the bump on my nose. I am looking forward to the time when I can see that I am curvy without thinking I am too curvy. I will jump for joy when I look into a mirror and do not feel the need to adjust something but instead, shrug my shoulders and say, “I’m fine.” I think that day is coming soon. There is a reason we are not identical clones of each other—we are not supposed to be. I have wasted much too much time on this issue as I am sure millions of girls and women have too.
The beast is our failure to see the real beauty in it all.
Monika M. Basile
I felt that in a group of girls and women, I was the unattractive one, the one that no man would choose first, and the one that the other girls would make fun of. When I looked in the mirror, I only saw each and every flaw as if someone had held a magnifying glass up to my eye just to see them a bit more clearly.
I am not alone in this. I know I am not. Most of us women were this same young girl picking themselves apart. Most of us women didn’t believe it when our mothers told us we were indeed pretty and maybe even beautiful. We just figured they were our mothers and they had to say that. We never imagined that it might actually be true. Instead, we chose to believe the lie our lying eyes told us instead. We chose to see the ugly part of the truth and dismissed the beautiful parts.
We became our own worst enemy and our biggest critics. We learned to hate “fat” mirrors and sometimes glanced away from the store windows as we passed by so we did not have to look at ourselves. We discovered contraptions to hold our stomachs in and new bras to create deep cleavage; we learned to shadow our noses so they did not appear too long, and to straighten our curly hair and to curl our straight hair. We bought booty lifts and girdles. We bought every fad diet. We worked out until we tore ligaments. We envied other women their curves while the curvy coveted the slender. We didn’t stop to realize—that everybody is somehow beautiful or we wouldn’t be trying so hard to look like the woman standing next to us.
We do everything we can think of to keep improving, to get better and better and better, and what are we missing while we do so? We are missing our lives. We are missing our lives while we try to somehow create this “better life” we imagine we will have if we were just the damn prettiest woman in the room.
There is nothing wrong with make-up unless we use it to hide ourselves. There is nothing wrong with pretty clothes unless we think that it is the clothing that makes us pretty. There is nothing wrong with having a sculpted body unless we fail to see we are more than our body. Perfectly white teeth are attractive, but they do not make cruel words sound pretty. Manicured fingers are elegant but they do not soften the harshness of a slap.
I am waiting still for the day when I can look myself in the eyes and just accept that I have really beautiful eyes rather than getting distracted by the bump on my nose. I am looking forward to the time when I can see that I am curvy without thinking I am too curvy. I will jump for joy when I look into a mirror and do not feel the need to adjust something but instead, shrug my shoulders and say, “I’m fine.” I think that day is coming soon. There is a reason we are not identical clones of each other—we are not supposed to be. I have wasted much too much time on this issue as I am sure millions of girls and women have too.
The beast is our failure to see the real beauty in it all.
Monika M. Basile
May 13, 2011
Bitter Battles
I am being bombarded by a variety of mixed feelings. The ex is getting married next week and I am having a hard time dealing with it. I am ashamed that I am feeling so poorly about the whole sordid ordeal.
It has been years already since the separation and divorce. Years before that, the marriage had been systematically destroyed one heartbreaking piece by one heartbreaking piece.
I am confused? Why is it bothering me? Why am I angry and bitter about it now? Why do I feel as if my mind is caught up in some sort of war I am incapable of even fighting? I am battling thoughts about a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with me at all.
At the same time, I am thankful that it is not me standing next to him taking those vows. I am thankful I escaped(and sadly, yes, it was an escape) I am thrilled to have a bit of a peaceful mind again at never walking on egg shells again in my day to day living. Though I don’t want him miserable (him being miserable tends to make him reach out and try to make me miserable again) I don’t want him…well…happy.
That must be where the shame comes in. I am better than that—to not want another person to be happy. I have always held myself above that way of thinking. It has been a cruel slap in the face to realize I am not above it in the least. However much I do not wish him harm; neither do I wish him any sort of happiness. I have served myself a big heaping mound of bitter grapes just dripping with the smallest of thoughts. I am truly ashamed of it.
