I'm not sure exactly what I am going to write, but I need to write.
The past few days have been beautiful outside, calling to me. I've been dealing with a broken washing machine, running up to my parents to do laundry, trying to get some work done, cleaning, running errands and paying my bills.
Today I'm dealing with an intense searching for reconciliation between my perceptions of what I should look like, the cultural stereo types that are in play, and what I really want to understand and think when I look in the mirror.
My face is a reflection of experience. My body the product of as much healthy food that I could buy, and the accumulation of hours sitting at the behest of a job.
At what point in life do we simply look into the mirror and realize the beauty we have gathered from living, rather than hate the signs of our experience?
When I was younger I used to love my Daddies laugh lines, I would play with them those beautiful wrinkles around his eyes, straightening them out and always feeling happy to see them. It's not so easy to see them on myself.
Today
My little kids are sleepy, daylight savings time is taking its toll on all of us.
I'm asking myself what love means.
Love, when I was married it meant sadness, it meant giving up myself to someone, giving kindness for affection. It meant forgiving and forgetting again and again.
I LEARNED a lot, I learned that little things didn't matter, socks on the floor or forgetting some small task.
I'm watching "Beyond Survival with Les Stroud." He travels to different parts of the world to understand and document indigenous cultures and their survival techniques.
The Zulu in Africa have some traditions that remind me of Tongan traditions, including giving blankets at weddings.
When I was married to Sam I felt that I was in the midst of a traditional people with many superstitions and traditions that have survived for many generations. I was fascinated by them, I wished to understand. I studied the language, I studied their written text and asked many questions. Somehow though I was just NOT a part of it all. An outsider looking in.
There were cultural influences that effected my relationship. His methods of raising children, through dominance, was frustrating to me. At times I felt so alone, especially at cultural celebrations. Men don't sit with their wives, they hang out together, cook and stay out of the way... unless they are older and of a certain status.
Each day I searched for a way to make life for my family better.
Loving has also meant sharing confidences, laughing at stupid jokes, talking for hours about nothing in particular and longing to be together.
Love has meant holding hands, cooking together, and knowing that your silence is understood and understanding someones silences.
Love was holding on despite impossibilities. Love was hopeful... and my heart was broken when I let go because it was hurting too much to hold on when hope was no longer enough.
SG
The past few days have been beautiful outside, calling to me. I've been dealing with a broken washing machine, running up to my parents to do laundry, trying to get some work done, cleaning, running errands and paying my bills.
Today I'm dealing with an intense searching for reconciliation between my perceptions of what I should look like, the cultural stereo types that are in play, and what I really want to understand and think when I look in the mirror.
My face is a reflection of experience. My body the product of as much healthy food that I could buy, and the accumulation of hours sitting at the behest of a job.
At what point in life do we simply look into the mirror and realize the beauty we have gathered from living, rather than hate the signs of our experience?
When I was younger I used to love my Daddies laugh lines, I would play with them those beautiful wrinkles around his eyes, straightening them out and always feeling happy to see them. It's not so easy to see them on myself.
Today
My little kids are sleepy, daylight savings time is taking its toll on all of us.
I'm asking myself what love means.
Love, when I was married it meant sadness, it meant giving up myself to someone, giving kindness for affection. It meant forgiving and forgetting again and again.
I LEARNED a lot, I learned that little things didn't matter, socks on the floor or forgetting some small task.
I'm watching "Beyond Survival with Les Stroud." He travels to different parts of the world to understand and document indigenous cultures and their survival techniques.
The Zulu in Africa have some traditions that remind me of Tongan traditions, including giving blankets at weddings.
When I was married to Sam I felt that I was in the midst of a traditional people with many superstitions and traditions that have survived for many generations. I was fascinated by them, I wished to understand. I studied the language, I studied their written text and asked many questions. Somehow though I was just NOT a part of it all. An outsider looking in.
There were cultural influences that effected my relationship. His methods of raising children, through dominance, was frustrating to me. At times I felt so alone, especially at cultural celebrations. Men don't sit with their wives, they hang out together, cook and stay out of the way... unless they are older and of a certain status.
Each day I searched for a way to make life for my family better.
Loving has also meant sharing confidences, laughing at stupid jokes, talking for hours about nothing in particular and longing to be together.
Love has meant holding hands, cooking together, and knowing that your silence is understood and understanding someones silences.
Love was holding on despite impossibilities. Love was hopeful... and my heart was broken when I let go because it was hurting too much to hold on when hope was no longer enough.
SG
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