Oh how I wish for numbness again...

A hard restart is required when my cell phone is not responding. The screen goes black for 3 seconds and then resumes service. The required three seconds are hard to endure. My hope it restarts, and no data is lost, and the phone not broken consumes me. My mind goes to the worst-case scenario because I have no control. Such is life these days. We are in a dark time. It feels like a never-ending 3 second loop.

The fear of the damn virus is consuming us. People I once thought as fearless are not. People I once thought as smart have lost common sense. Robert Fulghum left out some lessons in his “All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” book.  A reprint is needed to add, 1. Wash your hands with soap 2. Give personal space 3. Keep your hands out of your mouth 4. Respect your classmates 5. Think before you speak

Thank you, Mrs. Miller for teaching me well.

History was not my favorite school subject. My father questioned my knowledge song lyrics and my inability/unwillingness to retain the dates/events that formed our world and nation.  What was not important to me then is paramount now.  History is our truth; we must embrace it and accept the past even if we dislike pieces of it. We do it with family- we all have those relatives-and ourselves- remember high school fashion/hairstyles - every day we accept the poor choices of our past and the faults of those we love and admire. Our personal history makes us who we are; we cannot erase it only learn from it. Do better. Be better. Each of us can and is able.

The same is for our nation. Great leaders have always made questionable choices, they were/are human. The world’s norms and levels of tolerance are ever changing. We cannot judge past events by today’s standards that did not exist then; it is confusing that we selectively do so. My high school years included two a day practices running suicides and bleachers in a gym on South Texas summer days with no air conditioning or real ventilation. A coach scheduling that today would be fired. More recently, the world embraced the Broadway play Hamilton. A performed history with a nearly all black cast, of an American icon who may not have owned slaves but participated in the slave business and accepted the practice but there was no outrage.

Bottom line, the Constitution that defines our rights as citizens was signed by mere men who collectively were flawed but did great things. Their actions allow for our freedom of speech so many are exercising through protests. Decency could not then and cannot now be legislated; that is something too many fail to understand. 

Hate is the opposite of love. Just as Heaven is the opposite of Hell you cannot have one without the other. A thin line separates the two emotions; both are powerful and scary to feel and to see. Social media fuels the fire of “us against them”, the tinder box of the America I once knew is going up in flames. The promise of the America I love is alive and well in my heart.

This week I wished for numbness again. My non feeling, just keep smiling, make it through the day, old self. She was easy for others to accept and love. She insulated herself from feeling any pain or sadness. She busied herself without pause so there was no time to think, mourn, grieve or truly smile. This week I missed that person. This feeling business is hard. Human-ing in today’s world is hard. Loving in today’s world is heart-breaking.

My faith is clear I am not to fear things of this world, but things of this world can break my heart. I am learning to respond rather than react to help manage emotions because today I choose to feel. The current vibe of life is uncomfortable and feeling uncomfortable enacts change. Change is good. My last two years have been nothing but change and not always fun but I also felt the ache of a genuine smile that was too big and lasted too long. I rediscovered an appreciation of acts of simple kindness and allowed myself to be awed by life again. This morning I woke up receiving the promise of another day to live, to grow, to love and to learn. Join me.  

So this happened...

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Out of the shower, there’s a towel wrapped around a wet body I recognize as mine own. The brush slides through hair, no tangles, easy. I oiled, toned and prepared my face. My hair was dried then flattened. I choose my outfit for comfort. Ironically skinny jeans wrapping my legs, my untoned thighs, keep me contained and make me feel secure. I add a velvet accented top that exposes my shoulders and show a little skin; I am going on a date. A date that will literally change everything. No pressure.

I feel classy; wearing my black pearl necklace I give myself a smirk. Classy is a way to walk through life, not a way to change it. Change takes courage, risk and tonight, Vince Camuto 4 inch lace up heels. I cannot think of a better way to shatter an old life than with a stiletto heel.

Uber delivers me to the party. My date is meeting me there; so is my ex-husband.

The atmosphere outside of the party is electric. Bars line the street, people everywhere some looking to numb pain, cure loneliness, others in search of a drink and maybe a phone number. Eager to not be there I leave the street. My place is not with them. My people are inside.  

The room is loud, and a nervous feeling comes over me; “perhaps this is not a good idea” my inner child says. She is the one who avoids conflict, hides during confrontation and silently deals with the aftermath on her own unhealthy terms.  She is the one who never asks for what she wants and accepts only what is given regardless of if it’s enough. I cave and send a text to my date, “I am giving you an out”. His response, “already on my way”.  

My date is my boyfriend although I hate that word. Boyfriend conjures up thoughts of a 20- somethings dating, blindly losing themselves in someone equally as lost. I did that. He is not that; he is my person. He may not be a forever person or maybe he will; time will tell. We juggle mortgages, kids, ex-spouses, work and choose to spend our stolen or free moments together. Tonight, he is meeting my ex-husband and he is showing up anyway. My nerves are silenced by his strength and my heart is growing a little more. I tapped my stiletto on the floor, the glass is beginning to crack.

Boyfriend walks in and I fill a cup for him. We try scream talking over the noisy crowd about our busy days and I intro him to friends from afar. It is one sided, most do not actually meet him but there is no hurry. Half of the room is filled with “friends” that I shared my life with for the last 10 years. The parents of my kids’ friends, my former neighbors, my book-club people, they are the people that made up the life of Wendy and Hunt.