I am embarrassed by this constant idea that keeps weaseling its way up to the forefront of my brain: It should be me. There it is, right there, right out in the open for my eyes—all eyes to see. It should be me.
It isn’t me. It may never be me. I have to face that.
I am being judgmental and I know it. I know I shouldn’t be—yet I am fully aware that I am judging like I am the Queen of Judgingdom. I am shouting out in my Queendom, “How dare he? How dare he have everything he wants, everything I wanted all these years—when he broke all of us apart and laughed while he did it?” I am screaming to the courts and pointing it out in my own private world, “He doesn’t deserve it! He should not have it easy. The joy should not be his”
My thinking is wrong. My feelings are my own, yet they are wrong too since they seem to be doing me more harm than good. I have to remind myself I am not any more perfect than he is. I just like to believe I am nicer most of the time. I guess I’m not.
I think of a conversation we had that upset me. He had been drinking and said, “I hate this happened and I hope someday I can say that I’ll be glad that your happy. But I can’t.” And I realize I really am no better. I don’t wish him happiness either. I don’t wish him misery. I just wish he did not have what I have wanted my entire life.
I wish it were me sharing my life with someone, looking towards a new future and eager to start the next part of the story. I have to stop thinking it shouldn’t be him. I have to start thinking instead, it should be me too. Maybe someday it will be.
Just don’t expect me to send a wedding gift.
Monika M. Basile
It has been years already since the separation and divorce. Years before that, the marriage had been systematically destroyed one heartbreaking piece by one heartbreaking piece.
I am confused? Why is it bothering me? Why am I angry and bitter about it now? Why do I feel as if my mind is caught up in some sort of war I am incapable of even fighting? I am battling thoughts about a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with me at all.
At the same time, I am thankful that it is not me standing next to him taking those vows. I am thankful I escaped(and sadly, yes, it was an escape) I am thrilled to have a bit of a peaceful mind again at never walking on egg shells again in my day to day living. Though I don’t want him miserable (him being miserable tends to make him reach out and try to make me miserable again) I don’t want him…well…happy.
That must be where the shame comes in. I am better than that—to not want another person to be happy. I have always held myself above that way of thinking. It has been a cruel slap in the face to realize I am not above it in the least. However much I do not wish him harm; neither do I wish him any sort of happiness. I have served myself a big heaping mound of bitter grapes just dripping with the smallest of thoughts. I am truly ashamed of it.
I am embarrassed by this constant idea that keeps weaseling its way up to the forefront of my brain: It should be me. There it is, right there, right out in the open for my eyes—all eyes to see. It should be me.
It isn’t me. It may never be me. I have to face that.
I am being judgmental and I know it. I know I shouldn’t be—yet I am fully aware that I am judging like I am the Queen of Judgingdom. I am shouting out in my Queendom, “How dare he? How dare he have everything he wants, everything I wanted all these years—when he broke all of us apart and laughed while he did it?” I am screaming to the courts and pointing it out in my own private world, “He doesn’t deserve it! He should not have it easy. The joy should not be his”
My thinking is wrong. My feelings are my own, yet they are wrong too since they seem to be doing me more harm than good. I have to remind myself I am not any more perfect than he is. I just like to believe I am nicer most of the time. I guess I’m not.
I think of a conversation we had that upset me. He had been drinking and said, “I hate this happened and I hope someday I can say that I’ll be glad that your happy. But I can’t.” And I realize I really am no better. I don’t wish him happiness either. I don’t wish him misery. I just wish he did not have what I have wanted my entire life.
I wish it were me sharing my life with someone, looking towards a new future and eager to start the next part of the story. I have to stop thinking it shouldn’t be him. I have to start thinking instead, it should be me too. Maybe someday it will be.
Just don’t expect me to send a wedding gift.
