January 28, 2012

I've realized that my blog has contained frustration, emotional distress, anger, resentment but nothing along the lines of building and maintaining a relationship with another. 

Relationship defined ...an emotional or other connection between people, a romantic or sexual involvement.  An intimate relationship is a particularly close interpersonal relationship that involves physical or emotional intimacy. Physical intimacy is characterized by romantic or passionate love and attachment, or sexual activity. The term is also sometimes used euphemistically for a sexual relationship.



Intimate relationships play a central role in the overall human experience. Humans have a universal want to belong and to love which is satisfied within an intimate relationship. Intimate relationships consist of the people that we are attracted to, whom we like and love, romantic and sexual relationships, and those whom we marry and provide and receive emotional and personal support from. Intimate relationships provide people with a social network of people that provide strong emotional attachments and fulfill our universal need of belonging and the need to be cared for.

Does this qualify one to be co-dependant upon another and/or others for that matter.  I am compelled to believe that it is I whom is indeed the inadequent one in the relationship.  Concvincing myself that I am, and am not able to meet
the needs of MY significant other.  Is it perhaps that I obssess over the fact that my inadequecies are more than what they seem, and in doing so causing a recoil within my own psyche?  I do feel that I belong, but (and there it is...the BUT) I often wonder if there should be something more, something that I am unaware of that needs to be provided. 

I have spent so many days and nights in my own mind, arguing back and forth with myself, in hopes that I might find the answer.  The reason another would back away.  The emotional intimacy is there, and the support and understanding, but there is more...something is amiss and I can't help but believe it all lies on my shoulders.  The same shoulders that could once endure pain and rejection, emotional and physical abuse and yet today I feel as though I haven't a fight left in me, no strength to move forward, and I am most certainly afraid of this feeling.  Is it a conceivable thought that perhaps I am truly wrong in blaming myself and have yet to see past my own nose in spite of myself?  Why would I and why do I for that matter continuously believe that it is in fact all my own doing?

I still feel like a prisoner in my own mind.

Excuses by Peter Marinelli

Do I make excuses to justify my inaction or my inappropriate actions?


Do I make excuses to continue living with old ideas and prejudices that inwardly harm me and outwardly harm others?


Do I find some sort of comfort in my excuses that allow me to isolate from life and others?


Are not many of my excuses the result of fear?


How long do I want to live in the world of excuses rather than living in the world of the spirit? Oh no here comes an excuse. “The only people who live in the world of the spirit are enlightened people and I’ll never be one of them”.


I’ll never get in shape I’m too old or too busy.


I’ll never find a mate, no one wants me because I’m ugly or I don’t have enough money, etc.


Isn’t it time to be rid of the things that are keeping us down?


Isn’t it time to be rid of the judge, jury and executioner, we call the thinking mind, and its' best friend fear.


Just asking.


Blessings,


Chop wood carry water
Peter Marinelli

January 24, 2012

"I searched for the enemy that I could not see, when I looked in the mirror, the enemy was me!"

January 13, 2011

     Today, Friday the 13th of 2012, I am grateful.  I am grateful to be a single mom, and to have the ability to watch my children grow, to watch them laugh and cry, feel love and heartache.  These are the most crucial of all days.  I can no longer hold them in my arms and rock them to sleep.  I must stand by and watch them struggle, while inside my heart is breaking for them.  I know it's life experiences that makes one strong, and the saying "if it doesn't kill you, it only makes you stronger", holds fast in my life. 

     I have struggled for better than half of my life, and none of it has killed me, yet made me the strong, emotionally insecure, temperamental woman I am today.  I have the ability to stand on my own, and make my own decisions without fear of another.  The anxiety of that life was overbearing and exhausting.  I may not be perfect nor do I wish to be, my goal is to overcome any and all obstacles laid before me, and grow from each experience of my past in order to prevent it from creeping up on me as it has done so often.  It has been close to 2 years since my last drink and there are days where I would love nothing more than to crack open a beer and guzzle it, perhaps a shot with a chaser, but I allow those gut wrenching pangs to take hold for they are reminder of where I used to be, a place I dare not ever go back to .

     I may not have all of the possessions that others' have nor do I need them.  What I have is so much more.  I have myself back, the self I knew a long time ago.  The somewhat introverted, shy, insecure (occasionally) little girl that was lost. I know right from wrong although it didn't phase me in the least not too long ago.  I am paying the price for being an alcoholic but the rewards are far greater than my imagination could have taken me.  That and much more is what I am grateful for today.

