Herself is concerned about her friends. They are, at the moment, variously overburdened, worried, frustrated, and distressed about a variety of issues, both large and small. How she wishes she could help ease their struggles. The best she can do is listen to them, and love them.
What do we do when we suffer a wounding of the heart?
We can think ill of the person who has hurt us. We can drown our sorrows in carbohydrates. We can rage, we can storm, we can scream.
In time, we can also arise anew.
Sincere forgiveness isn't colored with expectations that the other person apologize or change. Don't worry whether or not they finally understand you. Love them and release them. Life feeds back truth to people in its own way and time. - Sara Paddison
I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living. - Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Herself has begun writing a story. She has worked on it at length for several days now. She tells me that she is not certain, at this juncture, whether it will ever be seen by anyone's eyes other than her own. Nevertheless, she is quite happy working on it, for it has allowed her to weave multiple threads of her personal history into a cohesive and tidy picture. It pleases her.
I do hope that one day she will have the courage to share the story with us.
He was a senior; she, a junior. They had met and become casual friends that year; they talked pleasantly, flirted occasionally. To her, he seemed so different from the other college boys: he wore jeans and shoes, rather than sweatpants and sneakers; he had a leather jacket and tinted glasses; he carried a handkerchief. He was hard working, mature, confident in himself. He had a flock of female friends and admirers. She was too shy of him to try to get to know him better, and envied the girls who would visit him in the architecture studio. She had a crush on him. She knew she never had a chance.
They sat at the same table during lunch one afternoon. It was near the end of the school year and their idle conversation turned to a school-wide party being held that evening. She inquired, "Are you going?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Oh? Why not?"
"Well, Paulina isn't going, Colleen isn't going...." He rattled off the names of four or five girls who weren't attending. She cringed inwardly, saddened and jealous of the lucky girls with whom he would have considered going to the party.
She had a sudden realization. Opportunity was knocking.
She carefully questioned: "Is the problem that you have no one to go with?"
Her heart skipped a beat. Time stood still. The door was open. Did she dare step through? A lifetime passed. Two lifetimes. An eternity. Three seconds.
"Would you like to go with me?"
Thus began the journey of Herself and her Beloved.
Yesterday, Herself took Offspring the first shopping for a dress for the homecoming dance. Though Herself has formerly dreaded such expeditions, this time the trip was surprisingly pleasant. Offspring the first has grown just enough that she now fits comfortaby into junior sized clothing, which has eliminated the wails of "everything is TOOOOO BIG" that had occurred in previous years. In the first (and only necessary) store, there were at least a dozen interesting dresses of assorted colors and degrees of sparkliness, all of which were tried on happily, and a selection was easily made. Huzzah!
As Herself roamed among the racks of beaded, sparkly, and silky garments, she was wistful. She remembers days of yore when she had her own opportunities for going out. The excitement of a new dress; the rituals of makeup; the fixing-up of hair; the application of toenail polish and fancy shoes; the spritz of just a bit of perfume. So rare now. Evenings nowaways are awash in the mundane pieces of family life: work, homework, laundry, cooking, cleaning, trying to watch a movie on TV and falling asleep. Alas.
Herself realizes she is like a pair of jeans: practical and comfortable, a bit worn in places, and not particularly glamorous. She would like an opportunity to be a party dress for a night. We must find a chance soon.
Yesterday Herself and her Beloved ran errands together. The place where they had hoped to have Herself's watch repaired was unfortunately closed for the long weekend; the gun shop adjacent to it was open, though, so they moseyed on in to take a look around.
When Herself was younger, she was vehemently anti-gun. Her Beloved slowly acclimated her to the idea of guns in the house - first bringing home his childhood rifle that had been stored at his parents' house; then purchasing another rifle; and finally, this past Christmas, presenting her with a Ruger Mark III pistol as a gift.
At first she scoffed. She jokingly suggested that his thought process had been: "What gift do I get for my beloved wife, who does so much and yet asks for so little? Oh, I know. Firearms!"
A few trips to the range later, she has learned how to shoot her gun. She is inwardly pleased that she has stepped out of her comfort zone sufficiently to be able to handle her gun and not make (too much) of an ass of herself. It is empowering.
Nevertheless, she feels extremely awkward when she visits the gun shop. It is quite the Man's Domain. Each time, she is the only woman in the shop, and feels as though all eyes are upon her, questioning why she is there. She is afraid of demonstrating her ignorance. Her knowledge of firearms is quite limited, and one casual question would be enough to expose her nescience. She fears glances among the staff that would indicate they know she is just a dimwitted woman tagging along with her Man. The staff at every gun shop, however, have always been unfailingly polite and professional; it is solely her own insecurities at play.
I think that I should find her some informative reading materials, so that she can be better prepared and more confident the next time she sets foot in the gun shop. Besides, as I tell her, what is more attractive than Girls With Guns? She rolls her eyeballs dismissively at me.
NinjaHead resides with a muffin-baking woman known herein as Herself. Herself has a Beloved Husband, with whom she shares three nearly-grown Offspring. When she is not writing Things, Herself nurtures a visceral fondness for small furry creatures. The household menagerie, which has varied in size and composition over the years, presently contains solely a minuscule middle aged chihuahua and a lovely red fish named Ruth Betta Finsburg. Someday, there will be more critters, for she loves them tremendously.