Monika M. Basile
April 30, 2011
Let Me Grow Old
I don’t want to be young again. I don’t mourn my youth. I have earned my years and I don’t have the least desire to relive them.
What I want is to be old. I want to live to be really, really old. I want to live to be well over a hundred. And I want to make each of those years as I have made each of these; worth it. Memorable. Different.
So many people fear aging. They fear lines in their faces and the changes that come to their bodies. Sure I wish I looked the same somewhat as when I was eighteen, but if it means that I have to trade the woman I am now simply to look again like the girl I was—I choose not to. I choose to be just who I am—imperfections and all.
Companies spend millions of dollars trying to sell us the thought if we only looked younger, thinner, had more hair on our heads and the libido of a stallion that we would all be happy, happy, happy. So many of us actually believe that and buy into the hype. We try to recapture what we think we may have lost in purchasing beauty products and status symbols and in reliving “the best years of our lives.”
Were they really the best? I mean the days before marriage and children, before responsibilities and obligations, those long ago times before we actually knew what the world was truly about? Was it better before we knew what love really was? Was it better before we realized dreams can be dashed as well as come true? Was it better in those days when life seemed so long and unending? Some things were—but not all of it, not even most of it.
I don’t feel the best years of my life have been lived yet. I have learned so much through all this living I have been doing and I intend to learn a whole lot more. I am hoping to live long enough still to experience every wonder and extreme, every heartache and mundane moment that life can and will offer.
When we are young we think we have forever. We fail to stop right in the midst of a moment and take a picture of it in our minds. We forget to cherish the small miracles and the large ones. We rush through in our haste to get to the next part.
But now, now as we have grown older and a bit wiser (just a bit mind you) we slow the pace and relish the moments. We take notice of what is going on around us. We realize how precious it all is. How special each moment is—even the boring ones. At least we do so if we learned anything at all in our living.
It comes with age to learn how much a heart can grow and expand. It comes with age to experience grief one tragedy at time. It comes with age to know forgiving someone is easier to live with than holding onto the hurt. It comes with age—the realization that life is too short to not appreciate it with every fiber of our being. It comes with age to know we are not indestructible and our lives, and those we love, can be over at any second. It comes with age to know that there is only now.
I don’t need to go back in time to re-do it. I’m still doing it. I’m still out here dreaming the same dreams. I’m still hoping the same hopes. I’m still looking ahead and waiting in eager anticipation to see what life has in store for me. It might be quite terrifying what life will bring but then again it might not.
It all changes in a moment. I only know that now. Good or bad, it changes in a moment. I didn’t know it when I was young. I didn’t realize that out of every tragedy, roses still shoot up through the cracks and take my breath away in surprise.
Monika M. Basile
What I want is to be old. I want to live to be really, really old. I want to live to be well over a hundred. And I want to make each of those years as I have made each of these; worth it. Memorable. Different.
So many people fear aging. They fear lines in their faces and the changes that come to their bodies. Sure I wish I looked the same somewhat as when I was eighteen, but if it means that I have to trade the woman I am now simply to look again like the girl I was—I choose not to. I choose to be just who I am—imperfections and all.
Companies spend millions of dollars trying to sell us the thought if we only looked younger, thinner, had more hair on our heads and the libido of a stallion that we would all be happy, happy, happy. So many of us actually believe that and buy into the hype. We try to recapture what we think we may have lost in purchasing beauty products and status symbols and in reliving “the best years of our lives.”
Were they really the best? I mean the days before marriage and children, before responsibilities and obligations, those long ago times before we actually knew what the world was truly about? Was it better before we knew what love really was? Was it better before we realized dreams can be dashed as well as come true? Was it better in those days when life seemed so long and unending? Some things were—but not all of it, not even most of it.
I don’t feel the best years of my life have been lived yet. I have learned so much through all this living I have been doing and I intend to learn a whole lot more. I am hoping to live long enough still to experience every wonder and extreme, every heartache and mundane moment that life can and will offer.
