He patched and painted the ceiling in the dining room after I took a step in the attic without the knowlege that one must only step on the beams.
One year, our Christmas tree just would not stay up. Until he screwed the stand to the floor. Right through the carpet.
I’ve watched him open up computers, fiddle around, button them back up and suddenly they work again. But once they’re loaded up, he’s got no use for them.
He has six children. Six times (Daddy, fix this times the number of toys each child has owned and/or touched and/or played with) plus (the number of friends who have visited our house times all the toys they’ve broken while here or brought because the toy was broken and they wanted him to fix it) equals roughly a metric fuck-ton of broken.
No child has ever walked away without a working toy and a hug.
He’s fixed tons of motorcycles, including that one I wanted to try. That little Sportster a woman rode. So I said, “Hey I bet I could ride that! Let me walk it into the garage!”
He stood back. I hopped on, kicked up the kickstand, took one step forward and then just keeled over to the side, unable to hold up the weight of the bike.
He fixed that, too.
Cars. Appliances. Skinned knees. Bruised egos.
He’s fixed all that.
The one thing I love the most, I can’t fix.
He’s said that to me a lot over the last three years. With a sigh and a sense of regret so thick I sometimes can’t breathe in the same room with it.
It’s not your job to.
That’s always my response. With a sigh and a sense of shame so thick I feel my throat closing.
Only I can fix me. We both know that.
But I’m no mechanic.
I flounder, searching for things that will work. Things I can manage. Things that will stick.
Therapy and vitamins. BDSM and yoga. Old friends and new. Reading and writing.
Changing how I view myself and the world around me. Changing how I confront the things that make me uncomfortable. Changing my life and how I want to live it.
That’s a lot of change to try and understand, let alone embrace.
He can’t fix me.
But every time he hugs me and tells me he’s proud . . .
Every time he sits with his discomfort while I flit about in the breeze . . .
Every time he lands a kiss on my forehead and a good girl in my ear . . .
Every time he supports and encourages . . .
He helps put a piece back in place.
He’s a mechanic who loves nothing more than when things are fixed.
Except me. Even if I’m broken.
I want to wring every potential miracle from every fleeting moment.
I don’t mean the biblical style miracles or the stuff of fairy tales.
I’m talking about the real ones.
Miracles . . . like life where once was none.
An empty vessel that suddenly houses a being that kicks at my heart from within. The warmth of a tiny body and the grip of ten tiny fingers. Eyes that blink up at me from my breast and greet me with a familiarity bred within my soul.
Miracles . . . like love that gives without motive.
Love that says tell me what you want. Listen to what I’m hearing. Share with me what I have. See all that I gaze upon. Drown with me here in this bed. Let the sun fill our lungs with a new day.
Love that says ride this out in my arms.
Miracles . . . like friendship that feels like family.
People who come along and recognize in you something they feel in themselves. Moments where they turn their backs to their own lives to share with you in yours. Then invite you to share with them in theirs. Histories that weave themselves together so completely that the whole world can see you were cut from the same cloth.
My miracles . . .
. . . like the sun on my face . . . or words that seep into the air in my lungs . . . or a photograph that captures a memory I’ll never have to say good-bye to . . . or music that makes me soar . . . or ache . . . or dance . . . until the world falls away and I’m just me.
Not a mother or a wife or a friend or a label. I’m just me, smiling, and breathing, living that one moment. And loving it.
My miracles aren’t yours. But I want you to find yours. And love the fuck out of them.
It isn’t always easy. At my lowest point it became next to impossible to find one in any day.
But I’d hear a giggle from a loved one.
I’d feel his warmth at my back.
My phone would ring and I’d hear a smile. I’d hear it. A smile from a friend because she was happy to hear my voice.
Sometimes I’d have a hard time finding my miracles.
But they’d always find me.
I’m not here for any one purpose. I’m here to live. And maybe my way of living isn’t balls to the wall. I’m not traveling the world and jumping out of planes or rocking stadiums.
Those miracles are for someone else.
My miracles are here for me and I love living them.
I’m not here to achieve any one thing. I’m here to achieve as much as I can. To live every day cognizant of how miraculous it is that I’m here, that I’m healthy, and that I get to smile as much as I do.
I don’t worry about what will happen when I’m gone. What I’ll achieve or not achieve before my time runs out. But, if asked, I’ll tell you what I hope to leave behind.
Not of me or what I achieved. Not of who I was or what I did. Not of where I went or what I left behind.
A simple reminder for you who still lives . . . to keep living for as long, and as true, as you can.
A reminder for all who still live to keep finding your miracles . . . and keep letting them find you.
Slivers of heartbreak slide down her cheeks
Her breath stutters
Caught in the turnstile of her emotions
She circles through the blackness
She seeks strength she forgot she possessed
Waiting to be conjured
Trapped beneath the corners of her soul
It calls to her
Begs of her strength
She’ll be the one to rise anew
Wrought with a new understanding
Her path paved with stones carved from pain
Echoes of solitude
Die in the silence behind her
Tears fight their way from her eyes
She won’t fall away into the dark
It’s how I love she whispers
And she clutches the phone
Whispers back, You’re not alone.