All I Want

Three days before . . . I want to:

• Tell the truth--to myself and to the people in my life--so that I can live authentically.
• Connect with my friends, with my colleagues, with my fellow yoga students in a deeper way than just saying "hello" and "I'm good."
• Say "I love you."
• Be told that I am loved.
• Be willing to be vulnerable.
• Be seen for who I am--someone who's just trying to find her way and make the most out of life.
• Stop looking for my self worth at the bottom of a container/bowl.
• Be fully present in conversations.
• Strengthen my relationships.
• Be brave and stop playing everything so safe.
• Give thoughtfully.
• Let go; smile more, laugh more, cry more.
• Make the first move.
• Reclaim my focus.
• Make my 40s the best decade yet.
• Remember how much I have to be grateful for.

Soundtrack: "All I Want," by Toad the Wet Sprocket

Quitclaim

Today, I signed a document "hereby releasing me of all rights of homestead for myself and my family." Reading those words with my name at the beginning of the sentence made it feel like the earth had crumbled around me, leaving just the tiniest foundation for me to stand upon. My life. My home. My security. I didn't want to hereby release anything. I didn't want to be released. So I cried, I swore, and I quivered. Then I got the thing notarized, hereby quitting ownership of my lovely, comfortable home. Although we never married, that language felt like a divorce. And it is--but as A explained in his rational and supportive way, it is me divorcing the bank. It's me saying, "hey, I am no longer accountable." He then went on to remind me that a house is not a life. It's a thing. It's temporary. It's another  place to keep my shoes (in addition to my car). My value--my self worth--has nothing to do with my possessions, and everything to do with my outlook.

I'm good at letting go of things. After all, that's the premise on which I started this blog: less is more. I've spent years parting ways with my old things--some sentimental, some not--so that others can enjoy what no longer serves me at this point in life.

Here we stand at the end of paths taken . . .

I'm transferring my ownership of the house. I'm moving out this weekend. I found a great new place to live. I've got a coworker who's helping me move, a best friend who will be by my side, and a luxurious mattress on its way. And as I stay committed to being open and honest about my feelings, I continue to be humbled by an endless supply of encouragement from all the good people in my life. That's not quitting. That's surviving and thriving.

Soundtrack: "Still Lost" by the Cowboy Junkies

Three Words

I know better. Really, I do. And yet--I blame myself. I knew we weren't meant to be back in 1999 when we first met. Kind of like I knew I shouldn't have enrolled in that AP English class in high school. But I can play a good game, talk a good talk. I get my way, and for a moment, I think I'm winning. It looks like I'm winning. But I'm wishing I had the courage to speak up and step down. To tell the truth. Hey, this doesn't feel right.

I loved you for your commitment to your left-of-center beliefs and your passion and outspokenness about all sorts of things. I loved you for being one of a kind. A dramatic, abstract piece of art that I wanted so badly to comprehend. I wanted to be more like you: fervent, brazen, steadfast. And sometimes I was--and sometimes I wasn't. And it was those times that I wasn't when I felt like I was in over my head. Like Mrs. Whoever had just assigned a character analysis of Tess of the d'Urbervilles and all I can come up with is "Tess is a pretty name." But mixed in with these feelings of inadequacy were countless periods of growth, too. That's life outside the comfort zone.

As I count the growing ripples between "old us" and "new us," I am wrestling with a way to define the unquestionable love I felt for you. I loved love you with my soul, but I don't think I was ever able to fully put my heart into it. I looked to you on so many occasions to "fix" my feelings with those three words--and you couldn't either. It saddens me to admit that I loved without my heart--and perhaps it hurts you to know it. Or maybe you agree.

But there is something so liberating about walking away from that abstract piece of art or putting down that book full of impossible prose. Isn't that what the expression "something for everybody" is all about? I'm grateful to live in a world where all these differences exist, but I think I now have a better idea of what will make my heart sing--and that's the direction I'm headed.