When we are young we think we have forever. We fail to stop right in the midst of a moment and take a picture of it in our minds. We forget to cherish the small miracles and the large ones. We rush through in our haste to get to the next part.
But now, now as we have grown older and a bit wiser (just a bit mind you) we slow the pace and relish the moments. We take notice of what is going on around us. We realize how precious it all is. How special each moment is—even the boring ones. At least we do so if we learned anything at all in our living.
It comes with age to learn how much a heart can grow and expand. It comes with age to experience grief one tragedy at time. It comes with age to know forgiving someone is easier to live with than holding onto the hurt. It comes with age—the realization that life is too short to not appreciate it with every fiber of our being. It comes with age to know we are not indestructible and our lives, and those we love, can be over at any second. It comes with age to know that there is only now.
I don’t need to go back in time to re-do it. I’m still doing it. I’m still out here dreaming the same dreams. I’m still hoping the same hopes. I’m still looking ahead and waiting in eager anticipation to see what life has in store for me. It might be quite terrifying what life will bring but then again it might not.
It all changes in a moment. I only know that now. Good or bad, it changes in a moment. I didn’t know it when I was young. I didn’t realize that out of every tragedy, roses still shoot up through the cracks and take my breath away in surprise.
Monika M. Basile
April 16, 2011
The Truth Shall Not Be Told
The truth shall not set you free—at least not the brutal truth.
Who came up with the idea that we should all be “brutally honest”? I don’t want to be. I don’t like it and I choose to not tell every thought in my head just for the sake of “keeping it real”. What does it help anyone and who does it hurt when we decide to spew our version of the truth to someone who may not really want to know it?
What if we really did tell everyone the absolute truth?
Instead of saying to someone whom is in the midst of a crisis, “It’ll be okay...” What if we said instead, “You know what? You might as well just go jump off that bridge right now because your life sucks and I doubt you’ll get out of this one at all.”
Instead of saying, “That color looks nice on you…” We could always include, “That color looks nice on you but otherwise you are a disgusting pig and it’s no wonder you’re alone.”
How about saying, “You are the stupidest human I have ever heard speak.” Instead of, “You have the right to your own opinion.”
We could be so honest too and say, “I don’t love you. No one loves you. No one could possibly ever love you.” Instead of just saying, “I’m sorry; I don’t want to see you anymore.”
Where does that get us? There is no place for brutality in seeking, obtaining or sharing the truth. We do not have to destroy anyone to “keep it real”. There are times we are better off being guilty of saying nothing.
We also do not need to disclose every minute detail of our own lives that are not necessary to disclose.
If we were honest, we would tell our boss, “Hey, sorry I’m late. I had to go to the bathroom and it took longer than I anticipated.” I think the boss would rather hear, “I got caught by a train…”
How about a direct answer for the teacher, “The reason I didn’t do my homework is because I think you are a neo-nazi just trying to break all of us kids down into one of your little regime. Your assignments teach nothing and I have no respect for you as a teacher let alone a human.” Instead of, “I forgot my book at school.”
When asked by our spouse, “What’s wrong?” we could say, “Honey? I think you have gotten quite gross after all these years. You make me want to scream most days and I hate that we ever thought we could share our life together. I think I made a huge mistake and I wish you would fall off the face of the earth rather than touch me tonight.” Rather than simply saying, “I’m really tired, I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
The truth, brutal or otherwise is fleeting and changes from moment to moment. And this truth we need to keep real all the time—it is only our own perception of what we think the truth of the matter is. Just because we call it our truth does not mean we are right.
Keep your brutal honesty to yourself if you are going to cause pain or humiliation. I don’t need anyone to point out the obvious of what most of us already know.
Lie to me instead so I can get on with my day.
Who came up with the idea that we should all be “brutally honest”? I don’t want to be. I don’t like it and I choose to not tell every thought in my head just for the sake of “keeping it real”. What does it help anyone and who does it hurt when we decide to spew our version of the truth to someone who may not really want to know it?