In mid-sentence I look away from boyfriend and see Hunt standing next to me. “Oh hi. Hunt this is boyfriend. Boyfriend, this is Hunt.” Both knew they would meet the other before they got here but nothing feels more surreal for me as when they shake hands. They continue to talk, and I look around to see a few friends watching. Not many, it was not a scene but enough to notice. The glass has shattered. I am standing in the shards of what is left of my former life, looking at my present life and find I am still on solid ground. I am not lost; I am not drowning.

We can do hard things. Life requires we do hard things. That introduction is not the hardest thing I have done but it was not comfortable. Boyfriend and I have over 6 months together. We have not introduced our kids; we did not do holidays together because we both agree it’s not time for that. It was time for an introduction; I needed the introduction to happen. Boyfriend is kind and strong enough to give me that gift. Hunt is strong enough and loves me enough to do the same. I am blessed and in awe of it all.

Tomorrow I will wake up in shock of what I did and what the two men in my life did for me. We are not promised another day in this world. Tonight I declared my intention to live life intentionally, in the light, away from shadows and always in heels.

My Brackettville is showing...

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I woke up Saturday melancholy. My body heavy, my limbs dead weight, my mind in a grey place I prefer to be a stranger in when visiting. I was homesick. It wasn’t my childhood home I missed but a small sense of self that had escaped me. My morning routine carried out without pause yet my mind called for action.

I found myself driving to what Austinites affectionally call the “East side” of town. Directly across the giant disconnector we know as I-35. It used to be another world. Gentrification has set in the area. Condo developments scraping the sky sit on busy corners and popular eateries have displaced their predecessors, also popular but less “cool” shops and restaurants, that once thrived in their walls. Among the developing and mismatched scene is a restaurant that reminds me of my childhood home, and I found myself headed in that direction.

The heavy wooden doors carved by a Mexican craftsman opened to a world I once knew. The TV was on and showed hype for the day’s upcoming football game although no one watched the screen. Vintage Garth Brooks was streaming followed by a cumbia and I smiled. I remembered her, my tall, white girl frame shuffling my feet, following a train of people making a circle around our small town civic center. My elbows bent and arms alternating up and down while a twisting my waist with each move. White girls can dance but maybe not to cumbias without practice or my friend Mary Falcon to emulate when dancing.

I ordered migas, a change from my usual carne guisada. I thought of Mrs. Samaniego. Nice woman, good mother and, for a time, our high school janitor. She placed warm foil wrapped tortillas in my locker once a week my senior year and once brought me a carne guisada plate to a basketball tournament. She said I needed to eat and felt sorry for me that I did not get homemade tortillas at home. Sweet memory.

My foot tapped the Saltillo tile floor to the beat of Wild Horses; I looked up and smiled at the shiny, metallic stars hanging next to the humming Bud Light sign just above my table. The owner delivered my drink and generally asked if I was ok. He is a large, dark skinned Hispanic man with a straw cowboy hat and a shiny silver chain and cross around his neck. I lied, said yes, then I thanked him for the inquiry. It is nice to be asked, “are you ok?” especially when we are not. Sometimes knowing we are not alone is all we need.  I saw his wife for whom the restaurant is named seated several tables in front of me. She and her daughter were rolling silverware in paper napkins. They were talking in Spanish and laughing. At times their voices overpowered the music keeping us solo diners company. It was its own kind of music and I thought how nice it was to be part of their world.

My food came, “careful, it’s a hot plate,” the waitress said as she sat it down in front of me. I ate each carb filled bite without thought. I smothered the slightly burnt tortilla with refried beans, added the migas and potatoes and devoured it after adding their homemade hot sauce that made me cry a different kind of tear. This south Texas girl was happy again.

Mister Rogers used to ask his viewers to take one minute and think of everyone who loved you into being. It is an important practice to incorporate in our lives. The life I have made for myself in Austin is a good one. I am blessed with family, friends, my health and opportunity. So many are surprised to hear where I am from originally. One friend called me “cosmopolitan Kinney County” that made me smile and hurt my heart. He meant it as a compliment; but it did not feel like one.

I felt like an imposter who shininess was brighter than her grit. And maybe that is ok, but only when I feel like it is and on that day I did not know. Years ago, someone disagreed with me and said, “Your Brackettville is showing.” I responded along the lines of “Good. You can learn from it.” But lately who I was, who I am and who I want to be are wrestling amongst themselves in my mind. I believe identity not unlike friendships are not based on a zip code but rather in people.  Some days, like Saturday, I realign myself, remember myself and find my center. Faith keeps me grounded but at times my sense of self needs some added support. 

I am thankful for this time of transition and will continue to embrace it and all its quirks. My Miss Kinney County days are well behind me; I am not a child anymore. So, I accept that I am now a city girl that craves starry nights and pick up tailgates; a cold beer instead of a strong Cabernet every now and then. I will wear my designer boots and my red lipstick with full knowledge that I can pull it off just as sure as I can drive a stick. Mary Falcon is a phone call away and Mrs. Samaniego would make me tortillas if I asked nicely. I haven’t seen either of them in years but that’s the thing about home: it never leaves us if we don’t want to be lost. It is a beautiful thing that no matter where you are from in the world the experiences, the people and the love you carry for home will not leave you. For better or worse, I hope my Brackettville is always on show for the world to see.