Soundtrack: "I and Love and You," by the Avett Brothers

On Ex Boyfriends and Best Friends

Ages ago . . . Before this last love of mine, I dated someone for 2.5 years. I was baby-faced and so, so young when we first met. Freshly graduated from college, on the cusp of starting a new job and living with two of my college roommates. Still traipsing around in the Doc Martens from my study abroad. Life was good. Everything was exciting and new.

I wasn't prepared for him to break out in hives--yes, literal hives--on the day we moved in together, two years after we first met. Or for the suffocating feeling of buying household crap at Linens n' Things together. Or the sinking feeling of grocery shopping together on a Saturday night, stocking up on Lean Cuisines and bags of frozen broccoli. Was this really my life? Our life? And yet, we persevered. We bought a dining room table. We adopted a cat.

So it really was no surprise six months into our living together that he announced wanting to end things. We had gotten so comfortable, so . . . boring . . . with one another. Yet that comfort was no small thing to me. Still, I absolutely stand by comfort and camaraderie as being an important part of a loving relationship. But there's a lot of truth in that ol' cliché about sparks. You just can't sustain a true, deep, loving relationship on comfort alone. At least not if you want to feel sparks in other parts of your life, too. Our emotions and experiences are all woven together.

We broke up on a Sunday night in January 1999. Me in my polka-dot robe, him in his tennis whites. Both of us sitting on the floor slumped against the refrigerator. As right as I knew the decision was (damn wisdom), it still hurt. And I was scared. I was making pennies in my job as an editorial assistant, and I had a falling out with my old roommates. I didn't know where I would go.

In the days that followed, I moved myself into the second bedroom across the hall. We agreed that we could ride out the remaining six months of our lease together in this way. Plus, we'd both grown pretty fond of the cat.

But the comfort and the camaraderie--at least for me--aren't things I can readily let go of. I'm not programmed that way. "On" and "off" are such extremes in my book. Perhaps this explains my infatuation with dimmer switches around the house. Anyhow . . .

Memory has a way of smoothing out the jagged edges over time--so perhaps it didn't go as easily as I remember--but our transition from boyfriend & girlfriend to dearest of friends was as subtle as a flicker of that dimmer switch. So much so that we renewed our year-long lease--three times. Moving out in June 2002 very well may have been more bittersweet than the breakup. But it was time for us to go our separate ways--he to a condo in the Fenway, me to live with the guy I'd been dating for nearly three years. The guy who proved himself to be confident enough, trusting enough, and caring enough to love someone so ridiculously close with her ex. But the growing up I had done in those two-plus years of dating and four years of living together was monumental. He was a huge part of my post-college "finding myself" experience--and I for him.

But isn't everything in life monumental? Especially in hindsight? I can damn well tell you that the growing up that A and I have done these past 14 years together has been profound.

So, now what do we do? We're only three weeks out in this breakup. We've been broken down and now it's time to build ourselves back up. Individually, for sure; but together, too--I hope.

History has taught me that I can indeed be best friends with an ex boyfriend. But is this an anomaly? Or is it just me? Am I the ex boyfriend whisperer or just that afraid to let go? Can't we just dim the switch a nudge and carry on?

Soundtrack: "Separate Ways" by Journey (because in true best friend fashion, there's an inside joke that goes with this song)

The Calm Before the Storm

The morning before . . . I woke briefly as he climbed into bed, squinting at the time on my clock through sleep-blurred eyes. 2:30 a.m. Nothing unusual about that. Such is life being partnered with a night owl who's often hitting the ice at 10-something and cooking up dinner long past midnight.

I stirred as the covers shifted and he snuggled in close. So close. Arm around my waist. Feet crossed. Our interior arms compressed, but neither of us caring. A snuggle this epic was necessary after such a quietly tense, distanced week. A week that brought up so many doubts and feelings I've been ignoring for so long. Is love designed to be a continuous beautiful thing, or is it more of a mosaic? Have I been holding myself back by choosing good over the possibility of something great? Would an "I do" have made a difference?

