"A Otra Cosa, Mariposa" (or, "To Another Thing, Butterfly"

So I'm blogging again. because Bri said it was therapeutic. really, however, I can find more reasons to not blog than to blog. for example. I stare at a computer screen all days and flex my wrists ever 26 seconds to as avoid any twinges of carpal tunnel. why, after 40 hours a week of this, would the same be therapeutic. or. blogging gives me a rush of anxiety when I think of catching you, my readers- all one of you plus myself plus future posterity (who no doubt will one day unearth this blog and remember dear grandma by it...kidding), up on my life....this vie SF. Do you realize my last blog entry was in 2006? 2006. It's 2009. How can I possible endeavor to capture the goings-on of these last three years in blog form? When you last left me, I was still living in the dingy, tiny house on Sutter with the boys from Craigslist. today, Holly called my move to SF "fierce". while it warmed my little heart to imagine that my friends consider me "fierce", it wasn't the move, but la vie SF, which has made me "fierce" (in a very soft, emotional, and vulnerable way, of course, I'm still Pisces after all).

How do I catch you up when I myself am still spinning from attempts to catch up with my own life? How do I capture the giddiness and grown-upness of moving in with Scott, to the beautiful yellow house with the rickety front steps, the big red kitchen, the wide back porch, and the sunny bedroom? How do I explain the suffocation of a relationship too-soon hurried, the disappointment of catching up with a love story you've been creating from afar and realizing, "well...here we are".  Is there a way to justify the times I lied to spend nights with Paulino...the squeezing of my heart as I pressed against my four walls and realized I      didn't        want      any      of      it. Would you understand the depression I sank into...the rotting produce boxes in the kitchen...the unpaid bills mounting by the door...the fruit flies taking up residence in every corner of the kitchen...my thinly veiled attempts to grin and bear it as my lululemon store drained my energy, time, passion, and confidence. What do I say to convey the awakening brought about by seeing my therapist? To feel stripped down to a freed, nude self. To cry for a loss of authenticity, of self, for friends and for belonging. To have her dissect the representation of San Francisco to me...not only a place to live, but a matter of life or death. Survive, carve a niche, thrive, autonomize, grow up and deep and enormous. Where do I start with my family...the drinking gone to far, the health gone down hill, and a marriage that has seen better days (from my ignorant perspective, in any case). What can explain my relationship with my mom, close yet also close to the surface. smiling, recanting days and stories that keep our intimacy at arms length and allow us to dance around the issues that truly matter without holding each other and throwing ourselves in for the better. 

What do I say now...after a year of living at Buchanan and Green with Emma, my SF savior, after finally calling off a most toxic relationship. How can I blog about Yoga School...my taste of Samadhi, my welcoming to my new self, my spreading wide open of passions and destiny, my dedication to the shiva shakti. Without this all, you have no context for the here and now...the long-time coming relationship with Justin, the office job, the money anxiety, the unknowns of the future. and, in the end, I suppose that's ok. The insights of today, and the words worth reading, come from an intermingling of what has been with what is in this moment...of what I've risen from and what I'm on the brink of. You didn't come here to be reminded of what has been since 2006, but what flashed through my mind today. and with that intention, I move on.