What if we really did tell everyone the absolute truth?
Instead of saying to someone whom is in the midst of a crisis, “It’ll be okay...” What if we said instead, “You know what? You might as well just go jump off that bridge right now because your life sucks and I doubt you’ll get out of this one at all.”
Instead of saying, “That color looks nice on you…” We could always include, “That color looks nice on you but otherwise you are a disgusting pig and it’s no wonder you’re alone.”
How about saying, “You are the stupidest human I have ever heard speak.” Instead of, “You have the right to your own opinion.”
We could be so honest too and say, “I don’t love you. No one loves you. No one could possibly ever love you.” Instead of just saying, “I’m sorry; I don’t want to see you anymore.”
Where does that get us? There is no place for brutality in seeking, obtaining or sharing the truth. We do not have to destroy anyone to “keep it real”. There are times we are better off being guilty of saying nothing.
We also do not need to disclose every minute detail of our own lives that are not necessary to disclose.
If we were honest, we would tell our boss, “Hey, sorry I’m late. I had to go to the bathroom and it took longer than I anticipated.” I think the boss would rather hear, “I got caught by a train…”
How about a direct answer for the teacher, “The reason I didn’t do my homework is because I think you are a neo-nazi just trying to break all of us kids down into one of your little regime. Your assignments teach nothing and I have no respect for you as a teacher let alone a human.” Instead of, “I forgot my book at school.”
When asked by our spouse, “What’s wrong?” we could say, “Honey? I think you have gotten quite gross after all these years. You make me want to scream most days and I hate that we ever thought we could share our life together. I think I made a huge mistake and I wish you would fall off the face of the earth rather than touch me tonight.” Rather than simply saying, “I’m really tired, I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
The truth, brutal or otherwise is fleeting and changes from moment to moment. And this truth we need to keep real all the time—it is only our own perception of what we think the truth of the matter is. Just because we call it our truth does not mean we are right.
Keep your brutal honesty to yourself if you are going to cause pain or humiliation. I don’t need anyone to point out the obvious of what most of us already know.
Lie to me instead so I can get on with my day.
April 5, 2011
It Matters
I can control no one. I can only control me and sometimes I am even incapable of that as we all can be.
I tend to live my life asking a very important question—well, important to me. I am not sure if it is important to anyone but me as I cannot control if it is or not. It only has to do with me so it doesn’t matter anyway. The question?
Can I live with this?
It is an all encompassing question and it refers to my reaction or lack of action in everything I do. Can I live with it—my choice? What I put out there in the world, what I say to someone, how I respond to every good thing and bad thing that I encounter. Can I live with it?
See, I have the perfect question—I just don’t have the perfect answer. I am not always ultimately sure what I can or can’t live with. If every decision I had to make was only based on how I felt, what I wanted, what I needed and where I wanted to go, it would be easy. But most of us do not live a singular existence. We are connected. Every single thing we do or say affects someone else. Can I live with it?
I think I worry about this question a lot. Can I live with choosing for me when it affects every person I come in contact with? Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can. And sometimes I just hold my breath hoping the decisions I make do not destroy anyone or anything else in the process.
I think we spend too much time thinking we do not count or what we do, or say, think or feel—doesn’t matter in the world. It does. We are constantly interconnected even when we think we are alone in the world. We are never truly alone…ever. We matter. All of us matter.
It is the ripple effect of throwing stones into the water. Our lives, our reactions, our actions, our words and deeds are our “stones” thrown out into the universe. We may never see the actual splash they make. We may never see every ripple that springs up into the world, but they are there. And it keeps moving and expanding and growing in one way or another.
