one million sorries

I woke up at 5 am just so I could have a chance to write.

It is 6:56 - and I am just now starting.

I've spent the last 2 hours reading other people's blogs and writing emails to friends I've been thinking about.

My right eye is burning.

I could fall asleep, sitting straight up like Ghandi.

My mind is blank like his.

This is supposed to be an ideal, right.  

A quiet mind...or perhaps mine is just not awake...which is not the same thing at all.

Artist PJ Lynch

I used to model for artists.

I would sit for 3 hours per session in 1/2 hour chunks, the air running over each curve.

After a while, if I was in the right pose, I could sit for an hour and have no need to move.

Usually, I would cry, compact my grief into one tear.  It was all I could afford under such scrutiny.

"Is the model crying?"

That may be a distraction.

Instead I stored it all up, let it fill me.

Then I'd say,

"I'm sorry....I'm sorry....I'm sorry....I'm so sorry."

When you die, they say your life flashes before your eyes.

Mine was played on a screen in front of me.

Each pivotal moment.

I saw myself chugging gin, trying to sing Radio Head all wild and hair flying, then crying in a shriveled up raisin ball.  I saw the 2 liter of orange soda and Alkaseltzer.  I saw Sophie.  

Artist Stephen Davis

I saw myself in the morning holding my sour stomach explaining to my husband where I had been all night.

I saw his eyes be lost.  I saw myself drive away in the little green get-away car to do it all over.

I saw white bed sheets and myself folded into them with the too-bright sun.  I told myself,  I will never leave here.  I will just drink and sleep and wait for him to come home.  He will bring gin, and we will laugh.  He is the only one who understands me.

I saw it all crumble.

At least when I was in self-destruct everything was acute.  

I knew exactly my pain, my failure, my place.

Now I don't know.

I live in the not knowing.

Love is not too scary.  I don't run from it.  

But people run from me, just like I used to.

And I watch them tear across open fields knowing they will never find a stopping place.

I watch them, and I love them, as they become tiny black dots.

Sometimes they come back, and want to apologize.

Don't apologize to me.  Apologize to you.  I am ok.

I want you, but  I don't need you.

That has been the hardest part.  Maybe all that time I was apologizing to myself.

But I don't hate the Sarah who ran.  Not anymore. My one million sorries have been said.

So now what....?

artist Carli Ihde

I wonder if now I have more sitting to do.

I can feel that I do.

I just emailed my artist friend to inquire about doing some modeling again.

Because I cannot sit here.

At least, I haven't learned how to convince the toddlers yet.