Our snuggle shape-shifted throughout those early morning hours. Neither one of us wanting to let go. Neither one of us able to. At least not yet.

Shortly after 6:00 a.m., my phone started dinging. Photos of my niece, dressed in her cute little skull-and-crossbones-with-a-hair-bow tee shirt. Ding, ding, ding, that damn chime pulling me out from my slumber, out from that epic embrace. I didn't want to go there. In my sleeping subconscious, this was heaven; but my waking consciousness knew this was the end.

I knew what conversation was in store for that evening. And if he didn't go there, I was going to have to. I didn't want to. I didn't know if I would have the courage. I didn't know if I would have regrets. I only knew that the words we would use could never be taken back. We had to do this with grace. I wasn't about to lose my boyfriend and my best friend in one fell swoop.

Soundtrack: "Lion Song" by Jason Harrod

After the Storm

Seven days out . . . I don't hate you for disrupting my life. For forcing me out of my comfort zone. Making me change gears. No, you're teaching me to love myself first. To prioritize my happiness. To chase my dreams. To give and receive truly, madly, gorgeous love. To find my cheeks. To reignite my spark. To be authentically me.

Change is hard--physically and mentally. But you've given me a gift. I will treasure it. I will grow. I will move forward and become an even more splendid, desirable, enriched version of me. I am finding myself, starting now.

I've been feeling lost, but not sure where to start, what direction to turn, which step to take. You found me spinning and said, "Here, this direction. I know it will be hard, but here is where you need to put your foot. It may feel like it is filled with lead, but rest assured, the other foot will follow. And I know you can't comprehend it right now, but eventually this will feel really good. So right. Liberating. You'll be scaling this wall in no time, but for now you've just got to trust me--and trust yourself, too. I've got your back. I'm holding your hand. You may not see me, but I'm there. Always have been, always will be. But you have to trust. It's through these cracks that the light shines in."

Soundtrack: "After the Storm," by Mumford & Sons

When "Fine" Is Anything But

Years ago, I attended some marketing seminar for work. I can't tell you what the program was about--only what the instructor said upon introducing himself to me. In response to the standard "how are you," he replied in a voice that was both booming and bright, "I'm positively positive." Which made my "I'm fine," from two seconds beforehand feel positively lame. Fine. That word is about as exciting as a room-temperature bowl of unflavored gelatin. It's the I'd-rather-not-say-and-I-don't-expect-you-to-understand-or-really-care response. And I'm guilty of this on thousands upon thousands of accounts. Not because things were or were not good. But because I didn't feel like sharing my truth. Feeling like I'd be judged as a Debbie Downer or a Perfect Pollyanna, I played it safe--unflavored gelatin safe--and gave my blasé answer. Sorry about that, world. Really, I'm not that boring.

But something happened a few Mondays back that changed all that. I came into work after everything happened and one of my coworkers innocently asked about my weekend. "Horrible," I replied and sat down. There was no hiding behind a "fine" that day. Or ever again. Tears pooled in my eyes and I told her the story. And there lies the turning point where I could readily identify "fine" as being anything but.

I've caught myself on a few occasions since, dialing down my old standby to an "okay" or an "alright." Same difference. Sometimes, yes--it's a cop-out. Other times I know we're both in a rush and one or two syllables are all we've got time for right then. But when appropriate, I've been getting much more truthful with my responses. I'm acknowledging the challenges, but balancing them with something hopeful and honest. Like this:

"I'm really sad about my relationship coming to an end, but I found a great new place to live that's a half-mile from one of my favorite yoga studios. And now that I have a monthly unlimited pass, I'll be there all the time."

"Fine" is a conversation killer, but the honest and open version is full of substance and talking points. And it's that kind of substance that's going to build connections between people. So, how about we commit to adding a double shot of truth to our pleasantries? I'll start.