It’s a frightening thought when I examine it too closely. Yet, it is also what keeps me honest when I don’t want to be. It is the reason I have learned the fine art of biting my tongue when so many times I would much rather spew out atrocities. Before I utter something mean and hateful, I ask myself, “Can I live with this?” knowing whatever I say may set off a horrendous chain reaction. It has taught me to temper vile words. It has also caused me to be able to speak out when I feel there is no choice. I ask myself the same question when I consider doing nothing, “Can I live with this?” and I attempt to see how my lack of words may affect what happens next.
I may not always make the best decisions. None of us are perfect. We can only do what we can live with.
Monika M. Basile
I tend to live my life asking a very important question—well, important to me. I am not sure if it is important to anyone but me as I cannot control if it is or not. It only has to do with me so it doesn’t matter anyway. The question?
Can I live with this?
It is an all encompassing question and it refers to my reaction or lack of action in everything I do. Can I live with it—my choice? What I put out there in the world, what I say to someone, how I respond to every good thing and bad thing that I encounter. Can I live with it?
See, I have the perfect question—I just don’t have the perfect answer. I am not always ultimately sure what I can or can’t live with. If every decision I had to make was only based on how I felt, what I wanted, what I needed and where I wanted to go, it would be easy. But most of us do not live a singular existence. We are connected. Every single thing we do or say affects someone else. Can I live with it?
I think I worry about this question a lot. Can I live with choosing for me when it affects every person I come in contact with? Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I can. And sometimes I just hold my breath hoping the decisions I make do not destroy anyone or anything else in the process.
I think we spend too much time thinking we do not count or what we do, or say, think or feel—doesn’t matter in the world. It does. We are constantly interconnected even when we think we are alone in the world. We are never truly alone…ever. We matter. All of us matter.
It is the ripple effect of throwing stones into the water. Our lives, our reactions, our actions, our words and deeds are our “stones” thrown out into the universe. We may never see the actual splash they make. We may never see every ripple that springs up into the world, but they are there. And it keeps moving and expanding and growing in one way or another.
It’s a frightening thought when I examine it too closely. Yet, it is also what keeps me honest when I don’t want to be. It is the reason I have learned the fine art of biting my tongue when so many times I would much rather spew out atrocities. Before I utter something mean and hateful, I ask myself, “Can I live with this?” knowing whatever I say may set off a horrendous chain reaction. It has taught me to temper vile words. It has also caused me to be able to speak out when I feel there is no choice. I ask myself the same question when I consider doing nothing, “Can I live with this?” and I attempt to see how my lack of words may affect what happens next.
I may not always make the best decisions. None of us are perfect. We can only do what we can live with.
Monika M. Basile
March 18, 2011
Somebody...
There are times we tend to look at people—people who have lost themselves along the way, as those kinds of people. We are all those kinds of people.
We forget that they are somebody’s. They, at one time or still, do belong to someone out there. And they still belong to themselves even if they can’t remember who they are.
The drug addict on the street corner? He is somebody’s son, or brother, or sister, or mother, or father etc. He is not only a drug addict. She is someone who used to have dreams of her own and someone in the world used to dream for her. He used to be a child who rode a bike and swam in the lake and got an award or two in school. She did not intend to become who she did. They are remembered by somebody who loved them. There are people who are praying and hoping upon hope that their loved one comes back to themselves.
That woman sitting at the bar? The drunk one, sliding off the stool and flirting with a man she will hope to take home? She used to be somebody’s child. Maybe life wasn’t easy and maybe life was too easy—does it really matter? Somebody somewhere is begging God to get her home safely tonight. And she might be begging God to just end it all. And the man—maybe he’s lonely and maybe he is just someone who doesn’t know how to love anyone. But I am thinking somewhere, somebody must be wondering about him too.
The old man sitting on the front porch? You know him, the one who spends all summer guarding his grass—making sure not one stranger steps on one single blade. He once was somebody’s brother who played baseball in the old field behind the barn. He once had a sweetheart who loved him dearly. He might have lost her to another man. He may have lost himself fighting for his country in some far off land. Maybe his mother died long ago and at night—on star filled nights, maybe he misses her kiss on his brow goodnight.
