confessions of a candle, four tutus, and family

confesion: fairy godmothering keeps me centered, keeps me two feet from the dark pit that i might stumble into otherwise. katy perry’s song “dark horse” does the same thing differently, because as i turn up the volume and dance, the dark pit disappears into another dimension. some songs are pure sex in the ears, in the throat, in the hips. for the past month, “dark horse” has been sex-in-my-ears-throat-and-hips. sex as a song keeps me centered. sex as anything other than a song or a physical expression of love fucks me up.

confession: i lit the expensive candle this afternoon, the candle reserved for special occasions which never seem special enough to warrant lighting the candle, the candle i hardly feel worthy of lighting. but today, while fairy godmothering, i opened the blinds in the bedroom, let the light in, and lit the candle, because more light is better than dark while fairy godmothering.

confession: i have an uncle that is two years older than i am. i spent my childhood summers with him on a farm in iowa. we grew up as best friends until high school, when adolescence split a chasm that our childhood friendship couldn’t cross. we grew closer again during college, and then…differing life experiences carried us apart. i’ve been thinking of him these past few months. we have sporadic text message exchanges, usually late at night when one or the other of us has been drinking and we’re feeling silly or sentimental or both. we can jump right into child-like playfulness with each other. my child self is safe with him. his child self is safe with me. i haven’t seen him in many years. i’ll see him in august for a ceremony honoring our family’s farming legacy in iowa. when i see him, i hope we can sneak off and crawl under the bridge and collect a bucket-full of baby toads (and release them) because i haven’t held a baby toad in almost thirty years.

confession: a cute girl wearing an apron baking a pie is innocently, softly pornographic and would turn me on more if i liked pie. food porn doesn’t have the same effect on eating disordered people as non-eating-disordered people. i like girls in aprons, but not pie.

confession: that last confession was in context for me, but not for you, and i’m sorry about that, because i wish you could have been there. truly.

confession: last weekend i bought four new tutus. in the next three months, i’m attending two weddings for which the brides have granted me permission to wear a tutu. at this point in my life, i only want to attend weddings where guests are encouraged to wear tutus.

confession: the day before i bought four new tutus, i bought fuchsia moccasins. my mother had a pair of tan mocassins in the 70’s that she’d wear every saturday. i’ve avoided moccasins my whole life due to mother-related ambivalence. if my mother saw them, she’d mock my fuchsia moccasins. i’m grateful for the 1,700 miles between my mother’s closet and mine.

confession: my father lives less than five miles from me, but i’ve only seen him three times in the past fifteen years: at my brother’s wedding, walking in front of my car in a walmart parking lot (he didn’t see me), and passing him in the entrance of a target (he didn’t see me). i usually forget my father is still alive. dad has almost died many times and then he recovers and someday he will be dead but he isn’t yet, and i forget that.

confession: several of my writer friends had good fathers, fathers who were their heroes, fathers whose deaths are heartbreaking for them. when these writers read their work, i hear and feel their pain over losing their fathers, and i cry with them, because i love that some fathers have loved their daughters well, and i’m grateful that in this life i’ve been spared the pain of losing a father who loved me well.

confession: i’m safe now, safe from the ex who reminded me of my dad. i’ve seen him out several times recently and he won’t look at me. i love that he doesn’t look at me, since he could never see me for who i am anyway. i love being me without wanting or needing or caring for him. i love being me without feeling afraid of him.

confession: the expensive candle is still burning, hours later. every time i bend near the flame to blow it out, i inhale its richly scented fragrance and decide to let it burn a bit longer. someday i’ll love myself enough to burn this candle every day, to buy a new lavishly expensive candle each week, to consider myself expensive-candle-burning worthy and deserving. maybe…just maybe…someday begins today.

 

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About angel joy

love is an action verb. i live love in action.
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