Soundtrack: "Let Your Heart Be Known" by Steve Gold

So Don't Give Up

When I was beginning along my yoga teacher training experience back in 2005 and feeling incredibly unsure of myself (Who am I to think I have something to offer these people? I can't even do a handstand. And my abs are *so* not flat.) I came across this quote:

"When you experience uncertainty, you're on the right path--so don't give up."

Yes! Reading those words made me feel validated, understood, and so capable. It took the stigma out of my fear of the unknown and my too-high expectations for myself. It made me feel like I was part of a club.

Talking about the end of my relationship has been a lot like that. Aside from the inherent sadness, the recovering perfectionist in me felt a little embarrassed about having not "made it." At first what felt like such a unique experience--so many years, such deep caring, such trustworthiness, and yet . . .--I came to discover just how many of my friends had experienced this before.  I was far from alone in this one.

But back to the quote about uncertainty. As I continued along that teacher training path, that quote became my mantra. Experience uncertainty. Don't give up. And over the course of time, I found my confidence. I found my voice. I proved to myself that I could do it. That uncertainty is not the flashing "don't walk" signal; in fact, it's quite the opposite. It's the "walk man" with the wind at his back. Uncertainty is just how the signal gets translated in your head. Your heart is saying "I've got this."

Then one day, with the teacher training experience behind me and a studio full of students before me, I ran these words through my head once again. Only they came out differently this time around. Having made it over the learning and the social curve, the quote had morphed into this:

"When you experience humanity, you're on the right path--so don't give up."

I remember looking it up when I got home from teaching to see if I had remembered it incorrectly. The new version made so much sense. It felt even more powerful than the original. The message I had received was that when you open  yourself up to people--when you simply show up and be yourself--insecurities, vulnerabilities, and all--people will meet you where you are. You won't be judged, chastised, or criticized. Relatability is revered. And since none of us are perfect . . .

But back to processing my relationship. I am grateful beyond words for the gracefulness of humanity that I've experienced these last two-plus weeks. Kind words, kind gestured, kind thoughts--and dozens of relatable stories--all in the spirit of creating and strengthening a bond. The transition before my eyes--from countless individuals to a united force--has been a tremendous feeling to experience.

Oh, humanity. Your "this" and my "this" may or may not be the same. But you have a heart and I have a heart, and that makes us so much more alike than not.

Soundtrack: "Don't Give Up" by Peter Gabriel & Paula Cole.

Let Go

Hi, my name is Holly and I have a broken heart. It's a pretty big crack--right down the center. And it hurts. All sorts of heavy, emotional stuff has been whooshing out from that crack these last two weeks. But interspersed with those bouts of tears from the heartache are these dazzling glimmers of light. That's the hope and the possibility and the potential shining through. It continues to catch me off guard, this beauty in the breakdown. I decided at the outset of this heartache that I wouldn't fight off my feelings. Instead, I wanted to own each and every emotion, each and every tear, each and every gaspy sob. Letting my emotions run free has been the most liberating feeling ever. I've always been the type to get embarrassed--exasperated and angered, too--over my emotions. Somehow, I had it in my head that even-keeled (read: kinda numb) was the ideal--and that fluctuations were imperfections. And my god, I couldn't handle letting my imperfections be so blatantly seen. My freak flag has always been neatly folded and buried in the back of a drawer.

It's this heart of mine that has kept me from writing as much as I've wanted--as much as I've needed to--over the years. I've been denying my emotions the freedom and the space they crave. They need. If I couldn't write something "perfect" and positive, then I just couldn't bear to share it. With myself. With you. With the world. I'm breaking up with that bad theory right this minute.

So, hi. Yeah. Umm, here I am. It's not pretty, but it's real. And I've got stuff to say. Oh, do I have stuff to say. It has been far too long . . .

This heart of mine has been through a lot. But it'll only be better--more resilient, more receptive--for the experience. That crack will fuse together and my heart's walls will become pliable again. This heart of mine will know no limits.

Soundtrack: "Let Go" by Frou Frou