The homeless on the streets? The ones who ask you for spare change? The ones that people step over to get on with their busy lives? “I won’t give them money. They’ll just buy drugs or booze.” Or not. Somebody once held each in their arms when they were born and looked upon them with wonder and amazement. Maybe they even had bigger dreams than I have ever dreamed. Maybe they wish they were anywhere but here—in this moment—asking for my mercy in the form of a dollar.
We cannot protect each other from some of the most awful things in life. So much of what happens—drug abuse, battery, loneliness, sorrow, violence, divorce, death, bitterness— knows no differences of who the person is they happen to. It doesn’t matter if we are rich or poor, educated or uneducated, loved our whole lives or not loved at all. Our race, our sex, our religion cannot shelter us from the world. And somebody in this world is affected by each somebody out there who is struggling and even by those who have already given up.
There may not be much any of us can do to change another’s situation. But we can acknowledge each other as human and we can at least offer the simple kindness of not judging. We can also remember that somebody is out there hoping and praying and dreaming for this person.
I say a prayer for each person in my life who is somewhere or in some way lost. Just as I hope there is somebody to say the same prayer for me.
Monika M. Basile
We forget that they are somebody’s. They, at one time or still, do belong to someone out there. And they still belong to themselves even if they can’t remember who they are.
The drug addict on the street corner? He is somebody’s son, or brother, or sister, or mother, or father etc. He is not only a drug addict. She is someone who used to have dreams of her own and someone in the world used to dream for her. He used to be a child who rode a bike and swam in the lake and got an award or two in school. She did not intend to become who she did. They are remembered by somebody who loved them. There are people who are praying and hoping upon hope that their loved one comes back to themselves.
That woman sitting at the bar? The drunk one, sliding off the stool and flirting with a man she will hope to take home? She used to be somebody’s child. Maybe life wasn’t easy and maybe life was too easy—does it really matter? Somebody somewhere is begging God to get her home safely tonight. And she might be begging God to just end it all. And the man—maybe he’s lonely and maybe he is just someone who doesn’t know how to love anyone. But I am thinking somewhere, somebody must be wondering about him too.
The old man sitting on the front porch? You know him, the one who spends all summer guarding his grass—making sure not one stranger steps on one single blade. He once was somebody’s brother who played baseball in the old field behind the barn. He once had a sweetheart who loved him dearly. He might have lost her to another man. He may have lost himself fighting for his country in some far off land. Maybe his mother died long ago and at night—on star filled nights, maybe he misses her kiss on his brow goodnight.
The homeless on the streets? The ones who ask you for spare change? The ones that people step over to get on with their busy lives? “I won’t give them money. They’ll just buy drugs or booze.” Or not. Somebody once held each in their arms when they were born and looked upon them with wonder and amazement. Maybe they even had bigger dreams than I have ever dreamed. Maybe they wish they were anywhere but here—in this moment—asking for my mercy in the form of a dollar.
We cannot protect each other from some of the most awful things in life. So much of what happens—drug abuse, battery, loneliness, sorrow, violence, divorce, death, bitterness— knows no differences of who the person is they happen to. It doesn’t matter if we are rich or poor, educated or uneducated, loved our whole lives or not loved at all. Our race, our sex, our religion cannot shelter us from the world. And somebody in this world is affected by each somebody out there who is struggling and even by those who have already given up.
There may not be much any of us can do to change another’s situation. But we can acknowledge each other as human and we can at least offer the simple kindness of not judging. We can also remember that somebody is out there hoping and praying and dreaming for this person.
I say a prayer for each person in my life who is somewhere or in some way lost. Just as I hope there is somebody to say the same prayer for me.
Monika M. Basile
March 11, 2011
The Blame Game
“It’s not you, it’s me...” you’re right—it is you. Sometimes these are the truest words though most people who say them don’t even mean it.
