Mulligan

  Mulligans are a funny thing... A funny word actually, comical as it rolls off tongue.
  I had to, just this evening, explain what a mulligan was. Because, apparently, it is not commonly used in the average american vocabulary? I dunno. I like to give people more credit than that, and ASSume that they understand the simple world I speak (or in this case, type).  Guess I do put too much faith in the public education system, seems it's lacking, and as adults, these women, these mothers do not feel the need/desire/motivation to educate their self any further. Never mind that they will be educating the next generation.

  Got off track, as per my usual derailing. Can't stay on track to save my life, or so it would seem.

  Where do I begin again? Ha! Mulligans... Mulligans... Have you ever wished for a mulligan, just one more chance to do over, without any strings, without any questions or regrets? I did. Until this evening.
  It dawned upon me, finally, and like a burning bale of hay falling atop me, pinning me, that if I had the opportunity to "fix" whatever may have gone awry, I would be pulling the thread on a close knit garment, unraveling everything that is of significance. And for what? The chance to knit it back together in a new form? One that is potentially even more likely not to fit the picture included with the instructions.
  Last night I had the opportunity to speak my piece (to my own peace), to let my mind go, and where it went was murky.
  Though, with mornings light, clarity dawned anew as well, and the unexpected continued to occur... Ah, and if I had used a mulligan, it never would have. I would not be at this place in my life, it would be incomprehensible to me, the ocean of emotions before me, and how I am to sail across it without being drawn under. My vessel is weathered, sails are in desperate need of repair. Yet afloat I stay, because I have my own history, which has been writ on my heart, and is an open book to read, a lesson to be drawn from. With a mulligan, all is lost.
 
 Emotions are a funny thing. Not so funny as "mulligan". No. But funny, queer, odd, strange, unsettling. Peering at the multifaceted face of emotion, holding it to the light, one moment a rainbow of incomparable beauty appears, the next you are face to face with a cut that should never have been made. It is awkward, strange, doesn't quite fit. But when you set the stone, you never see it. It is hidden in a golden rimmed setting.
  I am attempting to say, in so many words, that every emotion has a counter, ever beautiful thing has an ugly side as well. Most of the time it remains hidden by the facade, but in actuality, still exists. Only the maker sees it, knows of it, but it is there. In a finished work, the beauty is evaluated as flawless, but only the creator knows what it took to achieve it- and only the creator can truly appreciate it. With all of its flaws, for the masterful work that it appears to everyone else.
  I do not believe that the master would appreciate his creation were it not for the mistakes that were made in the process of perfection. Life, emotion, it all equates to the same... More of the same. Without the failures, we can not appreciate the successes.

  Call it irrational, call it infatuation, call it what you will. Love is a verb. Love is constantly moving, in action, ever changing, moving, moving, flowing fluidly through the mind, body, soul. Love is nothing, and everything, and something that can not be readily defined beyond the websters- It stands for so much, and for some, so little. Love can be redefined, and it has, and it will, and in the end it is never the same as it started out, and it is better for it.
  I'm permanently bruised, have been bludgeoned, beaten, but am better for the beating, for the knowing, for understanding what it is that keeps us moving. What it is that gifts us with the  very precarious thing called trust, with the not so simple capability to gift someone with this, and likewise be gifted with the assurances that are part and parcel to it. For everything implied, even if never clearly defined, for the very welcomed peace of mind.
  It is irrational, to those who have never been there. Sadly, some people never get to take this trip. They never venture to cross the boarders, to let go of the perception of safety- better, the misconception of safety, the delusions that lead us to this misconception.
   It is even more irrational to those who went there, and were absorbed into the delusion of safety. Love is anything but safe. It is volatile. It is dangerous, it strips us down to the bare minimum of who we are, our naked hearts exposed, broken, bloodied, torn, stitched together, and bandaged over. It makes us completely vulnerable. In the best, and the worst possible ways.
 
  When I was a wee one, not so many years ago, and believing I was mature, all grown, my own woman, who I was, solidified in my perception of self in such a way as only the very young are capable of... I loved.
  Little did I know then, that the self assured concepts of life, relationships, the way things ought to be, were more on point than I could have accredited myself with now. It was simple. It was pure. And it was real.
  Only upon loosing myself from the tiny box in which I have so long resided, have I begun to re-explore the fact of love. Of the ties that we make with people. Of my ideals regarding family, and what that looks like... Now I am bursting at the seams with the reality that it is in fact possible to see any or all of these things come to life, even when the conditions are not conducive. Dreams really do come true- I woke to one today.
 No fairytale is all unicorns shitting rainbows... There is always a wicked stepmother, an old witch, troll (surplus of those about the interwebs), a king with a superiority complex, a horrible beast. My story contains them all. Some of them are the same entity, others are imagined into that role, now that I am capable of processing the reality of what happened to me, and can compartmentalize it- Boxes are awesome!
  The incredible thing about fairy tales, is that you get to spin your own. Just takes a little fiber with which to use the wheel, and bind into thread...

  I lost myself again, I'm venting, is it evident?

  Another glass of chardonnay, and back to the redefinition of love... Here we go again, spinning, spinning, spinning. I pricked my finger, and now I sleep, and here he is to wake me. Could never happen. It's just a story. Or is it?
  In my case, it's the reality of what the years have dealt me. I forced myself into emotional slumber, for the day that maybe, just maybe, one chance, one shot, one moment in which I could live out the reality I so desired would be granted me. Unbelievably, it was.
  Irrational would not be the definition that I would give to a love that has run deeper than the deposits of self loathing regret which was spawned in the moments after catastrophic trauma. Irrational was the idea which maintained what little of me there was left to function in those conditions. Irrational was the justification I used not to run for my life after what I knew was good, was worthy, was wholesome, what was what I have so longed for all of these years...
  Perhaps in the simple purity of my youth I discovered what some are left to flounder on the deck in hopes of being scooped up into- Love. Actual. Simple. Active. Moving. Changing. Redefined.
  In reality, my analytical mind will not let it be so simple, I must dissect what it homogeneous.

  How can I rationalize the absolute fact that I am now experiencing the reality of love. The act of loving. The willingness of being in love with another individual?
  This is not easy for me to grasp, to label, to understand.
  In order for love to grow it must be given a wide birth, and in the same moment, it is the immersible vehicle you dive within, and are taken down, down, down into the belly of the beast.  How can I possibly rationalize this.
  Maybe it is irrational. Perhaps I am delusional. Maybe I simply refuse to see the dangers that are before me.

  What I like to believe more likely, is that I have in fact found the most precious of gems, and that it is being set. Though, as any precious gem... Does not necessarily remain in its setting.
  Fluidity is not conducive to a setting, which, in it's self  defies any sense of traditional definition... It, simply is, what it is.
  Now, to go 'shag and crash'....