The Story of the Phoenix

There is a bird that lays no eggs and has no young. It was here when the world began and is still living today, in a hidden, faraway desert spot. It is the phoenix, the bird of fire.

One day in the beginning times, the sun looked down and saw a large bird with shimmering feathers. They were red and gold--bright and dazzling like the sun itself. The sun called out, "Glorious Phoenix, you shall be my bird and live forever!" Live forever!

The Phoenix was overjoyed to hear these words. It lifted its head and sang, "Sun glorious sun, I shall sing my songs for you alone!"

But the Phoenix was not happy for long. Poor bird. Its feathers were far too beautiful. Men, women, and children were always casing it and trying to trap it. They wanted to have some of those beautiful, shiny feathers for themselves.

"I cannot live here," thought the phoenix, and it flew off toward the east, where the sun rises in the morning.

The Phoenix flew for a long time, and then came to a far away, hidden desert where no humans lived. And there the phoenix remained in peace, flying freely and singing its songs of praise to the sun above.

Almost five hundred years passed. The Phoenix was still alive, but it had grown old. It was often tired, and it had lost much of its strength. It couldn't soar so high in the sky, nor fly as fast or as far as it was young.

"I don't want to live like this," thought the Phoenix. "I want to be young and strong."

So the Phoenix lifted its head and sang, "Sun, glorious sun, make me young and strong again!" but the sun didn't answer. Day after day the Phoenix sang. When the sun still didn't answer, the Phoenix decided to return to the place where it had lived in the beginning and ask the sun one more time.

It flew across the desert, over hills, green valleys, and high mountains. The journey was long, and because the Phoenix was old and weak, it had to rest along the way. Now, the Phoenix has a keen sense of smell and is particularly fond of herbs and spices. So each time it landed, it collected pieces of cinnamon bark and all kinds of fragrant leaves. It tucked some in among its feathers and carried the rest in its claws.

When at last the bird came to the place that had once been its home, it landed on a tall palm tree growing high on a mountainside. Right at the top of the tree, the Phoenix built a nest with the cinnamon bark and lined it with the fragrant leaves. Then the Phoenix flew off and collected some sharp-scented gum called myrrh, which it had seen oozing out of a nearby tree. The Phoenix made an egg from the myrrh and carried the egg back to the nest.

Now everything was ready. The Phoenix sat down in its nest, lifted its head, and sang, "Sun, glorious sun, make me young and strong again!"

This time the sun heard the song. Swiftly it chased the clouds from the sky and stilled the winds and shone down on the mountainside with all its power.

The animals, the snakes, the lizards, and every other bird hid from the sun's fierce rays -- in caves and holes, under shady rocks and trees. Only the Phoenix sat upon its nest and let the sun’s rays beat down upon it beautiful, shiny feathers.

Suddenly there was a flash of light, flames leaped out of the nest, and the Phoenix became a big round blaze of fire.

After a while the flames died down. The tree was not burnt, nor was the nest. But the Phoenix was gone. In the nest was a heap of silvery-gray ash.

The ash began to tremble and slowly heave itself upward. From under the ash there rose up a young Phoenix. It was small and looked sort of crumpled, but it stretched its neck and lifted its wings and flapped them. Moment by moment it grew, until it was the same size as the old Phoenix. It looked around, found the egg made of myrrh, and hollowed it out. Then it placed the ashes inside and finally closed up the egg. The young Phoenix lifted its head and sang, "Sun, glorious sun, I shall sing my songs for you alone! Forever and ever!"

When the song ended, the wind began to blow, the clouds came scudding across the sky, and the other living creatures crept out of their hiding places.

Then the Phoenix, with the egg in its claws, flew up and away. At the same time, a cloud of birds of all shapes and sizes rose up from the earth and flew behind the Phoenix, singing together, "You are the greatest of birds! You are our king!"

The birds flew with the Phoenix to the temple of the sun that the Egyptians had built at Heliopolis, city of the sun. Then the Phoenix placed the egg with the ashes inside on the sun's altar.

"Now," said the Phoenix, "I must fly on alone." And while the other birds watched, it flew off toward the faraway desert.

The Phoenix lives there still. But every five hundred years, when it begins to feel weak and old, it flies west to the same mountain. There it builds a fragrant nest on top of a palm tree, and there the sun once again burns it to ashes. But each time, the Phoenix rises up from those ashes, fresh and new and young again.