We spend too much time blaming ourselves instead of taking that statement at face value. We know those who say it are really saying, “You’re not what I want. I don’t like you, you did this or that and that really bothered me, etc.” And we forget, that in reality, they do not want or desire or love or need the person we are. It doesn’t have to be because something is inherently wrong with us. It truly means we are not what that person had in mind. It is them and their perception of us.
Most people believe it takes two to make or break a relationship. That isn’t true either—not if we go into a relationship with the intelligent thought of no one—neither you nor me, is perfect. It takes two to build up a life together, but it really only takes one to knock it right down. It takes you or it takes me and sometimes it takes both of us. But it takes at least one to give up, stop trying and not caring.
We all have our little idiosyncrasies or bad habits and odd ways about us. We all have our neurosis, our shortcomings and our insecurities. The people who we choose to share our lives with either accept them or over look them just as we do to theirs. Most people, though they would like to, know they can never change anyone. Yet, many like to hold those things they once over looked before, those things that they once found to be a charming little quirk—as to be the reason to walk away.
I say its bullshit. It isn’t me—it’s YOU!
So many of us out here in this world like to internalize the blame or the exact opposite—wear it like a badge of honor to say, “I must be this awful person. If only I had done this. If only I had said that. If only I had worn the right clothing, had the right job, got a smarter haircut, gone to college, had less drama, been promoted, cooked better, cleaned better, been fatter or thinner or prettier or taller…” and the list can go on and on and on. It becomes quite scary to whittle ourselves away into an absolute shadow of who we really are.
Why can’t we just be our true self—without hiding or pretense and without prayers to the almighty that people do not see who we really are? Someone tell me what is wrong with that picture because it seems very clear and focused to me.
If I stand before you naked with my soul pinned to my shoulder, showing you who I really am and You do not like me—it’s You! All we can really be when it all comes down to it is who we are. If someone doesn’t want what we are, like who we are, need who we are, love who we are or even decides to change their mind—we are still okay.
We still are who we are.
Monika M. Basile
We spend too much time blaming ourselves instead of taking that statement at face value. We know those who say it are really saying, “You’re not what I want. I don’t like you, you did this or that and that really bothered me, etc.” And we forget, that in reality, they do not want or desire or love or need the person we are. It doesn’t have to be because something is inherently wrong with us. It truly means we are not what that person had in mind. It is them and their perception of us.
Most people believe it takes two to make or break a relationship. That isn’t true either—not if we go into a relationship with the intelligent thought of no one—neither you nor me, is perfect. It takes two to build up a life together, but it really only takes one to knock it right down. It takes you or it takes me and sometimes it takes both of us. But it takes at least one to give up, stop trying and not caring.
We all have our little idiosyncrasies or bad habits and odd ways about us. We all have our neurosis, our shortcomings and our insecurities. The people who we choose to share our lives with either accept them or over look them just as we do to theirs. Most people, though they would like to, know they can never change anyone. Yet, many like to hold those things they once over looked before, those things that they once found to be a charming little quirk—as to be the reason to walk away.
I say its bullshit. It isn’t me—it’s YOU!
So many of us out here in this world like to internalize the blame or the exact opposite—wear it like a badge of honor to say, “I must be this awful person. If only I had done this. If only I had said that. If only I had worn the right clothing, had the right job, got a smarter haircut, gone to college, had less drama, been promoted, cooked better, cleaned better, been fatter or thinner or prettier or taller…” and the list can go on and on and on. It becomes quite scary to whittle ourselves away into an absolute shadow of who we really are.
Why can’t we just be our true self—without hiding or pretense and without prayers to the almighty that people do not see who we really are? Someone tell me what is wrong with that picture because it seems very clear and focused to me.
If I stand before you naked with my soul pinned to my shoulder, showing you who I really am and You do not like me—it’s You! All we can really be when it all comes down to it is who we are. If someone doesn’t want what we are, like who we are, need who we are, love who we are or even decides to change their mind—we are still okay.
We still are who we are.
Monika M. Basile
